Within three weeks I had hundreds of more followers! Isn’t that incredible?!
Mom adored and respected Mrs. McLoughlin but all her preparations belied a lingering insecurity from growing up poor, afraid of being considered shabby.
I think Dad would like these crab cakes and appreciate that they’re a good way to celebrate this truncated holiday and his World War II army service.
The son said he imaged a surprise party, something that we both agreed was completely uncharacteristic of him. But the occasion was momentous–four years comprised of 19 hour days and working two jobs–a cum laude college degree from a rigorous university. But how to do this in this plague time seemed daunting.
It’s not hyperbolic to say the world shifted a little in having to contemplate the possibility that a recipe core to my identity, that was passed from one woman’s hand to another and then another could not be the total of its sum.
Over the years, Margie has given me a license to be who I really am. Her life has become my guide to being what she calls a “curious woman.”
Mom heard what went into a dish and immediately knew not only how to cook it but how it should taste, a talent she expected everyone to have and was appalled when she found otherwise.
Unlike nearly everyone else in the food world, I’m not an expert cook, an investigative journalist, an intriguing theorists, an anthropologist or historian.
I watched the snow fall on Saturday and wished I could go sledding. It’s horrifying to me that the last time was when my oldest son was around four years old and we lost control and rammed right into a lamp post.
I’ve always thought I should make my own plum pudding but I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that it calls for suet. I love suet. It is my version of Proust’s madeleine–not as classy, I know, but just as evocative a memory, recalling my mom’s Sunday roast beef dinner cooked with a healthy slab of suet on top that kept the meat moist and added a rich flavor of its own. I just couldn’t see it playing any part in a cake.