When time and pressure is not in the cards, we’ve all secretly turned to market prepared tubs of something. There’s nothing wrong with this. Feeding people is not about killing yourself and, no matter what it is you’ve brought home, it can magically be turned into something especially your own.
Mom adored and respected Mrs. McLoughlin but all her preparations belied a lingering insecurity from growing up poor, afraid of being considered shabby.
We all agreed that the hollow below would make a perfect place to live if ever the world descends into dystopian reality.
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.
Since taking possession of a smoker, the son has been experimenting with an array of meats. I’m very supportive of his efforts because he passes leftovers onto his parents.
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.