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.
I wanted pudding. I don’t know why. I’m not a big pudding girl. Perhaps it’s because you can’t gobble your way through a bowl. You’ll give you a stomach ache. And that’s the point–spoonful by spoonful, life has to pause.
Peeps are one of my top favorite creations in the food world, an opinion I’ve been told many times is not universally shared.
I inherited a bunch of community cookbooks from Mom and bought a couple more in thrift stores. The recipes in them are anchored in the character of the region where they were collected, the products of local PTAs, church groups and ethnic societies. They’re also a fine guide to food fads.
Spring is here and it’s time to rejuvenate our bodies and spirits in the form of historical tonic recipes.
If the virus doesn’t get us, our hippocampus will. And with that I forced myself to get up and head to the kitchen. Maybe I could find an alluring recipe.
It’s always a good policy to let people know when you’re going to write about them. It’s better if you do it before it’s published but I figured Stephanie wouldn’t mind. Yesterday, after posting my piece where she is the star of the show, I wrote to tell her that a tiny bit of the world would be reading about her. And then it got interesting.
I rarely comment on her posts but this one was so admirable and meaningful to me that I told her she was my hero. She wrote back, “I’m jonesing for lemon meringue pie!”
To help us through this difficult time, let’s gather a shred of historical perspective by leafing through a couple of old cookbooks written during difficult times.