There was recently an intervention in my kitchen. Though its not as dramatic as I make it sound, it was much needed. It wasn’t over the half dozen disks of pastry and cookie dough in the fridge, or the fact that other than milk, eggs, olives and cheese all we have in the fridge is pastry and cookie dough. Or that we have a solid dozen types of cheese and a half dozen containers of Parmesan alone. I know that I just sent chills down the spines of the cheese connoisseurs among us. I’m not proud of the way I treat cheese, and I promise to work on it. But no, the aforementioned intervention was over what I was calling dinner three to four nights a week.Read More
For the last month it seemed my finger was hovering above the pause button. Just about five weeks ago we were traipsing around the Iowa State Fair when my mom called to tell us my dad’s routine stress test had landed him on the operating table. We held our breaths, gripped things a bit tighter, and waited. We waited for the couple of updates that came during surgery, and then the day to day updates from the hospital while they tweaked his medication, monitored his heart rate and made him get up and walk the hospital halls. We chuckled at the updates on what he was eating, and how all the nurses loved him and how he was tired of the television options in his room.
When the update came that he was being released from the hospital, a week after his surgery, Oliver and I packed some bags and headed north to set up camp at my parents. We proceeded to cook and clean, then cook some more, dirty-ing the counters and stove and then started the process again. Oliver enlisted his help in walking the little dog, only to be distracted by the tall task of dinosaur-morphizing all the sticks and leaves in the front yard. Inevitably he invited them in for a bite to eat and a play, and then proceeded to scatter them, and every toy we brought, all over the house in which I grew up. More to clean.Read More
For most of my life everyone in my family believed apple pie to be my dad’s favorite. Perhaps because its classic or maybe because he dutifully ate every slice that was put before him. The fact that he dutifully eats just about anything put before him somehow never registered with any of us.
Then sometime in my early twenties a bombshell rocked our household. It turns out my dad’s favorite pie is actually blueberry. Stunned is an understatement, we laughed of course, but were all left speechless. Really? We almost never had blueberry pie. Did it really take 20+ years for that revelation? It’s possible that we never really bothered to ask him, but we never suspected he was dissatisfied. Was he pining away for a blueberry pie with every bite of apple pie he took? What kind of person holds such a silly secret for so long?Read More
On the morning I brought myself to make these beauties, D had woken me early to say good-bye before being whisked away to a tropical beach to shoot a concert. Rough, right? Soon after that, the kid would rise and demand his usual yogurt and banana, and the contrast of that to palm trees and a swank hotel was just a bit too much to handle. To distract me from the jealousy that was no doubt eating away at me, I busied myself with a little project; a blueberry pancake project.