When your cooking mojo returns –
when it returns it will be sometime near midnight,
on a Thursday,
there will be vegetables that were picked by someone you know,
just a few days earlier.
They are leftover from a dinner, where you were reminded that you feed people.
And at nearly midnight, on the day before Friday, you will have to make ratatouille.
Because it’s been six months that you’ve let other people feed you,
and it’s time that you start getting acquainted with your kitchen.
Remind yourself, how well you can move in this space,
how you yield utensils and knives
with grace some people reserve for dancing.
When you sit down to eat, you will not
be the kind of full of you were hoping for.
But, you won’t be nearly as hungry.
A bit ago I came up with this list —
But then, when actual midnight rolled around, I had none – NONE of those things on hand. But I did have what I needed to make these.
What are those? Those delicious, toasty, things are just a few ingredients, thrown together, smooshed on top of cheap grocery store bread, and broiled for a few minutes. And look, if you have any – I repeat, any- squeamishness about calories, or fat content or you know, mayonnaise do not look at the recipe. If instead, you indulge your gluttonous side from time to time, and want to know the secret of the best midnight snack ever — by all means — click-through.
Pastor: He has Risen.
Congregation: He Has Risen, indeed.
I know that, and every line of the Easter service,
-Can tell you every parable, quote you all the verse,
sing you all the lines from the hymns.
I spent Easter Sundays as a child trying to count the lilies on the altar,
but always lost count somewhere after a hundred. Read the rest of this entry
“Normal things make you feel normal,” my Mom said that to me in the middle of a panic attack one night. I was in Boston, she was home. We were connected through a hundred miles by a phone line. ” ‘Normal things make you feel normal’, Gram said that to me once in the middle of the only panic attack I think I ever had”.
Dinner. Pull out all the stuff, work like the French chefs do. Mise en place. Everything in its place. Pretend that everything isn’t out-of-place. Read the rest of this entry
I live in Massachusetts in the Connecticut River Valley. Word is our dirt, it’s good. So good, we produce the best asparagus in the world – asparagus so bountiful, one of the teachers at the school I teach at, brings it in bagged up and ready for sale to our staff. You know you live in a small town when you can pick up your dinner veggies on your coffee break at lunch.
The landscape around here will take your breath away. That is, if you’re given to that sort of thing. You know, the rolling hills on the edge of the valley, and the tree-lined river, and the fields, ready to be plowed in March. Even the land getting ready for winter, the trees shedding their leaves, it is all devastatingly beautiful.
This week to celebrate this place and this land I’m participating in Loving Local’s blog-a-thon to mark Farmer’s Market Week. Every day this week I’m going to talk about a different farmer’s market in the area. I’m going to visit two I’ve never been to before, and talk about three of my old favorites. On top of that, I’m going to tell you where to get the best corn in Western Mass as I explore the farm stands near my house. It will be a busy week of food exploration, but I’m looking forward to sharing a little bit of this Valley I call home.
If you have a moment and some spare change this week, please think about donating to Loving Local
If you have several moments please stop by Our Grandmother’s Kitchens to see all the posts from folks participating in the blog-a-thon
cloudy. snow- left about an inch more on top of the ice pack. 29° at 2pm.
Sustainability – There’s something about the Valley. There is a road on both sides of the river north of my house. When we’re in the mood to take a ride, we go “up the river, down the river” – And every time we do, I’m awe-struck at the straight up gorgeousness of the ride. Though the mountains to the north-west make a nice background, it’s the miles of neatly tilled fields that get me all achy. And the farm stands – this time of year when the ground is solid, and the trees bare, I dream of berries and tomatoes and sweet corn – I dream of them in bags and cartons piled high on the passenger seat – I dream of little boys covered in blueberry goo, as I pull them out of the car seats – I dream of dinners with more sides than meat.
Read the rest of this entry