Strawberry Rhubarb

Some may believe Memorial Day marks the beginning of the barbecue season or the first weekend it is warm enough to go to the beach. Admittedly, we indulged during the long weekend. We got together with friends and family, spent time in the sunshine, waded in the lagoon and had too many hot dogs, but more importantly we paid tribute to our troops. Selfless men and women who have sacrificed their own freedom and even lives to ensure people they have never even met might enjoy those very things. It was a weekend laden with emotion and ceremony. My boyfriend James, former active duty United States Marine, shared a tribute with my family on Monday afternoon. He bought an extra six pack of beer. We opened each can, one by one, pouring them over the grass to honor the fallen. He cried which is rare; I cried which is not rare. Everyone cried grateful tears, appreciative tears for lives lost and the lives still entangled in conflicts around the world. 

Someone in the digital sphere had said we can give thanks by living a life worthy of their sacrifice. While I can't save lives in the same way, I can endeavor to make the world a tad more kind, even sweeter. I took to my large pile of magazines and found a Strawberry Rhubarb Pie recipe from the Food Network. I found rhubarb at the market, an ingredient I have never worked with, and I got acquainted with its raw bitterness. I spent hours alone in my kitchen, following every step and assembling my very first pie, entirely from scratch. Berries were washed, butter cubed, and dough kneaded. 

While the dough was chilling we got a great rain and I listened to the calming melody of falling drops on the window sill. I rolled out the crusts and mixed the filling with sugar and the juice of just one lemon. The pie was arranged on a soaked picnic table as the drops made a lovely pattern. 

My crust strips may have been uneven, but the pie was bursting with character. It made me very proud to make something, every component, from start to finish. In to the oven it went, the aroma bewitching. Butter and fruit filled my home. We enjoyed the pie on Memorial Day with fresh whipped cream and touch of vanilla, silently giving thanks to the men and women away from their families. God willing most will return home, but the bitter reality dictates otherwise. May we never forgot them and strive to live lives worthy of their sacrifice. 

“Although no sculptured marble should rise to their memory, nor engraved stone bear record of their deeds, yet will their remembrance be as lasting as the land they honored. ”

— Daniel Webster

Scenes from Sunday (3)

Our family makes a habit of getting together in between the major holidays. While we gather and feast on Thanksgiving, at Easter, and Christmas, the months in between require their own kind of celebration. We convene for cold cuts and pizza served on paper plates. No preparation is required; we just show up and break bread.  My late grandfather used to sit at the head of the table, and my grandmother would make him a plate. My grandmother replaced him at the head of the table and my father would make her a plate. Although they have both gone home, together, they're never really that far. We still eat our cold cuts and think of them fondly. 

My grandparents used to store their vehicles in the garage,  as a garage is intended. They took extra special care of all their possessions, likely a product of their humble beginnings. When James and I moved in, we opted to park the cars in the driveway and use the garage for gatherings. A dart board, mismatching chairs, antique bar, hotdog and popcorn machines are the only provisions. With the arrival of spring, the garage is opened and James has been cooking more than usual; his favorite method of preparation is barbecue. We took our dear cold cut night outside and served up an assortment of salads, grilled meats, and vegetables.

Assorted antipasti.

Charred London Broil drizzled with melted butter and grilled chicken with garlic/olive oil over crostini.

Grilled corn.

I woke to the smell of smoke as James began his pork ribs and beef brisket at 7am. He had already been to the grocery store to pick up more ingredients by the time I wandered in to the kitchen for a coffee. We cleaned and prepared all day in anticipation for the grand reveal of Nonny and Homer's garage.  First we had antipasti: olives, prosciutto, capicola, artichokes, and provolone. Every half hour thereafter, we had another course. James has an issue with moderation when it comes to mealtime. Grilled chicken with garlic and oil as well as London broil drizzled with melted butter were served on Italian bread, beefsteak style. Few folks outside of New Jersey have such a thing, but we relish in the wonder of grilled meat atop crusty bread. 

He made mussels two ways, first with a traditional marinara and second in white wine, lemon and garlic. Once the slurping subsided and all that remained were shells, we had grilled corn, pulled pork, brisket, and ribs. I can not help but hope Nonny and Homer are smiling affectionately on their little garage filled with family, laughing together and overcome by nostalgia. As the sun went down we had fruit crumbles, apple, pear and blueberry, with ice cream. And cannoli. There were so many leftovers, we got together the day following and did it all over again.    

A blueberry tart with vanilla ice cream. Beautiful sweets like these will be available this June at 2Sweet. 

Less is more (2)

Drinking coffee from a pretty mug

Pretty mugs always heighten the experience of drinking something warm and comforting. Some of my favorite mugs are bought from the oasis that is the kitchen section at Anthropologie. Others are gifts I gratefully received. Different mugs serve different states of mind and I relish in the selection of the right mug for a particular cup of coffee. Better, a cappuccino.  

Lighting matches

The audible friction, a quick pop, and the immediate scent of embers. Of fire. Matches are valuable in that they have an expiration. One moment matches burn brightly, and the next they are gone. The scent lingers on like a fond memory. 

A s'more

I have yet to meet a person who does not like a s'more or some variation of one. Not a huge fan of marshmallows, my mom simply melts some Hershey's over a graham cracker. Others go without the chocolate. I myself like it all; the more decadent, the better. My sister and I roasted leftover chocolate covered Peeps from Easter and it was quite successful. Once I used a peanut butter cup in lieu of milk chocolate. Divine. Huddled around the fire with marshmallow laden fingers there is laughter. 

A rocking chair

I am well beyond my days as a child, but I know why children are calmed by rocking. It is fluid and soothing. The pattern is predictable and therefore constantly reassuring. Forward and backward. Forward and backward.  While no one is cradling me in their arms whispering "Shhh, baby sleeping", I still have the rocking chair. 

Getting a green light

Living and driving in a metropolitan region, stop lights are, well, everywhere. Every so often though, the green lingers a little longer than I anticipated and I can continue on my journey, uninterrupted. My sister touches the ceiling overhead in a fit of superstition to prolong the green as she approaches the intersection. I giggle but it does always seems to work. 

“The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. ”

— Henry Miller