To honor three food-and-tale-filled blogging years, let’s revisit a reader favorite: from May 13, 2009, here’s a story about my friend Andie, and also Andie’s mom and Judy Blume, and what we learned about men from them both.

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MOMS WILL BE MOMS, BUT JUDY IS FOREVER

Original post and comments found here.

{ A Mother’s Day tale }

In 1978 just three types of contraband existed for me and my pal Andie Lerner: shoplifted Bonne Bell makeup, those curious magazines in our brothers’ rooms, and Judy Blume’s teen sex novel, Forever. But at eleven, I feared juvenile cosmetics prison and declined the five-finger discount; despite many examinations of our brothers’ covert reads, Andie and I weren’t quite clear on the attraction; and finally, though we’d heard the title whispered and wanted it desperately, we were not wise to the horizontal goods in Forever. We were not actually wise to anything.

What we were was clueless, but lucky – a copy was circulating in our classroom by day, and pedaling home to bedrooms at night. The smudged paperback moved desk to desk – when Mrs. Endicott turned to the board, one girl slid it to the palms of another, and by the time she turned back, the deal was done. Math resumed with two flushed faces, one triumphant and one hopeful – and one day during fractions, the palms belonged to Andie. It was Friday afternoon, and our eyes locked in telegraphed plan: sleepover, toaster-oven snacks and a cover-to-cover inspection – no falling asleep like last time, Andie - of Forever.

Andie lived two houses down from our split-level, in a rambling old Tudor. Her family snacked on flax bread, and ate lentil soup in hand-thrown pottery crocks. Wide oak stairs led to a sunny living room crammed with macrame plants and art books and an enormous black Steinway, on which Andie’s dad would balance a glass of red wine and frequently bang out jazz. My own dad liked to browse tax law, so I found it all thrilling, right up to the day Mr. Lerner met a young woman and left the grand piano – and Mrs. Lerner – behind. Andie’s mom started wearing bangles and scarves and higher heels, and buying potato chips, and was never home. Mr. Lerner’s unfortunate weakness had built a premier sleepover destination.

So it was in an empty house, in the sitting room that held just a sofabed and television, that we holed up with Forever. Our props meant business: sleeping bags, Twizzlers, root beer, at least a dozen pillows and a few of their Persian cats. The fridge revealed one package of cocktail franks, and I’d brought a can of Wiener Wrap – a kind of processed dough you wrapped and baked around hot dogs. We could bake them in the toaster oven. I could sprinkle them with cheddar, and was excited about that, about sprinkling cheddar on Wiener Wraps.

But first, Forever. We literally tore through it – pulling back and forth – until we finally took turns munching licorice and reading aloud, all about Kath and Michael, and what they were doing. But…what were they doing? An hour later we’d read all the words, laughing – ha ha, he called his member Ralph – and while we knew what Judy Blume was saying, sex on a multicolor rug, we didn’t quite know what sex on a multicolor rug, or any rug, was supposed to mean.

So we put the book aside and chugged root beer, and watched TV. They were showing Planet of the Apes, and we were mesmerized by chimp makeup and funny lines. Charlton Heston was yelling about something. “I bet he never had sex on a multicolor rug!” Andie said. I pointed to Roddy McDowell’s ape. “Not him either!” I said. We howled and turned out the lights, and everything on TV was hilarious, and Forever fell to the floor. Eventually we heard a key turn, and a clack-clack down the hallway. “My mom,” Andie shrieked, “get the book!” I reached under the bed for the paperback but couldn’t find it, scrabbling. Mrs. Lerner poked her head in the dark room, then swept in all the way.

“You girls are stillll up,” she said.

“We’re going to sleep, Mom,” said Andie. Mrs. Lerner smelled like sandalwood, and swayed on her heels a little. Instead of leaving, she plunked down on the bed. I breathed in, but inched away. She leaned over. “What’s this?” In one floral-sleeved movement, she brought the book off the carpet.

She took a flashlight from Andie. “What is it?” She shined one spot on the cover. “Oh ho,” she said, “oh yes I do see!” My lungs collapsed. I could run home, I thought, I could bang on the door and I could confess to having the book, but at least I’d be out of here.

Now Mrs. Lerner swung to face us. Andie and I huddled on the sofabed, toward the wall. She turned the flashlight off for a moment, then on again. Then pointed it at us. “So you got this. Okay. Okay. Just tell me one thing, ONE THING.” We held our breaths. “Was it good?”

Was it good. I looked at Andie, who was looking at me. Good? Her mom was still lurching. “Was. It. Good. Was it good for her the first time?”

Oh, now we were truly up a creek. Neither of us had an inkling, but from her wild-eyed jangly look behind the light, we sure needed an answer. Andie looked stricken. So I gave her one.

“Oh yeah, it was great!”

She looked suspicious, pressed the book under her palm. “It was great. The first time.”

It seemed to be working, so I went on. “Yeah, fantastic! Everything was perfect!”

Mrs. Lerner slipped the flashlight off, and was silent for two minutes. I thought she might be asleep.

“Then it’s a LIE!” she yelled. I touched Andie’s arm. “If it was good for her then it is BULL.” She jumped to her feet, and yanked her beaded shawl. “All men are assholes,” she said, “and don’t you forget it.” She reached down, grabbed the book, and left.

Andie and I sat frozen for five minutes. Not until we heard shoes on wood, then shoes hit a wall upstairs, and finally the flump of a body in bed, did we finally start laughing, laughing so hard that root beer came out my nose. We did not discuss Kath and Michael, nor virgins or moms nor multicolor rugs. At two a.m. we went to the kitchen, preheated the toaster oven, and carefully wrapped pink cocktail franks in canned yellow dough. We sat on the brick floor in pajamas and tore open a bag of Oreos, giggling and crumb-faced, waiting for Wiener Wraps.

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* no illustration of Wiener Wraps; remember what happened last time?

Not editing, really. Finessing. Alcott may have mastered prose at the desk, but in the kitchen she was likely closer to Jo March, for whom the “bread burned black” and the “cream turned sour.” Making Apple Slump would be like cooking with Ms. Alcott’s domestically-challenged ghost, and while I cored and sliced I considered my years reading and rereading the March girls, picturing Amy’s limes, Meg’s vain high heels and lonely Jo in the attic with apples, writing and cursing scarlet fever, the villain that stole Beth. I regretted that my little tweaks – dash of vanilla, an extra apple – could not make Laurie come to his senses and dump Amy. Pecans would add crunch but they would never make Jo marry Laurie, nor bring Beth back. They’re a matter of personal taste, like my feelings about Meg wedding that dull John Brooke, and while they won’t change the story they can at least enhance Ms. Alcott’s kitchen legacy, and certainly perk up the Slump.

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For Fall Fest’s Apple Week, a few choice scenes – with apples – from Little Women.

- THE LAURENCE BOY -

“Jo! Jo! Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.

“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo’s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news.

- BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL -

“See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk, puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and stool, all complete,” added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying its beauties.

“‘Your humble servant, James Laurence’. Only think of his writing that to you. I’ll tell the girls. They’ll think it’s splendid,” said Amy, much impressed by the note.

“Try it, honey. Let’s hear the sound of the baby pianny,” said Hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright pedals.

“You’ll have to go and thank him,” said Jo, by way of a joke, for the idea of the child’s really going never entered her head.

“Yes, I mean to. I guess I’ll go now, before I get frightened thinking about it.” And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the Laurences’ door.

- HARVEST TIME -

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches, Laurences, Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day of it. Five years after Jo’s wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins.

The old orchard wore its holiday attire. Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake.

“Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one,” began Mrs. March, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of countenance.

“Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done,” cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT’S APPLE SLUMP

from Orchard House, Concord, Massachusetts

4-6 tart apples (I used 3 large Granny Smith and 3 medium Golden Delicious)
1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg, well-beaten
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup melted butter

Peel, core and slice the apples. Preheat oven to 350° F. Grease with butter the inside of a 1-1/2 quart baking dish. (NOTE: for a shallower, more even apples-to-topping ratio, use a 9 x 13 pan.) Put into the dish the sliced apples, brown sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Bake apples uncovered until they are soft, about 20 minutes.

While the apples are baking, sift together into a bowl the flour, baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and sugar. Mix into this the beaten egg, milk, and melted butter. Stir gently. Spread this mixture over the apples and continue baking — until the top is brown and crusty (about 25 minutes). Serve with whipped cream. Serves 6.

NOTES (with apologies to Ms. Alcott)

1. Use at least 6 good-sized apples – 7 or 8 if they’re small – or you’ll have more topping than fruit.

2. Where the instructions say “Put into the dish the sliced apples, brown sugar, nutmeg…” I tossed the apples with the brown sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon and salt in a separate bowl, then poured the mixture into the baking dish. I also added 1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla to the apple-sugar mixture.

3. I sprinkled 1/2 cup chopped pecans over the batter topping.

4. Baking times (for both the uncovered apples and the batter-topped Slump) may be longer than noted. Watch for the apples to soften and the top crust to turn an even, light gold-brown.

Did the Marches have vanilla and pecans? No. But they didn’t have blogs, either.

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Summer Fest is now Fall Fest, an ongoing celebration of good food and great ideas from food and garden bloggers around the globe. Every week we share great recipes, stories and tips for marvelous seasonal ingredients. You can participate by visiting the guest blogs to share links or comments – and if you’re particularly inspired, contribute a post of your own. Drop by A Way to Garden for details on how join the party.

THIS WEEK’S LINKS: APPLES

Todd and Diane at White on Rice Couple: Apple picking, and Broiled Leeks with Apple Vinaigrette

Alana at Eating from the Ground Up: Apple pie and its place in her family religion

Caron at San Diego Foodstuff: Remaking The Silver Palate Cookbook’s Medieval Apple Tart

Alison at Food2: 22 Awesome Ways to Use Your Apples

Michelle at Cooking Channel: Apple Dessert Recipes

Dana at Healthy Eats: 31 Days of Apple Recipes

Liz at Food Network: Pick the Perfect Apple

Caroline at The Wright Recipes: Apple Stack Cake and Dark Caramel Apples

Food Network UK: Five English apples you should know and love

Gilded Fork: Apples—Sweet Seduction

Paige at The Sister Project: Third-Prize Apple Pie

Nicole at Pinch My Salt: Favorite Apple Recipes

Margaret at A Way to Garden: Apple Season: A Windfall of Recipes From My Friends

The tangy yellow pie was a triumph, especially the graham-crumb star on top, which they had pictured on page 58. You may want to make up your own design, the book said. Nothing doing. I copied it, certain their six-point star would unlock the door to mouth-watering. Fancy party. I cooked my way through the book step by 1-2-3 step, carefully turning out Tutti-Frutti-Ice Sparkle, Quick Walnut Penuche, Flip-Flop Pancakes and steaming, butter-pat perfect Baked Potatoes.

Baked potatoes had few ingredients – one – but apparently required a recipe. I followed it. Fifteen years and four kitchens passed before I stopped following recipes, before I started jotting yolk-stained notes, before trusting my own hands, before saying why yes, I will make up my own design. Enough experience and the deceptively easy – the omelet, the pie crust, the potato – will come easier. Directives loosen and slide and one day, in your kitchen, you throw in this and take out that, and the recipes serve as inspiration. Your hands trust you.

Still, even the seasoned cook takes steps forward and back. For Summer Fest Potato Week (soon to be Fall Fest),  I thought nothing like baked potatoes, and since no tricks or twists can make them better than they are, I decided to pull my BHG Junior Cook Book and retrace my steps, following the Baked Potatoes recipe exactly as I did in ’75, which is to say, exactly. I found the beloved blue squares basic and soothing, and also found they produced the finest baked potato a beginning cook – or any cook, of any age – can make.

Set oven at 425°. Scrub dirt off potatoes. Stick with a fork to make holes for the hot steam to escape.

Note that the wire brush is not the exact one pictured in the book. Had I the wrong brush in 1975, I might have assumed the potatoes would come out wrong – deflated or something. Guess what? Brush not important.

Put potatoes on oven rack. Bake potatoes 40 to 60 minutes. They will be soft when squeezed with toweling.

And indeed, they are soft when squeezed with paper toweling. I was so enamored with the word. Would you pass me a paper toweling? Mother, I think we are out of toweling.

Cut a cross in the top of each potato with a paring knife. Place a pat of butter or margarine in each opening.

That cross-cutting bit was clear to me but oh dear, butter or margarine. Which one? Also, the BHG illustration (see above, #3) taught me that when dealing with butter, a pat was not just a slice, but a square yellow thickness of your choice.

There we have it. I followed my own junior footsteps and turned out the same excellent, crisp-skin and fluff-center potatoes. I didn’t toy with perfection then and, experience aside, don’t see any reason to now.

Well. You know.

Summer Fest is an annual online celebration of good food and great ideas, featuring food and garden bloggers from around the globe. Every week we share great recipes, stories and tips for marvelous seasonal ingredients. You can participate by visiting the guest blogs to share links or comments – and if you’re particularly inspired, contribute a post of your own. Drop by A Way to Garden for details on how join the party.

THIS WEEK’S LINKS: POTATOES

Alison at Food2: Boil ‘Em, Mash ‘Em, Stick ‘Em in a Stew

Kirsten at FN Dish: Twice-Baked Potatoes

Sara at Cooking Channel: Duck Fat Roasted Potatoes

Healthy Eats: A Day of Potatoes: Spuds for Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner

Caron at San Diego Foodstuff: Hatch Chile Potato Salad

Nicole at Pinch My Salt: Taquitos de Papa, made with leftover mashed potatoes

Caroline at the Wright Recipes: Indian Spiced Potatoes with Chickpeas (Aloo Chole)

Paige at The Sister Project: French Fries to soothe a burnt-out cook’s soul

Margaret at A Way to Garden: Potato Growing, Curing and Storage Tips

Food Network UK: We like spuds

Alana at Eating From the Ground Up: The strange experience of growing potatoes

Cate at Sweetnicks: Bleu Cheese Potato Mashers

Gilded Fork: A roundup of potato recipes

And no, I’ve not abandoned blogging. I haven’t vanished, nor fallen off the earth or into a ditch by the side of the road. Though certainly, I appreciate the concern – voiced by many of you dear souls – that I could be, I’m not. I am in fact just where we left off: squinting at a laptop, coffee to the left, Cleo near my feet and two steps from the kitchen.

So then, where have I been?

As noted, mostly here. I’ve been working on the work of writing – a few projects, each requiring keyboard, coffee, and 10% nuts-90% chocolate trail mix. Nothing to announce. Just send love, luck, and extra chocolate chips.

We spent Josie’s spring break here:

Of course, not in this spot, not the whole time.

We were also here

And eating, here

And oh please more, here.

We had wonderful meals in NYC and met up with new and old friends, including Amanda and Merrill, the brilliant ladies of food52…

…and surrounded by waves and sky, one great big grande dame.

Back home, Simmer’s been hopping around the web. Both PaulaDeen.com and Flashlight Worthy Books featured our Great Reads for Culinary Kids (and Hungry Adults) lists, and the New York Daily News blog Mothership Meals tapped Two-Bite Jam Tarts as a baking pick for picky kids.

So there we are. How pleasurable to speak fluent Simmer again, an odd language I use when talking to a warm, invisible group that’s not invisible at all. Still simmering, and glad you’re here.

Wait! You don’t need that intro again. You don’t need to hear me wax poetic about books in the trees, or Jo March, or the Bobbsey Twin’s Luau.  You just need to know that today we’re revisiting Great Reads for Culinary Kids, and that we’ve added marvelous reader suggestions to the list, and have plenty of room for more.

Here’s the original list Josie and I compiled, plus a new selection from our readers. They run from picture books to young adult (or 42-year old adult). Do you have a favorite food read, or a great food scene you never forgot? Add yours to the list. Happy (and Hungry) Reading.

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Fanny at Chez Panisse Alice Waters, 1997

Truly charming story-plus-cookbook by a culinary royal. Alice Waters describes how her young daughter, Fanny, spends her days at mom’s famous Berkeley restaurant, sorting tiny eggplants, hiding in stock pots and watching chefs at work.

Bread and Jam for Frances Russell Hoban, 1964

Frances will only eat bread and jam, so her mother gives it to her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would like to reenact this as “Deep Dish Pizza for Marilyn.”

Blueberries for Sal Robert McCloskey, 1948

The classic picture book of blueberry picking, a bear cub, mothers and life in Maine.

Amelia Bedelia Peggy Parish, 1963

I always liked the many good qualities of free-spirited Amelia Bedelia: she was a tall, skinny smiler, and she cheerfully screwed up everything. I particularly admired the way she could neutralize any angry person by feeding them lemon meringue pie.

In the Night Kitchen Maurice Sendak, 1970

Though there was controversy over the depiction of a nearly baked-in-a-cake naked boy, all I saw was a fantastical look at how a bakery worked overnight. Sendak’s illustrated world – especially with flour and sugar – never fails to stop me in my tracks.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar Eric Carle, 1969

The classic caterpillar eats every food in sight, until he finds all he really needs is one plain and perfect green leaf. Truth? I didn’t want him to eat the leaf. I wanted him to keep eating salami and ice cream.

Eloise in Paris Kay Thompson, 1957

I was lucky to inherit a stack of 60′s-era Eloise books, and Paris was my favorite. Her champagne cork necklace! Baguettes! Dinner at Maxim’s! It was all rawther delicious.

Little House in the Big Woods Laura Ingalls Wilder, 1932

I could blog every day for a year about the Ingalls family and how they rest in the mind of most every woman I know – but for now I’ll just serve highlights: maple syrup snow, sideboard of pies, sour pickles, a crackling pig’s tail. Onion wreaths in the root cellar. So memorable were Laura’s food passages that they eventually filled The Little House Cookbook, as noted in this lovely post by Paige Smith Orloff.

Strega Nona Tomie DePaola, 1979

A wise Italian witch with the power to conjure up pasta. What’s not to love?

Heidi Johanna Spyri, 1880

One of my all-time favorites, the story of a Swiss girl and her grandfather in the Alps is really about toasting golden cheese, curing sausages, warm goat’s milk, and soft white bakery rolls. Do not be fooled by the jacket copy. It’s all about the food.

Anatole Eve Titus, 1956

And here is where Simmer readers fall down. Yes indeed, I love a book about a mouse, a mouse who wears a beret and tastes cheese in the cheese factory. When I first read it – decades before the pear incident – I was dazzled by his little scarf, and all those Bries and bleus.

Strawberry Girl Lois Lenski, 1945

A terrific book I never forgot – Lois Lenski’s story of hard living for rural Florida “crackers,” a detailed, often sad picture of Birdie Boyer and the tough world around her. Strawberries are everywhere, all about growing them, picking them, eating them. A classic for 9-12 readers.

James and the Giant Peach Roald Dahl, 1961

This book made me dream of waking up, rolling over and eating chunks of peach from the wall. Enough said.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone J.K. Rowling, 1997

Oh sure, there’s dueling and wands and danger, but what thrills me at Hogwarts is dessert. I mean, Dumbledore claps his hands and profiteroles fill the hall. Magic, or what?

Suggested by readers and family, the additions:

Farmer Boy Laura Ingalls Wilder, 1933

Both my 13-year-old daughter Josie and the full-grown Merrill Stubbs from food52 added another Laura Ingalls Wilder classic, Farmer Boy. The story of Almanzo Wilder – young Laura’s future husband – is possibly the most food-rich “Little House” book of all. And that’s certainly due to the prosperity of the New York State Wilders, who were always ready to feast: flapjacks and eggnog, braided donuts and candy, roast pork and golden pumpkins.

Dim Sum for Everyone! Grace Lin, 2001

Reader Julie Whitehorn suggested great books like Frank Asch’s Moonbear and Karen Wallace’s Scarlett Beane, but the one that caught my dumpling-loving eye was Grace Lin’s Dim Sum For Everyone! A girl visits a dim sum restaurant with her family and chooses treats to share from the rolling trolleys: cakes, buns, tarts and – of course – dumplings.

All-of-a-Kind Family Sydney Taylor, 1951

Both blogging singer Emma Wallace and my super-reader cousin Robin noted one of Josie’s all-time favorites, the All-of-a-Kind Family series. The books tell the story of a Jewish family living on New York’s Lower East Side in the early 1900′s – wonderful characters, but what everyone seems to remember is the food: penny candy varieties like chocolate babies, chicken corn, lemon-snap and ginger; stuffed sour cream blintzes and pickles, and descriptions of “chick peas! fine, hot chickpeas!”

A Girl of the Limberlost Gene Stratton Porter, 1909

Savour Fare’s Kate suggested this unusual classic, the story of Elnora Comstock, a poor rural girl who catches rare moths to put herself through high school. In one remarkable scene, Elnora opens her lunch box: “She scarcely could believe her senses. Half the bread compartment was filled with dainty sandwiches of bread and butter sprinkled with the yolk of egg and the remainder with three large slices of the most fragrant spice cake imaginable. The meat dish contained shaved cold ham, of which she knew the quality, the salad was tomatoes and celery, and the cup held preserved pear, clear as amber.”

A Book Buffet from Pinot and Prose:

As a serious cook and former librarian now in children’s publishing, blogger Laura Lutz knows her way around “foodie kid lit.” Laura’s recommendations:

“I can’t say enough about Kitchen Dance by Maurie Manning  – it captures not just the joy of food but the kitchen as well.”

“The Adventurous Chef: Alexis Soyer by Ann Arnold also gives kids some culinary history info – I found out a lot that I didn’t know. Also on culinary history, Bring Me Some Apples and I’ll Make You a Pie (the story of chef Edna Lewis) by Robbin Gourley is particularly well-written.”

“For older readers, I loved Dear Julia by Amy Bronwen Zemser – this is appropriate for tweens even though the characters are older. I also ADORED Madame Pamplemousse and her Incredible Edibles, by Rupert Kingfisher. It’s super short but holds so much magic in such a tiny package.”

“For teenagers, The Sweet Life of Stella Madison by Lara M. Zeises is really wonderful. Great characters, fantastic food descriptions.”

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Sara at Culinerapy – and countless others – reminded me about Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs by Judi and Ron Barrett.  Sara particularly loves “its pea soup fog and Cream of Wheat snow banks.”  Erin Nichols recalled great food scenes from Beverly Cleary’s Ramona Quimby, Age 8 including “the infamous egg-bashing on head incident, and the yogurt-marinated chicken dinner that she and Beezus make for their parents.” Finally, Beach House’s Jane notes that both Alice in Wonderland and Babar feature plenty of incredible eats.

Your turn! Add your own favorite read for culinary kids (and this now-very-hungry adult).

* Print the whole list? Why not. Click here for a PDF.

Back in bakery years, working all day near 64-pound butter blocks was torture, a special brand of wafting, yellow, room-temp torture. Good thing we had spreaders and baguettes, which lavishly eased the pain. Outside pesky cholesterol, there’s only one butter problem I see: it does not like you taking its picture. Yes – I know most people don’t casually pose the butter, but I’ve had reason to more than once, and every time a wash. Butter swirls through the kitchen and dominates the tongue, but snap a photo and it goes pale, improbably dull. Does it think we’ll steal its soul?  How can a robust bar of fat be such a wallflower in the lens?

My most successful butter shot was a fluke. Messing around one day with the cheese planer, it landed on a chunk of Plugra, and this is what I got. Perhaps that’s a butter-photography secret: just ask it to stand up straight.

Last week for my birthday, dear pal Lora Kolodny, whip-smart business reporter (and New York Times blogger) sent me wishes along with a poem, a work I’d never seen and one she clearly knew I’d love, a poem called Butter. I was delighted; I’ve always loved poetry, for the way it kisses language, for the chance it gives the heart, and for its ability to illustrate the familiar in a different shaft of light. Here on the page, with no props or toast, wonderful poet Connie Wanek brings the spread into view. With Ms. Wanek’s kind permission, we can finally look at butter in the proper light.

Butter

by Connie Wanek, 2000

Butter, like love,
seems common enough
yet has so many imitators.
I held a brick of it, heavy and cool,
and glimpsed what seemed like skin
beneath a corner of its wrap;
the decolletage revealed
a most attractive fat!

And most refined.
Not milk, not cream,
not even creme de la creme.
It was a delicacy which assured me
that bliss follows agitation,
that even pasture daisies
through the alchemy of four stomachs
may grace a king’s table.

We have a yellow bowl near the toaster
where summer’s butter grows
soft and sentimental.
We love it better for its weeping,
its nostalgia for buckets and churns
and deep stone wells,
for the press of a wooden butter mold
shaped like a swollen heart.

Connie Wanek has been writing poems since childhood. She is the author of two books, with a third forthcoming, and she has been the recipient of several awards, including the Willow Poetry Prize and the Jane Kenyon Poetry Prize. Most recently, she was named a Witter Bynner Fellow of the Library of Congress by United States Poet Laureate Ted Kooser. She lives in the country outside Duluth, Minnesota, but often finds herself in a green tent somewhere in the Boundary Waters wilderness.

Isn’t that nice? But before my mother objects, let’s rephrase: one sweaty Chicago summer, my brother and I nearly killed each other nailing two boards into a tree. We pounded rows of crooked nails into little boards for steps, and as high as we could get, two larger boards for seats. It wasn’t much, but it was up in the leaves, perfect for neighborhood spying and perfect for summer reading. I would make two separate climbs before settling in: one toting a snack-filled Partridge Family lunchbox, and another dragging a library bag full of books.

It won’t surprise you to hear that many of my favorite reads, both then and now, feature food. But what I really love are books that don’t announce they’re about food – they just are: Heidi toasting cheese in her Alps, Jo March eating apples in the garret, Mary and Laura pouring maple in the snow. These were the bits I read and reread, and then snacked and read again. Don’t even get me started on The Bobbsey Twins’s luau and the pig roast. Now that was a page-turner.

Lucky for me – or no accident at all – my daughter tasted books the same way. Here’s a list we compiled together of great culinary reads for kids, all so good and so timeless, this adult likes to sample them now. They run from picture books to young adult (or 41-year old adult.) Do you have a favorite food read, or a great food scene you never forgot? Add yours to the list. Happy (and Hungry) Reading.

Fanny at Chez Panisse Alice Waters, 1997

Truly charming story-plus-cookbook by a culinary royal. Alice Waters describes how her young daughter, Fanny, spends her days at mom’s famous Berkeley restaurant, sorting tiny eggplants, hiding in stock pots and watching chefs at work.

Bread and Jam for Frances Russell Hoban, 1964

Frances will only eat bread and jam, so her mother gives it to her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would like to reenact this as “Deep Dish Pizza for Marilyn.”

Blueberries for Sal Robert McCloskey, 1948

The classic picture book of blueberry picking, a bear cub, mothers and life in Maine.

Amelia Bedelia Peggy Parish, 1963

I always liked the many good qualities of free-spirited Amelia Bedelia: she was a tall, skinny smiler, and she cheerfully screwed up everything. I particularly admired the way she could neutralize any angry person by feeding them lemon meringue pie.

In the Night Kitchen Maurice Sendak, 1970

Though there was controversy over the depiction of a nearly baked-in-a-cake naked boy, all I saw was a fantastical look at how a bakery worked overnight. Sendak’s illustrated world – especially with flour and sugar – never fails to stop me in my tracks.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar Eric Carle, 1969

The classic caterpillar eats every food in sight, until he finds all he really needs is one plain and perfect green leaf. Truth? I didn’t want him to eat the leaf. I wanted him to keep eating salami and ice cream.

Eloise in Paris Kay Thompson, 1957

I was lucky to inherit a stack of 60′s-era Eloise books, and Paris was my favorite. Her champagne cork necklace! Baguettes! Dinner at Maxim’s! It was all rawther delicious.

Little House in the Big Woods Laura Ingalls Wilder, 1932

I could blog every day for a year about the Ingalls family and how they rest in the mind of most every woman I know – but for now I’ll just serve highlights: maple syrup snow, sideboard of pies, sour pickles, a crackling pig’s tail. Onion wreaths in the root cellar. So memorable were Laura’s food passages that they eventually filled The Little House Cookbook, as noted in this lovely post by Paige Smith Orloff.

Strega Nona Tomie DePaola, 1979

A wise Italian witch with the power to conjure up pasta. What’s not to love?

Heidi Johanna Spyri, 1880

One of my all-time favorites, the story of a Swiss girl and her grandfather in the Alps is really about toasting golden cheese, curing sausages, warm goat’s milk, and soft white bakery rolls. Do not be fooled by the jacket copy. It’s all about the food.

Anatole Eve Titus, 1956

And here is where Simmer readers fall down. Yes indeed, I love a book about a mouse, a mouse who wears a beret and tastes cheese in the cheese factory. When I first read it – decades before the pear incident – I was dazzled by his little scarf, and all those Bries and bleus.

Strawberry Girl Lois Lenski, 1945

A terrific book I never forgot – Lois Lenski’s story of hard living for rural Florida “crackers,” a detailed, often sad picture of Birdie Boyer and the tough world around her. Strawberries are everywhere, all about growing them, picking them, eating them. A classic for 9-12 readers.

James and the Giant Peach Roald Dahl, 1961

This book made me dream of waking up, rolling over and eating chunks of peach from the wall. Enough said.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone J.K. Rowling, 1997

Oh sure, there’s dueling and wands and danger, but what thrills me at Hogwarts is dessert. I mean, Dumbledore claps his hands and profiteroles fill the hall. Magic, or what?

Why am I doing it again? We recently unearthed a few notes from those days, and I decided to revisit, and finish the doodling I’d started some twelve years ago. This update is a gift for a friend, someone expecting her first, someone who will also tread floors and will, perhaps, find the need to recite baked goods. I was always amazed how the silly muffin-and-pie mantra soothed us both, rocked her to sleep and kept me awake. It also seems to work on small, sweets-loving kids, goofy adults and a few chatty, sugar-looped bakers.

A is sweet on apples, that fall into the pie

B melts into butter, and makes the muffins sigh

Carrots from the garden, deployed to make the cake

D’s are for the donuts when you don’t know what to bake

Elephant ears are flaky (you can say palmiers, too)

F is for the fritter that has nothing else to do

G is for galettes, swirling summer, dripping fruit

H is for hamantaschen, three-cornered cookie loot

I is pie in the icebox – it’s lemon, sweet and cold

Jam befriends the sponge cake and they build a jelly roll

K is always Key lime – should be yellow, never green!

L is for the lattice that keeps red berries seen

Macarons are le favorite, a Paris souvenir

Napoleon’s gone forever, but his treat still lingers there

O is for Oh So Many, a hundred cookies that we ate

P is for the nice plain pears we’ll eat to clean the slate

Q is for Queen Mother’s Cake, from Maida Heatter’s book

R is for the recipe our dog’s jaws sadly took

Scones are a craggy compass, to point us through the day

Tea is their companion (though not the American way)

U loves umeboshi, Japanese fruit that’s pickled tart

V is for vanilla, pure and closest to the heart

W sings out welcome, which is what cakes tend to say

X is for the extra slice you might get on that day

Y is for golden egg yolks, like whisking in the sun

and Zzz’s are heard at daybreak…

…when the bakery work’s begun.

In 1978 just three types of contraband existed for me and my pal Andie Lerner: shoplifted Bonne Bell makeup, those curious magazines in our brothers’ rooms, and Judy Blume’s teen sex novel, Forever. But I was a fearful eleven-year-old who declined the five-finger discount – and despite many examinations of our brothers’ covert reads, Andie and I weren’t quite clear on the attraction. Finally, though we’d heard the title whispered and wanted it desperately, we were not wise to the horizontal goods in Forever. We were not actually wise to anything.

We were clueless, but lucky – a copy was circulating in our math class by day, and pedaling home to bedrooms at night. The smudged paperback moved from desk to desk, and when Mrs. Endicott turned to the board, one girl would slide it to the palms of another, and before Endicott turned back, the deal was done. One fine day during fractions, the palms belonged to Andie.  It was Friday afternoon, and our eyes locked in telegraphed plan: sleepover, toaster-oven snacks and a cover-to-cover inspection – no falling asleep like last time, Andie - of Forever.

Andie lived two houses down from our split-level, in a rambling old Tudor.  Her family snacked on flax bread, and ate lentil soup in hand-thrown pottery crocks.  Wide oak stairs led to a sunny living room crammed with macrame planters and art books and an enormous black Steinway, on which Andie’s dad would balance a glass of red wine and frequently bang out jazz.  My own dad liked to browse tax law, so I found it all thrilling, right up to the day Mr. Lerner met a young woman and left the grand piano – and Mrs. Lerner – behind. Andie’s mom started wearing bangles and gauzy scarves and higher heels, and buying potato chips, and was never home. Mr. Lerner’s weakness had created a premier sleepover destination.

So it was in an empty house, in the sitting room that held just a sofabed and television, that we holed up with Forever.  We meant business: sleeping bags, Twizzlers, root beer, at least a dozen pillows and a few of their Persian cats. The fridge revealed one package of cocktail franks, and I’d brought a can of Wiener Wrap – a kind of processed dough you wrapped and baked around hot dogs.  We could bake them in the toaster oven.  I could sprinkle them with cheddar, and was excited about that, about sprinkling cheddar on Wiener Wraps.

But first, Forever.  We literally tore through it – me pulling, her pulling  – until we finally took turns munching licorice and reading aloud, all about Kath and Michael, and what they were doing. But what were they doing?  An hour later we’d read all the words, had a laugh – ha ha, he called his member Ralph – and while we knew what Judy Blume was saying, sex on a multicolor rug, we didn’t quite know what sex on a multicolor rug, or any rug, was supposed to mean.

We set the book aside and chugged root beer, and watched  TV.  They were showing Planet of the Apes, and we were mesmerized by the chimp makeup and funny lines.  Charlton Heston was yelling. “I bet he never had sex on a multicolor rug!” Andie said.  I pointed to Roddy McDowell’s ape. “Not him either!” I said. We howled and turned out the lights, and everything on TV was hilarious, and Forever fell to the floor.  Eventually we heard a key turn, and a clack-clack down the hallway.  “My mom,” Andie shrieked, “get the book!”  I reached under the bed for the paperback but couldn’t find it, scrabbling.  Mrs. Lerner poked her head in the dark room, then swept in all the way.

“You girls are stillll up,” she said.

“We’re going to sleep, Mom,” said Andie.  Mrs. Lerner smelled like sandalwood, and swayed a little on her heels.  Instead of leaving, she plunked down on the bed.  I breathed in, but inched away.  She leaned over.  “What’s this?” In one floral-sleeved movement, she lifted the book from the carpet.

She took a flashlight from Andie. “What is it?” She shined a spot on the cover. “Oh ho,” she said, “oh yes I do see!”  My lungs collapsed.  I could run home, I thought, I could bang on the door and I could confess to having the book, but at least I’d be out of here.

Now Mrs. Lerner swung to face us.  Andie and I huddled on the sofabed, toward the wall. She turned the flashlight off for a moment, then on again. Then pointed it at us. “So you got this. Okay. Okay. Just tell me one thing, ONE THING.” We held our breaths. “Was it good?”

Was it good. I looked at Andie, who was looking at me. Good? Her mom was still lurching. “Was. It. Good. Was it good for her the first time?”

Andie looked stricken. Neither of us had an inkling, but Mrs. Lerner’s wild-eyed look behind the light demanded an answer.  So I gave her one.

“Oh yeah, it was great!”

She looked suspicious, pressed the book under her palm. “It was great. The first time.”

It seemed to be working, so I went on. “Yeah, fantastic! Everything was perfect!”

Mrs. Lerner clicked the flashlight off, and was silent for two minutes. I thought she might be asleep.

“Then it’s a LIE!” she yelled.  I touched Andie’s arm. “If it was good for her then it is BULL.”  She jumped to her feet, and yanked her beaded shawl. “All men are assholes,” she said, “and don’t you forget it.”  She reached down, grabbed the book, and left.

Andie and I sat frozen for five minutes. Not until we heard shoes on wood, then shoes hit a wall upstairs, and finally the flump of a body in bed, did we finally start laughing, laughing so hard that root beer came out my nose. We did not discuss Kath and Michael, nor virgins or moms nor multicolor rugs.  At two a.m. we went to the kitchen, preheated the toaster oven, and carefully wrapped pink cocktail franks in canned yellow dough. We sat on the brick floor in pajamas and tore open a bag of Oreos, giggling and crumb-faced, waiting for Wiener Wraps.

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* no illustration of Wiener Wraps; remember what happened last time?

Vampires aside, these meatballs are incredibly good – so once again, or maybe for the first time, please enjoy a little mother-daughter chat and a good recipe, on us. From July 31, 2008, it’s Turkey-Ricotta Meatballs: Love at First Bite.

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Are you, or any breathless young girl you know, familiar with the Twilight books?

My daughter is obsessed with Stephenie Meyer’s wildly successful teen – romance – vampire series, and I must be way off the buzz wagon, because until I smacked into a towering, goth-flavored display at Borders, I’d never even heard of them. But the Twilight phenomenon is huge – the latest book debuts tonight to Potter-like panic and midnight parties, including here, where Josie and her friends will celebrate this dubious tale of angst, algebra and the undead.

Previously not on my radar, the books suddenly appeared everywhere, including my kitchen counter. Josie had her nose in book 3 last night while I worked on dinner, pausing just long enough to explain their appeal:

So, he’s like a hundred years old, but he looks like a teenage guy, and he loves this girl at school.

They live in the Northwest and there’s a lot of woods around them. He belongs to this vampire family that doesn’t eat people.

Eat people?

Well – suck blood from people.

Then what do they eat?

They suck animals.

Animals.

Uh-huh. They suck the blood from deer and stuff in the forest. They think it’s morally wrong to bite and drink from humans.

Naturally.

His vampire family calls themselves vegetarians, because they don’t eat people. Just animals.

And they don’t eat people.

No – his dad vampire is even a surgeon who works on humans.

Doesn’t he get excited by the blood?

No. He has a lot of control. And he helps young vampires who still need people’s blood.

Gotcha. Vampire surgeon. Doesn’t drink blood.

Not a drop.

Um, okay. So – he loves a human girl, right? A teenager.

Right – it is so cool. He loves her but he won’t suck her blood. He watches her sleep but he won’t make her a vampire. Then she kind of loves this werewolf guy, too.

She loves a vampire and a werewolf.

Yeah – and werewolves can kill vampires, but they don’t. They have a treaty. It is won-der-ful. It is soooo amazing.

Okay! In other news, I made some delightful meatballs.

Turkey-Ricotta Meatballs

4 slices white bread, crusts removed and cut into 1/2-inch dice
1 1/2 pounds lean ground turkey
3 ounces cooked ham, chopped
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
2/3 cup ricotta cheese (5 ounces)
1/2 cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh spinach
2 tablespoons finely shredded fresh basil
2 teaspoons dried oregano, crumbled
1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds, crushed
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper
sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Preheat the oven to 400°.

Use a food processor to pulse the bread to fine crumbs. Remove the crumbs from the processor bowl, and replace it with the ham, spinach, and basil. Process until fine. Place the crumbs and ham-spinach mixture in a large bowl and add the turkey, eggs, ricotta, Pecorino Romano, oregano, fennel seeds, crushed red pepper and 2 teaspoons of sea salt. Grind a few generous turns of black pepper over ingredients, and mix well. Shape into 12-13 jumbo meatballs, or approximately 24 smaller meatballs. Transfer the meatballs to a lightly oiled sheet pan or roasting pan.

On very low heat, simmer several cups of homemade or good-quality jarred marinara sauce. Place meatballs in the oven and bake for about 30 minutes, or until firm and just beginning to brown. Remove from oven and use a spatula to loosen each meatball from the pan. Add meatballs to simmering marinara on stove and adjust sauce seasoning, if necessary, with salt, ground pepper, and oregano. Cover and simmer on low heat for about 15-30 minutes, until meatballs are tender and coated in sauce.

While meatballs and sauce are on stove, cook the pasta of your choice (I like spaghettini, fine spaghetti) and drain, tossing lightly with olive oil. Serve meatballs and sauce, topped by grated pecorino romano and more chopped basil, over pasta.

Serves 4-5

Know your meatball crowd! Double as necessary.

adapted from a Food & Wine recipe by A16′s Nate Appleman