So many cooks out there right now, today, standing in a kitchen riffling crumb-filled pages and spotted recipe cards, looking for that kugel. Grandma’s kugel, my mom’s neighbor’s kugel, that kugel we had at Lynn’s house, Aunt Rose’s kugel. Those bags of yellow egg noodles form a rock-solid tradition, so once a year – the old-school, annual way we used to watch The Sound of Music or The Ten Commandments – we’ll revisit Aunt Rose’s kugel. She was a lovely lady who smelled of atomizers and Aqua Net, always ready with a hug (and an index card). Wishing you good cooking, with an orchard of apples and a river of honey. Have a sweet year.

Noodle Kugel: Four Sisters, One Card

From October 18, 2008. Original post here.

Noodle kugel is a humble dish with an outsize name – a funny name, good for comedians and grandmas and giggling kids. Kugel is ripe with pronunciation – koo-gle or kuh-gle or whatever, just pass-me-that-stuff-now. It’s found on Jewish holiday tables and in deli case pyramids, golden twisty egg noodles cut in thick and improbably square slabs, bound by sour cream and more eggs, cottage cheese and drifting sugar. My family’s kugel is found on this 3 x 5 card.

Wearing butter stains and cinnamon age spots, the card appears each holiday in my mother’s kitchen – first under a fridge magnet (“I need to know where it is”) and eventually, on the counter. She could probably make kugel in her sleep, but it sits there, near the Pyrex, guiding the process like a curious lucky charm.

Most Jewish families pass down a kugel and inevitably a kugel family “secret,” some earnest addition like peaches or carrots or even chocolate chips. Kugel-lovers divide into “sweet” or “savory,” and at least in the matter of kugel, I stand with the sweet. I like my kugel luscious, sugared and cheesy, with distinct overtones of blintzes and dessert.

My mom received the Selectric-typed card long ago from Aunt Rose, as dear a lady as there ever was, and it was fondly known as “Aunt Rose’s Kugel” for decades, right up to the shocking family moment when it was revealed to be Aunt Ruth’s. My Grandma Trudy had three sisters – Ruth, Rose and Florence – and all four lived close, wore curlers, shopped sales and checked in by phone before ten. The four Weinstock girls – actually “LaVin,” lost at Ellis Island – were bound by love so fierce that it often excluded their husbands but extended monumentally, and quite judgmentally, to each other. At one time or another, they all baked and served this kugel.

Florence and Rose were the better cooks – my Grandma never met a Cantonese menu she didn’t like – and though Rose’s dish may be as sweet as Ruth’s, there was, of course, satisfaction in setting the recipe record straight. Enjoy noodling around on your own, and repeat the motto with me – never attribute a kugel to the wrong sister.

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Noodle Kugel

1 lb (16 oz) wide noodles (egg noodles)
4 eggs
1/2 pint sour cream (8 oz)
1 lb cottage cheese
1/2 cup milk
1/4 lb (one stick) butter
1 small can crushed pineapple – optional
1/2 box raisins (golden raisins are perfect) – optional
3/4 – 1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon (my mom’s addition – Aunt Ruth is still alive, so let’s keep that between us)

Preheat oven to 350 F. Coat a 9 x 13 pan with baking spray.

Melt butter, and set aside to slightly cool.

Cook noodles in boiling water until done; drain and slightly cool, placing noodles in a large bowl.

In a separate bowl, lightly whisk together eggs, sour cream, cottage cheese, milk and melted butter. Toss egg mixture together with the noodles to combine, then add sugar and cinnamon, mixing to coat. If you are using the optional pineapple and raisins – and let me add it’s delicious to do so – toss them in now.

Place noodle mixture in prepared pan and bake until the top is lightly browned, 45 minutes – 1 hour. Cool until safe to handle, then cut into squares and serve warm. Leftovers freeze and reheat well.

And yet. This year up in northern Minnesota, balancing on a sunny granite rock in a Lake Superior cove, I pulled out my iPhone and took silly, shaky video. Because in the last 100-degree days of August or in the gray, woolly depth of winter, I might wish to hear water splash and wind over a lake. I may need a few seconds of the most full-hearted minutes all year, less memory than talisman, Josie’s wet sandals and the gull sky, and nowhere to be. From the lake to my head and into my hands, and for once, video does the trick.

There’s good news, too. She’s wonderful, lovely and smart and funny, as she always has been. She is all those things and now more, independent and stubborn and debate-ready, on matters from politics to proper barrette placement, which, I’d forgotten, is crucial.

She does not have one answer. She has ten. On a truly inspired day, twelve.

Who was there? Well, so-and-so was there, and her friend, and nobody else. Nobody? Well, oh yeah, there was that guy, and his friend, and his little brother, but they’re boring. And someone’s mom dropped her off but then she had to leave, to go to yoga. And oh yes Emily was there but not that Emily, not the one you don’t like, the other one. There were tons of people I knew. Tons? But, you know, nobody else was there.

So the news, then, is that even when they are lovely-smart-funny, the pleasures of agreement are few. She thinks adults oversimplify, always assuming a situation is either perfect or totally awful. She says it’s all flexible, all open to possiblity. Nothing is just one way.

I called my mother the other day and asked, where is the reward here? What is it? Oh, Josie is my reward, she said. I was stunned. It’s not me? The adult me isn’t your reward? Well, she said, you are, but she’s the easiest reward.

I told her well, she’s quite complicated right now. Your own daughter takes longer, she said. You did.

One hot afternoon last week, first in a long line of scorchers, Josie got home from the pool and was sitting in the kitchen eating popcorn, briefly friend- and phone-free.  I pounced, and she couldn’t believe her luck: errands! She would join me on errands. Gas, dry cleaning, dog food place and the local co-op for eggs, asparagus, salad greens, fruit.  And because any errand-mate must act as my extra hands, on the way home it was Josie who held the small green basket, dropping tiny leaves and fine dirt in her lap, the first strawberries of the season.

The berries were misshapen and candy red, embroidered with yellow seeds. Josie cupped the basket, turning berries over with one finger, picking at curled green stems. Her hair was still wet and she wore friendship bracelets, the wrist code of teen girls: this is my favorite, these are my friends, that’s my design. I wore shorts, which I generally avoid up to August, and also a ponytail, in place through October. To me summer is a stack of camp forms, frizzy hair, bathing suit shopping, bug spray. Of course for most people summer, I know, is the golden child of seasons, joy without fuss. Josie was an unfussy baby, and later an unfussy child. Now she embraces its complications, this almost-high school life, juggling friends, algebra, parents, lockers, friends. Choices.

In the car she was quiet, rather suspiciously not asking for objects, rides or permissions. She wanted to get home, to zoom through dinner and reach dessert. Squinting through five o’ clock rays at the berries on her lap, I asked Josie: what should we do with them?

Should I make strawberry cobbler? Soak them in rum? Buttermilk strawberry cake, strawberry-rhubarb pie, strawberry rum sauce or ice cream or strawberry-banana crepes?

We should eat them, she said, and popped one. Just eat them.

And that is what we did.

So welcome new readers, pull up a chair. And ice cream. You’d think the best welcome mat would be a shiny new recipe, but not in this corner of the web, not so. I’d love you to stay, but first you should know what’s on tap: I talk about food. I talk about food, and my family, and my dog and also chefs, and I take pictures. I pretend I can draw.

Sometimes there are recipes, sometimes not. Frankly, it would be quite dull if not for marvelous friends and food-lovers who make up the Simmer community. Like real family they tolerate nonsense, and weird snacks, and repetition of tales. If you’re new here then this food story – with typical scribbles, and no recipes – will be new to you. If you’re an old-timer, well, forgive me. I do like a good repeat.

If you’ve arrived from this lovely Babble.com list, thank you. And come back soon.

A Deep-Seated Need originally posted March 30, 2009

We saw a movie years ago in which a housekeeper, played by Helen Mirren, notes she has the “gift of anticipation.” She knows what people need – or will need – long before they do and is tuned to their next requirement, be it refills or discretion. As she described her onscreen fate, I grabbed Greg’s arm in the theater, whispering “it’s me, it’s me!” Like Helen, Greg had seen it coming. “Mm…okay.” But the recognition was inspiring. “No, I mean it. I have the gift of anticipation.”

“Okay. Shh.”

“I have it!”

Later, he’d propose that what I shared with the housekeeper was not anticipation, but martyrdom. “That’s not how she described it,” I said, “and you know, everyone in the audience felt bad for her.”

“Yeah,” said Greg, “exactly.”

Whatever the name, it’s there: I know the bride will demand more icing, sleepover kid won’t like onions and wait, you’ll need water with that pill. Over-thinking, yes, but a particular brand, one of cause-and-effect, a mixed blessing. Being ready makes life smooth and being kind makes life good, but the constant pull of awareness can, and will, set you apart.

It will poke you in small ways at the wrong times. At a recent dinner event I was seated between Greg and a smiling corporate publicist. She had blinding teeth and a still, groomed ponytail; she chatted left to right about running her last 10K, but I suspected that within the hour, she would need chocolate.

The first course was served in a synchronized flourish of plates. This was a fancy affair, with predictably affair-tall food, but I’m not easily impressed. Not that I’m jaded, really, because done right I’ll eat both high and low, but one day after chef school I stopped ooh-aahing every garnish and leaf.  Still, this course was lovely, presented to a room full of stylish diners feigning indifference to their glee.

Here is what they saw: chic edible puzzles arranged on white rectangular plates.

They saw two ceramic squares with wasabi and lemon herb sauce, and next to them, a Tiffany box-sized ice cube. A well down the center burst with upright crustaceans – one lobster tail, two speckled crab legs and two meaty prawns, fat as steaks from the sea. A twiggy iron fork harpooned it all together, and that was the first course. Gifts from the deep, one raw bar per person.

Here is what I saw: a waiter’s worst nightmare.

Even as oohs and aahs were stifled, I saw what hell this course would bring. The plating was so precise that it left no room for shells, lemon rinds, or tails. The rectangles were shallow and the giant ice cubes, already glistening, would soon melt across the dish and leave a small but briny sea. I glanced around the table; my well-heeled seatmates were diving in, cracking shells and dipping chunks. Water began to seep past plates and down the napkins, toward all those pressed pants. I turned to Greg – who was waiting for it - and leaned over.

“What.”

“It’s really nice…aren’t they nice?”

“Yes.”

“But…kind of a mess.”

He was pulling crab meat.

“The ice cubes. They’re melting all over. The plates are filling up.”

“Yes.”

“The waiters won’t be able to pick them up. They need room on the edge. The…crab shells are spiny.”

“And?”

“They’ll hurt their hands.”

He blinked. “The shrimp are great,” he said. “but there’s so much here.”

Why. Why? No one else was thinking shellfish wounds, or wet linens, or how to balance a dish full of arctic melt. They were just eating.

My PR neighbor cheerfully spooned drowning wasabi, but whispered in my ear about her severe obsession with chocolate. Seated among them I wished for a different head, oblivious and nicely level, but it did not come. Resigned, I picked up the skinny wet spear and ate my beautiful seafood, and since it wasn’t exactly tragedy and since I am no martyr, I did not further discuss what might happen.

Even though, of course, it all did.

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* Sketches? Well my friends, turns out there are some places where it seems – gasp – inappropriate to photograph food, and this was the best I could do. Given the end scene of struggling waiters and dirty sea water, I kind of wish I had.

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.

This is not new. If given a deliberately vague task I freeze and wait for purpose, which often doesn’t show but finally did, when I carved a mission from this meme-me-me: I’d share seven foods from my past, each with a small story. You, dear reader, pick the one you like – or the least boring, whichever comes first – and the most-voted food gets cooked and blogged here on Simmer, recipe, story and all. Thank you, Susan for your too-kind words and, indirectly, the gift of one blogging day made a little less random.

S’mores Tarts Baking at an upscale Chicago pastry shop, I was expected to devise new desserts for the case. New desserts that would please both customers and our novelty-driven boss who, if he sensed a trend, would have sold chocolate-dipped pig ears and motorized cake. I came up with S’mores tarts, novel in 1995, composed of graham tart shells, milk chocolate ganache and fluffy house-made marshmallows which we would – big finish – set ablaze in front of the crowd. Seemed like a winner, and all went great until we actually blew out flames, and a lady in the window shrieked heavenward that she’d seen our spit hit the tarts. So much for blaze theater.

Curried Mushroom Soup In high school Behavioral Science class, we had a semester-long project in which we’d be pretend-married to another student, and live on a budget, and work out issues, and all types of situations designed for maximum teen discomfort. One assignment required hosting a dinner party with other “couples,” and after planting my pink Converse Hi-Tops at mom’s stove to make Curried Mushroom Soup – a mature-sounding dish from her files – I served it in our dining room to twitchy, bickering pairs who’d rather be somewhere else. Dabbing soup off my ripped jeans, I considered that this might be how adults spent their days.

Stuffed Leg of Lamb In a combined young-bride and young-chef disaster, I once pounded, stuffed and rolled a boneless leg of lamb to entertain Greg’s law firm colleagues. The evening started with our crotch-sniffing Dalmatian and a clogged sink, continued with undercooked, untied lamb and finished with a wailing fire alarm. In truth, the mustard-garlic-whatever stuffing was delicious – but who among you would ask me to do it again?

Tortelloni with Gorgonzola Sauce In the post-college summer of 1990, Greg and I backpacked around Italy. One night in Bologna we splurged on a real restaurant, a place called The Black Cat, set on a square with flickering jar candles, wrought-iron tables and people in clean clothes. After slurping cheap red wine we ate carpaccio with parmigiana, lemon and capers, fat cheese-filled tortelloni in Gorgonzola sauce, and tiramisu. It may be the wine, the summer or the fact that an argument caused me to leave, walk away and come back, but it is still, many dinners later, the best I ever had.

Linzer Torte The classic Austrian dessert is just fruit jam under latticed almond crust, but the buttery dough is tricky, melting, fragile. Especially if you’re rolling dough in a small city bakery in July, and daft owner lady won’t pay for air conditioning, and still takes orders for Linzer Torte. You might get heat stroke and threaten to quit, right there over the breaking dough. Yes you might. But you’d never blame a torte this good.

Marjolaine When I ran a catering company, The Happy Ending, I supplied restaurants with Valentine’s Day desserts. One year I filled an order for 300 pieces of Marjolaine, a labor-intensive classic made with hazelnut meringue, genoise, and two buttercreams. At the time I worked out of my house, and with no catering staff and a sleeping toddler, it was just me and Marjolaine in the all-night kitchen. For hours I baked, whipped, stirred, threw spatulas and wept. All the while I Love Lucy played on my tiny kitchen TV, the Scotland episode where Lucy dreams it all. I know this because I saw it three times; I was at my table so long that Nick at Nite ran it three full times before sunrise. Three. If you vote for Marjolaine, rest assured it will be well-planned. One cake, no Lucy and Simmer off to bed.

Spaghetti Carbonara When I returned home on college breaks and my sister was in high school, we liked to whip up this spaghetti-bacon-egg bonanza late at night – and for a short obsessive time, every night. When I picture the bubbling cream and parmigiana and yolks it boggles my mind, a mystery how I made it through those snack years without total stomach collapse, or gaining 500 pounds. Because that would surely happen now if, at 42, I began lounging with midnight TV, two-liter Diet Cokes and pasta straight-from the-pot. Iris was my Carbonara ringleader, insisting the more cheese, more spaghetti, more talk shows the better. Our parents were asleep, we had metabolism on our side and to flop down and share one blue bowl again, even a few strands, my stomach would gladly say yes.

So. One of these memories gets cooked. If it’s Marjolaine or lamb, please give me plenty of notice so I can prepare, respectively, with extra sleep and string.

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Update 1/28: WINNER! S’mores Tarts it is, announced here. Voting over, but if you wish to leave a request – like lamb, oh you people – feel free. And thanks for playing along.

Apologies for my absence. Simmering away and back soon, with more than a few words.

And…beer. Did I mention the beer? Like an amber line on the map, beer, serious bier, trailed us all through Bavaria. Beer is somehow beautiful over there; all hefty steins and tradition and frosty hopped-up light. That, or I was just on vacation. Either way me and beer, we’ve not always been friends. As an eager college drinker I’d throw up – Greg’s hair-holding skills sealed our deal – and later, a moderation-minded adult, I’d try excellent “artisan” beers and my nervous stomach would think it ate three loaves of bread. An uneasy truce, at best.

On this trip we traveled with my brother-in-law Stephen and his wife, Moa, a native Swede whose sociable, even-handed beer skills could put most European men to shame. She was happy. Greg and Stephen were deliriously happy. They were all three happy to explore the sudsy maze of cafes, cellars and stubes. And me? Come follow the amber line:

In Salzburg we visit Zum Fidelen Affen, which we thought meant something about a loyal monkey, but a waiter reveals it’s The Funky Monkey. Actually, the waiter says, it’s “funny” monkey, but “I just like to call it funky.”

In this friendly, wood-beamed room I discover the joys of rotwein gespritzt - red wine spritzer – and also free, fresh-baked pretzels. I will find out fast in other places that free pretzels don’t always mean good pretzels – but here they are both free and good. I suddenly feel great loyalty to The Funky Monkey, and resolve to become a great Austrian beer drinker, and get more pretzels.

I overdo it at The Monkey. At Gasthaus Somethingplatz I start ordering bottles of plain wasser, and by late afternoon in Mozartplatz, at a place possibly called Mozartbar, I start drinking peppermint tea. I am traveling, and careful. I am boring, and this annoys me. So I down a tall Pils, get twitchy, and then go back to sipping tea.

In Munich we visit a true temple of bier, the Hofbrauhaus, founded in 1592. Here, servers (some in traditional, half-laced St. Pauli girl-garb) rush liter beer steins, sometimes eight in each hand, to long wooden tables stuffed with locals, tourists, yuppies and grandmas. They eat weisswursts and clink glasses and have a marvelous time. I am about to succumb to the liter – an optimistic move, at best  – when I discover the Radler. Part beer, part lemonade, it’s similar to the English Shandy and a great beer compromise for me, or, as Greg concludes, “a tasty little kid’s beer.” I love the Radler, hoist it with two hands and drink every drop. Greg and Stephen are amused. Now if they only put coffee in beer, I tell them, then you’d see some drinking.

And speaking of drinking, the Hofbrauhaus sees a lot of it. Most don’t get drunk, exactly  – a higher tolerance than weak Americans – but the group right behind us, the big table of young, super-buff Italian guys? They gave their best impression of trying to drink all the beer in Germany.

They got more excitable round after round, yelling toasts and smashing heavy steins together. They broke into drinking songs, pounding beers, fists and cameras on the table, and each time they pounded, the beers jumped. Our table mates were Russian, the rowdy boys were Italian and the old ladies at the next table over were German, tut-tutting the rowdies. It was all very cavernous and beamed, cozy and sloshing. I slurped my Radler, smiled at my husband, read the beer-soaked carved initials lining wood planks. We shared another salty pretzel, smelled amber and lemon and hops, and I let that Bavarian afternoon drift away.

We were back in Chicago two weeks ago to dedicate dad’s headstone, and after the service at mom’s we hosted another group, smaller this time, and another identical tray: corned beef, rye bread and pickles, kaiser rolls, cookies and cakes. The kind of spread he loved but we were eating, there in now-just-my-mother’s kitchen, and though we had plenty to feed the crowd I still considered pulling the big red pot from her cabinet and stirring some onion soup. That’s what I see; to another cook full of memories but free of that one, it will be just good soup, but doesn’t that bear repeating? Living with what we have, moving forward, happy to slurp just good soup.

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From December 18, 2008. Original post and comments here

When a person is down – in general, in trouble, or in mourning – friends often say things like “take care of yourself,” and by all means I agree, take care. But how? Some friends say this in summary, a tag line at the door. Wearing winter coats and tying on scarves, they hold you by the arms and look you in the eye. Take care of yourself. Some mean please don’t fall off the edge, others mean stop taking care of others, and the most well-meaning and practical wish you to actually take care of yourself. Physically. As in eat carrots, get sleep, drink more tea.

Good advice, and like most healthy ideas, easier said than done. The unfortunate eating started before my father was even gone, first in a hospital at 3 am, where a meal of M & M’s does not seem like a bad thing. My mom had asked me to find her a Hershey bar – so I wandered noiseless halls for a vending machine, which I found, but without Hershey bars. I studied the candy through the glass – B6, C8, D4 – to decide what substitute would be best. Three Musketeers wasn’t right, Twix too fussy, and Snickers – a bit heavy before sunrise. M & M’s might last us all night, while we watched Dad sleep and snow fall through the dark, one chocolate bite at a time.

By the next evening people filled my mother’s living room, bearing crumb cake and cookies and eager, oversized pies. It was then that I made the ludicrous decision to eat no carbs in that house, no matter what chocolate, rye bread or Bundt cake was put on the counter. It is worth noting that I am generally one with the carbs, and most days I require lots of Saltines, and brown sugar, and oatmeal. But here I was sure that without structure, I’d mindlessly eat through the days and in a week, the fog would lift and I’d regret it. No, I would not comfort myself with the good stuff, and under that dazed plan I found I didn’t even mind the parade of cousins and friends plowing through said good stuff. Annoyed at being shooed out of the kitchen – take care of yourself, don’t do anything! – I contented myself with a pile of breadless corned beef, salty black olives, and sliced cheese.

A few days later we were driving home, and just above the sadness I sensed a small triumph – I had not given in. No cookies, brownies or bread had passed my lips. Aha! Grief meant losing, but not losing control. I stared at winter roads for hours, thinking I miss Dad already. But I will not have to buy new jeans.

Back home, I quickly succumbed to baguettes, then bagel chips, and then biscotti, all brought by friends – until eventually I found myself standing in the kitchen on the phone, nibbling idly at a friend’s turtle brownies while my mother recounted her meeting with the bank. You can make a pretty good dent in a 9 x 13 brownie pan when you’re on the phone, believe you me. This would not do.

I opened the fridge and realized it was empty. Kind friends had delivered all sorts of temptations, but it held no real supplies. A quick trip to the store felt good and routine; filling the shelves felt even better. By the time I was melting butter I knew the answer, and it had nothing to do with jeans. Rules and sadness don’t mix, and being stuffed and served by well-meaning friends, no matter how well, is only part of what you need. In my kitchen, alone with a soft black dog and a blue pot of onions, I could think, and cry, and laugh and dab my eyes over soup. That is doing whatever you need to do, and taking very good care of oneself.

French Onion Cider Soup

2 small onions, thinly sliced
1 Golden Delicious apple – peeled, cored and diced fine
1-2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon flour
16 oz apple cider
1 quart (32 oz) chicken broth
1/2 cup white wine
salt & white pepper
nutmeg

crusty bread
sliced Gruyere (or other Swiss cheese)

In a large pot, melt the butter over medium-low heat and add the onions and diced apples. Stir briefly to combine, then cover to let ingredients steam, about 5-7 minutes, checking and stirring occasionally. Remove cover and stir mixture frequently, until onions are deep golden brown and apples soften completely, almost disappearing.

When mixture is a deep golden brown (bottom of pan will also have browning) turn heat to low, then add flour and 1/2 cup of the apple cider, stirring constantly to form a sticky, combined mixture.

Add chicken broth, white wine and remaining apple cider to the pot, deglazing browned pan and stirring onion-apple mixture into broth. When onions have broken up into the broth, partially cover soup and simmer on low for about 20 minutes, or until golden brown, slightly reduced and thickened. Season with salt, white pepper and nutmeg to taste.

To serve:

Preheat broiler. Place oven-safe soup bowls (2-4, depending on portion size) on a rimmed sheet pan.

Place thick chunks of crusty bread (toasted is even better) in bottom of oven-safe soup bowls. Ladle warm soup over bread to almost, but not quite, fill the bowl. Top with slices of Gruyere cheese, allowing a slight overhang. Slide pan with soup bowls under hot broiler to melt cheese. Watch carefully – cheese will frequently melt, brown and bubble in less than a minute. Remove carefully from oven, and serve.

Soup (minus bread and cheese) serves 2-4 and keeps, refrigerated, for several days.*

* this is a good soup to make ahead, as flavor only deepens the next day. Re-warm soup before assembling the bread and cheese bowls, then ladle and serve as directed.

This is not new to me, missing the view, especially in the kitchen. Mostly I see cookies through a camera, or sauce on the back of a spoon. I whip meringue peering into a mixer by the second, watching for the right curve to appear on the right shiny peak. Details follow me out of the kitchen, too, as they did last summer when we tripped up to the North Woods for our annual beloved cooling-off. I brought my camera and also an unfortunate new habit, the blogger’s eye, which I turned first on breakfast.

We love to start the day in Lutsen Resort’s rustic dining room. There’s a hearty breakfast buffet, no tepid Sunday brunch but a much-loved, locally fresh, rush-the-table buffet. Now, we are people who drink coffee – for breakfast. We like to eat properly on Sunday, but nothing in our daily routine suggests even toast, let alone heaped plates of cheddar and wild rice eggs, smoked sausage, buttermilk biscuits and peppered rivers of gravy. And because you’re breathing brisk pine air and are certain you’ll hike it off, how about those pastries? Lemon custard squares, cinnamon bear claws, airy chocolate croissants. Wild blueberry danish.

It’s all tremendous – the glittering lake, fresh-baked danish, healthy air and caution to the wind. Feeling good, and a camera near the fork. Why not some pictures for the blog?

So I snapped away while they ate, aiming for special breakfast sunlight on special danish glaze. When Josie saw the pictures she said “Too much close-up or something.”

Too close? “I don’t know, the bacon. You made bacon look…gross?”  She was right. How did the smokiest bacon lose its looks? What’s with that blueberry? I backed the lens off the breakfast.

Out by the lake I tried pondering the horizon but wound up sifting tiny rocks, lake treasure. Cold waves rushed my feet and I tumbled sandy jasper, granite and maybe-agates through my hands. I brought the camera.

Further down the shore Greg and Josie were skipping rocks, the same rocks. Like shell seekers, the three of us like to wander the lake beach, sometimes separate, sometimes in all directions, somehow together. This time I sat in the sand, and told them I’d catch up.

I played with my camera, closer and closer to the rocks, mesmerized by green stripes and egg shapes and fossil dings.

Just around the time I found the zoom could capture jean fibers, I looked over, and up.

My husband loves to skip rocks. Lake Superior rock-skipping is art and sport, a thousand smooth chances to both relax and get it right. For a man who uses his brain all day – or perhaps precisely because of it – Greg is surprisingly devoted to throwing rocks into water. He’s as good at this no-brainer as it is good for him, nothing but bounces over waves. “Five,” he’ll say, “did you see that? Five.”

Josie’s been working at it for years too, with each summer using longer arms to best the master. When I looked up from my rocks that day, I saw this:


If I were still sifting rocks I’d have missed it, and if I’d followed them, I’d be in it.

We frequently wish to be where we’re not, always why am I here and should have been there, but for a few minutes in July I was right where I was supposed to be, wet feet and sandy rolled jeans, windy hair and heart bouncing down the shore, seeing what we’ve wrought and for once saying yes, here and now. Oh, yes to the wide view.