Morning Glory Muffins

The evening sounds of spring peepers had melted into the warble of songbirds at dawn's coming. As the sun grew warm upon the green grass, goldfinches flitted happily back and forth between the bird feeder and the clothes line that they were perching upon. Flashes of black and yellow, twittered and chattered. 

Water gurgled unbidden from the ground, cold springs released from the loam by the advent of warmer weather. A relentless bubbling that saturated the viridescent earth, which collapsed slightly under the tread of children's feet. 

An anxious robin guarded a newly-formed nest, the four blue eggs nestled comfortably in a downy hideaway, hidden from roving eyes in the shadowy depths of the blue spruce. 

Bumblebees buzzed lazily, bobbing unconcernedly among the blossom-laden branches of the apple tree. The crooked trunk and forked boughs formed an ideal climbing tree, a secret bower for the solitary explorer.

And Morning Glories twisted their way up the pussy willow, velvet tufts mingled with verdant green. White trumpets shouting that spring was finally here.

Blueberry Crumble

My Grandpa's GMC truck turns left, off of the smooth pavement and onto a worn gravel road. Grandpa and my Dad are up front, while Mom, Lace and I are somewhat squashed in the small backseat. Lace opens the back window and we stick our heads out, ever on the lookout for a stray moose, craning our necks to see into every bog that flies past or to peer studiously into the mud for fresh tracks. The tires fly over the sandy road, lined with bushy pines, white birch and the orange spray of my favorite wildflower, jewelweed. 

The road narrows and branches scratch mercilessly at the sides of the truck, leaves stripping off as they whip into the open window and then out again. My Grandpa slows way down as we come to a make-shift bridge--maybe two planks laid over a small gully or a culvert that is badly eroded and just barely passable. The truck rocks back and forth as it makes its way over several severe pot-holes, the road pock-marked with the lot of them. 

My Grandpa turns right, left, and then left again. It's a labyrinth of unending gravel road. An unceasing maze of scrub pine and bog. Sometimes we make our way through close forest, the trees hugging the road. Then we break free, into an open area where the trees have been logged off and it's nothing but mountains, rising tall on either side, covered in forest green with the marks of logging etched starkly onto its majestic sides. And once again I'm amazed that my Grandpa remembers how to get there. The place we go every year for berries. 

Popovers

The first time I ever had popovers was the summer Brad popped the question. I had just finished my junior year of college and it was a beautiful day at Longwood Gardens, when he pulled out a ring and asked me to be his wife. 

Upon going home to my parents, I began wedding planning right away. And one of the first things I did was look for a place for the reception. The winner was the Lincklaen House, an old refurbished inn in nearby Cazenovia. This small village, set on Cazenovia Lake, used to be a vacation destination for the wealthy a hundred years or so ago. 

My mom, sister and I walked into the Linckalen for lunch that June to assess the food and discuss menu options. It wasn't very crowded, there were only a few patrons sitting at small square tables. A breeze came through the open doors and the clinking of cutlery on plates could be heard from the outdoor patio. We sat there admiring the old woodwork, checkerboard tile floor and vintage feel, a feeling of anticipation and apprehension in our smiles. 

The server came by to fill our water glasses and offer the customary small plate of bread to pick at while we waited for our meal. Except it wasn't the usual variety of sourdough and whole wheat slices. Instead, we were given large, crusty-golden balloons that looked like they had mushroomed dramatically out of their pan. Upon piercing, these popovers released a cloud of steam and revealed a mostly-empty, wispy inside. The honey butter that accompanied it melted almost instantaneously upon contact with the hot bread and dripped lavishly down the sides and onto our hands. They were decidedly eggy and not overly sweet  and our eyes rolled with pleasure as we licked our fingers and possessively eyed the last one in the basket.

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I recently started making popovers at home and they are so delicious. Apart from being super easy, they are also super impressive and quite fun for little helpers to watch the dramatic rise in the oven. 

Chicken Waikiki

Two-year olds. Lots of joy amidst lots of hard. And one of the hardest things has got to be getting them to eat dinner. As we sit around the supper table, another delicious meal growing cold in front of my pouting son, I can feel my desire to control his eating habits reaching like long, bony fingers--eat, eat, EAT. And I'm sure he can feel it too because he responds with a two-year old battery of defenses including whining, pretending to be tired and distracting me with hugs and kisses. 

It's never easy.

Almost never. Once in awhile we have those amazing nights when everyone is calm and peaceful. The baby is gurgling sweetly and the two-year old sits in his chair and feeds himself his dinner. Happily. And usually it's because we are eating chicken waikiki. 

Tender pieces of chicken, dredged in flour and pan fried, are baked in a sweet and sour sauce, along with bits of red pepper and pineapple. The meal is spooned over a bed of rice, the sauce soaking down into the white grains. Add a green vegetable on the side--I love to use broccoli--and you have a tasty meal that even my picky two-year old describes as "So yummy!"

Summit Salad Dressing (Sesame & Poppyseed)

My windows are open. The first hints of spring are wafting through, a sunny breeze bearing the beginnings of new life. Jack and I open the back door, previously sealed from the winter cold, and bang through the screen door to the backyard. The lilacs are heavy with large, purple blossoms and big, old bumblebees are bobbing from bunch to bunch, burying themselves in the colorful bower. The grass is springing up in tall, brilliant patches, threatening to take over the yard by pure exuberance. We bury our toes in it. It's soft and alive and tickles our bare feet. 

We find half a bird egg, of palest blue and spattered with brown speckles. Jack is in awe of it, holding it in his hands and threatening to crush it with his two-year-old wonder. We put the egg on the sill, anxious to show Daddy later. 

The sun is so warm on our heads, spilling luxuriously over our matching brown hair. Jack runs from end to end of the yard, for the pure joy of it. He crouches over the dirt, spying a troop of ants, busily marching from here to there, and back yet again. Jack interrupts their monotony with his dump truck, the plastic treads diverting their insect march. 

Spring has come again.