Baked Brie

I hosted a baby shower in my home last week. Or rather, I feel like I should say, "A baby shower was hosted in my home last week." I don't think I had much to do with the process. Jodi planned the food and Michelle sent out invites and Becky did the decor. All I had to do was prepare my home. I enjoyed that. 

And then I thought about Baked Brie and had to add it to the menu. It's a recipe that I discovered in high school when my newly married cousin came to Thanksgiving dinner, toting a wheel of Brie and a bag of brown sugar. As she pulled it out of the oven, I eyed the dish suspiciously because it looked...interesting...but one bite and I was hooked. It's a mix of savory from the cheese, sweet from the brown sugar and crunch from the almonds, all piled onto a crisp cracker of your choice. It felt like a very grown-up dish. I thought I was pretty sophisticated to be enjoying Brie. 

And while it may taste sophisticated, it's probably one of the simpler appetizers you could make. The Brie is positioned in the center of an overproof dish and covered with sugar, nuts and butter before being tossed in a hot oven where all the ingredients melt and meld together. Perfect for a tasty appetizer to hold back the gnawings of hunger before the Thanksgiving feast or to add the lineup of miniature hors d'oeuvres and sweet somethings as you celebrate the imminent arrival of baby. 

Granola

A few years ago, my friend Lucy and I were in charge of the menu for our church's ladies' brunch. We decided on a delicious spread of french toast casserole, fresh fruit and puffed pastry tarts. One tart was layered with slices of juicy, red tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and basil before being drizzled with olive oil, and baked in the oven until puffed and golden. The other was inspired by a loaded baked potato--a potato and onion mash spread over the pastry, sprinkled with cheese and bacon and topped with splotches of sour cream after baking. So yum. 

The last part of our feast was yogurt topped with granola. We were going to go the simplest route and buy granola at the wholesale store. That is, until we saw the exorbitant prices and immediately decided that it couldn't be that hard to make granola. And we were right. Upon research, I found that making granola was as simple as measuring out oats and some spices, tossing with honey and oil and baking for 30 minutes in the oven. Really. That simple. And much cheaper than anything we could have bought in the store. Based on the reaction of the ladies, I think they thought it was tastier too.

Dill Pickles

A pickle's life begins in the garden. The story is passed around our family of my cousin's friend who, upon tasting my Grammy's pickles, asked if they came from a pickle tree. We find it humorous because pickles, and the process of making them, are as familiar to us as an old friend. We all have memories of seeing my grandpa pick cucumbers in the garden for Grammy to pickle. And we all have memories of Grammy packing jars and boiling brine, with a sink full of the green veggie. And we all remember coming home to Maine to a dinner of corn chowder, homemade bread and dill pickles. And we never ate the stems because of Grandpa's solemn warning that cucumber vines would grow out of our ears.

Their garden is full of these cucumber vines. Two or three long rows of just cucumbers. The cucumbers are picked small, the best size being about the length of your pinky finger, and it takes many, many plants to get enough to fill Grammy's waiting jars. 

They pick cucumbers every few days, making a batch every time they have enough. Green jars line up on their cellar shelves, joining the dwindling supply of last year's crop. Some are boxed up and given to family, and many are popped open and placed on the table, awaiting dinner. These jars are visited by pickle-lovers, who throw furtive glances toward the cook and toss tell-tale pickle stems in the trash. Dinners are accompanied by the oft repeated "please, pass the pickles" and little stems line themselves in an arc upon every plate. 

"Lobstah"

There's a picture of me as a little girl, twenty-five years ago or so, meeting a lobster for the first time. There's an open cooler and my father's hand holding a very-much-alive lobster. My dad's finger is out, as if he is gently stroking the crustacean to show how docile it is or maybe he's instructing me that "it can't possibly hurt you." I, on the other side of the frame, am not convinced. My little four or five year old self is drawn back in uncertainty, hands drawn protectively to my chest, my profile showing concern. I don't think I ever did touch it.