Almond Poppyseed Bread or "Ode to My Mother"

I crawled up into the green-and-white pinstripe chair my mother was sitting in. Its overstuffed arms and high back enveloped us. We pulled the time-worn quilt around us, its intermittent red triangles making a flying geese pattern on its white sky. Snowflakes fell in large clumps outside the family room window and piled up in tufted inches upon the hanging bird feeder. Yet we were cozy and warm with our tightly-wrapped quilt and roaring fire in the wood stove, my mother's arm slipped comfortably over mine as I rested happily in the crook of it. 

I snuggled in deeply for a good read as the first few words of our favorite book sounded out in my mother's soft voice, "There were three of them: the old woman, Merry; the old man, Grumble; and Johnny, the bound-out boy. They lived in a log cabin, t'other side of Tip Top Mountain."

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.

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. 

Cinnamon Twists

Love is like cinnamon rolls. They both require effort, but the effort is always worth it. There's a sweetness in the commitment to something worthwhile. 

Right now the snow is falling outside my window in large, beautiful puffs. There is a burlap banner strung across the window with painted pink and red and white hearts. My children have appropriately decorated socks on and my sweet newborn is wearing a beautiful red dress. There is a potted rose blooming on the table and various valentines are scattered across the table. My favorite is the one my dad sent to my son, the words "I feel Dumpy without you" hovering above the cartoon dump truck. I'm planning on making my husband's favorite chocolate pudding soon and there's a nice supper started. But these things don't really make Valentine's Day, do they? 

Grammy's Crescent Rolls

I can't imagine a holiday meal in my family without these rolls. My mom bakes them off at the very last minute, usually finishing the second pan while everyone is eating their first bites of dinner. While there are many delicious things on the holiday table, everyone goes for a roll first. 

The basket, mounded high with crescents, is passed. Hot off the baking sheet, they melt in your mouth with buttery goodness. Layer upon soft layer, dripping with melted butter, the strong smell of yeast wafting upward with the steam. People "ooh" and "ahh" over the ham and the applesauce and the stuffing, but the refrain is heard over and over, "Please pass the rolls." 

Pumpkin Bread

I remember the first time that I had this bread. I think I was about eight or nine years old. We went to a friend's house for dinner after church. It must have been late fall or early winter because I remember it being cold outside. We all sat down to eat dinner and I nervously eyed what lay on the table. I tend to be a picky eater and always dreaded going to someone's house because I was afraid that I wouldn't like what they served. And when you are eight, such things are very important. 

That's when I spied the pumpkin bread in the basket across from me. Ah, here was something I knew that I liked. I don't remember much about the rest of the meal. I'm sure it was all tasty stuff. But I do remember I ate a lot of that bread. I think the hostess noticed too because she gave me the recipe before I left and I've been making it ever since. 

Really Good French Toast

Decadent. 

I think that's the best word to describe this recipe. Definitely delicious. Definitely Amazing. But mostly, decadent. 

My mom started making this recipe when I was in high school and we all immediately fell in love with it. We would often have it for birthday breakfasts, or let's face it, weeknight suppers. 

Blueberry Muffins or A Morning on a Lake in Maine

It was early morning when my sister and I pulled on our jeans and flannel shirts and snuck out the back door, taking care not to wake the sleepers on the porch. The day before had been chilly and windy, making the lake choppy and unfit for boating. But this morning my eyes had flown open with the realization that I could not hear the breaking of waves on the rocky shoreline. The lake was still. 

How-To: Knead Dough

Kneading bread dough is something that causes many new bakers to blanch and turn quickly to a different recipe. It seems daunting and difficult, something that died out with our great-grandmothers.

But kneading is so fun! Remember when you were a kid and you used to sit at your mom's kitchen table and make all sorts of fun fake foods out of Play-Doh? Kneading gives you the chance, as an adult, to get your hands into a lump of dough and transform it into something beautiful. Kneading can seem intimidating and scary, and there are some guidelines to follow, but really what you're doing is playing with dough!

Grammy's White Bread

My Grammy turned 93 on Wednesday. 93 years. Most of them spent tending gardens, pickling produce, planning suppers and baking bread. In a house built by a young husband for his young wife many years ago. 

On the breezeway, the mid-afternoon sun warms the row of freshly picked cucumbers, still glistening from their bath with the garden hose. Two steps up into the porch where piles of shoes, a bucket of clothespins and hung up coats all have their place. An assortment of pies, strawberry, pecan and chocolate, placed precariously on the washer and dryer, catch your eye as you pass through. A curtained door leads into a faded kitchen, alive with the bustle of getting supper on and the smell of homemade food.

Quicky Sticky Buns

"What's for dinner?" the question that brings a sinking feeling and blank stares from every mother. My mom particularly disliked hearing this question on the way home from church. Sundays, though wonderful and worth it, can be tiring. After a busy morning and putting on a big lunch, the last thing she wanted to do was come up with a creative, inspired dish for dinner.

Cornbread

There's something about a good chili that just begs to be paired with cornbread. The meat and bean dish needs the simple heartiness cornbread offers and chili's take-your-breath-away heat is somehow tempered by the bread's neutral corn flavor.

Anadama Bread

There's something about the feel of dough under the hand. The process of transforming flour, water, salt and yeast to something of substance. The rhythm of push-fold-turn, push-fold-turn. Bread feels alive when you knead it. You can feel it resist and stretch. It takes strength and energy, up close and personal. Floured hands shaping and turning and pushing. Spending myself to make something beautiful. The satisfaction of a properly kneaded dough, heavy in the hand and soft to the touch, as smooth as a little baby's bum. I love to knead bread.

Thanksgiving Together: Honey Wheat Rolls

I was really excited about Thanksgiving this year. So much has happened this year and we are grateful for the amazing blessings that God has given to us.

I was particularly excited about the chance to have our care group over to celebrate the holiday around our table (or a borrowed one from church!) in our new dining room, in our new house. A house that they have prayed about for years, asking God to graciously give it to us.

Early Morning Bread

It's the perfect morning to bake bread.

The high heat and humidity of the past few listless days is over and there is a fresh breeze coming through the open windows.

My yellow and white striped curtains are dancing with happy pleasure.

The robins are calling cheerily to each other amidst the canopy of verdant sycamores.

And my bread is steadily rising, basking in the early morning light. 

Make-Ahead Cinnamon Rolls

Sundays are special. Not because I don't work on Sundays. Not because I get to spend time with my friends. And not necessarily because we go to church. No, Sundays are special because it is a day of rest. A day to stop, to turn from my independent, busy self and remember my needy, dependent self. A day to celebrate with the rest of the Adopted, that I have been given glorious, new life. A day to remember that the old has gone and the new has come, that my Savior has rescued and restored me.

This is why Sundays are special. I get to celebrate the Gospel with my brothers and sisters.

Whole Wheat Bread

The smell of baking bread is so enticing. It drifts through your home, inviting you to breathe deeply of its earthy scent. It beckons you to wander into the kitchen and tempts you to open the oven door to peek at its golden domes. After it's done baking, the bread sits smugly on your counter, nearly driving you crazy with its heady scent. You wait impatiently for it to cool, so you can slather a piece with creamy butter and enjoy its savory chew. Sometimes a bread is delicious enough for you to forsake the modern convenience of store-bought bread and decide to go back to the days of your pioneering forefathers where bread was baked fresh every Monday.

Scoop-and-Bake Dinner Rolls

I love dinner rolls. Hot from the oven, their soft-but-chewy texture and yeasty taste are sure to please. However, the hours of waiting for dough to rise followed by more waiting for rolls to rise is often too much for my busy schedule.

Soft Pretzels

The perfect pretzel is soft, but chewy. Salty, yet slightly sweet. A satisfying snack. Almost nothing speaks more to the heart of a Philadelphian than a giant, soft pretzel. I suppose, bit by bit, we are taking on the culture of our city. Pretzels, for instance, have become more important to me than at any other time of my life. And so, one Saturday when there was nothing to do, Brad and I took on the task of making our own homemade soft pretzels.

Cranberry-Nut Bread

The holidays are approaching and with them, bags of bright, red cranberries merrily fill the grocer's shelves, beaming cheerily to any passer-by. Their crimson color catches the eye and tempts the imagination with possible sauces, salads and breads to further adorn the festive spread. It seems fitting then to give in to the appeal of the cheery fruit and make Cranberry-Nut Bread.

Now, my mom does not like cranberries. Those pretty little berries could never succeed in tempting her which resulted in a cranberry-deprived childhood for me.

Thankfully, my cran-fast was finally broken by the mom of my college friend, Anni. This good woman is always baking some sort of enticing creation for a poor sick lady or laid-up-in-bed grandpa and her daughter's friend was to be no exception.

Upon leaving her home, I was laden with a napkin-ful of deliciously sweet-tart cranberry bread. I was slightly dubious, I admit, being prejudiced against the fruit by my mother's distaste for them. But my dubiousness was turned into exclamations of delight upon opening my mouth to the scarlet-trimmed bread. Bursts of slightly tart fruit mingled with the sweetness of the bread and hints of toasted pecans pleased my tongue and satisfied my stomach. Gone were my apprehensions and in their place was a healthy admiration for that small, red fruit.