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."

How To: Perfect Hard-Boiled Eggs (sans the green ring!)

Hard boiled eggs can be frustrating. Undercooked, dark yellow centers or overcooked, crumbly ones. Shells that insist on staying attached, making your egg look pockmarked and fragmented. And that infamous green ring. Many a hard-boiled egg is cut open to reveal a chalky, yellow center encompassed by an unattractive, greenish-gray ring. That ring is a sign that you have cooked your egg too long. And really, it's all about the timing. For perfectly cooked eggs, ten minutes is just right. Goodbye, green ring!

I also read online that the difficulty in removing the shells has to do with the freshness of the egg. Fresher eggs insist on holding onto their shells. So, if you want the shell to remove easily, simply let the egg sit in the fridge a week before cooking. (I haven't tested this theory myself!)

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.

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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. 

Sour Cream Coffeecake

I don't remember ever going to an Easter egg hunt. I'm not sure why. Maybe we did and I just don't remember it. Or maybe it's because we lived way out in the country and there were no community egg hunts nearby. But whatever the reason, don't feel bad for me. I don't feel jipped. 

Because we did get Easter baskets. Easter Sunday would find my mom sneaking quietly into our room to deposit two white, woven baskets, filled to the brim with green, plastic grass hiding all sorts of sugary treats beneath. I know, pretty standard. But the best part of the Easter basket was the gigantic, solid, white chocolate, Easter bunny nestled on top. None of that hollow, milk chocolate variety from the convenience store that tastes slightly of plastic. 

It was so special. And it delighted my little girl's heart. I would save that Easter bunny as long as I possibly could, sneaking a small bite every time I came in my room. Nibbling the ears off first. Then the head and tail. And then bit by bit, the rest of the bunny's solid, chocolatey self would disappear. 

The bunny was the best part of the basket and I would have been seriously offended if my mom had switched out my white chocolate rabbit for a milk chocolate one. Not because I don't like milk chocolate, but because I wanted to be just like my daddy. He always got a mini white chocolate on Easter, not preferring milk chocolate, and so I had to have the same. 

How-To: Hash Browns

I love Saturday mornings at our house. With two little ones, we are up early, but we start out the day in the kitchen, making breakfast together. Sometimes we have something fancy like Quicky Sticky Buns or French Toast. But often it's just humble scrambled eggs and hash browns. Brad mans the bacon and I tackle the hash and eggs. And Jack "helps", standing on his stool, overseeing all. 

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? 

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. 

How To: Scrambled Eggs

There's not much better than breakfast together on a warm and sunny Saturday, when the schedule is open and nothing presses for your attention but your cup of coffee.

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.

Buttermilk Pancakes or The Birth of a Family Tradition

It was one of those lazy Saturday mornings growing up. My maternal grandparents had come up for the day and we were enjoying a late breakfast on a sunny, weekend morning. Chairs were pushed slightly back from the table, bellies were patted with satisfaction and my sister and I listened to the low murmur of story-telling with an eagerness that comes with the hunger to be "grown-up." That moment where it's time to clean up but no one wants to hung in the air and a few ignored pancakes lay in the center of the table.

And then, "Thwap!"

A golden pancake hurtled through the air and landed squarely on the side of my dad's face.

Flopovers

I arose this morning, groggy-eyed, but excited about a yummy breakfast treat for Sunday morning. I was going to make popovers. It's a modest bread, requiring simple ingredients: flour, milk, eggs, butter and salt. Things seemed to be going well until I peeked into the oven to glimpse at what I hoped would be five golden balloons.

Popovers are supposed to overflow the pan in a giant, crusty-brown bubble. Their batter is supposed to double in volume, rising out of the pan to create that beautiful, hot-air balloon shape. Biting into a popover is supposed to reveal a surprise...there is nothing inside. Popovers are supposed to be an airy shell with a delicious eggy taste.

Supposed to. 

Mine didn't rise at all. 

There is no surprise inside. 

They look like hockey pucks. 

My popovers are a flop. 

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.

Oat Scones

It's been a blizzardy day. One of those days where the snow falls fast and thick, coming down at an alarming rate. One of those days where a glance out the window reveals huge, cotton-like flakes swirling from the heavens. The best thing to do on a day like today is to bake. Then you can sit by the window with your cozy throw in your lap and a deliciously warm treat in your hand. And you can laugh at the weather. The snow may pile, the wind may howl, the vehicles may disappear in an embankment of white, but you will stay comfortably snug and happy as you nibble on a homemade confection.

Crumb Coffeecake

My husband and my sister bond over coffee. Lace comes down for the weekend and first thing, out comes the Bodum french press and specialty roast. They stand there, staring into the depths of their cream-colored coffee mugs, commenting in soft tones about the "oiliness" and "floral notes." So it seemed appropriate, upon welcoming my sis down for the weekend, to make a coffeecake to accompany their hot brew.