Lemon Bars

A cicada's loud rasp on the branch above, startles as it zips to nearby branch. Dappled sunlight plays capriciously on the brow of my little one, appearing and disappearing through maple leaves. Breeze riffles through fern-fingers and bent-over grasses and our chestnut hair. Splish-splashes of water, carefully poured from the spout of silver watering can, feeding thirsty thyme and spiraea. Snack-break for all. Little bars of sunshine, powdered in white, on the windowsill. Teeth sink in, through bright curd and buttery shortbread. A pungent tartness smarts slightly on the tongue. Big, dark eyes inquire for more. We both reach for another. A perfect day. 

Raspberry Jello Salad

This may just be the easiest recipe I ever post. One of those dump-it-all-in and stir-all-together dishes that ends up tasting deliciously wonderful. In fact, the most difficult thing about it is waiting the four hours until it sets. 

My mom made this "salad" a lot when I was in high school. It's a sweet dish with pungent bits of slightly tart berries. It makes a nice, bright accompaniment to a ham dinner or serve it as a cool treat when the weather is hot. Not to mention, that brilliant red color screams Independence Day picnics. It's also easy to make ahead and requires no oven. The perfect accompaniment to nestle between your hot dog and potato salad. 

Strawberries for Strawberry Shortcake

Strawberry season always takes me by surprise in Pennsylvania. In central New York, where I grew up, the growing season is quite a bit later due to the area's reluctance to let go of winter. Berry season always started right around my birthday, toward the end of June, meaning that I almost always got a strawberry pie on my birthday instead of cake. But here in Philly, the season is on its way out the door by the time my special day rolls around and I almost always am scrambling to get to the berry patch in time to get my ten quarts of scarlet red fruit.  This year was no exception and we planned a quick trip to Lancaster to get the last bits of this year's bounty.

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. 

Wendy's Cranberry Salad

I met my mother-in-law before I even met my husband. I like to tease him that he stood me up on a double date to the amusement park, but he swears it doesn't count. Anyway, I met his parents for lunch that day and instantly felt comfortable. Such gracious people. 

Wendy Jo is a spunky women that raised four energetic boys---each two years apart, sporting dark hair, brown eyes and no shirts in summer. She's a tomboy at heart, happiest when she's outdoors, enjoying nature and sunshine. She even had a pet squirrel in high school. She holds onto material things loosely and people tightly. I've never seen her be anything but warm and loving to the people who filter through her home. When anything disquieting happens, she simply says, "I'll pray about that" and you know she is. 

The entire family gathered together for thanksgiving this year. Twelve people, down to the littlest newborn, arranged at a long table down the center of the living room. There was turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes, the normal delicious fare. And this cranberry salad. A vibrant, crunchy side, filled with fruits and veggies and nuts. I've never had it anywhere else and look forward to it every thanksgiving we spend with Brad's side of the family. It reminds me of her---bright, sweet and chock-full of good things. 

Orange Jello Salad

I am fortunate to remember knowing three of my great-grandparents, all on my mom's side. Grandma Tippie-Toes, mom's paternal grandmother lived to be 101 and died when I was a teenager. I have many memories of laughing at her quirky ways and funny sayings. Grandpa Armond and Grandma Dorothy, mom's maternal grandparents, died when I was four, so my memories of them are few, but vivid. 

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. 

Raspberry Jam or Ode to My Sister

My family has always been staunchly in the strawberry jam camp. Thick slices of warm, homemade bread are accompanied by a frosty mason jar filled with that crimson goodness. 

However, a few years ago, my sister made a foray into the land of raspberry jam and came back with stained fingers and happy taste buds. My Christmas present that year was two pints of raspberry jam, a string of raffia tied jauntily underneath the rim. I ate them sparingly, saving them for especially delicious treats like fresh bread and oatmeal scones. It was a sad day when I finally spied the bottom of the second jar and tried scraping out the last, few globs. 

Apple Crumble

The last few, dog days of summer always seem to be oppressive ones that suck your energy and sap your strength. Even the slightest tasks cause beads of sweat to break out on your forehead and cooking anything becomes border-line torture. I do not enjoy these days.

Strawberry Jam

My family has always made freezer jam. I can remember my mom leaving early on a bright, June morning for the strawberry patch, clad in plaid shorts and a white tank top, with a worn visor perched on her head to keep out the sun. She would leave with the car loaded up with cardboard green containers and her pockets filled with cash and would come back with quarts upon quarts of fresh, red berries. The trunk floor would be blanketed with boxes filled to the brim.

Raspberry Squares

As a child, I loved summertime. Growing up with lots of land meant lots of time outdoors. One of my favorite places to play was down by the pond. The pond wasn't too large, was just deep enough to swim in and was filled with fascinating creatures: spiders that skimmed the water's surface, little minnows that darted away as I came near and gelatinous clusters of frog eggs that clung stickily to cattail reeds. As summer wore on, I would watch the tadpoles form legs and their tails shorten bit by bit. Soon they were itty-bitty frogs that would sun themselves amongst the short, mossy grass that fringed the water. I would walk around the edge as quietly as I could, hoping to sneak up on an unsuspecting frog. I would get oh-so-close before they would jump alarmingly into the safety of the water and out of my reach.

Smoothies

Lunchtime is always hard for me.

Noontime rolls around and my stomach begins to knot itself, sending those hunger signals to my brain.

I put it off a little longer and soon it's one o'clock....two o'clock.....And then I'm rushing around trying to eat lunch at half past two before I rush out the door for work.

Needless to say, my lunchtime routine requires a little revamping.

Blueberry Pie

When I was a kid, going up to Maine to see my grandparents always involved food. Cucumbers straight from the garden doused with vinegar and seasoned with salt and pepper, molasses crinkles that dissolved into aromatic hints of spices in your mouth, dill pickles that Grammy and Grandpa had canned themselves ("146 quarts this year") and pies upon pies upon pies. Apple. Strawberry. Chocolate. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Pecan. And Blueberry.

Ah, Blueberries. Just the very word makes my mouth water and sends memories flashing into my mind, each crowding the other for a prominent position. I would assume that in most homes blueberries are enjoyed a few times a year and then forgotten as the members move on to other foods and other seasons. But in my family, blueberries have a status equivalent to gold.

Birthday Pie (Strawberry)

Birthdays are always very nostalgic for me. I think of all of the things my family did to make my birthday special. Swedish pancakes for breakfast cards from dad with tally marks representing each year of my life, bringing out the "special plate" for the occasion, that surprise, kept-for-later present mom would pull out after all the other presents had been opened, and of course strawberry pie.

Most people have cake for their birthdays...and cakes are great, but when your birthday is smack-dab, right-in-the-middle of strawberry season, it's hard to pass up the opportunity to whip up a pie. Yesterday being my 25th birthday, I decided it was high time I tried to make a strawberry pie.

Apple Pie

Growing up, my younger sister, Lacey Beth, was the pie master. Apple pie, specifically. My mom taught her how to make it and she seemed to be able to magically manipulate the pie crust to do as she wished.

I remember the first time she made biscuits. My Grammy was at our house and she watched carefully as mom taught Lace how to make them. When the biscuits came out of the oven, Mom and Grammy declared that they were the best, fluffiest biscuits they had ever tasted. She just had the touch.

How-To: Applesauce or My Heritage

At the age of fourteen, I loudly declared that I hated to cook. My mom had been teaching me a few things about the art of cooking and I had made the family meatloaf recipe one too many times. Cooking meant work and that was something that my self-absorbed, teenage brain wasn't going to welcome with open arms.

Six years later, the summer Brad asked me to marry him, I realized that if I didn't learn to cook these family recipes, then I wasn't going to be eating them. My mom had spoiled me: pies with homemade crust, dill pickles in canning jars, strawberry jam, and yes, the family meatloaf. Mom goes all out for the family, even down to making salad and homemade crescent rolls to take on a family trip out west. If I didn't learn from her, then these family recipes would be gone forever.