Grammy's Italian Baked Chicken

Trips to Maine always proceeded the same. After the first six or seven hours, we’d cross into our favorite state, over the Piscataqua Bridge, and shout in unison “Welcome to Maine, The Way Life Should Be!” Then we’d snuggle back down into our pillows and leave the driving to my father since it would be another two hours before we’d get to my grandparents. Next thing we knew, we’d be turning down their sandy, pine-lined road, rubbing sleepy eyes and sporting sleep-tousled hair-dos. We’d excitedly point to the first landmark, my Uncle Scott’s home, craning our necks to see if the cousins were in the yard. A few more turns around the bend and Uncle Gordon and Aunt Ruthie’s home appeared on the left, a square brick structure with a red tin roof, numerous barns in the background and a large bell out front. But we had eyes only for the right-hand side, where we caught brief glimpses of a path to a large rock, and then a tall barn and then a small, dormered colonial with a black-shingled roof. The white house and bright red barn would flash through the sparse forest of white pine until the trees cleared and we were suddenly there. Turning into the driveway created a state of happy havoc in the car, my sister and I bouncing up and down in our seats, ready to pile out and breathe in the scent of Maine.

Baked Haddock

I am ashamed to say, that even with the bit of New England blood running through my veins, I am not a fan of fish. Or any seafood, really. My sister, on the other hand, has fully inherited the seafood-loving gene and will happily down a plate of good fried shrimp or gobble up a lobster or two. Family trips to Maine invariably involve at least one seafood meal, whether it be a lobster feed or a visit to Captain Mike's in Brunswick. And there I sit, surrounded on all sides with my sad plate of chicken tenders. It's difficult with all of them oohing and ahhing all around me to enjoy my fried poultry. 

Turkey Pie

Five kernels of corn on a plate. A symbol of privation and provision. A reminder of the terrible hardness and need of winter past and the intimate care of the Almighty as the Pilgrims struggled with the pangs of hunger and penetrating cold. A remembrance of the bountiful goodness of Providence in a time of deepest need and isolation. 

The wind whipped around us as we piled out of the car and dodged across the street. We passed the Richard Sparrow house, the oldest surviving home in Plymouth, its weathered clapboards and sloped floors holding hundreds of stories and secrets. We shivered as we walked quickly past. We had happened to pick the very weekend that a hurricane was hugging the eastern coast for our girl trip and the wind was piercing, bringing spits of rain and bracing cold. I clutched my little Emma tightly to myself as my mother, sister and I darted into the home next door to Sparrow's, the Jenney Museum, where we were due for a historical presentation on the Pilgrims. 

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. 

How To: Garden Green Beans

We were on vacation in Maine last week. A trip I look forward to every year. Time spent dipping chubby legs in the water for the first time, amid kicks and splashes and giggles. 

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.

How-To: Pie Crust

I've been watching my mom make pie crust ever since I was a little girl. Cutting the fat into the flour, adding ice cold water, stirring with a fork. I would sit at the island and watch the rhythm of her arms rolling out the dough, always from the center outward. She transformed it from a squat disk into a beautiful sheet of thin pastry. It's an art that is best learned by watching and doing together, an old hand guiding yours as you learn the feel of the dough. My mom learned from her mother-in-law, my Grammy, who has made countless pies in her century of life. My mom taught my sister, who then taught me on a weekend of sister fun. 

Jack helps me sometimes, measuring flour or stirring the fork. Someday Emma will help too. Passing on the family tradition, over a century old. 

Ribbon Salad

My mom, a young married woman with no children yet, sat guiltily in her seat at her in-law's kitchen table. It was lunch time and leftovers from the night before were being pulled out of the fridge for the noonday meal.

Her mother-in-law's voice rung out from the depths of the fridge in a distinct Maine accent, "Well, I was sure I put a whole ribbon salad away last night, but here there are two pieces missing!" 

My mom looked down at her plate and busied herself with the silverware as her sisters-in-law began trying to pinpoint the guilty party.

Peanut Butter Fudge

Some things just never seem to change, especially at Christmastime. Traditions passed down and revisited, season after season. Childhood memories turning into adult ones, as you teach your own children about the things you treasure.

Going to my grandparents in Maine for Christmas was rich in these traditions. The Fraser fir, wired to the wall and decorated with old glass balls, colored lights, and homemade ornaments bearing grandchildren's faces beaming among the branches. The vintage, light-up star, slightly battered, but cheerfully gracing the top of the tree. 

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 Pie

"Pie is part of the family."

This is what my husband said when I asked him to describe the role of pie in my family. 

We cracked up laughing because it's so true. It would not be Thanksgiving or Christmas without many assortments of pie. It would not be my birthday without a strawberry pie. It would not be a trip home without a showing of one or two pies. 

Molasses Crinkles

There's nothing better than getting something in the mail from someone you love. Whether it's a letter, flowers to cheer a dreary day or a homemade treat when you're far away, it's nice to be remembered. 

This seemed to be especially true when I was in college. Package notifications always brought out expectant smiles and quickened my pace to the student center. 

Corn Chowder

Car rides to Maine to visit my grandparents always ended the same. We'd pull into the driveway, the tall red barn standing sentinel on one side of the driveway and the light beckoning welcome from the breezeway on the other. We'd pile out of the car and pass through the porch into the kitchen, usually eyeing a pie or two that sat on the washer to keep cool. Hugs would be given all around, car trip woes related and then we'd sit down for a bite, despite the late hour. 

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. 

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.

How To Make Cucumber Sandwiches

My dad grew up with a garden. Not a small patch of summer veggies, but a garden, that was bigger than a lot of the lawns here in Philadelphia. Delicate rows of peas and beans. Monstrous heads of cabbage and cauliflower. Tomatoes. Long, twisting vines of squash, pumpkin and cucumber with bright yellow flowers. The potatoes had a patch all to themselves.

And sweet peas. My Grammy always had sweet peas. 

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.