Cutout Cookies, a Valentine's Tradition

There's a small, oak table in my kitchen. It's round and only seats four without additional leaves. It has carved legs and drop leaves on either side. One of these drop leaves is warped slightly upward, a sign of passing time and use. It makes this satisfying click when you pull up the leaf, as the metal locking mechanism slides into place. My kids sit at it to eat breakfast, or do school-work or watch me cook. 

But it used to be my great-grandparent's table. My mother's mother's mother used to have it in her kitchen, where she fed family and guests. A life lived around it. She died of Alzheimer's when I was young, a disease that ripped away her dignity and function. And the table became my mother's. 

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. 

Sweet 'N Salties

I was fortunate enough, in college, to room with a kind, laid-back girl who was also a choco-holic. Even more fortunate, her family lived only twenty minutes from campus and she regularly came back to the dorm with treats to snack on. And better yet, sometimes we'd leave the cinder-block walls and same-old cafeteria food for the warm, inviting home of Papa and Momma J. 

And that's where I learned of these delicious, snackable "cookies." A pretzel bottom acts as a platform to hold the good stuff -- chocolate. It's the perfect mix of sweet and salty, all in one bite. They are seriously addicting. And while you probably shouldn't be passing these out to all those chubby-faced jack-o'lanterns and fairies tomorrow night (being "homemade" and all), surely it wouldn't hurt to have a bowl nearby to snack on yourself. Because if there's one thing Momma J. taught me, it's to always have chocolate on-hand. 

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. 

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. 

Hot Cocoa for Two

Snow drifts softly down from the heavens, alighting itself on the frozen ground, building up into a blanket of white that covers all the unattractive brown. It fills my home with a gentle, white light. All is quiet outside. None but a few brave souls are willing to venture out and for a moment peace and calm reign on a busy street in the city. 

My firstborn is upstairs getting a bath. I can hear his little baby talk and squeals of laughter when the water splashes up into his sweet face. My second child is snug as a bug in my belly, not inclined at all to come and join us in this beautiful world. 

It's a good moment to sit and watch the weather float by, a mug of homemade hot chocolate steaming my face, a little peace before our world is overturned by the coming of a little baby girl.  

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. 

Jam Thumbprints

These cookies always remind me of my sister. She doesn't have much of a sweet tooth (I must have gotten the bulk of that gene) and doesn't care a whole lot for most cakes and cookies. But she loves these jam thumbprints, so called for the indentation you make with your thumb to create a spot for a bit of jam. She makes them every year at Christmas. 

They are dense little cookies, almost like shortbread, encrusted with chopped pecans and ornamented with a lovely spot of bright, red jam. The cookie itself isn't terribly sweet, but the jam gives it that little punch of sugar that balances everything out. 

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." 

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. 

Corn Pudding

My parents came to visit last week. Since we were together (and won't be on Thanksgiving), we decided to do an early Thanksgiving feast. I'm not brave enough to tackle a turkey yet, so we did roast beef, complete with veggies and gravy. There was homemade applesauce and my Grammy's crescent rolls and dill pickles. Salad for my dad, pies for dessert and this corn pudding. 

It's a recipe my mom tweaked, using corn that we process and freeze ourselves. Many corn pudding recipes call for cornbread mix and cans of creamed corn. But this recipe uses simple, real ingredients that make all the difference in taste. Don't believe me? The proof is in the pudding. 

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. 

Jello Cake

Usually I try to stick with recipes that use real ingredients. I am not opposed to using butter and sugar and cream, but I try to avoid processed, convenience food.

Except for sometimes. Like when it's really hot in the summer and all I can think of is taking a bite of cool, refreshing jello cake. Jello cake is not real. Cake mix. Jello packets. And cool-whip. Fake, fake, fake. But yummy, and surely okay two or three times a summer.