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.

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."

Peanut Butter Icing

When the candles have been blown out, and the birthday song has been sung, the cake that my mother-in-law invariably cuts into is chocolate with peanut butter icing. Before meeting my husband, I had never had peanut butter icing, so I didn't know the deliciousness that awaited me as I sat at his family's kitchen table, casually extending my waiting plate. As I happily consumed my first slathered piece, and eyed up another, I understood why this cake had become a family favorite. Soft and billowy, with a subtle richness, the icing mingles with deep chocolate flavor, creating a marriage of flavors reminiscent of a peanut butter cup.

My husband kindly had another birthday this week. Kinder still, he requested his family's old stand-by. And as we polished off the last two pieces, I couldn't help but be thankful for family traditions. 

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. 

Meatballs

Wednesday was spaghetti night, or "pa-sketti" as my younger sister used to call it. Midweek was always a busy time for my family. My Dad would get home from work, we'd eat together and then be off to "Wens-dee prayer-meetin.'" Since my dad's drive home was a good forty minutes and our drive to church was at least thirty, it didn't leave a whole lot of time in between for eating. Supper had to be ready when my dad got home, easy to get on the table and quick to eat. And so my mom instituted spaghetti night. 

And while we don't attend a church with a midweek service anymore, we do still have those rushed evenings before Brad runs out to a meeting or those Sundays where we come home tired and hungry for something easy to get into our bellies. And for those meals, I rely on my mom's wisdom -- make it easy and make it ahead!

Carrot Cake

Is there an unspoken rule among children that they don't have to eat their dinner? Do they look knowingly across the table at one another, winking behind mom and dad's back before opening their mouths in a plaintive wail that can be heard three blocks away? Do they think it clever to play the "I'm full" card right before begging loudly for adult-sized bowls of ice cream? Sauce-soaked noodles  languish and turn cold, pushed around the plate with straggling bits of broccoli. Food they cannot possibly eat, you know. That is, until dessert is brought out. 

And then, all of the sudden, everyone has loads of room for cake. 

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. 

Apple Butter

There is apple butter cooking in my kitchen. It fills our home with the scents of Fall -- nutmeg and cloves and Cortland apples. It reminds me of peeling apples the day before, Jack seated across from me, handing me large, purple-skinned fruit and sampling each one's white flesh. Three-year-old jibber-jabber broken by the snapping of apple between his teeth and flashes of sweet, brown-eyed smiles.  

It reminds me of apple pie-making on Tuesday. Jack's feet pounding quickly through the house as he hears the scraping of my flour jar's lid. He pulls a chair across the floor and is quickly at my elbow, sneaking pieces of pie dough and asking to help. He is soon rolling out his own disk of scraps, smiling broadly as he tells me he is making "pie." 

It reminds me of a day spent at the arboretum. Sunshine kissing our heads as we trek through leaf-littered fields, eyes alert for brightly-colored specimens to place in our basket. Yellow birch and brilliant maples. Nut-brown oaks and mottled sassafras. We stand on the bridge, cut stone arcing across leaf-dappled water. Jack perches on the edge and throws a small, yellow leaf with all his little-boy might. It dances crazily in the air before settling casually on the surface, landing not nearly far enough from where he threw it. We come home and assemble our collection into a leaf man, who fiercely guards the entrance to our fridge. 

It reminds me of going to the orchard. The hot sun causing us to sweat as we walk down the twisting dirt road to the row labeled Macoun. Emma sits in the grass, contemplating a nearby rotting apple while Jack reaches low and over to grab the biggest one he can find, dangling from a laden branch. He gently sets it into the waiting bag which Emma promptly knocks down, climbs astride and straddles under her chubby legs. Hungry from the effort, we make our way back to sit on the porch, eating our sandwiches and sharing a jug of orchard-made cider. We chug straight from the container between mouthfuls of sugar-sprinkled cider doughnuts. 

It reminds me of Autumn. 

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!)