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!)

Baked Brie

I hosted a baby shower in my home last week. Or rather, I feel like I should say, "A baby shower was hosted in my home last week." I don't think I had much to do with the process. Jodi planned the food and Michelle sent out invites and Becky did the decor. All I had to do was prepare my home. I enjoyed that. 

And then I thought about Baked Brie and had to add it to the menu. It's a recipe that I discovered in high school when my newly married cousin came to Thanksgiving dinner, toting a wheel of Brie and a bag of brown sugar. As she pulled it out of the oven, I eyed the dish suspiciously because it looked...interesting...but one bite and I was hooked. It's a mix of savory from the cheese, sweet from the brown sugar and crunch from the almonds, all piled onto a crisp cracker of your choice. It felt like a very grown-up dish. I thought I was pretty sophisticated to be enjoying Brie. 

And while it may taste sophisticated, it's probably one of the simpler appetizers you could make. The Brie is positioned in the center of an overproof dish and covered with sugar, nuts and butter before being tossed in a hot oven where all the ingredients melt and meld together. Perfect for a tasty appetizer to hold back the gnawings of hunger before the Thanksgiving feast or to add the lineup of miniature hors d'oeuvres and sweet somethings as you celebrate the imminent arrival of baby. 

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.

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. 

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. 

Pulled Pork

I love pulled pork because it's easy and it makes a lot for a crowd. I can make it ahead and warm it in the crockpot before serving. And this recipe is so delicious. A dry rub and a flavorful broth add considerably to the flavor. Just these little extra steps take pulled pork from good to great!

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.