Having said that, this is Mother’s Day, and my for first blog post post-partum, I wanted to take a minute to thank my mom in a deeper way, because I finally know what it’s like to love your own child.

I had the kind of mom that most kids wished they had. She was a perfect mix between career woman and at home mom. She was a full time art teacher at my school, and always up to her elbows in clay, and paint and stencils, but somehow still found time to coach my lacrosse and hockey teams and make us dinner every night. She was home with us after school every day, and all summer long. And I’m only just now starting to appreciate all those little things she did that most likely annoyed me at the time. Like bring me water bottles full of ice water and physically squirt them into my mouth while I was sitting on the lifeguard stand on witheringly hot days in July (this makes her sound like a helicopter mom, which she categorically wasn’t. She just knew her kid and she knew I wouldn’t drink it if she just left it there.)

The first time my dear sweet baby boy had a massive-blow-out-man-sized turd, the first thing I thought as I was cutting him out of his onesie wasn’t “this is disgusting” but, “wow, I should really call Mom.” There have been so many moments lately where I’ve fleetingly realized, she did all this for me too, as I’m doing it now for my little bear.

So I wanted to rattle a few quick apologies – just the first things that come to mind. I’m hoping the statute of limitations hasn’t run out on some of these.

I’m sorry for telling you I hated you when you grounded me (what for?) and prevented me from going to the Court Dance in seventh grade, resulting in Chase Martin asking Beth out instead of me (which was rumored to have been the original plan.) You were right.  Twenty years later and I couldn’t care less (no offense, Chase.)

I’m sorry for any time I forgot to call and tell you I was going to be home late (or not at all.)

I’m sorry for coming home from every college break and making a beeline for my boyfriend or my friends, barely staying home long enough to tell you I’d gotten a D in Psych 101.

I’m sorry for every time you spent an hour making dinner for all of us, after your own long work day, only to hear “ugh, chicken again?”

I’m sorry for interrupting your Winesday dinners by insisting that you and your friends listen to me sing the entire Peter Pan album, when all any of you wanted to do was have a kid free evening to drink pink wine (hey, it was the 80’s) and kvetch.

But most importantly, I’m sorry for ever taking you for granted, for not reaching out enough, for not giving you enough in return. I finally realize just what it takes to love a child – the bizarre cocktail of unfettered joy, utter amazement, and sheer, wild terror. I realize that I’ve signed myself up for a lifetime of wonder and worry – and heartbreak – all rolled into one. Which is of course what you have been dealing with for the past 33 years.

So thank you, Mom. Thank you for being such a fantastic role model – funny, smart, good-lookin’, committed, competitive, easy to be with, intimidatingly capable. But most of all, thank you for just being present. I love you madly, and not just on Mother’s Day.

I'm bananas for Mom

Mother’s Day Banana Bread

Banana bread wasn’t something that was a standard at our house, but I remember a batch my mother made several years ago that was so delicious I’ve been trying to live up to it ever since. She told me the secret was to use bananas that were so brown any sane person would throw them away. She was right – the skins are yucky but the flesh is soft and super sweet.

¾ cup white all purpose flour

¼ cup + 1/3 cup whole wheat pastry flour

¼ tsp salt

½ tsp baking soda

¼ tsp baking powder

1 cup sugar

6 tbsp butter, at room temp

2 eggs, at room temp, beaten lightly

2 over-ripe bananas, mashed

1 tbsp vanilla extract

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 cup chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 350. Combine the flours, salt and baking soda and powder in a small bowl. In a large bowl, beat the butter and the sugar until light and fluffy. Add the flour mixture and beat till just combined and the texture of sand. Add the beaten eggs, chocolate chips and pecans. Fold in the bananas and vanilla extract. Pour into a greased loaf pan, bake in lower third of the oven for about 50 minutes until a toothpick comes out just clean. Cool on a rack and share with your mom.

When this song came out two years ago, I got emotional every time it played, thinking of the house where I grew up. It was an 1800’s Victorian-style farmhouse, with brown shingles, white trim, red shutters, a wide red door, and a front porch with gingerbread eves and hanging baskets of geraniums in the summertime. Outside, there was a line of dogwood trees which came alive every spring. The steep front walkway was made up of crumbly stone steps leading to a stone wall where our cats, Purr and Zeus, would sit and wait for us at the end of the day, pacing anxiously, only to act completely aloof and ignore us the moment we stepped out of the car.

Of course, it wouldn’t have been complete without a street filled with wacky neighbors. The Morrows, who lived in the big house on the corner, where we made cotton candy from a huge old circus contraption and where I could freely rummage through the Chanel lip stick of Ellen’s single mom, who was never really around anyway. The Hitchners across the street, by far the most normal of the bunch, and our good friends to this day. The Carlins, a Swedish/German family a couple houses down who didn’t own a TV and believed their garden to be populated by gnomes (let it be known that their kids would come over to our house to “play” and promptly park themselves in front of the telly until they heard their mother calling them home for supper). And next door, the intrepid Mrs Long, the neighborhood busy-body, a caterer by trade who loved us so much she would make us ice cream cones in the summer and send leftover shrimp to our cats (but who didn’t ever have one nice thing to say about the “Nazis” next door).

Ours wasn’t a big house, and it certainly wasn’t the most fancy house in the neighborhood. I grew up in Roland Park, a truly one of a kind place filled with rambling, turn of the century Victorian houses, originally built as summer homes for wealthy Baltimoreans living downtown. The houses were set on wide lanes with lots of hundred year trees and azalea bushes older than my grandmother. We lived on the back side of Roland Park, not as upscale as the more visible areas, but it suited us fine. The Friends School playgrounds were right down the street, we could walk to school, the library or to get candy at Tuxedo Pharmacy and sandwiches at Eddie’s, and in the summer we could hear the spring of the Roland Park Pool diving board from our front porch. It was an idyllic childhood, made more so by the drafty old house about which I heartily complained (no AC! Sharing a bathroom with my parents! No 80’s style wall-to-wall carpet!) but thoroughly loved.

My parents moved from there after I graduated from college, to a totally different neighborhood. Most people familiar with the area would say their “new” place is in an area that’s considered to be a bit tonier (though in my humble opinion a lot less fun). While I love where they live now, I still find myself taking a detour past the old place every time I go home. Much has changed, but my Grateful Dead sticker is still stuck to the bedroom window where I put it in 8th grade, the stone wall is still in tact and Mrs. Long, ever vigilant, still knows everything that’s happening on the block.

So this morning, imagine my surprise when Miranda Lambert got to the end of her song and I realized that I’d been thinking about an entirely different house. I’d been lost in thought and getting emotional about the house where the hubster and I now live, 200 some miles from the neighborhood of Roland Park, in Huntington, New York.

I’ve done a lot of growing up here too. We bought the house almost two years ago now, after having loved it from afar for a long time. We knew it would be an ongoing project. It celebrates it’s 100th birthday this year, and though the previous owners had taken great care of it, there was a lot we wanted to do right off the bat to make it “ours,” not to mention bring it into this century.

Over the past two years we’ve put tons of energy into the place. An overhaul of the heating systems, a new burner, a conversion from oil to gas, central air, a new patio, moving a line of trees, not to mention all the cosmetic updates that come with moving – ripping up carpets, refinishing floors, painting, wall papering, the list goes on. Most recently, we’ve undertaken the project of completely gutting and renovating the two bathrooms on the second floor, the small “master” bath and the Jack and Jill bath that will be the baby’s when he makes his appearance.

What I’ve learned throughout the process of making this house our home is that nothing is perfect. I have grand plans for this place, and it feels as though we’ve only just scratched the surface. I have to stop myself from thinking ahead to the next project while we are still in the middle of the current one. I think this is an inherently female trait – we tend to want to make the things we love better, forgetting that part of what we love about them is their imperfections. I’m working on it (turns out I’m a work in progress too).

What I loved about the house initially remains in tact. In fact, it’s mostly things that I couldn’t change even if I wanted to. The way the setting sun filters through the trees in our back yard at dusk, bathing everything in a soft pink glow just around dinner time. The light reflecting off the neighbors pool and into our upstairs bathroom window, making it feel as though I’m being bathed in a million tiny diamonds. The south facing exposure which ensures that even in darkest winter, our house will have some bright warmth most mornings. The neighborhood itself, which feels a bit similar to my beloved Roland Park: houses close to one another, neighbors you can see and wave to, crazy kids across the street who wear shorts year round and shoot the worst game of hoops I’ve ever seen but who never stop playing. Oh, and did I mention Boo Radley lives down the street? Yup, the ‘hood even comes with it’s own haunted house. All within walking distance to those very important necessities: ice cream, diner, library.

But I think what had me ruminating this morning over my beloved Dewey Street pad is that, while it’s perhaps not “The House that Built Me,” it is most definitely the house that saved me.

At the time of purchase, we were about a month past a miscarriage that left me completely shattered. At the time, I needed a project and a change of scenery, and I needed it bad. Little did I know what else was to follow: a year and a half of more fertility procedures and surgeries than I care to count, an apartment in New York City that refused to sell, and a mother-in-law fighting a losing battle with colon cancer. Sometimes, it’s a good thing we can’t see the future.

Through it all, I had a house and a husband that provided me with a safe haven where I could escape when things got tough – a failed IUI, yet another period that I had convinced myself wasn’t coming, bad news from Carol’s doctor, another offer fallen through on the apartment. I would often wake up in the middle of the night, anxious and terrified that I might never be able to conceive a child, and think to myself, if all I have for the rest of my life is this man and this house, I will still be ok.

I’ve posted pictures of our house to Facebook the way most of my friends post pictures of their kids, because at the time I needed it most, this house was my baby.

I would take myself out to the garden and dig for hours, or paint some old piece of furniture, or just sit on the screened porch, listening to the breeze coax a tune from my flying pig wind chime (his name is Bacon). When things got really bad I’d set off for a run through my new neighborhood and town, heading towards the harbor and the healing lap of the waves in the Sound. Always retuning home feeling better about things, because as soon as I walked into the door, the house enveloped me in its 100 year old embrace. A steadfast old friend, who had seen and known more than I ever would, and somehow had the ability to protect me and make everything ok again.

Who knows how long we’ll live here. As much as I love it, I also know that at some point we may decide we want more space, or a new adventure. I like to leave my options open. But for now, and for the foreseeable future, I am so thankful to have this place to come home to. It’s not anything crazy, but it’s ours and I love it. More than anything, I feel so blessed to be able to share it with our son, whose arrival creeps closer every day. I cannot wait to bring him home to the place that his mom and dad created expressly with him in mind, a place we hoped would help raise and shape him before he was even a possibility.

I realize what an incredible gift that is, not for the baby, but for us, knowing that we have a place that we love to provide shelter and stability for the tiny being who encompasses our biggest dreams. The house that saved me is the house that will build my son, and I will love it forever (must remind myself of this the next time the heat goes out and I find myself bleeding radiators in my 50 degree living room).

My plates runneth over

Dewey Street Garden Salad (serves 2)

This salad was made this fall with produce from my organic garden, but beets and spinach are readily available and still considered seasonal at this time of year!

5 small beets, whichever color you can find

1 small head freshly washed spinach

1 bunch fresh chives, finely chopped

2 oz goat cheese, crumbled

1 handful walnuts, toasted lightly for about 10 minutes at 300

Walnut oil

Good quality sherry vinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

Turn oven to 375. Wrap each beet individually in foil and place on a cookie sheet. Place in middle rack of oven, roast until soft and tender about 45-50 minutes. Remove from oven, cool completely. Unwrap beets. Using a kitchen towel, gently rub off the beet skins (if you are using red beets they will stain your fingers if you don’t use gloves or a towel). Chop beets roughly, season lightly with salt and pepper and set aside in a small bowl. Tear spinach into large pieces, toss together with beets, walnuts, chopped chives and crumbled goat cheese. Drizzle about 3 tbsp walnut oil over top, then drizzle about 1 tbsp sherry vinegar. Season with salt and pepper. Toss and serve immediately with crusty bread.

Growing up, Baltimore was a town without a team. Sure, we had the Orioles, but we were a football town at heart, and in the fall we had nothing but the Redskins and the shadow that the Colts had left behind. The stadium and training facilities were filled only with the ghosts of seasons past. Most of our parents and grandparents were still getting over the loss of said Colts, who up and left in the middle of the night in ‘84, leaving a town brokenhearted and confused. Indeed, I grew up regaled with stories of the good ‘ole days at Memorial Stadium. My grandfather had two season tickets. He never missed a game. He’d take with him my grandmother, mom or uncle for company, along with wool blankets to spread out on the bleachers, where they’d sit eating hot dogs and peanuts, and spend the day rooting for Johnny U and company. Father knew best, the Colts always won, and my mom, a daddy’s girl if there ever was one, basked in the glow of an afternoon spent watching her hero watch his heroes. It was a simpler time.

In high school, football was the sport that the guys played to keep in shape for lacrosse (soccer was a distant third). Sure, I went to the games and cheered on the current crush’s team, but I paid less attention to what was happening on the field and more to what the wind was doing to my hair. I have a distinct memory of David Freedlander (a childhood friend who was not on the team) trying to explain a fourth down to me at a Gilman/McDonough game. Let’s just say it took fifteen minutes and I still didn’t get it (nor was I listening.)

True, I did attend one of the Ravens first ever pre-season home games. It was August of 1996, at good old Memorial Stadium. They played the Packers, I lusted after Favre (my how the mighty fall), we all drank too many beers and payed little attention to what was actually happening on the field. I headed for college a couple weeks later, where I happily left behind the “all sports, all the time” mentality that I had grown up around in suburban Baltimore. I majored in Art History, got a weird haircut, smoked a lot of cigarettes, and skipped a lot of class.

The next Ravens game I attended was during my senior year of college, on Christmas Eve, dragged by my parents. It was a 1:00 game, freezing cold, and like most college aged girls I was not in the least bit prepared for it (what, like, wear a parka and snow boots? Please. What if I saw someone I knew?) In the first quarter I got a cold beer spilled on my head and nacho cheese on my coat. I left in a cab at halftime vowing never again to spend a second with these violent, boorish red-necks who were swathed in purple camo fatigues, flapping their arms like angry birds and yelling at the ref to “move those chains.”

So imagine my surprise when, upon moving to New York City the following fall, I found myself “watching” (or should I say ignoring) football on several Sundays, mostly as an excuse to swill beer and down wings at The Park Avenue Country Club or Mad River Bar and Grille.

It began in the fall of 2000 as an entirely social endeavor, a way to stay connected with those Baltimore-ons who were living in the city and an excuse to deter the Sunday blues (or drown them in Bud Light). Then, when I was least expecting it, the Ravens got good.  So good, in fact, that we played in the Super Bowl against the New York Giants. All of a sudden, it was fun. I found myself organizing a group table at Brother Jimmy’s on the Upper West Side for the Baltimore crew to watch the Ravens hand it to the G-men. Damn, that felt good. We swarmed out into the night, caw-cawing our way through hordes of bitter Giants fans, bar hopping down Amsterdam dressed in purple and black. At that point, I’d only been living in New York City for four months.

I met my now husband that following summer and quickly realized that the fastest way to this man’s heart was not in fact through his stomach (damn, I totally had that one covered!) but through his sports addiction.  Sure, I’d watched a few games and knew the difference between Ray Lewis and Jamal Lewis, but really, I was a strange girl in a strange land and completely, utterly screwed. Since I pretty much decided after our first date that this was the man I was going to marry, I knew I had to get this right.

For the first couple years, we watched football every Sunday, religiously, at The Firehouse on 85th and Columbus. We had a raucous bunch of stalwarts, fans from all over the map, from the Ravens (woot, woot!) to the Bucs, the Niners, the Packers, the Eagles and the local Jets and Giants.  We met every week, dragging ourselves in from a late Saturday night, noshing on wings and nachos washed down with pitchers of beers and spicy Bloody Mary’s. This was my first real NYC “crew,” and I came to know and love them while watching hours of NFL games.

Over the years, people went their separate ways. Many of my Baltimore friends left the city to move back home.  All of a sudden I found that I was the last man standing, a lone Raven among a sea of blue and green. I think this is when it really clicked. My devotion to my team was solidified not because I was immersed in hometown antics, going to every game, participating in purple Fridays and listening to the local Baltimore sportscasters. I fell in love with my Ravens because they provided a weekly link to a place that’s in my blood. I may live in New York, but my own personal roots will always furrow a little further south, and they are tinged with purple and gold.

It’s been eleven years since I started really watching the Ravens play every week. A lot has changed. I’m no longer a twenty-something boozing it up on Sundays in the city (these days I do my boozing in the ‘burbs.) My life is a lot more settled, and probably a lot more predictable than it was a decade ago, and I’m ok with that. Turns out my plan worked – all that football watching helped me snag the guy I knew I was going to marry. Sundays have become our favorite day of the week, and watching football is our “thing” that we do together, as a package deal, rooting for each others teams even when no one else will (he’s a Niner’s fan.  Yeah. Bad day in the Shanley household.) I fell in love with my husband over a decade of football Sundays, and he supports me and my team and my right to watch, even when I’m the only girl in the room.

But I got a lot more than that. I also became a card carrying member of Ravens Nation, and it turns out I’m a particularly passionate one. I have had my heart broken more times than I can count over the last several years. I am a shameless Steelers hater, on principle alone (it has nothing to do with the fact that Rothlisberger is a dirty bum and Hines Ward smiles like the clown from a certain Steven King movie). I have more purple in my wardrobe than I care to admit. I have, on several occasions, worn my pajamas out of the house purely because they are covered in Ravens logos. I am proud to say that I wake up on many Sundays and reach for a Todd Heap jersey that I wear all day long, much to my husbands chagrin. I actually know how the game works. I know the players. I’ve learned about the league and about the other teams. I’ve had my own fantasy teams and done pretty well with them without help from a guy. I actually watch the games by myself when the hubster is away. In every single neighborhood I’ve haunted for the past decade I have found a watering hole where I show up every single Sunday to cheer on my team from afar, because they don’t show my game at home.

I do not miss a week. I do not like it when the other wives and girlfriends show up and try to talk to me while I’m watching my team, assuming I’m like all the other girls and just there to hang out. I do not like it when they aren’t showing my game on an acceptable screen in the bar. I do not like it when the Steelers beat us, and I often stalk out and go home alone to get in bed or stress eat.

And (ok, here goes) I cry when we lose in heartbreaking fashion.

Last night, through a flurry of sobs that lasted well into the second game, my love for my Ravens was reaffirmed. We outplayed the Patriots and should have won that game, God dammit. We played with the heart that we have always been known for. We are not a pretty team to watch. We do not have legions of supporters outside of the people of Baltimore. We don’t have GQ cover boys as our quarterbacks. We do not have an army of bandwagoners or fake “fans” who tune in a couple times a year or for championship games only. The commentators don’t ever wax poetic about our team, salivating like underfed dogs over the legacy or the dynasty or some such nonsense. We win ugly and we lose ugly. But we play with an uncrushable spirit. This has always been the Ravens style. It’s maddening, it’s hard to watch, it’s nail biting, and its infectious. To be a Ravens fan is to know that the calls don’t always go your way. That football, like life, is sloppy and can’t always be tied up with a neat little (purple!) bow. There aren’t always Hollywood agents and super models waiting for you when you get home.

Our team, like our city, is gritty and imperfect, and we love it that way. I’d rather be a Ravens fan than any other kind of fan in the world, today more than ever. They have allowed me, for over a decade, to tune into my hometown every Sunday from afar, to show my stripes and cheer for a place that I love and have not left behind, but where I probably will never live again. They have taught me the love of the game. They have taught me to Believe.

I’ll take my football, like my life, with a little dirt in the eye, and I’ll do it (mostly) without whining. Thanks for another great season, Ravens. I can’t wait for next year.

Chill-free Sunday

Sore loser, I mean,  Slow Cooker Beef Chuck Chili (serves 6)

2 lbs beef chuck, cut into 1/2 inch cubes

2 cups unsalted beef stock

1 1/2 cups chopped tomatoes (fresh, canned or from a box such as Pomi)

1 dark lager beer

1 red onion, diced

1 fresh jalapeno, diced

2 cans chopped green chilies

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 tbsp chili powder

2 tsp cumin

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/4 cup freshly brewed coffee

1 small handful bittersweet chocolate chips

2 tbsp finely ground cornmeal or masa harina

1 can each pinto, black and kidney beans, drained and rinsed

Add all ingredients except for cornmeal and beans to slow cooker. Turn to high and cook 4 hours. Remove beef chunks to a large bowl, shred with two forks. Add shredded beef, beans and cornmeal to slow cooker, cook on low for another hour. Serve with sour cream, cilantro and diced avocado.

Stress eating, with avocado on top

We lost Carol to colon cancer at the end of August. She was 63 years old. This will be my husband’s first Christmas without her, and I’m acutely aware of this. For months I’ve been doing the “I’m not hovering hover,” trying to gauge his emotions while also trying to keep things as routine and normal as possible. When the person you love most in the world loses a parent, you kind of go into overdrive. You do everything humanly possible to make it easier on them. You plan and host the memorial service lunch. You clean out their apartment and deal with the lawyers and the real estate agents so your dear one doesn’t have to. You keep the spirit of that lost person alive as much as you possibly can, even if it means decorating your house with a tacky Christmas village you’d never have imagined you’d actually care about the year before.

But in doing all of these things, I’ve found that I really haven’t thought that much at all about my own sadness. Until this morning.

I’ll come right out and say that my mother-in-law had a tendency to drive me nuts a lot of the time. This post would be completely disingenuous if I didn’t admit that up front. To me, a young woman raised in a time and in an environment that allowed me to believe that anything was possible for women, that confidence is a girls best friend, that I was smart and worthy and capable, Carol often seemed a victim in her own life. It irked me that she depended so much on her grown sons for her own happiness (how obtuse of me to presume to know anything about the complexities of motherhood.) That she often seemed scared of her own shadow. I felt like she was a bystander in her own life, waiting for other people to include her or make plans for her. Always doing what everyone else wanted to do. Too often it felt like she turned things down before really even trying them, sure she wouldn’t like it, positive that that’s not how she was supposed to do things, stymied by how it would look or what other people thought. She was as traditional as they come, and it often seemed as though she was from my grandparents generation, rather than the hippie culture to which my own parents subscribed.

When I met her,  I was a 23 year old wild child just out of college, living out loud in New York City, millions of girl friends at my finger tips and the stories of Carrie Bradshaw and crew filing my head (a more shallow, vapid role model there never was.) She was a 53 year old mother of three “adult” boys, recently divorced and trying to make a new life for herself. Hindsight being 20/20, I now realize she was terrified, but at the time, and to my trumped up, impenetrable ego it came across as weakness and timidity, and it bugged the hell out of me. Looking back, I kick myself for being so insensitive to many of her greatest worries and fears. How could I have judged how she felt or acted, when our experiences had been so vastly different?

The bottom line is that she loved with a huge heart, and that she raised three boys who know how to love well and fully. A gift that cannot be overstated. Her gift to me, given before Kevin and I even met.

Over the decade that I knew Carol, I came to see she was a lot more layered than I first gave her credit for (isn’t everyone?) I like to think I did a little layering myself, as I grew up and into true adulthood. I came to see that despite our differences, we had a great many things in common. I used those things to form the basis of my relationship with her, and now I cherish them as fond memories of the woman who so lovingly raised the man that I couldn’t live without.

Carol loved Christmas and everything about it. She loved gift giving and making merry, celebrations and being surrounded by friends and family. We were much alike in this way. She loved nothing more than spending a day in the kitchen baking all kinds of sugary treats to lavish upon guests, especially her children and grandchildren. She wrapped Christmas gifts carefully and beautifully, often including some special touch like an ornament with the recipients name on it. And she made a mean Manhattan.

While cleaning out her apartment this fall, I came across her massive collection of Christmas wrapping and ribbon. To me, this is the true spirit of my mother-in-law, and looking through the huge boxes full of tissue, raffia, wired bows and 35 different kinds of cards this morning, I found myself longing to talk to her for the first time in many months.  Turns out that in trying to make sure my husband was ok, I didn’t even realize that I missed her in my own right.

I want to sit with her and tell her all the gifts I got for hubster this year. I want to tell her about how her future grandson is kicking up a storm and making my bladder seem the size of a grain of sand. I want to snap a pic of all the gifts I just wrapped and text it to her, because I know only she would truly appreciate the symmetry of the massive green bow I tied, or my use of her red and green holly twine. I can picture her face lighting up at these little anecdotes. She loved nothing more than being kept in the loop, feeling in touch with the people she loved in her life.

As I wrapped this morning, drinking coffee out of her Vermont village Christmas mugs and listening to Perry Como (her favorite) crooning “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” I felt as though she were looking down on me, guiding my choice in matching bows and nodding in approval at my use of a snowman card here and there.

I suspect I will wrestle with guilt over her loss for a long time. While I tried my utmost to be there for her whenever she needed someone, I fear that I was never as emotionally available to her as she needed me to be. I will always wonder if I could have been more generous with my time, if I should have picked up the phone and called more, or included her more. These are the things we grapple with after losing a loved one. Did I do enough? Was I there in the right way?

I’m always inspired by stories of giving at this time of year. News reports of Kmart secret Santas, Toys for Tots bins over-flowing, a run on turkeys for the local food drive. Ever the optimist, I truly believe that Christmas puts people in the spirit of giving, and that the act of giving is what makes people so merry throughout the month of December. But this year, do me a favor, dear readers. Rethink generosity. Look around at the faces of the people closest to you and imagine how you could be more generous of spirit with those you see every day. Include the woman who has been trying to finagle her way into your coffee klatch – maybe she needs it more than you do. Smile at the family members that drive you to drink (come on, we all have them) and swallow the nasty comment that bubbles its way to the tip of your tongue. Be magnanimous when your mother calls you for the tenth time asking what you want for dinner a week from now, and let your dad drag your suitcases in from the car, even though you can perfectly well do it yourself. Try to recall what it was like being a teenager when your 15 year old niece or nephew sits sullenly in the corner playing on their new iPhone. Let your parents hug you even if you’re 45 years old. Lend your laugh to socially awkward Uncle Mel’s jokes, rather than rolling your eyes and looking for the door.

Be grateful for the people that you love in spite of themselves (and remember that they love you in spite of yourself, you brat). This year, give of your soul and your love and your time to those closest to you, because someday you’ll wish they’d call you to annoy you just one more time.

Merry Manhattan

Carol’s Christmas Manhattans

Carol would make these in a pitcher and chill for several hours in the fridge. Family legend has it she inherited the recipe from her brother-in-law Steve. Wherever it came from, it’s the only Manhattan I’ve ever liked, and boy do I like it a lot (not in my current state, however!). Sip it slowly in front of the tree, ice cold.

Mix equal parts Canadian Club Whiskey (this is important – other whiskeys and bourbons are too strong) and sweet vermouth (such as Martini and Rossi Rosso) in a small pitcher. Add three or four dashes of Angostura Bitters and several maraschino cherries, along with a healthy glug of the cherry juice. Muddle the cherries around in the pitcher to release their flavor. Chill for several hours, covered. To serve, pour over a lot of ice (crushed is better, if you have it), add a stemmed cherry and a small spoonful of extra cherry juice. Toast your loved ones and enjoy.

Not so long story short, I ended up spending four hours last week in the Quest diagnostics lab, drinking ungodly amounts of syrupy sweet orange flavored swill and getting stuck in the arm five times. Honestly though, I think the worst part was that I was forced sit in the waiting room and listen to the drivel that is Fox News, followed by the Wendy Williams show (is “she” a woman or a man?)

This follow up test was ordered when I failed the first test by two measly points. Two points! Are you kidding me? I get that it’s better to be safe than sorry but come on. Two points? Even my doctor told me that he thought it was a bunch of bull. So, naturally, I made cookies in protest.

Now lets get one thing straight. I am not some goody two-shoes, gotta get an A, over achiever when it comes to test taking. In fact I’m pretty much the exact opposite. In college I was lucky enough to pass my classes and graduate in the requisite four years, but more often than not I was wholly unprepared, arriving at an exam having skipped the three classes beforehand, completely unaware that it was test day. Let’s just say there was a lot of winging it, and a natural talent for BS involved. You know that phrase never bull shit a bull shitter? I coined it. For real.

Having said that, when it comes to tests taken at the doctors office, I am a straight A student. HDL? Sky high. LDL? Lower than dirt. Blood Pressure? 110/70. Lungs? Clear. Cavities? None. So maybe I was a little cavalier about the damn glucose thing.

Alls well that ends well, I passed the second test with flying colors because I actually followed the directions and fasted for 12 hours prior to the test. My reward to myself was a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Not your average run of the mill chocolate chips. They’re made with vanilla soaked dried cherries, flakes of sweet coconut, lightly toasted walnuts and dark chocolate chunks. They’re the black tie version of your standard chocolate chip, and perfect for the holidays.

Growing up, my grandmother made the most insanely beautiful, impossibly delicate and incredibly labor intensive hand painted sugar cookies. She’d start the day after Thanksgiving; her kitchen and laundry room (storage and prep area) would turn into an all out cookie factory for the holiday season. They were treasured nuggets of buttery sweet Yuletide gold, and she earned herself quite a reputation as cookie maker extraordinaire. Those who were lucky enough to be on her list of recipients knew they had just received the holy grail of holiday cookies, not to be taken for granted. These cookies were to be savored, one at a time, slowly, and rationed with extreme care.

Sadly, when she passed, the tradition (mostly) passed with her. The cookies require so much work that my brave mother only makes a few dozen (still considered a Herculean effort) to be eaten on Christmas Eve and Christmas, because it just wouldn’t be the same without them. But gone are the days when we’d have an unlimited supply (Dot would make upwards of 100 dozen.)

When I first started dating that darling hubby of mine, I got the idea that I’d make Dot’s Christmas cookies for his family as gifts. We’d only been dating a short time, and it seemed weird to buy them gifts when I hardly knew them, but I wanted to show I’d remembered them in some way. Much to my chagrin, my grandmother rarely let anyone help, and my mom lives in Baltimore, so I was on my own. My teeny tiny New York City galley kitchen tuned into a veritable holiday mine-field. My poor roommates were banished entirely, for fear that they’d knock over the sprinkles, or spill the thin confectioners icing I’d use to paint the cookies into dozens of stained glass-like snowmen and wreathes.

Proudly, I presented the tins of cookies, tied with beautiful ribbon (I’m a sucker for big bows), to my then-boyfriends family members. My now-brother-in-law Brian accepted them graciously, and, I later learned, never even brought them in from the car, preferring to keep them to his sweet tooth-afflicted self. He apparently ate the entire tin of cookies while driving around the following day (he was a medical sales rep at the time, and spent most of the day in the car), one hand on the wheel, the other dipping into the tin and shoveling the cookies whole into his mouth, as if I had handed him a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Never bothering to look at or appreciate the beauty of a hand painted cookie. Sacrilege.

My father-in-law, who shall remain nameless seeing as he lives around these parts, accepted the holiday offering with a chuckle and the following comment “Great, as long as they’re not sugar cookies!” My heart shrank three sizes that day, and I slunk off, muttering “Bah, Humbug” and looking for a bowl of egg nog big enough to drown myself in.

Lesson learned.  For better or for worse, I’d married into a family of chocolate chip men. Still, for years I tried to find a version of that venerated, All-American cookie that could be used for the holidays. To me, a chocolate chip cookie, while a thing of beauty in it’s own right, is an every day kind of treat.  At Christmas, I want to make something a little  more special, and I believe I’ve found it.

Ten years later, I’ve just about forgiven my beloved in-laws for their poor taste in Christmas cookies.  Turns out I quite adore them, so it made swallowing my pride a lot easier. And hey, marriage is nothing if not a compromise. Besides, it’s the holidays. ‘Tis the season to be merry.

Christmas cookie redux

Christmas Chocolate Chip Cookies (makes 3 dozen)

Adapted from Epicurious.com

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

2 tbsp pure vanilla extract divided into 1/2 tsp and 1 tbsp + 1/2 tsp

3/4 cup dried cherries, roughly chopped

1 stick unsalted butter at room temperature

1/4 cup sugar

1/2 cup packed light brown sugar

1 large egg

1 cup semi sweet chocolate chunks

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

1/2 cup sweetened coconut

Preheat oven to 350. In a medium sized bowl, combine flour, baking soda and salt. In a small bowl, pour about 1 cup boiling water over cherries and add 1/2 tsp vanilla. Let stand 5 minutes. In the meantime, combine butter and sugars in a large bowl, mix on medium high speed until light and fluffy. Add the egg and the remaining vanilla, beat till combined. Set mixer to low, add in flour slowly.  So not over mix- this should take no longer than 30 seconds. Once combined, gently stir in cherries, chocolate chunks, nuts and coconut. Drop dough by heaping teaspoons full onto a non-stick cookie sheet, 12-15 per sheet. Place cookie sheet on a rack in the middle of the oven, bake about 10 minutes until golden brown.  Remove from oven, allow cookies to cool on tray about 5 minutes before moving them to a cooling rack.  Bake rest of dough in the same way.

I’m not delusional. I realize that for most people, turkey is not actually their favorite part of the holiday meal. But Thanksgiving without a turkey would be like the Superbowl without a football. You simply must have it, and if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it well.

I’m a traditionalist when it comes to my bird. I’ve tried it all – brining, upside-down roasting, deep frying. Nothing says Normal Rockwellian Freedom From Want like a big breasted bird roasting in the oven for hours, emitting a pheromone-like fragrance that will have your family salivating and lining up for seconds (and offering to do the dishes later). It was how my grandmother did it. It’s how my mom does it. And that’s good enough for me.

Of course, long roasting can present quite a conundrum. The prized breast meat comes out dry as a bone, and the succulent dark meat (my personal favorite) is barely cooked through. So I’ve amassed some tips and tricks over the years that I’m now going to pass along to you.

My first foray into turkey roasting was during my senior year of college. My sorority (eeeeek, ok there, I said it) hosted a pre-Thanksgiving dinner for our senior sisters and all of the local alums. It was a 30 pound bird in a 10 pound oven, and it took about 8 hours and 15 phone calls to my mother. It also brought out the first hints of my control freak nature, dormant until then, when all the older alumnae showed up and immediately tried to swoop in and steal my gravy-making thunder. Narrowly avoiding an all out fisticuffs, I merely turned to the three women hovering over my shoulder and said in my most Dot-like tone (i.e. the tone you never mess with), “I’ve got this, thanks.”

Growing up, most of our Thanksgivings were spent on the road to New Jersey to be with my dad’s side of the family. So I had little prior turkey roasting experience when I took the plunge at Bucknell. But there were a few years after college when we stayed at home in Baltimore for the holiday, and I have warm memories of Thanksgiving morning with my mom, learning about stuffing and where to find the turkey innards that must come out pre-oven (hint, the innards are inside the turkey. Huh.) Once hubster and I were married, we started spending Turkey Day in the city, with his mom and brother. These were my first years of prepping and pulling off the dinner solo, and I’m glad these initial trial runs were only for four people. It allowed me to get creative with the bird, first brining, then roasting upside down. For our first Turkey Day in Huntington last year, we deep fried, which was a novelty. Of course, it rained, so we ended up setting up the fryer in the filthy garage, and stood around drinking beers and watching it fry like the good white trash that we really are. It was a complete and utter mess to clean up for an end result that was not really superior to the regular bird. I have to say I’ve never had a turkey disaster, but I honestly think some of these methods are just a whole lotta hoopla.

My main beef with all these new fangled poultry methods is that I’m a gravy junkie. If I could mainline it, I would. Most years I settle for drinking it from a glass. Seriously. There’s nothing you can’t fix with a good gravy, and if you brine or fry, you are severely limiting your ability to make just that. The brine ends up making the drippings too salty, and if you deep fry, you have no drippings at all. Case closed.

As for upside down roasting, it has its merits. Theoretically, it does keep the breast meat moist, that is if you don’t end up dropping the entire scalding hot, half cooked turkey on the floor as you try to flip the bird right side up. Consider this: I’ve jumped out of an airplane, but I think this method is a little risky. Nothing is more confidence shattering than mopping up splattered turkey with your tears of shame.

Remember that the turkey is actually the easiest part of the meal (unless you are a fan of canned cranberry sauce). Once you’ve got it all prepped and ready to go, you just pop it in the oven and hang out for 4 hours. With my tips I think you’ll be armed and ready for battle turkey.  If all else fails, know that your family still loves you and keep a fully stocked bar…

1) Invest in a probe thermometer. Forget what your dear sweet granny told you about basting. It’s hogwash. The little amount of juice that actually makes it back up to the breast dribbles right off, if you’ve seared the meat properly, and the constant opening of the oven lowers the heat so that you’ll have to keep the bird in even longer.  Longer cooking time equals drier meat. Aaaand, we’ve come full circle. A probe thermometer allows you to keep tabs on Tom without ever having to open the oven door, meaning the heat source stays constant and the turkey roasts for a shorter amount of time.

2) Prepare the gobbler the night before. Take said turkey out of his packaging, remove giblets and make stock Wednesday night. Rinse the bird, pat him dry, and leave him in a roasting pan uncovered overnight in the fridge. This will help dry the skin out, which comes back to searing 101. Dry meat gives you a better sear, thereby locking in the juices.

3) Remove the turkey from the fridge and let it come up in temperature for about an hour on your counter. Tuck the wings underneath the breast. Preheat your oven now to 425.  Heating this early will ensure that it’s good and hot when you pop the bird in. In the meantime, prepare his massage oils. A stick of softened butter, and any combination of chopped herbs you like. I usually go with thyme, sage and parsley (so easy on the sage, it can get overpowering).  Combine butter and herbs, and a few cracks of black pepper. Once the turkey has warmed up a bit, pat it dry again with paper towels. Season the inside cavity with salt and pepper. Then, very carefully, slide your fingers under the breast skin, without breaking the skin (if you break it, the melted butter will just run out of the hole). Rub half of the soft butter all over the breast meat, massaging it into the bird as lovingly as you would…well, fill in your own fantasy here. Rub the rest of the butter over the legs and thighs. Wash your hands and season the outside of the lubed up bird with salt and pepper.

4) No stuffing.  The only thing that should be going into that cavity is a halved onion, some fresh herbs, celery, maybe a little garlic or some apple slices.  The trick it that you don’t want to cram it too full. Pack it very loosely and come out with your hands up. Then, tie the legs together tightly and call it a day.

5) Put the bird in the oven. Roast at 425 for about 45 minutes to sear the outside of the meat and skin.  Remove from the oven, close the oven door, cover the breast with tin foil and insert your fancy new probe thermometer into the thickest part of the thigh (think about where your thigh is the thickest and then look at the turkey. That’s right. The chub rub spot), making sure not to touch the bone.  Then, turn the oven heat down to 325. Put turkey back into oven and roast until the alarm beeps (set it to 165). If you like crispy skin, remove the foil when the temperature reads 140. Figure on about 15 minutes per pound total cooking time.

6) Remember that just because the bird is out of the oven does not mean it’s done (also remember that when you are working on a project, you are not done, you’re finished. Only meat, fish or fowl can be done. Satisfied, Mom?). You have to let it rest to protect all of those juices you’ve worked so hard to retain. Remove the bird to a large cutting board and let him rest for 45 minutes to an hour. Check here for some easy carving tips. No one needs piping hot turkey meat, but if you want to warm it up (Kriss) before you serve, pour a little hot turkey stock over the top of the meat, and remember that all normal people with good taste will douse it in gravy anyway.

7) Think you messed something up?  Make extra gravy and relax.  It’s only food (at least that’s what Uncle Mel said when he screwed up the turkey.  Funny, no one’s heard from him since…)

Full disclosure: this is a chicken

My loyal readers (are there any left?) will remember that my last post, nearly three months ago, was on the eve of our family trip to Montauk.  We were taking my mother-in-law Carol out east for a vacation. As I stated in the post, she had been battling stage IV colon cancer for two years, and it was becoming clearer to us that there would not be much time left.  Little did we know how right we were.

Carol made it through the beach week, got to the family wedding, and passed away early the following week. Though we were able to get her to the beach a couple times in Montauk, and had some family dinners and one unforgettable sunset, most of us saw the writing on the wall by the end of the vacation.  So, as the first trickles of rain from Hurricane Irene started clouding up the windows of an otherwise perfect weather week, we rushed back to Huntington to get Carol to the hospital. She fought for a few more days, through the huge storm that like some bizarrely timed metaphor swept through the town and left us damaged and powerless, and passed away two days later.

I think my hesitance to post here since then was due not only to grief and a sense that things just weren’t normal, but also because there was something so poetic about the fact that my last post, dated August 20th, was written in such a happy tone, and in my excitement to spend a week in a beautiful place with our family. I didn’t want to sully that image with what came next.  I felt utterly uninspired.

And now here I am, three months later. Trying to help my husband through worlds of grief and still keep things as routine as possible. All the while, growing our first child in my belly, after so many years of wishing and hoping.  The word juxtaposition doesn’t quite do it justice, to be sure. I’ve realized, especially in the last month or so, that there really is no normal. While we cling to loved ones and memories and hopes for the future, life goes on around us, waiting for us to chose to come back into it’s chaotic, dizzying, energizing fold. It’s there for the taking, as soon as we’re ready.

Last night we had dinner with good friends at our favorite restaurant in Huntington. Walking into Joanina, especially on a cold fall evening, feels like sinking deep into the warm folds of your favorite chair, only with better food that someone else cooks for you. It’s a Cheers kind of place, where everyone knows your name and they’ll magically conjure a table out of nowhere to make room for one more guest.

At dinner, we got into a rather existential discussion about organized religion versus spirituality. The hubster grew up in a very observant Catholic family, at 8:30 Mass every Sunday without fail, marking all the rites of passage with great celebration. I am the child of a lapsed Catholic (for good reason) and a relaxed Episcopalian (translation – C&E WASP).  So, naturally, I myself was raised Presbyterian (until about the 6th grade when we stopped going to church all together, so now I’m just a heathen).

I have never begrudged my husband his faith. Indeed, I am proud of it. I know that he finds solace in attending Mass, the quiet and the rituals and the community. It will forever make him feel close to his mother, and it’s something I wouldn’t change about him. Ever.

I have always felt very spiritual in my own way. In my mind, Anne Shirley said it best when talking about where she’d most find God: “I’d go out into a great big field all alone or out into the deep deep woods, and look up into the sky…and then I’d just feel a prayer.” I’ve always felt that my God resides out of doors. I am overcome by a perfect beach day that smacks of briny air and glistening ocean, or on a lake in the mountains, the scent of pine tickling your nose and the only sounds coming from the fresh water lapping on the shore and the call of the loons. I have felt God on quiet snowy evening walks, listening to the flakes delicately fall to the ground as I come upon my house all lit up with candles in the windows, just waiting for me to come inside and get warm. I find Him in the face of my beloved husband and in the idea of this little baby boy whose February arrival is so eagerly anticipated.

This morning, I got up and walked to our local farmers market, my Sunday morning ritual. It’s very unlike my old haunt, New York City’s bustling Union Square Greenmarkets, but it suits me just fine. There is one small stall with 15 different kinds of local organic apples, one stall for the homemade pretzel guy, a fresh catch stall with gorgeous fish straight from Montauk’s baymen. An organic bakers stall, a free trade coffee place (perfect for chilly fall mornings), and a stall that sells just about the best strawberry jam I’ve ever tasted. And I always stop in at the last stall on the left, today filled with the dark leafy greens and squash and yams that are so abundant at this time of year. I loaded up my Cape Ann Farmers Market bag and made for home.

And as I trudged my way through the fallen leaves, weighed down by my loot, I realized that this is my church. The crunch, crunch of yellow and russet leaves underfoot, the halcyon blue sky overhead, the crisp fall air. The smiles of the other market goers, inspecting their kale and handing their rosy cheeked toddlers pink lady apples. The look of extreme concentration on the freckled face of the baker’s son as he diligently counted out my change. The sense of community I feel when I walk through these streets of old houses, some run down, some sparkling, all with their own unique history. The yelps of the kids across the street as they head out on their bikes, to destinations unknown, together and laughing. The bumps and nudges I’m feeling lately that let me know our own little guy is finding his way already, feeling out his surroundings and letting me know he’s ok with the gentle jab of an elbow, a toe. Coming up the walk to the home I’ve created with the person I love most on this great wide planet.

I know that things will be ok. I know that we will always remember Carol, and pass along her beloved traditions to our kids. We will keep her memory alive in these ways and so many others. I’ve realized over these last couple years that you cannot hide from life – it happens and it’s not always pretty and it’s certainly not always happy. But if you find that one thing, just one thing, that holds you steady, your port in any storm, you can and will be alright. I know that now. It feels good to be back.

Farmers Market Morning

Farmstand Eggs with Beet Greens and Toast (serves 2)

1 bunch fresh beet greens (green, leafy tops of beets), washed and sliced thin

4 farm fresh eggs

4 slices whole wheat toast, preferably fresh from the bakery

2 small cloves garlic, minced

1 pinch red pepper flakes

1 tbsp olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

In a medium sized saute pan, heat oil over medium heat till hot.  Add garlic and red pepper flakes, saute about 30 seconds till fragrant. Add beet greens, season with salt and pepper, stir and saute till wilted.  Divide beet greens between two small bowls, set aside.  Put bread in toaster. Heat a non-stick egg pan over medium high heat till hot, coat with a bit of oil, butter or non-stick spray. Crack the four eggs into hot pan. Season lightly with salt and pepper. Cook to your desired temperature (I like over easy, which is about 1-2 minutes on the first side and then flipped for about 30 seconds, for a very runny yolk and whites that are just set).  Slide eggs out of pan onto beet greens, two eggs op top of each pile of greens.  Serve immediately with toast.  Dip toast into beet green liquid and yunny yolks for the perfect bite.

Not being a native Long Islander, I’ve only been to Montauk twice, for afternoon trips. I have had the great good fortune to have other places to call home in the summers, but it’s always fun to try something new. Word around town is that Montauk is a pretty special place. I can’t wait to find out why.

Now that we live on Long Island, we wanted to try somewhere out east that truly felt far away.  Westhampton is wonderful, but at just an hour from our house, it almost feels too close for a real vacation. The rest of the Hamptons were not on our radar.  We wanted a laid back atmosphere, not the scene that Southampton, Bridgehampton and East Hampton provide. In my humble opinion, a beach vacation has no business mixing with fashion, nightlife, and $10 iced lattes.

Montauk is a vastly different place than the rest of the Hamptons.  You can feel it the minute you cross over. All of a sudden the land goes from flat, sandy farmland to craggy, windswept cliffs and water on all sides, watched over by Montauk Light. The vibe is decidedly surfer meets bayman, a relaxed kind of place where you could easily head to dinner in shorts and flip flops, with sand still in your hair.

One of the things I’m most looking forward to is my annual hunt for east end farm stands. The produce in that area cannot be beat, and this is peak season. The north and south forks are littered with small farms, so the entire drive is dotted with family run farm stands brimming with tomatoes, corn, peaches, melons and blueberries. It’s a locavore’s dream come true, and yet another reason why it’s good to be a Long Islander.

I am always inspired to bake at this time of year, mainly due to the gorgeous fruit that only gets better with a little heat from the oven and a dusting of sugar. Perhaps I’ll try out this blueberry bread again. I made it last week and between my mother-in-law, my husband and myself, it was devoured in a day and a half.

This vacation is a special one.  My mother-in-law has been valiantly battling stage IV colon cancer for two years, and we’ve decided she needs a break.  So we’re packing up and heading east for a week of sun, fun, and most importantly, family.  Arriving today will be a car full of five Syracuse Shanleys, three Shanleys from the city, and the hubster and I with the guest of honor. The week culminates in a much anticipated family wedding on Shelter Island, complete with cousins, aunts and uncles. Sounds like the perfect way to wrap up the summer.

Berry, berry good

Citrus Blueberry Bread
This recipe was adapted from a quick bread recipe in The Joy of Cooking
Preheat oven to 350. Lightly grease a 6 cup loaf pan
1 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup fresh squeezed orange juice
Zest of 1 lemon
6 tbsp unsalted butter
1/3 cup white sugar
1/3 cup light brown sugar
2 eggs
2/3 cup toasted pecan pieces
1/2 cup fresh blueberries
Whisk together flour, baking powder and salt in a medium sized bowl. In a small bowl, combine milk, oj, and zest. In a large bowl on high speed, mix together butter and sugars until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time. Alternating, add flour mixture and milk mixture, in 3 parts each. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold in blueberries and pecans.  Pour batter into prepared pan, bake in oven about 50 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in pan 10 minutes, then turn out on a baking rack to finish cooling, about 1 hour.

I’ve spent every summer of my life in Rockport, in a house on a hill that was first purchased by my great-grandmother, Helena Meredith, as a fair weather escape from her home in Brookline. This original house was nothing more than a small cottage, unsuitable for winter, and had once been the blacksmith shop on a larger farm.

It’s since been rebuilt, but even now with four bedrooms and heat for the winter, it’s nothing fancy. Yet it houses the hallmarks of my youth, and for that, it is and always will be my favorite place on Earth.

Gone are the creaky old stairs, the dusty eves, the stinky gas range that had to be lit with a match –  all major novelties when I was a kid. What remains are the objects that alone seem inconsequential, but together fill a house and make it so much more than four walls and a roof. Ancient, weathered novels occupy shelves with yellowed 70’s Jackie Collins trash and the ever resourceful Berenstain Bears. Mismatched bone china tea cups sit next to Roxbury Latin and Harvard cocktail glasses, both now forced to inhabit the same space as a New York Yankees plastic abomination, courtesy of my husband (oh, the indignity). Fraying, faded bath towels piled up in the linen closet still have my mother and uncles names on them from their camp days in Maine and New Hampshire. Dresser drawers that stick in the heat squeak loudly in protest every time they are opened, revealing loose change from who-knows-when and a musty summer house smell that cannot be replicated.

My great-grandmother’s guest book sits on the sideboard, documenting old addresses, the dates and details of decades of summer visits. It is filled with handwriting I love so well, my grandmother’s specifically, but also the 6 year old chicken scratch that later became my own mother’s hand.  Still chicken scratch – indeed it is a family trait.

The flag presented to my mother at my grandfather’s funeral, thanks for service to his country during World War II, sits proudly on the mantle.  His old “jackass pants” (the madras style pants that were his Rockport uniform) and a few cable knit golf sweaters still hang in the upstairs closet.  I daresay they always will.

Across the dirt and pebble drive live my godparents, two of my most beloved family members.  Their house sits on the slope that was once the chicken coop – though you’d never know it now – and is just about the most peaceful place I’ve ever been. Littered with knotted old apple and pear trees, a bench swing dripping with wisteria and complete with a Japanese style garden and pond, you can close your eyes and the only thing you will hear is the wind whispering in the trees, welcoming you home.

The barn and the original farmhouse  are inhabited and have also been lovingly rehabbed, so the old Cleeves farm on Pigeon Hill is still brimming with life, these many years later.

From most vantage points on our hill you can see a scrap of water, the sparkling blue dotted with the white sails of the Sandy Bay Yacht Club sailing school. At night, you can hear the fog horn, its soft, low drone lulling you to sleep, calling you back from your brink and reminding you that you are safe here, at home.

Sweet Treat

Gregg’s Peach Kuchen

This is my godfather Gregg’s recipe.  He is a fabulous baker and I am always stealing ideas from him.  He taught me at the age of 9 not to be afraid of pastry, which has proved to be a valuable lesson in my life! He made this for one of several family dinners last week in Rockport. I have made a couple modifications, so here it is, “Dot” style.

2 cups flour

1/4 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1 stick butter

3/4 cup sugar

1 tsp cinnamon

5 ripe peaches, peeled and halved

2 egg yolks

1 cup heavy cream

Preheat oven to 400.

For pastry:

Sift together flour, baking powder, salt and 2 tbsp sugar. Cut in the butter until its crumbly and resembles wet sand. Press mixture firmly on bottom and up sides of a non-stick 11 inch tart pan.

For filling:

Arrange peach halves, cut side down, on pastry. Mix remaining sugar and cinnamon. Sprinkle over top peaches, bake for 15 minutes.  In the meantime, beat together the egg yolks and the cream. After 15 minutes, remove kuchen from oven and pour cream mixture over tip.  Bake for 30 more minutes.

Cool to room temp or chill. Can be made a few hours ahead.

As it so happens, I’m working in the kitchen this morning on a bridesmaids luncheon I’m catering this afternoon. So it’s all wedding, all the time around here. As it also turns out, I’m feeling rather emotional today (nothing new).  In fact, I’ve been welling up all morning.  In a good way.

Kate (or Catherine, as they are now calling her) is the perfect princess.  She displayed such incredible poise and grace today.  I remember well the frenzy and pre-wedding jitters from my own big day, so I stand in awe of how beautifully she handled herself on such an incredibly large scale.  Suffice it to say, she gained many new admirers today.

Underneath all the ceremony, I think what struck me most was the simple kindness that seems to run between the couple.  William was dashing in red, but it was his deference to his new bride that had me riveted. There is such an obvious gentle concern for one another.  I guess what I loved most of all was the simple fact that despite their royal stature, they’re really just two kids in love.  Above all, it was a wedding, just like any other.

I was of course watching it on NBC (any excuse to hang with Matt and Meredith), and the whole thing was shamelessly sponsored by McDonalds.  So the commercial that always makes me cry played incessantly all morning long.  You know the one – the little kids looking for hope in their Happy Meals. “Hope’s good!”

On this morning, hope certainly is good.  We live in precarious times. Storms ravaged much of the American south this week, and the images are shocking.  It seems that every time we turn on the news, we’re bombarded by images of destruction, war, failing economies, or Donald Moron Trump making absurd statements that people actually seem to believe…

So it speaks volumes that so many people worldwide took such pride in a young couple getting hitched. Of course it’s Britain’s day.  But this is a boy who we’ve all watched grow into a clearly very intelligent and gracious man (with fabulous taste in women), and today’s wedding provided a welcome distraction from our often dreary news. There will always be cynics and naysayers raining on the parade, but here on Dewey Street I choose hope.

Congrats to the Brits for giving us a reason to come together for a few hours and celebrate one of the purest joys in life – a good marriage. To Will and Kate I wish only what I myself have been so lucky to find.  A true partner, and hope for the future.

I do

Shrimp Salad Puffs (makes 24 puffs)

1 recipe for pate a choux shells

1 lb steamed shrimp, chopped into small pieces

½ cup mayonnaise

3 stalks celery, chopped fine

¼ sweet onion, minced

2 tsp Old Bay seasoning

Make puff shells according to instructions.  In the meantime, combine the other ingredients.  Split puff shells and fill with a spoonful of shrimp salad.

BLT Tomato Bites (makes 20 bites)

10 grape tomatoes, halved and hollowed out with a melon baller

4 oz cream cheese, softened

2 tbsp mayonnaise

1 scallion, minced

5 strips cooked bacon

20 sprigs arugula

Chop 2 strips of bacon very fine and cut other 3 strips into small pieces. Combine with cream cheese, mayo, scallions, and black pepper.  Fill halved tomatoes with cream cheese mixture, top with piece of bacon and a small sprig of arugula. Enjoy!

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