Posts filed under 'snack'
far beyond the cucumber
I’m sure there’s some way to spin these radishes—quick pickled in a brine that’s equal parts sweet, sour, spicy and salt—as Passover- or Easter-friendly. Nary a speck of leavened bread! A lovely addition to your seder, tucked up against a piece of gefilte fish! A punchy addition to your otherwise ham-and-scalloped-potatoes laden Easter spread! A pre-Easter lunch bite with a hue to match the eggs hidden around the yard!
the calendar is clear
Have you heard? It’s autumn. Officially autumn. There may still be a few heirloom tomatoes resting on your counter, in all their shiny glory. They might even be sitting next to a bowlful of downy peaches throwing off their luscious scent. But, listen, the calendar is clear: it’s fall.
The time for produce that bruises to the touch has passed. Instead, it’s time for fruit that crunches and vegetables that grow beneath the surface and knobby specimens that rumble around the crisper drawer.
summer, over time
Although it always delivers sunny skies, emerald lawns and delicious produce, summer, and what it means to me, has changed over the years. As a kid, it meant late nights scampering breathlessly around the neighborhood, running through the cool arc of a lawn sprinkler, spending a couple weeks up at my grandparents’ house.
When the teenaged years hit, summer shifted to mean hours spent on the phone and sunbathing, a mind boggling number of soccer games, and a series of pushed boundaries where bedtime and boys were concerned.
on homecomings
Arriving at my parents’ house is always an adventure. Usually, only one person comes to retrieve me, and now Kevin, from the airport; no one else can tear themselves away from the fun going on back at the house. Once we arrive at the house, we always enter through the garage, which delivers you directly into my family’s kitchen—the undeniable hub of the house. It’s a little like opening the door of a dollhouse—cracking one hinge provides a glimpse into all the action going on inside, except the scene is real, the house and its occupants full-sized.
These days, you can find my grandpa on an overstuffed couch to the left, his bad foot propped up on the coffee table. He’ll clap his hands on his knees and exclaim “Hiya guys!” before hoisting himself up with the help of his walking stick, spreading his giant arms for a hug. My grandma is likely at the kitchen table, the playing cards she travels with arranged before her in a game of solitaire. She too jumps to her feet, clapping her hands and perhaps even hooting and hollering a little bit. The only one who beats these two to the welcome is my parents’ dog Bailey, tail whipping back and forth, a toy clenched in her jaw. She gets a good scratch behind the ears before we move on to the rest of the family.
she’d be mortified
Sometimes I wonder what my adolescent self would make of me now. She’d probably raise her eyebrows at the cut of my skinny jeans—a bit too close for comfort, she’d think, to the tapered, stone washed trend that I left behind in elementary school. But I don’t think she’d be at all surprised that I am a lawyer. After all, during a third grade art project, when presented with a wallet size school portrait, scissors and instructions to decorate my photo with the trappings of my future profession, I promptly cut out a miniature business suit and briefcase. I was a big fan of Claire Huxtable and I was that nine-year-old who wanted to be an attorney.
She’d be surprised, though, to learn that I’m an omnivore, willing to taste anything at least once. For a girl who once refused to allow the different foods on her plate to touch, I’ve come a long way.