The day I finished The Poison Prince‘s first-draft revision, I could not word. I was reduced to pointing and going, “The…the thing, that thing,” until one of the kids supplied the proper word. (Which is, not gonna lie, a type of hell for a writer, not to be able to find a damn word.)
So, of course, the Princess decided to bake me a cake. She even decorated it. “It’s a good chance to practice my tip work,” she said, modestly.” It was super tasty and I even had cake for breakfast the following morning.
I love being a writer, but I love being a mother even more. It’s hard, sleep-deprived work in the beginning, but the rewards once one gets over the psychotic break induced by lack of REM are amazing.
I recently attempted jalapeño poppers for the first time. The filling was a mix of cream cheese, garlic, and shredded mozzarella. The Prince fell instantly, totally in love; the Princess decided she could take ’em or leave ’em. The dogs were extremely pleased with bacon drippings, since I only had three jalapeños and while I could have wrapped them in a whole package of bacon, well, I didn’t.
Me? I’ll gladly make them for other people, but eating more than two is unpleasant at best.
Those two, though, are fantastic. And I’m quite proud of myself for Trying Something New. One has to every now and again, to keep the stomach guessing.
Tomatillos in front, focaccia dough in the back. It’s like a tasty mullet right on my stovetop.
I’m still working on my tomatillo salsa recipe. Lots of trial and error involved. Tasty, tasty trial and error. I hope your weekend is full of good things, dear Readers, and that you enjoy them to the hilt.
I might even do another batch of focaccia. For research purposes, you understand…
The other day I wanted potato-leek soup. You can do it quickly, of course, but I like roasted potatoes in mine, and I have very definite needs for the leeks. The bottoms must be soft and the tops still a little crunchy-stringy, which means a multi-stage cooking process.
My ex used to make his own particular soup, one the kids adored. They like mine, but it’s not the same–and we don’t have it often, because the smell can remind them of the time of the divorce. It wasn’t contentious, they just don’t like that part of the reminder. There were good things about that process, too.
It isn’t just soup. It’s memory and survival, hope and endurance, bitter laughter and amazed tears, all in one pot. Food is rarely just fuel.
May you reclaim dishes you love, my friends; and may you look around the table and think, we made it, we survived. And may that thought fill you with peace instead of despair.
Over and out.
When you’ve had a rough week, and your no-longer-a-teenager-this-year child knows it and uses her day off to clean the kitchen and make a pesto braid, because she wanted to try the recipe and she knows you love pesto…
…yeah, like that. Every bite was love.
I love my kids.
A certain Good Angel gifted me a tiny spare espresso machine, since my beloved Breville monster is down for the count. It’s been nice to pour a couple shots in the morning, and another few in the afternoon. French press just isn’t the same.
It’s an old Starbucks machine, and not for the faint of heart. I’ve already given him a name, and hopefully we’re at the beginning of a bee-you-ti-ful relationship.
When your daughter’s best friend comes home unexpectedly from college, and goes blackberry picking, and generously leaves you a zillion blackberries, there is nothing left to do but make a crumble. I was a little worried, because I just eyeballed the ingredients instead of measuring them. But it vanished over the course of an afternoon, so I guess I didn’t do too badly. *dabs at lips with napkin*
I hope your summer is full of such delights, my friends.