I can't remember the last time I was as excited about a cookbook as I have been about The Homemade Flour Cookbook, written by Erin Alderson of Naturally Ella, just published a few weeks ago. (And you know I get…
Saturday morning I met my old roommates for brunch at a newish place in 12 South, the three of us gathered around an enormous round table that had me leaning in to listen and talk. We’ve been doing these get-togethers…
Good morning, guys! Well, I say good morning, but, technically, it’s about 11 AM over here at my parents’ place on the day after Christmas. While I am freshly showered, I am also typing these words from bed, so morning seems appropos. This is a lazy morning, the kind with little on the day’s docket, the kind that define the term “holiday” to me. I love mornings like these—slow breakfasts, unhurried schedules, time to sit and think. And I figure as long as I’m sitting here thinking about mornings from here in my old room, now might be a good time to talk about Megan Gordon’s new breakfast book, Whole-Grain Mornings, and about the first recipe Tim and I made from it: buckwheat crepes.
Pretty travel pictures, much as I love them, rarely paint the full story of a trip away. Our Maine recap didn’t tell you about the horrible migraine I had our first night, for example, nor about the day we drove a full two hours away from Portland, looking for lunch, only to find three different restaurants closed (all I can say is thank goodness for this coffee shop and its quiche!). The afternoon we flew home from Boston to Chicago, it was after a fast morning stuck in crazy Cambridge traffic during which I had to pee so bad I actually sat there imagining myself getting out of the car, right on the busy highway, to take care of business in the median that was noticeably lacking in bushes or general greenery. (We did finally find a Dunkin Donuts, and even though I had to buy something in order to get the manager to buzz me into the bathroom, I was so happy to enter it, I almost cried.) Sunday night, when we came home, it was after a combined total of 2,000+ miles of driving (most of that driving done by Tim) in the last few weeks, the kitchen had no fresh food but the murcotts we’d kept in our bags with us, and we had a car full of the goods I’m ever transporting, one trip at a time from my parents’ place to mine, to unpack.
UPDATE: The winner is Lindsey Hepler! Thanks everyone for entering, and congratulations to Lindsey!
THIS THIRD WEEK OF AUGUST HAS BEEN a night on Nashville’s walking bridge, traffic whooshing by on the distant interstate, a ferry boat passing beneath, my head against Tim’s shoulder while I tell him, “You know, if I lived a thousand years on the planet all by myself, I’d never figure out how to build a boat like that,” and us moving to the other side of the bridge to keep watching it, following it, mesmerized by the turning showboat gears like little children looking at a train; a twilight picnic next to soccer practice, SUVs dropping off and picking up preteens, moms calling out I love yous to their running kids just as the golden hour fades; spiders’ webs so big, constructed around our back door overnight, that I shriek when I see them, even though the streets are sleeping in the early-morning sunrise; long-distance phone conversations with wise voices; surprise hydrangeas; oven disasters that send us to share dinner on the front porch (also covered in spiders’ webs, for the record, because those spiders! they are something!); and, along with these things, a whole lot of good meals to eat.
We’ve had Kathryn’s buckwheat almond cake (but with peaches!), smashed potatoes to use up our pantry stash, Erin’s brilliant einkorn tortillas, fresh tomatoes on homemade bread (recipe soon, we hope!), peach crisp adapted from the brilliant David Leite, pesto to use up our basil, cucumber water to use up our cucumbers, and, this morning for the third time in the last few weeks, this berry date smoothie.
We’re calling this a berry date smoothie with a kick because it’s the kind of smoothie that starts off sweet and then surprises you, almost burns you, as the hot, hot kick of cayenne hits the back of your throat. You want to reach for a glass of water when it hits, but then the rest of the smoothie comes instead, and then you want to say, “Do it again!” and so you take another swig.
The best part of today was definitely the waffles we made for breakfast.
When Tim came out to the living room around 7 AM, he found me curled up on the leather sofa we inherited from his former bachelor pad, reading a book I bought on Amazon, which arrived yesterday afternoon. I’d been up since 5:30 and figured I may as well distract myself a while. Sometimes the only way to stop thinking about something is to start thinking about something else. He joined me on the sofa, propped up his legs and settled in to talk, and we passed an hour like nothing, the way we tend to do when we talk about heavy concepts like the book I am reading brings up. Most mornings, our routine is to walk and to read and to get ready for our workdays; today we talked and then we prayed and I said, Let’s make waffles, and we walked together to the fridge.
In a world where every company calls itself the leader, and “great customer service” is something of a buzzword, a lot of us have become desensitized to company promises—but this past weekend, about 80 miles south of Nashville, I became a believer once again. At Blueberries on the Buffalo Farm, a small, family-run blueberry farm that is actually a small, one-couple-run blueberry farm, I experienced firsthand such unparalleled kindness from the very people who work the land, I haven’t stopped talking about it since.