Strawberry shortcake for my dad

Really, the ten quarts of strawberries that have taken over my kitchen are all my dad’s fault.

“Wake up Dad, let’s go DO something!”

If he didn’t plant a garden when my sisters and I were growing up, if he didn’t take us strawberry/cherry/apple picking at the U-pick orchards and fields around our town, if he didn’t spend nearly every week in summer making a fruit pie or shortcake of some kind, if he didn’t teach me how much better tomatoes and corn and strawberries taste when they’re fresh and warm from the sun, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

My dad will shake his head (I can tell, even over the phone) and laugh at me when I tell him about the stash I brought home, but I think behind that he understands. He grew up on a farm (ask him about tractors and combines some time), he lived the whole “farm to table” “snout to tail” thing about 50 years before it was trendy. For my dad, that was just…how it was.

Nothing says love (or trust) like letting your kid hold your hand with a knife in it as you carve a pumpkin.

He gave me a taste of that life growing up with our garden. Each year, he would till a 30’x15’ plot (my dad just corrected me–it was at least twice that size, enough space for 3 rows each of 3 to 4 varieties of corn) behind our house before walking along the rows with my sisters and me, helping us plant corn, squash, tomatoes, beans, just about anything you can think of.

I want to say we would eagerly watch and wait for the little green sprouts to peek through the dirt, tending and caring for them, but I don’t think it ever occurred to us that this was something special. My sisters and I didn’t know that most people didn’t run out back for broccoli or spend Sunday picking dozens of ears of corn off their stalks. We thought it was fun to watch our dad simmer and slice “caterpillars” off the corn or mash tomatoes through the food mill, and being a good helper by funneling it all into bags for the freezer and dinner in December.

At the beginning of this year, less than two weeks after his 65^th birthday (and only a few days after my 30^th) my dad ended up in the hospital from a heart attack. Knowing that my dad came that close to not being around, that I came that close to not hearing his amused, incredulous “Christina!” when I tell him how many strawberries I bought or calling him to ask what a misfire in cylinder 4 on my car means was the most terrifying moment in my life, to be sure, and I have no doubt that it was a less than a treat for him. Want to really appreciate your dad? That’ll do it.

Dad, we have a 5K to walk in a few weeks (the only time I’ll be able to keep up with you), and you need to be around to say “I told you so” on that far-off day that I have kids who gripe that they like chicken nuggets better than my homemade whatever. I guess, given all the complaints a kid could have about their dad, the fact that I’m pretty much unable to buy tomatoes or strawberries or corn off-season and that I appreciate the finer points of a perfect strawberry shortcake means you did something right.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you and I’m really glad you’re around.

Fall in five senses

I’m not ashamed to admit it–this time of year, I will let out my inner five-year-old and happily high-kick my way through a pile of leaves as they crunch under my feet. Out of all four seasons, the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile sensations of fall are my favorites. I’ve made it pretty clear that I love summer, but there is something about the way fall hits all of my senses at once that gets me every time.

The sound of dry leaves skipping down the street in the wind is so unique and only comes this time of year for a few short weeks. The colors make me want to climb a tree and live in the sun-bright yellow, pumpkin-orange, cranberry-red leaves clinging to nut-brown branches, which match the colors flooding the market during its last few weeks outdoors. The smells–burning leaf piles (not as much in the city, but something I remember distinctly growing up), the earthy scent of wet leaves as they start to decompose back into the soil, getting ready for spring–fill the air.

‘Tis the season for apple pancakes

Pancakes have been one of my favorite Sunday breakfasts ever since I was little–but not really the pancakes you get at restaurants, the perfectly round, thin, puffy, evenly golden circles. No, my favorite pancakes are the ones that are (or so it always seemed to me) unique to my family and so steeped in memories.

Mulled wine ice cream, take one

I bought an ice cream maker on clearance at the beginning of the summer, and have spent the past few months experimenting with ice cream bases and flavors (observe, the challenges of my life). After a total bust with the standard cooked-egg-custard base, I discovered a process that has yet to fail me. And for that, I have to credit Jeni Briton of Jeni’s Splendid Ice Cream (Ohio family, she has a shop in Chagrin Falls, please tell me someone has been there! Chicago folks, you can buy some of her ice creams at a few gourmet shops around the city) and her recent cookbook.

So far I’ve made pistachio (hard to go wrong with adding nuts to anything, in my opinion); lemon with raspberry swirl; chocolate with almond, caramel, and marshmallows; and my latest, a mulled-wine-spiced base with roasted grapes.

Playing hostess

Growing up, one of my favorite things to do was help my mom get ready for a party, and it’s now one of the things I miss most living 600 miles away from home. Sorting through my mom’s recipes and cookbooks to come up with a menu, creating grocery lists and trips to Wegmans (and I miss Wegmans!), serving as sous chef to my mom’s head chef role, getting the house ready, chit chatting with guests, and cleaning up after everyone left–each part of the process had its own challenges and rewards, but I learned a lot in the process about being organized, being flexible, but most of all, making people feel comfortable and welcome.

We be jammin’

Sincerest apologies to Bob Marley, I just had the title of this post stuck in my head and it needed an outlet before it would leave me alone.

The past two years, I’ve been vaguely interested in learning how to can…stuff. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to make, all the recipes I ever saw for jam prompted the response “Want some sugar with that sugar?” Eesh. I’m not a huge sweets person to begin with and while I do get cravings for a good PB&J or want something to stir into yogurt, I inevitably end up with about 3/4 of a jar of jam sitting in my fridge for god-knows how long before I throw it out (I do keep the jars though). It seems like such a waste. And I’ve never been a pickle fan, though I have learned to like a little bit of pickle relish on a burger. So what on earth would I can that wouldn’t go to waste?

Can she make a cherry pie Billy Boy, Billy Boy?

Strawberries are the first fruit that can make me do a “happy clap” at the markets and it’s no wonder why. While the greens of spring are undoubtedly welcome after a grey winter, the first red strawberries mean summer is really and truly here, and other colors, other flavors will follow soon. The first real, sweet fruit of the season is heaven, but after gorging on no less than 4 quarts over the course of a few weeks, I’m ready for the next sign of summer, my hands-down favorite: sour cherries.