First, a confession. This post has been in draft form since Mothers Day, when a colorful and easy-to-assemble breakfast recipe would have been truly appreciated. I spent a lovely May evening on our apartment patio, jotting down musings on motherhood while sipping a nice Pinot noir. But when I returned to the keyboard the next morning, I found instead a scrawled manifesto on why motherhood terrifies me. (And any piece of prose that includes the line “NO I WILL NOT GIVE UP CHEESE FOR YOU, YOU WRINKLY, KNEE-FACED HUMAN” has no place in Mothers Day literature.) Continue reading
I didn’t grow up in the kind of family with heirlooms. Our “good dishes” were a scalloped-edged Pfaltzgraff with a finish easily marred by butter knives. My mom’s modest collection of jewelry contained mostly the costume variety—sparkling, perhaps, but of no special value. We inherited no military relics or quilts sewn by great-great-grandmothers or brooches that crossed an ocean. But when the time comes (hopefully many decades from now) to divide my mother’s belongings, I will fight tooth and nail for one thing: her green plastic colander. Continue reading
Those of us who cook typically aren’t content to keep it to ourselves. Our communal tradition of food demands some sort of audience—whether it’s coworkers peeling back the foil of a still-warm coffee cake or strangers liking the Instagram shot of your pad thai (#nom). When such sporadic appreciation fails to satisfy our egos, we tend to go big—and go home.
In other words, we throw a dinner party. Continue reading