John made good on his promise. He took that 18-inch paella pan down from the wall at Joann and Bob’s and made it happen. I was wary, knowing the work involved. He was enthusiastic. Our would-be guests were doubtful—and then very pleased.

We started by looking up recipes in our cookbooks. The purge of 2018 sent most of them to Webster’s and the AAUWbooksale, but some remained and offered instructions. The recipes all varied widely. Rabbit, lobster, and snails? I don’t think so.

Next, we looked at recipes online for a day or two, getting more confused. It seems everyone had a different opinion about what makes the best paella. Finally, I put the quest into a Google search bar, “Authentic Spanish Paella for 10 People with Chicken, Smoked Chorizo, Shrimp, Clams, and Mussels.” Ninety seconds later I had a menu, prep sheet, and shopping list. I read it all through and it was legit. AI is good for this. It also gave detailed instructions for the fire, which is fundamental to the process.

John spent a day borrowing cinder blocks and chopping kindling to construct the outdoor fire pit. I shopped for fresh smoked paprika and saffron and made a gallon of rich chicken stock. Baby steps.

Jeanne stepped up to prepare a charcuterie board, using detailed instructions from AI, and did an amazing job of it. She prepared two: one for in the house and a bigger one for out by the fire. One special highlight was the quince paste that we had received from Pascale in France. She had made it from her own quince and sent it in the summer, but I wasn’t sure when to use it. It came into its glory at this event, especially paired with a frilly French cheese called Rosette that Jeanne found at Wegmans.

Everyone brought excellent Spanish wines, both Albariños and Tempranillos, and I got some Harner’s apple cider at the farmers market as an NA option. Brendyn brought the kids, which was great, since I had made some little Sage Potatoes hoping that they would come.

We had planned on a 6:00 start time for dinner, with guests arriving an hour before, but I wasn’t ready enough! Once that fire was going, John was tied to it. So early arrivals were pressed into service. Good thing we are all a bunch of retired food service professionals. It came together in a flash.

We were scooping out portions of paella onto our bowls as the sun started to slip behind the trees. Some opted to go indoors to a set table, where Kim and Bob A’s salad was. Some didn’t want to leave that blazing fire. Once it came together, it was over too soon!

There was Stouffer’s apple pie with Armagnac for dessert, and Bob D brought vanilla ice cream to gild the lily. Thanks to the diligence of the cleanup angels, all the perishables were whisked indoors before it was totally dark and the tiki lights extinguished.

It was a fine paella but the best part was the communal spirit that fanned the flames of camaraderie on a beautiful evening in fall-glorious Central Pennsylvania. That, and watching Jordy enjoy a plateful of paella, carefully cleaning out each clam and mussel.

AI gave us a head start on the menu, the shopping list, and the fire, but the real work was ours. It wasn’t seamless, but it went very well for a first go-round. There will be more!

Post-Paella Notes:

We used 2 pounds, nearly a full bag of Matiz paella rice that Kim and Bob A had in their cupboard. It had a sell-by of 4/1/2023 so I soaked the rice for an hour before cooking. It was perfect and created the crispy socarrat on the bottom.

Our (really Joann and Bob’s) 18-inch paella pan was full to the top and served 10 and a half people multiple serving with 4 quarts leftover as take home favors.

I made a gallon of rich chicken stock, and we used all but 3 cups, which went into the 4 quarts of paella that were left over for ease of reheating.

We used one pound of smoked chorizo but could have used two. And the chorizo should be cut in one-inch pieces so that it doesn’t burn.

Try to find littleneck clams that will cook as fast as the mussels.

Season the broth, and salt the vegetables when cooking the sofrito.

Mise Mise Mise en place! We forgot the peas. Be sure to have everything ready for the entire dish at hand at the cooking site.

Last year, when I turned 75, I wanted to celebrate all year by doing something each month that I had never done before. This year, I wanted to retreat, to go back in time. When John suggested we go to the Cedar Run Inn for a birthday overnight, I was all in.

It helps when your birthday coincides with the best time to drive through Penn’s Woods. The drive up to Cedar Run through the backwoods of Clinton County was spectacular, with John navigating via a vintage map from the ’60s? ’50s? There was no date on it. Just lots of forest roads that don’t appear on today’s roadmaps, much less on cell phone GPS.

Before we launched, we squeezed in a dinner at home with the final sample bag of Grandma’s Frozen Noodles, sourdough version. Tossed with labneh, sautéed maitake mushrooms, and the remaining blanched lima beans from the Cape May festival, then paired with a crabcake and a bright wax and green bean salad, it was a fine dinner the night before we left.

The morning walk at Oak Hall Regional Park foretold the colors ahead, and the trees got better and brighter as we wound north.

We checked in to Cedar Run, dropped our bags, and headed out to catch the view of the Grand Canyon from Leonard Harrison State Park, since our dinner reservation wasn’t until 7:45. The visitor center was closed but very much upscaled since our previous visits when our kids were young. And Wellsboro looked just as charming. The diner was closed at that time of day but the Spotlight bar seemed right out of the ’70s, and we watched some young men playing shuffleboard while we had a drink at the bar. At $11.00 for both a G&T and a Maker’s on the rocks, it’s a bargain.

Dinner at the Inn brought back memories: 5-year-old Joe and 3-year-old Al having their first fine-dining experience, tasting then-chef Randy’s inspired dishes. Who knew crab could go so well with blueberries? It was 1984. Cuisine was just starting to blossom. The current owners of the Inn, Charlotte and Stanley Dudkin, bought the operation from Randy and Peggy when they relocated to the DC area, seeking better schools for their own child and more culinary opportunity for the creative chef. Charlotte and Stanley have been there since 1989 and keep it in impeccable, time-warped order.

After breakfast the next morning, we enjoyed sitting on the porch and looking at the façade of the only other business in town, the general store, which was closed until later that day. We liked seeing the phone booth, phone removed, and thought of the old days when that was how you called out. The Cedar Run Inn still has no Wi-Fi, so we were as unplugged as we always were while staying there. It was great.

Driving through the forest roads was like traversing a “leaf globe” of fluttering yellow and orange leaves. For 45 minutes we were in a dream-like state, passing no one. And then things changed. We hit the fracking pads and suddenly shared the narrow gravel road with semi-trucks hauling equipment and water. The drivers were all courteous and well-paced, but it changed the vibe for the last half of the drive.

We decided to head to Worlds End State Park, another place we used to go to with our kids when they were young. We drove over the “Death Bridge” in Hillsgrove (our sons’ name for it; not related to actual dying), where John took the kids and their friends for terrifying rope swinging and jumping, and we landed in Forksville for lunch at a sandwich shop near a classic PA covered bridge.

Big Mike’s Steaks and Hoagies was a slice of South Philly. The steak sandwich that we shared was excellent, if messy, but the best part was chatting with Mike on the porch afterwards. He told us about growing up in South Philly (“I had to walk two blocks to see a tree. The only grass I saw was coming up between the cracks in the pavement.”). He told us how he came up with friends in high school to camp at Worlds End and fell in love with the area. He explalined how he and his wife bought the Forksville General Store in 1999 and decided to open a sandwich shop (“Because these people around here, they didn’t know how to make sandwiches,” he said, in earnest). He has loved life there for the past 27 years, raising two girls and pursuing his authentic Philly steak and hoagie mission.

Driving on to Worlds End, we saw the CCC cabins along the Little Loyalsock Creek that looked exactly the same, with families pulling in for a weekend of deep woods fun. John remembered a vista, and we drove to High Knob, where we had taken a photo of our tow-headed toddlers draped over the log rail. The log rail is now a proper fence, but the view is just as jaw-dropping. We marveled that we were the only ones there.

We started to wind our way home and took the highways, arriving in Williamsport around 5. Just when I thought the day could not get any better, we went to Franco’s Lounge on the main drag. I had been hearing about the place for decades and had never been. John got out and hit the button to see if we could get in (it is, in fact, an operating speakeasy) for a drink. The bartender relented when John said he used to work with Tony, the patriarch who has since died, but told us we had to vacate our seats by 6:00 as the place was fully booked. We agreed.

Tony’s offspring run the iconic bar now, and Fred and Maria were most welcoming. No wonder people want to come here. It’s like you are in the family. Enjoying our drinks at the bar, I couldn’t help but read the menu and be tantalized, especially when I saw the food coming out of that kitchen. We ordered a clam appetizer to share and got it in time to truly enjoy Uncle Amletto’s dish of steamed cherrystones with herbs, garlic, and celery, served with hunks of Italian bread for sopping up the tasty sauce. These people know how to cook and how to eat.

We were home by 7:30 on birthday eve. The next day I had the pleasure of a morning walk at Oak Hall with Nina, where we thought to connect at the No Kings march in State College in the afternoon. It was low key, but perfect. Last year I attended the big DC No Kings march, and that was a benchmark. We marched down College Ave, up Beaver to the municipal building, and then marched ourselves down to Benny’s for a slice of pizza, but what a perfect slice it was!

And then that evening we gathered for a double birthday party. Kim and I share the day, and our COVID-pod people made sure we were well feted. She and I had the day off and prepared nothing, just enjoyed the event.

At the end, John took the paella pan off the wall at Joann and Bob’s house and pledged to make a paella.

Will he do it? We shall see…

Back from the 6,000-foot elevation of the valley floor in Wyoming, surrounded by mountain peaks that soar to 13,770 feet on the Grand Teton, I traveled to sea level to even myself out. And to eat seafood.

Stone Harbor was very quiet, with most of the stores closed for the season. But the beach was wide open and beckoning. I attended another Lenni Lenape language class at the Lower Cape May library since I had fond memories from the June meeting.

Most of the dozen attendees had also been there in June, and anyone is welcome to drop in and stumble along in the Native Language or in Jersey vernacular. It was an especially festive session, with the leader, Teri, and her friend, Denise, recounting tales about a recent wedding in Cook Forest that they participated in. The bride was of Mi’kmaq and Taino descent and the groom was Norse, and the blended traditions sounded like a hoot. There was drumming and smudging and Odin’s blessing of the mead that was made months in advance of the event. Venison burgers and three sisters stew were on the menu along with pork ribs and Swedish meatballs.

The party mode seemed to be continuing to the class as Bernie’s wife sent in blueberry mini-donuts and Archie brought a big batch of his tasty coconut oatmeal cookies. He had made 271 cookies at the urging of his niece, and he shared a few dozen with us that afternoon. I was seated next to Pary, a kind woman who brought a batch of perfectly decorated and delicious Oatmeal Apple Cookies and shared her recipe (see below). It was a celebration that fueled us for rounds of identifying each other through animal cards that we placed on our foreheads. I was a white-tailed deer (òpahtu) and later a wolf (tëme), which I guessed from the group’s descriptive clues—though not in Lenape.

One of the women in the group, Norma, wore a Rea’s tee shirt and I asked if she worked at the farm, as it was on my to-do list to visit that afternoon. She did, and encouraged me to go and check out the field of sunflowers next to the barn.

Meanwhile, my sister Mary was on a visit to Hartley’s cranberry farm in Massachusetts and sent a photo taken by her husband Rolf, who was also waist-deep in the bog.

On my way back from Cape May I stopped at the Lobster House and picked up a dozen each of Oysters Rockefeller and Clams Casino, since I was having company that evening. Molly, the longtime girlfriend of my nephew Josh, was coming by.

Two big reasons for my October trip to South Jersey were to see the migrating Monarch butterflies and to attend the Cape May Lima Bean Festival. I happened upon the festival many years ago by chance and always intended to go back. It was time.

The Cape May Lima Bean Festival originated in 1985 when “West Cape May was a lima bean machine,” according to an article by James Fitzpatrick in the Cape May Star and Wave newspaper. Rea’s Farm (pronounced “ray’s,” according to Norma) was the epicenter of production in the 1950s with more than 1,000 acres of its sandy, loamy soil in lima bean production. Big food companies found beans elsewhere when the market conditions changed, and today the current Rhea farmer clearly needs more help. She looked tired at her busy market on Friday and even more tired on Saturday at the festival.

The festival started getting very crowded after 10, so I peeled out after enjoying my lima bean soup. I headed over to Cape May Point State Park to see the lighthouse and check out the butterflies. Many people were in the viewing stands when I arrived, counting the migrating raptors, but my sights were lower this day, aimed at the goldenrod that fueled the flight of the butterflies headed to Mexico.

I was reading a sad and bitterly sweet book called Sweetgrass Basket by Marlene Carvell. It’s a prose poem about two Mohawk sisters who are sent to the Carlisle Indian Industrial School (operated from1879-1918) to be trained to work as domestics and to have their racial identities obliterated. It’s a story of resilience that I told Molly about the next morning.

Her reason for suddenly being at the shore was tragic. Her best friend’s sister had died on Wednesday, very suddenly, at 34, of pancreatitis. Her friend was bereft, and Molly came to comfort her. I had been in Molly’s company many times, but never without my nephew, a larger-than-life type of guy who runs the room. Molly and I got to connect over a Philly-style breakfast, that is, with the Eagles game on in the background, and I learned about her Filipino grandmother who had lived in South Philly since 1957. Molly looks at her Nanay’s old house on Google Maps and, because she is high-tech, knows how to view the house in the past. She can see when the gardens disappeared, when the rosebush beds were cemented over.

And now today is Columbus Day, aka Indigenous Peoples Day. It’s a time to celebrate—or condemn—the Italian explorer who sailed for Spain and initiated the cataclysm of colonization on the Native Peoples of the Americas.

When I was a child, we loved Columbus Day. Off from school, my brother and sisters and I made plays about the “discovery” of the New World, complete with cardboard ships—the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María. No doubt, my brother and I were the sailors, and our little sisters, the found inhabitants. They were easy to conquer.

But nowadays, I have deep regret over the changes that Columbus’s voyage instigated, though I don’t know how to fix it. But getting to know who the First People were, and learning about their ways, is a start.

Things change, but we need to honor what came before us. And we need to celebrate what we have here in the moment—cranberries, apples, lima beans, and resilient migrating butterflies.

Pary’s Oatmeal Cookies

Pary said she used a Cosmic Crisp apple for her cookies that she purchased at the Acme.

¾ cup butter
1 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon apple pie spice
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ cup unsweetened applesauce
1 cup flour

1½ cups oatmeal
1½ cups finely diced peeled apple

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Cream the butter and add the brown sugar, apple pie spice, baking soda, and the salt. Beat in the egg and vanilla, then add the applesauce and the flour. Fold in the oatmeal and the diced apple.

Scoop onto a parchment-lined or greased cookie sheet and bake for 12 minutes. Cool and drizzle with a glaze (½ cup of powdered sugar mixed with 1 tablespoon of milk, water, or apple cider) if desired.

Recipe generously provided by Pary and used with permission.

Suddenly it was the end of the month and time for us to get home. The time had flown by, a series of drop-offs and pick-ups, snacks, and dinners. But our exit was festive, with several gatherings to round out our Wyoming chapter.

Kirk is now in the new charter school in Alpine, the Wyoming Classical Academy, and that is going well, except for early mornings that required drop-off at 7:45. By the time I saw the kids at the end of the school day, they were both in good moods and ready to snack, play, make art, then have an early dinner, bath, and bedtime.

I was able to go on a field trip with Iris’s day care to the post office, located in a former grocery store, and the back room was very full of packages and mailboxes. And though the Alpine post office is sometimes referred to as “the Pony Express,” there were no ponies present. Just hardworking women and one man.

Since our ‘frig was still loaded with cooked chicken from the rounds of chicken soup, chicken dishes were still going strong.

Our final Friday was a dream come true for me. Sarah and Rex, the couple that built the Kelly Lane house we rented, came for Happy Hour. Sarah toted in a dozen oysters on the half shell from the Jackson Whole Foods and promptly whipped up a mignonette sauce. That is the way to my heart. She had given me some of her garden tomatoes a few days before, and I had snipped some of the herbs that lived in planters outside the library entrance and that all became a tomato tart, with the addition of some organic Romas that provided a base for her tasty heirlooms. We loved hearing all about the history of the house that we had grown to love over the four years of our occupancy, and they loved seeing the marks on the door to the garage where their children Jack and Clare had measured up—just like Iris and Kirk.

The next day was Iris’s ballet class in Jackson and then we hurried down the canyon with some pastries and coffees to try to catch Kirk and Stephen on Kirk’s first kindergarten field trip, a float down the Snake River. Not a bad way to instill a love of nature and moving water in those 5-year-olds.

A busy day. That afternoon we headed to the pumpkin patch outside Melvin’s Brewery, where every family with small children from Alpine was gathered for a fun fall festival. The kids ran wild, fueled with candy and the sense of freedom. So fun to watch. From the sidelines.

The next morning I fulfilled another wish and we moseyed to the Horseshoe Café in Etna for breakfast. I ordered not my usual healthy breakfast sandwich, instead opting for the CFS and eggs (Country Fried Steak, i.e.), which is delicious but on the rich side. But it’s not anything I can order in Pennsylvania. John and Rose split an equally high-cal CFS sandwich and helped me with my plate. The sad news was that Deb, the matriarch of the Horseshoe and the beating heart of the café, succumbed to ALS last February. RIP Deb. Her hospitality legacy lives on but she is missed.

On the Sunday before we left, Stephen’s cousin Sarah and her man Chris came by for a pizza party redux. Sarah and Chris hosted us last summer at their new build in Driggs, but there wasn’t an opportunity to catch them there on this trip. They brought drinks and, as always, wowed us all with their creativity. I had never heard of Long Drinks, a Finnish canned cocktail that was tasty on its own, but something otherworldly when mixed with another spirit. Chris mixed up some tasty options that we shared with slice after slice of pizza that Rose kept coming from the oven.

The next day I cleaned out the ‘frig for good and made a frittata with the remains of our happy hour menu from Friday: chorizo, potatoes, lots of herbs, shallots. It was a good way to go out. We piled on lots of cilantro and the local Shumway Farms plain yogurt, a winner.

I hated to leave Kelly Lane but it is time to move on. The kids are launched and we will just have to wait and hope for a dual-parent work trip to connect again. Or, dare I wish that they come and visit us in PA? Fingers crossed.

When I taught in the Nutrition Lab at Penn State, each fall semester the chapter on Fruits & Vegetables coincided with the leaf change in the mountains that surround campus. It was a great talking point, to discuss how plants contain pigments with health benefits for humans—anthocyanins (red, purple, blue), carotenoids (yellow, orange, red), anthoxanthins (white and cream), betalains (red-violet, yellow-orange), and chlorophyll (green).

Chlorophyll absorbs sunlight to drive photosynthesis, and most plants contain chlorophyll in some parts of their anatomy (fungi like mushrooms don’t). But the shorter days of fall cause the trees to stop making chlorophyll and the green fades and the true colors of the trees stand on bright display, briefly—until the tannins in the leaves turn them brown. If these factoids are interesting to you, be sure to check out the book The Light Eaters by Zoe Schlanger.

Our Wyoming visit has gone viral, as in, many viruses. John ended up with Iris’s bug and it took him down—two trips to Urgent Care and he finally started an antibiotic yesterday. Maybe this is the beginning of the end.

We kept a big distance to mitigate germ passage, “dining like rich people,” John said.

And I focused on bright colors in our dinners to add every possible phytonutrient. Luckily, Old Dog Farm just south of Alpine has a weekly farm stand, and if you are not in line by the time they open at 4 p.m. on Thursdays, you are generally out of luck for veggies. The rainbow chard that I purchased made a great coconut curry with the beet tops from the previous week.

Following a recipe on a can of coconut milk, I sautéed onion and garlic, added the stems from the Swiss chard and beet greens, cooked until tender, then added piles of the greens and wilted them down. Adding the can of coconut milk smoothed everything into a creamy dish that needed minimal seasoning with salt and pepper. Served on top of red quinoa, (Kirk’s choice) from Whole Foods, with some broccoli on the side, it was a veritable powerhouse of vitamins. A bit of trout added some protein.

Rose was keeping her household healthy with ramen, based on her own batch of chicken broth, and she delivered the noodles, broth, and toppings to us, and we added shaggy manes that John found in the woods and, since we had no Sriracha or chili crisp, horseradish!

These kids are writers. Kirk recorded his recipe for a favorite dish—Sour Apples. And Iris is a scribe as well, busily scratching random letters and numbers and then asking you, “What does this spell?”

Saturday morning in Jackson was a festive affair after Iris’s ballet lesson. We cruised through the market and then enjoyed the least healthy breakfast option from the food truck Provisions, and it was delicious. The Breakfast French Fries were loaded with two eggs, seasoned bison short ribs, and cheddar sauce. Rose and I devoured them in Town Square while parents shepherded their toddlers, who were big fans of the balloon man.

When we arrived back in Alpine, we found that John and Kirk had planted the garlic for next year and the farmers were ready to take a break. John came home to rest and drink more tea and broth; Kirk stayed with Mommy and he and Iris enjoyed their clubhouse.

Sunday morning I picked up the kids for a playtime at our house and we were about to have lunch when my neighbor Michelle, who owns and operates Wild Flour Bakery, delivered a warm loaf of bread to us that she had just made. What a mitzvah! We were grateful.

Rose joined us on the porch at Kelly Lane for dinner that evening, and we had chicken enchiladas (we are rich in chicken meat from all the broth-making) with green enchilada sauce and quesadillas for the kids. They also enjoyed some rice, always with soy sauce, avocado, a couple of beans, and lots of fruit. I had intended to make a pie that afternoon, but it was much more fun playing with the kids. We battled through many rounds of War while Iris ran a nail salon on the side. The pie could wait.

I had picked up a quince at Whole Foods a couple of weeks ago, and it wasn’t fragrant like the ones picked from a tree in PA, but it was time to use it. I saw an intriguing recipe on Kate Hill’s Camont Journal, a Substack that I subscribe to, and it sounded like a glorious autumn recipe. Kate Hill is the author of A Culinary Journey in Gascony, a cookbook Nina gave me many years ago, and one of my favorite little books, with excellent regional recipes and stories. (Come to think of it, I haven’t made the Tomato Tart recipe from that book yet this year. I better fix that.)

Her Sweet Potato & Quince Pie in a Cornmeal Butter Pastry was calling to me, and I gave it a try. Delicious! And I didn’t even make it properly. I used a Cuisinart instead of mixing the crust by hand (because my butter was cold and not at room temp) and I forgot the egg wash on the crust as well as the cornstarch in the filling. But it was still delicious, with tiny, tasty bits of caramelized quince in the luxuriant filling. I will make this one again.

And maybe all those carotenoids in the roasted sweet potatoes will be just what the doctor ordered and make John well. And keep me healthy. But I credit my immunity to the horseradish that I still consume daily. I think that’s it. Fingers crossed.

Time for pie…

…

Life in Wyoming with young children seems to be a series of immunity-building exercises. When we first arrived, Kirk had a bit of a cold, but that manifested more robustly with Iris, who ended up spending a few days home from school. Subsequently John has come down with the bug. But no one is blaming anyone—this is life with youngsters. And what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? We are on our second batch of chicken broth.

For our first dinner in our Kelly Lane rental house with Kirk and Iris, I was determined to make a good impression and made homemade mac ‘n’ cheese, their favorite dish. Kirk barely ate it, proclaiming it “too cheesy.” He prefers the Annie’s boxed version. I also made chicken fingers—chicken cutlet floured, egged, panko-crumbed, and then baked—which they enjoyed drizzled with honey, but they barely tasted the broccolini from the local farm that I steamed and then sauteed with soy sauce. Fortunately, they always enjoy all fruits, especially berries.

The next day we ran up to Jackson so John could be interviewed at the Jackson Hole News & Guide about his time at Ground Zero for the 25^th anniversary remembrance of 9/11. But any trip to Jackson ends with a stop at Whole Foods, usually for fresh salmon. That night I used my favorite EatingWell recipe, and the kids did like that with bowtie pasta and sauteed zucchini. They didn’t try the zucchini—but Rose has her ways of sneaking that into their diet.

We biked home to receive Kirk who was coming for an overnight, our first sleepover in his old homestead in a year. He came home from a party tired and went to bed but was up at first light—about 7 am currently out here—and ready to make some pancakes.

We had an apple and Kirk liked the idea of apple cinnamon pancakes so he had fun grating it and adding it to the pancake batter that John stirred up. With some Canadian bacon on the side, it was a perfect breakfast to enjoy while watching cartoons (the real reason that he loves it over here so much!).

He played chess with John and we all did some yardwork until Rose reclaimed him for an early dinner and bed at the end of the weekend. But Monday, Iris was too sick to go to school so she came to our house. She was happy to have her lunch box to anchor her and to play until naptime.

Our friend Paula came by the next day for lunch and brought fresh horseradish root. We had fun peeling, chopping, and pulverizing the root in the Cuisinart. The slender roots did not have the eye-searing pungency of horseradish that I processed before in PA, but that had been a very large, thick root. These were more delicate and processed into a milder version that still had a sinus-clearing volatility once we added a bit of water, vinegar, and salt. I’ve since learned from a Wyoming farmer that the crop does not do well out here, and there is no demand for it.

We loved our Wyoming version of the delicacy and enjoyed it mixed into a dressing with mayo, plain yogurt, lemon juice, and Dijon. It was the perfect topping on our little bit-of-leftover salmon salad served with a bowl of Caldo Verde. Paula also brought a Pumpkin Bread with Brown Butter and Bourbon which made a sweet ending herb tea. (Paula reduces the amount of sugar in that sweet bread by half.)

The horseradish was the hit of the day and has brightened up many dishes—an egg salad, a cottage cheese toast, even dropped into the Caldo Verde. But it is spectacular in this Roasted Beet Labneh spread.

Over the weekend we took Kirk up to Jackson to see the Quickdraw art festival with artists working in the Town Square to finish a painting in 90 minutes. It was remarkable—but cold in the early morning so we ducked into Healthy Being Café for hot beverages.

That night I asked Kirk what he wanted for dinner while we walked the aisles at Whole Foods and he called for spaghetti and meatballs. I used John’s mom’s recipe for the meatballs, pretty much, and made my own marinara—only to have him prefer the plain noodles with grated cheese and no sauce. He never did try a meatball.

But Rose hit a home run with dinner on Sunday night—homemade pizza! Everyone could make their own. Kirk chose cheese, sauce, and some slivers of prosciutto, Iris was slightly fancier with cheese, sauce, prosciutto, and cherry tomatoes from their indoor garden. Rose was the creative one, with roasted garlic butter, cheese, and piles of shredded zucchini that had been salted and squeezed dry. It was delicious!

And there was even dessert. The bulk of the shredded zucchini went into a chocolate cake served with homemade vanilla ice cream. Mama knows how to get them to eat zucchini!

After dinner the kids played on the deck and I stepped out to observe the flat plain of the Palisades Dam, so low at this time of year, filled with sheep. What a sight!

Our final days in Happy Valley were very social and filled with an abundance of summer treats. Bucky and Janine came for a dinner, Bucky toting a bushel of corn from his plot at the farm in Gatesburg. We feasted like Lenni Lenape, in season. Most of our menu was local, except for the salmon from Norway via Wegmans.

The corn polenta recipe from this Cuban cookbook, co-written with State College native friend Megan Schlow, is one to pull out when the corn is high—and forget about it other times of the year. Shucking and scraping the cobs is work, but luckily, John enjoys doing that and he does it very well, removing all the corn silk.

Our friends Moira and Barry came up from Maryland and we hosted a dinner to celebrate two significant birthdays—both Nina and Moira were hitting that elevated number, so it required a serious party to honor them both.

Still writing for the Centre Daily Times on a monthly basis, I had an article to churn out before we headed out of town for a month. My topic, Morning Glory Café in Pleasant Gap, is a great stop for breakfast for either a bagel or a full-on breakfast. The owners, George Salgado and Madison Shedd, have the drive and enthusiasm of youth and their passion fuels their delicious food.

Labor Day weekend we traveled to Fairpoint, Ohio and met my brother, Geoff, and his wife, Barbra, for lunch at a dive bar that looked scary from the outside but had delicious food. Geoff knew it from going there while working on the plumbing at Barb’s ancestral home with her husband, Mike. It was worth the side trip, but John’s pulled pork sandwich was so big that he was too full to eat dinner a few hours later.

We were in southeastern Ohio for a memorial service for my cousin, Barbara, who succumbed to pancreatic cancer last May. All the sadness was overcome by the happy reunion of the clan at Barb’s favorite cafeteria in St Clairsville, Mehlman’s. Only now, I am the oldest cousin in the family, though my Uncle Joey and his wife, Mary Jo, are still with us. (There are lots of Joseph derivatives in my mom’s--Josephine’s--family.)

We played pinochle that night in our hotel room, and got up and out early the next day to drive back to State College, against the football traffic pouring out of town. We had a very early flight the next morning and were in Jackson, Wyoming before noon. Rose and Iris picked us up and we went to the National Wildlife Museum for lunch, to their excellent café for game stew, salad, and mac and cheese after enjoying a plate of their homemade potato chips with goat cheese ranch dip. Sorry about the lack of food photos—I was pretty well wiped out by the travel.

The next day was our 47^th anniversary—but we were too jet-lagged to drive anywhere for dinner. I surprised John with a couple of gyros and a Greek salad from the new Greek food truck in Alpine and we toasted to our long life together with Pouilly Fuisse and watched the aspens shaking from the porch. It was perfect—though a little heavy on the potatoes. We saved half of them for Kirk.

Now we need to get in the new fall groove here. Kirk is in kindergarten and the school has rules. It’s not as strict as St. Athanasius, where John and I both went to elementary school, but Wyoming Classical Academy, the new charter school in town, has expectations.

Rose made us a schedule for the month, and Kirk made up his schedule for the week, and we will get on board with those. Prompt drop-offs and pick-ups, early dinners, homework--the glorious details of learning how to be on top of your game. All that, plus enjoying being in this beautiful area with some of our favorite humans.

John and Sam enjoy hiking in the woods, especially if they can forage for Pennsylvania treasures. They go after morels in the spring and wild blueberries in July. This has been a perfect summer for mushrooms and at Bill Russell’s weekly mushroom ID chat at Webster’s Café, there have been more species under discussion each week.

Two weeks ago, orange chanterelles brightened the forest floor. Picking is easy since they are so visible in the woods. The guys came home with bags of them and I cooked a very special sourdough pasta that was a sample of a new Grandma’s Frozen Egg Noodles product. The beautiful, extruded noodle was ribbed and fluted along the edge; perfect for holding the tasty sauce. I’m still making Labneh, and using it in all sorts of ways. One of the best was in a pasta sauce with sauteed chanterelles and shallot and lots of fresh herbs. With a light dusting of freshly grated Pamesan cheese, the result was delicious.

Our regular use of the chanterelle is in an omelette. An unusual use was as a topping for marinated “Steak Bites” tofu when we had a gathering in Shingletown on a perfect summer evening. We had so many appetizers that we never did get to our two main courses—a Mixed Grill with Steak and Sausages with Chanterelles, and a Chanterelle Pizza. Kim’s Zucchini and Corn Fritters along with Tomato Bruschetta did us in. We only had room for Peach Pie and the afore-posted Labneh Cheesecake.

The hunters took a break from the woods and “foraged” in our buddy Bucky’s corn field and brought home an armload of sweet corn. Our favorite way to cook that is by microwaving the corn cobs in the husk for two minutes on high, turning them, and then another two minutes. The corn is piping hot, so it needs to cool a bit before shucking. I like to cook up a few extra ears and then scrape the kernels from the cob to have them to add to bean and cheese quesadillas or another batch of chanterelle pasta. Our second batch of chanterelle pasta was even better with those golden nuggets added to the sauce.

We had one corn-less and mushroom-less cookout at Black Moshannon, on a picnic table so loaded with moss and lichen that we couldn’t bear to cover it with a tablecloth. We enjoyed our hot dogs , sausages, turkey burgers, salads, and watermelon on the forest scape, soaking in the beauty of the water-lily covered lake.

Since we had hot dogs left over, we had yet another cookout at Spring Creek Park, again with Jordy and Skye. Both Joann and I forgot to bring hot dog buns! Still delicious. The kids didn’t mind at all and moved quickly to S’mores.

A fundraiser was held for Sc’Eric last Sunday and I don’t have photos of the delicious food that was served and prepared by the talented chefs at Pine Grove Hall, but I do have a photo of my contribution to the silent auction that day. Liz Grove reported that they raised $11,000 to help with his rehab so that was a big effort by a lot of people that was a lot of fun.

The Little League World Series in Williamsport was in full swing and we couldn’t resist driving north an hour to see Kinsley Rasmus, the 12 year old girl, from Alabama who was wowing the crowds. I went prepared to cheer her on but when I saw that they were playing a team from West Chester that had a loud and loyal family following in the stands, I was torn. I cheered for both teams. The Southeast won, but lost the next day to Great Lakes. The finals are this weekend and its quite a treat to see the families from around the world rooting for their determined players.

The hunters went out again for ‘shrooms, looking for chicken of the woods but coming home with a more elusive treasure—black trumpet chanterelles. This mushroom is much harder to spot but the rewards are greater, as this feathery fungus has a redolent, almost truffle-like aroma when cooked. We had to have steak. Immediately. John prepared it all, since I was busy packing to go to Maryland the next day, for a kidney ultrasound, a visit to Brooke and Jon at Johns Hopkins, and the 50^th wedding anniversary party for my brother and Barbra in Frederick.

We did it all and enjoyed staying at The Visitation hotel in downtown Frederick. The former girls school is a testament to thoughtful renovation of historic properties and we enjoyed being in downtown Frederick for the night. So nice to see the family from NYC and Iowa, and to mark the historic occasion in an historic property. The Wye Oak Tavern, run by Frederick natives, Bryan and Michael Voltaggio, two “Top Chef” celebrity stars, was very impressive in the former church and dinner was incredible.

And soon we will be heading back out to Wyoming to catch up with these two kiddos. Because—tempus does indeed fugit.

Venturing south last week, we traded the muggy Mid-Atlantic for the blazing sun and violent thunderstorms of South Florida. Searing heat kept us indoors in the AC or floating in the backyard pool. Florida weather in August is as extreme as Wyoming’s in January, but the opposite way. Our offspring do not believe in middle-of-the-road, temperate climates. They like to be tested.

We were on grandparent duty while Al and Mary attended a wedding in New York City. When I agreed to go down last spring, I did not consider the temperature or my own diminished capacity following surgery. But it turns out to have been the best possible scenario for resting up and lying low. At the last minute, John was convinced, against his better weather-tuned judgment, to come along, and that was a good thing.

I firmly believe that the only way to truly experience your grandchild’s personhood is to spend time without parents around. The children behave differently, individuals on equal footing. You bond over your shared mission to prove independence, and everyone wins. Especially the parents who get away.

We got to know 4-year-old Cormac, aka Coco, and came to rely on “Brother” and “Sister”, the teenagers, who emerged from their rooms and from behind their screens, at mealtimes and for tending their little bro at bath and bedtime.

Our first dinner on arrival was a Rancho Gordo bean soup that Mary made from The Bean Cookbook and slices of marinated and grilled wild boar from the special meat market. A soft landing and warm welcome. The next morning Mary and I went to the French Bakery down the street from them, and I vowed to go as often as I could. For fun that day, and to stay in the cool house, we made pasta from scratch and used up the cache of stone crab from Al’s last Biscayne Bay haul in May. The stone crabs had been cooked and frozen and tasted quite fresh in a tangy sauce from this NYT recipe.

Mommy and daddy slipped away early the next morning, and we were prepared for a firestorm of tears when the little sleeping dragon woke up—but there was none. He had his favorite deal-making breakfast, Froot Loops, and then headed outdoors to the pool with John—and stayed in the water for 90 minutes. He is amphibious.

Our oldest grandchild, now 20, Santana, came for lunch that day, and we used up the last pound of crab on crabcake sandwiches. Santana’s SO, Renn, accompanied him, and we were happy to meet her and hear about their classes starting next week at Miami Dade Community College. They met at work, at Salt & Straw in Coconut Grove, and we promised we would visit the next day to see them there. And we did, enjoying the twenty-minute drive on Old Cutler Road through a tunnel of banyan trees with Royal Palms on the cross streets.

The ice cream shop was busy on Saturday afternoon, but they still gave us lots of free samples of their interesting flavors. Coco and Larissa both had the vegan Strawberry Coconut Water Sherbet, with Sprinkles, and John settled on a Panther Coffee Chocolate Tres Leches. I opted for the Wildflower Honey and Lemon Chess Pie, though the Peaches and Cream Galette was hard to pass up.

We hung out on the bench in front of the shop after our early dinner of ice cream, and watched the cars go by. Coco wowed the tourists next to us by naming every Maserati, Audi, Porsche, and Lamborghini that cruised Grand Avenue, though he didn’t know the Chevys. We hoped to see the Waymo robotaxi again that we spotted when we first arrived in the Grove, but it took itself elsewhere.

When we got home, we snacked on leftovers until it was 9 and time for Coco to go to bed. We spoke about going to the Pinecrest Farmers Market early the next morning, and they were all in, but then decided not to go when it was time to get out of bed at 8 am. John and I slipped away and had fun checking out the vendors, especially one with the Mediterranean foods, and getting a Venezuelan breakfast arepa to share. Within an hour, it was too hot to walk around, so we headed home, where Coco and Larissa were rising.

Coco helped make labneh for a cheesecake for our special dinner to welcome home mommy and daddy, who arrived hot and bleary midafternoon. The tales of the wedding and weekend in NYC were lively; a wedding for 487 guests has a lot of color. Indian and Guyanese traditions dominated, as well as Millennial new practices. Not everyone met the bride, but everyone danced.

The next morning was our last full day in Florida, and John and Coco enjoyed a long poolside breakfast and watched the busy ants carry away the crumbs they had dropped. Mary never made bread, so we made a quick recipe that Coco helped pat into a loaf. Mary made a vegetable and lentil soup to go with the Mediterranean dips from the farmers market, tasty with the crispy pita chips and lemony grilled olives. Santana and Renn came for the final lunch, bringing 4 pints of Salt & Straw ice cream that was so melty Coco drank it like a milkshake.

Lunch lasted a long time, and our last supper was a continuation of it. Everyone was ready to move onward and upward—school starts in two days! We were leaving the next day at noon. We had time in the morning for another trip to the French Bakery for a final almond croissant, and John had a couple of little household tasks to complete. Al whisked us off to the airport midday, where we paused for a last Cortado, which we still don’t really understand, but we do enjoy the thick, rich espresso.

Goodbye, Miami! And hello first day of school!

Labneh Cheesecake

It’s easy to make labneh. Take a quart of plain, full-fat Greek yogurt and mix in 2 teaspoons of Kosher salt. Scoop the salted yogurt into a cheesecloth-lined strainer set over a bowl and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight. You usually get 3 cups of yogurt cheese (aka, labneh) and one cup of whey from a quart. But it depends on the brand of yogurt. Cabot Greek Yogurt yields very little whey because it is so thick, but it’s all good. It’s a very forgiving recipe. The yogurt cheese is tasty as a spread, or to make into a dip or spread.

Or just buy the labneh. That’s what my sister Mary does.

Crust:

Any cookie, cracker, or pretzel crumbs will work. In Miami, Coco and I used Vienna wafers that we beat into oblivion with a rolling pin. Here at home, I made some with pretzels. Graham crackers are classic. Or—just buy an already prepared crumb crust and really simplify things. The pretzel crust needed a lot more butter to stick together.

1 ½ cups crumbs

4 tablespoons melted butter

3 tablespoons raw sugar (or white sugar or brown sugar—whatever you have handy)

Filling:

2 cups labneh (16 ounces)

1/3 cup sugar (I used raw)

2 large eggs (I used 3 because my eggs from the farmer were small)

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, or other fruit for topping

Preheat oven to 325°F. Combine the crumbs, the sugar, and the butter in a medium-sized bowl and mix it with your hands to moisten all the crumbs. Spray a 9-inch springform pan or a pie dish and press in the crumbs evenly. Bake the crust for 10 minutes and cool on a rack before filling.

In a stand mixer or a large bowl, beat the labneh with the sugar and vanilla, then add the eggs one at a time, beating after each addition. When the mixture is smooth and the crust is cooled, pour it in. Bake for 40 minutes until firm. Cool on a rack and then refrigerate until cold before slicing and topping with your favorite fruit.

It’s hot. Everywhere. And here in PA, showery and muggy. But there are visitors and social occasions that require a modicum of cooking. Dips come to the rescue.

You can make them ahead, before you run out of steam. They stand ready in the ‘frig, all set. If you have the energy, you can make some pita crisps or tortilla triangles ahead. Or not. Stacie’s brand does a good enough job, and there are many flatbreads and crackers to choose from these days.

Our Colorado family headed east the last week of July, stopping at Gettysburg on their way north for an educational tour with John, our family Civil War authority. Lilah was enrolled in a field hockey camp at Penn State with her friend Sofia, from Boulder, who happens to be the granddaughter of Liz and Tom, the Brits who visited us at the end of May. The girls have been pals since preschool, and now, at 14, they are like sisters. They enjoyed staying in the dorm and going to the dining hall and came home exhausted from the many practices and games that they played. And they were hungry!

Joe was happy to hang out and work at the new and vastly improved Nittany Lion Inn and Neian, and I had fun going around State College and Bellefonte on the morning that Joe and John fished at Fisherman’s Paradise. We had a big family kebab dinner on their last night, supplemented with lots of dips. No need to heat up the kitchen—though John suffered a bit of smoke damage on the grill.

Later in the week, friends from long ago were visiting, and we met them at an East End Social pop-up event on Heister Street—no food options there-- and then the next evening at Boal City Brewing, where we could bring our own food and enjoy their many beverage options.

Boal City is the quintessential meet-up spot these days, with a beautiful yard for lounging, interesting cocktail options that are both, NA and A, and beer. That night there was a rather extraordinary band playing. Warpig is a punk rock family band from LA composed of Iggy (8^th grade), Lolo (4^th grade), and their dad Jason, who played the loudest music I have heard in decades.

The Amish farm stand is going full tilt now, and it is so interesting to go back each week and see the progression in the vegetables—the potatoes and eggplant increase in size by about a third in a week. The corn is so much heftier. The blueberries are gone, but raspberries and ever-bearing strawberries still make an appearance during the first hour of the market. By 9 am, they are gone.

My eggplant cravings are strong in the summer, though I haven’t made a ratatouille yet. But I have perfected the art of making a quick-ish eggplant caviar/spread. I used to slice the eggplant, arrange the slices on a baking tray, and roast. Those are great for quick individual Eggplant Parmesan, for layering in a Moussaka, or stuffing with ricotta for Eggplant Oreos. But when I plan to toss it all in the Cuisinart anyway, I have devised a speedier method that uses less olive oil. Cube it, place it in a large bowl, and toss the cubes olive oil and your favorite seasoned salt or salt-and-herb mixture. Toss well with your hands to spread the love. Spray a couple of pans with olive oil spray and pour out the lightly anointed, seasoned eggplant cubes and roast for about an hour at 400°F, tossing the cubes every 15 minutes—and switching the pans from top to bottom. During the last half hour, add finely chopped shallot for some allium sweetness. Let the cubes cool on the pan before processing with parsley and basil and a bit of tomato paste. Sometimes I add pitted Kalamata olives. Sometimes I add drained capers. Sometimes I don’t add anything. It’s always good.

If you have access to the plain yogurt from Musser Dairy in Bellefonte, you are lucky. If not, use your favorite full-fat Greek yogurt. Mix two teaspoons of Kosher salt into a quart of yogurt. Scrape it into a cheesecloth-lined strainer over a bowl and let it rest in the ‘frig for a night. The resultant yogurt cheese (labneh) is delicious as is or as a basis for any number of dips. Why does it sound so much healthier to say “this dip is yogurt-based” rather than “this dip is cream cheese-based”? And honestly, the yogurt variable is tastier-- also lower in fat and calories, higher in protein, plus it contains live cultures that support gut health.

(Note to self—photograph the labneh setup.)

We are very glad to be done with Covid and able to meet in groups. The past few days have been very social, and we got to go to places that are way off the beaten track. We attended a potluck outdoor party at a farm near Huntingdon, crossing a swinging bridge to get to the farmhouse. And we attended a funeral for our neighbor who passed away six days before her 103^rd birthday. You can’t be sad at a funeral like that!

After the church, there was a reception at a private club high in the hills above Boalsburg that I had never seen. The views were magnificent, and the gathering was a true celebration of a life well-lived. I took some veggies—and dips, namely, the Eggplant Caviar, Lemony Whipped Feta, and Roasted Red Beet.

RIP Shirley. Now that you and BJ are gone, I am the second-oldest resident of our Blue Zone here in Panorama Village. A recent article supports this Centre County longevity effect. Cheers—to us!

Eggplant Caviar Recipe

6 smallish eggplants, to yield 4 quarts of cubed eggplant

1/2 cup of olive oil

1 tablespoon coarse seasoned salt of your choice

1 really large shallot, or 3 small ones

Olive oil spray for the pan

Preheat oven to 400F. Spray two large sheet pans. Cube eggplant and place in a large bowl. Toss with olive oil and salt and spread onto prepared pans. Finely chop the shallot and have it ready to add to the cubes when they are half-cooked. Roast for about an hour, tossing every 15 minutes and swapping the trays each time you toss so the cubes cook evenly. Add the shallot during the last half hour. When soft, remove from the oven and allow to cool.

Pita Triangles

One pack of 6 pitas makes 72 triangles

6 pita

1/4 cup olive oil

1 tablespoon Za’tar

Cut each pita into sixths, open and arrange on a baking tray. Dab on some olive oil and sprinkle with Za’tar seasoning or an herb blend that you have on hand. Bake at 400°F for 10 minutes until crispy. These are perfect for a Mediterranean platter with eggplant spread, whipped feta with lemon, and roasted beet labneh. Or your favorite hummus.

Lately I have fielded some questions that make me realize that many people who are not chowhounds are truly confused about food. On Tuesday at the Amish farm stand I was choosing shiny eggplants from a pile on the table when the woman behind me said, “I wish I knew what to do with eggplant. I’ve never tried cooking it.”ro

The line was moving along quickly, but I told her what I was going to do with my three—slice, brush with olive oil, arrange on sheet pans, season and roast in a hot oven for 20 minutes, flip, and roast again and again until golden brown on both sides, and then store for quick meal prep. She looked bewildered as we moved to the beans on the table and she filled a bag with beautiful slender green beans. I moved past her to grab some Romano beans (Stephen labels his “Roma” beans, which is a variant spelling), the fat Italian bean with a brief season here in Central PA. “Are those lima beans?” she asked. I explained that they were a meatier version of green beans that you cooked beyond al dente and toss with olive oil and garlic. She didn’t try any or purchase eggplant either.

The next day when I was in Walmart in the oil aisle, waiting while a Middle Eastern woman in a colorful long garment and headscarf who was shopping with her husband and two lively children, stood in front of the olive oil, tapping on the bottles to choose one packaged in glass rather than plastic. I didn’t understand their conversation in another language, but I overheard “organic” and “olive oil” several times, and I understood that she was making an important decision for her family.

Once she moved on, a younger woman in jeans and a T-shirt looked at the array of olive oils and shook her head, “There are so many. How do you choose?” She held up a small bottle of a very light olive oil, considering it. I asked her what she planned to do with it and explained that the lighter the olive oil, the higher the smoke point, so it wouldn’t smoke and burn—and degrade—while cooking with it. The greener the oil, the more olive particulate and flavor, but it’s not as good for sautéing. She thanked me and moved on.

All those years teaching in the Foods Lab taught me a few things that have come in very handy. The Fats Lab, Stocks, Starches, Eggs, Dairy, Bread and Alternate Leavening Systems—I use those basics all the time.

We all need to come up with breakfast-lunch-dinner, breakfast-lunch-dinner on repeat. Thinking ahead and keeping it simple pays off, especially in the summer when it gets too hot later in the day to turn on the stove. Shop at the farmers markets, eat local foods grown by people you can look in the eye, celebrate foods as they come in season, and step out of your comfort zone now and then to try something new.

For the most part, we have been eating simply the past few weeks, except for a special collaborative dinner in Frederick to meet our nephew Brian’s new bride, Angela. It wasn’t our usual all-hands-on-deck family gathering; rather, a small event where we could chat informally with the newlyweds. The plated Watermelon Salad on Whipped Feta is one to keep handy, though I did not add the lemon juice to the watermelon cubes as called for in the recipe. The melon was too perfect.

But we weren’t the only ones hungry. Our next-door neighbor Janet in State College texted us photos the next morning of the bear in her yard with three tags in its ear who rambled over to our yard and had its way with our sunflower seed-filled bird feeder.

After my final procedure in Baltimore to end my spring-summer kidney ordeal, we visited with Jonathon and Brooke at Johns Hopkins where he was a week and a day past his liver transplant. Brooke rules the transplant floor and is taking good care of her man there.

We did stop in Fells Point for a crabcake afterwards—how else to break a fast?—and picked up local rockfish for dinner the next night that John dusted with flour, sauteed in olive oil, and created a pan sauce with lemon juice and capers to pour on top. Perfection.

Our World Cup celebration dinner with Kim and Bob for the final was a tasty affair, though Kim was disappointed that her favorite player, Messi, did not have a great game that day. In fact, it was an abysmal day for Argentina. But that didn’t dampen our spirits, which we kept well lubricated with Tait Farm shrub drinks and white wine. One highlight was the chile crisp tasting that was especially interesting, with varied flavor profiles. More on that product once it gets to the shelves at Tait Farm Harvest Shop.

It’s not all fancy dinners and salads this summer. We also met friends for a sudden hot dog cookout at Spring Creek Park, where we had dog tasting topped off with S’mores as the sun went down. It’s summer. Celebrate it all!

Be like Iris. Try something new. Baby steps.

John and Sam just arrived home from Bear Meadows where they were blueberry picking. They each picked four and a half pounds. This recipe will come in handy!

Recovery from surgery took more energy than I anticipated. And our house didn’t cooperate; the heat pump went down as the temperature went up. What to do? As little as possible.

But we had guests in from Ireland, our good pals Olivia and Trevor, who have hosted us royally in Donegal and Sligo, so we rallied with simple menus. John did all the legwork so I could rest up, and we managed a fine dinner the evening they arrived in State College despite the temps outside.

Everyone likes to be involved in food prep, in my opinion, and Trevor mashed avocado for guacamole while Olivia juiced limes. Margaritas and ice-cold shrimp cocktail took the edge off while John sautéed strips of seasoned chicken and we assembled an array of taco fillings for our impromptu Taco Bar. We moved out to the cool of the deck and caught up on the intervening years. Olivia works as a labor and delivery nurse and dismissed me from the table when she deemed I should go to bed.

The next morning we had delicious English muffins (from the Bellefonte Baker) and assorted jams—including the orange marmalade that Liz brought from England—and they made haste to get out and stroll through campus, down Memory Lane. Trevor went to Penn State 30 years ago and played on the soccer team, so they power-walked to Jeffrey Field from the HUB and went into as many of his old buildings as they could wander or talk their way into. When they returned midafternoon, they had logged 17,000 steps but were still raring to go.

John took them to the Boalsburg Farmers Market to pick up some tofu from Yasoda Mensah at Trifolia Botanicals, my latest CDT topic. Yasoda’s tofu, made the day before, is nothing short of amazing. Neither Trevor nor Olivia had ever had tofu, so it was a good place to start. We put together a grill menu with miso-marinated tofu kebabs and wine-marinated steak kebabs with onions and peppers. John cooked both to perfection over oak kindling in the Weber grill. I had made a raw broccoli salad with a lemony vinaigrette earlier in the day, and it was a great cold side with dried cherries and almonds. And we still had shrimp, even colder.

Our breakfast the next morning was Musser Dairy yogurt parfaits with blueberries and my sister Mary’s seashore gift of salted caramel granola. We said goodbye to our friends who were headed to Seaside Heights with their son Aaron and his Jersey-girl wife Jackie to soak up some more sun before heading back to Ireland. Unfortunately, they also soaked up a fair bit of rain on the flooded coast before flying hom

Our early dinner later that hot day was a breeze. Time to 86 those shrimp, so I chopped them up with some avocados, tomatoes, cilantro, and the remaining lime juice and made a little salsa/salad to serve with the remaining tortilla chips that were getting soggy by the second. A little grated cheese and 15 seconds in the microwave revived them—and us.

Meanwhile, we were receiving camping photos from the feral Wyoming kiddos having fun at Preston Ranch, with s’mores and alfresco bathing. It’s the holiday weekend! It’s Rose and Stephen’s 8^th anniversary, and they revisited the site of their wedding with friends, now parents as well. Six adults, six children, seven and under = Fun.

The Fourth of July weekend was a drawn out affair this year. Lots of festivities and a couple of chances to meet new humans. Our friend Kirstin was in from NYC with her husband Charlie and daughter Lucia and I had never met the 2 ½ year old so I left my sequester to visit the family. Kirstin now resembles her mom Gina so much that they look like twins, and Lucia takes after her English dad. So interesting to see family resemblances! Gina’s Amaretti Torte sweetened the visit.

On the Fourth I ventured out again to an annual 4^th party to meet Sylvia from Alaska, Kyle and Sarah’s 4-month-old baby. How interesting to see this next generation of humans and their keepers. Good luck!

There was lots of good food at Brendyn’s 4^th of July party, but the dominant factor was the World Cup, which played to a crowded living room.

Our next visitors were Carolyn and Jeff from the Berkshires/NYC and they arrived wanting to take us out to dinner, but that seemed like more effort than making dinner at home. So make we did—because that’s what we do.

I had purchased beautiful corn that Tuesday morning from Stephen’s Amish stand and wanted to do the Cuban fresh polenta recipe from the Paladares cookbook. (It’s a stunning cookbook, and if you want to add it to your collection, check out a used version on “other buying options” on Amazon and get one for under $10.) Instead of pork, I used shrimp from the freezer to top it off, cooking it with lots of garlic, parsley, and lime juice at the end. It was delicious. The eggplant recipe was also from the book; super simple and meltingly good. I also made fried plantain but cooked it improperly. (I’m not 100% yet. More like about 75%). When you cook plantain that isn’t completely black on the outside, you need to fry it once in oil, remove the slices to paper towels to drain, and then smash each slice and refry. I did know that. I taught it in the Foods Lab. Our fried plantain was tough.

The next day we did go out for breakfast, to the Waffle Shop, and it was exactly as it always is—excellent. I resisted the S3 special, which both John and Jeff ordered, and tried their central PA version of Avocado Toast, swapping a poached egg for the standard bacon. It was very good, and the fruit was a nice bonus.

That evening, Carolyn and Jeff went to their friend Letty’s birthday party and John and I had a simple cold dinner on the deck. Because Less (work) is More (healing) and I need to be up and running next week.

PS--We got the news on Thursday morning that our niece Brooke’s fiancée, Jon, got the call that there was a liver for him. He has been on the transplant list for a year, and the 40-year-old was in dire straits. Johns Hopkins called him at 1:30 am and he and Brooke drove to Baltimore from Southern Maryland and found out at 5:30 that the organ was viable. The transplant surgery took 6 hours, and Jon was smiling and making jokes the next day. My kidney issue looks like nothing next to that, so I am ready to get over myself and move on. I will visit Jon and Brooke next Friday when I meet Dr. Rai to have the stent removed, and I will put this chapter behind me and welcome Jon back to vitality.

PPS—Sc’Eric came out of his coma and is eating food and ready to move to a rehab hospital. If you are reading this, Sc’Eric, you are one more medical miracle in the making!

When you live long enough, eventually you get a shout-out from the universe that it’s time to pay attention. For me, it happened on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day when my right kidney threw a thunderbolt. “Hey! Look at me!”

Several weeks and many tests later, I learned that I had a condition called hydronephrosis, which meant that my plumbing wasn’t working. The flow of urine was blocked, causing my right kidney to swell. I was hurting.

Since this is a column about “How to Eat and Drink,” I won’t go into the gory details of all the diagnostic tests and the doctor visits. I learned to use AI to help interpret results that I didn’t understand and to search for the best place to resolve my issue. It was a puzzle to piece together with every bit of info that came in. I admire the people who can speak that medical language, and I relied on both my sisters for interpretation.

The bottom line is that our amazing gastrointestinal and urinary systems digest all that we eat and drink. Foods and drinks are processed by our quiet organs that do their jobs so efficiently that we barely notice—until something goes wrong.

On the morning that I woke up at Barbra and Geoff’s house in Frederick to head into Baltimore for the surgery, there was an alert on my phone about Lynda Carter donating $10 million to the urology department at Johns Hopkins. I took that news as a good omen. I needed a robotic laparoscopic pyeloplasty, and the Brady Urologic Institute is rated as one of the best in the world. I met my surgeon, Dr. Arun Rai, in April and liked his low-key interview process and direct approach. When I commented on his 4.9 star rating, he smiled and said he had no time to track that, but his wife did.

My dinner the night before surgery was simple and delicious. Geoff grilled marinated chicken cutlets, and Barbra steamed green beans. Her dessert, an asymmetrical apple pie redolent with cinnamon and barely sweet, was perfectly matched with a scoop of Ben & Jerry’s vanilla ice cream. If it was to be my last supper, that pie was the perfect send-off.

John delivered me to the Bayview Medical Center at 10:15 for my 10:30 surgery appointment, and the rest of the day ran like clockwork. Received on the third floor, wrist-banded, and then into my bay to wait for the operating room. John met me there, and I encouraged him to peel out and explore Baltimore since the procedure would take all afternoon. I’d be out by 5, and he would get text updates. Dr. Rai came in to touch base, looking clear-eyed and confident. I encouraged him to have lunch before our date. The anesthesiology lead came in with questions and the promise of courage. This is routine for them.

I wanted to see the operating theater and the robotic octopus that would perform the miracle, so I didn’t get sedated until I was in situ. It was impressive.

And by 5 I was out and wheeled into a hospital room. My throat was sore, and I had tubes in place to do the function of my immobilized organs. For good reason, I felt exhausted. And then John was by my side and telling me about the great afternoon he had at Fells Point, taking a water taxi out to see the Tall Ships. I was happy to see him but encouraged him to go back to Frederick for the night because I just wanted to sleep. He did and I did.

Somewhat. Is sleep possible when you are in the hospital? Nurses were coming and going, taking vitals, monitoring the beeping equipment—busy. I had a roommate behind a curtain who was 90 years old and had fallen and fractured her neck. Marilyn was in severe pain and very vocal but polite and apologetic about her outbursts; it broke my heart; my unscathed organ responded to her.

Then around 8 or 9, I realized—I’m hungry!

I had been NPO, nil per os, (always glad to use that high school Latin) since midnight, and my roughed-up body needed fuel. The standard liquid diet that appeared miraculously was quite satisfying—the fragrant vegetable broth, chewy orange gelatin, and refreshing mango water ice.

My night was not restful, but the hours ticked by steadily. Joan, my night nurse, was a gentle angel who had just returned from a trip to Scotland, a five-day excursion that she squeezed into her busy schedule. When she came by for my 5 am vitals, she suggested a walk around the ward, and it felt like I was on the best date of my life. She pushed the pole hung with various bags and looping tubes, and we did three laps as the sun came up over Baltimore Harbor. I heard about her growing up in Maryland, her years away in NYC and Chicago, and her return to MD to be near her family. I informed her of Lynda Carter’s Wonderful-gift to honor her late husband and hoped it might make her job easier.

Tucked back into my bed with the sheets smoothed out, I rested, and attending docs came by to assure me that all went well and I could go on a regular diet. I would be released later that day. I ordered breakfast, and when I called the number on the menu, someone brightly answered, “Room service.”

My warm cheese omelet, breakfast potatoes, bacon, and English muffin arrived eventually and tasted great. I even ordered coffee that was strong and almost hot. The food quality was excellent. Marilyn, behind the curtain, was also breakfasting, but being fed in slow bites by an attendant, and it wasn’t going well for her. I remembered feeding my mom breakfast in the hospital before she went into hospice. Her last breakfast, it turned out. That’s the reality of the hospital: some people recover and get to go home. Some people do not. Father Benjamin visited Marilyn that morning for a blessing, and her family asked if he would also do the Last Rites, just in case. I am one of the lucky ones.

Papers to sign, tubes to remove, much activity that morning. The day nurses, Mildred and Erin, encouraged me to order lunch because the release could take a while. I enjoyed choosing from the extensive menu, even though I wasn’t hungry at all, and ordered Thai broth, Shrimp and Grits, and coleslaw as my farewell meal. John arrived and helped me with some of it, and the rest we took home.

The nurse in charge of the release delivered a bagful of medications from the pharmacy along with lots of discharge instructions. I was released into the sunshine, and we drove back to State College.

My sick bay room was well-equipped and John kept up a steady flow of ice water. Local friends came by for quick visits with flowers and smiles. Three days post-op, friends from Philly, Michael and Grace, delivered lunch from Roots Kitchen--healthy bowls-- and that was when I felt truly recovered. I showered and washed my hair. Grace, a retired nurse, changed the wound on my abdomen that I wasn’t brave enough to look at and said it all looked good.

It’s over. I’m healing, and I have a new appreciation for all those organs, doing their jobs so I can get back to eating and drinking. And I have a deep appreciation for a husband who is very good at care-taking.

A sad postscript: While I was in the hospital, I got the news that Sc’Eric, a loyal subscriber to this newsletter and frequent commenter, was in a bicycle accident and is in a coma and in Intensive Care in Geisinger in Danville. Sc’Eric, if you read this at some point, know that you are in good hands and have faith. Surrender. See you on the other side, maestro.

Centre County may not appear to be a stronghold of African American culture at first glance. But give the people of color in our region a reason to gather, and one very fine celebration ensues.

Juneteenth in State College was an all-day street party with music, food, crafts, poetry, and vendor booths providing plenty to entertain. The fact that it took place on June 20^th supports the “time is an illusion” concept. The lateness is fitting: June 19^th, 1865, was two and a half years after Abraham Lincoln’s January 1, 1863, Emancipation Proclamation at the end of the Civil War. The Texas Confederates were the last to comply with the federal order. News traveled slowly in those days, especially news that the slave owners didn’t want to hear. What is one day late in the grand scheme of things?

Our family from Miami was in town, and the Fraser Street festivities appealed to all.

But we didn’t stay all afternoon, as we thought a good way to commemorate Juneteenth would be to see the permanent exhibit at the Bellefonte Art Museum on the Underground Railroad and to visit Michael Pilato’s Bellefonte Inspiration mural. And it was a big plus that there was a car show going on in Bellefonte that day. Our youngest Florida family member, Cormac, is a hot-car enthusiast.

The BAM exhibit in the historic Linn House is small but mighty. In 1954, two secret rooms were discovered when the building passed from private ownership; the rooms purportedly had been used by slaves escaping from the South.

After the museum, we walked through streets crowded with cars and car enthusiasts to see the Michael Pilato “Inspiration Bellefonte” mural painted on the wall of the Waffle Shop on Perry Lane.

The mural honors the influence of African Americans in Bellefonte, with images of Walter H. Mills, who owned a barbershop in Bellefonte from 1871 to 1931, and cut Frederick Douglass’s hair while he was on his national speaking tour in 1872. The grandsons of Walter H. Mills formed the Mills Brothers vocal quartet and were famous from the early 1930s through the 1950s. The quartet was one of the first African American groups to be popular with a wide, multiracial audience, and some of their songs, like Glow Worm and Lazy River, are classics in the genre. Amelia Earhart is also featured on the mural for her travels in the area between 1928 and 1930.

All that walking around made us hungry and thirsty, and we found lots of food concessions, including my absolute local favorite for pork barbecue, Scott’s Roasting. Some of us snacked on site, and I brought home some of their pulled pork to make sandwiches for dinner. Though African Americans can’t be credited as the creators of barbecue, they have popularized it in their own culture. And that is something to celebrate as well.

Father’s Day morning, the family launched out after a big breakfast, where we counted our many blessings over the 10 days we spent together. John made blueberry and non-blueberry pancakes; we had lox and bagels, scrambled egg sandwiches, and a rainbow of different fruits to complement our own colorful family.

I was reminded of my own father, Don Quinn, who was very fond of his African American neighbors when they moved into our West Oak Lane neighborhood back in the 1960s. Dad used to sing the Mills Brothers’ 1950 hit “Daddy’s Little Girl” to me when I was a baby. He also had enlightened views about race. I remember him telling my uncle, who lived up the street, that the country’s problems with race would end someday once enough Black people married White people. Then we would all be golden.

He would be very pleased to see our grandson Cormac, one of our golden boys.

Happy Father’s Day!

When I was a child and regularly attending Mass across the street, I remember being so bored with the green garments the priest wore during what seemed like the interminable “Ordinary Time”—the Sundays between Easter and Advent, those celebratory holidays, marked with bright vestments. Ordinary Time seemed to go on forever.

Today, Ordinary Time sounds pretty good considering the tumultuous political world, our globally disrupted climate, and my own aging body with daily reminders that good health is fragile and fleeting.

Now I celebrate Ordinary Time, the more ordinary the better. Gathering with friends for a sunset potluck on the mountaintop, the sudden visit of an old friend, and our annual drive to South Jersey. Hold on to that which is good.

We have been coming to Stone Harbor annually for 45 years, since our boys were babes in arms. The town has changed a lot; half a century can make a difference. Most of the small beach houses are gone, replaced by McMansions that look hermetically sealed. We are so fortunate to rent one of the originals and keep all the windows open for the sea breeze and the sounds of the birds in the sanctuary behind the house. Many of the businesses downtown are the same—McCoy’s 5 and 10, Fudge Kitchen, Springer’s for ice cream—and we patronize them. But the advertising planes draw banners for lawyers who want you to sue instead of “Eat at Zaberer’s.” There’s a different message in the air.

As we loaded the car and did last-minute gardening projects, my old friend Anne-Lise, the Norwegian bellydancer who taught dance classes in State College during the mid-70’s, showed up for a quick visit with her partner Mike. Anne-Lise turns 91 next week and is a force of nature. She is finished with belly dancing, but she still creates art. No longer her beautiful pottery, because the clay got too hard to haul around, but fine medallions. She works at Gallery North in her hometown of Port Edmonds, Washington State, every week and proves that age is a state of mind. I’d venture she is about 39 by that reckoning.

The evening before we drove “down the shore,” which is the Philly-speak, we gathered with our pals at the top of the mountain. It’s hard to catch us all in town at the same time anymore. We seized the day and were rewarded with a spectacular sunset that bathed us all in Alpenglow, central PA style.

I stopped at Bailey’s in Port Elizabeth on the way down to see what local fish they had and was happy to see drum in the case. I purchased a side at $7.95/pound, for our first dinner. Bailey’s is a local spot, where pick-up trucks pour in and out with bushels of hard-shell crabs. It was delicious, brushed with garlic butter and pan-roasted. The rule with fresh seafood—the simpler the preparation, the better.

Our first visitors were my brother and his wife, Barbra, the hard-working artistic couple who are our first beach visitors because they are the Original People that we vacationed with over the decades. We had two seafood dinners while they were here, scallops and clams the first night, and flounder and crab cakes the second. Served with store-bought side salads, dinners were easy and allowed time for beach art.

It’s not all about eating while in Stone Harbor. There is also Yoga on the Beach in Wildwood, which requires a 20-minute drive but is so worth it. The class is held every day at 9 am, with a small number of attendees during the week (there were 8 of us on Wednesday) and large numbers on the weekend (there were 40 of us on Saturday). But it’s a very worthwhile $8 worth of exercise for 90 minutes. One dolphin rhythmically rose and fell just beyond the waves both times I attended this week, enchanting all of us as we faced the ocean and followed teacher Charla’s cues for Warrior 2.

Our second visitor, my sister Mary, made it to the Saturday class, and then we went to Marvis Diner for breakfast, Jersey diner style. Our server, from Bulgaria, was efficient and courteous, explaining that he was just here for the busy summer season because his wife is still at home. He is cautious these days.

On Friday afternoon, we did something we had never done before, which was as much fun as doing the things you love over and over again.

I am a firm believer in the power of the library. Whenever you get somewhere new, check out the library schedule to see what is going on in the area. There are art classes, lectures, cooking demos, and language classes all available for free or at nominal cost. A couple of months ago, I looked ahead at the library schedule for Cape May County and found a conversational Lenni Lenape class at the Lower Cape May library held every Friday. I had forgotten all about it until 10 minutes before the class started on Friday, when I received a notification about it. We were involved in a drapery changing project, but dropped it and flew out the door and drove over to Bayshore Road in Villas, NJ, and joined the class in progress.

The teacher, Teri Hisplop, and her nine students were very welcoming, and we went through introductions in Native and in English. Then we played a Go Fish game with wildlife cards that was a hoot.“Kèku hàch ksisileyo?” Do you have any bison?

John tied the winner of the game at the end, with his three sets: mountain lion (kwèn’shùkwënay), opossum (òpinkw), and grouse (popokus).

The class went a bit late with lots of good fun over blunders. And we found out a little about the culture of the true Original People of the area. There’s a powwow next week, as well as a Lenni Lenape Blessing of the Fleet in Cape May.

After class, we went out for a late lunch/early dinner in Wildwood at a place on the bay that we stumbled upon. It’s good to explore new worlds—and to celebrate the old ones.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch and still decompressing from their Big Apple adventure, the Country Mouse is making his own breakfast, and Kitty Princess had her first spa night with mommy.

Here’s the recipe for one of our potluck dishes, Cauliflower KuKu, which is great anytime of day. Serve with plain Greek yogurt (from Musser Dairy, if that is available to you), enhanced with lemon zest and minced tarragon, thyme, and parsley. Very nice with spicy arugula on the side. Bon appetit!

Rose’s film, Butterfly in a Blizzard, was nominated for two Sports Emmy awards, which predicated a trip to the Big Apple with the two kiddos. Daddy was off on a work trip to Iceland, so next in line for childcare was—the G-force. John and I were happy to go.

The train ride from Washington, DC to Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station got me into the city as John was picking up Rose, Kirk, and Iris at the Newark airport. We rendezvoused on the Upper West Side, thanks to the generosity of Donna and Pat, Bryan’s parents, who made their apartment available to us. Since it was in the same building, and just two floors down from niece Celia, Bryan, and their two daughters, Bernie, 15, (going on 35), and Eliza, a sweet 12-year-old, it could not have been more convenient.

Celia had provisioned the apartment for us with fruit, cheese, wine, etc and there was snacking from the git-go. And then spicy Chinese food for dinner that magically appeared at our door. That’s how you do it in The City. No photos, as I was rattling along the train rails of my mind.

The next day, Saturday, Rose and Celia took everyone 12 and under downtown. They hit Russ & Daughters for New York bagels with lox and whitefish, and then cleansed their palates at the Museum of Ice Cream. Eating ice cream for 3 hours agreed with them, and they came home in good moods. We had a family dinner at “our” apartment that evening. Linette, Rose’s friend, joined us and regaled the table with tales from the financial office where she works. Both Bernie and Eliza were wide-eyed listening to Linette’s colorful stories and shared some of their own NYC adolescent cogitations that Linette weighed in on with authority.

Dinner featured red beans that Celia had received from her Rancho Gordo Bean Club subscription. What a treat! The Rojo de Suelo beans were cooked to perfection using a Serious Eats recipe by J. Kenji López-Alt, who always takes things seriously. That big ole bean pot was the centerpiece of our table, and we all kept dipping in for more. The sheet pan spiced chicken thighs, sweet Italian sausage and spicy chorizo, broccoli, and leftover rice were sidelights.

Another tour de force was the Blueberry Lemon Loaf Cake prepared by Bernie. The crumb and crust were masterful, and she wisely whisked it away after we all had a slice. She made sure there was cake for her Dad, who was working nights throughout the holiday weekend.

The kids went upstairs for bath after dinner, since there is a walk-in shower in “our” apartment, and we ended the night with yet more ice cream—a split sandwich this time. Thanks, Donna, for having a stocked freezer in your well-ordered kitchen.

Sunday was rainy and mommy slept in since she and Linette had gone out after dinner. It was a quiet day, well-earned. We rested up for Monday, the Memorial Day holiday, which was also a bit damp. We missed our usual Boalsburg festivities, but it was different this year. No pie contest! Instead, a big cake. Donna and Pat, who were our guests the two previous Memorial Days, will have to return next year if they reinstate the contest. That event is the highlight.

On Monday, Rose went to meet a colleague for coffee downtown, and John and Kirk went out exploring via subway. Eliza came down to play with Iris, and the three of us went to Riverside Park and then brought home sandwiches from the Soha Deli down the street. The sun eventually came out, and the two cousins, Celia and Rose, enjoyed some late afternoon sunshine on the roof. Rose went out to have dinner with her film team, who had all rolled in from points west, and we had an easy, homey evening playing games with the kids and eating pizza and Italian fare, again, delivered to our door. Tomorrow was the big day.

Rose headed out midday for a NYC haircut, and John and I took the kids to the Manhattan Children’s Museum, which was a perfect choice for a 3 and a 5-year-old. We strode down the street singing our anthem of the weekend, “The Worst Stroller in the World,” which had been an emergency Target purchase on day 1. The kids had a ball. Many balls, and crafts to celebrate Eid with plates depicting holiday foods, and lots of cosplay throughout the 4 floors of the building.

We had dinner on the street just outside the museum, and then it was time to jump in a cab to get home in time to bathe them and watch the awards ceremony. Though it didn’t end the way we wanted—Butterfly in a Blizzard did not win either of the nominations—being a part of the festivities was a reward.

The film team went out afterwards to celebrate with the winners who beat them out of the “Best Sports Documentary Long Form” because they knew and admired their work. The loss in the other category, for Editing, drew snarls from our own at-home watchers, none of whom were Celtics fans.

Here’s a short video of the crushing moment of defeat, with the kids paying no attention at all. Why the academy chose not to use a clip of Kimmy snowboarding down a mountain, I cannot fathom. And I’m sure her husband Chris, shown in the pirate hat, doesn’t either.

The next day, Rose took the kids to Battery Park to meet another colleague in the morning, and John and I put Donna and Pat’s apartment back in order. I had hidden the breakables and had to remember where they went. Goodbyes to the girls and Bryan upstairs, since the girls were out of school for Eid. Celia, though, had to go to her job as a public health officer at the CDC—a lot is coming down the pike to prepare for the World Cup. We were lucky to have her chill companionship over the long weekend

Linette had invited us to her office so the kids could experience a skyscraper. We went to the World Trade Center and took two elevators up to the 84^th floor. Gulp. That was a great thing to do as we were leaving the city. I’m curious to see how the view affects Kirk’s tower building with his Magnatiles and Legos. And Iris—she will be all about kitten heels. Meow!

Two years ago, I visited England for the first time and received a royal welcome from the Pratts. This year, they visited Central PA, and I was able to return their kindness—with help from my friends.

They dropped in very lightly. Their two brand-new American Tourister suitcases didn’t make it. What ensued was a battle of wills with British Airways and Fed Ex that flummoxed us for a few days.

But it didn’t stop us from partying. The first night, after picking Liz and Tom up from the Flix bus stop at the State College airport, we drove immediately to TJMaxx for a knickers run. They bought some necessities, and afterwards we relaxed over a light supper of penne with local asparagus, ramps, and walnuts. Sweet Italian sausage, Roma tomatoes, and eggplant—all roasted separately—added some color to the pasta dish. Because I know that Tom, in particular, loves a pudding (that’s what they call dessert), I made a Rhubarb Delight with some rhubarb from neighbor BJ’s patch—with current resident granddaughter Laura’s approval. BJ was smiling down from heaven, seeing rhubarb served with Meyer’s Dairy ice cream.

The Pratt’s arrived at JFK on Friday night to a soft landing with Carolyn and Jeff in Forest Hills. That is, after the big bump on arrival, when they found out their bags were missing. The whole plane-load of people were missing their bags. The plane had departed Heathrow with no luggage at all. The immensity of the problem became evident at the empty baggage claim carousel when the beleaguered BA rep announced to the waiting crowd that no luggage was to be collected. Liz and Tom described how the crowd quietly queued up to file claims. Had that plane landed in Texas with a load of cowboys, the announcement may have triggered a far different response from the crowd.

On Sunday morning, we commenced with phone calls to track the bags. Tom was assured that they would be delivered shortly. Since our State College address was nine miles beyond the 250 mile delivery limit, we gave the address of friends and seasoned travelers in Rebersburg, 239 miles from JFK. We had to drive east to pick them up on Tuesday, but had planned to ride down Penns Valley anyway. It was all still good.

So, we started the next morning with Strata on the deck, serenaded by chirping song birds.

We went to the Penn State Palmer Museum and to the Arboretum, but the line was too long at the Creamery to get an ice cream. Instead, we drove to Bellefonte for Americanos and Affogatos at My Café Buzz in Bellefonte.

The Bellefonte Art Museum proved a pleasant stop, and we viewed the current exhibits, the permanent Underground Railroad installation, and the kids’ creative corner with interesting twig sculptures.

Dinner that night was the first round of the Pennsylvania Pot Pie Throwdown. A contest between the southeastern PA Crusted Chicken Pot Pie in Gravy and the southwestern PA Ham and Noodle Pot Pie in a savory broth. Since our oven decided to conk out on Sunday night, quite randomly, we opted for the Ham Pot Pie that could be heated on the stovetop. Served with delicious boiled green beans and a crisp cabbage slaw, the Ham Pot Pie was a new dish for them, and they both enjoyed the shortcut version made with Grandma’s Frozen Egg Noodles.

Monday morning I got up early and made scones, completely forgetting that the oven had conked out—but it worked! We went to Shingletown and visited Sam and Nina for their garden tour, toting scones. We missed seeing the snake in their yard, and Liz was glad about that.

Next, we packed a lunch for a picnic at Black Moshannon after a tour of Jeanne’s farmhouse on Rattlesnake Pike. We met up at the park, our own “riviera” in use on the hot day. Sitting under the white pines, we snacked on sandwiches, delicious fruit, and chips. We walked near the bridge, the site of the ghost town of Antes, a thriving lumber village in the mid-1800’s. On the way down the mountain, we filled up a gallon jug at the spring near a plaque commemorating the Rattlesnake Hotel, a hotspot in those lumbering years.

Once down in Bald Eagle Valley we stopped at the Soaring Eagle Wetland and enjoyed the wildlife. Ducks in the pond, cedar waxwings overhead, and snakes in the stream where the local kids splashed in a swimming hole. Liz got out of her comfort zone and stood on rocks in the stream observing some local water snakes while John sat in the stream to cool off.

There was no need for dinner on Monday after our late picnic, but we sat on the deck listening to the evening birds. We focused on the luggage arriving at noon in Rebersburg, so we planned our day around that momentous event. Missing clothes were not so much at issue as missing medication and some whiskey gifts; we were all eager to be reunited with the bags.

Penns Valley was in early-summer glory that morning, and we drove to see Penns Creek near Coburn, with fishermen knee-deep in several spots. Our hoped-for tour of Woodward Camp was a bust. We couldn’t talk our way into seeing where their grandson Thomas had spent a week a few years ago at the skateboard camp. We drove on to Main Street in Rebersburg for our noon date with the luggage.

Only—no luggage arrived. We drove over to Kinfork, an Amish café near Madisonburg, and had a delicious lunch, and then circled back to find that FedEx agents who promised delivery were wrong. We spent the next few hours in a limbo of calls to a central FedEx center that repeatedly gave wrong information, and speeding up and down the ridges and valleys of Central PA, tracking Dollar Stores that are designated FedEx drop-off points. Like Dorothy on her quest to see the wizard, we met many quirky characters, but they all gave directions like the scarecrow.

Verklempt, we went home and had dinner—the other Pot Pie. A flaky pastry crust with peas, carrots, and potatoes in a golden Chicken Veloute Sauce made from boiling the chicken. Liz picked up a jar of pickled vegetables at Kinfork, though Amishly sweet, they were crisp and a good foil to the rich chicken in gravy. We fortified for further arguments with Fed Ex.

Which we had, until I finally lost all decorum and shouted: “May I speak to your supervisor!” Then we got somewhere. We were assured, again, that the bags—which had traveled way beyond the 250-mile “limit”-- would be held in Duncansville the next day, and we could pick them up on our way to Frederick. Dare we believe it?

We took a quick hike up to the vista at Oak Hall Park to bid goodbye to Happy Valley and to await confirmation that the bags were indeed in the FedEx depot.

Lo and behold--they were!

Which Pot Pie won the challenge? The Chicken Pot Pie in Pastry. Though Liz preferred the rich flavor of the ham. I need to experiment with a Ham Pot Pie in Pastry next time they come, with carry-on luggage.

Before the event is a full week old and relegated to the dusty annals of time, I’m taking a moment to call out last Saturday’s Kentucky Derby. The winner, Golden Tempo, ridden by Jose Ortiz, was groundbreaking in many ways, and not just by the pounding hooves.

If you missed it, catch a short NBC video of it here.

What does it sound like when 150,415 jaws drop? Fernando Villena, a friend from LA who was in the crowd, answered my question with a video of that moment. It was an eruption. Fern is in the background at the end of the vid holding a big camera to the left of DeVaux as she melts down.

The lightning bolt trajectory of coming from dead last to the winning position was a victory for more than the horse and the righteously proud owners, the Phipps family, of Phipps Stable, and co-owners of the horse with partner St. Elias Stable. The win thrust Cherie DeVaux, the horse’s trainer, into the spotlight as the first female horse trainer to win the Derby. The jockey, Jose Ortiz, whose pantalones were emblazoned with the words “Horse Whisperer”, beat out his older brother, Irad Ortiz, by a neck. Big bro was riding Renegade, the favorite with odds of 4-1, the morning of the race. Golden Tempo was 23-1.

Jose’s emotional interview with Donna Brothers after the race, in which he called out his family, especially his grandpa, moved me to tears, mirroring his. Donna Brothers expertly encouraged him to share tips with kids in Puerto Rico who aspired to become jockeys, as he had when he was a child. His words ring true: have a good attitude, try to learn English, learn more every day, and respect people. “Dream, but dream big.”

This year I was invested in the race after interviewing several students and the chef instructors from The Pennsylvania College of Technology who were headed to Churchill Downs for food service support. You can read the Centre Daily Times article here. I thought of them and their mission throughout the week and enjoyed watching the Kentucky Oaks 3-year-old fillies race on Friday night before the Derby. Jose Ortiz was the victor there as well, on Always a Runner, trained by Chad Brown. Jose was having a big weekend.

Our Centre County Kentucky Derby celebration is always with friends Bob and Kim, who live nearby and are diehard fans. Bob and John handle the making of the Mint Juleps, and Kim and I wrangle dinner to the table—after the race. Kim is always coming off a busy Spring Saturday with her hands in the dirt at Tait Farm Harvest Shop. She brings the perfect Julep mint, freshly harvested.

When we arrived a half hour before the race, she was busy washing herbs for Green Goddess Dressing and slicing radishes. The washed greens were a vibrant mix that included Miner’s lettuce. The pretty, round succulent leaves mixed well with other leafy greens to create the perfect spring blend for the creamy dressing. We deflowered chive blossoms, and she assembled the salad masterpiece.

We started dinner with a Thai Curried Squash and Red Lentil Soup with a generous dozen ramps thrown in at the end when I was searching for some green to brighten the earthy potage. Topped with Musser Dairy yogurt, chile crisp, and chopped cilantro, the first course jolted our palates and then eased once the yogurt was blended.

A rustic tart followed to put out the fire. John had provided a bowlful of morels that I sauteed, reserving one oversized one for a garnish. Prepared earlier in the day, the dish made for a ready-to-eat dinner.

We all like our salad at the end, and it proved a delicious counterpoint. Wine choices tended to be light and bright after the Mint Julep, and Kim magically conjured up mini bites of dessert from Dolce Vita—a lemon bar and a chocolate brownie, each cut into small squares—that are sold at the shop.

The Derby is over for another year, but this race will not be forgotten. The culinary students who watched the show from the rooftop after a week in the trenches will be forever changed. And many children around the world may have caught a spark that could start a fire.

Morel and Ramp Tart

Serves 8 (or 4, if people have seconds)

Piecrust for a 10-inch tart shell

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

6-8 ounces of cleaned morels, cut in half if large (a medium-sized bowlful). Feel free to substitute with any other kind of mushroom.

6-8 ounces of trimmed ramps, chopped (about 2 dozen). Substitute leeks if ramps are unavailable.

3 eggs

1 cup heavy cream

1 cup grated Gruyere

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan

salt and pepper to taste

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Prepare the pie crust and line a 9 or 10-inch tart pan with the pastry. Dock the crust by piercing with a fork, and prebake for about 10 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool. Line a baking tray with a sheet of parchment paper. Increase the oven temperature to 400°F.

Heat the butter in a saute or cast-iron pan, and when it is smoking hot, add the morels. Season with a little salt and pepper while cooking, and stir them around to get them a bit seared. When cooked, transfer to a bowl and add the ramps and additional butter if needed. Cook until they are wilted and bright green. Remove from the heat and add to the bowl with the morels.

Lightly beat the eggs in a bowl with a whisk, then add the heavy cream and the grated Gruyère and Parmesan. Season the custard lightly with salt and pepper.

Place the parbaked tart shell on the parchment-lined sheet pan. Lift the morels and ramps out of the bowl, leaving any liquid behind. Place the vegetables on the pastry crust and pour the liquid that drained into the custard mixture. Mix the custard until combined, then pour it over the vegetables. If you have a showpiece morel, make sure that’s on top. Place the tart into the hot oven and bake for 30 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350°F and bake for an additional 15-20 minutes, until a knife inserted into the custard comes out clean.

T.S. Eliott opens The Wasteland with “April is the cruelest month…” and Pennsylvania vignerons and home gardeners who lost baby grape leaves and asparagus beds agree. It was a capricious month, one day winter and the next, brilliant sunshine with the promise of spring.

Here in Pennsylvania, terra firma is forested and lush with an early green that seems lit from within. Bright pink redbuds, cherry and crabapple blossoms precede the dogwoods and lilacs. It’s one show after another; just keep your puffer jacket handy.

Sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and the Great Lakes, we are moist. We have the delicious ephemerals of the forest—morels, fiddleheads, ramps—and delicacies of the nearby coast—blue crab and oysters. And thanks to the influence of German forbears, we have a strong bread-and-sausage culture.

Last weekend, my friend Joann and I drove up to the Allegheny National Forest to look for ramps, aka wild leeks. We drove two hours north, beyond our old stomping grounds, S.B. Elliott (no relation to T.S.) and Parker Dam State Parks, over rollercoaster Routes 153 and 219, through Ridgway, where the Chainsaw Rendezvous was in full roar, to Kane, sometimes called the “Ice Box” of the East.

It was good that we started the visit at Bell's Meat Market because we were still dry. After our forest foray, we were drowned rats. We stocked up on wild leek sausage, sweet and hot, Greek sausage, Boudin, kielbasa and bratwurst. We bought some of their leek dips, regular and Cajun, and we watched the seasoned meat be extruded into hog casings right behind the counter. Though Jack Bell has passed away, his legacy of excellent meats and exceptional customer service lives on in Kane. Here is a story about Jack from 2013, published in Pennsylvania Magazine.

Bells Meat And Poultry Proof

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We drove north of town and turned left into the national forest to hunt for the ramps, armed with shovels and trowels. The wild spring allium is the first edible to green the forest floor, next to the Mayapples and Trillium. But it was soggy business. After an hour of digging, we were ready to find our way to the Kane Manor Inn and dry out.

The Kane Manor Inn is under new management, and we were impressed with the improvements that owners Ben and Deb Miller have made. It is a very historic structure, but they have been thoughtful and artistic with the renovations. The Inn has recently been named number four in the nation in its category of historic bed and breakfasts by Newsweek’s Reader’s Choice Awards, and the speakeasy that is under reconstruction in the basement should catapult that rating once it opens.

We went into town for dinner, trying out what seemed to have the highest ratings in town, Table 105. The Onion Soup Joann ordered was the best part of the dining experience, but maybe we should have known better than to order mussels and fish tacos in the PA Wilds. People around us with burgers and steaks looked happy.

The next morning, we enjoyed breakfast at the Manor before heading out early. The dining room had two other tables of overnighters, and it was a convivial crowd, comparing travel tips.

I took the bucketful of ramps that we gathered home and hosed them off outside while Joann went to work. Our split came to about 8 dozen ramps each, which John was happy to trim. I froze all of mine, since the next day we were going to Baltimore to visit my brother who is adamantly non-allium much to his wife, Barbra’s, dismay.

Monday lunch in Baltimore was a quick stop at the Broadway Market at Fells Point where we had lunch at the counter at Sal & Sons. The crabcake and fried oyster sandwiches, both liberally dusted with Old Bay set next to the grill, were perfect.

We were a part of the commuters as we drove from Baltimore to Frederick, which just made us grateful that the drive is not our everyday reality. In spite of her birthday, and being the de facto guest of honor, Barbra prepared a beautiful charcuterie board that I forgot to photograph. The ramp dips were nice accompaniments—and my bro could avoid them easily.

Their friends, Susan and Chris, joined us for dinner, and Susan brought a dessert that was not a cake. Instead, it was a Crème Brulee that Susan brightened with lemon zest and lemon juice in lieu of a missing vanilla bean. The substitution proved to be genius, just the right sunny flavor to channel the hiding sun.

Geoff’s grilled marinated flank steak, grilled slabs of Barbra’s sourdough bread for bruschetta, a bulgar pilaf with feta, and grilled vegetables were crowned with morels that John flambeed with Cognac. With the added drama of Susan torching the sugar on the Crème Brulee, we didn’t need any more than the one candle that Barbra held while we sang to her.

We had a visit with our friend Moira in the morning, and the two of us engaged in what is popular at our ripe old age—exchanging complaints about our health. But we are still standing, mostly.

That afternoon, we wound our way home and made an easy dinner of baked potatoes and leek sausage. My hack for a quick baked potato cuts the baking time in half. First, I microwave a pierced Russet potato for 5-10 minutes, depending on size. Then I brush it with olive oil, sprinkle it with flaky salt, and place it on a baking tray in a preheated 400° oven for about 30 minutes.

The two leek sausages that I first browned in a little olive oil in a hot cast-iron pan. Then poured on a half-cup of apple juice, sliced up an apple, and filled in the sides of the pan. We had some baby carrots that I threw in the pan as well. I let it all cook, covered, for about 20 minutes, then sliced the massive sausages into 5 pieces each to ensure they were cooked through.

Next time, I’ll take before photos!

Here is Susan’s recipe for her Lemon Crème Brulee. I knew Susan was my kind of person when she shared that she had ordered the flan dishes on Amazon the night before, when she realized that she needed them. They were on her doorstep in the morning. Now there’s a person who goes the extra mile! Thank you, Susan!

There are two words that are whispered in certain circles at this time of year. “They’re up.” Those words refer to morels, and they are indeed up and quite fruitful this year. But this post is not about morels. Morels are insistent and manly; their conical emergence lights a fire in some, breeding competition. This year, I’m focusing on the feminine side of a spring ephemeral—violets. Gentle flowers, demure; even their name is a soft sigh. There are plenty of those around; they are mostly ignored and readily available. And they make a beautiful jelly.

Years ago, my friend Moira and I used to attend annual symposiums called “Herbal Delights” organized by the Pennsylvania Heartland Chapter of the Herb Society of America. The events were as charming and old-fashioned as they sound. At the 1988 symposium, Leona Woodring Smith, author of The Forgotten Art of Flower Cookery, presented a talk on “St. Fiacre—Patron Saint of Gardeners.” I don’t remember the talk about the 7th-century Irish monk, but I purchased Mrs. Smith’s book at her book-signing afterward and still find it enchanting.

The chapter on violets contains 30 recipes and tips for using the flowers. Some show their age, as in the Violet Canapes recipe made with a jar of pineapple cheese spread and a can of deviled ham, flavored with Madeira, curry powder, and garlic salt. But many have a lingering appeal—a salmon salad with cucumber or avocado, capers, and fresh tarragon. Both dishes are garnished with violets.

I tried two recipes from the chapter, which required quite a lot of violet gathering. The Violet Jam was very easy and quick to make, though I would caution using a Vitamix for blending the violets and sugar, and then for adding the hot pectin mixture. I don’t think a domestic blender could handle the amount of sugar, since it bubbled over the top of the Vitamix. Caution is advised.

The Violet Jelly recipe recommended a double infusion for a deeper color and flavor. I picked another small bowl of violets, infused them with boiling distilled water in a glass jar, and let the mixture rest in the refrigerator overnight. The next day, I drained the infusion, heated the pale blue liquid, and infused a fresh batch of blossoms. The result was worth the effort.

These three recipes are from The Forgotten Art of Flower Cookery by Leona Woodring Smith

Violet Jam

Makes 6 medium jars (what size, Leona?)

1 1/2 cups violet flowers

1 1/2 cups water

3 tablespoons lemon juice

3 cups sugar

1 package fruit pectin (Sure Jell)

Put the violets, 3/4 cup of the water, and the lemon juice into your blender (use a Vitamix!) and blend at high speed for 1 minute. Add the sugar and blend for another 60 seconds.

Stir the pectin into the remaining water and boil for a full two minutes, stirring constantly. Pour this hot mixture into the blender and blend for another 2 minutes. Pour into jars and seal. Store in your freezer.

No vitamins are lost in this process and you retain the fresh flavor of the violets.

Violet Water

Violets release their flavor and coloring very readily if placed in a glass jar or crock (do not use metal) and boiling water to cover them is added. Place a lid on the container and let stand overnight. (Use distilled water for best results.) Strain and use the liquid to color drinks, gelatin, icings, sauces, etc. If you prefer stronger flavor or coloring you may reheat the liquid and pour over a fresh batch of flowers.

Violet Jelly

5 medium jars (Again, size? not the 8-ounce ones that I used.)

1 1/2 cups violet water (double-infused for deeper color)

1 tablespoon lemon juice

3 1/2 cups sugar

1/2 bottle fruit pectin (Certo) (I used the entire pouch of liquid pectin)

Combine the violet water, lemon juice, and sugar in a large pan. Place over high heat and bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Stir in the fruit pectin and boil hard for one full minute, stirring constantly.

Remove from the heat. (Leona recommends one or two drops of both red and blue food coloring here for deeper color, but I don’t. These recipes are from a different time.)

Skim off the foam with a metal spoon and pour into glasses.

To some glasses, add a rose-geranium leaf for additional taste and eye appeal. (I wouldn’t do that either.)

Note: I did not process the jelly in a boiling water canner because there was no actual fruit or veg in it. I used sterilized glass jelly jars and put new lids into hot water so they would seal. I did hear them pop, so I know that they are safe. And there aren’t many jars—they won’t last long.

For the true violet aficionado, here is some more lore.

The following two paragraphs, recipe, and photo were from my Centre Daily Times article published on May 9, 2001.

Violaceae, the viola family, includes wild violets, cultivated violas, pansies, and Johnny-jump-ups. In Europe, v. tricolor, with its yellow, purple, and white markings, is known as “heart’s ease.” The Latin word viola means “sweet-smelling flower,” and indeed V. odorata has been treasured for millennia as an herbal medicine and a food. The ancient Greeks, who named the flower the emblem of Athens, were not the only ones enamored of the plant. Chinese, Native American, and Ayurvedic health practitioners across temperate climate zones used the plant's many parts in tinctures, poultices, and as a salad herb. A cure for a variety of ailments, the viola family was listed in John Gerard’s Herball, first published in England in 1597: “It has power to ease inflammations, roughness of the throat and comforteth the heart, assuageth the pains of the head and causeth sleep.” As far back as 500 BC, it was used as a poultice for skin cancer and lesions, a practice that continued in various parts of the world until the twentieth century.

Violets have long been associated with innocence, faithfulness, and love. They were the favorite flower of Napoleon, who marked his anniversaries with Josephine by sending her violets, and who was buried with a locket containing faded violets from her grave. In ancient Persia, sherbets were flavored with the flowers, and in Rome, a perfumed wine was made from the blossoms. This decoction was also considered a love potion.

(Here’s a recipe not included in Leona’s book, but it can only be made in the spring. One of these days, I’ll make it again. It’s a keeper.)

Lemon Crepes with Violet-Vanilla Cream Filling and Violet Syrup

Serves 8

Crepes:

2 large eggs

1 cup milk

3/4 cup unbleached flour

1/4 teaspoon sea salt

1 tablespoon sugar

2 tablespoons melted unsalted butter

zest of one lemon

Syrup:

1 cup water

4 tablespoons sugar

1 1/2 cups violets, stems removed

1/2 teaspoon white wine vinegar

Filling:

One cup heavy cream (Meyer’s Dairy cream is best)

3 tablespoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon real vanilla

15 ounces ricotta cheese

freshly grated nutmeg to taste

1 cup violet, Johnny-jump-up, or pansy petals, snipped with scissors if large

Garnish:

1/2 cup heavy cream, whipped until stiff

Additional perfect violet blossoms

Crepes:

In a blender or in a bowl with a whisk, combine the eggs, milk, flour, salt, sugar, and melted butter. Blend or whisk until smooth, and then allow the batter to rest for at least an hour. (Can be prepared a day ahead.) Add the lemon zest when you are ready to prepare the crepes. Heat a crepe pan over medium heat until hot. Spray the pan with cooking spray, then pour in just enough batter to coat the bottom as thinly as possible. Cook for about 30 seconds until the top surface of the crepe appears dry and the edges begin to curl. Flip the crepe over and cook the other side briefly, taking care not to brown it. Stack the crepes on a plate, cover tightly, and refrigerate until ready to fill.

Syrup:

Combine the water and sugar in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan and bring to a boil to dissolve the sugar. Add the violets and simmer over medium-high heat for about 15 minutes or until reduced by half. Stir occasionally. The liquid may appear greenish due to chlorophyll in the plant. Add the vinegar and observe the color change as the anthocyanin (reddish-purple) pigment reacts with the acid. Voila—violet! Strain the syrup through a sieve, pressing to remove all the juice from the petals. You will have about 1/2 cup of the syrup.

Filling:

Whip the cream with the sugar and vanilla until stiff peaks form. Fold in the ricotta, nutmeg, and flower petals.

Assembly:

Fill each crepe with about 1/2 cup of the filling mixture, then place it on a plate with the seam side down. Drizzle about 1 tablespoon of the violet syrup around the crepe and garnish with several dollops of whipped cream topped with violet blossoms.

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