I had one personal goal I wanted to reach this summer, something so small and inconsequential it’s embarrassing to write down. But at the same time, I’m so ridiculously happy I was able to accomplish it, I feel it necessary to, yep, brag.
So here it goes: Last Friday, I learned how to dive.
It’s that time of year when everything is ripe. You can practically hear it, that buzz that warbles when you slice through a tomato or eat fresh strawberry jam or bite into that perfectly perfect peach. As such, I wanted to talk about a few great recipes that I’ve run across over the past few months to help celebrate this ripeness in all its glory. So here we go:
Spaghetti squash and pork stir-fry
Spaghetti squash and I had an exceptionally rocky start when my mom told me, at age 8, we were having spaghetti with tomato sauce and the spaghetti ended up being squash. Boy, was I pissed. While I did eventually forgive my mom, I never forgave the squash for not being pasta.
My friends Sean and Hannah, who gave me this recipe, were able to talk me out of my grudge and I’m so thankful for it. Honestly, this is delicious. The squash takes on the flavors of the soy sauce and rice vinegar (I use extra of both, and I double the amount of minced ginger), making it taste tangy, almost pickled. Note that if you’re in a hurry you can just use regular ground pork instead of the chopped up pork tenderloin as they suggest. The best part is this meal is so healthy you can reward yourself with homemade hot fudge and vanilla ice cream afterward, which is exactly what I did last night.
Stay-cation. Isn’t that a clever word? The concept of staying home on a week off, but still pretending you are away on holiday. It’s a celebration of sorts, but a very, very responsible one. Won’t it be fun, you tell each other as you clink glasses. What a good idea. We’ll save a little coin, we’ll take time for romance, we’ll re-examine what a beautiful life we lead in the comfort of our own home.
When you’re in the planning stages of a stay-cation, you highlight the advantages. First, you will get to sleep in your own bed. No wrestling with flat pillows. No suspect comforters. Move to the bathroom and there are no tiny, white bars of soap that leave residue on your skin. No small bottles of inadequate conditioner.
Just soft hair and good sleeps, that’s what our week will be.
This past weekend, I took my stepdaughter to Chicago for camp. We’d had an incredibly lucky drive up (no traffic, killer parking spots, even a tasty lunch) that culminated in arriving at our hotel to find, a), free parking and WIFI, b), an unexpected outlet mall nearby and, c), a Giordano’s pizza restaurant a short walk away. So upon embarking home the next day, it was with a mild sense of doom. I knew, after all, that if there were a luck bank, I had maxed out my account the day before. And the only way to fill it back up was with bad luck installments.
We had ourselves a mission. Or, least, I had assigned everyone one. The goal was to make the seven-mile return trek to New Victoria Fish in Montreal. We’d all applied sunscreen, filled water bottles, had cash in our pockets. Peter had his sports sandals velcroed, my mom had her sneaks on, William was sporting his Ferrari cap. It was game time.
We’d had the salmon lox they sell at this fish store one summer before. Peter, who is a master at ferreting out the most character-filled places, had heard about it from a friend, and he and William had checked it out. I had been out doing something, either running or stuffing my face, the two things I do best in Montreal, and missed the errand. But I’d heard about it ever since:
“You walk in and two old men are standing there. They say nothing to you. You tell them what you want and one starts hand slicing the fish. They continue to say nothing. Until one holds out a long knife, the blade as long as your arm, reaches over the counter with it, and offers you a huge sample of the salmon.”
Sometimes column topics take hours to come up with. Sometimes they punch you in the face. This week, the punch happened. Because? Cheese. Duh. My most favorite food in the world (tied with bread). How is it possible I’ve never written about my deep love for it? Come up with an ode, ballad, even limerick on its behalf? Well, the time has arrived. Presenting: Cheese, a love letter.
Dear Cheese,
I love you.
Just kidding. You know that. Obviously. Haha. Tell me something I don’t know, right? Haha. This flowery lavender stationary was your first clue, right? Haha. Sorry, I’m a little nervous talking to you. That’s where this annoying laugh is coming from. For the record, I don’t usually have one.
Ahem.
Anyway, how are you? I’m fine.
Last night, my husband gave me Jupiter for dessert.
It had been a lovely Memorial Day and we were finishing dinner on the deck under what had become a dark and starry night. I looked up and there was The Big Dipper directly overhead, clear and bright. William started pointing out other constellations, his knowledge vast and exact, and I tried to follow his finger to see where he was looking.
William has a telescope that has lived unused in the bedroom upstairs for the nearly 12 years I’ve been here, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to dust it off. I brought it downstairs to the deck and William got to work, looking like a teenager in the dark as he popped off lens caps and adjusted knobs.
I spent part of my Sunday draping my best friend Kristin’s daughter in jewelry. I was in Winnipeg spending some time at home, and my favorite little 6-year-old in the world had come over for some tea and scones. We all noticed that, upon arrival, Greta opted to explore upstairs rather than stay in the kitchen where the tea party was taking place. Upon joining her there, I think I figured out the reason why.
“Would you like to put on some jewelry?” I asked her and she immediately nodded. Then she made a beeline for my mom’s jewelry drawer, one she hadn’t seen in at least a year, maybe two.
Gabrielle and her best friend Emily are downstairs right now making chocolate chip cookies. As I sit upstairs listening to the pots rattle and the cupboards close, I wonder if there is anything better when you’re a teen. I mean, yes, I guess there are a lot of things. But having the kitchen to yourself to make a sweet snack makes for a lovely rainy afternoon.
Some of my earliest kitchen memories come from helping my mom add (too much) vanilla and watch her beat the eggs so we could make a batch. I always used to marvel how shiny and delectable the chips became even before they were baked, like they’d somehow been awakened.
The best part was parking myself on the kitchen floor to watch them bake. It may well be that I was a simple child, but I sat there for the duration of the 15 minutes it took for them to puff and spread. It always seemed like a bit of magic. Not as impressive as Shrinky Dinks, perhaps, but hell, you can’t eat Shrinky Dinks.
For the past few weeks, we’ve been sending Gabrielle upstairs to her room to study. I can’t say it’s earned us any points in the parenting popularity contest, but Gabrielle has finally had to hit the books if she wants to keep her 4.0.
Seeing her lumber up the stairs though, hearing her sigh, seeing her struggle to develop her own studying strategy, boy, has it brought things back. Because there is no greater mental torture than exam season, is there? For me and my slow brain, it was four weeks of intense study every spring from grade nine on, hours each night with just me and my binders of notes.
As I remember it, exam season broke down into four mental states, each wildly different from each other. See if you agree.
The Toasted Tomato 