Like most other mama hens, I am the cook of the house. Even though I have a full time job(s) and volunteer in various organizations, it is I who makes sure the family eats good nutritious food and that we all sit down together to partake of our meals. Week after week.
Like an alchemist, every time I go to my kitchen, I’m always able to create something new from the ingredients I have on hand. This is powerful magic and I don’t take my role as food preparer lightly.
A large part of that job involves presentation of the final product. If the food doesn’t look good, it’s not going to be eaten (can we ever forget my failed-cowboy stew?)
On Saturday, in a thrift shop, I found a large, flowered, heavy baking dish. When I picked it up, the heft in my hands was solid. This dish was clearly a force to be reckoned with in anyone’s kitchen.
I turned the dish over and read that it had been made in France. Well made, a back story, and stunning. ‘nuff said.
I knew it was destined to be mine.
I brought the dish into my house and set it on the dining room table. For a day I kept looking at it. Tell me what it is you want me to do.
It wasn’t until I went food shopping on Sunday that I finally heard what the dish was saying.
Strawberries. Lovely deep red strawberries.
I usually never make dessert. My feeling is that if the dinner is good enough, you don’t need to eat anything afterward. I also tend to make Sunday dinners the biggest meal of the week. It’s a way for us to get sustained and catch our breath before we dive back into the work/school week. Dessert on a Sunday usually only happens if we have a birthday and then there is cake.
Everyone was at dinner and as we sat at our porch table, we ate grilled salmon, shredded Brussel sprouts, corn on the cob, salad, and ancient grain bread with butter while we told stories of what had happened in our lives over the weekend. New drones, a musical fundraiser, baking brownies for a bake sale, and a new computer system. Continue reading