Peaches - Moscato

 I realize the time for peaches has passed for many us, but think about blood oranges in place of peaches, or even slices of tender pears that smell of honey. The point is fruit loves to soak in a cup of Muscat. Particularly when the fruit has first sat in a touch of honey and cinnamon.

The idea here is simple. Take the best ripe fruit you can find  - what’s hanging low on the branches right now. Toss thick slices of that fruit with a bit of sweetness, some spice  then top with chilled, bubbly Moscato. A few bright leaves of mint floating on the surface makes it feel like dessert – or is it a cocktail? It’s hard to tell but not hard to finish.

As a contributor for S.Pellegrino’s Practice the Art of Fine Food program I created this recipe and post along with many others that can be found //

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simple-pasta-with-fresh-herbs

First of all I need to thank you all for the incredible response from my last post. I have read every single comment and email and they have been like a breath of fresh air. I struggled to publish that post but you all have once again proven to be an incredible community that encourages and lifts us up. So thank you. I apologize for not responding to the emails and comments. It continues to be a bit of a difficult season for me and my family but I have seen so much amazing goodness come out of it already. We are covered in grace and are so thankful for your words and continued support.

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Of course much can be said on the beauty of sharing a meal with dear family and friends as laughter mingles with the scents of soft spices drifting through the air. Where wine glasses clink over riveting conversation and dishes linger on the table far after the meal is done. There is also beauty in cooking for one.

Perhaps it is because for me this is a rare occasion – one to be celebrated and remembered. It is a time when my cravings and food adversities (of which there aren’t many) are the only ones to consider. It is a time when the pasta can be covered in little green flecks and I won’t hear the moanings from three little ones each one meticulously trying to pluck the herbs off their pasta.

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TASTE TO REMEMBER

When asked questions about childhood I often draw a blank. I’m mentally paralyzed as I search the dusty corners of my brain seeking to withdraw stories coated in details that reveal more about who I am today. I envy those that can paint vivid images of when they stood, just barely, on their sausage-like legs. They can seemingly make sense of every year of their life and beautifully illustrate how it informs of who they’ve become and anticipate who they are yet to be.

I can barely remember yesterday let alone the days when my permed hair was tangled into two little pig tails. But when a familiar taste from those days finds me then suddenly the surrounding details become more clear.

I remember gathering around our large oak table slightly off-set from the rest of the house, when mom had spent hours in the kitchen preparing a special dinner. I never liked seafood but salmon pie was another story. Perhaps it was the mashed potato filling and the buttery crust that made it bearable for me to choke down the fish that flecked the inside. Or it could have been the cream sauce made lightly sweet with chartreuse peas.
There is nostalgia over nachos as we had a date with them every Sunday night sitting down with a giant cheese-laden platter while watching America’s Funniest Home Videos followed by The Simpsons. I found comforte in fried tortillas and my family all around.

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