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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LET’S AGREE

The cup sat on the edge of the table in such a way that light flooded in from behind highlighting little peaks of the frothed leaf that sat suspended on the latte. I took its picture not because I was overwhelmed by its beauty or because I thought it’d make a compelling image but because I was procrastinating. I had gone there to write but found myself doing whatever I could to avoid facing the blank screen.

“At its root, perfectionism isn’t really about a deep love of being meticulous. It’s about fear. Fear of making a mistake. Fear of disappointing others. Fear of failure. Fear of success.”
― Michael Law

I don’t know who Michael Law is. I’ve never read any of his books. Truth be told I found this quote on GoodReads after doing a google search, “quotes on perfectionism”.

Regardless of where it came from he made the connection of perfectionism to fear that I was seeking for in my own understanding. I had always thought a perfectionist was one who was impeccable and tidy. I’m not those things, but I am often paralyzed by the fear of failed expectations. Those high expectations and fear of putting anything out into the world that doesn’t meet those expectations can often keep me from creating and that scares me most of all.

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CHOCOLATE CAKE WITH BITTERSWEET SOUR CREAM FROSTING

“Roman, tomorrow is your birthday. We can do anything you want. We can go get ice cream? I can make you a special dinner? Anything.” Roman sat there thinking while I bombarded him with questions marveling that I was about to watch my number two turn 5.

“I want a chocolate cake and I want it to say, ‘Baron, Roman love Mama’ and have the Lone Ranger with a gun, kicking his leg like this.” He proceeded to show me exactly what he wanted the Lone Ranger to be doing by shaping his lego Lone Ranger into the perfect position.

Chocolate cake it is. I’ll worry about the details later.

In the morning, Roman chose Fruity Pebbles from the store as it’s tradition in our house that the birthday child gets to choose any kind of cereal, even the sugary, unnaturally bright colored types that we never keep in the house unless it’s someone’s birthday. This tradition continues from my husband’s childhood and it’s one we all love and benefit from. Because yes, I totally indulged in a bowl of crackly, sort of fruit flavored pebbles that morning and also, I stole a few bits of the shells mac & cheese that the birthday boy requested for dinner. You know, the boxed kind with the fluorescent cheese powder. That box exists in our house too. And each time I rip into that box I feel a little guilty. The same guilt that I feel when I walk out the front door and my daughter says, “I want you to stay and snuggle with me.” It’s the “am I reading too little to them? Should they be taking more vitamins? I should have scratched their backs longer last night. Why did I say that and in THAT tone?” It’s that sort of guilt that piles on my shoulders weighing me down and whispering thoughts of inadequacy all throughout the day. This guilt that builds my defense before I need to defend a thing. This shame that makes me feel unworthy, unloved and constantly attacked even by my sweet children.

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PEPPERMINT HOT CHOCOLATE AFFOGATO

INTRO

“Do you want ice cream with caramel sauce or hot chocolate?” I ask Ivy. Her face brightens with the choice. She and I plan to take full advantage of a quiet house and the ice cream that sits idly in the freezer.

“No wait!” I interrupt just as she is ready to answer. “How about we have hot chocolate AND ice cream.” She doesn’t argue.

She scoots the stool over while I reach for a saucepan. Putting herself in charge of the chocolate she sneaks a taste before plunging into the hot milk speckled with floating dots of perfumed vanilla seeds. Cocoa powder, rich and nearly black, follows turning the white milk dark and thick. A scoop of ice cream sits in each bowl as a warm bath of hot chocolate pools around its base. A breeze of peppermint hits my nose, cooling and crisp, and immediately the ice cream puddles at the edges.

Her little hands wrap around the bowl smiling at what she sees. I notice her fingers; more slender than last year with chipped hot pink sparkly polish on her nails. Our legs weave together on the couch, a Christmas movie plays in the background as we give full attention to our dessert; warm and cold and appropriately indulgent.

This is the sort of scene I’ve longed for as the last several weeks were filled with deadlines and what I now describe as noise – too loud for me to notice the simple joys like this. Our December has been set aside for quiet – an intentional move during a season that tries desperately to threaten quiet and contentment. Books are being read, candles scented of Bergamot are lit, the tree stands tall in the corner with the lights beaming continuously. We will find snow, we will bake cookies, write notes, drive around oohhing and ahhing at our neighbor’s Christmas lights and warm ourselves with cup after cup of hot chocolate. Closets are purged of their unnecessary clutter and toys are being reexamined and donated. We’re finding joy in a simple sheet of white paper and a sharp pencil, some chalk and a giant game of tic tac toe in the driveway and watching icicles shatter into tiny pieces as it bears the brunt of a kung-fu chop.

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