My daughter was barely four years old when she had to undergo both an endoscopy and a colonoscopy, whereafter it was pronounced that she was “gluten intolerant.”  I remember asking the doctor if it was Celiac’s and she replied it was too early to tell.  She said our child *might* outgrow it by the age of twelve.  Our girl is now ten and the little thing has been sneaking gluten (wheat) for quite some time now.  I think it all started when she was a flower girl at her cousin’s wedding.  I love the way my mother-in-law joked she ate “32 egg salad sandwiches” at a pre-wedding shower.  Honestly, I am not sure how far off that was from the truth!!!  We were told the bread was gluten-free but my mother-in-law knew better.  I was so dumb I believed them.  My MIL just sat back and watched, proclaiming my child would either “drop dead” or be fine.  Next her daddy starting allowing her “bites” of his food covered in flour, unbeknownst to me.  Then I find out my little one is trading her food at school like some kind of professional card sharp.  I found myself saying things like, “How do you know what that tastes like?” and receiving some cryptic, mumbled response.  During this past spring break we met a lovely couple of over twenty years and he offered our girl a (fried) “chicken finger.”  I told them she had never “officially” had gluten and I was incredibly relieved when I discovered his husband was a doctor.  Our girl had absolutely no side effects and my husband and I decided she could SLOWLY begin to implement “gluten” (wheat) into her diet.  Each day (which I thought was too fast) we’d introduce her to something new.  “DOUGHNUTS!” she’d shout.  The next day “QUESADILLAS!”  For those of you at home complaining about dietary restrictions, imagine a little girl in Kindergarten all the way through the fourth grade asking to leave birthday parties early because she knew she could not have cake, or pizza, or even ice cream.  While I may be celebrating our daughter’s newfound ability to eat wheat, I know many out there struggle with food allergies.  I cannot eat cinnamon or seafood.  Some people are deathly allergic to various foods.  The ancient Greek playwright Euripides once wrote, “When a man’s stomach is full it makes no difference whether he is rich or poor.”  Let us all remember those around the world who are suffering from malnutrition and starvation, and pray earnestly for them.  Gratitude is an attitude and I always try to acknowledge it.  I know my little one is … she keeps hollering “let’s eat!”

Even as a little kid I found two scoops of something to be very self-indulgent:  two scoops of ice cream, two scoops of mashed potatoes from the cafeteria, or even two scoops of molded butter at a fancy restaurant.  I seem to remember a cereal which boasted “two scoops” of raisins in every box.  (I do not care for raisins so honestly I never ate it.)  One can scoop up newly fallen snow, clear water from a spring, or freshly plowed dirt.  I think of candy scoops, scooping up ingredients from a salad bar, and scoops of “gravy.”  I have delighted in scooping up newly mown grass and hay to inhale their fresh scent, autumn leaves, and seashells.  So my little one and I were recently celebrating and found ourselves in the coffee shop we love.  They have new drinks out for summer, and one of them is called the “Dragon Drink.”  The name alone made it cool but with the dragonfruit turning it electric pink?!  My unleaded (decaffeinated) child was SOLD!  The barista very solemnly looked down at her over the counter and asked if she was aware of what she was undertaking by ordering such a drink.  Wide eyed, my nine-year-old stood transfixed as he told her “it had been known to cause scaly skin and possibly fire-breathing.”  She giggled.  It is people like that man who make the world great.  Assuming they were from China, I was surprised to learn when I searched it up that they are the fruit of several cactus species indigenous to the Americas!  I believe I can recall having Prickly Pear margaritas in both San Antonio and Santa Fe and marveling at their startling hot pink color.  Recently I was at a birthday party for one of my little girl’s friends.  They did not know she was gluten intolerant and both parents were genuinely concerned seeing all the pizza they’d ordered, the big beautiful unicorn cake, and then realizing my little girl could not have any of it.  I told them not to worry; I should have thought to bring snacks which I almost always do.  Such caring parents, they began scanning their kitchen with renewed eyes.  “Well, I have an avocado.  Do you like those?”  Asking a Texan if they like avocados is akin to asking if a wolf likes meat.  I could tell my girl was trying to be polite while trying not to attack this mom.  As she was slicing it open she said what she liked to do was to add hot sauce in the middle of each scoop (made by the indentation from the seed) and even I felt my eyes widen.  “CHOLULA?!” we exclaimed in unison.  Opening up her fridge, she produced a bottle.  All that was needed now was a spoon to scoop it all up.  I thought it was the coolest idea ever and my little one kept thanking her in between shakes of the bottle.  That was only about a month ago and it has already become a staple for my daughter and me.  We have a faux set of tree trunk table and chairs by our koi pond.  My little one and I like to snack out there after the sun has gone down, and we also feed the fish.  We named it The Koi Pond Cafe.  The Indian composer of music and film known as Ilaiyaraaja said, “Life is not what you expect:  it is made up of the most unexpected twists and turns.”  So that is the story of how The Koi Pond Cafe pictured above developed its signature drink and appetizer … and for once it’s not a bad thing to enjoy two scoops.

Maybe it’s just a southern thing in the United States, but family china, crystal, and silver are still cherished.  I have had my grandmother”s and my mother’s wedding registry since they have passed away.  We fell on hard times and had to sell our family silver when I was little.  Some of my maternal mother’s thick, heavy, exquisitely hand-cut rose bowls and vases one could not purchase now if they wanted.  Contrary to popular belief, it is not EVERY woman’s ultimate “dream” to marry.  My father impressed upon me from the time I was in the fourth grade that when I got to college it was to get an education — first and foremost — and so I did.  When I was at SMU I really enjoyed my sorority and going out with fraternity boys to all sorts of fun parties.  Yes, the guy that drove a Porsche may have used it to his advantage … but guess what?  He was cute and I have always loved nice cars.  I was stunned to discover there were just as many “gold-diggers” with the boys, and yet that is a term that is most ALWAYS associated with girls.  There were some guys in college who dropped me like a hot potato once they realized I had no money.  Then there were the wonderful exceptions, like Anders from Germany who proudly picked me up for a dance at my parents’ apartment and never treated me as anything less than a lady.  He was so kind I wish I could have loved him.  He played rugby and did not seem to give a hoot for American financial dynamics.  Although I always wanted to be married with a family of my own, as I grew older it just seemed my chances for what I really wanted became slim to near impossible.  And then I met the most wonderful guy.  I can still vividly recall the first instant I saw him.  I wound up changing his flat tire and he wound up buying me ice cream.  We started dating exclusively three months later, just after I’d turned 35 and, after a year of dating, we wed eight months later.  Suddenly I found myself a fiancée having a big church wedding with between 300 and 500 people, and almost all of my own family had passed.  Getting to “register” as a bride was so exciting:  we got to choose our own china pattern, crystal glassware, and silverware design.  I kept envisioning all the holidays and parties I would host with both sides of my future husband’s family.  While I am very proud of our our registry, it remains mostly on display behind the wood and glass of a very old china cabinet that came from my husband’s maternal side of the family.  There is not a day that goes by that I do not admire it, as it lives in front of our little family dinner table.  What I had failed to see though, as a future wife and (by the grace of God) a future mother, was the everyday.  The normalcy of marriage … when you’re both tired from getting off work; when you don’t feel like cooking something new; when you make sure there are leftovers you know your partner is looking forward to because they’re having to stay late.  It’s the times they request your “comforting” casserole when they’re sick.  You develop favorite recipes and things you just make up along the way your family winds up loving.  I never thought to register for bakeware, I guess because I had my mother’s beloved brownie pan, the one she used for meatloaf, and her covered casserole dish I regularly use and bring to church gatherings and parties.  As much as I treasure my registry, after almost fourteen years of marriage, I feel it is our cookware which seems to hold the most family memories.  It’s the gleam in their eyes when you set that dish on the table.  It’s the weird little marks after years of use that won’t come off no matter how hard you scrub.  It’s both the routine and the specialness when you look back and realize all the things you have shared over that bakeware.  The American restaurateur Guy Fieri said, “Cooking is all about people.  Food is maybe the only universal thing that really has the power to bring everyone together.  No matter what culture, everywhere around the world, people get together to eat.”  To the newly married couple smart enough to register for it, I hope you both know it is with much love that your cousin and I bought you all just a casserole dish.

As a little girl growing up in Dallas, Texas I LOVED “chicken fried” steak.  What I loved even more was the pure cream and black pepper gravy that was ladled over the top!  Despite the “loaded” baked potatoes and the giant, buttered white “Texas” toast, everyone was so much thinner in the ’70’s.  Personally, I attribute the collective rise in American’s weight to “family” sized portions.  I think sometime in the ’80’s it became a thing:  bowls got deeper, glasses got taller, and plates got larger.  Whenever we are fortunate enough to go to Paris now I indulge and yet I never gain weight.  I have rich chocolate ice cream, red wine, incredible pommes frites (“French fries”) and more without ever tipping the scale.  At first glance, their small scoop of ice cream does not seem like much.  However, as I have found multiple times, it winds up being enough to feel satisfied.  Yes, Paris is a great city for cycling and walking but, as tourists, we utilize cabs and pedicabs a lot.  Traveling though the south last summer I discovered there were all sorts of gravies … some “plain,” some mixed with sausage, or some mixed with ham drippings and coffee; Red-eye gravy.  As an adult I strive to eat vegan, but I have always prized cream gravy.  Add jalapeños to that and forget it — in my opinion there’s nothing better!  Mostly vegetarian as an adult, I live for biscuits or mashed potatoes with jalapeño gravy!  As a teenager I traveled through the Deep South and discovered variations in grits, which I happen to adore the most.  Some folks made it with just salt, just butter, just cheese, or perhaps just cream.  For me the ideal was all of the above!  I think the same holds true in a way for “gravy.”  Some use just salt, just butter, just cheese, just cream, or bacon drippings with coffee.  I don’t mind the coffee; it’s the critter drippings that sort of freak me out now.  Growing up I can remember Mama having an avocado green jar in the back of the refrigerator that contained bacon grease.  She’d put a spoonful of it in everything from green beans to succotash.  I think preserving grease was a staple in the south.  I wish I were totally vegan, but I do allow myself to enjoy some things made with dairy.  It appears to me like one can get just pure cream gravy in the south but Texans make both grits and gravy with jalapeños.  Texans seem to be truly the southwest … we carry deep roots from the south and then have our spicy flavors from the west.  Those chilies are Native American and from what is now Mexico.  Growing up I always adored the syndicated humorist Erma Bombeck.  She once said, “I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.”  That would be me!  Enjoying a great bowl of mashed potatoes or an excellent biscuit is decadent enough; anything else is just gravy.

Awhile back someone invited me to a bi-monthly outdoor gathering.  I was happy and surprised but asked if it would be OK if I brought my nine year old along.  My husband works late hours and I will not leave her alone.  Given that we are still in the midst of a pandemic I try to be cautious with any type of socializing — whether for her, myself, or with my husband’s extended family.  They said she’d be the only kid but that she was welcome.  I assured them, as an Episcopalian (or “Whiskeypalian”) she was no stranger to seeing wine.  I TRULY did not think my little one would want to go but I asked.  Before I had even finished she’d run upstairs and donned her winter hat, coat, gloves and boots; jumping up and down and pronouncing she was ready!  Blinking, I said I would put on a wrap and get a bottle of wine from our pantry.  It was almost dark, but we could just make out the welcoming crackle of the fire pit and the soft, portable chairs arranged in a circle around it.  I only recognized the man who’d so kindly invited me but the little group was open and nice.  To this day, the greatest culinary delight I have ever had remains in discovering freshly roasted chestnuts when it was only October in Paris.  All those years I’d heard my beloved Nat King Cole sing of chestnuts roasting by an open fire, but I’d never actually tasted one until I was 44.  My gluten intolerant one had literally plowed through two and a half bags of jumbo marshmallows but she was so grateful and ecstatic no one seemed to mind.  To my surprise and delight, I discovered my friend had brought chestnuts.  CHESTNUTS!!!  I’d only ever had them that time in Paris and, as we roasted them, he and I agreed that Paris is magic and nothing compares with theirs.  Still!  I had no idea where one could even acquire any chestnuts in Dallas and I was thrilled.  Meanwhile, another kind man was showing pictures of his grandchildren to my little one on his iPhone.  Everyone watched out for her with a firm but gentle collective eye as it became darker.  The moon rose overhead and our circle moved in a little closer to the fire.  I snapped the picture above and I will never forget the look of sheer delight on my only child’s face.  The ancient Greek philosopher and essayist Plutarch said, “The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.”  I love that.  I took us on this outing intending to stay about an hour.  It turned out I had to cut my little party girl off after almost three; ironically coinciding with the number of bags of marshmallows she’d consumed.  We walked away chilled and a little tired, but happy.  I couldn’t help but reflect upon how welcoming these people were to have included us.  She and I left feeling there is a special kind of magic in firelight and fellowship.

Of all the major soda pops in America, Dr. Pepper is the oldest.  It was invented by the pharmacist Charles Alderton in 1885 in Waco, Texas.  Made with 23 flavors, it has been said the owner of the drugstore where it was sold named the drink after his good friend Dr. Charles Pepper.  It gained such a widespread following that other soda fountain operators in Waco began buying the syrup and serving it.  By 1891 the growth of Dr. Pepper became so huge they formed a new firm, the Artesian Mfg. and Bottling Company, which later became the Dr. Pepper company.  In 1904 Dr. Pepper was introduced to almost 20 million people attending The World’s Fair Exposition in St. Louis that year.  From 1910 to 1914, Dr. Pepper was identified with the slogan, “King of Beverages.”  At that time research was discovered that sugar levels providing energy for the average person fell during a typical day at 10:30, 2:30, and 4:30.  A new advertising slogan was formed saying, “Drink a bite to eat at 10, 2 and 4.”  As I began my research for this blog I learned that in 1923 the company moved from Waco to Dallas; my hometown.  The period was dropped from the name in the 1950’s and the slogan became, “Dr Pepper, the friendly Pepper-Upper.”  I can still remember the shock I experienced in the late 1980’s when I went to visit Minnesota.  The people were all very friendly … but they literally had THREE soda dispensers EACH both for Coca-Cola AND Pepsi everywhere from restaurants, to the mall, and even their fantastic zoo.  I just could not believe it!!!  It was like NO ONE knew about Dr. Pepper up there!  It is practically akin to water here.  FINALLY a little gas station was discovered which sold the “exotic” drink in small quantities.  In a previous blog I believe I wrote about tearfully breaking up with a boy over soda preferences.  The famous singer Cher is quoted as once having said, “I can’t do coffee, but can do Dr. Pepper.”  I’d say that summed up my mama’s tastes.  I also believe I have written in a previous blog about not eating turkey since 1976.  That’s because when I was seven (the following year) I recall my mother trying to teach me how to cook a turkey.  Between the yawning, cavernous hole and the mysterious bag of “parts” I was OUT at seven; hence the year 1976.  I was already allergic to seafood so the turkey simply became another critter I couldn’t stomach on my “protected” list.  After that I can recall Mama switching to ham.  What she managed to cook from our tiny galley kitchen in our small apartment humbles me still to this day.  I think I’ve freaked our little one out on turkey (unwittingly) and my poor husband loves meat.  Our little girl does as well, but she has inherited my squeamish/sympathetic tendencies.  So when the hubs suggested a “ham steak” for Thanksgiving I had absolutely NO idea what he was talking about.  Then I recalled watching Mama bake her incredible ham.  So there I was with my precious little family in the grocery store Thanksgiving morning.  I felt inadequate knowing Mama would have already had her ham baking overnight in the oven.  God BLESS my sweet husband, who offered to go over to the butcher’s and inquire.  I know that for him food is very much an extension of love.  So my husband bought the ham and I endeavored to cook it.  I didn’t use a recipe; I just found myself automatically lining a deep baking pan with aluminum foil and scoring the ham just like my mother used to.  I opened a bottle of Cherry Dr Pepper, took a swig straight from its container (it was only for the three of us!) and then I slowly drizzled it over the ham.  After being in the oven for an hour I took it out to pour pineapple juice on it, and then recalled something about mustard.  So I got out my French Dijon (which I am never without) and mixed it together with the pineapple juice.  Dumping some more Cherry Dr Pepper on it, I put pineapple rings with maraschino cherries all over it just like Mama used to.  Offering up a silent prayer, I stuck it back in to bake for another two hours.  We took a walk with our wolf hybrids and then I began preparing the side dishes.  Our little girl decorated the table with the acorns and leaves she’d collected on our walk, while my husband proudly accepted my request to “mash” the potatoes.  I know big families have sometimes looked upon mine (both when I was a child and now that I am a mother) with pity.  Three is a sacred number for many reasons …  It was a picture perfect Thanksgiving and my husband and daughter both raved and raved over the ham.  Turns out I forgot to baste it with brown sugar like Mama did.  Despite my oversight, I believe I have my little family’s happiness to thank, I suspect, to the “Texas Water.”

I think I was in the fifth grade when I told my folks I no longer wanted to be a part of an elite choir called The Dallas Girls’ Chorus.  My public school elementary teacher, Mrs. Martin, had suggested when I was in the third grade that I try out.  I think I sang for a year and a half and I absolutely LOVED it.  I never wanted to quit the choir!!  Then the entire chorus of maybe 100 something girls got the opportunity to travel to Washington D.C. to sing for the current President of the Untied States.  I knew there was no way my folks could get that kind of money and I wanted to protect them from the pain and embarrassment I felt.  They had sacrificed a lot just to provide for my uniform!  I felt guilty, but not as much as if I had told them how ruthlessly I was shunned by the choristers there.  I distinctly remember this one girl in particular, who wore her beautiful dark hair in two French braids.  Once when we were standing in line at the water fountain during a break the girl in front of me said to her that she liked her hair.  With a hollow voice, I can still recall her saying, “the maid did it.”  That is the precise moment I realized just how very rich I was.  It killed me to leave the choir but I knew I had the unconditional, unwavering love and support of my parents; parents who were ALWAYS there for me.  As I look back I feel it was deplorable to not somehow provide for the maybe four girls who could not afford to make the trip.  But what does all this have to do with a sugar rush?  Well, every now and then when I was a kid the ice cream truck would stop by our apartment complex.  Daddy always had quarters and he would send me out to the black top road to choose something.  I am married now and we live in a house with a little girl of our own.  I had not heard the sound of a real ice cream truck in four decades!  Our third grader heard the music from a distance and shrieked with glee!  She asked if she could go see if they had anything for her that was gluten-free.  I texted my girlfriend who lives about a mile away with a little girl about the same age.  She told me he was going sort of door-to-door by request (text) and was kind enough to pass along our address.  When that truck pulled up I felt so very small again.  Sure enough, they had some old school classics I had loved that were gluten-free.  My little girl jumped up and down and thanked the man repeatedly.  I could feel her excitement and saw the light in her eyes.  The young man could not have been more genuinely kind.  Since they accepted credit, I added an “adult” ice cream on for myself.  You have not LIVED until you’ve had whiskey ice cream!!!  As I spoke with the operator, I learned it was a family business.  The magic and wonder those tunes and that truck managed to bring back was indescribable.  Dylan Lauren, the daughter of the American fashion designer Ralph Lauren, said, “People will say candy is recession-proof, and we’re definitely seeing nostalgic candies coming about, and people want that sugar rush and that nostalgic happiness, like their childhood times.”  I told Mr. Sugar Rush that anytime he was in the neighborhood he could count on us!  Childhood lasts for but a moment; magical memories last a lifetime.  Life is short:  if the opportunity presents itself and you are able — indulge in the sugar rush.

I believe I have written before about my (sort of) cooking schedule.  While it sometimes varies, I try to do Slow Cooker Sundays (wonderful to come home from church and smell something delicious cooking in the crock pot), Meatless Mondays (I always tell my husband it won’t kill him; it also won’t kill an animal,) Taco Tuesdays (always a hit,) Whatever Works Wednesdays (translation:  leftovers,) Thawed Out Thursdays (meaning whatever can be zapped, ranging from organic frozen vegetables to ready to eat meals,) Far Out Fridays (we go out for dinner,) and Spaghetti Western Saturdays (which means we have some type of gluten free “pasta” (zucchini, lentil, chickpea, quinoa, multigrain, egg noodles, etc.) and stay in to watch a movie.  I don’t really know of any kid who does not love dinosaurs (or at least like them) — boy or girl.  When I was little I was a proud member of the Junior Archaeological Society, and I think my husband may have been as well.  We have both shown our “ancient” childhood dinosaur timelines and books to our eight year old little girl.  Thankfully, she shares our fascination.  We all have been fortunate enough to visit the American Museum of Natural History in New York.  Growing up my husband got to go often; I have been with him twice and we have taken our little girl for the first time this past autumn.  It was wild to fly from Dallas only to discover an entire bed of perfectly preserved dinosaur prints hailing from Glen Rose, Texas.  At just one and a half hour’s drive away, we have vowed to visit as a family.  Before Christmas I was thumbing through catalogs when I came across these “Tacosaurus” dinosaurs.  I thought they might be a fun addition to Taco Tuesdays.  It turns out they are not only fun; they’re functional as well.  I happen to love Trader Joe’s “crispy” tacos.  They take just four minutes to warm in the oven and are gluten free.  The dinousaurs provide the perfect “stand” in which to fill them.  Each tacosaurus holds two.  I have done ground beef, chicken fajitas (also curtesy of Trader Joe’s) mixed with with Amy’s organic gluten free refried beans and green chilies, salsa, lettuce, guacamole, sour cream, and cheese that I can think of.  I try to make each Tuesday different.  I want to do one next with whole black beans, guacamole, lettuce, onions, and salsa.  (I am a vegetarian trying to go vegan.)  I also intend to use soft corn tortillas and do “street tacos.”  It has been fun to watch how receptive my husband and little one have been to the “tacosauruses.”  I have started getting more creative by making certain greens their “plants” and even making the beans er, placed behind them.  I happen to be a huge fan of Meghan Markle.  She is quoted as having said, ”I like it when a man puts thought into the kind of restaurant we’re going to. That doesn’t mean it needs to be fancy – some of the best meals of my life have been having a taco on a street corner.”  I strive less for fancy and more for the thought put into it when I cook for my precious little family.  At least I know my husband and our little girl look forward to filling their Tacosauruses on Taco Tuesdays.  

I have always enjoyed learning about other cultures.  Whether it is studying about them in books, learning their language, eating their cuisine, traveling, or — best of all — getting to know someone different.  For some time now “fusion cuisine” has been on the rise.  The first type that comes to my mind is “Tex-Mex,” although in Texas we generally just refer to it as Mexican.  Then there’s “authentic Mexican” which is different, of course.  I have found that Tex-Mex varies throughout the state, from Dallas to San Antonio.  Then there is “Asian fusion.”  It’s basically mixing Chinese dishes with Japanese, etc.  There is one Asian fusion restaurant in particular my family and I adore.  I love it so much I took this picture of one of my green onions which was in the shape of a heart.  Our little one is gluten-intolerant and rice can be challenging.  This place makes the BEST fried rice and it is also gluten-free.  In addition, they have great gluten-free soy sauce.  My favorite is fried Jasmine rice with extra green onions and eggs.  For years we have done ourselves a disservice by getting it to go.  It turns out this place has an incredible bar and I have not found a restaurant that makes lycheé martinis since our favorite Indian establishment closed.  Since I nearly always have wine or a cocktail (or two) with dinner, I do not eat dessert.  If one had told me I would love something called sticky rice — that was green no less — I would have said no way.  Turns out it was delicious!  All I know for sure is that it had coconut milk in it.  America herself is a fusion of so many cultures.  Personally I think that’s what makes this county so great and so unique:  all are welcome.  Yotam Ottolenghi, an Israeli-English chef and food writer, has said, “Fusion food as a concept is kind of trying to quite consciously fuse things that are sometimes quite contradictory, sometimes quite far apart, to see if they’d work.”  I do that all the time in my cooking and wind up labeling it as some sort of slumgullion.  It may sometimes look mushy, but, for the most part, my little family has loved it.  I believe the world would be bland if we all stayed within our own culture’s parameters.  So, for me at least, I am up for fusion.

I have a theory about meals made from scratch.  They are not viable for two people who are working outside the home.  While it may seem perfectly acceptable for a couple to go out for dinner, it somehow appears unseemly if two people with progeny go out often and do the same.  Although I am not so sure that the expectation is as much as for a wife in this day and age as it remains for motherhood.  My Mama chose to stay at home to be with me.  She was there when I returned from school and prepared five dinners a week on her own.  I can still see the linen 1970 something calendar hanging from our tiny galley kitchen as my mother toiled, red-faced, in front of the oven with an apron wrapped around her waist.  I remember her famous meatloaf, and the tiny one she made just for me.  I also loved her incredible ham at Christmas which was basted in brown sugar and garnished with pineapple rings, each one having a maraschino cherry nestled in their center.  Mama’s macaroni and cheese was the absolute best — and yet I wanted the electric colored microwaveable kind.  Her brownies were to die for but I foolishly lamented never eating one from that perfect square residing in the top center space next to the corn in TV dinners.  Instead my mother boiled corn and rolled the cobs in melted butter and salt.  I suppose on some level everyone thinks their mother is a good cook; mine really was.  I never appreciated all the time she put in to preparing our meals each evening.  Now that I am a mother I have tried to step up my cooking.  When I got married I wanted to make my husband happy and please him with my culinary skills.  While they were appreciated, we either wound up having not quite enough or were stuck with too many leftovers.  It was only after I became a mother that I realized the true importance of cooking.  I am not referring to gender here; I am referring to a child’s memory of their family meals.  I grew up an only child in a family of three and our daughter is doing the same.  Just as we were NEVER allowed to eat in front of the television, I do not allow my family to dine in front of any electronic devices now.  I own a pet sitting business and write this blog, but I have noticed whenever I have carved some time to make even the most minimum of meals it has always been greatly valued by my husband and our daughter.  That in turn has inspired me to try harder (which translates into making more time) to prepare our family dinners.  It is interesting that my meals which have turned out great have been met with almost the same enthusiasm as those which have bombed.  I have come to understand it is about so much more than food; it is the effort made, the comfort taken, and the family time spent together at home that really matters.  The Mexican novelist and screenwriter Laura Esquivel said:

“Cooking is one of the strongest ceremonies for life.  When recipes are put together, the kitchen is a chemical laboratory involving air, fire, water and the earth.  This is what gives value to humans and elevates their spiritual qualities.  If you take a frozen box and stick it in the microwave, you become connected to the factory.”

On this night I was making Chicken Piccata.  My little one has always loved to help in the kitchen.  (She is gluten intolerant so I coat the chicken with cornstarch instead of flour.)  She was the one dredging the chicken, aided by a small step stool bearing her name.  I remembered my folks always embarrassing me in the car by singing some song called, “Hey Good Lookin'” and found myself repeating it, to her delight.  By the end her sweet face was freckled with cornstarch yet she remained the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.  I felt like Mama and Daddy were with us as I was singing that old song to her:  Hey Good Lookin’, Whatcha got cookin’?  As the chicken browned I spun her around the kitchen while she gleefully giggled and I sang the last verse:  How’s about cooking’ somethin’ up with me?