Last weekend, Soren and I rented a car and headed up to his uncle’s lake house in New Hampshire. We spent a lovely weekend canoeing, reading, picking apples, grilling steaks, entertaining family, and dozing in front of the fire.
On our last day, the weather was beautiful. So we decided to walk a half mile to the General Store to get coffee and a breakfast snack. Harrisville, NH, is adorable. According to a real estate brochure we saw, it is the most photographed town in New England.
On the way, we stopped at the public beach to goof off.
Soren took photos while I made attempt after increasingly dramatic attempt to leap onto this rock, which, as you can see, was not all that far from shore.
Then, a surprising twist! Just as I was about to say, “We better get a move on before my hunger turns me into a whirling dervish of fury and irrational hatred,” he sat me down on the sand and proposed. Yes, marriage. I accepted. And then I cried a little. And then we took some pictures. Continue reading
If there is one fashion trend I can get on board with, it’s rompers. Love ’em. Want one. Can’t understand why everyone is advising me against buying a romper. Yes, on certain people they look horrific and contribute to the already rampant epidemic of camel toe. But I would look adorable. I’ll let the evidence speak for itself . . .
(Me and my best friend, Guy.)
My paternal grandma has been gone for more than a decade, but yesterday I missed her something fierce. So I pulled out one of her old cookbooks: Cook with Hope. Published in 1973 by the women of Trinity United Methodist Church in Cavalier, North Dakota, it begins with a few helpful hints. Here’s one gem:
To dry lettuce, pat it with crumpled paper toweling. It absorbs water quickly and does not bruise the leaves. Lettuce for salad should be well dried and cold.
I mean no disrespect to the women of Cavalier, but drying lettuce with paper towels sounds less like a “helpful hint” and more like common sense. Maybe paper towels were a new thing back then. Maybe lettuce had only recently arrived in North Dakota. Maybe people had been standing out in their yards shaking the dickens out of leaves of iceberg before this book hit the shelves. Continue reading
‘Tis the season. Of tomatoes. The farmers’ markets are rife with them — glowing golden orbs, green zebra-striped gems, heirlooms the color of an especially nasty bruise, and let’s not forget the more traditional beefy blood-red beauties. Seeing them piled atop one another, bathing in the early morning (er, more like late morning) light makes me weak in the knees. Their scent is intoxicating. And their taste . . . well, let’s just say it’s been a very good year for tomatoes. These plump, fresh-from-the-dirt lovelies bear little resemblance to the wan, hard rocks you find laying listlessly in bins at the grocery store come January. I used to hate tomatoes. And then I had a good one.
Saturday morning found me at the Grand Army Plaza farmer’s market wading through piles of vegetables, each one more attractive and enchanting than the last. I wanted to take them all home. But I had a list and I was hell-bent on sticking to it. My plan was to can salsa, so I allowed myself five things: tomatoes, hot peppers, regular peppers, onions, and cilantro. Stupid list! To compensate for my self-imposed restrictions, I bought vast quantities of each. Continue reading