I woke up to winter this morning. A few inches of snow dust the ground and sugar-coated trees hold up a shock of blue Colorado sky. I’m finally sleeping deeply again after the long hot summer so the arrival of cold weather and chilly mornings wrapped in Greg’s arms is pure pleasure. I’ve got a few days away from teaching and the demands of college freshman to sit and watch the world go by…
I’d long planned to write about canning what Greg and I have grown in our prairie garden this summer. We’ve got loads of tomatoes, beans, peppers, leeks, potatoes and kale. I wanted to talk about the sheer poetry of sealing San Marzanos into steaming glass jars with garlic and basil—also from the garden—in the anticipation of the snowy day when I would open up a bit of summer for cacciatore or marinara or meatballs. The…
Celebrating Mom at The Broadmoor The months since my mother died have been one milestone after another: First, missing her and her goofy food cravings, then my first mother’s day without her, followed by several celebrations of life with my sister, with my closest female friends, with my aunt and sister. In the six months since she passed I can’t really think of writing about food without writing about my mom, which is to say…
I’ve been in what feels like a food fugue. In the last month, I’ve spent six days eating out in Taos, NM and nine in Louisville, KY, chewing on some good, way too much bad, and even a little ugly. Since the middle of May, I have tickled my gullet with road food (caramel corn and slurpees) on the way to Taos and, on Memorial Day, with mom-inspired snacks (horseradish deviled eggs and salty kettle…
Mother’s Day and snow is falling on the Front Range, after six days of rain. The world is wet and cold. Still a robin woke me at 430 this morning with its frantic good-morning song. The day feels bleak and strange and a little empty without my own mom, who has been gone for four months. For so many years while she was sick, she was the weight I carried. Now, her absence is an…