“Ooooh, what’s over there?” That question has been my mom’s mantra for as long as I can remember. She’s the one who peers in alleys, takes the less beaten path, looks around the dining room to see what others are eating, and always invites us …
This morning I took a trip down memory lane, landing in my hometown of Atlanta and my son’s hometown of Chicago. If you’re interested, the latest article is here. In the meantime, please share in the comments a food that brings the memories flooding back.
On the final day of last year, I shared the first part of a series of writings on the glorious Paul Robeson tomato. If you’re interested, you can take a look here. The meat of it was to talk history through the medium of food. Perhaps this series will delve deeply into tomatoes; it will definitely consider Paul Robeson himself.
These tomatoes are at the heart of my Black Garden. An earlier post describes the collection of plants.
It’s probably not a coincidence that the planning of the Black Garden started at the same time as the Paul Robeson research. Four years have flown by and the changes in the gardens are quite noticeable. More images of this transformation (and the next article) are coming soon. Here’s to a lovely year!
If you’re new to these beauties, they’re like beefsteak: large, meaty, and especially good when eaten in thick slices or chunks. If you like salads, they’ll brighten up every single one.
My grandmama was named Lillian and every time I see lilies, I am wrapped up in her warm embrace. With the exception of my mom, no one has taught me more about the pleasure of food and sharing it with others. One of my most …
Is summer filled with hazy, lazy days of alfresco lunches, pitchers of lemonade, firefly dinners, and rosé?
One of my dad’s favorite stories to share is of me, aged 4 or 5, picking strawberries at one of those pick-your-own berries farms. There I was, squatting in the midst of rows of berry-laden plants with a white bucket in hand. He happened to hear me as I tugged on the strawberries say in a sing-song voice: “One for me, one for the bucket.” This divvying up of berries has become a signature outlook ever since. Face (and shirt!) stained with juice, I joined my parents and headed to the table to pay for our haul. The farmer took one look at me and said: “Next time, little girl, I’m gonna weigh you when you come in and then weigh you on the way out!”
I’m sure I smiled sheepishly… and then plopped a couple more berries in my mouth.
Many of my favorite memories revolve around berries. There were three summers of picking the tiniest, sweetest, most fragrant berries in the forest of the Swiss Alps with my son after every meal. More than plucking the fruit, this foraging of glistening gems highlighted that beneath the surface there’s a world of wonder just waiting to be discovered. And a reminder that it’s quite splendid to eat straight from the earth.
Whenever I decide to skip down memory lane, I always pause at the food images. Maybe it’s us stopping for an older woman in Transylvania on the side of the road with a blanket of forest raspberries that she picked. Or berry-tarragon sparkling drinks at cafés in St. Petersburg, Russia, that became our drink of choice for our entire trip. Or sweet strawberry shortcake as an annual birthday cake in Chicago. The simplest things are usually the best. During this time when many of us are at home with wanderlust, I’m planning more berry-filled adventures in the near (fingers crossed) future!
