Chocolate Bandaid By Calye Beale
¨Did you crave chocolate with this baby?¨ ¨Yes, how did you know?¨ ¨She has a mark on her left hand, it's what we call a chocolate mark.¨ From then on I became the family's most renowned chocolate lover, a title the nurse had predicted from the moment I was born all because of a mark on my hand. Whenever my mother asked me, ¨What flavor would you like Roo?¨, there was always one answer, chocolate. I was never into vanilla or strawberry as I was chocolate. Something that started the moment my mom was pregnant with me and had insatiable urges for that divine substance. That's where it all started, my love for all things cocoa and sweet. There's never been a moment in my life where chocolate hasn't come into play. I have to admit, I was quite the diva when it came to my sweets. It was a sunny day, one of my favorite days, only because it was my birthday. I was turning five years old, still stuck in daycare and ready to head home knowing what was waiting for me. Throughout that whole day I had been giddy with excitement. Turning five was a big deal, it meant that I would be done with daycare and finally join my brother at the elementary. My teacher turned off the lights and called out ¨Nap time or quiet hour for those who can´t sleep¨ and sat back down at her desk. I placed my sleeping mat closer to the door, ready for the end of the day to come. The door to our classroom opened, fluorescent light from the hallway spilling into the room and momentarily blinding me. I remember looking up and there standing in the doorway was my Mom, Dad, and Brother. In their hands they held chocolate frosted cupcakes, one being double chocolate, which I knew was for me. I shared my cupcakes with the class, I was feeling quite generous and even allowed them to have seconds.
Turns out, the teacher knew my family had planned to surprise me and took our class outside to the playground picnic area to eat and enjoy our recess time. Looking back , that day has to be one of my favorite memories, not only because of the chocolate cupcakes, but because my family showed up and surprised me. The joy I felt was forever ingrained into my heart, a memory I would never forget. When I reminisce about that day , I think back to how simpler times were and how many new exciting adventures were awaiting me. Even as time continued, chocolate was always one thing that stayed consistent in my life. It was something that me and my family shared together, a link between all of us. Through thick and thin no matter what the situation, chocolate was always a way to make me feel better and heal a piece of my soul. As my mom always says, ¨Chocolate is like a bandaid, it makes everything feel better.¨ Ingredients: 2 ⅓ cups Gold Medal all-purpose flour 2 ½ teaspoons of baking powder ½ teaspoon of salt 1 cup of butter, softened 1 ¼ cups of sugar 3 eggs 1 teaspoon of vanilla ⅔ cup of milk Betty Crocker Chocolate Frosting Steps: 1. Heat oven to 350 F. Place paper baking cup in each of the 24 regular size muffin pans, grease bottoms and sides of muffin cups with shortening and lightly flour, or spray with baking spray with flour. 2. In a medium bowl, mix flour, baking powder, and salt; set aside. 3. In a large bowl, beat butter with electric mixer on medium speed of 30 seconds. Gradually add sugar, about ¼ cup at a time, beating well after each addition and scraping bowl occasionally. Beat 2 minutes longer. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla next. On low speed, alternately add flour mixture, about ⅓ at a time, and milk, about ½ at a time, beating just until blended. 4. Divide batter evenly among muffin cups , filling each with about 3 tablespoons of batter or until two-thirds full. 5. Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes. Remove cupcakes from pans; place on cooling racks. Cool completely, about 30 minutes. Frost with chocolate frosting.
Snickerdoodle Harper Bradley From pufts of flour coating the air to the cinnamon and sugar spilled on the counters, the laughter traveled through the house like melted butter on a skillet. The air was warm and sweet, aprons tied around my mother’s neck as well as my own. standing over the stovetop rolling small balls of dough between her hands, passing them to me where I plopped the soft blobs of dough into a bowl containing a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. “Now, make sure you don’t roll the dough in the mix because it’ll pick up more cinnamon. You have to place the ball in the bowl and cover the dough using your fingers, that way you get an even amount of both cinnamon and sugar,” My mother explained to me, showing me at the same time by making the first cookie and placing it on the baking sheet. A few cookies later and I began to get the hang of it, my mother occasionally speeding me along. Once the baking sheet was dotted with cookies my mother opened the oven, heat curled out and fogged up our glasses, causing us to step back for a second before placing the baking sheet in the oven and closing the door. I sat down on the floor in front of the stove and looked through the stained glass, watching the cookies spread out and brown up. Several minutes later and my mother opened the drawer next to the stove, grabbing the oven mitts and sliding them on her hands. Instinctively, I rose from my spot and moved out of the way, the oven opening behind me and the sweet heavy smell of freshly baked cookies flooded the house. It’s as if the whole house knew the cookies were done too; my two brothers coming from upstairs and the living room, my father from his office, and our pets hovering under the table and around our ankles. “You made cookies?” asked my older brother, trying to mask his facade of cluelessness.
My mother glanced at him as she put the oven mitts back into the drawer, “Yes, snickerdoodle.” “Can I have one?” My mother smiled to herself as she turned off the oven and began to move the cookies one by one to a cooling rack. “You all can have one when they’re cool. They just came out of the oven, you’ll burn your tongue if you try to eat one right now. I’ll call you when they’re ready.” A few moments later and no one had moved, my mother chuckling and putting several cookies on a plate. “Scratch that, we all know cookies are best served fresh, especially when they’re hot.” The four of us followed my mother to the table, sitting down and each eating our share of cookies. The air still sweet with spices, but sweeter with joy. A smile spread across my face as I looked at my family one by one, seeing their smiles as they enjoyed the last of the cookies from the plate. The soft rumble of laughter filling the kitchen, but nothing could beat the cookies that filled our stomachs.
Snickerdoodle Recipe 1.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C).
2.
Cream together butter, shortening, 1 1/2 cups sugar, eggs and vanilla. Blend in the flour, cream of tartar, soda and salt. Shape dough by rounded spoonfuls into balls.
3.
Mix together 2 tablespoons sugar and 2 tablespoons of cinnamon. Roll balls of dough in mixture. Place 2 inches apart on ungreased baking sheets.
4.
Bake 8 to 10 minutes, or until set but not too hard. Remove immediately from baking sheet and place on cooling rack.
Morning Shift Turkey “Kayla you will have the five am shift to check the turkey” My grandmother would tell me as she held her schedule tightly in her hand, and explained to everyone their dish and the times they had with the oven.
“Can I do the cranberry sauce this year” I would ask with a giggle. “Are red, sweet, and shallot onions all The turkey was the most important part of thanksgiving
necessary” I say to my cousin as I prepare to
for my family. We always cooked three different meats
cut. My grandmother over heard my remark
every year which usually were turkey, chicken, and
and stated the purpose of each onion in the
ham. Every year my grandmother was in control of the
different dishes.
thanksgiving cooking and she loved her role. I never got the chance to be apart of the preparations or
As you cut into the onion you can feel the
cooking of the turkey because I was too young and she
effect it has on your body almost
had a strict rule on who could help make the meats. But
immediately, your eyes begin to water and
this year that all would change.
tear up, your nose starts to become irritated,
’ve always loved my job as a cutter in the kitchen. It
and the awful smell lingers on you throughout
was the easiest and fastest job. You put all the colorful
the day.
and different variations of fruits and vegetables on the table while leaving space for the giant wooden cutting
I could see how someone would think
board provided for you next to the brand new knife set
preparing the turkey is easier because the
that was freshly sharpen by the person in charge of
oven does most of the work, but the immense
keeping the knives in the kitchen sharp who was usually
pressure involved makes the job much harder.
one of my grandmothers sisters because she never
The turkey is washed a number of times and
wanted them to help with the cooking part.
must be placed in the oven a certain way in a particular place. Every thirty
minutes it must be coated and dressed with the homemade sauce provided by my grandmother. By having the five in the morning shift that meant I would have to wake up every thirty minutes at five until
Recipe 1.
Preheat an oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Place coated dressing
noon to check on the turkey then check in
below turkey on aluminium pan, be
with my grandmother to keep her updated
sure the pan is long enough to wrap
on the conditions.
around the entire turke. 2.
Stir together the parsley, rosemary,
“After five hours of labor in the kitchen, the
sage, thyme, lemon pepper, season salt,
turkey is finally done and golden brown�
garlic, and salt in a bowl with vinegar, oil, and italian dressing. Rub the mixture into the cavity of the turkey,
My family looked at me and laughed, after
then stuff with the celery, peaches,
seeing my parents, family, and friends smile
onion, and lemon. Place the turkey into
I realized the hardship of preparing the food
the roasting pan. Pour the mix chicken,
was worth it. When we all sat at the table
beef, and vegetable broth and wine
and said grace I looked around to see crying
over the turkey, making sure to get
children ready to eat, young teens taking
some red wine in the cavity for flavor.
pictures of the food, and grandparents
Bring the aluminum foil over the top of the turkey, and seal. Try to keep the
smiling from ear to ear thankful to spend
foil from touching the skin of the
yet another thanksgiving with their family. My grandmother held the schedule in her
turkey on each side. 3.
Bake the turkey in the preheated oven
hand until each line was crossed and
for 2 1/2 to 3 hours, over the course of
completely, watching her throw away the
30 minutes dress the turkey with the
paper and be relieved from the stress of
sauce made above, until the turkey is
making the dinner and supervising
done and no longer pink at the bone and the juices run clear. Uncover the
everything piece by piece made me realize
turkey, and continue baking until the
thanksgiving is not just about the turkey or
skin turns golden brown, 30 minutes
good food, it's about spending time with the
before you completely take it out the
people you love dearly and being thankful
oven. Remove the turkey from the
for the blessings you receive throughout the
oven and the aluminum foil, and allow
year while enjoying a feast of delicious food.
to rest in a warm or room temperature area 10 to 15 minutes before slicing.
Not Worth the Effort By Hunter Chandler Most memoirs about food involve those stereotypical “warm moments” with the family. It always some heartwarming story about mom or grandma in the kitchen at thanksgiving or christmas, lots of love and kindness is floating around, blah blah. Not that’s a bad thing or anything, just not what happened in my specific case. My story is the opposite of what heart warming is. The closest thing might be heart racing. It’s about the total failure I had attempting to make an apple pie. You don’t understand how much I despise this dreadful experience. This is not for the faint of heart. Here’s where it all started. I needed to bring in something for a friendly get together with some friends. Well, someone suggested apple pie and I figured that must be really easy. Spoiler: it wasn’t. “How hard can it be? It’s just apple pie.” I said to my mother, which she had absolutely no idea what she was getting into. “I don’t think it’s very challenging, we can get the stuff to make it tomorrow.” Unfortunately, she was really wrong. Really. Wrong. The stuff to make it wasn’t anything foreign to me, they were all normal things that I’ve worked with at some point, and used properly sometimes. Arriving home, the process started off poorly. I’ve had cooking experience but I’ve never really made dough. As I started making it things we’re going wrong left and right. The dough wasn’t forming properly, I didn’t have a large enough workspace and my mom and I were very uncomfortable with what was
happening. Flour. Flour everywhere. I was covered in it, there was just so much. It looked like winter had came early and someone had left the door open. So after a long session of panicking, wondering if what I was doing was correct the pie ended up in the oven. Now at this point I had a moment to reflect. It finally occurred to me that I’ve never even tried apple pie before, so I wasn’t sure how to compare this thing. Pretty ridiculous, I know. Nevertheless, the pie was finally done, and to my surprise it actually didn't look awful. Granted I could barely see inside the oven through the tinted glass. It looked edible, like I felt like i was in no danger if I tried to eat it. Shortly after burning myself to get it out, I found out that I hated it. The way it tasted was awful. Although my company thought it wasn’t dreadful, I did. All of that work and this thing sucked. It was a very rough experience and I’ll never attempt something of the sort again. Just buy a pie. Or buy the pie crust. Don’t make the pie crust, you’ll regret it thoroughly, unless you’re a professional or a pastry fanatic.
The “Secret” Ingredient by: Ariana Davis My grandmother had eight brothers and sisters. The oldest and the youngest age difference is twenty years. One of my grandmother’s older sisters always hosted these extravagant parties to try to get the family together. My great aunt Barbara hosts at least six parties a year, roughly every two months and every party has a theme. Every party my great aunt and some of her sisters always come down to Memphis, Tennessee to help set up for the parties and for the most part Aunt Barbara cooks all of the food. I’m more of a dessert girl myself and there was one dessert that stuck out the most and that was her sweet potato pie. Every family gathering we have, my aunt has to have at least three pies because they are that good. I mean these pies are so good we fight for them. I do not really visit any of my family members anymore for reasons that are out of my control but I remember when I used to help Aunt Barbara make it. She had two recipes, one for when she was lazy and the other for when she actually wanted to bake. I remember every time I would spend the night at her house we would wake up at the crack of dawn so I could spend some time with her, she called it a “bonding experience”. I remember I would wake up, tiptoe around my cousins that were sleeping, not wanting to wake them up. I walked down to the kitchen and she would have the sweet potato stuffing already in the bowl ready to be mixed. She used to always use a “secret ingredient” and would always kick me out of the kitchen before I could see it. It took me eight years before I found out what that secret ingredient was: pumpkin extract. She would have Stevie Wonder playing in be background and we would catch each other up on our lives, what was going on with our family and what family member was pregnant that year. Every conversation we had she used to always tell me,“Ari, you’re too nice and people always take advantage of others and they will walk all over you.” I never understood what she meant until I lost friendships with some of the people in my life because they decided to walk all over me. My aunt used to always give me examples of how people took advantage of her. Ever since then, every time I get new friends I have to be cautious about how they treat me and make sure that they do not take my kindness for weakness.
Real Recipe: ●
3 peeled and roasted potatoes
●
¾ cup sugar
●
2 large eggs
●
4 tablespoons butter, softened
●
¼ cup milk
●
1 teaspoon pumpkin extract
●
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
●
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
●
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
●
Pinch salt
●
1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell
Preheat the oven to 300 degrees F. In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine the sweet potatoes, ½ cup of sugar, eggs, butter, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt. Beat until thoroughly blended and smooth. Pour the mixture into the pie shell and sprinkle with the remaining ¼ cup sugar. Allow the pie to stand for 15 minutes before baking to allow the sugar to melt. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 1 hour. Cool before serving.
A Rawls Thanksgiving Ryan Elrod
Thanksgiving with my family has always revolved around my grandmother. Once you walk into the house from the garage door, (although she has a front door everyone refuses to use it) the literal feeling of southern hospitality begins to encroach on your senses. As she cooks in her kitchen forcing everyone else into the living room where my aunt watches the National Dog Show soon followed by the Macy’s Day Parade. She loves it so much she even bought herself a french bulldog because that's her favorite dog in the entire show. The warmth of our family traditions always resonates with the most nostalgic part of me. There’s a safety in knowing that no matter what happened throughout the rest of the year Thanksgiving will always remain the same as it did when I was still in diapers.
As my Nanny continues shaping our feast in the kitchen everyone tries their best to stay out of her way. No one but her husband and my mother are allowed near her land when things begin to heat up and get busy. While my grandma is the nicest person I have ever known she tends to get a little “territorial” when you take up any room in her kitchen. Although many have came and went over the different passing years one rule stays at the front of every family event at my grandmothers, and that is no one is allowed to be in the vicinity of her kitchen while she cooks.
The mood around the kitchen table is always one of nostalgia and warmth. As the familiar stories get passed around the table everyone seems at home surrounded by family and amazing food. As the night begins to close and the differing family members begin to leave I can’t help but wait until next year for it all to begin again. The feelings Thanksgiving gives me won’t change as long as I have close friends and family to eat an amazing meal with.
The Lesson I Learned from Flour Lynzie Lyle It was a cold November day about 10 years ago and I was staying the day with my grandparents like I usually would while my parents were at work. Deedee, the name that was given to my grandmother by her 20-some grandchildren, was the best cook in our entire family by majority belief. She wanted to make chicken and dumplings for dinner that night and me being the eager-to-assist five-year-old that I was, insisted that she let me help. My Deedee was happy enough to oblige me and we began working on the dinner. “Okay, Lynzie, now comes the part where we make the dumplings,” she says. I have no idea how to make a dumpling or what a dumpling even is; but I go along with her direction. She rolls out the squishy dough and I’m fascinated by the way it bends and twists to her will. After she’s finished rolling the dough out smoothly, she pours a large sum of flour into a glass bowl; the floor layering over like the snow that I’d prayed for all winter long. “What do we do now?” I ask her. “Take a piece of the dough,” she directs me, her gentle motherly voice guiding me through the directions. “Now, roll it up into a little ball and dip it into the flour.” My Deedee demonstrated with her own ball of dough and then set it to the side. “And that’s it?” She nods her head, looking down at me. “That’s all for this step, Lou. Now you try.” I follow her steps like she had shown me and successfully make a pre-cooked dumpling. After making one, I was more than eager to begin on another one. In my haste, I knock over the bag of flour and it spills all over me as well as on the floor and all over he counter. Immediately, I get upset because I made a mess in the kitchen. I begin to pout at the mess and apologize to my Deedee when she stops me in my tracks. “Don’t get upset, honey. These things happen sometimes,” She tells me trying to calm me. Then, in an attempt comfort me, she grabs a handful of flour from the bowl, lifts it above her head and drops the flour on herself. The flour covers her hair and her once clean black shirt and she grins at me. “See,” she tells me. “No big deal.” I giggle and we both begin slinging handfuls of flour at each other and make a humongous mess but neither of us cared anymore. We were having fun all because of flour. Thinking back on that day, I learned to be grateful for my mistakes. I learned to find the good in all the mishap and find a way to change my luck around. I’m thankful for my wonderful family, especially my Deedee, for showing me that the cup is always half full and never half empty. I learned that no matter what happens, there’s always a way to turn any bad situation around and find the good in the bad. And it’s all thanks to some flour.
Ingredients DUMPLINGS: 1-1/3 cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder 3/4 teaspoon salt 2/3 cup 2% milk 1 tablespoon butter, melted SOUP: 1/2 cup heavy whipping cream 2 teaspoons minced fresh parsley 2 teaspoons minced fresh thyme Additional salt and pepper to taste
Recipe ●
●
●
●
●
In a shallow bowl, mix 1/2 cup flour, salt and pepper. Add chicken, one piece at a time, and toss to coat; shake off excess. In a 6-qt. stockpot, heat oil over medium-high heat. Brown chicken in batches on all sides; remove from pan. Add onion, carrots and celery to same pan; cook and stir 6-8 minutes or until onion is tender. Add garlic; cook and stir 1 minute longer. Stir in 1/4 cup flour until blended. Gradually add stock, stirring constantly. Stir in wine, sugar, bay leaves and peppercorns. Return chicken to pan; bring to a boil. Reduce heat; simmer, covered, 20-25 minutes or until chicken juices run clear. For dumplings, in a bowl, whisk flour, baking powder and salt. In another bowl, whisk milk and melted butter until blended. Add to flour mixture; stir just until moistened (do not overmix). Drop by rounded tablespoonfuls onto a parchment paper-lined baking sheet; set aside. Remove chicken from stockpot; cool slightly. Discard bay leaves and skim fat from soup. Remove skin and bones from chicken and discard. Using two forks, coarsely shred meat into 1- to 1-1/2-in. pieces; return to soup. Cook, covered, on high until mixture reaches a simmer. Drop dumplings on top of simmering soup, a few at a time. Reduce heat to low; cook, covered, 15-18 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center of dumplings comes out clean (do not lift cover while simmering). Gently stir in cream, parsley and thyme. Season with additional salt and pepper to taste.
Sugar filled Mem e By: Ashley McIntyre
I walk in and the smell of vanilla
I grab the sprinkles (the pink ones, of course), the green icing, the napkin and then reach for more sprinkles. I pile more than enough sugar onto the top of my cookie before I realize that it is perfect. I
fills my nose, Christmas music rings
hold up my finished cookie and it’s as
in my ears and soon enough icing
if the heavens light have opened up
would be filling my belly. I run
upon it as my cousins “Ooh” and
through the house and into the
“Ah” at my beautiful creation and
kitchen, dragging my American Girl
Nana smiles as she tells me how
doll at my side. While my cousins
amazing my cookie looks.
laugh and yell I sink into my Nana as
As I climb into the back of the
I’m surrounded by her warmth and
car my head is covered with a Santa
love as she pulls me into an embrace.
hat while Nana begins, “Now these
My pink apron gets tied around my waist as I step up on the stool and
children aren’t like you and me…” After a pause, she tries again,
begin hitting the cookie dough while
“I want you to know how loved you
my hands are covered with flour and
are... how important it is that you
the air becomes filled with a light
give the love you recieve… “
white dusting. I find myself picking
“.. never stopping giving to
my favorite cookie cutter and I begin
those in need.” Looking back now I
shaping the soon to be cookies. The
realize that Nana was showing me
oven’s loud “BING” fills the house
how to share my love and happiness
and a smile stretches across my face.
with others with the intention of
I start the long wait of letting the
brightening their day.
cookies cool.I reach for the the blue
Soon enough we’re pulling
icing with the butter knife and scoop
into the driveway and my heart
the perfect amount icing to graze the
rapidly beats as I hope the kids will
top of the cookie.
like my cookie.
I look around and become overwhelmed by the amount of laughter and happiness that fills the room. I catch a glimpse of the quietest kid in the room and bee-line for him as I prepare the greeting in my head. I begin a conversation (as any talkative five-year-old would) and I end my conversation with a good laugh and sharing my favorite cookie. I run to my Nana excited to tell her about my new friend and talk for what seems like hours. When we finally make it back to Nana’s house I find myself licking the icing off my only leftover cookie and asking for a glass of milk. I lay down to watch Max and Ruby, my cousins fighting over who’s taller in the background, and finding myself drifting off to sleep as the smell of cookies fills the air and the thought of Santa coming in a few short days fills my mind. Several years later I still look back and reminisce on the moments shared with my Nana and my cousins. Making cookies for those less fortunate over the years has molded me into who I am today and the caring heart I have.
Now anytime I see a sugar cookie I stop for a moment and remember all of those who were made happy because of my cookies and how I could make someone else happy now.
Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup By Enrik Mejias As a boy of five entering into school for the first time it became all but apparent to my classmate that I was quite a gullible fellow. Stemming from both an ignorance of school yard politics as well as having the innocents of a newborn kitten I believed quite a myriad of absurd and fantastic things. While such beliefs often but not lead me to do some incredible idiotic things looking back I'm oddly fond of them. They stand as a testament to my childhood and I wouldn't be the person I am today if not for these experiences, though a handful stand out from the rest. One in particular just so happens to be perfect for this assignment that being the first time my mother taught me to make grilled cheese and tomato soup. The year was 2006 it was fall break if i'm not mistaken and during this time I had come to believe whole hardly that the moon was made of cheese. The exact origin of this belief escapes me though the main culprits are see previous and television though the former of those two seems to be the more likely answer because of a vague memory of a discussion I had with a friend, but I digress. During this time my mother was scheduled to attend her cousin's wedding in Puerto Rico and upon hearing this for the first time I was devastated. This would be the first time in my life that I would be seperate from my mother and it scared the hell out of me. My mother did her best to try to consult me but I was having none of it. Eventually seeing that I was inconsolable she approached my sister in attempt to figure out what could possible bring me out of my funk. My sister tells her of my seemingly endless fascination with the moon and its cheese and my mother as she says had a lightbulb moment.
The following day my mother calls me into the kitchen saying she had a surprise. Being the hopeful little bugger my immediate thought was she was going to cancel her trip and spend the rest of the weekend with the family. So I make my way to the kitchen with a spring and my step and once I arrive rather than walking into the proclamation I was expecting I was met with my mother holding a ball of tin foil. “What's that?” The depressed mood that had hung over me for the better part of that week was momentarily obstructed by the intense curiosity that had overtaken me. “Come here I’ll show you.” So as I walk over my mother begins to unravel that tin foil ball in grand fashion taking away each layer with a surgeon's care making dutiful sure what was contained within was in no way harmed. By the time I reached her a single layer of foil was left. “Would you like to do the honors?” She held the ball out to me as I reached out hesitant unsure of what could possibly be in the ball of tin foil I removed the final layer with the same amount of precision and care she had taken to unravel the previous layers to reveal...a ball of cheese. “A little bird told me you wanted to try out some moon cheese so I made a special order.” “How?” was the only thing I could coherently say as I was far too overwhelmed by the machine gun of questions going through my mind as well as the cheese itself to form full sentences. “That’s a secret here try some.” She grabbed hold of the cheese and pulled rather than snapping off or crumbling the cheese stretched in stubborn manner making it so one had to poke and prod in order to free a piece from
its source. Before placing it in my mouth I remember vividly that the consistency was similar to that of playdough unlike playdough however the taste was marvelous. The texture while gummy was by no means tough melting after the first few bits. It was impossible creamy coating the entirety of my mouth with this sweet flavoring that was foreign to most cheese I had tried up until that point. The bitterness was still there but rather then taking the forefront it acted as a lovely after taste rather than a bothersome lead. As I stood there in ecstasy my mother nonchalantly informed me that if I wanted to be a big boy I need to learn to care for myself so I needed to know how to cook. After taking her own helping she places the cheese on the counter next to a slew of other ingredients and begins. First preparing the pan adding a sizeable piece of butter letting that melt on a medium high heat. Then she moves onto to the bread which for this occasion she procured nice thick fluffy pieces of texas bread spooning the already melted butter on to each side of the bread before placing it in the pan. Quickly before the bread is able crispin she applies two large helpings of that wonderful cheese and leaves the concoction to cook. In the meantime she prepared a can of tomato soup saying the pairing was one made in heaven. The end result was in fact heavenly. The most amazing thing that still blows my mind to this day was how the bread and cheese act as a whole but still maintain their individuality. I'm not sure I have the proper vocabulary to express just how marvelous the whole experience was and I not wanting to spoil the experience with my ineptness I will simply say this. It was an act of god it had to have been no human could have possible create such a divine meal. Needless to say I has delighted over the moon you may say.
The following day my mother left as planned and while I was still crushed by her leave the blow was soften because I knew that I had a mother who loved and cared for me no matter where in the world see was and if I ever felt lonely or sad at the time or hell even know I go to the kitchen and I whip up some grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Ingredients A stick of butter Two slices of texas bread Cheese of your choosing Campbell’s tomato soup
Instructions Heat a pan (cast iron skillet recommended) at a medium to high heat once an optimal heat has been meant slice off two decent helpings of butter allow it to liquify then spread some of the liquid on to your bread before putting into your pan immediately after apply whatever amount of cheese you’d think be best for yourself and leave it be until the bread begins to golden this is when you will combine your two pieces and leave it to cook flipping it in intervals of about three until both sides have properly golden in the meantime you could have the Campbell soup cooking so that it will at an edible eat once the sandwich is done cooking
In the Dead of Winter Kenedi Mitchell
T
he sound of the familiar crunch of
Maybe it was the Mongols who overtook it, I know they’re the exception to everything. I just feel like that can’t be right. I walked back toward the truck as my parents began to build the framework of the tent. Tomorrow was the first day of the antique show and everything had to be placed in
the gravel under the tires cues the end of
anticipation of the morning patrons.
the drive. I quickly wiped away my last tear
Tables, lamps, mirrors, settees,
and zipped my jacket.
concrete busts, silver trays, golden
“Kenedi, I need you to grab the
trays, wooden trays, porcelain trays,
chandeliers first. They’re too delicate to
picture frames, jewelry, and so much
hang right now, set them over there on the
more began to fill the space of the now
table for now,” my mother said. As the
enclosed tent. I continued working;
wind howled outside the window, her
lifting, shifting, gripping, sliding,
caution became all too valid. We couldn’t
running, walking to arrange the booth.
risk them falling in the night. The truck stopped and I hopped out,
It wasn’t the Mongols, I suddenly remembered. They were too
springing to action. The night air blistered
far east. Who could’ve captured
my skin as I grabbed the first chandelier
Constantinople then?
from the truck bed and trudged through
“Kenedi!”
the brisk wind toward the table.
I looked up then. The tent was
There’s no way I’m gonna pass that
filled with beauty. Items from lands far
test tomorrow, I thought to myself. I know
and wide were displayed, perfectly
Constantine ruled over Constantinople but
placed.
for the love of God I couldn’t remember who captured it. “Mike, grab the tent. We have to get this setup tonight,” I heard.
“
The night blistered my skin... ...
I looked down at my hands,
I walked into the tent feeling the texture of the floor beneath me change from
they were grayed with dust and
harsh gravel to a soft, ornate rug.
stiff with cold. Bits of wood had
I continued forward, noticing my frayed reflection in one of the mirrors.
penetrated the calluses of my them. Carefully, I picked them out. “You don’t bring anything to
The face I saw was ashen, completely
me. I don’t need you. You’re
exhausted. “What are you doing? I needed you to help me. I didn’t ask you here to make
useless. I can’t believe I got stuck with you.” I looked back up into the
my life harder!”
mirror. I noted the darkness beneath my eyes. “Just, go. You are nothing, never forget that. In all of your pathetic little life know you are nothing to me.” There’s a crack in the mirror.
“
“Kenedi!” I rose from the mirror
There’s a crack in the mirror.
”
walking towards the sound of her voice. The shadow of my sister moved in front of the headlights of the truck meeting us at the front of the tent. She approached with a basket of small bundles wrapped in paper towel. “Here, you guys go ahead and eat. I’m gonna lock up the tent so we can get ready to go,” she said.
My dad’s car was gone. The imprint of tire tracks obscured the once smooth gravel. As I unwrapped the paper towel bits of powdered sugar fell from the bundle. A small pumpkin muffin sat in the paper cocoon between my hands. I brought it to my lips savoring the taste of my small joy amidst the misery of the night. “It was the Turks,” I said. Prep Time 25 minutes Cook Time 30 minutes Total Time 55 minutes Servings 6 muffins Ingredients Crumb Topping: ● ● ● ● ●
1/3 cup all purpose flour 2 tablespoons granulated sugar 2 teaspoons honey 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon 1 tablespoon vegetable oil Muffins:
● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●
1 3/4 cups all purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder 2 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 1/4 cup granulated sugar 1 cup pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling) 1/3 cup vegetable oil 2 eggs Topping:
●
powdered sugar
Instructions ● ●
● ● ●
●
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Line a jumbo muffin pan with 6 paper liners. Prepare crumb topping. In a small mixing bowl mix together the 1/3 cup flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, cinnamon, honey, and 1 tablespoon vegetable oil with the back of a fork until small crumbs form. Set aside. In a large mixing bowl, mix together the 1 3/4 cups flour, baking powder, pumpkin pie spice, and salt until well combined. In a medium mixing bowl, mix together the 1 1/4 cups sugar, pumpkin, 1/3 cup oil, and 2 eggs with a whisk or large spoon until well combined. Pour the pumpkin mixture over the flour mixture and stir until just combined. Spoon muffin batter into prepared pan. Sprinkle crumb topping on top of muffins. Bake muffins at 375 degrees F for about 25-30 minutes or until golden brown around edges and toothpick inserted into middle comes out clean. Cool slightly, then remove muffins from pan and place on wire rack to finish cooling. When completely cool, sprinkle lightly with powdered sugar.
Give Me Some More S’Mores! By: Jade Naughton It was a crisp saturday morning, so cold that even the trees look like they were shivering. With every breath I took, the air took one breath right back at me. I had just gotten back from my morning run with my dog so I was freezing cold and starving which is not a good combination. My father asked, “What are you in the mood for tonight?” It was a weekend tradition that my father and I made some type of dessert to celebrate the week being over. My mind was filled with thoughts of candy, chocolate, and cookies. As if the Heavens heard me, there was a commercial on TV for S’mores. It was as if I won the lottery because now I knew what dessert my father and I would try to make for the first time. The whole day I couldn't wait to begin making the S’Mores. Every time I would hear someone in the kitchen, my heart would start to race, excited for the night ahead of us. Finally after eight agonizing hours, my father called me from downstairs to begin making what I was waiting for all day. With every step of the process, I was having the time of my life. To breaking the graham crackers and chocolate, and roasting the marshmallows on an open fire, which was my favorite part. Every bite was filled with happiness and fulfillment, and even the dog got a treat. My father is an older man so I try to cherish the time I have with him. We both felt the magic in that moment and just appreciated the time with each other, listening to our favorite song, and sitting by an open fire. Just this tiny moment has taught me the importance of family and that every once in a while, spend time with your family because you’ll never know when they’ll be gone. Ever since that day, S’mores has been the traditional family dessert, something that brought my family closer together.
4 HONEY MAID Honey Grahams 4 JET-PUFFED Marshmallows 1 HERSHEY'SŽ Milk Chocolate Bar Instructions Heat oven to 350°F. Place 9 graham squares in single layer on bottom of 8-inch square pan; top with 36 marshmallow halves. Sprinkle with chopped chocolate. Cover with remaining graham squares. Top with remaining marshmallow halves, cut sides down. Bake 9 to 11 min. or until marshmallows are puffed and golden brown. Let stand 5 min. before serving.
Christmas Morning Muffins Waking up on Christmas morning, a yawn and stretch just like you’d see in a movie, I turn to the side of the bed to slip on my holiday slippers that match my pajamas. My family is awake, although quiet; pouring cups of coffee as they continue waking up to start the long day. The sound of the yule log and Christmas music, playing on the TV, surround the living room. I walk to the other side of the room and ease myself into the rocking chair, criss-cross my legs and let my slippers fall to the floor. As soon as I get comfortable, my mom calls for me. “Syd! Come help me with breakfast,” she shouts, breaking the morning silence. I make my way into the kitchen and my mom is grabbing the sausage, cheddar cheese and milk from the refrigerator while the oven is heating. My mom is ready to bake her uncle Roy’s sausage and cheese muffins! Everyone's favorite. Every year my mom tells my sister and I stories from when she was young and had the same
experiences with her family and cousins; making muffins on Christmas morning, still in their PJs and listening to classic Christmas songs. “It's tradition,” mom says with a satisfied look on her face, as she turns up the Christmas music for everyone to enjoy. When the muffins are all done and ready to eat, and the smell of a seemingly big breakfast fills the air, everyone rushes to fill their plates. You would think there would be a kitchen full of breakfast items but the muffins are basically three-in-one! They’re small in size yet so filling and satisfying. My mom always told me, “the muffins are a good, tangible example of something small but can put a smile on someone's face.” I hope to carry on the tradition with my future family so that they too can enjoy the fun and heart-arming togetherness.
Cookie Day By: Allie Phillips
Confectioner sugar, chocolate chips, brownie mix, fudge. peanut butter, (lots and lots of peanut butter) molasses, eggs, baking soda, brown sugar, regular sugar (basically all the different sugars), butter, and whatever other cookies/random dessert ingredients my mom and grandmother could manage to spend over a 100 dollars on each litter my grandparents red gingerbread themed kitchen counters. When I first moved in with my mom that's not my mom I quickly picked up on my grandmothers' obsession with gingerbreads and my mom's obsession with Santa Claus come Christmas time. Before November of 2015, I had never seen so many Santa Claus figurines, ornaments, kitchen utensils of basically anything else you can think of that looked like Santa Clause in one house. I had never really seen any Christmas decorations whatsoever besides the same white tree and stockings my biological mom and stepdad put up to “get in the spirit”. There usually wasn't very much spirit at all except the fake facade.
“My first Christmas after moving out was a breath of fresh air, to say the least.” From the presents to the food, to how everyone came together the day of as wells as the days leading up to it. I don't think I can even begin to explain the joy and carefree feeling I felt throwing wrapping paper around the wall to wall filled living room. I had heard of the crazy cookie blowouts they had every year and had even been gifted a couple boxes of the production throughout the years. Brownies, Sugar cookies, peanut butter cookies, wedding cookies, haystacks, fudge, chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal cookies and so many more that I can’t even begin to remember. But nothing really could prepare me for the hours of
stirring, cracking, sifting, mixing, and boxing that took place the weekend before Christmas my freshman year. My grandmother was up before the sun even rose with my mom not far behind her. While I was still sleeping, I can imagine them getting the dough ready, preheating the ovens, setting out the mixers and getting so lost in all the mechanical things that go into starting the process that they probably didn’t notice the sun beginning to illuminate the lake out the windows in the living room.
I don't remember rolling out of bed until around 10 or 11 and even at that moment, the kitchen table was beginning to be overtaken by the sucrose filled sweets. They called it cookie day but the most memorable sweets aren’t really cookies. Haystacks, Fudge, candy apples, my favorite were the brownies. I’m honestly not a chocolate person it’s just never really been my favorite. Cake, brownies, Hersheys, mousse, turtles, truffles, all of those never really interested me. Anything chocolate flavored really just doesn’t interest me. But, absolutely everything rolled out on that small rectangle island was like the best things I’ve ever eaten. For hours I watched them stir, mix, laugh and tell stories it was honestly the best second-hand happiness I've ever felt. Once I finally got pulled into the madness, it was definitely the most I had ever felt like I belonged.
Haystacks recipe Ingredients: ●
1 cup butterscotch chips
●
1 cup peanut butter
●
½ cup salted peanuts
●
2 cups chow mein noodles
Directions: ●
Melt butterscotch chips and peanut butter in a microwave.
●
Stir peanuts and noodles gently into melted mixture.
●
Drag dough by forkfuls onto wax paper.
●
Cool until set.
Wedding Cookie Recipe Ingredients: ●
1 cup butter softened
●
1/2 cup powdered sugar
●
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
●
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
●
1/4 teaspoon salt
●
3/4 cup finely chopped pecans
●
1 cup powdered sugar
Directions ●
Mix the butter and powdered sugar until creamy.
●
Add the flour, vanilla, salt, and chopped pecans. Mix well again.
●
Chill the dough for at least 2 hours.
●
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
●
Roll the dough into 1" balls.
●
Bake for about 10 minutes.
●
Roll the cookie balls in powdered sugar immediately.
●
Allow the cookies to cool completely and then roll them in powdered sugar again.
A Chocolate Thanksgiving “Do you want extra chocolate on yours?” My mother inquires as she stirs the thick melted liquid with the white spatula. “Of course I do.” I love the chocolate part of the Eclair, only once it congealed and formed a thick armor-like layer. Thanksgiving is the only holiday that my mom makes ‘her’ famous recipe. The one she ‘stole’ from my aunt. That special day held more than just fun family rivalry, it held the most delicious recipe in the world: (Not Really) Mom’s Special Chocolate Eclair. “And don’t forget the extra layer of graham cracker. And don’t make it soggy!” I hated soggy Eclair, like the year before it was left in the refrigerator too long, while my dad and uncle fought over who was going to carve the turkey. “Alright, if you want to tell me how to make it why don’t you come here and do it.” My mom held out the chocolate covered spatula, just finished with the last layer of chocolate on the top. “You’re already done, but I’ll finish off that spatula.” “Give the bowl to your brother then.” I would roll my eyes just like every other time, I always got the spoon and my brother would get the bow. Of course he would complain even if the bowl had more left overs than the spoon. An argument occuring between the two of us, of course his 8 year old self would win against his gig 12 year old sister, ultimately ending in him having the spoon and I the bowl. “How long will it take to finish?” chocolate hung from the corner of my mouth, the gooeyness as the liquid was hardening back into an icing. “You know the drill. Just be patient with it.” I complained about the length of time it would take, but as family began to show up the waiting seemed less of a problem. After all our bellies were full from Linner, as we’d call it, it was time for dessert. As my dad would always say “We have two stomachs: one for food and one for dessert.”. As I dug into my second helping of chocolate eclair, my mother chimed, “Time flies when you’re having fun.” her hand on my head as she ran her fingers through my hair. Time doesn’t stop or slow down to wait for you. In one moment I’m an eleven year old girl just waiting for dessert and in the next I’m getting ready to celebrate my first Thanksgiving, not as an adolescent, but as an adult. Looking back I now see what my mother meant by how time flies, and now that I no longer live under the same roof I can understand. Don’t take what you have for
granted, spend your time wisely with the people that you care for. Thinking back to a simpler time when all there was to worry about was who’s carving the turkey and will I get the bowl again. Back to when arguments were meaningless and my mother’s eardrums a casualty to arguments strung from boredom. When a simple touch on the head was an annoyance, but now that’s all I desire. The touch of a loving mother, the embrace of a younger brother, and a turkey carved from love by a father. Ingredients: 2 cups of cold milk 1 (3.4-ounce) box of French Vanilla instant pudding mix 1 (16 ounce) tub of Cool Whip (thawed out) 1 (14 ounce) box of graham crackers 1 (16 ounce) tub of milk chocolate flavored frosting Directions: 1.
Mix cold milk and pudding mix together in a large bowl.
2.
Refrigerate for 5 minutes while it sets up.
3.
Carefully whisk the Cool Whip into the pudding.
4.
Line the bottom of a 9"X13" casserole dish with unbroken graham crackers, overlapping some crackers if necessary to cover the entire bottom of dish.
5.
Pour half of the pudding mixture on top and spread evenly.
6.
Top with another layer of graham crackers, again overlapping if necessary.
7.
Spread remaining pudding mixture on top of the graham crackers.
8.
Then top that with a third and final layer of graham crackers.
9.
Open frosting and tear off metal top. Microwave icing for 10 seconds.
10.
Stir and pour over top of graham crackers. Refrigerate until icing is firm.
Christmas Sweet By: Jack Thompson “Alright nobody better touch Jack’s Fudge, apparently it's only made for him, I guess we aren’t special enough.” is what my uncle said every Christmas. As soon as my grandmother came out of the kitchen with the Royal Dansk cookie container he would blurt out this annoying comment that no one would try and argue because they were afraid of ruining the Show-up-if-you’re-not-busy-and-feel-like-leaving-your-house-toactually-spend-time-with-your-family Christmas party. However each year my grandmother would walk past everyone and hand me the container. With a mixture of butter, cocoa, marshmallow fluff, nuts, lots of sugar, and way too much time in a hot tight kitchen, beautiful pieces of chocolate fudge come out and into the Royal Dansk container. It has a hard outside and a melt in your mouth inside with the crunch of nuts all around. It was the kind of food that only a grandmother can make. She took just as much care of her grandchildren as she did with her fudge. My Grandmother used to give the fudge to anyone who wanted it but after the complaining of the taste or the consistency she started to handed it out less and less and only gave it to the people who cared more about her then the fudge it self. It got to the point where she only gave it to me. Every christmas along with the ear aching yell from my uncle taught him a lesson. The fudge showed him that he needed to understand the little things in life. The fudge represents something more than rich chocolate in an old Royal Dansk butter cookie tray. It represents a bond that feels less like a christmas tradition and more like a unbreakable friendship.
For the reader
I found the exact recipe on Krafts website.
My grandmother never explicitly told me how to
It even kind of had the same look. Im sure my
make the fudge however she gave me an overall
grandmother changed the amount of cocoa
of what to do.
powder used Because the powder would always cover up the sugar used to battle its
Exact words from my grandmother
bitterness.
2 sticks of butter A coupe globs of marshmallow fluff Three tablespoons of cocoa powder Sugar till it looks like a little too much A couple handfuls of your favorite nut put it in the oven on 400 and check it till you get the consistency that you want
I did some later research on the kind of
https://www.kraftrecipes.com/recipe/051833/
ingredients that she used and I specifically
fantasy-fudge
remembered that she used Kraft Marshmallow fluff. However if you look at the container you
The Royal Dansk container really tied it all
will find that it has a fudge recipe on it.
together. They are durable and are a classic staple for For dessert carrying in my family and probably many others.
Walmart Sheets are Better Ashley Wilhelm I don’t have many good memories with my father. But I can still remember the sky blue sheets that I picked out at Walmart for my dad’s new, permanent place where I’d have my second room. It was his first apartment with two bedrooms and a functioning kitchen (though you’ll never be able to get him to sit at the rickety kitchen table for more than ten minutes, but it’s a nice addition). I have never spent the night at my father’s house since my parents divorced. He desperately wanted me to personalize the room at his house but I always said the same thing: “But this isn’t my home”. I saw him every other Saturday, and that was quite enough for me. Every Thanksgiving, as broken family kids know, I spend half the day with my mother and half with my father. I loved seeing both of my grandparents on the same day. Yet every other year without fail my father would be in a fight with my grandfather and we wouldn’t go see them. This was another golden year so we just went back to his apartment. We made a collective decision that we didn’t need an extravagant setup for the two of us and we had no one to invite for the holiday so we improvised. He found two frozen pizzas in his freezer along with a box of Ghirardelli brownie mix. If you’ve ever met my father you know that he couldn’t care less about us not having tons and tons of food for Thanksgiving. He is the most informal person on the planet. He is the king of celebrating his daughter’s 10th birthday a week after it happened and exchanging Christmas gifts on Black Friday. He never knows what day of the week it is nor does he know what time it is, so don’t ask him. Never ask him to plan ahead and never ask him when his mother’s birthday is, because he won’t know until the day of. I enjoyed the evening, especially the brownies, surrounded by his three cats and listening to Cops playing on the tv in the living room. Even though I never was nor will I ever be close with my father, I see parts of him in me. I have the weird twitch in my left thumb whenever I’m thinking and mom says my expressions could match his. I am more comfortable in Vans than flip-flops and I’m not good at keeping my mouth shut. My favorite color is red and my favorite soda is and always will be Mellow Yellow. Even with our strained relationship, we will always have frozen pizza and Ghirardelli brownies.
●
1 pouch of Ghirardelli Triple Chocolate Brownie Mix - Available at Costco or any other grocery store
●
11" by 7" pan
●
1/3 Cup Water
●
1/3 Cup Vegetable Oil
●
1 Egg
1) Spoon into lightly greased pan (size depends on the quantity of brownie mix 2) Sprinkle with 3 cups popped kettle corn, 1 cup salted peanuts and 1/2 cup Ghirardelli Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips. 3) Lightly press into batter. 4) Bake at 325 degrees Fahrenheit for 30-35 minutes. 5) Cool thoroughly before cutting. (Recipe from Ghirardelli)
Lipstick On My Pizza Memory by Lori Vincent
M y grandmother was a newspaper maven. Every morning, she’d crack open The Montgomery Advertiser while she
I think she got as much pleasure from imagining what it would taste like and planning when she’d make it than she did from actually making and eating the creation. When she got on FaceBook, her
enjoyed her cup of Maxwell House. I can
favorite posts were of recipes. When I
still see her in the wood-paneled kitchen
visited her home, she always had
on Bridlewood, a curlicue of cigarette
something new she’d found and made
smoke disappearing above her scarfed
for me to try. It wasn’t unusual for her to
and rollered head and later, in the early
call my mother or one of the others in the
morning sun underneath the carport on
family to plan a meal just so she could try
Newport, and just before her passing at
a recipe she’d found.
the hightop table, she talked herself into
“Lori, it’s your grandmother.”
at her Meadowlark apartment… always
(Even after caller id, she still opened our
with the coffee and the newspaper.
conversations with this announcement.
I can’t tell you what order she read
It made me smile… as if I couldn’t tell by
it in, but I can tell you that she did the
the first syllable who was on the phone.
crossword. In ink. She’d leave the paper,
I’d love to hear it just one more time.)
neatly folded in thirds so that the
“Yes, ma'am?”
crossword was front and center, on the
“I found a recipe this afternoon.
kitchen table all day. She, and often those
Why don’t you come over this weekend
who were guests at her table throughout
and taste it for me?”
the day, would fill it in as the day
“How about after church?”
unfolded. And I don’t know for certain,
“I’ll have it ready. I talked to Uncle
but I think the section with the food was her favorite. My grandmother had wanderlust,
Larry and so and so is in the hospital…” The conversation would last a few more minutes while she detailed who’d
and though she rarely traveled further
been where and who’d purchased what
than the Air Force could take her, either
and what the weather was like every
as a wife or as a civil servant. She was
place my extended family lived.
adventurous in her appetite.
After her death, I helped my mom sort dozens of recipes that we found all over her kitchen. Some were tucked in a drawer, others were placeholders in cookbooks, and many were simply in a gallon-size Ziplock bag. I was more surprised by the number than I should have been. I caught her--- more than once--- reading cookbooks in gift shops and bookstores. Sometimes she’d buy the cookbook on the pretense of giving it as a gift just so she could read the contents. The only newspaper-recipe creation I remember eating is the one she brought to my home in October 2000. I wasn’t exactly a new mother, but I was new at being the mother of two. She drove all the way to Hampton from her place in Montgomery to spend a few days helping me adjust. And she brought the clipping with the recipe for Jack-O-Lantern pizza with her. I still have it… sealed in an old photo album that doubles as a cookbook for all of the recipes I collect and clip. It is yellowed and oil-stained. Or maybe it is in the old aluminum tin where I stuff recipes in-waiting
I don’t remember what it tasted like, but I do remember hearing my oldest giggle while he helped her in the galley kitchen. She sliced the orange bell peppers, chopped the green and red ones, and diced the olives. Calvin’s face was pure concentration as he created the Jack-O-Lantern faces on the pizza crust they’d prepared. They had a long conversation about how to put on the mozzarella. He didn’t want to cover the faces he’d made and she insisted that they couldn’t have a cheese-less pizza. I don’t remember how they settled their differences, but I remember how he crouched in front of the oven window to check on the progress. In October 2001, he asked if Gigi was ready to come back and make the pizza. She never came to our home for Halloween again, but I think he and I made that pizza for seven or eight years in a row. I inherited her recipe wanderlust, and I think it started with the Jack-O-Lantern pizza. But more I got more than an insatiable craving to collect recipes: I got to create kitchen memories with her. With my mother. With my children. And God-willing, one day with my own grandchildren and great-grandchildren.