Is it summer yet?

The transition from one season to another is always a time of flux. And not just in terms of the weather, but what we eat and what we crave. As soon as the temperature starts to rise I immediately have visions of corn on the cob and tomato salad. The truth is that those are our culinary rewards for surviving the heat and humidity of summer. They're at their peak in August and September, and are so worth the wait. But it's hard to eat seasonally. What with strawberries from California and corn from Florida available all year long, why should we have to wait?

This spring we tried to stick to a more seasonal approach to eating veggies and gobbled up pea shoots, asparagus, and some recently sprouted radishes. But they aren't always available at the Key Food in our neighborhood in NYC, and we end up buying what's in front of us. I have moments of guilt when I buy that mix of gourmet tomatoes from Mexico or California. I think about how they were shipped across the country and how my carbon footprint just got gigantic.

I made a salad from that box of tomatoes, and although it was quite tasty, my guilt was weighing down on me. Does anyone else have this type of food anxiety: eat local versus eat organic versus eat seasonal? Or should we just be focused on eating healthy foods that are available to us regardless of the season or their provenance? Any thoughts?

Mother's Day

Unpacking boxes that were stored for at least ten years—from Carl's parent's house to Manhattan Mini Storage to finally the attic in our new upstate house—I came across a relish dish that brought back memories of my Mom. She died in 1993, when I was 29 years old. Being Mother's Day this weekend, I thought it was appropriate to post about her today. Mom was amazing because she left my dad, at the age of 34, and raised us seven kids on her own. She had no job and drove a Corvaire given to her by a friend. I'll have to write a book to tell the whole story. She loved to cook and eat and she loved doing both with her brood of seven—me, my four brothers, and two sisters.

She cooked dinner almost every night of the week, from her 1970's-perfect bacon-covered-mixed-meat (beef, pork, veal) meatloaf to her easy, flour-drenched baked "fried" chicken. During the week we kids would often skip dinner because of a game, school project, or sleepover at a friend's house, but on Sundays, everyone had to be home for dinner. No excuses. And this is when Mom shined in the kitchen—from the roasts with all the fresh vegetables to the famous chicken cutlets with tomato-juice gravy (I still make it today!), to her spaghetti with sausage and meatballs in homemade red sauce. I can still taste her food and see the smile on her face as she looked upon all her children chatting, arguing, laughing, and eating. No matter what, we were at that oval, sagging dining room table with the terrible orange lighting above us happily awaiting what Mom would serve. This tradition lasted until the Sunday before Mom died.

So when I tore away the old newspaper from the relish dish I thought about the asparagus she might have served in the dish, or the pickles at a barbecue, or the slices of celery with cream cheese at the "special" occasions, like graduations, First Communions, and Birthdays. When Carl said "What are we ever going to serve in this dish?" I said "I know the perfect thing."

Here's to you Mom. Thanks for passing on your love of food and cooking to me and for keeping us all together for dinner at least once a week. I hope I can do the same for Vivi. Happy Mother's Day!