All posts filed under: apricots

not your mother's haroset, on a raisin & a porpoise

how i look

I am on my way to my high school reunion. I am hedging around saying which one it is, and it occurs to me suddenly how silly that is. It occurs to me how silly a lot of things are, when tectonic plates (real ones) and juggled plates (figurative ones) and other grand-scale matters are uppermost in my mind. I mean, lots of crazy bad crap is happening, at home and abroad. So the fact that I get to be 47 years old, and have three decades since high school to gaze back on—that suddenly seems like a silly thing to get squirrelly about. When I was plotting my course towards this occasion, I had to factor in that I’d be traveling quite a while before I got to set my bag down, and a lot of that on foot. Carrying several outfit possibilities around was kind of out of the question.  My default “feel more devil-may-care about how I look” setting is at the point on the dial marked “badass boots.” But I knew …


breeding joy

In 2004, our family was a bit worn by a run of fairly epic events: illness, strife and woe, though strangers for the most part up until then (lucky us!), took up residence in our solar system with a vengeance. When the dust settled (for good, we innocently thought) my husband and I did a hugely greedy thing: we had another baby. It was greedy by planetary standards, and that gave me some major pause. But it was also greedy for joy. I can run circles around most circular thinkers—but this! But that! But this and that!–and though I continue to visit and revisit many of my big decisions, I feel pretty confident that the joy grab was a sound move. Illness, strife and woe have not been as strangers since then. But the boy continues to compound the happiness of those around him. This week Vitamin A turned 10, a noteworthy milestone. We always have his Party after the holidays, when his school chums are more available, and mark his official day with a …

roasted apricots with honey & basil, on a raisin & a porpoise


I grew up in a household of girls, and I went to a girls’ school.  How much food growing boys can eat was not really part of my consciousness for the first part of my life.  Then I met my husband, twenty two years ago on Memorial Day Weekend, at an eating party.  My husband is a big eater. He is a tall and slim fellow, and it seems like there is not much room for quantities of food in his architecture, but the man can eat. After he has eaten his fill, this notion is never far from my mind: Every year on his birthday, I cook up a storm, trying to hit all the high notes he appreciates.  He likes a volume of food, to be sure, but he has a palate.  And though he is perfectly willing to eat a lot of one thing, a whole range of options (and plenty of sauce) is the right way to celebrate as far as he is concerned. Often his parents join us for this …