Riding through the serene, golden-green hills and vineyards of Bourgogne, we were all set and excited for an epic B&B stay. We had our room picked, and cash to pay. The hosts cooked dinners as well, with fresh, home-grown food from their garden for their guests, with rave reviews. I was stoked.

Alas. We wanted a rural experience, but for how rural, we failed to plan for, with a car rental. We rode the bus from the city of Auxerre for an hour, got off at a non-descript depot, on an idyllic, silent street shaded by stately trees, still a long distance from our destination, and waited. We fumbled with French and a kind passerby’s Frenglish to call a taxi: “Oh, he is eating supper, and won’t pick you up for an hour or two”, said the girl who knew a little English. Rats. I almost cried, I was so disappointed. So we rode the same bus allll the way back to the city. Google to the rescue. We found an air b&b within walking distance, so we made a quick booking.

It didn’t look like much from the outside, just a plastered, square house from the street, but my… inside, it gave one a feeling of wonder; great, strong, faithful ceiling beams, having held up the clay-tiled roof for centuries, and I do mean centuries. It was built in 947 AD. Can you even comprehend that? I can’t.

Great bells from the nearby church and Abby tolled the hours, reverberating through the flower-decked streets.

In the mornings, I’d smile, and use my best collection of French words, strung together like an awkward necklace, since the Monsieur knew nothing of English, “Deux cafes au lait, un crossaint, s ‘il vous plait.” And we’d savor our coffee with milk and croissants on the tiny table outside in the warm September sunshine, with pastries from tiny shops a street or two away.

I’d seen pictures of such treats, and wondered how on earth they could actually taste good, they looked too perfect, like cheap wedding cakes, fussy elaborations that taste like sugary, greased cardboard doused with artificial flavoring.

Ohhhh no. No way. Not these.

I wish I knew words in English to describe the explosions of flavor, the freshness, the harmony of textures… But I can’t.

We rented electric bikes and rode along the canal of the Yonne river. I’ve never seen so many swans, and such lovely, old villages.

We picked up ripe chestnuts from the ground, and stopped at a winery with a personal tour and tasting by the owner, Jean-Pierre, a jolly, Santa-like, quintessential Frenchman who told us his Vin Bourru (recently crushed, still fermenting, slightly sweet, delicious grape juice) would get me pregnant, with a sonorous laugh. We bought a bottle for our picnic under the Eiffel Tower the next evening.

For lunch and dinner, we enjoyed crispy, savory crepes in a stone creperie, with fillings such as bacon, fried potatoes, fried eggs, spinach and cheese, and lovely sweet crepes with scoops of refreshing sorbet, poached pears and raspberry sauce for dessert. With local hard cider on the side.

Our generous host, Hadrien, went above and beyond to give us a wonderful experience during our stay. He took us for a free tour and tasting of his gourmet popcorn shop, with an astounding variety of flavors. He and his brother had visited the US, and tasted our fancy popcorn, decided to steal the idea but use French ingredients, (like nothing artificial, whatsoever, merci!) and offer their exquisite creations in upper-crust establishments, like the Bon Marche superstore, and the Ritz Paris hotel.

Our time was way too short. How badly I wanted to buy fresh goodies from the outside Farmers market, and cook up a leisurely, luxe storm in that old, old house, with a beautiful new kitchen. To the sound of ancient bells gonging.

Here, home, in my shoebox kitchen in the little house in the middle of nowhere, I recreate those delicious memories from time to time. In that leisurely, luxe fashion I’ve learned to appreciate, and implement more and more in my life. That taxi driver who was busy eating supper? While we were stranded on that silent street? He taught me a lesson I won’t forget. He wasn’t about to hurry up for a few bucks. He had wine to drink, and the most delicious food on the planet to dine upon. He wasn’t about to budge this sacred margin in his life.

That’s the French for you. Priorities. Enjoy life, every day, in the little ways. Don’t be so caught up chasing the big things that you miss the little joys.

We had our Thanksgiving a week late. My brother came for the week, so why not? I made a small feast, and tried a recipe I’d tucked away on my Pinterest board titled: “Beautiful Food”.

It’s called Tartiflette.

It’s potatoes who died and went to France, and found themselves floating on white clouds of garlic & thyme-infused cream, amid golden strands of Gruyere and Brie. (Most commonly made with Roblichon, but remember I’m in a little house in the middle of nowhere.) With bits of bacon and scallions. Bubbling with crispy edges, and golden tops.

You can’t believe how delicious it is. It will partner beautifully with your turkey, or ham, or whatever you make for Thanksgiving.

Ooh la la is not an overstatement.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

2 1/2 lbs. Potatoes, peeled and very thinly sliced into rounds (I used Yukon Golds)

1 cup whole milk

1 cup heavy cream

1-2 cloves garlic, smashed

1/2 tsp. dried thyme, or 1 tsp. fresh thyme

salt & pepper

2-3 slices bacon, fried until crispy, crumbled

1 bunch scallions, sliced thinly

3/4 cup shredded Gruyere Cheese

3/4 cup sliced Brie Cheese

Heat oven to 350. Pour milk & cream, garlic & thyme and a large pinch of salt into a large soup pot. Bring to a gentle boil over medium-high heat; reduce to medium-low heat, simmer until fork tender, about 5-7 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste. Butter a 9×13 baking pan. Spread half the potatoes with milk on the bottom of pan, sprinkle with half the bacon, scallions and cheese, top with remaining potatoes, bacon, scallions and cheese. Bake about 30 minutes until bubbling and golden on top, and potatoes are very tender. Voila!

The post Rural France & Tartiflette appeared first on My Blog.

The food! I grope for words. Fresh. Explosions of flavor. Textures and tastes playing, dancing, making love together, in the characteristic, paradoxical style the French are so renown for.

Rich, airy. Sumptuous, simple. Sensuous, casual. Refined, rustic. Intense, light. Indulgent, healthy.

We had so little time. We knew we couldn’t get to see much of the popular tourist haunts, so, we just didn’t.

Instead, we just took our leisurely time to enjoy a few overwhelmingly delightful bites instead of madly cramming in lots of sight-seeing. In true French style. Un petit delicieux.

I couldn’t stop smiling like a dreamy, touristy American, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t help but feel proud of my French roots on my Mother’s side that came from right here, in this city of romance and light a few generations earlier.

My husband wanted to see a real-deal European soccer game, so the first night in Paris, we went to the Stad de France to see the World-Cup champions play against the Dutch. It was packed. Cigarette smoke nearly choked me, and exhausted from the night spent sitting on the airplane, I fell asleep a few times on his shoulder. But how exciting! The crowd chanted, sang, cheered and jumped for joy, waving flags, wearing the colors on their cheeks, celebrating proudly their very own team that had come out on top. Champions le monde!

A restful night’s sleep in our quaint air B&B, a shower with good, inexpensive French savon, (soap), a breakfast of zucchini quiche, -delicious! Fortified us for the day ahead.

I had read that the “Ru de Bac” street was home to some of the most wonderful chocolate shops in Paris, (and perhaps the world over). We strolled along the Ru, popping into other various shops, draped with silky lingerie, or lined with the ubiquitous French beauty products, or stacked with fresh, crusty breads, ….

Voila. Paradis.

Angelina. The well-groomed shopkeeper served us complimentary cups of steaming hot cocoa, so rich it was like drinking truffles. Velvety, rich, plush, intense. It was like being in an edible art trove.

Chapon. One of the last remaining Master Chocolatiers who roasts his own cacao beans from exotic places. Like wine, chocolate has many notes unique to the “terroir” in which it was grown.

The girl behind the goodness was polite, gracious, generous. She explained anything we wanted to know. In her very thick French accent, she recommended the very best of the already best chocolate known to mankind. “Zis one ‘as ze taste of ‘oney, zat ‘as ‘omemade praline…” We left with a cone-full of delectable chocolate mousse, topped with a crispy tuille cookie and a sprinkling of cacao nibs, and a box full of the most wondrous chocolates. Ever. Mon Dieu.

As we walked with our hands full of treats, we bought a small carton of fresh raspberries, and sat on a bench at a nearby park to savor our picnic.

Mamans with their little ones came to play. …aha! Now I know how the ladies grow to be so elegant; nearly every little girl I saw was neatly dressed in a pretty dress, as was her Mama.

Seriously, I have never seen such beautifully dressed people all in one place. I had expected to be disappointed, Pinterest is just wishful thinking, right? People don’t really embody the stereotypes we sometimes wish they would, right? I mean, maybe here and there, but won’t I see mostly boring leggings and slouchy hoodies and sneakers like I see everywhere on the street and in the stores here, right? Pas du tout. No way.

At dinner, we sat outside a cafe eating a savory duck confit, creamy potato gratin and drinking a lovely crisp white wine while we watched people.

Dresses! I haven’t seen so many dresses since I left the Mennonites! And so much color! Perhaps because it was late summer, and perhaps because it was Sunday, everyone wore so much color. Pinks, greens, blues, even the men! The classic trench or sport coats, scarves, and shoes in a delightful variety of colors. Amazing.

The final hurrah was a ride to the top of the Eiffel tower. First, a picnic on a wooden bench under the trees. A bottle of wine from Irancy we bought on our bike ride. Crusty, crispy, crackly bread, soft inside, with salty, truffle-infused salami. Fresh raspberries. Creme Fraiche. White asparagus. Chocolate from Chapon.

A feast to remember.

As the sun sank into the horizon and dusk fell, the strobe lights glittered into the sky, and the collective, delighted gasp of the many guests rang into the night.

We stood in line for nearly an hour, but at long last, the elevator pulled us to the top where a dizzying, breathtaking view awaited. Magical.

A young, smartly dressed couple giggle and flirted beside me, I tried not to gawk, but I couldn’t help seeing him pull a tiny, red velvet box out of his grey suit jacket, or the flash of the diamond on her hand.

How very, very happy.

Au revoir, Paris. Merci boucoup. Thank you for such beautiful memories I shall forever treasure in such a short time.

Back home, I’ve enjoyed trying a variety of French-inspired recipes. And a lovely French perfume I found on eBay for a fraction of the price, alas only half the bottle. But I love it, and it reminds me of those lovely ladies in dresses gracefully trekking along the Ru de Bac.

And French Silk Mousse Pie. This is the closest I’ve come to replicating that delectable chocolatey amazingness. With the crispy crunchy ‘omemade praline.

French Silk Mousse Pie

Crust:

1 3/4 cup Hazelnuts, toasted til lightly golden and fragrant, (papery husks removed by rubbing a towel on them) Or other nuts, i.e. walnuts and/or pecans are also delicious.

1/2 cup sugar

8 Tbsp. butter

In large skillet set over medium-high heat, melt sugar, dry, until it begins to caramelize. Add toasted nuts and butter. Stir and cook 1-2 minutes, until all the sugar and butter is melted, remove from heat, spread on a piece of parchment paper or a greased cookie sheet. When slightly cooled, grind in a food processor til finely ground, but not a paste. Press into a 9″ round springform pan. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

Filling:

1 1/2 cup bittersweet chocolate chips

1 1/2 sticks butter, room temperature

3/4 cup sugar

6 large eggs

2/3 cup heavy whipping cream (or less if you want it more intense)

1 tsp. Vanilla extract

1 Tbsp. hazelnut liqueur (optional)

Topping:

1 cup whipping cream

2 Tbsp. granulated sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

1 Tbsp. hazelnut liqueur (optional)

To make filling: Melt the chocolate and stir gently till smooth. Combine butter and sugar in mixing bowl, beat until smooth, about one minute. Add eggs two at a time, mixing well after each addition, Scrape down sides of bowl, increase speed to medium-high, whip until well blended, about 2 minutes. (The mixture will look curdled.)

Decrease the speed to medium-low, slowly add warm melted chocolate. Scrape the sides and continue to mix until chocolate is fully incorporated. Add cream, vanilla and liqueur and beat another minute on high speed until fluffy. (If you want it dense, just mix in the cream on low speed until combined. I love it fluffier.) Spread into chilled crust.

Topping:

In clean, chilled bowl, beat cream with sugar, vanilla and hazelnut liqueur until firm peaks form.

Chill in refrigerator 3-4 hours til firm. Decorate as you like.

Bon Appetite!

The post Adventures in Europe: Paris… & Chocolate appeared first on My Blog.

My Dear Readers,
It’s been a while. Mama mia.

To tell you the truth, I have a number of posts almost ready, but after writing my little life story, I wasn’t sure where to go from there. Since I have a rather random collection of interests, and a limited amount of wisdom, I don’t want to waste your time with a lack thereof. But, you have cart blanche access to the delete button, so I’ll say my piece, and you can read and enjoy, or not. Deal?

I thought I’d have a go at recapping the wonderful trip to Europe my husband and I took this past summer, and share some recipes. Most of you have followed my travels on Facebook, but good times are worth retelling, no? (And the recipes are definitely worth trying, imho.)

This past September, we spent about two weeks traveling in England, France, Spain and Italy. It was a delightful, magical tease. Not nearly enough time in each place, just enough to make me fall in love and wish for more.

Today I’d like to share my little taste of Italy with you.

As the plane neared Naples, I felt already at ease, the seats full of warm, chatty, animated Italians. A pretty, young gal in French braids beside me tried to converse in her dancing cadence, while I smiled and nodded, (the universal response of the clueless) and tried to tell her “non capisce.” But she kept talking, so I kept smiling and nodding. Stephen made-do quite nicely with his fluent Spanish as he sat beside a friendly gentleman with a broad smile, chiseled features, hazel-brown eyes that twinkled as he spoke, with weathered, expressive hands, so much like my dad. He was a fellow mechanic, with an olive grove on his land in Puglia, -the best place in Italy! in his opinion. 
As we waited to disembark, I explained to my fellow passengers in my best, bad Italian, that my Nonna was from Pomegliano de Arco, five miles from Mt. Vesuvius, and that I wanted to see her house and the area where she grew up. They smiled and nodded, all familiar with the area, and with the handmade ravioli I told them she made by the heaps for every special dinner of the year. They seemed pleased that I make it, too, by hand, in honor of the old way.

They chuckled as I told them of the echoing family names, each a flip flop of the previous, Alessandro Dominic the father, Dominic Alessandro son #1, Alessandro Dominic son #2…. Oh yes, that was typical, they said.

An astounding, great fortress greeted us, the Castel de Nuovo. We stared in wonder at the massive, stone walls, and as we walked, we came upon an excavation sight where a sunken Roman ship had been found,  they were digging around to preserve it as a museum.

We poked around the noisy city while swooning over some scrumptious gelato, forest berry and chocolate and coffee, finding delightful, under-appreciated troves of ancient artwork in floor mosaics and ceilings before hopping on our boat to cross over to Sorrento.

Sorrento…

Tall, stone houses draped with flowers and vines, with majestic cliffs setting the background, and the deep, teal blue sea splashing the black, rocky coast beneath. The city bustled with traffic and throngs of people. A satiny-red Ferrari with its deep, throaty purr wrapped around me on the artfully-laid stone street, and vanished from view.

We found a restaurant, one of a multitude of pizzerias, but a real gem, a few paces down a corridor into a lush, green, quiet outdoor seating area, where we feasted on perfect pizza with a crispy, crackly, chewy crust, and pasta, aldente, with a light, fresh, lemon cream sauce with clams, still briny from the morning surf and a refreshing white wine, with gracious service and enrapturing views.

Quickly, we ran to the museum of Sorrento Coreale just minutes down the street. I changed into my purple shiny dress, gave my hair a quick brush through, and donned my great-grandma’s pearl bracelet. We hurried to our seats and passed with a smile and nod to the tuxedoed gentlemen waiting in an adjacent room, whom I soon discovered were the Tre Tenores, waiting to step in and fill the night with magic. A piano, violin and cello began with a lovely prelude. One by one, the masters entered, and raised the roof with their amazing voices. Each different, each beautiful. Quiet, soft whispers, of thoughts and dreams and unspoken feelings; deep, soulful cries of passion, love; mournful sorrow and pain.

The ladies’ man, Alessandro Fortunato, offered his hand to a sweet lady in a white dress, danced and twirled with her to the music as she smiled delightedly.  On went the music, and a few songs later, he marched down the center isle as he sang, knelt down in front of me, took my hand and sang, then kissed my hand and winked as the audience applauded and chuckled. A fairy-tale moment incarnate.

We had to leave early to catch the last bus to Praiano, but still the night was full of loveliness as we wound around the tight bends, the lights glittering in rows up and up and back and around all the way up the steep hills, like a giant Christmas tree all aglow. We stopped by our little “home” for a few nights, right beside the water, where the moon cast a shimmering, gleaming path down the Tyrhennian Sea.

Our hostess left fresh roses on the table, a bottle of local Limoncello, and a note that wished us a lovely holiday.

The trees, oh my! Lemon, orange, fig, olive, pomegranate… Not to mention cheery little gardens full of ripe tomatoes and mint and squashes. As we walked down the narrow corridor past the small stone homes to the water’s edge, the scent of spaghetti sauce simmering and pasta cooking greeted me from a dozen mama’s kitchens, and misted my eyes over with the wonderful nostalgic squeeze of coming home to supper.

Strange, isn’t it, that a place you’ve never been can feel so like home, because it was, in a way.

We paddled around in a 2-man kayak, taking in the fabulous views of the rocky, blooming coastline, marveled at the “blue grotto”, a gorgeous turquoise with flashing diamonds of sunlight.

After we returned our boat, sun-kissed and hungry, we stopped at a breezy, alfresco bar which served us the most refreshing lemon granita, salty munchies and delicious, local beer in view of the sparkling sea. 

In the late evening of the next day, a church just 1/2 a mile down the street, full of candles flickering to a host of saints with flowers and incense and reverberating bells, held a service of some sort, I couldn’t tell what. We passed by, smiling, to families of multi-generations, grandpas and grammas clustered together, moms and dads with little ones, as they sat late into the night, chatting, playing, being together. Ah, the joy of community, where everyone knows everyone and their aunty, and faith and food and friendship are shared through the seasons and generations, binding together the culture and values and whatever is precious to a people for centuries of time.

The last day, we rode the bus through thickly congested streets and around tight curves, the drivers greeting one another as they passed, way too close, shaking their hands and fussing at the traffic blocking them on into Positano, yet another beautiful town, and back again to Sorrento.

I so badly wanted to visit my Great-Grandma’s home, but by the time we got even close it was dark, so I wouldn’t be able to take pictures or even see it well. As we got closer, it was apparent she’d left for good reason and never went back. I’d never seen so much graffiti in all my life, or so much trash on the street (except for third-world countries I’d gone on mission trips to), and the people looked generally sad and hard, as though life were a painful struggle for them, as I know it was for her.

I rather regret not having tried just a little longer, but maybe some day I will try again.

At 16, she boarded a ship in steerage, sailed to Boston, and never again set foot on a boat, and didn’t speak of Italy much. How hard life was, but how much joy and nurturing she gave others. She raised four good children, good produce, and cooked good food, like so many Michelin-star Mamas. She died at age 94 when I was 14, and how I wish I would’ve taken time to hear any stories she was willing to tell, although she wouldn’t tell much.

But I cook. I recreate that edible love, those homey memories I cherish from my childhood, with flour and eggs, worked and kneaded into silky smooth sheets of pasta with my large, strong hands, like hers, while I hum and sing the old songs, “O Sole Mio”, “Come Back to Sorrento”, and “Funiculi Funicula”.

I brown pork, beef, sausage, onions and garlic in olive oil, and add wine and tomatoes and basil and let the sauce simmer for hours and hours, filling the house with ravishing aromas. I call my family and often friends to the table and smile into their eyes, and create a moment in which to make memories. Food is heart and soul, it is the gift of God and land and loving hands. It is what I have to remember the beautiful old country wherever I am.

Here is the recipe for our family’s Neapolitan Meat Sauce. Of course, there are many variations, but this is ours, and it is very similar, (only better, if I may dare say?!) to what I ate in Naples one evening at a very nice, busy restaurant. My Nonna and the great-aunties in Italy taught my mom the process when she was a young bride visiting the old country, too, 38 years ago.

It takes a bit of time, but cooking this is such an aromatic, therapeutic experience, you will enjoy every minute. Put on some Dean Martin, sing along to “That’s Amore!” donn an apron, and breathe it all in.

Not to mention it makes such a huge batch which freezes wonderfully for quick meals thereafter. Enjoy!

Marini Family Spaghetti Sauce

1 small Beef roast (2-3 lbs.)

1 small Pork roast (2-3 lbs., or a couple pork chops)

1 lb. Italian Sausage, hot or sweet or both

1 lb. ground beef

2 onions, finely chopped

6 cloves garlic, smashed, peeled and minced

Olive oil (about 1/4 cup)

1/2 Cup red wine

3 28 oz. cans crushed tomatoes

1 28 oz. can tomato puree

1 28 oz. can finely diced tomatoes

1/4 cup tomato paste

1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, grated

1/4 cup dried basil

3 bay leaves

2 Tbsp. Salt

2 tsp. freshly ground pepper, or to taste

2 Tbsp. brown sugar or molasses

Put all canned tomatoes into a large pot. (Rinse the cans out with a little water, about 2 cups total, and add to the pot). Add Parmesan, basil, bay leaves, salt and sugar or molasses. Heat on medium heat until simmering.

In large skillet, heat 2 Tbsp. olive oil on medium heat until shimmering and very hot. Brown beef and pork roasts on all sides; remove from pan and add to the pot with tomatoes and seasonings. Add sausage to pan, brown for about 5 minutes, until well colored on two sides. Remove from pan and add to pot. Add 2 more Tbsp. olive oil to skillet, add chopped onions. Saute, stirring frequently, until brown and caramelizing, about 8-9 minutes, then add garlic, saute another 1-2 minutes. Add red wine, let cook 1-2 minutes, until the alcohol evaporates. Season with 1 tsp. salt and fresh ground black pepper. Scrape into tomato pot.

Cover and bring sauce to boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat to low, uncover, and let simmer for about 4-5 hours until the roasts are very tender. Turn off heat and let cool. Add a little water if it is too thick, allow to simmer longer if it is too thin. Taste and adjust seasonings. When slightly cooled, remove roasts from sauce, slice thinly to serve.

Mangia! Buon Appetito!

The post Adventures in Europe – Viva Italia! appeared first on My Blog.

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July 1988.

A month before, my birthday cake had held three, flickering candles.

I nibbled the candy necklace around my neck as I sat in the front seat of the UHaul with my Pop, as my Mom and big sister followed in our brown station wagon. Loaded with homemade, pine furniture, crafted by my pop’s masterful, strong hands; touches of beauty, fabric, upholstery and paint to soften our new home, by my artful, pretty Mom.

We sped past the breezy beaches of Cape Cod we would come back to visit many summers later, past crimson cranberry bogs, spicy, cool pine forests,  great, old, historic buildings, and farms, (or “fahms”, in the native tongue), my uncle’s blueberry farm, and the produce truck farm my paternal great-grandparents from Italy had broken ground on, built up and coaxed food from, making new lives in beautiful Massachusetts.

My mom’s family had come, too, from Poland, France and Ireland a few decades before, to make a life in the land of opportunity.

How different my life would be, so many miles away.

Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Farms, yes, but many were not worked with old trucks and rusty tractors, like great grandpa drove, but with teams of muscular draft horses, the reins held firmly by bearded men in straw hats and black suspenders, often with their own wee children, my age, nestled close beside them.

Here were woods of Oak and Maple, rolling, gentle hills with tangles of wild honeysuckle, tiger lilies, blooming trees, and so much luscious, refreshing green. Ponds, creeks, tiny brooks, with snapping turtles, fish, frogs, and in winter, snow that clung to each twig and blade of the many trees, frosted from the moist, dense air.

Here, I would grow up, swathed by all that green, and flowers for the picking, with God, family and church being the center of my world.
My parents had left Catholicism, then mainstream Evangelicalism, and moved all that way to become part of the Anabaptist movement.

Our church fellowship was a tossed salad of sorts, a combo of Mennonite doctrine and lifestyle, Baptist-revivalist preaching, and the back-to-basics homeschool movement.

Here, I learned to sing. All four-parts of harmony at six, seven, eight years old, sitting next to ladies who sang soprano, alto and tenor, with bass by the sonorous men on the right half of the auditorium, committing to memory and heart a great vault of hymns from the thick, black Christian Hymnary. All a Capella.

My sister and I sang together, when we picked weeds, and when we had play dates with our friends. We imagined and pretended singing for weddings and concerts, all serious and formal-like, in tight, beautiful harmony, sometimes dressed up with sheets of fancy fabric, like elegant ladies.

This would become the foundation for the music I would love and play for the rest of my life.

We homeschooled, K-12 and beyond. My parents both being teachers, pioneered in a time when many thought it would be an utter failure, but they believed it was the best they could do for us. A tailored fit for our individual needs and interests.

Here, I learned to LOVE to read. We had no TV, watched no movies, but read an abundance of books. Ah, the ripe joy a wealth of pages held!

Adventures, wonderful experiences, romances, delights to be had, and marvelous travels through time, ticket-free. Dickens, Twain, Austen, Montgomery, and my very favorite, Alcott.

I read in the bathroom, leaned books behind the kitchen sink while I washed dishes, pored over pages outside on the swing… Those were moments of delicious delight. Still one of my favoritest of favorite simple life pleasures.

Church became our “extended family.” We celebrated many holidays with our church friends, (since our relatives were far away), we had picnics and field trips and invited each other for Sunday lunches.

Sunday lunch! The first question we kids would ask our parents when church concluded with the final amen, (after a three-hour, non-entertaining service, mind you!) “Did we get invited??!” Oh, the hope that one of the 100+ families had invited us to share a meal, preferably one of those who made really good food. If you were incredibly lucky, you might be invited to a place like the Esh’s, (although there was no place quite like it) a warm, delightful home where guests were honored, welcomed, served sumptuously, the best food this side of the Alleghenies, with a side of rousing conversation and humorous, friendly debate.

Here I learned the joy of hospitality, the happy memories that are tucked warm inside ones’ soul forever, around the simple joys of delightful food and jovial, meaningful conversation.

Roast beef, meltingly tender, with rich, velvety, smooth gravy. (See end of post for recipe). Heavenly clouds of mashed potatoes, silky with sour cream and cream cheese, topped with brown butter and toasted bread crumbs on top. Delight! Fresh garden peas, with butter. Homemade pickles. Soft, pillowy, freshly-baked buns with fresh strawberry jam. (Like angel cherubs singing in your mouth.)

Sweet corn, tender and ripe from the garden. And for dessert, maybe homemade pies, like shoo-fly, (a rich, molassesey crumb pie, toothsome, and very sweet) or fresh, just-picked strawberry pie, maybe even homemade ice cream, with milk from nearby farms, courtesy of big mama cows grazing on the endless green. And meadow tea! Mint, which grew wild along the many said creeks and ponds and lush green hills, brewed into a refreshing, sweet, bright green tea served with most any meal. I loved it.

Here, I learned the arts of homemaking. Most women did not work outside the home, traditional roles were prized and protected. Hard work was greatly valued, and young girls learned to keep a tidy, very clean, orderly home, cook wonderful meals, bake delightful treats, sew their own dresses, love babies and care for them, grow and preserve food with gardening, canning and freezing.

No medical insurance for most people, so herbs and natural cures were used whenever possible, as well as midwives for multiple home births.

This time-travel paradise was not a perfect heaven. I write about the struggles and heartaches it gave me. But I also celebrate the beautiful bedrock it was, the truth, goodness and beauty it gave my life as I grew.

Along came a brother, Anthony,

then another: Paul, then came the pretty pink dresses we hung on the line while we sang; our pretty little sister, Emily, and then Mark. (Whom I also dressed up in pink dresses for the fun of it. Poor helpless little guy.)

Life was busy, full of school and helping Mom around the house, and good times. Pop took us out for many excursions, bike rides, fishing trips, rollerskating, read us books and articles, inspiring works like the life of George Washington Carver, Little House on the Prairie, and multitudes of Bible stories. Mom faithfully kept us fed with the best spaghetti and meat sauce known to mankind, and taught us many skills, like baking, arts like beading, crocheting, and stenciling, our first music classes, and truths from the Bible.

My dad made us our first harp when I was 11.

His expertise in woodworking would prove to make him a leader in the craft of harp-making, with gorgeous designs, impeccable finesse, and sweet, clear tones. (Visit http://www.marinimadeharps.com to read more!) Mom was the excellent secretary and general manager, and kept all the many loose ends together and in neat files. My sister and I spent hours learning, practicing, arranging, and many more hours performing and sharing what we’d learned.

It became a family business, a ministry, and a great opportunity for all six of us kids. We spent the next decade performing together, recording albums, and developing our skills, on various different instruments.

So closes the chapter of my childhood home. So soon I’d wave goodbye to the rolling hills and peaceful farms of Lancaster, hug my beloved family tight, and move again, “far from the home I love”, but armed with memories, values, rich traditions, and of course, good recipes, which still transport me back in time to the good old days.

The Gold-Standard Roast Beef

(Courtesy of the Esh Family, in loving memory of Dave, the most wonderful host this side of the marriage supper in Heaven.)

1 large beef roast, any cut (chuck, arm, rump, etc…) 4-5 lbs.

1 cup water

1 tsp. dried rosemary

1 Tbsp. Butter

1 Tbsp. Olive Oil

Salt & Pepper to taste

1 large onion, peeled and cut into wedges

4 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed

8-10 mushrooms, cleaned and halved (optional)

1 cup strong brewed coffee

1 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

1/3 cup red wine

1 Tbsp. molasses

Heat oven to 350. In large roasting pan, pour 1 cup water, sprinkle in rosemary. In large skillet, heat butter and olive oil on medium heat til very hot. Pat beef dry with paper towels, brown in skillet on all sides. Remove beef from skillet, place in roasting pan. Add onion wedges and mushrooms, if using, to the hot fat in skillet, sear for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Pour over roast. Add garlic, salt & pepper, Worcestershire, coffee, wine and molasses. Cover, bake for 1 hour, reduce heat to 300 and bake another 3-4 hours until very tender. (Two hours before serving, you can add peeled potatoes and carrots to the beef for a classic pot roast dinner. Cover and cook til tender. Add more water if needed.)

Before serving, strain all liquid from roasting pan into a saucepan, bring to boil. In a small mug, mix 3 Tbsp. all-purpose flour with 1/4 cup cold water, strain into boiling liquid while whisking quickly. Add 2 Tbsp. butter and more salt and pepper to taste. Serve over beef.

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