Scenes from this past week….

Airport waiting

I bought my Mum flowers

Private concert

Home is where the music is

Organic bling

O.R.E.O.S.

Words to live by

Girl Wonder played her last 8th grade concert. High school is getting real y’all. And I’m not ready.

Burger’s all around at Burger Up. Best. Burgers. Hands. Down.

Get some bananas up yo straw

Last month I ate at the Yellow Deli in Chattanooga. According to the Chicken Farmer’s daughter you risk being kidnapped when you go to the bathroom. For the record… The bathroom was 100 feet from our table and I made it out alive. The place has a most interesting history for sure. You’ll have to do the Google and find out.

But we didn’t go there to get kidnapped or to gain historical perspective. We went there to eat. On a rainy day.
My most favorite thing was the Banana Milk. Who knew that was a thing. But it is. It’s all over the internets.

I was at home on a rainy day and wanted Banana Milk. Now. Chattanooga is 2 hours away and my truck would lay down for a nap after about 30 minutes on the interstate. Approximately, 452 people have recipes for Banana Milk. But I don’t follow directions well so I just grabbed some bananas and gave it a go.

If you can use a blender without severing your fingers off – you’re good to go. Not quite a smoothie. Almost a milkshake.
A handful of ingredients. Toss in the blender and Bob’s your Uncle. (Bob’s my who? That’s a thing too.. look.)

Bananas… duh. Milk… double duh. A bit of honey. A bit of vanilla. Coconut – if your palate is so inclined. And mine is.
Boom.. done. Creamy. Not too sweet. Banana’s always have that sweet slap of sunshine when you eat them. They taste… like yellow. This is the easiest way to drink a banana through a straw.

Banana Milk

 

Author:

Franny Bolsa

Serves: 2

Print

 

Ingredients

• 2 bananas, peeled and sliced
• 2 cups milk (add more if you want a drink that’s not quite as thick)
• 1 teaspoon honey
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 4 tablespoons coconut (optional)

Instructions

1. Add all ingredients to a blender.
2. Blend until smooth.
3. Serve over ice.

3.2.1230

This Friday, May 17th, is Food Revolution Day.

Started by British chef, Jamie Oliver in 2012, Food Revolution Day is dedicated to filling bellies, tables and minds with a passion for getting busy in the kitchen with fresh food.

Cook it: In the kitchen, we become magicians with whisks, saucepans and wooden spoons.

I grew up with my Mum cooking in the kitchen. Simple meals. Fancy meals. She was (and still is) a one woman cooking wizard. But I never cooked.

Girl Wonder, in her early years, was raised on ready-meals. Chef Boyardee and Kraft Mac-n-cheese were efficiently shuttled from microwave to table.

One night, her 4 year old excitement propelled her into the kitchen straight to her shelf. Grabbing up a bowl, she made a beeline to the microwave singing: “I’m gonna help cook dinner”. And with pride – she slammed the button that opened the microwave door. And I stopped.

I remembered my Mum in the kitchen after school, chopping and stirring. Dinner at the table was mandatory. Eating and talking over each other about the various adventures of the day.

As an adult in my own kitchen, food was nothing more than a requirement to keep tummies from rumbling. There was no joy in it. There was no thought involved. Everything was a 3 step recipe. Open, dump and microwave. Despite growing up with a mother who cooked, I had no clue how to maneuver around the kitchen. I had to call my Mum to ask how to boil water (for real).

That was almost 10 years ago. Today, there is no happier place for me than in my kitchen. Except maybe my garden. I feel calm, confident and joyful when I’m mixing and measuring.

We, and our children, are suffering from obesity and other diet-related diseases at increasing rates. We have the power to change that. Right now.

Start a culinary revolution. Start small. Cook dinner. Here’s some easy recipes to get you started. Chat. Chew. Savor. The food and the people.

Cooking becomes a sensory anchor in a life packed with a million hurried moments. Leafy greens, crusty bread and peppery bacon eaten in the sunshine on the porch. Thick, hand-cut pasta, handfuls of basil, fragrant heads of roasted garlic passed around a table of friends on a rainy evening . Fat brown eggs cracked and scrambled for breakfast with your bed-head child.

Share it: Knowing where you food comes from, knowing how to spin few simple ingredients into a meal, understanding how it nourishes us from soul to cell – art and skills we must pass on to each other and those who come after us.

It’s an edible revolution. Find a way to join in.

Live it: Everyday. Belief can transform only when put into action. Find a farmers market. Plant a salad. Cook in your kitchen. Teach. Learn. Eat well.

Scenes from this week (apparently I spend 99% of my time eating)…..

A green breakfast

Red was meant for curves

My writing companion

Sante Fe Cornmeal Pancakes at pancake pantry. Worth the wait. Bacon. Jalepenos and cheese. A dashing trio

Cottage pie. For cold nights when you don’t want to turn the heat on.

Using up what’s on hand for dinner.

Urban howdy

Sitting here in a quiet house. Eating a no fuss meal for a home alone girl. Fried egg with avocado on toast.
It’s almost too quiet. The solitude takes me back to another meal. At another table. My whole family tucked around me.

My dad was fighting his way through chemo. A rare Thanksgiving with us all together in one place.

I remember my Mom cooking, cooking, cooking. As if she could hold us there forever with every turn of her wooden spoon around a bowl. It was the meal of Yams.

I remember laughing. Knocking elbows to dip and steal from someone else’s plates. I remember telling stories: my Dad’s boy-rough childhood, my brother and I and our endeavors to give my parents grey hairs. The story of Girl Wonder’s unhurried journey into this world.

I remember sweet. Tangy. Rich. Roasted. Plump. I remember pushing back tears to swallow it all. Whole.

My family. My father. Wanting to hold it in my belly. In my mouth. To savor later. I remember most… with the clearing of the plates, my father standing up. Shaky. Ready for bed. A hug. Father fierce hug. Tight. Close. Him saying I love you. For one of the last times. Although we didn’t know it then. Because then his words left him. And God took him back.

A meal for one becomes crowded with remembering. One bite hooks another from a few years ago.

Good food fills our bellies. Anchors us with sweet and savory landmarks in a lifetime of good and bad and crappy in betweens. Chairs pulled to the table. Plates passed and filled. We eat. We share. We tether ourselves to each other through stories shared over the steady up and down of forks, knives and spoons.

What’s the best meal you remember?

I was going to write a post about fabulous gifts to buy for the Mammas in your life. But really, if I start scouring the internets for hip and trendy gifts that will make the Mamma in your life flip her lid – I’d get sucked into a black hole. And probably end up on Candy Crush. Which would lead me to eat a bowl of ice cream. Then I’d have a sugar high.

So instead, I’m just going to give a shout out to some of my most favorite mothers (and I will eat a bowl of ice cream while I’m shouting. But not both at the same time. Or I’d choke. See? This is why I shouldn’t type while riding a sugar high)

My sister-in-law -who gave us two beautiful, sparkly kids. I liked her before the kiddos. I just like her extra, extra spay-shul now. She’s a calm and unflappable mother. If I had a sister, I’d want a sister like her. Because she’s solid. And funny. Plus she rides around in a helicopter, wears night vision goggles and is like a bad ass Florence Nightingale ninja in a flight suit.

My friends Mamma Diller and Melly Mel – my dearest, sweetest, sarcastic-est, friends. Who’ve raised kids while saving the world, rocking the mini-vans and making every day a good hair day. If ovaries were hands they’d be giving you a standing ovation. Wait… I have know idea what that was supposed to mean. But you’re awesome. With or without applause from your ovaries.

My Aunt – the fabulous Q. Who’s not my mother. Although that has been known to happen below the Mason Dixon Line. But we’re Italian so we really try not to in-breed. It makes our mustaches thicker. She taught me: how to make green beans good enough for company, that when it makes you angry or sad and you can’t stab it – laugh at it; there are happy socks for every occasion and … Okaaaaay…. I’ll stop right there. The rest is um… girl talk. And my mother may read this.
So let’s move on.

And of course – the woman who birthed me. Surrounded by nuns. Which I don’t think is ever a good sign. Because if you need a gaggle of nuns before you’ve had your first breath – your parents should just know up front that you’re gonna be the love of their life and a ginorumous pain in their ass. There isn’t a gift fancy enough to say ” thank you for lugging me around and then shoving me through your birth canal and then picking up after me, and picking me up, and feeding me and loving me even when I wasn’t so lovable and sorry about all the eye patches I stuck on the wall that one time and I’m sorry for every time I snapped at you or said I hate you or stayed out waaaay to late and drove too fast in your car and then ran it into another car and for all the hours you spent helping me with my homework (although you should have spent more time teaching me about run on sentences) and for answering my calls when I’m all mad and irrated cause your granddaughter makes me want to lock myself in a closet (I will not thank you for laughing when I lament the woes of living with teenager) and for being strong and grace-giving and for being the glue and the keeper of all the special dates and the rock that we lean on even when you need a bigger rock to sit down on for your own-self and for the meals and the memories and this life because we are who we are because of what you gave us, taught us and showed us because you are big and fierce Mother Love with crazy caftans and late-night sandwiches and fridge that is as full as your heart and we know you’d give us every last bite if it would keep us safe and warm and tucked in tight where the bed bugs can’t bite”

But if there was that kind of gift I’d totally buy it for you. A hundred bazillion times. Instead, I’ll buy you chicken wings this weekend.

Happy Mother’s Day to anyone who’s living in the Twilight Zone of Motherhood. And to Dads who also have to play Mamma. And to Mammas who also have to play Dad. And Grandmother’s who step in for Mothers. And anyone else who makes a lap, dishes out hugs and chocolate chips and swats behinds as swiftly as she kisses boo-boos and fetches cold glasses of water in the middle of the night.

What do you love most about the Mothers in your life?

Ordinary moments from this past week…

These are not doughnuts. These are sunshine bombs on a rainy, dreary day.

A breakfast date. With a side of grits.

Cup holders. For cups. And, you know, asparagus.

Dinner

Poultry promenade.

Hey guys – wait for me!

Because you should. Because you can. Because your head isn’t a hammock for amazing things. Make them happen.

Ordinary moments from this past week….

Monday’s look better dressed in polka dots

One day you walk in the yard and boom! Figs have popped out.

Sunset

Sometimes you can pull perfection out of your ass. At least if you’re a chicken. And my thumbs are weird and my hands have wrinkles.

Real life is happening here.

Laundry’s done but piled up in a bin on my bedroom floor. Wrinkly clean because I really can’t be bothered to fold things.

The kitchen floor is sticky.  I forgot to run the dishwasher. Dirt and leaves roll like tumbleweeds across the living room floor.

Work is work and is taking up to much of my calendar.

I keep putting things on the to-do list. It’s getting too long.  I look at it and hide it under a stack of papers on the kitchen table.

We’re having tapas for dinner. Tonight, tapas means I’ll pull everything out of the fridge that still looks like it’s meant to look and we’ll pick over it at the kitchen table.

We’re eating dinner in between all my stacks of paper on the kitchen table. Which is how I ended up with a fried egg dripping all over my calendar.

I’m tired and overly sensitive. More overly sensitive than my usual over-sensitiveness. I’ve been snappy and grumpy and tired.

We registered Girl Wonder for her first year of high school classes which makes me twinge with sadness for her growing up and my getting older.

My eyes look extra crinkly and I feel extra jiggly.

And because every things undone and needs doing – I’ve watched too much TV and become obsessed with mastering Candy Crush on Facebook.

I’ve been working on a project for the last couple of months which has required multiple weekly trips to the grocery store. Yet, I only have one roll of toilet paper in the house and the Girl Wonder ate Nutella from a spoon for breakfast.

I feel pulled and stretched and I don’t have one sane piece of me to offer up  to anyone.

I’m gonna roll with this. Because I can. And because really it’s not that big a deal. I’m not overachieving and who really cares.

Girl Wonder is a healthy and reasonably happy teenager. There’s a roof over our heads and squishy beds to curl up in at the end of the day. Meals are inventive but we have bounty with which to invent. We have people to love and who love us back.

I’m gonna ignore the feelings of being scattered and cluttered and unproductive. If you came to my house right now, I’d want to apologize for the mess but then I’d move stuff off of a kitchen chair, offer you a cup of instant coffee and give you a spoon and the jar of Nutella.

Here’s to just being human.