Vacation Home Kitchens

There is always something new, isn't there? Just when you turn 50 and think you're settling into that comfy, albeit lonely, world of the empty-nester, God throws you a curve-ball. “I have to work in Puerto Rico for a year,” my dear husband says to me one day in late August. “And I have to be there next week.”

What?

I hear the mental brakes screeching, and the gears grinding as I search to re-adjust my thinking. A thousand thoughts run through my head. Where will we live? Do I need to be there? What about all our responsibilities at home? What about my dog? Our kids in college? What about the two weddings coming up in our family? My kids' weddings!

But, after the initial shock, and rapid departure of my husband, I collect my thoughts and settle into this new adventure. I find out that we will be living in someone's luxury vacation condo, at a resort, right on the beach. Complete with 5 pools, spa, the rainforest in our backyard, etc. Can't complain about that. I get all my ducks in a row at home in terms of getting my daughter settled into college life, my dog taken care of, our mail and household obligations covered, and start packing my swimsuits. I arrive on a hot and humid September afternoon, and rush through a quick trip to the grocery store. My husband has been here for two weeks alone, and he is ready for some home-cooked meals and companionship.

For the first two days, I clean up the condo, do lots of laundry, and plan and cook fabulous meals. I mean, my husband's been living like a lonely bachelor; it's the least I can do. Then we find out that we have to move into a hotel (sans kitchen or laundry facilities) for a week. Although it's another lovely location on another beach, I am starting to get antsy. WHAT will I do with myself? So after crying over missing my friends and kids (and dog) for a few days, I embrace what looks to be an extended Caribbean vacation. I read. I write. I pray. I tan. I swim. I text. I work out. I spend way too much time on Facebook.

Then we move back into the condo, and I have got to get a grip on life! My husband's office is a two hour commute each way with our only vehicle, so I am alone for 12 hours a day at least. There is nothing within walking distance except the hotel and I feel a little like a prisoner in paradise. And on top of all that, we find out that there has been some crime on the resort property, and that maybe long walks on the empty beach is not such a good idea alone.

I finally make peace with this. I decide that I will never have this time in my life again. I can remember raising little ones. Of course there are lots of fond memories, but I remember many days and nights being near complete exhaustion and thinking I would never make it through another day, longing for time alone, longing for adult conversation, longing for a nap! But I also remember thinking that this season of life would pass all too quickly and never repeat itself. I had to embrace the good and the bad about that season. Enjoy each little victory and joy with my babies, even if they cried all day and got up a lot at night. Even if I didn't have a relaxed date with my husband for months.

So I find myself in that same position again. Will I embrace the good and the bad about being in Puerto Rico? There is certainly a lot to be thankful for. Never again will I have hours on end of uninterrupted time to write, to journal, to think, to plan, to prepare. I can use this time to hone my skills in these areas and concentrate. I expect that with two children getting married, grandchildren will start arriving in the next few years, and then I'll be happily occupied with them and serving their exhausted parents.

So for now, it's just me and my lovey. We can use this time to renew our romance; it's been pretty saucy up 'til now anyway, but we can always improve! We do feel a lot like newlyweds since we are completely alone and have no one really pulling on us day to day. Of course, I have to chat or text with my college freshman often (poor thing...she's really homesick!) but otherwise it's just us. Candlelit dinners, long walks on the beautiful beach, romantic day trips sailing or snorkeling. It's kind of nice.

So what of the challenges? One of the big ones for an avid gourmand, is the sparsity of a vacation-home kitchen. I think these folks rarely cooked beyond brewing bad coffee and making popcorn in the microwave! So I fought with the dull knives for a day or two, then decided to take my husband to work one day to shop and hang out at the local Starbucks. I bit the bullet and bought a decent knife, along with a skillet, some wooden spoons, a small charcoal grill, and some basic pantry staples. I also got a basil plant. I hope it makes it on the balcony.

Ahh. I felt like I could breathe once I had some yeast, olive oil, dried herbs, fresh garlic and lemons. I planned a week's worth of amazing dinners for two, and commenced cooking. I have run into a few challenges, like trying to bake a spice cake in a saucepan and rolling out pizza dough with the side of a glass, for lack of a rolling pin. But I sure wow-ed my husband with my creations and his delight was my reward. I did indeed feel like a newlywed, only without all the insecurities! This really is a sweet time of life.

To top off a great meal, we often share a glass of red wine and listen to the waves break on the sand.

And one of my personal favorites, is greeting the morning on the balcony with a cup of coffee and my Bible, with the crashing waves as a backdrop to the hours spent there each day.

I've also taken up quilting with some scraps I've brought from home. My mother just gave me one like it that my grandmother made in the 1930s and I want to create one of my own. Instructions on this type of bed covering (called a “yo-yo spread”) will be forthcoming on this blog.

My daughter's fiance told me recently about something he'd read: “Our lives can be like river water just swirling around in a jar. Sometimes we must just sit, and let the sediment settle.” That is what I get to do right now. Clarity will come, but for now, just relax.

Dip!

Sometimes, creating a home means creating a home for more than just our immediate family. Sometimes it means providing a nest, an atmosphere of love, peace, joy and safety for others that come into our lives. Our life is but a brief blip on an eternal screen, but what we do with our resources makes all the difference. It has been our aim for many years, especially since having teenagers, to foster a sense of home for everyone who walks through our front (or back!) door, short or long term. Our lives should always be invested in others, for their benefit, but also for the enriching of our own lives. Our guest book is full of a variety of names and faces...middle aged married couples like us, orphaned Ugandan children here for a visit, grandparents, cousins, students, Canadians, South Africans, Filipinos, young and old...each one with a unique memory. Some stayed a night or two, others for a year or more.

Our Kentucky Pie Girl, Jessie is leaving us. She has been a wonderful addition to our family for the past year, staying in one of our extra bedrooms and filling our home with her insights, passions, GRE study vocabulary, and her love. We wanted to celebrate her and her accomplishments with a proper party. We strung up lanterns and gathered the goodies. Though she has a penchant for Mountain Dew and candy, she appreciates good food, and has an as-yet-undeveloped sixth sense in the kitchen. She LOVES dips. So we threw her a party full of dips and good friends. This wasn't really a "cooking night" per se, but everyone brought their favorite dips and dippers, and we ate more than we could calculate, exchanging recipes in the process.

Warning: Dips can be a very high calorie meal, b/c you eat them without really gauging how much you're eating! Here is a sampling...

Guacamole.................Spinach Artichoke......................Bean Salsa

Mexican layers......................Onion Dip...............................White Pizza

After we gorged ourselves on entirely too many grams of fat, we worked it off by playing a rowdy game of Reverse Charades, which I highly recommend. The highlight was when one-year-old Iris Ray served as a perfect Mufasa prop, being hoisted high to act out "The Lion King."

Many kind words were spoken and well-wishes given. Jessie is off to work on a Masters in Social Work at the University of Chicago. She's going to do GREAT. We'll miss her, and she'll really miss us, especially when the chill wind begins to howl over Lake Michigan.

Happy Dipping! (and stay warm Jessie!)

CRABS!

I grew up in Baltimore, hon, and when you do that, you eat a lot of crabs in the summer. I remember with fondness, picnic tables spread with newspaper in my Aunt Elizabeth's backyard in Ellicott City, Maryland. All the grandparents, aunts, uncles and distant cousins would pile their cars in the yard, unload their bring-your-own-beer, while Uncle Earl dumped bushels of steamed blue crabs on the tables. As a child, I never questioned how or where these crabs were prepared, nor did I appreciate the effort put into all the side items that went with: corn on the cob, sliced tomatoes, gallons of beverages, desserts. I just remember running around her house and yard, away from our city row-house life, and feeling special. Eating crab is such a monumental effort; I don't know how the adults in our midst had the time or patience to teach us youngsters how to dissect one for consumption. Maybe we were born with the ability to do so, like an instinct. But it seems to me that I was able to find the meat inside a crab, and spend hours on many a hot Independence Day and have enough.

Other memories of eating crabs: I was TERRIFIED of eating the "dead man." No, there was not a rotting corpse or his body parts in the bushel basket with the crustaceans. "Dead man" is the term that was used to describe the feathery gills/lungs that the crabs use to extract oxygen from the sea water. I was warned every time I ate crab, not to eat it, or I would DIE. Literally. Now, I'm dubious that it was quite that serious of a culinary infraction. I really started questioning this when I realized that people (in Baltimore) eat soft-shell crab sandwiches - which is the whole crab, eyes, legs, guts, etc. - all the time and don't perish. Surely the dead man is in there still, right?

And "mustard" is really crab poop. Some people love it, but I think it is disgusting. So I would gingerly scrape it out of every cavity and crevice in the body and be quite careful not to let it touch anything that went in my mouth.

When I first moved to North Carolina, I was appalled by a "pig-pickin'," a Barbaric sort of summer ritual where a complete pig is slow roasted all day, and then you go and pull the meat off the carcass. Yuck. (The meat IS tasty, but I prefer fetching it from a serving dish.) But then I considered the summer feasts we enjoyed tearing the legs off of bottom-dwelling garbage collectors of the sea, and didn't judge so harshly. I guess every culture has its nasty culinary delights.

So, along with my two trusty Virginia Beach natives, we steamed some live crabs (males only, please) early this summer and introduced our friends to our favorite summertime treat. Steaming crabs is not for the faint of heart - there is the sad detail of putting those lovely bright blue and gray critters, so desperate to live, reaching out with their vice-grip claws for your hands as you squeeze them with the tongs, in a pot of steaming water and vinegar, sprinkling them with a generous portion of Old Bay seasoning, and putting the lid on their sad lives. They claw away, trying to escape, until after about 30 minutes, they turn a lovely shade of bright red-orange and stop moving.

Then you must dump them unceremoniously on the newspaper strewn picnic table, pass out a knife and a crab mallet to each person, along with a stack of napkins and dive in. The verbal instructions go something like this: "First, you tear off the claws. Then the legs, but be careful to pull firmly from the joint between leg and body; then you can get the backfin meat from the body cavity." Sounds awful when I put it that way.

The requisite corn on the cob and sliced tomatoes go around the table. Beer, lemonade and sweet tea is enjoyed. Since we did this at dinner time, we are still sitting around the table outside at 10 pm, pounds of crabs left untouched. Apparently, a bushel of crabs feeds 10 Baltimore and Virginia Beach natives, but is way too much for novices. We had a ton leftover. So Grandma came the next day and picked all those leftover crabs and made crab cakes for lunch. So delish.

There wasn't much 'refinement' (at least by Southern cotillion and debutant standards) in my mid-Atlantic urban upbringing. But I am so grateful for the rich experience of this one Chesapeake Bay summertime tradition.

Pasta from Scratch

In 2001, whilst walking along the cobblestone streets of a lakeside village in northern Italy, founded before Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, I came upon a little shop selling kitchen wares. We were preparing to pack up our things and move back to America, and I had debated whether or not to sink $60 into a metal contraption that makes long sheets of lovely yellow pasta. We had been introduced to the process at the home of an old friend in central Italy a few weeks before, and we were all smitten. What could be more quintessentially Italian than mixing eggs and flour on your countertop and rolling it into thin sheets, cutting them into ribbons, cooking them briefly in boiling water and consuming them an hour later with an amazing bolognese sauce?

My family is so intrigued with doing this, that my two sons have been known to secretly pack my pasta machine into their backpacks, take it to college and make fettucine for their friends! There must be something magical about it, don't you think?

So tonight, I take the girls down this well-worn path in my kitchen and show them the secrets to pasta fresca. One mustn't be too squeamish about touching raw eggs. There's lots of touching of raw eggs. Mound up several cups of flour and crack four or five eggs in the well. Then mix it with your hands. It's messy. But, oh so fun.

Menu: Homemade Fettucine with Bolognese Sauce
Greek Salad
Crusty Bread

Sometimes, it just doesn't seem like ten years ago that we lived abroad. Too long. It's time to go back. What a ten years it's been. I am always so grateful for the opportunities I've had along the way to experience life on different levels. There were wonderful things about living in Italy, but there were also inconveniences, difficulties, and of course, a lot of loneliness being away from home. But those years spent in foreign lands have certainly shaped me, and helped me to create the kind of home environment I love, and want to share with others. Turning on a little Andrea Bocelli, opening a bottle of Sangiovese, and cranking the handle of the pasta machine creates a relaxed and warm kitchen, full of rich memories to be shared.