Comfort Foods and Indulgences

I am a popcorn monster. During the cold winter months in northern Minnesota when it gets dark early, there’s nothing like curling up in front of the fire with a bowl of popcorn. I don’t eat the popcorn from a bag that is prepared in the microwave — too much sodium. The kind I eat is prepared the old-fashioned way in a pot on the stove, then drizzled with just the right amount of melted butter and sprinkled with salt. Napkins are a must.

Years ago, I had a generous neighbor who would make batches of Honey Peanut Butter Popcorn, always sharing a big bowl of it with us. It would usually be during the summer time. We’d sit out on my front porch munching and visiting, and suddenly, the bowl would be empty. The snack that my neighbor had intended for my family was gone.

I hadn’t thought of that sweet, chewy treat in such a long time. But the other night, as I was sitting on the couch with my big bowl of buttered popcorn, watching The Biggest Loser, that popcorn treat popped right into my mind.

We made these for a crowd and watched them vanish in five minutes…My husband and I do not need brownies; we’ve eaten enough of them already to meet our lifetime quota and to account for certain body changes that I will not describe here. But Tom is a hopeless chocoholic, so on the occasions when I make brownies to curry favor with my kids’ friends, I have to keep an eye on them.

For a long time, when brownies disappeared from the cooling rack and my husband seemed the obvious perpetrator, he would issue a denial and look meaningfully in the direction of Oliver, our dog. So I thought the golden retriever was both amazingly athletic (how did he reach the brownies I placed behind the kitchen sink?) and had a remarkable tolerance for chocolate, a substance that is notorious for making dogs ill.

But then, on a recent occasion, I left a hot brownie batch on the counter to cool and took Oliver for a walk. When I returned and noticed that the baking pan was half empty, I did a breathalizer test on napping Tom. Sure enough: chocolate breath. (And a messy crime scene: brown crumbs on the sofa.)

I resisted Facebook for years, but the ease with which I could share and view pictures of a high-school reunion compelled me. So like most people my age, I found myself using the site to reconnect with a past I had previously ignored or forgotten. Then, when my husband passed away suddenly a little more than a year ago, Facebook became a strange lifeline during my first year of grief. Frankly, being on Facebook makes me think about what it must be like to be dead, floating like a ghost into and out of people’s lives, into and out of all the worlds we’ve inhabited. The compression and conflation of time that Facebook provides makes way for the beguiling draw of nostalgia.

Nostalgia, like grief, is essentially homesickness, and we tend to get homesick when we want to restore the parts of ourselves we think we are losing or have lost. Soon enough, I found myself looking up my old summer camps, my old junior high school (that’s what we New Yorkers called middle school), and inevitably I discovered a Facebook page dedicated to Riverdale, the small northwest Bronx neighborhood where I spent my formative years.

Don't waste food. That's what my grandmother always told me. I took that simple idea to heart.

When we go out to eat, I bring home what we don't eat. Especially the bread. Why let good bread get thrown away?

And if you're in the grocery store, and you see a loaf of marked-down white bread, buy it and you'll be able to make a dessert that's as easy-to-make as it is elegant looking and delicious.