Fall

The problem with "healthy" muffins is that they're usually bland, rubbery, or dry. I wanted to make a healthy muffin that actually tasted great. One you would want to eat. Turns out, that isn't so easy.

I hand Jeff a muffin to taste.

Me: "So what do you think?"

Jeff: Chewing, with a furrowed brow. "Well, they're a little bland. How much sugar did you put?"

Me: "Oh, no! I forgot to add the sugar!"

I hand Jeff a muffin to taste.

Me: "Are these better? I didn't forget the sugar this time."

Jeff: Chewing a lot and very, very slowly. "Well, they taste like they're good for you."

Baby, its cold outside! I’ve found myself sippin’ and savorin’ a warm drink of sorts all day – Earl Grey this morning, Orange Zinger later on, the latter two combined and then for my nightcap, this warm cider was just the ticket.

Every year, my fair peach state yields the last of its famed crop towards summer’s end. Afterwards, apples from our northern mountain counties’ orchards start coming in, giving us another fabulous fruit for a season. Pies, cakes, tarts, butter, and sauce all come from the apple crop, but one apple product in particular is nostalgic with the crisp autumn days – apple cider.

Velvety smooth, delightful to the taste, and luscious warm or even chilled, apple cider is the result of concentrating the apples’ juice with flavors oh so complementary of apples: cinnamon, cloves, brown sugar, and a dash of citrus.

Whenever I journey into the mountains during apple season, I am sure to bring home to the Peach Country stores of apple cider to get me through fall and into winter. In lieu of trekking to these mountain caches for a jug or two of this delectable nectar today, this recipe was not a bad consolation at all.

Parsnips. Parsnips parsnips parsnips.

Just saying the world really fast makes and in repetition makes me laugh. I don’t know why.  And yet as cute and funny looking as they are (think albino carrots), I realized I don’t include root vegetables in my life nearly enough. And why is that? It’s not as if I don’t like them. I just never seem to think about them. Perhaps because they are our seasonal winter-loving friends, hiding underground until someone comes along and plucks them from the earth. Maybe it’s because they are starchy, somewhat tough and require some finesse and trickery to enjoy.

(I’m going to exclude radishes from the above, as they are just fine sprinkled with a little sea salt, perhaps a dab of butter, and popped into my mouth like there’s no tomorrow.)

Parsnips are delicious when pureed or roasted with other root vegetables, but I’m digging this recipe I found while on a work assignment. It screams winter, and pairs perfectly with a tender, slow-cooked pork roast. Comfort food at its best.

My mother had a way of inventing traditions.  “It’s Lizzie’s birthday!” she’d proclaim periodically and everyone in the family would don a party hat and sing happy birthday to one of our English Springer Spaniels.  The announcement of the dog’s birth and subsequent celebration of it could occur at any time – on April 5, say, or December 12.  It could happen twice a year or once every few years.  But however haphazard, it became a tradition. 

Every so often, we’d gather in the living room; my father on the bongo drums someone had given him for a birthday present, my sister on her recorder, me banging the big copper-bottomed soup pot with a wooden spoon, and my mother on piano, playing from our “American Folk Songs For Piano” songbook.  “Love oh love oh careless love,” she’d sing, entirely off-key, “Love oh love oh careless love, love oh love oh careless love, see what love has done to me.”