Along with the first calls of the loons, the chirping of birds, the bright sunshine and the earthy fragrance of the woods, comes my desire for pound cake. Most years, these signs of spring in northern Minnesota coincide with Easter.
This year, though, snow still covers the grass around my house and it's cold enough outside to warrant a warm jacket. But even an Easter with no sign of spring in sight does not prevent my thoughts from turning to the tantalizing aroma of a baking pound cake wafting through my kitchen.
Every year, during the week before Easter, the pound cake season begins. Using the best butter I can buy, lots of eggs, flour and sugar along with my favorite flavorings, I bake at least one cake in an old cast-iron lamb mold that has been handed down to me through generations of use in my dad’s family. I nibble my way through pound-cake season as I bake that same batter in a bundt pan and serve it with clusters of fresh grapes or topped with fresh strawberries. I cut generous chunks from the cakes and wrap them up tightly in clear plastic wrap to share with friends.
When I think of Easter, I think of pies. Not chocolate bunnies, marshmallow peeps, or colorful Easter eggs, but delicious Italian pies, especially ricotta.
Spring break senior year, two months before I graduate from NYU is not
exactly a vacation even though I went to London to visit my Dad. It’s
more like preparation for my final senior project, a focused study
amalgamating EVERYTHING I’ve learned up ‘til now, split up by small
breaks of art, shopping, and of course, food. Basically, stress oozed
out of every pore the entire ten days. I tried doing yoga; I tried
going for runs; I tried a few breathing exercises, and sure, all of
that helped, but there’s really only one thing that hit the spot: chain
restaurants.
My mother thought organized religion was one of the problems with the world, this extended to the Girl Scouts and the PTA (a somewhat convenient belief for a mother of 4, since you can’t ask someone to go against their beliefs). She also believed that children shouldn’t be allowed to act.
My youngest son has taken it upon himself to write to the office of the governor of different states. While he has sent out many letters, the first returned was from Governor Mark Parkinson of Kansas.