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.
I have a serious problem with this dish. I am embarrassed to say that I ate 25% of it before dinner was served last night. I am scared to put on my jeans. Instead of walking my usual 2.5 miles today, I am going to have to double that! What was I thinking?
. I adore her books and have made many of her recipes, but her particular dish requires one to cook the potatoes in the cream and milk mixture, on the stove, before layering the pan, etc. An unnecessary step. Dorie Greespan’s recipe from 
beats out any other potato dish of this kind and this is my new “go-to” dish for those nights when I just don’t have time to mess in the kitchen.
Recently I had a tryst with an old flame. No, ‘old flame’ is not quite right. You see, I’ve mindlessly used him many times over the years--even recently--meeting him most often in dark movie houses. On rare, more daring occasions we met in my bedroom, on nights when I admit I much more anticipated my latest Netflix delivery or guilty-pleasure TV show. He was always a second thought; an accompaniment; a reliable, cheap snack I held back from enjoying fully, lest I spoil the more respectable dinner waiting for me at home.
Many years ago, when I was younger and even more foolish than today, I took it upon myself to perfect the shortcake. I spent a week going through a dozen or so recipes from my favorite writers, cooking them, plotting the ingredients on a spreadsheet and then testing different combinations until I came up with the shortcake of my dreams.
I have a special fondness for pot pie. It's one of those all-in-one meals that always hits my comfort spot. And it's a welcome dish to eat on a cold and rainy day like the ones we're having this season. The origins of pot pies can be traced back to the English settlers who brought their love for pies to America. In the States I had never eaten a savory pie. It was always the frozen pies that scared me into believing that pies were no good. Not until my traveling in England did I finally eat my first savory pie. On first bite I fell in love with the flavorful meat and vegetable filling topped with flaky, buttery pastry.