What a Crock

Having grown up in New England, it should come as no surprise that autumn is my favorite season. I love seeing the first pop of red at the top of a maple tree, I love the way the sun glows on all the brightly-colored trees along Route 128, I love the smell of fresh mulch and burning leaves, I love the crunch of crisp fallen leaves underfoot, I love the pumpkins and huge pots of mums that suddenly pop up on doorsteps everywhere. But one of the things I love the most about autumn is cooking.

My mom was a great comfort food cook. She taught me to make wonderful casseroles, meatloaf, stew, and pasta sauces. And most importantly, she taught me how to use a crock pot. I love cooking with a crock pot. I think one of the things I like best about cooking in a crock pot is that it makes the house smell wonderful, not just at suppertime but all day long. It builds the anticipation from lunchtime on, giving you little hints about the wonderful meal to come. The scent of garlic, of thyme, of bay leaves, of chicken stock, of smoky ham or spicy sausage or earthy lentils. It smells like love, and it smells like home.

My dad worked the same job for over 40 years, and we had supper as soon as he came home from work at 5:00. So every night, he would walk in the door to the smell of something delicious coming out of the oven (or the crockpot). It was like a little welcome home present every night. When I was a little older and my mom got home from work at the same time that my dad did, she would leave me nearly-finished meals to add the final touches to. I would pop the lasagna or the shepherd’s pie into the oven; I would stir a few extra herbs into the simmering sauce in the crockpot; I would bake the cornbread or the biscuits. And whenever I did, I felt like I was giving both my parents that same welcome home present at the end of a long, tiring day.

This may sound like a very old-fashioned attitude, but I love to be able to give my husband that same welcome home present. I know how hard he works, and I like to show him that I appreciate his hard work. So I hope that every night when he comes home from work, he can smell in my cooking the same love my mom cooked up for my dad.

It might not work for everyone, but for me, cooking for my family makes my house feel more like a home.

 

An Ode to Autumn

I love autumn in New England. I love the earthy smell in the air. I love the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. I love hearing the kids squeal as they get off the school bus. I love the crispness of the morning air. I love the glow of the afternoon sun. I even love the bittersweet feeling of packing up swimsuits, closing the pool, and tucking away shorts and sandals until next year.

I love that musty smell the first time the heat comes on in the morning. I love all the foods of autumn – the casseroles, the stews, the hearty meats and sauces. I love tucking my cold nose under the covers and letting my own breath warm it back up again. I love snuggling in blankets. I love wearing warm sweaters. I love drinking hot cocoa and tea and mulled cider at night and warming my hands on the mug. I love that first fire in the fireplace. I love the trace of frost on the windshield.

I love the potted mums that magically appear on doorsteps throughout the neighborhood. I love the fat pumpkins and the tall cornstalks and the witches and ghosts that herald the coming of Halloween. I love trading in my sandals for tall boots and my T-shirts for snuggly sweaters and my windbreaker for my wool coat. I love wrapping a scarf around my chin.

But most of all, I love the colors of autumn. I love the brightness of the leaves as green gives way to golden yellows, fiery oranges, and brilliant reds. I love watching gardens change from soft summer pastels into the rich, deep burgundies and purples and dark golds of autumn flowers. I love watching everyone’s wardrobe mellow from clear bright colors into more muted, deeper shades. I love the addition of bright yellow school buses into the visual cacophony that passes by my window.

I’m sure that in a few months I’ll be looking forward to the change from autumn into winter, with the first drifts of snow covering up the brown dead leaves, and the clean crisp smell of frost washing away the musty smell of stale autumn, and the brightness of a red cardinal standing out against the stark barrenness of the garden. But for now, I’m enjoying my beautiful autumn!

Stormy Weather

As a life-long New Englander, I’ve lived through my share of storms. The Blizzard of ’78, Hurricane Gloria, “The Perfect Storm”, the April Fool’s Day Storm, the 2008 ice storm, Hurricane Bob, even the flooding of this past spring…I survived them all. I’ve lost my car under a snowbank, I’ve been without power for a week, I’ve had no phone for a day or two, my employer has sent me home or told me not to come to work. I’ve learned to keep warm by a fireplace, to read by candlelight, to feed myself without a stove or microwave, and to keep up with the latest news by way of a battery-powered (or hand cranked!) transistor radio. I’ve learned to keep a stockpile of food, water, and batteries on hand at all times. And so have most of my friends and neighbors. So why is there always a last-minute stampede at the grocery store every single time we have a storm warning?

I suppose it’s because we New Englanders pride ourselves on being able to endure anything. And it would be pretty tough enduring a power outage if you had no batteries for your flashlights. Or being snowed in and not having any milk or bread. Or having no water and running out of bottled water. But seriously, it’s a brush with a hurricane. Do we really expect a week-long power outage? Do people honestly not have any batteries in the house? Are people genuinely convinced that the world will come to an end if there’s no milk in the fridge for 18 hours? And if it comes to that, do we really think that milk we just stormed the grocery store to get will keep unrefrigerated for 18 hours anyway?

I think the truth is that we enjoy our hardships. I’ll admit, I’ve bragged about living through the Blizzard of ’78. Yeah, the snow was halfway up the windows. Yeah, we (and by “we”, I mean “my dad”) had to shovel the front steps every half hour so the door didn’t get jammed shut with snow. Yeah, there was no school for a week because the buses couldn’t get through. Yeah, we had no power for a few days so we ate hotdogs from the freezer that we cooked over the fire in the fireplace every night. So every time a storm comes along, I think New Englanders secretly hope it’s one for the record books, and we prepare for the worst in the hope that it really is the worst – or at least, bad enough to brag to our kids about how we managed to endure Hurricane Earl back in September of 2010.