It may be quite a spell before my husband, Ace, and I make the 6 1/2-hour drive on the Ohio Turnpike, always turning north at Maumee to visit our family in Michigan.
The next time we pull onto that long, straight road we will be moving to Ace's home state of Washington. I am retiring at the end of this month, and we will live in Kelso, about an hour north of Portland, Ore.
And so begins the long goodbye. I believe being food editor at a family newspaper is the best job in journalism, and I wanted to retire while I still love my work. And I do.
Come August, we will be a four-hour airplane ride away from our daughter, Jessica, director of a Girl Scout camp in Brooklyn, Mich., and my family in Vassar. I come from a family that looks forward, not backward, so perhaps that's why our trip to Michigan over the Fourth of July focused more on the mechanics of moving than the turbulent emotions just below the surface. Still, every turn in the road brought memories.
Change is always hard, and we don't know what our future in the Pacific Northwest will bring -- another volcano? -- but I do know the first thing I'll focus on is finishing the cookbook I've been working on about the food of Fallingwater. After that, maybe I'll cook just for fun.
Still, I hope Steelers commentator Myron Cope is having an easier time packing up his Terrible Towel than I am my All-Clad.
Over the Fourth, Ace and I got some motivation to lighten the load after we helped our daughter, Jessica, and her roommate move into a new-to-them old house. In more than 25 years of marriage, we have moved four times, from across a field to across the country.
To the young, moving is expected. Our daughter has 10 entries in my address book that stretch back to her first day in the freshman dorm at college. For a 25-year-old woman, Jessica has accumulated enough flotsam to ... well, be her mother.
Cindy, her roommate's mother, and I were amazed at the amount of collections, collectibles and just plain stuff they had. Sentimentality does not bode well for a light load. Eventually, we mothers realized we might be part of the problem.
"I wondered where they got all this stuff, then I noticed how much of it had come from me," I told Cindy.
"I was just thinking the same thing," she said.
As for me, do I really need a copy of every yellowed newspaper story I've written in 37 years? On Tuesday, a thunderstorm knocked this story right off the screen of my home computer. What if another one kills out my recipe for Carolyn Beinlich's Raspberry Trifle or Jane Cricks' Sticky Buns?
No, better to go heavily loaded than become suddenly skinny from the loss of a favorite food. Not that there aren't some things we should put out on the curb before we pile into our aging Taurus wagon. I will relinquish my three lemon zesters that never worked right in the first place, though it doesn't seem excessive to own four ice cream scoops.
Ace is pressing hard not to pack a single plastic lid that doesn't have a bowl to go with it. Our KitchenAid mixer will come along, but the Cuisinart is on borrowed time. Can its broken part be healed?
We'll be taking our cat, Marble, with us. Sadly, last week we lost Socks, our 13 1/2-year-old Australian shepherd, and it was our brother-in-law's pragmatic rural advice that helped put her death into perspective: "Maybe she knew she wasn't well enough to make the trip," said Dutch, who has the same breed of dog. "These dogs are smart."
We had headed for the farm on Sunday, and nothing could spark memories quicker than the smell of Mom's comfort food.
Ace and my brother-in-law, Dutch, were true to tradition and had Sunday breakfast at their usual greasy spoon frequented by farmers. While they were gone, Mom offered me the last piece of strawberry shortcake. I accepted.
Dutch had procured some great T-bone steaks, and for our farewell dinner he baked his first apple pie. Great, but he thought it wasn't as good as Jessica's. (She said her secret is to use several different varieties of apples.)
The table -- draped in American flag decor -- was heavy laden. Foremost were Mom's baked beans, the first batch she'd cooked in the pot she purchased at an All-Clad sale. "It was the first time I've had a lid that fit, and the beans didn't boil over onto the stove," she said.
There was watermelon and muskmelon, potato salad (with radishes, but no cucumber, thank heavens), garlic bread and salad, but the farm's corn wasn't ripe yet.
True to form, I had a recipe to test, though Ace and I had to drive to two towns to find fresh raspberries, which had been shipped in. I'd never seen bigger raspberries, but Ace said the berries his family grew near Tacoma were often that large. "It depends on the variety," he said.
One of the weekend highlights for me was a long horseback ride with my brother, Jon, something we probably hadn't done for more than 30 years. He rode Izzo, a bay colt Jon named after the Michigan State basketball coach, and I rode Susie, his horse's mother.
It was a beautiful sunny day, not at all humid, and a little breeze would come up occasionally to rustle the beans and wheat, though the sugar beets barely gave us a nod.
My mare reminded me of my mother's horse, Goldie, though Goldie knew enough to walk carefully between the rows, and memories of all those twilight rides Dad and I would take through the fields to check his crops came cantering back.
Despite low prices, high costs and the proclivities of weather, my brother still loves being a farmer. Beans in one field practically filled the rows, but in another, planted late because of weeks of rain, the beans were barely pushing through the clay loam. Will they ever get ripe? "I think so," he said. Like me, Jon remains an optimist.
We dismounted in front of the big barn painted with my brother's name and the year 1903, when it was built by our grandfather. I told Jon I usually pay $40 an hour for a horseback ride.
"Would you settle for a $4 tip?" I asked.
He would not, and I imagined an afternoon of hauling hay on our next trip home. The road does go both ways, you know.
PG tested
Raspberry Date Torte
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Raspberry Date Torte has berries inside and on top. Click photo for larger image. |
- 3 packages (6 ounces each) raspberries or one 12-ounce and one 6-ounce package frozen berries
- 1/2 cup unsalted peanuts
- 1 cup chopped pitted dates
- 1/2 cup sugar, divided
- 2 tablespoons flour
- Pinch salt
- 2 eggs, separated
- 1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar
- Unsweetened whipped cream
In a food processor or blender chop peanuts until very fine (watch carefully or you'll get peanut butter). (We couldn't find unsalted peanuts, so we purchased unsalted peanuts in the shell and shelled them.) Add dates, 1/4 cup of the sugar, flour and salt, and process until combined. Turn into large mixing bowl. Add egg yolks and mix until blended.
In medium or large clean glass or metal mixing bowl beat whites with cream of tartar until foam begins to form. Gradually add the remaining 1/4 cup sugar, a tablespoon at a time. Beat until soft peaks form. Fold about 1/3 of the whites into the date mixture to lighten it, then gently but thoroughly fold in remaining whites.
Fold in 1/2 cup of the raspberries.
Turn into buttered 8- or 9- inch round baking dish. Bake in preheated 325-degree oven until wooden toothpick inserted near center comes out clean, about 45 to 50 minutes. Cool torte on rack.
To serve, cut 6 to 8 slices, and top with whipped cream and all remaining berries.
Makes 6 to 8 servings
-- Driscoll's Berries