Miss Bee is still in her pajamas, reading books in bed. I have felt her forehead, inquired as to whether her stomach or throat hurts--all seems to be well. I think the child is just tired. She seems irritated that I am checking her her every five minutes, but after the "exploring the medicine cabinet" incident, I cannot help but worry whenever she does something out of the ordinary.
Babycakes, on the other hand, is turning into a child of routine. She naps from 8 am to 9 am--precisely--not a minute longer. This morning, when I left her on her play mat a moment too close to 8 am, she didn't cry, but instead closed her eyes with a resigned expression, as if to say, "Fine, I'll just sleep here then."
Miss Bee has thankfully roused herself and has gotten dressed for the day. She is now back to normal morning activities--playing Mommy to her stuffed animal menagerie and is busily "ironing" her dolly clothes. I have a nice big laundry pile of my own to tackle.
I think I am becoming a slave to my routine; thank goodness my sister is coming to visit tomorrow!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Babycakes
I spent most of the afternoon cuddling a sleepy baby. At first, Babycakes was content to spend the better part of an hour asleep in her crib, while I shuffled the laundry along and surreptitiously ate peanut m&ms. After a short while though, she was awake and wanted company.
For a while, my littlest daughter was content to lie on her mat and stare at me while I folded the laundry. As I folded, I stared out our living room window, at the bright afternoon sun, the cars going by on the road, and people walking briskly to and fro, feeling very much out of the world and in my own quiet household cocoon.
After Babycakes tired of watching me fold laundry and I grew tired of folding the laundry, we retreated to the couch and I held her while she snoozed, curled up on my chest like a large, warm puppy. I closed my eyes. She breathed in. I breathed out. Her hair tickled my face. The traffic noises outside muted. My heart was full. We dozed.
Holding a sleeping baby is a guilty pleasure in which I can seldom indulge. The moment my poor second child is asleep, she is transported to her crib so I can perform any number of other essential life tasks--like preventing Miss Bee from performing inventory on our medicine cabinet or baking brownies. I don't have time to sit around and hold the baby unless she is nursing, or if my husband is home and she is making a good enough show of eating that I can ignore the rest of my family and surf the internet.
I think I held Bee during most her her naps as a newborn, reveling in new-motherhood. We would splay out on the couch in the evening while my husband cooked dinner. The hours would tick by ever so slowly. We had so much time with just one child. (I used to think we had so much time as single people. and boy did we ever, but adding a second child to your family really changes your perspective.)
My sister in law gave birth to a little girl this week. I am so happy for her, my brother in law and their new family. Her baby has a beautiful pink complexion, a soft feminine name and a nursery full of rabbits to sleep in. I am sure, however, that her favorite place to sleep will be in her mother's arms.
For a while, my littlest daughter was content to lie on her mat and stare at me while I folded the laundry. As I folded, I stared out our living room window, at the bright afternoon sun, the cars going by on the road, and people walking briskly to and fro, feeling very much out of the world and in my own quiet household cocoon.
After Babycakes tired of watching me fold laundry and I grew tired of folding the laundry, we retreated to the couch and I held her while she snoozed, curled up on my chest like a large, warm puppy. I closed my eyes. She breathed in. I breathed out. Her hair tickled my face. The traffic noises outside muted. My heart was full. We dozed.
Holding a sleeping baby is a guilty pleasure in which I can seldom indulge. The moment my poor second child is asleep, she is transported to her crib so I can perform any number of other essential life tasks--like preventing Miss Bee from performing inventory on our medicine cabinet or baking brownies. I don't have time to sit around and hold the baby unless she is nursing, or if my husband is home and she is making a good enough show of eating that I can ignore the rest of my family and surf the internet.
I think I held Bee during most her her naps as a newborn, reveling in new-motherhood. We would splay out on the couch in the evening while my husband cooked dinner. The hours would tick by ever so slowly. We had so much time with just one child. (I used to think we had so much time as single people. and boy did we ever, but adding a second child to your family really changes your perspective.)
My sister in law gave birth to a little girl this week. I am so happy for her, my brother in law and their new family. Her baby has a beautiful pink complexion, a soft feminine name and a nursery full of rabbits to sleep in. I am sure, however, that her favorite place to sleep will be in her mother's arms.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Misspelled
Found around my house:
This brand of "marple" syrup would be a real best seller in the mountains of Tennessee.
Dear Made in China, using spell check should be your priority.
My cooking is delectable; yours is "delectible".
Guess someone just wandered off in the midst of typesetting. . .
This brand of "marple" syrup would be a real best seller in the mountains of Tennessee.
Dear Made in China, using spell check should be your priority.
My cooking is delectable; yours is "delectible".
Guess someone just wandered off in the midst of typesetting. . .Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
"Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein."
There's no fireside like your own fireside.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Mona's Bread
My great aunt Mona made wonderful bread. Her signature loaf was soft, white, sweet and made a perfect sandwich with just a little bit of butter and a slice of cheese. Whenever she gave my family one of her loaves, I was always the first to pull a slice--or three--out of the breadbox.
Mona was a a gentle woman, ladylike and devoted to her husband and daughters. A teetotaler. Baptist. Her quiet kindness stood out in a family of noisy, smoking, gregarious Danes. Mona was my grandmother's younger sister, one of the last babies born into a family of 14 children.
I always got the feeling that my great grandmother, Anna, was running out of ideas for names toward the end of her pregnancies, having exhausted all the popular Danish monikers of the day. The name Mona was inspired by the Mona Lisa. I don't know whether it was a case of life imitating art or mere coincidence, but my great aunt Mona had a enigmatic smile very similar to that of her namesake. My grandmother, was named Ingse, also an unusual name in Denmark. As my grandmother tells the story, she was very sick at birth and her mother thought that "Ingse" would look lovely on a tombstone. Fortunately for me, my grandmother would survive infancy, immigrate to America and give birth to my father.
My grandmother and aunt Mona could not have been any more different from each other. My grandmother is outgoing whereas Mona was reserved. My grandmother is a classic extrovert, making friends with everyone she meets. Mona was harder to get to know. Despite their differences, both sisters were close friends. About fifteen years ago, they took a trip to Denmark together and bonded over visiting family and eating all their favorite foods. My grandmother was delighted to discover that her proper little sister snored.
Several years ago, I mentioned to my grandmother how much I loved Mona's bread and wished I had the recipe. Somewhat indignantly, and to my surprise, she replied that it was her recipe and that she would be happy to write it out. (My grandmother is a wonderful cook, but I have never known her to bake bread. I'm not one to argue, though.) On the back of a scrap of paper she proceeded to write down a few key words and ingredients. It didn't make a lot of sense. "Milk and butter lukewarm," it read. What exactly did that mean? "Rise one hour," was the other specific instruction. But how? Being polite, I thanked her, and filed the recipe away.
Mona died in the fall, after a brave battle with cancer. Her death has been very hard on my grandmother. I have had her in my prayers and on my mind. Last Friday I decided to try the recipe for Mona's bread, despite the lack of instructions. As it baked, the house smelled wonderful and I grew cautiously optimistic. When I bit into the first piece, warm from the oven, I tasted success. It was Mona's bread.
We live on through the work of our hands.
Mona's Bread
Combine:
2 c. milk
1 stick butter
(both milk and butter should be lukewarm, my butter was soft enough to stir, slightly melted in the microwave)
2 packages of instant yeast
1 Tbs. salt
1/2 c. sugar
Gradually add 4-5 cups flour:
I used a dough whisk, but you could also use a wooden spoon, or the dough hook on your stand mixer. Your goal is to make a soft, not sticky dough. You'll know you have enough flour when the dough goes from sticky, to shaggy, to forming a rough ball.
Knead until the dough is elastic, about 8-10 minutes when kneading by hand.
Place in a greased bowl, cover, and allow to rise until doubled in size, about one hour.
Punch dough down, and knead slightly to degas. Divide the dough into two balls. Place first ball on a lightly floured surface.
Using your hands or a rolling pin shape the first ball into a 9" by 18" rectangle. The short sides should be parallel to you, the long sides vertical. Starting at the top, roll the dough toward yourself, forming a tight cylinder. Once you have rolled it all up, pinch the seam into the dough, tuck the ends under and pinch them into the dough as well. You are "sealing" the loose ends into the loaf. It will look like a log when you are done. Place into a 9x5" loaf pan.
Repeat with the second dough ball.
Cover both loaves with plastic wrap and allow them to rise until the dough just reaches the top of the pan, about 45 minutes.
Bake at 350 degrees until the dough reaches an internal temperature of 185-190 degrees (check with an instant read thermometer)--it took about 50 minutes in my oven.
Enjoy.
(Recipe #20)
Mona was a a gentle woman, ladylike and devoted to her husband and daughters. A teetotaler. Baptist. Her quiet kindness stood out in a family of noisy, smoking, gregarious Danes. Mona was my grandmother's younger sister, one of the last babies born into a family of 14 children.
I always got the feeling that my great grandmother, Anna, was running out of ideas for names toward the end of her pregnancies, having exhausted all the popular Danish monikers of the day. The name Mona was inspired by the Mona Lisa. I don't know whether it was a case of life imitating art or mere coincidence, but my great aunt Mona had a enigmatic smile very similar to that of her namesake. My grandmother, was named Ingse, also an unusual name in Denmark. As my grandmother tells the story, she was very sick at birth and her mother thought that "Ingse" would look lovely on a tombstone. Fortunately for me, my grandmother would survive infancy, immigrate to America and give birth to my father.
My grandmother and aunt Mona could not have been any more different from each other. My grandmother is outgoing whereas Mona was reserved. My grandmother is a classic extrovert, making friends with everyone she meets. Mona was harder to get to know. Despite their differences, both sisters were close friends. About fifteen years ago, they took a trip to Denmark together and bonded over visiting family and eating all their favorite foods. My grandmother was delighted to discover that her proper little sister snored.
Several years ago, I mentioned to my grandmother how much I loved Mona's bread and wished I had the recipe. Somewhat indignantly, and to my surprise, she replied that it was her recipe and that she would be happy to write it out. (My grandmother is a wonderful cook, but I have never known her to bake bread. I'm not one to argue, though.) On the back of a scrap of paper she proceeded to write down a few key words and ingredients. It didn't make a lot of sense. "Milk and butter lukewarm," it read. What exactly did that mean? "Rise one hour," was the other specific instruction. But how? Being polite, I thanked her, and filed the recipe away.
Mona died in the fall, after a brave battle with cancer. Her death has been very hard on my grandmother. I have had her in my prayers and on my mind. Last Friday I decided to try the recipe for Mona's bread, despite the lack of instructions. As it baked, the house smelled wonderful and I grew cautiously optimistic. When I bit into the first piece, warm from the oven, I tasted success. It was Mona's bread.
We live on through the work of our hands.
Mona's Bread
Combine:
2 c. milk
1 stick butter
(both milk and butter should be lukewarm, my butter was soft enough to stir, slightly melted in the microwave)
2 packages of instant yeast
1 Tbs. salt
1/2 c. sugar
Gradually add 4-5 cups flour:
I used a dough whisk, but you could also use a wooden spoon, or the dough hook on your stand mixer. Your goal is to make a soft, not sticky dough. You'll know you have enough flour when the dough goes from sticky, to shaggy, to forming a rough ball.
Knead until the dough is elastic, about 8-10 minutes when kneading by hand.
Place in a greased bowl, cover, and allow to rise until doubled in size, about one hour.
Punch dough down, and knead slightly to degas. Divide the dough into two balls. Place first ball on a lightly floured surface.
Using your hands or a rolling pin shape the first ball into a 9" by 18" rectangle. The short sides should be parallel to you, the long sides vertical. Starting at the top, roll the dough toward yourself, forming a tight cylinder. Once you have rolled it all up, pinch the seam into the dough, tuck the ends under and pinch them into the dough as well. You are "sealing" the loose ends into the loaf. It will look like a log when you are done. Place into a 9x5" loaf pan.
Repeat with the second dough ball.
Cover both loaves with plastic wrap and allow them to rise until the dough just reaches the top of the pan, about 45 minutes.
Bake at 350 degrees until the dough reaches an internal temperature of 185-190 degrees (check with an instant read thermometer)--it took about 50 minutes in my oven.
Enjoy.
(Recipe #20)
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Oddities
I would like to inform you about a few oddities that have taken place in the past week:
First of all, it's snowing. A lot. In the middle of March. It's not just a freak snowstorm we're having, but a week-long event. I would like to think of March as the month that heralds spring. The first buds appear on the trees, early crocuses poke their heads through the slowing warming earth, and little birds begin to build their springtime nests . . . Maybe all these things are happening, but it's hard to tell through the swirling whiteness out my window. The little birds are probably frozen solid to a branch somewhere. Can you tell that I am tired of being holed up in the house?
So in my winter misery I have been baking, a lot. It warms up the apartment and gives us something to do. I have found a new favorite quick bread recipe that everyone needs to make next week in honor of St. Patrick's day: Irish Buttermilk Brown Bread. Please splurge and use real buttermilk. This bread is amazing. I could eat the entire loaf. We served it with garlic lentil soup and successfully fought off winter's icy blast.
I have also discovered the joy of refrigerator cookie dough. Beatrice Ojakangas in "The Great Scandinavian Baking Book" has an easy recipe for Danish Vanilla Slices. You form the dough in logs and then chill it in your refrigerator, for up to two weeks. Then you can slice and bake (or roll out, cut with cookie cutters, and bake) just however many cookies you plan to eat at one time. I like this concept. More eating, fewer stale cookies.
This weekend my dear husband and I both spent some time flipping through our small cookbook collection, looking for inspiration. We are finally cooking from Mollie Katzen's "Pretend Soup," "Salad People" and "New Recipes from Moosewood Restaurant." The former two cookbooks are for children, but are filled with simple, delicious recipes that appeal to everyone in the family. On Saturday morning we had "Corny Corn Cakes," which was a nice twist on our standard weekend pancake fare. On Monday we made winter pesto, which took advantage of the fact that fresh spinach has arrived at our local market. Hooray for something other than cauliflower and potatoes.
Second of all: That was a long first of all, but really quickly, two more things: Did you know that you can cook tortellini in the microwave? There is a fun way to find this out. First, invite friends (and their new adorable baby) over for lunch. Prepare everything for your pasta salad except for the pasta. Have no other lunch food in the house. Welcome your friends, spend some time chatting and cooing over their baby and then go get ready to boil water.
"Click, click, click, pfft" says the gas stove. Uh oh. Why is my gas out? Turns out, the city had decided to turn it off for a few hours for maintenance. Or perhaps the municipal workers just wanted a half day off? I have no idea why. So I tried not to panic, and put the tortellini in a bowl of water, and microwaved on high for six minutes. To my utter joy and amazement, it worked. I am fortunate to have very understanding friends. Italy suffered a few minor seismic tremors as an entire generation of grandmothers rolled over in their graves. Pasta in the microwave.
Finally, and this is the oddest oddity of all--my dear husband has taken up ironing. I think he has started mostly out of desperation since I avoid ironing at all costs. But he's quite good, so I plan to encourage this new undertaking as much as I possibly can.
So here's hoping that next week is warm, inside and out, as well as wrinkle free.
(Recipes #16-19)
First of all, it's snowing. A lot. In the middle of March. It's not just a freak snowstorm we're having, but a week-long event. I would like to think of March as the month that heralds spring. The first buds appear on the trees, early crocuses poke their heads through the slowing warming earth, and little birds begin to build their springtime nests . . . Maybe all these things are happening, but it's hard to tell through the swirling whiteness out my window. The little birds are probably frozen solid to a branch somewhere. Can you tell that I am tired of being holed up in the house?
So in my winter misery I have been baking, a lot. It warms up the apartment and gives us something to do. I have found a new favorite quick bread recipe that everyone needs to make next week in honor of St. Patrick's day: Irish Buttermilk Brown Bread. Please splurge and use real buttermilk. This bread is amazing. I could eat the entire loaf. We served it with garlic lentil soup and successfully fought off winter's icy blast.
I have also discovered the joy of refrigerator cookie dough. Beatrice Ojakangas in "The Great Scandinavian Baking Book" has an easy recipe for Danish Vanilla Slices. You form the dough in logs and then chill it in your refrigerator, for up to two weeks. Then you can slice and bake (or roll out, cut with cookie cutters, and bake) just however many cookies you plan to eat at one time. I like this concept. More eating, fewer stale cookies.
This weekend my dear husband and I both spent some time flipping through our small cookbook collection, looking for inspiration. We are finally cooking from Mollie Katzen's "Pretend Soup," "Salad People" and "New Recipes from Moosewood Restaurant." The former two cookbooks are for children, but are filled with simple, delicious recipes that appeal to everyone in the family. On Saturday morning we had "Corny Corn Cakes," which was a nice twist on our standard weekend pancake fare. On Monday we made winter pesto, which took advantage of the fact that fresh spinach has arrived at our local market. Hooray for something other than cauliflower and potatoes.
Second of all: That was a long first of all, but really quickly, two more things: Did you know that you can cook tortellini in the microwave? There is a fun way to find this out. First, invite friends (and their new adorable baby) over for lunch. Prepare everything for your pasta salad except for the pasta. Have no other lunch food in the house. Welcome your friends, spend some time chatting and cooing over their baby and then go get ready to boil water.
"Click, click, click, pfft" says the gas stove. Uh oh. Why is my gas out? Turns out, the city had decided to turn it off for a few hours for maintenance. Or perhaps the municipal workers just wanted a half day off? I have no idea why. So I tried not to panic, and put the tortellini in a bowl of water, and microwaved on high for six minutes. To my utter joy and amazement, it worked. I am fortunate to have very understanding friends. Italy suffered a few minor seismic tremors as an entire generation of grandmothers rolled over in their graves. Pasta in the microwave.
Finally, and this is the oddest oddity of all--my dear husband has taken up ironing. I think he has started mostly out of desperation since I avoid ironing at all costs. But he's quite good, so I plan to encourage this new undertaking as much as I possibly can.
So here's hoping that next week is warm, inside and out, as well as wrinkle free.
(Recipes #16-19)
Monday, March 8, 2010
Fix you
I have been quite ruthless lately: cleaning out closets and drawers and throwing things out in preparation for our move back to the United States. We have too much stuff for our little townhouse. There is no attic or basement storage room in which to hide our clutter. I have locked my sentimental self in a cabinet and am instead doing my best to be practical. Have we used it recently? Will we need it in the future? I have culled my paperback books and wardrobe and even have my eye on Miss Bee's stuffed animal herd.
However, I came across a broken toy today that I couldn't bring myself to throw out, a small stuffed mouse. My father bought it for Bee while we were both visiting my sister in Munich. Bee was just five months old and it was my father's first trip to Germany. We spent one afternoon shopping and my father impulsively decided to buy Bee a present. He picked a small pink mouse with a music box inside. If you pulled her tail, it would play a German lullaby. This perfect little toy hung on Bee's crib until the mouse's tail was pulled one too many times and the music box broke.
I think that as Americans, we tend to view our possessions as disposable. We accumulate stuff--because it's the trend, or it's on sale, or it's two for one. We buy and buy and when our things break, we buy some more. Not so many years ago, if an appliance broke, you wouldn't throw it out--you would have it repaired. There once was a whole industry of scissor sharpeners and TV repairmen that has mostly disappeared. Nowadays, the repair is often more costly than buying a new item. However, some things cannot be replaced, including Bee's gift from my father. So this morning I decided to attempt resuscitate the mouse.
Channeling my father, who is uncannily able to fix just about anything, I took a sharp pair of scissors and carefully cut open the back and extracted the music box. The mechanism was inside a sealed plastic case, and after hacking at it with a steak knife for a while (it was the closest thing on hand) I decided to get serious and borrowed my husband's pocket knife. After I loosened the glue around the edges of the case and swore at it several times the box cracked open. Using the tip of the pocketknife, I removed the mounting screws. With a pair of needle nose pliers, I was then able to nudge the little gears back into motion.
Like magic, the box began to sing and the string (the mouse's tail) began to wind. After a few test plays, I put the whole thing back together. I just need to suture up the back of the mouse and she will be as good as new. I am reveling in my small victory over consumerism.
However, I came across a broken toy today that I couldn't bring myself to throw out, a small stuffed mouse. My father bought it for Bee while we were both visiting my sister in Munich. Bee was just five months old and it was my father's first trip to Germany. We spent one afternoon shopping and my father impulsively decided to buy Bee a present. He picked a small pink mouse with a music box inside. If you pulled her tail, it would play a German lullaby. This perfect little toy hung on Bee's crib until the mouse's tail was pulled one too many times and the music box broke.
I think that as Americans, we tend to view our possessions as disposable. We accumulate stuff--because it's the trend, or it's on sale, or it's two for one. We buy and buy and when our things break, we buy some more. Not so many years ago, if an appliance broke, you wouldn't throw it out--you would have it repaired. There once was a whole industry of scissor sharpeners and TV repairmen that has mostly disappeared. Nowadays, the repair is often more costly than buying a new item. However, some things cannot be replaced, including Bee's gift from my father. So this morning I decided to attempt resuscitate the mouse.
Channeling my father, who is uncannily able to fix just about anything, I took a sharp pair of scissors and carefully cut open the back and extracted the music box. The mechanism was inside a sealed plastic case, and after hacking at it with a steak knife for a while (it was the closest thing on hand) I decided to get serious and borrowed my husband's pocket knife. After I loosened the glue around the edges of the case and swore at it several times the box cracked open. Using the tip of the pocketknife, I removed the mounting screws. With a pair of needle nose pliers, I was then able to nudge the little gears back into motion.
Like magic, the box began to sing and the string (the mouse's tail) began to wind. After a few test plays, I put the whole thing back together. I just need to suture up the back of the mouse and she will be as good as new. I am reveling in my small victory over consumerism.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
"More tofu, please!"
I can't believe it is already Thursday, er Friday. (This post has taken two days to finish.) It seems as though this week has just flown by in a blur of diaper changes, storybooks, and abbreviated nap times. Neither of my little darlings slept much yesterday, and are doing only marginally better today. Oh well.
We have had a good week for eating, especially since it was my dear husband's birthday on Monday. The poor man had to spend the day at work, but we made up for this injustice by ordering copious amounts of food from our favorite Lebanese restaurant.
For dessert we celebrated with pie. Isn't that terrible? I am the queen of cakes. I can make them all: chocolate cake with mountains of sticky icing; soft yellow cake with vanilla frosting and swirling decorations, pink strawberry cake, for heaven's sake! I have a cake for every season of the year--every conceivable occasion. I ask my dear husband what he wants every year, and the answer is always the same: strudel.
Strudel terrifies me. It's a gigantic dish that his family makes every Thanksgiving and usually involves the combined efforts of at least four people. Fortunately, every Romanian pastry shop in Bucharest serves reasonably decent strudel--in single serving portions. So as a compromise this year, he bought himself a strudel after lunch and I served pie after dinner. I will make strudel next year, I promise! (This is because we will be in America and I can enlist the help of my Father-in-law.)
The only reason I was able to avoid making strudel was by suggesting a pie that involved bourbon. Sweet potato bourbon pie, to be precise, except I made an all butter pie crust, to counteract the healthiness of all that sweet potato. Anyway, there are no frozen pie crusts to be had in Romania. I highly recommend this recipe; I thought that it would be very similar to pumpkin pie, and it was, except the sweet potato made for a richer filling.
On Wednesday we tried stir fried tofu with vegetables and somen noodles. It was fine, but despite my dear husband's best efforts, I am not really a fan of any kind of Chinese food that doesn't come in a pretty paper box.
I had quite a shock when Miss Bee's sweet little voice requested "More tofu, please!" I mean, I didn't eat tofu until I was in college. What are we doing to this child? I plan to make it up to her this afternoon when we make vanilla cookies.
(Recipes #13-15)
We have had a good week for eating, especially since it was my dear husband's birthday on Monday. The poor man had to spend the day at work, but we made up for this injustice by ordering copious amounts of food from our favorite Lebanese restaurant.
For dessert we celebrated with pie. Isn't that terrible? I am the queen of cakes. I can make them all: chocolate cake with mountains of sticky icing; soft yellow cake with vanilla frosting and swirling decorations, pink strawberry cake, for heaven's sake! I have a cake for every season of the year--every conceivable occasion. I ask my dear husband what he wants every year, and the answer is always the same: strudel.
Strudel terrifies me. It's a gigantic dish that his family makes every Thanksgiving and usually involves the combined efforts of at least four people. Fortunately, every Romanian pastry shop in Bucharest serves reasonably decent strudel--in single serving portions. So as a compromise this year, he bought himself a strudel after lunch and I served pie after dinner. I will make strudel next year, I promise! (This is because we will be in America and I can enlist the help of my Father-in-law.)
The only reason I was able to avoid making strudel was by suggesting a pie that involved bourbon. Sweet potato bourbon pie, to be precise, except I made an all butter pie crust, to counteract the healthiness of all that sweet potato. Anyway, there are no frozen pie crusts to be had in Romania. I highly recommend this recipe; I thought that it would be very similar to pumpkin pie, and it was, except the sweet potato made for a richer filling.
On Wednesday we tried stir fried tofu with vegetables and somen noodles. It was fine, but despite my dear husband's best efforts, I am not really a fan of any kind of Chinese food that doesn't come in a pretty paper box.
I had quite a shock when Miss Bee's sweet little voice requested "More tofu, please!" I mean, I didn't eat tofu until I was in college. What are we doing to this child? I plan to make it up to her this afternoon when we make vanilla cookies.
(Recipes #13-15)
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