My soup didn’t fix her

My friend was very sick. For six years she looked into cancer’s beady little eyes and stared it down until it whimpered, turned, and ran away. But, it came back last year, brought its bully pack, and this time it was really mad.

I made her soup on Monday. By Tuesday she was too weak to eat it. On Wednesday she decided it was time to go. On Thursday she fell asleep and  went to heaven. I don’t understand and I am so sad. Our friend is gone and I can’t fix it. I’m afraid.

I go through my old emails and read her notes to me about silly things like cheap costume satin, velvet bell-bottoms, Japanese pop videos and where to find a giant gong for the school dance. I imagine that I can talk to her by pressing "send" but I know that her consistently witty response will not follow.

We’re all still trying to work it out in our own way. We keep on doing what we do: driving the carpool, answering emails, checking the kids’ homework.  But sometimes I just find myself staring into space, thinking about her girls, thinking about her husband, thinking about my own fear, until I catch myself and try to shake it off one more time.

Every day, as I make my rounds from school to work to the market to the baseball field, I catch the gaze of a friend who I know is doing the same thing. In front of school, two moms speak in hushed tones with lowered heads and heavy hearts. At church, a family kneels together, quiet in prayer. Somehow I know that this Sunday, their thoughts are focused on our loss, not on their to-do lists or the guy behind them singing horribly off-key.

It’s not that I want to see my community in pain. But selfishly, I feel comforted that I am not alone.

As the days pass though, and our conversations begin to expand beyond shock and grief, I know that all of us left behind are going to be OK…because we have to.  Thankfully we have each other as a reminder that there really is no other option. As my friend would have undoubtedly said to me with her trademark, no-nonsense conviction, “Just get over yourself!”

So, as I try to get over myself, I look back just one week and wrap myself in the blanket of support that swaddled our little community during her memorial.  The mass was perfect and afterward, a dedicated group of moms made certain that the standing-room-only crowd was welcomed with a beautiful homegrown reception. I made some cupcakes.

My soup didn’t fix her but making those cupcakes, sharing them with our friends and marveling at the tables filled with countless delicacies prepared with love by others, started to fix me, just the tiniest little bit.

I hope these little cupcakes make you feel a little bit better too one day when you are sad.

That’s all I have to say.

Mini Banana Cupcakes

with Chocolate Peanut Buttercream

For the Banana Cupcakes:

Preheat oven to 350°

Cream together until fluffy:

• 1/2 cup unsalted butter
• 1 1/2 cups sugar

Beat in thoroughly:

• 2 large eggs

Sift together and set aside:

• 2 1/4 cups sifted cake flour (sift then measure)
• 1/4 teaspoon baking powder
• 3/4 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt

Mix together in small bowl:

• 1/4 cup buttermilk
• 1 cup mashed ripe banana (about 2 biggies)

Mix wet and dry ingredients gradually into butter/sugar mixture alternately until just combined.

Fill mini cupcake tins lined with paper cups about 2/3 full and bake for about 10 minutes until puffed and just done.

Makes about 5-6 dozen little yummies

For the Chocolate Peanut Buttercream

Gently melt and cool to room temp:

• 8 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate

Mix in a small saucepan, heat until smooth then cool to room temp:

• 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
• 8 Tablespoons of water

Cream together:

• 3 sticks (1 1/2 cups) unsalted butter
• 1/3 cup powdered sugar

Add in and beat until smooth:

• Melted bittersweet chocolate from above
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

Gradually add in and beat until fluffy and lightened in color:

• cocoa mixture from above
• 3 1/3 cups more powdered sugar
• 2 giant heaping spoonfuls of peanut butter (as much as will balance on your spoon as you scoop it out of the jar)

Note: I garnished each cupcake with a little banana chip and a mini peanut butter cup (both from Trader Joe's).

Dicey ladies...

I met Charlie’s mother on a spring afternoon. Home from college on semester break, Charlie and I decided that it was time I visited the family homestead and make an official appearance as the “new girlfriend.” Perched high atop San Rafael hill, the custom-built mid-century home with sweeping views of Mt. Tamalpais and a large open living room with high-beamed ceilings had been built by Charlie’s locally prominent grandparents as an entertainer’s paradise.

Recently passed down to Charlie’s parents, the pristine home bore no battle scars that would hint to the fact that these same parents raised four now-grown children…no tattered basketball hoop in the driveway, no rusty swing set in the yard, not a hint of crayon on the wall or faded Kool-aid stain on the sofa.

A campaign publicity photo from the 50's...that's Alice on the right of the hearth.

As I passed across the manicured front walk, through the big double doors, I was struck by a sense of meticulous order that was bracingly unfamiliar to me.  The white sculptured area rug was immaculate, a glistening sterling silver tea set sat perched atop the dining room sideboard, and beams of sunlight shone through a huge, smudge-free picture wall of glass, highlighting a polished wooden floor oddly free of dust bunnies or crushed Cheerios.

Yes, there we are...the happy young couple, and that's me carrying not only the freshman fifteen, but an enormous hunk of cake to-go.

Back at my family’s suburban split level, evidence of an “active” family life was in full swing. Piles of laundry from two visiting college-aged kids littered the worn sectional couch and muddy cleats, half-completed science projects covering the breakfast table and a fridge plastered with magnets, Little League schedules and homework served as countless clues that a young boy still lived at home.

Yes, walking into Charlie’s family home was like nothing I had ever seen but I think the thing that struck me the most was that it appeared to be “bridge day.” Poised between the cream colored sofa, the marble fireplace and the long maple hi-fi were three card tables, each strategically positioned and neatly covered with a starched, hand-stitched little table cloth created distinctly for this purpose. A white notepad, a sharpened pencil and a crystal dish filled with chocolate-covered mixed nuts completed each vignette.

Was Alice having a bridal shower? What was up with the paper and the pencils? I had only heard of bridge on repeats of the Dick Van Dyke show. Did people really play this game…and in the middle of the day?

At our house, a deck of cards came out only after the big ravioli platter and our mismatched service station juice glasses had been cleared from the kitchen table, and enough red wine had flowed to turn dinner with the neighbors into a late-night Pinochle party. Bridge? Ladies? Tidy white linens? I was intrigued…

Fast forward 25 years and it was time for Charlie’s folks to bid farewell to the family home. Choosing to downsize, they decided to hold an “estate sale” of sorts -- all items free and the only customers, their four children and spouses. With our color-coded Post-its in-hand, each “child” circulated from table to table sticking tags to the items we hoped to bring into our homes to cherish and care-take for future generations.

As the only sister-in-law, I was prepared and willing to take the back seat and scoop up the remnants...a couple of pieces of Tupperware and maybe a Pyrex if I was lucky. To my delight, his sisters had little interest in so many of the treasures I coveted: Alice and Ole’s sliver baby porridge bowls, mini monogrammed sterling ashtrays, tiny enameled jam spoons and yes, those starched card table cloths, hanging over an arm chair, still in their dry-cleaning bags, calling to come home to me.

I gathered my treasures and tucked them away, pulling them out every so often to admire while pondering what life would have been like as one of those “bridge” ladies. But, somehow, when I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I’d trudge between the home office and the washing machine only to see the familiar reflection of a bedraggled woman in a flannel nightie and worn out Uggs, it occurred to me that perhaps my beautiful little linens would never again feel the tippy tap of manicured nails on their starched little selves.

That is, until I discovered a little game called Bunko.

After all, Charlie had his golf buddies, and this girl was starving for some sister-love. It had been years since nights out with “all the single ladies” had given way to nights up with the "all the cranky babies." Now that the kids were a little older, old enough to boot out of the house with Daddy for one evening a year, it seemed time to gather some girls for some good old fashion fun.

I hit the Internet looking for a reason to lure a bunch of gals around a few card tables on a regular basis. A book club…hum, no time to read. A dinner club…yikes, I do that every night. Bridge...I heard you actually need to think.

No, there really was only one option: Bunko… 12 women, 12 bottles of wine, 12 five dollar bills, 9 dice, and one Friday night a month.  No thinking is required. In fact, it’s discouraged.

Three card tables, each set with three dice, hold four women who roll for maximum points while each respective group counts out in unison as points are accumulated. “One…two…three!” we shout out in chorus like twelve ESL students on their first day of Junior College. The counting and rolling proceeds until someone bursts out “Bunko” signifying a lucky roll of three like dice. At that point, everyone grabs their glass of wine and their score card and marches on to roll again at the next table over.

The rules tend to change to suit our needs and our murky memories but somehow, someone always walks off with some cash for “high score” or a bottle of wine as the consolation prize going to the biggest loser of the night.

I have a feeling that this is a little different than an afternoon of bridge with Alice and the ladies. For some reason, I envision their gatherings to have been more like a scene from “The Help”, complete with tidy coiffed hair-dos, snappy little purses and sandwiches served with the crusts cut off.  Our evenings tend to be a bit more colorful…

The group has evolved over the years and is motley by design: a hair stylist, a poet, a teacher, a dentist, a realtor, a couple of mortgage brokers, a few part-time stay-at-home moms, a wine distributor and several combinations thereof.

Gals with kids, some without, and a grandma to-boot…we’ve come together through school, through work, through family, through neighbors and through friends of friends of friends, but somehow we have gelled into a crew of unlikely comrades who share an addiction to belly laughing till we’re sore, a tolerance for loud music and off-color remarks, and an insatiable need to commune in the unique way we do.

The smokes are candy...by the way

We eat an un-dainty meal of pasta Bolognese or pozole, drink tons of wine, and snack on cake and cobbler and chocolates while we pretend to keep score.

Sometimes, so caught up in conversations ranging from night sweats and new shoes to varicose veins and Vegas, we don’t even get to the game. During our last get together, my mom, the adopted grandma of the crew, professed during a lively debate on cosmetic procedures (who’s had ‘em, who wants ‘em) “You girls are my Botox!” Well said, Mama, well said!

Last month was my turn to host and here's a little something my poet friend wrote on my chalkboard on her way out the door. It's still on my wall even though it makes William crazy, "Mom, I don't get it!" Son, you never will...

A couple of days before the big night, the ceremonial preparation began as I trudged my card tables in from the garage, hoisted my buffet plates down from the high shelves, pulled out those beloved little cloths and began to drape them lovingly over each table.

I smoothed my hand over the laundered linens, smiling to myself as I noticed little grey ghosts of parties past. I closed my eyes and chuckled, remembering red wine flying from either Paula's signature expressive style of conversation or Lizzie's new twist on flinging the dice with flair. Hummm, I guess they drank club soda back in the bridge days because these cloths did not look like this when I got 'em.

As usual I used the girls as a testing ground for a recipe that was new to me but one chock full of my favorite and familiar Moroccan flavors: Chicken Tagine. I served it with a beet, orange and fennel salad, couscous with parsley, and for dessert, a polenta pound cake with wine-poached pears, dried cherries and whipped creme fraiche. Yes...yum.

So my friends, I urge you to grab some dice, gather up eleven feisty friends and simmer up this dish which I hope you find as sweet and spicy as the ones you hold dear. Why?

"Because there is night

Because there is wine

Because tangled female love nests

creep through song

Because stories are born on Friday dice

Because cake."

  Chicken Tagine with Apricots and Almonds

Note: Do not let the long list of ingredients scare you off. Basically this is just chicken stew using Moroccan spices. If you are out of cilantro, don't sweat it. If the preserved lemon is too much trouble, leave it out. Feel free to improvise!

Mix in a large bowl:

• 2.5 tsp ground cinnamon
• 2.5 tsp ground ginger
• 1.5 tsp turmeric
• 1.5 tsp black pepper
• 2 tsp salt
• 5 Tbs olive oil

Add and toss to coat:

• 6 pounds boneless chicken thighs, cleaned and dried

Heat in a large Dutch oven:

• 2 Tbs butter
• 2 Tbs olive oil

Brown chicken in batches on both sides, transfer to a plate.

Saute slowly until soft in the seasoned Dutch oven:

• 1 large red onion, thinly sliced
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 5 garlic cloves, minced

Add the browned chicken and reserved juices back to the pot and add:

• 5 fresh sprigs of fresh parsley and cilantro tied with kitchen twine
• 1 1/2 cups water or chicken stock (or enough to cover the meat about 1/3 of the way up)

Cover and simmer slowly for 30 minutes. While the chicken is simmering add to a separate small saucepan:

• 1/4 cup honey
• 1 1/2 cups water
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 cup Turkish dried apricots, separated into halves

Bring to a boil then simmer, uncovered until apricots are nicely softened. Remove apricots and simmer sauce until it is reduced to a thin syrup. Return apricots to the saucepan.

Heat in a skillet over moderate heat:

• 3 Tbs olive oil

Add and cook until golden then drain on a paper towel:

• 2/3 cup slivered or whole blanched almonds

Add the apricot mixture to the tagine, remove cinnamon stick and herb bundle.

Add to the tagine and warm:

• 1 preserved lemon*, rind only, quartered and sliced thin

Serve tagine over couscous, sprinkle with almonds and chopped fresh parsley.

Serves 12, generously with left overs

*http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/preserved-lemons-10000000600612/

GI Janet

Ladies and gentlemen...Christmas has left the building.

Tree...untrimmed. Halls...undecked. Cookies...consumed.

The only hint of holiday that remains is a stack of green and red Rubbermaid boxes perched patiently in the corner of the room waiting to be slid into the rafters...hopefully sometime before Easter.

Yes, we have even carried out our ceremonial gingerbread demolition: an admittedly twisted tradition of New Year's catharsis designed to ring out the old with a flying flurry of petrified ginger cookie, neon sprinkles and hardened icing.

As I sat on the curb this morning observing the aftermath of the gingerbread Armageddon, watching the kids scoop up the last remnants of Christmas 2011, I couldn't help but wonder, when I look back at this Christmas, what will I say it was "the Christmas that..."?

My mind started to drift, as it does, and I thought for a minute about happy ghosts of Christmas past and a parade of holiday memories marked by people and places and presents that,for one reason or another, stick to my psyche like a wayward piece of unwrapped candy cane hiding at the bottom of my purse.

I remember the Christmas that Greg and I got a new baby brother and Mom let me wear my go-go boots to church.

I remember the Christmas that Diane got chosen to be Mary in the class Nativity tableau and all I got to be was a stinkin' angel.

I remember the Christmas that Charlie and I celebrated together for the first time as husband and wife in our very first house. Yes, I am wearing a jumpsuit and yes, the star at the top of the tree is made of aluminum foil.

I remember the Christmas that we thought it would be clever to photograph our 3-week-old infant as if she was popping out of a Christmas package only to realize that it was probably ill-advised given that she couldn't even hold her head up on her own. The photos ended up looking like she was being sucked down into some sort of Christmas vortex by Thing from The Addams family.

Then there was the next Christmas that we had better luck with the whole baby-in-a-box concept...

There was the Christmas that Carly got her two-wheeler...

...and the next Christmas that she got her baby brother.

And, a few years later, there was the Christmas that baby brother finally got his two-wheeler too... 

There was the Christmas that Mom got a pair of real diamond earrings, the Christmas that I got mono in high school, the Christmas that I sat on the couch most of the day holding my breath, and my water, hoping that I could get to the 26th without giving birth (thankfully William waited another week).

But, of all my "Christmases that...", the one that brings the biggest smile to my face is the one when GI Janet came to dinner.

It was 1974 and, as we did every year, Christmas was celebrated with Grandmas and Grandpas, Auntie Janet, Uncle Jack and their three kids. Each year we would alternate venues, one year at the cousins' home in Concord then the next at ours in Fairfax.

This particular year, Christmas was at home and was filled with the usual hopped-up holiday antics: kids running up and down the stairs dodging cousin cooties, an endless flow of crumpled wrapping paper swirling overhead, Karen Carpenter belting out Christmas tunes from the hi-fi and this particular year, it seems, an abundance of Almaden Chablis flowing from jug to glass.

The cousins, juiced on chocolate cake and adrenalin, thought it would be funny to heist the cigars my parents kept for guests in a cut glass jar on the coffee table and march around the house holding them between our teeth like a squad of tiny little Castros.

Not to let a parade pass her by, Auntie Janet put out her cigarette, grabbed a cigar for herself, lit it up, snatched my little brother's official General Patton plastic army helmet from beneath the tree and led her minions in triumphant splendor past the spectators laughing and raising their glasses of Creme de Menthe in tribute.

Ah, such a proud family moment. Check out Michael with the cigar in the lower right of the photo...I think he was about three.

Poor Auntie Janet never lived it down and has since been lovingly referred to as GI Janet. Even 25 years later at a family party, my Dad stuck a bowl on her head, gave her a cigar and had her strike a pose for posterity...

...at 5 or 55 I guess big brothers never really stop teasing their baby sisters.

Aside from her military fame, Auntie Janet is also a legendary cook. Perfectly prepared roasts, creamy mashed potatoes, meticulously decorated cakes, holiday meals were always a treat when Auntie Janet was at the helm. But, no matter who hosted Christmas each year, she would always be the one to belly up to the stove and take her place as the official gravy-maker in the family.

One year, when I was in high school, I think, she summoned me to her post and told me it was time I learned the tricks of the trade. For a couple of years after that, until our families started to grow and spend the holidays apart, I stood by my Auntie's side and assisted as she patiently coaxed a silken gravy out of what started out as the seemingly unsavory dregs of a steaming hot roasting pan.

One year, I realized that, without any pomp and circumstance, the whisk had been passed to me and I had become our family's "Queen of the Gravy."

This year, I asked Carly to babysit the pan while I tended to some brussel sprouts or the like. Little does she know that I have begun her clandestine initiation and my little heir, like it or not, will one day wear the dubious crown. There she is, in action below..."just a little more stock, Princess...that's it...keep whisking...".

So, if you were to ask me how I will remember this Christmas, I'm actually not quite sure how I would respond. Maybe it's the year that Patti gave me that killer Toasted Pine nut and Rosemary Brittle recipe or the year Laura made me that vintage Christmas apron complete with red dingle ball trim. Or maybe it's simply the year that an unspoken family tradition began it's journey from one generation to the next.

It's kind of OK, I think, that every year isn't a big fat "Christmas that..." marked by a landmark gift or a special event, so I'm just fine looking back at Christmas 2011 and remembering with a smile that we got through the year just fine, thank you, and stand together walking strong into the new year.

In hopes that you too might give my gravy a go and share it with your family, I roasted a chicken and snapped some photos to walk you through my version of Auntie Janet's yummy goodness. It might not fit into your January resolution for low fat living, but promise me you won't wait until next Thanksgiving to give it a try.

Here's what the roasting pan looked like after I pulled out the bird to rest on a plate nearby. Not so pretty, I know, but this is where almost every bit of the gravy's flavor originates. Before roasting,I had rubbed the chicken down with generous amounts of butter, chopped garlic, salt and pepper and shoved an onion and a lemon into it's nether regions which, despite the indignity for the chicken, gave this gravy a really, really delicious, tangy, roasted garlic flavor. 

Pour the pan juices off into a measuring cup or a gravy fat separator. The fat will rise to the top and the flavor-packed drippings will sink to the bottom. Reserve it all.

Straddle the roasting pan over two burners on the stove top and set the heat to medium-high. Pour about two tablespoons of the fat back into the pan, add two tablespoons of butter and, using a wooden spoon, scrape up the brown bits from the pan.

Sprinkle about 4 tablespoons of flour over the melted fat and blend together over the heat being careful not to burn your concoction.

Now you have a roux. Cook this for a few minutes until it starts to thicken, darken and bubble.

Start to add your stock (chicken if you have roasted a chicken, beef if you have roasted a beef), slowly incorporating it with a whisk, waiting for the gravy to thicken slightly before each addition. My gravy took about two cups of stock this time to get the the consistency I wanted.

When your gravy is almost where you want it, skim as much fat as possible off the drippings you have reserved and add the gooey goodness that remains to the mix for a real flavor boost.

Adjust your seasoning with salt and pepper if you need it and serve warm over your perfectly roasted meat. This gravy ended up light brown with little flecks of roasted garlic...one of my best I'd say. Your version may be darker or lighter depending on the state of your drippings to start. If you look at the photo of Carly working the turkey gravy above, you can see that it was really deep and dark which had a lot to do with the hours and hours of roasting and the basting of butter and white wine...yum!  Any way you slice it, it's good stuff.

GI Janet's Pan Gravy

Ingredients:

• Pan drippings
• 2 Tablespoons butter
• 1/4 cup flour
• 2 cups stock

1.) Pour all of the roasting liquid from your pan into a glass measuring cup or gravy fat separator and reserve.

2.) Straddle the pan over two burners, set the heat to medium/high, add the two Tablespoons of butter and two Tablespoons of the reserved fat which has risen to the top of your measuring cup. Scrape brown bits from pan with a wooden spoon.

3.) Sprinkle flour over melted fat and cook the roux for a few minutes until it is thick and darkened.

4.) Begin to add the stock and little at a time, incorporating fully and letting thicken after each addition.Continue adding stock until you reach your desired consistency.

5.) Remove any remaining fat from your reserved juices and add to your gravy the rich dark drippings that remain.

6.) Season with salt and pepper if needed.

Makes enough to accompany one roasted chicken and some mashed potatoes on the side.

Gratitude and Granola

Today I found a penny on the pavement. I picked it up and made a wish. It made me happy.

I tossed the rusty brown coin into my purse, fumbled for my keys, wrangled myself into the car and shut the door. Immediately, I was enveloped by the sun-baked, silent squishiness of my mobile cocoon. 

Ah, silence, solitude…I took a deep breath and thought to myself, no one can find me here…at least for the next few minutes.

Click. I locked the door, put back my head, closed my eyes and let my mind drift freely, for just a minute or two, beyond the gallon of milk I forgot to buy, the dentist appointment I just remembered, and the distinctive aroma of soccer socks and four day-old lunches wafting from the nether regions of my SUV.

I started to think about that penny.

Would my wish come true? What a gift to just sit for a minute, there alone in the middle of the mall parking lot, and think good thoughts…all for the price of someone’s lost penny. “It’s the little things”, I thought, "those little injections of emotional B-12 that transform ordinary days into a string of bite-sized extraordinary moments…if we let them."

I began to rewind my day, my week, my month…focusing less and less every second on my marinating car and that forgotten gallon of milk and more and more on the penny and some of the countless other opportunities someone or something recently gave me to smile. I thought about…

The rumpled stranger just minutes ago in the check-out line who said “God Bless You” when I sneezed…and really meant it.

An old school-mate I ran into at my reunion and our conversation about my Mom and the cardboard costumes she made for our second grade Christmas play.

The fact that Mom still lives down the street and helps me with every costume I make to this day.

The distinctive humor of an 8-year old boy aptly demonstrated when he is given a set of markers and asked to decorate his sister’s birthday gift wrap...

..and a teenage sister still sweet enough to sit with him and his buddies and help them decorate gingerbread houses.

The smell of coffee drifting upstairs and the confidence that every morning, without fail, Charlie will grind me a fresh batch of beans and perch them atop my favorite cup, ready for me to brew when I eventually stumble down.

This morning's milk in reindeer glasses and knowing we get to use them for a whole month.

Christmas ornaments made from macaroni.

A perfect pear plucked from a friend’s tree.

Sunsets.

Gratitude is a powerful elixir and I felt quiet and full from its effects. I slowly lifted my head. It was time to go. My groceries were melting, I needed to call that dentist before his office closed for the day, and it was my turn to pick up the kids from the Dojo. I would probably be late. I should call.

I looked down at my phone and realized that my outdated Star Trek mock flip communicator-style phone had died...again. Now I’ve really gotta go. I looked back, began to pull out and caught eyes with the woman who had been waiting for my parking spot. She glared back at me, raised her hands in frustration and tapped on her steering wheel as I pulled away.

"Someone needs a penny," I thought. So I shot her a sincere smile and said a little prayer that her day would get better.

I started to think more about the little things I try to do to create bright moments in friends and strangers’ days and challenged myself to work consciously toward creating more of them.

Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll sneak out to Charlie’s frosty car-sicle a few minutes early and blast the heater for him. Perhaps I’ll pull my neighbor’s garbage cans in from the street for her today before she gets home from work. And, for sure, the next time I drop a penny on the ground, I’ll leave it there for someone else to find. I hope their wish comes true.

With the holidays here, it is no surprise that one of my favorite ways to spread good cheer, so to speak, is through the gift of something yummy. Although I don’t always have my act together, I try to almost always have, on-hand, something homemade to bring to friends' homes when we go-a-visitin’.

There’s something so retro-licious about the whole "hostess gift" thing. Nothing big…just a few little hand soaps, a set of taper candles or a jar of Farmer’s Market local honey; it’s a lost tradition for the most part, it seems, but one of those little niceties that is worth bringing back...don't you think?

So, here’s an idea for you to chew on: homemade granola. It doesn’t get much easier (note my four-year-old jammie-clad assistant in the photos below) and makes for a fun and unusual presentation. I grabbed some cool little jars at the new Dollar Store in town (OK, I admit it...I'm excited) whipped up a crunchy batch and set it aside to bring to Mike and Lib’s party this Saturday night.

I’m guessing they won’t be getting a jar of homemade granola from any of their other guests and I’d like to think it will bring a smile to their faces Sunday morning when they push aside the half-empty bottles of wine and find it on their counter…that’s the effect I’m going for anyway!

Here's what you will need...most of the items are simple pantry basics...

Sprinkle the nuts over the oats on a rimmed baking sheet (no need to butter or oil the pan).

 ...then drizzle the decadent goo over the oats and nuts...

...and toss to coat.

Sprinkle and mix with brown sugar, cinnamon and kosher salt.

Bake at 350° for about 5-10 minutes until the nuts begin to turn very light brown, checking and stirring once or twice along the way. Remove from the oven, add the coconut, stir well, return to the oven and bake for another 5-10 minutes or so, making sure nothing scorches and the coconut toasts just right.

Remove from the oven, sprinkle in your dried fruit (I used golden raisins and cranberries this time), toss and cool.

Honey Almond Granola

Preheat oven to 350°.

Mix on a rimmed baking sheet:

• 2 1/2 cups oats
• 1 cup slivered almonds (or other nuts)

Melt:

• 1/4 cup unsalted butter

Add to it:

• 1/4 cup honey

Drizzle mixture over nuts and oats, mix well.

Sprinkle over, mix in and bake, stirring often, until lightly browned:

• 1/3 cup packed brown sugar
• cinnamon to taste
• kosher salt to taste

Sprinkle over, mix and bake until golden brown:

• 1 cup flaked coconut

Add, mix in and toss to cool:

• 1 cup dried fruit to taste (try raisins, cranberries, apricots...)

Enjoy!

Makes about 4 cups