Late-summer crops are always full of memories. Perhaps because I spent so much of my childhood summers in Louisiana with my grandparents, or perhaps just because summer cooking took over my grandmother’s life and filled her house with the steamy Read on!
Childhood is as much a place as it is a time. When I remember my childhood, it is often not events that I call forth, but rather pathways, shortcuts, hedges, fences, nooks, forts and treehouses. The map of my grandmother’s Read on!
I have a lot of cookbooks. Some people might consider that an understatement, especially my husband, who has hauled them from house to house a ridiculous number of times, but I feel like I can never have enough. I sleep Read on!
I point to tall, green, feathery fronds in the garden: “Pull that, Liam.” He yanks and his eyes go wide with shock and awe. “A carrot!!” Like it’s the last thing in the world he expected. A garden will do Read on!
Whenever I return to Beaumont, I inevitably bump into a certain woman who corners me and jabs her finger under my nose. “I still miss that beet salad!” she exclaims accusingly. At Liberty Market & Cafe we served a roasted Read on!