by Sara Barry | May 21, 2015 | cooking, use what you have, what's for dinner
A long time ago, several life times it feels, I spent a semester in Florence. In May, after classes ended, my friend Kate and I took the train to Spain. When we tried to get our tickets in Italy, they told us we couldn’t do it. What they meant, was we shouldn’t.
It was a long, long trip, and despite the Nutella we always traveled with, we were exhausted and starving and parched when we arrived. I set off with my Sesame Street Spanish to get us two waters, while Kate went to get us some sustenance. She came back with Spanish tortilla sandwiches—egg, potato, onion on crusty bread. Like I said, I was delirious and famished, so my judgment may have been clouded, but it was the perfect food.
Kate and I tried to make Spanish tortilla for 10 years before we got it right. This was pre-Internet age. There was no All Recipes or Food Network or Google. We relied on our memory and experimentation. We searched the the rare Spanish cookbook. Finally we found the secret—cooking thin slices of potato in oil, almost simmering them until tender.
It uses a lot of oil, and it’s a great thing to make when you are hanging out with friends in the kitchen with a bottle of red, but sometimes I crave it when I don’t have that kind of time or company.
Here’s my lazy version. It would serve nicely if you had just come off a 20+ hour train ride. It would also be lovely with a salad of bitter greens with a simple vinaigrette for lunch or served as part of a spread of tapas with sangria. I enjoyed my most recent one with dark coffee and toast with olive oil. Eat it hot or room temp. It’s delicious either way.
Lazy Spanish Tortilla
6 medium potatoes, sliced
1 large onion, sliced
olive oil
salt and pepper
5 eggs
5 Tbsp (or glugs) of milk
foil
10-inch skillet
- Slice the potatoes and onion (a mandolin slicer works well for this).
- Oil a large piece of foil. Layer the potatoes and onions in the foil, sprinkling each layer with salt and pepper. Drizzle heavily with olive oil and fold up foil to form a closed packet.
- Cook the potato/onion packet on the grill until potatoes are soft. Eat some for dinner and save the leftovers for your tortilla.
- Beat eggs and milk and set aside.
- Heat a skillet and coat lightly with oil. Layer the remaining potatoes/onions in the skillet. Cook for a few minutes to reheat.
- Pour the egg mixture over it. Cook until egg starts to firm up. Use a spatula to pull the edge of the egg away from the side. Tip the pan to let the uncooked egg slide underneath.
- When the egg is mostly cooked, slide a spatula around the edge to loosen. Place a plate over the pan. Hold the plate tight and flip.
- Slide the tortilla back into the pan and cook the other side for a minute. Serve.
by Sara Barry | May 13, 2015 | Uncategorized
“Gold! Gold! Gold! I’m catching gold!”
My big girl ran up and down the driveway popping bubbles, saying each one turned to gold as if she were in a real-life videos game collecting prizes.
The little one blew, or tried to blow bubbles, in the gusty
wind. I kept turning to keep the soapy spheres from flying back in my face. All the while, the deep scent of lilacs wafted over me. I stood in the bright, cool sun of that moment, noticing how big my girls had gotten, their enthusiasm, their smiles.
I stood under the lilacs bubbles wafting off my wand and held space for two friends and the little ones they had lost. The scent of lilacs always brings to mind Charlotte, born and gone in this time of their flowering, and her mama Carol. The bubbles are for Hudson, a tradition started by her mom Mandy, such a sweet way to remember her little girl.
Breathe deep the lilacs, smile as you blow some bubbles, hug your kids tight, send out a little peace to those who can’t.
I am so grateful to have met these women and have them part of my tribe. You can find part of Carol’s story here and Mandy’s here.
by Sara Barry | May 9, 2015 | garden, grow, milestones, spring
It’s finally spring, though some days it feels we’ve skipped ahead to summer. It’s the smell of something on the grill and waving to neighbors walking by during dinner. It’s kids stopping to play and moms sharing a drink. It’s thinking we can stay out all evening in the golden light, only to remember school tomorrow, early morning, bedtime.
This spring/summer weather means smoothies outside instead of movie and popcorn after school. It means helping buckle bike helmets and pushes on the trapeze. It means washing feet and checking for ticks every day.
It’s the season for checking my greens every day to see if I’ll need to buy spinach or lettuce next week. It’s dragging the hose to water the little pockets of my garden I’ve planted so far. It’s getting ready for planting all the stuff that doesn’t like the cold (and the stuff that does that I haven’t managed to get in yet).
Monday so many things seemed to come in to bloom all of a sudden. The violets that I wanted for a science experiment flowered. My tulips bloomed. The cherry tree down the way was abuzz with bees. It felt like a long winter. Finally, really spring.
One year ago today, I launched this blog. I set out to create a space to write about growing and food and family and the connections of all those things, and I guess I’ve done that even if it doesn’t look exactly like what I was imagining.
I’m going to be playing with this space over the summer. I may be less regular and trying new things as I continue to focus on the themes of write, nourish, and grow. Thanks for reading and sharing with me this past year.
by Sara Barry | Apr 29, 2015 | grief, grow, spring, writing
I read this poem recently and loved the imagery and sensory details, the full sense of spring and life and death.
This line stuck with me:
New life heals lost life
Does it? I could argue both ways.
I could tell you about how having a baby one year after my first baby died broke me open to joy again. Or how the everyday life things—diapers and feeding and soothing—took the place of life and death issues. How even as I continued to grieve deeply and fully and actively, I had to focus on life, the new little life that needed me.
I could tell you that now, almost eight years since I became a mother, seven and a half since I became a grieving one, that I am healed—and not.
Here’s the thing: there is great joy in my life. I love my girls fully and deeply. And I miss their brother. I wonder who he would have been. I wonder who I would have been as his mother if he were here. I’m not stuck in what would have been, but sometimes something within me is stuck. And then I break open again. Things move. Life happens.
New life heals lost life.
This line at another time would have filled me with anger. One life does not replace another. But new life does bring its own wonder and joy and energy. It doesn’t replace, but yes, maybe it heals.
***
This time of year is full of new life: the yellow spills down the forsythia bush, the hops and rhubarb expand daily, my garlic has turned from single small spikes to little green v’s. I water where I’ve laid down seeds and count the days until I cut spinach and lettuce for a salad. Its a time of growth. It’s a time of possibility and potential.
This time of year, I mark the growth—the violet plants greening my garden, the tulips swelling before bloom, the little girl who once chatted with me in the garden today a teenager, the baby I brought to story hour at the library in her car seat now walking there with her preschool class—and hold the potential of the seeds and once baby turned preschooler with time racing her toward teenager.
Late April, early May I am so aware of the potential around me and I remember the potential that was in me. Even having that potential cut short, I believe in life. I believe that the seeds I sow will sprout and grow. I believe that the baby turned preschooler will grow to be a teenager like the one I walked down the driveway to say happy birthday to this morning. I believe that they will keep going, keep growing.
This time of potential, this time of new life, this time of hope. It keeps coming, keeps growing, and I watch it unfold. I keep growing and hoping and opening to that potential.
New life heals lost life. What do you think?
by Sara Barry | Apr 22, 2015 | noticing, what I love, what we need
High-pitched gull calls came out of no where, lost in the salty fog. I stood in the grayness, the sea and sky blending so there was no horizon.
I love the ocean on a clear day, stretching far as my eye can see, but I’m not really here for the view. I stand on the beach, now all rounded stones. Flies swarm around piles of seaweed, buzz up around my face for a minute, and then I’m away from them.
The waves roar-crash followed by the clatter rumble of rocks shifting, then the hiss and quiet of the foam sliding back along the stones again. I close my eyes to listen and soak in the rhythm of the waves, the rolling push pull push pull. Roar-crash, rumble, hiss. Roar-crash, rumble, hiss. I breathe in deeply. Breathe out.
I come in the summer for the beach—long days of sun and sand and salty breezes, but it’s not just about the beach. I miss the salt air and the afternoon breezes. I miss the changing colors and moods of the water. I miss the ocean’s energy. I grew up with this energy, flowing around me, running through my veins. I don’t live with ocean everyday any more, and I need a dose of it sometimes to refuel, re-balance, reset.
What’s your reset?
