by Sara Barry | Dec 30, 2014 | abundance, holidays, what I love
I think my favorite gift this Christmas season is wrapped up here. It isn’t for me or even from me. It’s from my big girl to her great-grandmother.
It’s a crudely sewn cardinal crafted of felt because as she told me earnestly, “Big Nana loves birds, and I think a cardinal is her favorite.”
Big Nana who taught me patiently to sew many, many years ago. Big Nana who sews so neatly you’d think a machine did it—front and back, inside and out. I can’t wait to see her open this little stuffed bird with it’s big, uneven, loving stitches.
We’ve had a flurry of projects here lately. Some were done before Christmas, but since we celebrate with my family closer to New Year’s, we had extra time to wrap up some of this gift making.
I didn’t direct any of it. I offered suggestions when asked and helped locate materials. I threaded needles and knotted the ends of seams. I spelled words and read recipes. And when I found myself frustrated by the frequent requests, I reminded myself that this is the spirit of Christmas, thinking of others, offering something you think they will love, giving of yourself.
So there’s been sewing—a penguin for her cousin because it’s her favorite animal and two pillows because my little girl wanted to get in on all this present making too and felt pillows are what she can do right now. We’ve made a book, molded and baked a clay ornament, braided fleece into a snake, and baked coffee bread.
Quietly one day, by herself, my big girl found one of the pearl beads leftover from her birthday party and a scrap of gold ribbon. She used a glue stick and some clear tape an made me a bracelet.
My bracelet makes me smile with the remembrance her excitement watching me open it. The coffee bread, a favorite family recipe, was received with enthusiasm. I don’t know how they the other gifts will be received. I do know they were made with love and thoughtfulness and care, and there was great joy in making and the giving.
May these simple gifts—the love and caring, thoughtfulness and joy—find you in the new year.
What was your favorite gift this year? What simple gifts do you cherish?
Follow up:
Not surprisingly, Big Nana loved her cardinal. She was impressed with the sewing. “You can teach her the overcast stitch next.” I remembered suddenly learning the overcast stitch myself, the word sticking with me. I don’t remember what I was sewing, but I remember sitting in my grandmother’s living room and carrying my project into the dining room so she could rethread my needle for me.
The other gifts were met with kind enthusiasm from the cousins. The kitty ornament my big girl made for her little sister was not met with such kindness. The little one pouted that she wanted a sewn cat, not a clay one. “I’m going to color on it,” she scowled. She hadn’t changed her tune by the time we put away the tree. One of the things I love about putting up the tree is telling the stories behind or different ornaments. This kitty in tea cup has a story to it.
by Sara Barry | Oct 22, 2014 | abundance, cooking, fall, grief, use what you have, what's for dinner, writing
Some people waste away when under stress or grieving.
I eat.
When my son was in the hospital, I ate cookies and candy because I had them, big, heavy restaurant-sized meals. I ate whatever plate or dinner people brought me. It didn’t matter how hungry I was or if it was what I wanted (don’t get me wrong, people brought us good stuff); I just ate.
But after he died, when I was home, I cooked.
I made soups and stews, mac and cheese, scalloped potatoes, chicken pot pie. I sautéed greens that I got at the farmer’s market. I toasted bread from the bakery, rubbed it with garlic, drizzled it with olive oil, sprinkled coarse salt.
Maybe I was trying to satiate a hunger not related to food. Maybe I just needed food from home after not being there for three months. Maybe the rhythm of the kitchen soothed me, kept me busy enough without requiring too much thought or energy.
I cooked and I ate, and although the grocery store was a gauntlet of anxiety—ignore the birthday cakes, don’t go down the baby aisle, hold your breath hoping the cashier won’t ask anything about kids—I shopped for food. I went to farmers markets. I paid more for cheese than I should have. I got a farm share of meat and bought local eggs and honey.
I hadn’t worked for almost seven months and was limping along trying to get my sluggish brain to function enough to get through the projects that fell on my desk. B. was going to quit his job come fall to go back to school. I had no business spending extra money on food, and months later when B. actually did quit his job and I readied for another self-paid maternity leave, I gave up the farm share, started buying conventional eggs more and more, cut back on the cheese.
But still I cooked. Still I ate well, and I still took comfort in food.
These days, I still cook, still like to choose good food, still like to do something with the veggies I bring in from the garden. Though with little ones pouting, “I won’t eat that” without even trying it, some days I want to go on a hunger strike, holding out on making food until they are hungry enough to eat whatever it is.
Last night I made potato leek soup with potatoes and onions and carrot and herbs from our garden. I served it with garlic toast with cheese. We started dinner with two whines, but eventually one ate the soup and one at the grilled cheese (it worked better when we put the toast together and called it that). I sat back and enjoyed both.
It was a chilly day, and soup was comforting and warm as the darkness gathered. Comfort food isn’t just for hard times; sometimes we just need to feel cozy at home.
What’s your favorite comfort food?
Potato Leek Soup
olive oil or butter
1 stalk celery, diced
1 large carrot (or equivalent), chopped in half rounds (or quarters if the carrot is fat)
1 ½ cups chopped leeks* (approximate)
salt and pepper
2 quarts broth **
5 medium potatoes, peeled and diced
2 sprigs rosemary
2 sprigs thyme
1 bay leaf
large splash heavy cream (optional, but recommended)
- Sauté the carrots, celery, and leeks until softened. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
- Add the broth, potatoes, and herbs. Bring to just a boil and lower the heat. Simmer for a long time until the potatoes start to break down.
- Look at your soup and debate whether to bother puréeing it. Take a taste. Wonder if you should add milk like you usually do. Take a Facebook poll.
- Use an immersion blender to smooth out the soup, leaving some small chunks. Taste again. Add a hefty splash of heavy cream if you have it.
- Serve with garlic toast, cheesy or not, and hope your kids will eat it without too much of a stink.
Notes
* I actually used Egyptian walking onions in this version. I included any green parts that looked vibrant. They fade as they cook, but still taste good.
** I used homemade chicken broth this time, because I happened to have it in my fridge and wasn’t in the mood for chicken soup, but I’ve made great soup with canned/boxed chicken or vegetable broth. I went heavier on the salt because I knew my base was lower in sodium.
by Sara Barry | Oct 15, 2014 | abundance, writing
“This is going to be the most beautiful basket ever!”
She pauses, watches me after saying this, and I agree that it will be a beautiful basket while wondering how long we will keep it, imagining it dropping seeds and dried flowers in whatever corner it inhabits.
She’s wearing a hooded, terry cloth giraffe dress that may actually be a nightgown or bathrobe. She pulled on the spotted leg warmers I gave her to stave off a meltdown over a lack of brown tights, telling me earnestly and without the “you’re so stupid tone” that I expect will come in a few years, “These are cows, Mom.”
Her face peeks out from the hood, like an elf, wisps of blond hair tangle around her cheeks.
I keep watching her, focusing in, trying to capture her face, long stripped of it’s baby fat, her cheeks smooth and clear, her chin pointed. Her eyes are bright with enthusiasm and mouth curved into a smile.
I trace that curve with my eyes, wonder if I could conjure that exact curve if she were swept away or if I would have to rely on pictures.
One night after Henry died. I stumbled downstairs in the dark, flipped through picture after picture. I had woken with an image of him white and swollen as the Michelin man, and I couldn’t pull up a picture of what he really looked like, so I turned to pictures until I could see him again in my head.
I can’t tell you if I am being present as I focus on K’s face, try to imprint it, or if I am being morbid.
I’m thinking about how quickly life can change (be swept away, lost) because I’m reading Rare Bird. Such a loss isn’t theoretical to me, and yet it is the book that has me thinking about what I could lose.
Henry almost died seven years ago this month, but when he pulled through, I assumed he would live. I assume now that my girls will too, even though I know that change from ordinary life to inconceivable can happen so quickly.
Instead of, if she died would I remember, I could ask, in twenty years when she’s grown will I be able to conjure up her face, the soft smooth skin, the narrow chin, the sweet curve of her mouth, not turned up quite enough to activate he dimples.
For either question, the answer is the same.
No.
I won’t get all the details. Even now, one day later, they are slipping from me. I see her mouth but not her long lashes, the color of her lips but not the exact shade of her cheeks.
I won’t remember her face perfectly. I may not remember this day at all. Or maybe someday, I’ll see a basket decorated with dried flower and natural debris, or she’ll say, “Remember that giraffe dress?” And I’ll see us. Even if I don’t remember the exact curve of her mouth, I’ll feel the enthusiasm from her smile. I’ll feel the smile curve up on my own face and the warm gold bathing us on a late fall day
Write
The first Write with Me Wednesday focused on a string of memories. Today, we focus on something we might forget, a little moment.
Take one moment from today.
What do you think you’ll remember? What details that you might forget can you capture now?
by Sara Barry | Oct 10, 2014 | abundance, baking, what I love
I was overwhelmed by the many decisions I had to make for my wedding, but I knew I wanted a chocolate cake. And I got it—not just chocolate, but triple chocolate ganache.
It was good—and gorgeous, dark chocolate brown with orange and yellow nasturtiums spilling over it.
For our first anniversary, I made a triple chocolate cake and decorated it with nasturtiums from the garden. The filling in this cake is lighter and more buttery than my wedding cake, but it’s still delightfully decadent.
The cake with no filling or glaze makes a rich dessert. Serve it with raspberries and a little vanilla ice cream or barely sweetened whipped cream. I often serve it this way.
Triple Chocolate Cake
The recipe looks long, but all three parts are really easy to make.
Cake
Amounts are per cake. Double for two layers. I usually mix them up separately because one fits nicely in my double boiler.
4 oz bittersweet chocolate, chopped fine
1 stick butter
3/4 cup sugar
3 large eggs
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
- Preheat oven to 375 F and grease an 8- or 9-inch round cake pan or springform pan. Line bottom with a round of parchment paper. (The cake has a tendency to stick, so don’t skip the parchment paper.)
- In a double boiler, melt chocolate with butter over barely boiling water, stirring until smooth.
- Remove top of double boiler from heat and whisk sugar into the chocolate mixture.
- Add eggs and whisk well.
- Sift 1/2 cup cocoa powder over chocolate mixture and whisk until just combined.
- Pour batter into pan and bake in middle of oven for 25 minutes, or until top has formed a thin crust.
- Cool cake in pan on a rack for 5 minutes and invert onto a serving plate.
Filling
Allow time to chill. You can make this a day ahead and store in the fridge—or cook chocolate mixture and let chill overnight.
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
4 Tbsp. cocoa powder
1 1/4 cup milk
1 cup butter softened
1/4 cup powdered sugar
- In a medium sauce pan, combine sugar, cornstarch, and cocoa powder. Blend well. Gradually stir in milk.
- Cook over medium heat until mixture thickens and boils, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for about an hour or until cool.
- In a large bowl, beat butter and powdered sugar until well blended. Gradually add cooled chocolate mixture. Beat until light and fluffy.
Glaze
3/4 c. whipping cream
8 oz bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
- Place the chopped chocolate in a large mixing bowl and set aside.
- Pour cream into a small, heavy saucepan. set over medium heat and stir until it comes to a boil.
- Remove the pan from the heat and pour the hot cream over the chopped chocolate. Stir until the chocolate is melted.
- Let stand at room temperature for 10 minutes before pouring over cake.
Assembly
- Place one cake on a serving plate. Spread a thick layer of filling on top of layer.
- Cover with raspberries (optional, but the raspberries help offset all the chocolate).
- Layer the second cake over the first.
- Pour glaze over cake and smooth with a flat spatula. Use extra frosting to decorate top and sides of cake if you like. Garnish with edible flowers like nasturtiums (optional)
by Sara Barry | Oct 8, 2014 | milestones, what I love, writing
Supposedly rain on your wedding day is good luck.
We laughed and shrugged and gave up the idea of pictures in our garden. The jewel yellow and orange nasturtiums that spilled over the cake shone bright on that dim day. We weren’t worried about luck. We had love.
I questioned the idea of luck on our second anniversary when we sat in a crowded Thai restaurant within walking distance from the hospital where our son had been in the ICU for three weeks.
I questioned it on our third anniversary when grief continued to swirl between the two of us, locking our tongues, tripping up our words. As I sipped my water, I understood we were lucky to have gotten pregnant again, quickly and easily, but I had no confidence or trust.
Today as I contemplate the rain falling and remember how hard it came down nine years ago, how people were late because there was so much water on the roads and visibility was so limited, I don’t believe in luck.
But I hold the fullness that we have packed into these nine years
Three children born, one buried.
Months of hospital life and living hours apart.
Family illness, more funerals.
Buying a canoe; struggling to learn to paddle together.
Long afternoons of shushing and swaddling.
Years of not sleeping.
Stories read, made up, remembered, retold.
Chilis bubbling on the stove, chicken pot pies browning up in the oven. Finding our rhythm again in the kitchen.
First tastes of ice cream and family outings in that green canoe.
Dancing—crazy made up swing at our wedding and dancing later with our girls on dark winter evenings in the living room.
Today the storm has passed; the sun is shining, the sky a deep blue. We’ve walked nine years together, sunshine and storm. Nine years, and despite all the statistics thrown at us in the hospital, we’re still dancing, still cooking, still writing our story together. Nine full years, not luck, but life.
Write and Share
Share your own story of good times and bad. Does one overpower? Or do both parts hold their own?
It’s a crudely sewn cardinal crafted of felt because as she told me earnestly, “Big Nana loves birds, and I think a cardinal is her favorite.”
