Repeating myself here, but: I’m a bit sick of food. There’s just so much of it, all the time, and we don’t eat a great deal anymore. Plus, everyone’s plenty happy with the simplest of fare — eggs and toast, baked mac and cheese, granola — and some of us would eat popcorn every night for supper if we could, so why bother cooking? Not complaining; explaining, blah, blah, blah.

But we need a balanced diet. We need vegetables. We need to not always eat our favorites — some less-than-exciting food helps to keep consumption in check — so I play the Mean Mom and cook boring meals like baked potatoes and green beans and corn, or zucchini parm and toast, or vats of Italian Wedding soup. It’s not that nobody likes these meals (except for the one child who would rather skip eating altogether rather than have a forkful of zucchini grace her mouth — but a little fasting here and there is good, right?), it’s just that they’re not the kind anyone’s inclined to gorge on. 

And so, therefore, I make them.

Now. Forget everything I just said for a minute because we had a birthday and spent the whole day feasting on all the favorites. For his breakfast, Birthday Boy (he’s 15!) chose Dutch Puff with warm vanilla pudding and sugared strawberries from the freezer. 

Lunch was what he has every year for his birthday lunch: subs with all the fixings and chips. Those pickled peppers make the sandwich, I think. I can’t get enough of them.

And supper: bacon cheeseburgers with grilled onions (for me), more chips, tons of shrimp, and steamed broccoli.

To cap it all off, a very sloppy-looking ice cream cake: coffee, chocolate peanut butter, vanilla, and cookies and cream. Instead of a brownie layer that turns rock-hard in the freezer, I used oreo crumbs. I made a copycat DQ fudgy chocolate sauce which worked great, but the caramel sauce turned into caramel toffee in the freezer and we once again had to hack our way through. 

^{(And no, we didn’t eat more than half in one night. The photo above is from a later eating.)}

One of these days I’m gonna get it right. (Maybe.)

Upon the recommendation of a friend, I checked this cookbook out of the library. Flipping through it, the farro fennel salad caught my eye. I had one bag of farro left (from a whole bunch of bags that my aunt gave me), and I love fennel. Plus a whole lemon and garlic? It sounded wonderfully simple and delicious.

But nope. While it was beautiful, it was also horribly bitter, thanks to the whole lemon, and way too mild/boring tasting. I’d followed the recipe exactly, too. Made me mad, it did. I ate two helpings though, stayed mum about my disgust, and then watched in amusement as my husband quietly, diligently, and painfully chewed his way through his serving. The meal over, I pulled out a bag of leftover lettuce and told everyone to make themselves salad and sandwiches. And later there were bowls of cereal and, when I confessed that the salad was a bust, a roar of indignation and incredulity from my husband, ha!

This morning for my breakfast, a banana muffin from a coworker’s test bake yesterday. 

Bakery leftovers are a huge part of our diet and one of the reasons I’m not cooking as much. I bring home all sorts of things: sourdough heels, random pieces of leftover quiche and pie, egg whites, pie crust scraps, croissants, loaves of multigrain, cheese rinds, caramel sauce, toffee cake, the dregs of a container of pie filling. And then my daughter sometimes comes home with leftover biscuits, sausage gravy, fresh-squeezed orange juice, chopped cucumbers, pancake batter, etc.  It’s great, and a huge financial help, but then we’re eating Magpie food and not the food that I’ve canned and frozen, and after a bit I start feeling food overwhelmed. 

I have a new favorite granola recipe (with pumpkin seeds!) that my husband and I are nuts for.

I can’t share the recipe because it’s a Magpie classic, but if they ever give me the go-ahead to write about it, you’ll be the first to know, pinky promise.

For supper tonight, grilled cheese using a loaf of failed sourdough I made months ago (cleaning out the freezer, yay!), and tomato soup.

Also, we had sweet pickles and then, for dessert, leftover ice cream cake. (I scooped mine into a cone.)

P.S. As I finish up this post, both kids are in the kitchen making — you guessed it — popcorn. I hope they share.

This same time, years previous: stack-of-books birthday cake, snake cake, good morning, lovies, crispy baked hash browns, a horse of her own, the quotidian (2.9.15), gourmet chocolate bark, addictive and relaxing, corn and wild rice soup with smoked sausage.

About a month ago when I went over to my mom’s for a chat, she served me some hot tea and lemon cookies.

Actually, there may have been other cookies artfully arranged on the cookie plate, but I only remember the lemon. They were crispy and buttery and delicious, but it was the powdered sugar that got my attention. 

“How is this so lemony?” I asked, examining the white sugar for tell-tale signs of lemon zest, of which there were none. 

And then she told me about her special little bottle of lemon crystals (which makes it sound like my mother has beaded doorway curtains, troughs of smoldering incense sticks scattered about the house, and horoscope readings magnetted to her fridge — but she doesn’t) and how they get mixed with the powdered sugar for a kick of lemon.

Back home, I looked into buying some for myself, but when I couldn’t find any at the grocery store (and didn’t feel like trekking all over town to track some down) and saw how pricey the stuff was on Amazon and how long it would take to get to our hosue, I shelved the idea. But then Mom said I could use some of her crystals, lucky me. 

Confession Number One: I’m still a little cookied-out from Christmas. With no holiday parties and gatherings upon which to unburden myself of excess confectionary treat, we’re still slogging through the stash — just today I dug out a box of gingerbread men. I miss having an excuse to bake!

Confession Number Two: I’m sick of food. Our freezers are full, half my kids are gone, and I need almost nothing upon which to subsist so, more often than not, any cooking I do ends up feeling like overkill. It’s depressing and boring and will probably be a persistent problem for the next few years as I try to figure out how to downsize my culinary customs. 

But! On the off chance you’re looking for a bright pop of buttery citrus to go with one of the many countless cups of herbal tea you’re using to self-soothe your way through this long, cold winter, here you go. 

If ever February needed a cookie, it’s these.  

Lemon Coolers
From my mother’s recipe and she, in turn, got it from Who Knows Where.

10 tablespoons butter
½ cup white sugar
1 ¼ cup confectioners sugar, divided
1 ½ cups flour
2 tablespoons cornstarch
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
zest from one lemon
1 egg yolk
¾ teaspoon lemon crystals

Beat the butter, white sugar, and ½ cup confectioners sugar until fluffy. Beat in the egg yolk and lemon juice and zest. Add the dry ingredients — flour down through baking soda — and mix just until blended. 

Shape the dough (there is no need to refrigerate it first) into small balls, 15 grams each. Place the dough balls on a prepared cookie sheet — my mother likes to butter hers for added flavor; I was lazy and lined mine with parchment. Gently press the cookies flat using the bottom of a floured measuring cup or drinking glass. 

Bake the cookies at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes — they ought to be golden brown around the edges, and maybe on top, too. The browning gives flavor and crunch. (Although completely done, mine weren’t quite brown enough.) 

While the cookies are still warm, dip them in the remaining ¾ cup of confectioners sugar that’s been mixed with ¾ teaspoon of lemon crystals. Save the leftover sugar and, before serving the cookies, coat them once again.

This same time, years previous: the least we can do, the quotidian (2.4.19), twelve, the quotidian (2.6.17), timpano, cheesy bacon toasts, eight, seven, travel tips, the perfect classic cheesecake.

Remember back when, upon returning from Puerto Rico, we got three bottle-fed calves to raise for beef? And then remember how, a couple days later, we went back to the farm to pick up a heifer calf because we (I) thought it might be fun to maybe have a milk cow someday? 

Welp, Daisy’s preggo, thanks to a little rendezvous at a neighboring farm last summer, and now her sides are bulging out most alarmingly. I don’t know anything about pregnant cows — and her size is probably perfectly normal — but as any pregnant person, or person around a pregnant person (or animal) will tell you, there always comes a point in the gestating process when one begins to question just what, or how much of whatever it is, is growing inside there, and right now it looks like Daisy’s gonna be popping out a set of twins come April. Doubtful, I know, but she’s HUGE.  

Regarding the encroaching milk tsunami, I vacillate between excitement and profound dread. Having a milk cow is kinda a big deal, I think — everyone talks about it in hushed, knowing tones — and here we are just kind of sliding into it sideways, fingers crossed. There’s a very real chance that we’re in well over our heads.

Take, for example, the following reasons why a milk cow is most definitely not a good idea:

• A Holstein (mix?) cow does NOT a family milk cow make. One is supposed to thoughtfully acquire an appropriately dainty breed of cow, not one that’s bred to be a milk producing machine, squirting out 5-9 gallons of milk daily. Oops. 
• My husband’s lactose intolerant and hates farming.
• Half the children — in other words, half the milk drinkers and half the chore dooers — no longer live here.  

BUT IN MY DEFENSE: What better time to tie ourselves down with a little farm project than in the midst of a pandemic? Also, my younger son thinks this is a fantastic idea and has agreed to spearhead it. Also also, a family milk cow is endlessly educational, providing a cross-disciplinary venture in horticulture, nutrition, husbandry, cooking, economics, and The Art of Waking Early. Plus, we have the land, the animal, the time, so why not?

(Don’t answer that.)

Not that it really matters how I feel — it’s happening — so we’re gearing up (some of us more begrudgingly than others). A couple weeks ago, my husband and son visited our neighbor-friend to observe his one-cow milking operation. My younger son has read a couple articles and made a supply list. Plans for the milking set-up are being cobbled together. I’m considering (or beginning to think about considering) purchasing a second fridge for out in the barn. And we’ll need a bunch of glass jars. Also, starter stuff for homemade sour creams and cheeses and such — once the milk hits the house, it’s MY domain.

For now, though, the biggest task is prepping Daisy for milking. She’s actually already pretty docile, but each day my younger son spends some time taking her halter on and off, leading her around, feeding her treats, and grooming her, especially around her back end so she gets used to having a human hang out back there. Next step: set up a stanchion to get her used to putting her head through and holding still while eating and being groomed. 

Once the calf is born, the (loose) plan is to, as per our milk cow-owning friend, separate Daisy from her calf every evening, milk her in the morning, and then leave the calf with her all day. Depending on how much milk Daisy gives, we may need to get a second calf to help drink it all (if Daisy doesn’t let it nurse, then we’ll have to bottle-feed the calf . . . I guess?), or we might have to get a couple pigs and feed them the extra. And we’ll probably be sharing lots of milk with family and friends, and I’ll be making tons of yogurt and ice cream.

To sum up: This could be loads of fun or it could be a disaster. Either way, we’re bound to learn something. Wish us luck!

This same time, years previous: object of terror, the quotidian (2.2.15), how we got our house, wheat berry salad, advice, please.