For our family gathering this past weekend, we had stunningly gorgeous weather. It’s not like we had any control over it, and it’s silly to act like it’s such a big deal because weather is just weather, but the blue skies, moderate temps, and cool nights were absolutely splendid. So there was that.

During the weekend, it occurred to me that this particular family gathering is a little unique, structurally. It’s my mother and (some of) her siblings and then their children and grandchildren. It’s a messy jumble, in a way, what with all the second cousins and great nieces and nephews and so forth, but I like it. It means the little kids are getting to know their great aunts and uncles, something I never got to do as a child.

We followed our (mostly) traditional routine: Saturday lunch at Mom and Dad’s, Saturday supper (hot dogs on the hill) at my brother’s, Sunday breakfast in everyone’s respective host homes, and then to our house on Sunday noon for chef salads and homemade donuts.

The donuts almost didn’t get made. I mean, they got made, no problem—by mid-morning, two whole batches were rising in the sun by the front windows—but then there was a time crunch, thanks to my poor planning. I was really looking forward to playing Trickball that morning, a new-to-me game that my husband learned about from a friend, but just as everyone was heading down to the field to play, I learned that some people were leaving earlier than usual and it dawned on me that there was no way I could play the game and make donuts and serve lunch to thirty all in the next two hours—I had neither the work space or the wherewithal to pull off such a stunt. I’d have to stay up at the house and make donuts while everyone played without me, sob.

So I called my husband up to the house so he could help me set up the fry station. But when he saw me stomping about the house, stressed and fuming, he said, “Just leave the donuts. Who care about them anyway.”

“But we made all that dough,” I wailed. “I don’t want to spend my whole afternoon frying donuts for no one!”

“It’s what, ten pounds of flour? We can toss it.”

“It’s butter and milk and sugar, too. And we made all that icing!” But even as I was speaking, a vision of me hurling mounds of puffy dough into the cow pasture flitted into my mind. The image was so satisfying, so freeing, that I knew he was right.

Who cared about donuts anyway? (Never mind that people had been asking about them all morning. Never mind that there were expectations.) This was a Mary-Martha Moment if ever there was one, and I’d not be stuck playing the Martha, no siree. This was a reunion and I wanted to play! I’d make the donuts right after lunch, if there was time, and next year I’d plan better.

So resolved, I tied on my sneakers and hiked down through the field where I got my hand smacked and fell down and scored a goal and laughed and hollered and strained all the muscles in my butt and lower back.

It was totally worth it.

And you know what? The donuts still happened!

People stayed until the end—even the ones who said they needed to leave—and we all ate ourselves silly.

Afterwards, the hosting crew, plus an aunt, remained. I fixed myself a cup of coffee, selected a pretty donut, and then—oh, joy!—sat down.

We visited out on the porch for a bit, and then sleepiness hit. Some people wandered into the house to nap while others washed dishes and ran hither and yon putting things away.

At the very end, of course, was the floor scrubbing (because I insist on it) followed by hot showers.

Only then, bone-weary and satisfied, did I fully relax. What a weekend. What a lovely, fun weekend.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.6.16), a better grilled cheese sandwich, on pins and needles, fence, chocobananos, white icing, playing hard, the best chocolate ice cream ever, on hold.

On a warm spring evening, first the ice cream cones and then the lingering.

Have a good weekend, my friends!


This same time, years previous: brown sugar rhubarb muffins, the quotidian (6.1.15), the quotidian (6.2.14), the quotidian (6.3.13), small pasta with spinach and bacon, three reds fruit crumble, radishes with bread and butter.

At Costco the other day, I sent my younger son to get a tub of sour cream. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized he had picked up a tub of cottage cheese instead. He calls it cabbage cheese, though, and another kid calls it college cheese. With a tub of whatever-you-call-it cheese in the fridge, I decided to make lasagna. I rarely make lasagna, which was evidenced when my younger daughter asked me what was for supper.

“What’s for supper?” she said.

“Lasagna.”

“Lasagna? What’s that?” And then, “Oh, is that the long noodles with sauce and cheese?” 

“Yep.”

“Yay!”

So I guess she knew enough about it to be excited.

I always feel like lasagna is so complicated, what with all the components: the cheeses, sauce, cooked meat, and the noodles. This time, though, it didn’t feel like such a big deal. Maybe because my daughter helped prep the garlic and onions, and I skipped measurements? In any case, the lasagnas—I always make two—came together quickly, and then we had enough leftovers to last us several more meals.

Bonus: when they’re baking, they make the whole house smell intoxicating. My husband walked in the door, took one whiff, and groaned with pleasure.

“I don’t even need to eat it,” he said. “I’d be happy to just sit here, breathing in the smell.”

Which was a slight exaggeration, but okay.

Simple Lasagna

My mother always made her lasagnas meatless, and topped with mushrooms. (The mushrooms totally make the dish, I think.) I added a layer of cooked Italian sausage, which is delicious but completely unnecessary, and I only topped a partial pan with mushrooms since some of my family members haven’t yet fully evolved.

1 pound lasagna noodles
2 pounds cottage cheese
1½ pounds mozzarella cheese
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
4-5 cups tomato sauce
2 teaspoons dried basil
4 teaspoons dried oregano
1-2 teaspoons salt
black pepper
2-3 large onions, small dice
8 cloves garlic, minced
a glug or two of olive oil
fresh parsley, a large handful, roughly chopped
1½ pounds mushrooms, sauteed, optional
1-2 pounds Italian sausage, optional

Cook the lasagna noodles according to package instructions. Drain the noodles and then submerge in cold water so they don’t stick to each other. Set aside.

If using sausage, cook it on the stove top and then set aside.

If using mushrooms, saute and set aside.

In a large saucepan, saute the onions and garlic in a bit of olive oil. When translucent and soft, add the tomato sauce, dried oregano and basil, and salt and pepper. Simmer for 15 minutes and then set aside.

To assemble:
Grease two 9×13 pans. In each pan, layer: three noodles, 1/6th of the sauce and fresh parsley and 1/4th of the cottage cheese, mozzarella, and meat. Repeat the layers. Place the third and final layer of noodles in the pans. Top with the last of the sauce, the mushrooms, parsley, and the Parmesan cheese. At this point the lasagnas can be covered and refrigerated for later. (Or cover tightly with foil and freeze. To thaw, let set at room temperature for about 8 hours before baking.)

Bake the lasagnas at 375 degrees for 30 minutes or until the sauce bubbles in the middle. Let the lasagnas rest at room temperature for 20 minutes before serving.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (5.30.16), an evening together, in her element, a bunch of stuff, showtime!, down to the river to chill, barbequed pork ribs, fresh strawberry cream pie.