We all went to West Virginia for the turkey (that was actually a chicken) this year. My brother came, and my perfect aunt from over the mountains, and some of the Pennsylvania cousins: uncle, aunt, and boy cousins one, two, and three. We got there on Wednesday night and Thursday morning, before everyone else showed up, I went for a walk.

It’s hunting season, so I put a florescent orange vest over my coat over my hoodie over my t-shirt and set off up the road. A gun banged in the distance, and I hadn’t even crested the first hill before I spied a dead deer in the gutter (not a result of that banging gun). I started to feel like I was in a war zone and I took a closer look at my florescent orange vest. How many square inches did it cover? How many square inches do hunters have to wear? Did I have a sufficient amount of square inches? And while my front and back were draped in orange, I wasn’t so sure about the side view. Would a gun-happy hunter mistake me for a walking deer in a blue coat? But then there was a lull in the shooting and dead deer spying and I kind of forgot all about how much I resembled a deer.

And then I ran into Eddie Murphy. I’m not sure which is which, but they both reminded me of Shrek’s donkey, so I promptly named one Eddie and the other Murphy. I could practically hear the thoughts running through their heads.

Eddie: Oh, will you look at that! It’s a person that’s trying not to look like a deer! Dang, ain’t she smart?

Murphy: I don’t know about you but I think we need that orange thing a lot more than she does. Our owner is a total dumb ass leaving us outside this time of year.

Eddie: That’s right, Murf. We are in constant danger of gettin’ our behinds pinged. I just know, before this is over, I’m gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy. Look at my butt twitchin’.

By the time I got to the top of the hill, I was hot. I took off my coat and tied it around my waist. And then I looked over and saw my shadow walking along beside me in the ditch.

What with my hair in a ponytail, my hoodie up around my neck like a tied cape, the orange vest fluttering behind me like a fluttering cape, my coat tied around my waist like a short skirt and the sleeves poking up all sword-like, I looked exactly like a knight. (Or at least my noble shadow did.) I squared my shoulder and lengthened my stride.

When I was halfway home, I heard a gunshot in the direction of my house. My father had been out hunting when I left—perhaps it was him? Thirty second later another shot rang out and I gave a little skip of hopeful happiness. A minute later and there was another shot. Oh dear, I thought. Problems. And then, Or maybe I should think, ‘oh deer’? (Turns out, it wasn’t my father doing the shooting.)

At home I grabbed my camera and drove back up the road to take pictures for you since I almost never think to take my camera on walks with me.

And thus concludes the tale of a bright morning walk with guns, knights, two asses, and a dead doe. The End

Other things that happened:

Tools and guns…

The grownups sat around inside…

and played with plastic tools that my mother picks up at her local thrift store while the kids ran around outside…

and played with guns. (Yes, they were real, and yes, they had permission.)

(Overheard: “Don’t shoot each other!”)

Odd, manly rituals such as…

A. measuring each others arm spans. (Your arm span is supposed to equal your height, right? Well, not so for my husband. My husband is just a smidge shy of six feet tall but his arm span measures 6 feet 5 inches. So now we call him Gorilla Man.)

B. playing table football with money.

Actually, I don’t know what that game was called. All I know is there was a bunch of yelling and quarters kept hitting people in the head.

The kids sat out on the porch and watched through the window.

Conversations…

around the table. We’re big yakkers, all of us. Lively times, ya’ll.

Sewing…

I learned how to purl and am immensely please with myself.

My brother…

played the mandolin and made lots of weird faces while I tried to take pictures of him.

What a dork.

Food (of course) …

We had Feast Number One at noon: chicken and stuffing, garlicky mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, turnips and greens, kale, applesauce, and cranberry salad.

Feast Number Two: A Supper O’ Desserts. I ask you, can there be anything more glorious?

Nectarine tart, black raspberry pie, apple pie, two pumpkin pies, banana bread, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, vanilla ice cream, and coffee.

MY MOTHER MADE ALL THE BAKED GOODS ON HER STOVETOP.

Yesyoushouldbeimpressed. (Plus, the next morning we had gorgeous loaves of stovetop bread for our breakfast toast.)

This same time, years previous: Thanksgiving of 2010, Swiss chard and sweet potato gratin, pumpkin pie

Please tell me that you haven’t made the pies for Thanksgiving yet? Please, please tell me you have a bag or two of unclaimed cranberries hunkered down in your freezer? Please, please, please tell me you’re in the mood to make a pie today, right now, immediately, at this very minute?

Because, honey sugar, it’s what I have on my agenda, for you.

[Ahem, cough-cough, much pompous throat clearing]

I hereby merrily (and joyfully and happily and ecstatically) proclaim the great news of November 23, 2011: I have discovered the new bestest ever pie in the world and it’s totally perfect for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas dinner or New Year’s dinner or Three Kings Day or winter solstice day or the first big snow day or Sunday dinner or Monday dinner.

It’s perfect, and it’s perfect for whenever, is what I’m trying to say.

For quite some time, I’ve been on the lookout for a cranberry pie. I’d tried some mixed fruit cranberry pies, and while they were good—cranberries make everything good—they weren’t pure cranberry. And then Aimee posted a cranberry pie and I got down to business lickety-split.

One bite and I was bowled over. It’s potent, unlike normal pies. In fact, it’s so dark and rich and strong that one small sliver carries you over the moon and back, no problem.

Cranberry Pie with Cornmeal Streusel Topping
Adapted from Aimee of Simple Bites

Aimee calls this a cranberry-orange pie, and while the pie contains both orange juice and zest, I found their flavors to play more of a supportive (but delicious) role, so I dropped the “orange” in the title. To me, this pie is all about the cranberry.

I used frozen cranberries instead of fresh, increased the amount to a generous 4 ½ cups instead of 4, used light brown sugar instead of Turbinado, and added one tablespoon of tapioca as thickener just in case. Not a hitch in sight anywhere.

This pie is best eaten the same day it is made.

1 unbaked 9-inch pie crust (I used this one)
4-5 cups cranberries, fresh or frozen
1 cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter, melted
zest of two oranges
juice of one orange (it looked like a lot—close to ½ cup, perhaps)
1 gently rounded tablespoon granulated tapioca

for the streusel topping:
½ cup flour
½ cup brown sugar
1/3 cup cornmeal
½ cup salted butter, cut in chunks

In a large bowl, toss together the cranberries, sugar, butter, orange zest and juice, and tapioca. Pour into the unbaked pie shell.

Measure all the streusel ingredients into the canister of a food processor and pulse to combine (it took quite a few pulses). (Or, rub together with your fingers. That will work too.) Sprinkle the crumbs over the top of the pie.

Bake the pie* at 375 degrees for 40-50 minutes, or until golden brown all over and the juices are bubbling madly.
           
Serve with vanilla ice cream.

*Important Pie Baking Note: Place the pie on the bottom rack of a very hot oven (about 425 degrees) and bake for 15 or 20 minutes or until the pie juices are starting to bubble. At that point, set the pie on a foil-lined baking sheet (to catch the juicy drips) and reduce the temperature to 350 degrees. This extra step helps to ensure a golden brown bottom crust.

This same time, years previous: apple rum cake (oh goodness, I want this NOW)

I’m feeling chatty. Like I just want to curl up with my computer and talk, you know? Not about some preordained topic or event, not about a recipe, not about anything, really. Just random stuff, whatever falls from my fingertips.

It’s a dreary, rainy, foggy, dark day. I feel kind of sad, kind of excited, kind of peaceful, kind of stressed, and kind of mellow. Most days, one particular feeling rises to the surface and beats all the others into submission, but not today.

I’ve been rather bored lately. (Yes, I do realize I was just complaining about being super busy. But you can be super busy and still bored, did you know that?) Last night, I counted out the many ways in which I am bored to my husband and he burst into tears. Just kidding, about the tears, but I did bore him to sleep. He argued with me for a few minutes about the ridiculousness of everything I was saying and then said, “Isn’t your period coming?” and we both busted up laughing, and then his eyelids drooped and he said, “Can we go to bed now?”

I’ve kind of lost my will to cook. Part of the problem may be that ever since my decade of breast feeding ended, I’ve never been back down to my pre-pregnancy weight. I’ve made some substantial changes (greatly reducing snacks and junk food and trying to get exercise), and even though I feel like I’m not over-eating at all (in fact, it can be depressing how little I’m actually eating), the last few pounds aren’t budging.

Part of me thinks this is fine—I’m still in my normal weight range and I’m certainly not overweight—but another part of me worries I’m on a slippery slope. A pound here, a pound there, a pound of pounds EVERYWHERE.

What makes it all the more confusing is:

a. I never really had a solid grasp on a healthy weight before I started the baby-making marathon
b. my body has changed shape after popping out four humans—how much of that changed shape is inevitable?
c. do I really want to spend years tweaking and fretting and worrying when I’ll end up a little pile of organic matter in just a few more decades?
d. but I certainly want to be healthy
e. and it’d be nice to look attractive, too
f. (I’m not talking about inner beauty here, either. Besides, how can I act all confident and sunshiney if I feel like I look bad?)
g. is it lazy to accept my tummy rolls? Maybe I’m supposed to accept them? Nurture them? (Okay, okay. So that’s going a little too far.)
h. BUT I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TUMMY ROLLS, WAH.

I could go on and on. Like, this is stupid because I am healthy. Or, the women in Nicaragua were all thick around the middle and probably never gave a second thought to that extra padding except to be grateful for it. In fact, the majority of women thicken in the middle, even those that never have children. It’s a part of life, I think. Right?

I could starve myself and run for miles and knock off the pounds, I’m sure. But I don’t want to spend my time and energy that way. Besides, I think I should be allowed to eat when I’m hungry and till I’m full. Isn’t that kind of basic?

Clearly, it’s all about balance and I have none.

This really is relevant to the not-cooking-so-much-anymore issue: it’s not as much fun to cook if you aren’t going to eat it. I’m not that kind of cook.

I’ve kind of decided to ignore the whole quandary right now and cook anyway. I’ll just eat good breakfasts, go for walks when I can, and pass on the nachos (usually) at bedtime … and make a boatload of sweet rolls just because.

I rolled them out after supper and my little boy informed me that the rolled-out dough was the same size as the kitchen floor rug. I never know how to roll out the dough when I make such a huge recipe—dress and roll half the dough and then the other half? or do it all at once and make tire-sized sweet rolls?—but this time I got smart. I rolled it all out at once, dressed it, and then used a pizza cutter to slice it in half. Rolled up in opposite directions, and I had two long sweet rolls ready to slice. Problem solved.

That night, we all clustered around the computer on stools to watch a movie while I baked pan after pan of buttery, cinnamony sweet rolls. Rolls done, we crowded around the table, poured glasses of cold milk, and I let the kids eat till they popped. Because hey, how many times in your life do you get to have fresh-from-the-oven, homemade sweet rolls for a bedtime snack? Exactly.

I had another sweet roll epiphany that night. (I was on a roll.) (Tee-hee, a roll. Get it?) I was running out of glass baking pans, so I greased up one of my bread pans and stacked in a bunch of rolls on their sides. I ended up with a pretty loaf of pull-apart sweet rolls.

The genius of this method is that you can fit a whole lot more rolls in the oven when they’re stacked in loaf pans than when they’re laying flat on their backs in 9 x 13 glass pans, thus greatly speeding up the baking process. Plus, they’re easier to store and reheat. I’m kind of smitten.

(That movie we watched whilst our very pores became infused with the yeasty smell of sweet rolls? The Human Planet. Have you seen this amazing series yet? It’s nearly six hours of gorgeous photography and incredible stories. So far we’ve seen disc one—there are three total—for the ocean part, I kept getting short of breath; for the dessert (I mean DESERT) part, the kids kept jumping up for drinks of water; and for the arctic part, we huddled close to keep warm. I can’t recommend this series highly enough.)

Changing the subject: we’re starting to wonder if our youngest daughter is sleep walking. The other morning when my husband came downstairs at 5:30, all the lights were on and Sweetsie was sound asleep on the sofa. She said she didn’t remember turning the lights on.

My husband found her downstairs this morning at 2 am—same story. He even took a blurry picture to document it.

Her sleeping is getting progressively rockier. After discovering her downstairs this morning, my husband put her in bed with me and took himself off to her abandoned (and very comfortable) bed. Sweetsie tossed and turned, stole my sheets, mumbled Harry Potter curses, and was up at six, begging me to take her downstairs.

Perhaps we should tie her ankle to the bedpost?

Also, she’s found a substitute for her spit rag (note the red rag she’s holding). We might be back to square one.

There’s more to say, but I’d better call it quits. The kids are up and the rain is falling and I need (want?) (no, it’s a need—cranberries are central to my emotional well-being) to bake a pie and prepare for a meeting tonight.

xo,
me

This same time, years previous: pasta with creamy pumpkin sauce (I made this for supper last night – delicious), steel-cut oatmeal