I not only expect my children to be perfectly well-behaved, keep their nails trimmed and not pick their noses, I also expect them to kowtow to me five times a day.

Okay, so not really. They did this all on their own. They’re really into mother worship. It’s the cool thing in this house.

Okay, so that’s not true either.

They were just messing around, doing their thing which consists of pulling out the off-limits dresses, sneaking the boots from my closet, digging through Miss Beccaboo’s makeup collection, and patching it all together with some dress-up clothes.

The Queen Motif has been central to their imaginative play. Probably because I treat them like slaves.

Don’t over-analyze this, okay? Thanks.

In other news, I think I’m way over my head.

I got the brilliant idea to make ribs this weekend. I’ve never made ribs before (not counting short ribs) but how hard could it be, right?

Well, turns out ribs are a little trickier than I thought. After clicking my way around the web, I lost a good deal of my cocky I-can-do-anything attitude, but still, I called the meat shop and got prices, gasped a little, steeled my resolve, and planned a trip to town. These ribs were no longer a take-it-or-leave-it idea, they were essential. I had to learn how to do ribs. My mental and emotional stability depended upon it. End of story.

Except that it wasn’t. At the butcher shop I asked for a whole rack of ribs. “Do you want them cut in half, or the whole rack?”

“The whole rack,” I said confidently.

Soon a beefy man came forth from the back room where buzz saws whined and knives thunked, bearing high my (hold the load!) massive rack of ribs. I gulped and watched wordlessly as the man wrangled them up onto the scales to weigh them. Slowly it dawned on me that they would fill my entire oven. Come to think of it, I didn’t even have a baking pan large enough to hold them!

“Um, could you maybe cut them in half after all?” I asked timidly, my previous bluster squashed flat under all that pork.

Now the cut-in-half ribs are sitting in the cooler out on the porch. I didn’t realize I would need to clear out half of my refrigerator to make space for some barrel-chested pig.

My plan (unless one of you convinces me otherwise) is to coat the ribs with a dry rub mix, bake them at 300 degrees for two-and-a-half hours and then finish them off on the grill. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. (Lots of other yummies are in the works: this morning’s shopping cart held seasoned rice vinegar, serrano chilis, tomatillos, avocados, limes, cabbages, tomatoes, lemon curd, and sour cream. When I got home I called my mom to tell her to stop eating now.)

The pork isn’t the only new thing I’m trying these days. I’m taking on another endeavor, one that I am most excited about (and non food related). I’ll give you three guess (if you already know, please hold your tongue).

About one year ago: Asparagus, Goat Cheese, and Lemon Pasta and De Butchery, in which we chop the heads off our chickens and put them in the freezer, and The Tip of the Strawberry Iceberg.

After living nearly ten years with a brain tumor, my friend’s husband Wayne is nearing the end of his life.

On Monday I told the kids that Wayne will soon die, maybe tomorrow, maybe in two weeks, maybe in a month. “You were aware that it was getting close, right?” I asked, trying to gauge their level of understanding.

Yo-Yo said, “Oh yeah, we know all about it. I wish I could make myself big and make him all better.”

Miss Beccaboo chimed in, “I hope he dies in his sleep. And I hope he dies when I’m asleep and when I wake up no one tells me.”

On Tuesday morning I asked the kids if they’d like to go see Wayne. The girls both said yes. Yo-Yo said no.

“Do you want to take him anything?” I asked.

“Let’s make him a cake,” Miss Beccaboo said. “And we could write ‘We love you, Wayne’ on the top of it.”

“That’s a nice idea,” I said. “But he’s not eating anything, you know. Mostly just some applesauce when he takes his pills.”

“Then how about we make him an applesauce cake!” Sweetsie said.

“Well now, that’s a thought,” I laughed. “But he couldn’t eat that either. But you know what? Let’s make him a cake anyhow. Even if he can’t eat it, I bet he’ll still like it. And the rest of the family would enjoy it.” And then I put my head down on the table and sobbed, worn out from the previous night’s crying jag, raw from the horribleness of it all. (This is what I do now, cry at the least provocation. I cry on the phone, while I’m hanging up the laundry, while I’m driving. My eyes are sore, I have trouble concentrating, and I snap at my kids. I crave sleep, but even when I get it, I feel tired, all muddly and distractable.)

So I blew my nose, hugged Sweetsie who was watching me warily, her eyes rimmed with tears. And then I made a cake. Or, rather, chocolate chip peanut butter brownies spread with chocolate ganache, our love scrawled across the top in peanut butter frosting. I made the whole thing, for the most part, but the kids hovered and tasted and admired. It was a joint-enough effort for me.

Wayne was sleeping when we got to their house, but then he woke up and Shannon wheeled him out into the room. The Baby Nickel, the only child present at the time, stared and grinned, grinned and stared. Shannon said, “Say hi to Wayne,” but Nickel just grinned away. Wayne poked him as he rolled on by.

Sweetsie came into the room then and as she tip-toed by his chair, Wayne stuck out his good arm and attempted to tickle her. (It’s his signature move, teasing, tickling, and rough-housing the kids.) She giggled and, suddenly shy, crawled onto my lap. “Go get the cake and show it to him,” I urged. And she did, approaching him slowly, the cake extended in front of her. Wayne took it from her, read it, and passed it back. I told him the story about Sweetsie’s applesauce cake suggestion. He looked at me, expressionless (the brain tumor has squelched his affect), but he heard—his eyes told me so.

When it came time to leave, Miss Beccaboo walked by his chair and Wayne snagged her, hugging her to him.

Or so I’m told. I was out on the back deck trying to convince Yo-Yo to come in and say goodbye to Wayne. Yo-Yo refused, and once safely in the van he burst into tears. I didn’t blame him, really.

This afternoon I got an email from Shannon saying that Wayne ate some of the cake. In fact, he loved it so much that she had to take the plate away from him so he wouldn’t get too much in his mouth at one time and choke. He kept grabbing for it though, she said. The sneaky guy.

I hollered from my desk, “Hey kids! Guess what! Wayne ate some of your cake and he loved it!”

They came running, eyes wide, incredulous smiles lighting their faces. “He ate it? Really?”

The Baby Nickel asked excitedly, “Wayne’s not going to be dead now?”

My heart seized. I said, matter-of-factly, but gently, “No, honey, he’s still going to die. But he liked our cake. Isn’t that neat?”

About one year ago: Aunt Valerie’s Blueberry Bars

Allow me, please, to introduce you to Strawberry Shortcake With Milk On Top, your new best friend.

I grew up eating strawberry shortcake like this, for supper. It’s simply biscuits, berries, and milk—a heartier, more filling version of the gourmet, whipped creamy affair, but still glorious indeed, simple and lush, eaten with complete abandon since there was nothing else offered to fill up on.

It went something like this: one of the first hot evenings of the summer would find Mom standing at the kitchen sink in her empire-waist sundress, her thick hair frizzing about her head and her glasses slipping down her nose, rapidly topping a big bowl of berries, just-picked from the garden out back. The tray or two of biscuits that were baking in the oven would be making the kitchen even hotter (and everyone crankier), so she’d declare we’d eat out at the picnic table and Jennifer, get the old plastic tablecloth out of the drawer, and Will someone come fill up the water glasses? Dad would come into the kitchen to carry out the heavy tray loaded with filled glasses and bowls and clanking spoons, and the rest of us would trail behind, bearing milk, sugared berries, and the trays of piping hot biscuits, the back door slamming shut behind us.

We’d crowd around the wooden picnic table, bare knees bumping, the evening breeze tickling our sweaty necks. After whizzing through a rendition of Johnny Appleseed, we’d fall to, crumbling biscuits into our bowls, smothering them with berries and drowning the whole mess in cold milk. The simple food quickly filled our tummies and muted our tempers, but still we’d eat, gorging on the glorious sweetness until our stomachs distended and our eyes glazed over.

Summertime bliss, that’s what strawberry shortcake suppers are. Try it for yourself and see!

(Note: it may be cultural, this love of dousing baked goods with milk. One of our favorite lunches, growing up, was peanut-butter-and-jelly-bread with milk on top. Even now, my brothers like to put their shoofly cake or apple pie in a bowl and then pour milk over top. So I don’t know, maybe you have to grow up with this kind of food in order to enjoy it. On the other hand, maybe not?)

Strawberry Shortcake With Milk On Top

The original recipe calls for all white flour, but I use half whole wheat. Whatever you do, keep it simple—which is the whole point of summer suppers, after all.

For the biscuits:
1 cup flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons sugar, plus more for sprinkling
4 tablespoons butter
3/4 cup milk

Mix together the dry ingredients. Using your fingers, cut in the butter. Stir in the milk. Drop spoonfuls of the batter (it’s thick like cookie dough) on to a greased cookie sheet. Liberally sprinkle each biscuit with more white sugar. Bake the biscuits at 425 degrees for 10-15 minutes.

For the strawberries:
1-2 quarts strawberries, washed, topped, and sliced
1/4 – ½ cup sugar

Mix together and set aside till ready to serve.

To serve:
Crumble one or two biscuits into a bowl. Spoon strawberries over top. Drown in milk. Devour. Repeat.

About one year ago: Ranch Dressing.