It’s as good an excuse as any to say I still seem to be decompressing from our vacation, slowly coming back to Earth, but not quite willing to sit down and harness my thoughts long enough to write anything. Thinking it might be motivational, I […]
We live on a hill. Some may not call it that, but I do, and depending on which direction you approach our hill, it resembles something quite large with very steep roads leading to it, making it a challenge if one happens to be stuck […]
Everyone has their rituals for special days — whether they involve huge family gatherings, or quiet time scheduled for two, food has a tendency to permeate them all. I know. Big surprise. With respect to Thanksgiving, my mother always insisted that we eat early — 1pm. I guess her mother did, so the tradition was passed along, allowing for the even more important tradition of getting all the leftovers out at about 7pm to begin the eating frenzy again. You know, just in case someone didn't have turkey coming out their ears yet.
When I met my husband, my family's early eating time meant that we could eat with them — (a dinner I made…) and then like complete lunatics the loving young people we were, head over to his family's house to eat again, usually at about 6pm. We could barely move when we were finished, our midsections stretched beyond anything we'd imagined before, and swearing we wouldn't eat turkey for an entire year. Funny how that works, isn't it?
Another thing I inherited was the notion of a holiday breakfast — but it wasn't from my family.
I was used to eating at midday, so the idea of a big breakfast not only made me want to crawl under a table to get away from even thinking of eating more food on such a calorie laden day, but cringe at the thought of trying to put a special breakfast on the table while I was in the middle of trying to pull off Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. When my husband told me not to worry, that he'd make breakfast, I wasn't soothed by his cheerful smile or the image of two of us doing completely different things in such a small space on such a busy day.
We've all aged, and in the years we've been married, we've established our own traditions. A holiday breakfast seems to have stuck — and it works, but only when I'm not also making the bulk of the holiday dinner and we're not eating until 7pm. Plus, believe it or not, my husband is the turkey dude now. Go figure. That leaves me time to think of other things — like breakfast.
Hence, the adoption of a recipe I found years ago when I wanted something I could make the night before, pop in the fridge, and then into the oven the next morning: Fat Momma's French Toast. Since that time, I've altered the recipe, of course, and it's a bit different each time I make it. But I tried something truly different a few days ago, and we enjoyed "breakfast" for dinner, another thing we did about once a week when I was growing up.
Funny, though. As we mulled over the first bites of my latest, we knew it was more of a dessert — no longer French toast. And with the day old pumpkin braid I had left over from the dinner rolls I made, my Pumpkin Pecan Bread Pudding was born.
With all the different types of bread recipes I've tried in the last year, I can say that I not only no longer cringe at the thought of tackling dough, but can decide five minutes before I lift Bertha from her spot in my kitchen […]