on mothers and rhubarb

The rhubarb is in season and I am missing my mother. This first Spring without her and her strawberry rhubarb pie. When someone you love dies, there are so many regrets. My regrets are all the recipes of Mom's that I didn't write down, like her pies, her banana bread, and her pound cake. And that is just the sweet stuff. I must have been paying attention since I became a chef and restaurant owner, and I am infused with the love of cooking and baking that my mother gave me.

It has been a cool and damp Spring here in the Northwest. Last Saturday I nearly froze myself at our wonderful farmers market. What made the trip worthwhile was the big pile of rhubarb for sale at Pete & Mary's booth. They own Wildwood Farms and I have been buying great produce from them for years. If fact, there are so many great farmers I want to write about, but that will come later, and especially as the summer hits and I am buying two times a week from the farmers for the restaurant and home.

Anyway, back to the rhubarb! The Husband, bless his heart, carried my two very full bags all through the market. One bag had various greens, handmade cheeses, and free range eggs. The other was stuffed with about 20 pounds of rhubarb. I brought the goodies back to the restaurant. A couple of days later on my day off, I loaded up my milk crate with rhubarb & strawberries from the walk-in. I have been dreaming about Mom's strawberry-rhubarb pie all week. Last night I lovingly cut up the rhubarb and the berries, taking photos so that I could record the step by step process of making a pie. But this is a deeply emotional ritual for me right now. 

So the pie will happen tomorrow. For now I am remembering and stewing on a lifetime of experiences involving rhubarb. Like the foggy image of being a little girl in my grandparents garden, playing & hiding in the rhubarb. This was the Midwest, so the leaves get quite enormous, probably big enough to bundle a big baby in. My grandmother taught me to eat the rhubarb raw, dipping it in sugar. What a great early taste-bud memory; the puckering tartness of rhubarb mixed with the gritty sweetness of sugar! And then there were the pies, every early summer, Mom's unbeatable crust, surrounded by the sweetness of fresh strawberries, intermingled with the sublime contrast of the rhubarb. And sometimes just the rhubarb from the garden turned into a warm compote and spooned over vanilla ice cream! Mmmmm.

Last May 5th, The Husband's mother Anne turned 90 years, and loved rhubarb as much as me and my Mom. For Anne's birthday dinner, my Mom made the last rhubarb strawberry pie she would ever make. We lost both of our Mother's a month apart this past summer. They say the first year is always the hardest when you lose someone. So this is my first Spring without my Mother, and her pies.


So when I make that pie this week, it is a tribute to her, Regina, my Mom. The bitterness and the sweet, the loss and the love for her, the strawberries and the rhubarb.

eaters who write, people who eat

I received the dearest letter today; dropped off in person at my restaurant door. The bearer of said letter had been in the week earlier for dinner with his wife, celebrating their anniversary. It was not one of those usual charming thank you notes, but a type written letter on what was probably an old electric Smith typewriter, long before spell checker was invented. The letter reminds me of Hemingway, that stark bravado style of writing, clipped sentences, packing a punch with each word. I have to say, the letter made my day. It was fierce food writing at it's best and simplest, with a nod and wink from an older gentleman.

I have to admit, this man could be the next big food blogger! He describes my food in the most "oh so sexy" terminology. There were phrases that almost made me blush. When describing the server who waited on them, he used the word "legs-a-plenty." I was giggling in the car when I read the letter, actually worried that it was one of those "constructive criticisms" letters from a disgruntled eater. And, it's not that I get a plethora of those letters. Mostly I receive the nice gushing notes of appreciation, but I really do try and learn from those letters that aim at hitting at the heart of the disturbance for the eater/writer. It takes guts to write a letter voicing your less than perfect dining experience, and I appreciate the writer's courage when they can give me some insight in how we can do a better job. This is the humbling side of being a restaurant owner; when you own your faults and mistakes, and learn from them, and do a better job the next time.

So to all you avid letter writers, note senders, and yelp bloggers out there, a humble thank you for keeping me on my toes, for acknowledging us when we are hitting the mark, and for coming back and giving us another chance when we sometimes stumble. Amen.

the spiritual and culinary journey of a restaurant owner

On April 2nd I celebrated ten years of owning my restaurant/bakery. It was a momentous day, many people showed up at the cafe to give me hugs, flowers, sing happy birthday, and receive yummy birthday cake from me. It was quite moving and humbling. It is about damn time I am putting this down on, err, paper, so to speak. I have so much to say! What a journey and crazy ride I have been on.

So now it is time to honor all that I have learned and continue to learn and have some fun with it.

Here's the deal . . . I love to make food, I love to grow food, and I love to eat food!

Since I have been obsessed with food my whole life, being raised by my mother and grandmother, two wonderful cooks, it is no wonder that I have made it my business for the past many years. No, I will not tell you how old I am. Suffice it to say that I am on my 3rd marriage, raising two teenage daughters, and still run and cook in the only restaurant I have ever owned. Enough said. What really feeds me, excites me, and fulfills me is cooking for my community, whether it is giving little Fin and Rennie, the neighbor kids, a chocolate dipped shortbread cookie, and relishing the looks on their little faces, or cooking an elegant bistro dinner for a table of 8 on a busy Saturday night, I am living my passion!

I am lucky. No, I am really fortunate and blessed. I live in this small town where I pretty much know at least half of the folks who live here on a first name basis. It is quaint, creative, quiet (come by at 9 at night during the week!), and provencial in a lovely way. I am surrounded by sea and can see two mountain ranges when I stand in the middle of Lawrence St. It is a lovely place to raise daughters and live a more simpler life, even if I often work 60 hours a week. At least I can walk home from work at 11:30 at night, look up and see a million stars and listen to the coyotes. It is not Paris, it is not Chicago (where I grew up), and it is not Lincoln Nebraska. It is a sweet corner of nirvana in the great northwest, turn right and go to the end of the road, and that is where heaven is.