At the grocery store, there are more choices than ever before — organic, local, rBST-free, pasteurized, ultra-pasteurized, even lactose-free. Each of these comes with pluses and minuses. But there’s another choice out there, one you can’t get at grocery stores (at least not in this state), and the debates surrounding it are growing louder and, quite frankly, more confusing, every year. We’re talking about raw milk.

Next time you reach for a carton, picture this: a big, sterile facility with the constant hum of heated pipes carrying hundreds of gallons of milk from dozens of grain-fed herds to humongous vats. The milk gets superheated, separated and centrifuged. In a world that increasingly cares about the source of its food supply, a world where it’s becoming more and more common to buy meat and vegetables directly from the farmer, milk still resides in the industrialized shadows. Many say this is a necessary evil, since raw milk can carry bacteria that can cause food-borne illnesses, which are especially dangerous for those with compromised immune systems. But a growing contingent of people — millions in the United States alone — would argue the benefits far outweigh the risks.

Taya Lindley, a licensed acupuncturist in Portland, is one of them. She researched different types of diets for her family and found herself leaning more toward small-scale,
unprocessed foods. The switch to buying raw milk from grass-fed cows was a natural progression, she says, with the added bonus that her family would be getting “good fat, enzymes and proteins that aren’t in pasteurized milk from grain-fed cows.”

To the people who say there is too much risk involved, she insists that if you get milk from the best possible source, the risk is minimal. “At some point we have to base our food choices on instinct,” she says. “Yes. There is a small risk of contamination, but I make informed decisions about a lot of the things my family eats.”

Milk is rich in calcium, protein, vitamins, minerals and beneficial bacteria that produce important enzymes. Proponents of raw milk — like advocates of other raw foods — say the unheated stuff has more of these nutrients because they haven’t been destroyed or diminished in the heating process. They also say raw milk is easier to digest because the enzymes needed to digest lactose and casein haven’t been killed in the pasteurization process.

Also very important, say proponents, is that raw milk usually comes from cows that graze on grass, which gives the milk more omega-3s and three times the amount of conjugated linoleic acid (CLA) than that from grain-fed animals. Early but promising evidence shows natural forms of CLA can reduce cancer risks.

There’s also a subjective side as to why raw milk has a growing fan base. First, there’s the taste. Many people seek out raw milk because it’s creamier, sweeter and has a better texture — especially milk from Jersey cows. It adds far more depth to cheese, yogurt and dairy-based desserts than traditional milk.

They also appreciate its tradition as a wholesome, unadulterated food humans have relied on since at least 6000 B.C., and it makes them feel connected to their local farmers.

“There is a lot of trust that goes on between you and the farmer,” says Tressa Yellig, chef and owner of Salt, Fire & Time in Northwest Portland. “Buying this milk puts us back in the food system by participating in the life cycle. You are actually connected to the food itself, where it comes from, how much goes into making it.”

Yellig has long been dedicated to whole, natural foods, opening her self-described “traditional foods general store” three years ago. She says if she were legally permitted, she would sell only raw milk. She has been drinking it for six years and says the benefits far outweigh the risks, which she says are minimal when the milk comes from healthy, well-managed cows.
“Raw milk isn’t dangerous as long as you start out with a good product,” says Yellig. “The risk is in human interaction.”

That’s why even farmers who produce raw milk think it’s dangerous to suggest that all raw milk is necessarily healthier and safer than their pasteurized brethren.

“You have to manage the whole process differently,” says Charlotte Smith, an Oregon farmer who keeps three Jersey cows rotating on her St. Paul pasture all year. “You have to manage everything from the soil to the grasses to the cleanliness of the milking parlor to the immediate cooling of the milk.”
Smith runs her farm as a holistic entity. She ensures a steady supply of her cows’ intended food — grass —by not allowing them to stay long enough in one pasture to overgraze it. They’re rotated every few days and followed by chickens that scratch around and disperse the manure, helping it become fertilizer. In the three years she’s been doing this, she says the soil on her farm has improved tenfold.

This kind of milk comes at a cost. It’s usually between $11 and $14 per gallon and will keep for seven to 10 days. This is laughably expensive to some but reflects the food issues we face today — it costs a lot more to produce nonindustrialized foods in a sustainable way.

Finding milk in its purest form is a commitment. If you want it, you’ll need to visit a few farms that are doing this big job on a small scale. You’ll need to ask questions and tour farms. In short, you’ll have to be engaged in the process. After all, making informed food choices is what this is about, and in the end, we think that’s really good for you.

Defining pasteurization:

Pasteurization is the process of heating milk and cooling it in rapid succession to reduce the amount of pathogens. For many years, the process involved heating milk to 145 degrees and keeping it there for 30 minutes — a method that can be duplicated in a home kitchen if you want to buy raw milk but are apprehensive of the risks.

This old-school process is benign to the structure of milk compared with the more common methods today. Most milk labeled “pasteurized” is treated by heating milk to 161 degrees for 15 to 20 seconds in a method called “high temperature, short time” (HTST). Ultra-pasteurized milk, which includes many organic brands, is treated with the ultra-high temperature (UHT) method, which heats milk to 275 degrees for at least one second.

These processes are popular because they give milk a longer shelf life. In the case of UHT processing, the milk can be stored unrefrigerated for six to nine months in an unopened aseptic carton. On the flip side, these processes have been proven to alter the structure of the protein molecules in milk, particularly in the case of UHT processing. This is why ultra-pasteurized milk cannot be turned into cheese and ultra-pasteurized cream doesn’t whip as well without added stabilizers. Raw milk advocates also claim that these altered proteins can be as bad for our bodies as trans-fatty acids.

What is homogenization?

Homogenization is the process of crushing fat particles in milk, which changes their size and emulsion capabilities. This process forces the cream layer to stay suspended in milk. Some critics claim that homogenization is even more damaging to the integrity of milk than pasteurization. The heating of milk has been a part of its production for a long time, but the ability to change the fat particle is an industrial process.

How to find pastured raw milk

Farmers who choose to produce raw milk can’t advertise. This means that you have to do research to find a farm that produces the highest quality milk. A good place to start is realmilk.com, a database that lists farms by state. From there, call around and ask a few of the questions below. Definitely visit the farms that look most interesting to you. Look for fresh, healthy grass that is not overgrazed. The cows should look clean and content. These farms shouldn’t have a strong odor or look overrun, and the farmer should be completely transparent with his or her practices. If you sense that isn’t the case, go elsewhere. Here are a few questions to ask:

● How often are your cows out on pasture? (They should spend the majority of their time on verdant, clean-smelling green pasture, not on hard-packed dirt.)

● Do you rotate the cows to different areas of the pasture? If so, how often? (The farmer should keep the animals off the grazed pasture long enough for the forage to grow back and the manure to become fertilizer.)

● Do you supplement the cows with any kind of grain? If so, how much of their overall diet is grain-based supplement? (Most likely, the animals will need some kind of supplementation, but many proponents of milk from grass-fed cows believe the amount should be no more than 1 percent of their overall body weight).

● Do you use a feed that contains GMO corn or soy? (The answer should be no. In fact, it’s best if the farmer avoids corn and soy altogether, as these are likely to be GMO and are much harder on the animals than grains such as oats and barley, which more closely mimic foraged grains.)

● What are your practices if one of your cows gets mastitis? (Mastitis is an infection of the udder and happens frequently in milking animals. You should expect the farmer to treat this as you would treat an infection in yourself. While the cow is convalescing, they should keep the milk from this animal separate and out of the milk supply.)

● Can I visit your milking parlor? (The answer should be yes. Your farmer should be transparent and be able to answer any of your questions openly.)

● How do you sterilize your bottles? (They should use safe food-handling practices. It’s best if they have a devoted dishwasher just for milking jars, and the jars should be well-sanitized.)

● How quickly do you chill the milk after milking? (It should be chilled to below 37 degrees immediately. Ideally, this should happen in an ice-water bath to cool the milk as quickly as possible. Not only is this safest, but it also extends the life of the milk.)

● When I get milk from you, am I getting that day’s milk? (It’s best to get that day’s milk or milk from the day before. This milk will last seven to 10 days, but you should always be getting your milk as fresh as possible.)

There is a moment of weighty silence after the movie has ended. This fierce moment that punctures that so-called “suspension of disbelief” and lands us with a thud back into a dark, cold room. The lights haven’t come back on, and it is a terrible, wonderful moment where you are alone with your simmering thoughts.

In the dark theater, I hear you bite down on a piece of popcorn from the bottom of the bag. I turn around to the sight of your plump lips closing around a stubborn, half-popped, salty kernel. It resists you, but finally gives up in a crackling heap.

I know the sound well because it’s usually the one I’m making.

The sound of you, a stranger, biting on a raw kernel, causes me to think of the third Cassavetes film I saw. I was 19 and living in Hungary, and the theater near the Opera House was playing a week of Cassavetes. I had seen Shadows by myself earlier in the week, then Killing of a Chinese Bookie the next day. On Thursday, I slipped out of a raucous, after-work drinking affair to catch the 9:30 showing of A Woman Under the Influence. Somebody—he reminds me a little of you—followed me out.

He couldn’t bear another shot of Pálinka. He needed more smokes. He didn’t want to get in another conversation with Iren from the desk. Besides, he’d been wanting to see Cassavetes. When we got onto the crowded subway car, Hungarian men, sour with sweat and cheap gasoline-canister wine, pressed against us and we moved closer together. He grabbed my hand, and held it all the way to the Oktogon stop.

Dark silence in the theater that day was excruciating. A small carton of popcorn sat in my lap, but remained there, uneaten. The piercing sound in the dark theater of kernels caving loudly and crumpling under the crush of my teeth was intolerable. Every time he moved, I hoped he might take my hand again. He smelled faintly of snow and bitter peach pits that lingered from the alcohol. As the untethering of Gena Rowlands came before us on screen, he slumped further down into his chair. When he looked at me, his eyes looked sorrowful. Even in the dark, I saw the little brown spot punctuating his ice-blue eyes. When we left the theater, he asked if I’d go with him to visit his girlfriend near the Astoria. Her name was Adrienne, and she had been working second shift as barmaid. I had seen her once, ruddy cheeks and tousled hair.

We walked up to her together, and her impenetrable brown eyes made me nervous. He looked at her with an expression that could have been hatred or desire. I couldn’t tell the difference. They started an immediate fight where she shattered into a million shards of anger and hurt. He accused her of fooling around with the bartender, and became ever-more distant. It was the middle of winter, but the room was steamy with the pipe furnaces pulsing and sweating. I backed away, meeting his eyes.

When I got home, I pulled out my carton of popcorn in the dark and finished eating it, alone. It seemed that each once-hardened kernel had taken a terrible risk bursting forth into these starchy, flowering maidens. Only then to disintegrate back into sheaths of leftover hull, wedging themselves into the hidden spaces of my teeth. I was annoyed with them stuck there, too salty on my tongue, but I couldn’t stop taking bites for their creamy disintegrating texture and their bitter floral overtones. Bite after bite, I swallowed them down wondering why so many exquisite things in life end up being so frustrating, too.

It seems strange that I should be gone for so long, then come back to you with popcorn. But that’s where I find myself. Such is the stuff that busy lives are made of.

Besides, I have yet to meet a day that can’t be improved by a big, buttery bowl of popcorn. It’s not the same kind of cure that, say, a pot of tomato sauce can dole out, but popcorn takes such little effort, and it’s the kind of merriment you can wedge between school pick-up and endless errands. Not to mention, it makes a pretty good companion when your husband is out of town and you collapse on the couch to watch Mad Men. Popcorn can fit squarely into any part of the day, and I won’t let a week go by that doesn’t see at least one batch.

Here’s how I do it:

Put a generous slick of oil in the bottom of a pot and throw in three kernels. I do this solely because that’s what my mom did. It isn’t entirely clear whether it’s a necessary step or just a relic from my childhood, but I love this part of the process. For a brief moment, each time I make popcorn, my mom is forcing me to listen and smell and take a breath before the three chubby kernels explode. At that point, I lift the lid and fill the bottom of the pot with sunny yellow kernels that sizzle and dance in the oil the minute they hit the heat.

Popcorn is so satisfying that way. They make their own party.

First, a few kernels burst alive in their creamy debutante organza and start dancing. Soon, all those boisterous kernels are laughing and crowding together, cheerily filling your pot. If the kernels seem to be sputtering, shake and agitate the pan a little. They’ll wake up. When the popped kernels are having so much fun they start pushing the lid off the pot, remove from the heat and gather them in the largest bowl you can find. In my kitchen it’s an oversized, stainless steel bowl that takes both arms to wrap the circumference. I like to make popcorn in the biggest batches I can muster.

I douse it in real melted butter, watching the golden liquid trickle into all the cracks and crevices. A quick sprinkling of garlic powder rounds it out, then sweet paprika, grey salt, and if you’re feeling especially festive, a generous grating of parmesan cheese, as well.

Don’t feel like you have to measure any of this. Popcorn really is like a good party—the less you try, the better it seems to turn out. Rely instead on your own superior taste and high spirits. Your day will thank you for it.

Do not hurry. Do not Rest.
Goethe

These words hang over my desk in hand-written scrawl on a tiny brown notecard. I’m looking at them now, as I do often. Somewhere in the balance of those two simple clauses is a perfect moment of calm. Sigh.

Hurrying always backfires on me. I get caught in a tizzy and this hurrying alter-ego takes over. She does things like stomp around as she tensely rushes the kids out the door in the morning, chiding them to put shoes on faster, threatening how late we’ll all be if they don’t HURRY THIS MOMENT. Then we arrive at school with all these unruffled families ambling down the street. I glance toward the front door of the school and realize, in horror, the first bell hasn’t even chimed yet.

“Mommy, how come we’re hurrying because we’re late, and then we’re early?” If only I had remembered Goethe.

This phrase comes in most handy when I’m sitting at the computer pecking away and that small voice in my head starts in. It stomps around in my consciousness doing that same thing I was doing to my kids. You’re never going to get all this done, it screams. Hurry up and get there.

This afternoon when the small voice piped in, I decided to go make lunch instead of listening to its constant, high-pitched chatter. I had been wanting to try my hand at a kale salad a friend made us one night. It had a heady aroma and a tangy topnote that lingered just long enough to keep me going back for more.

Harissa was the first ingredient on the recipe she had clipped for me, and I almost tucked the recipe back in the box for another day. I don’t keep store-bought harrisa around. Oh well.

But wait, didn’t I used to make spinach & egg soup with harissa? And didn’t that recipe call for a few spices crushed together with garlic and lemon juice? I grabbed the mortar & pestle off the shelf. With half a thought that I should hurry back to work, I decided to give this a try.

Next out of the cabinet was a petite, patina-worn black steel pan I use for toasting spices. Soon, the edges of the spices started to brown and a faint whisper crackled as the smell of cumin hung in the air. I closed my eyes. Just closed them and took it all in. It wasn’t until I reopened them that I realized I had been suspended in that perfect balance for a brief, blissful moment.

Reset.

I started peeling garlic and juicing lemons and measuring out bright red and yellow powders. The mortar nestled it all together, and I grabbed the pestle to feel it give under my weight, crushing and breaking and releasing fragrance right there before me. I started to daydream. The floral, yet corporeal fragrance of cumin and garlic, a love affair that was certainly meant to be, filled the kitchen and went to my head. It was almost like my senses had whisked my psyche off to Marrakech for a long retreat. In those few moments, passion crept back into my day and I was about to eat it for lunch. Not hurrying and not resting.

I developed this chocolate pudding recipe in opposition to those wasteful, vapidly-flavored little cups that always tempt my kids. They see those damn things and practically go into beggar’s hysterics. IMHO, buying them is basically the equivalent of paying good money for chocolate(ish)-tinged puddlewater emulsified with motor oil. What a culinary sham. Not to mention the landfill hoarders those little cups become. I said as much to Amelia (Hello soapbox middle-class white lady in the middle of Target!), and she rolled her eyes: “Then why don’t you just make some that’s better?!?” Duh?

I, of course, marched home and started measuring ingredients.

I decided to shun the use of any ingredient that would make this pudding more volatile to lunchbox conditions. An egg yolk or two would add richness, but I was also afraid it would add a stink-factor that I’d rather not send my kids to school with. I tried at least four variations and finally landed on this one. My goal was to make something that was rich enough for me (I am she of the chocolate mousse childhood, after all), but would also fulfill my kids’ vanilla-heavy, stand on the spoon, chocolate pudding cup fantasy. And of course, I wanted this recipe to be easy. Something you could throw together the night before and have ready for the lunchbox in the morning.

Note: I tested this recipe with regular ol’ terrible sugar here, but you can use whatever kind you want. For one batch, I was out of sugar and had some unrefined maple sugar sitting around. It added a different flavor dimension, but I put it in little cups and the lunchboxes all came back totally empty. Success!

Has anyone noticed how custardy this site is becoming? If chocolate lunchbox pudding isn’t your thing, you could always follow my instructions for crème fraiche panna cotta, chocolate mousse, or crème brûlée.

For this lentil recipe, I decided to keep it simple so the heady flavor of the beans could really shine. Resist the urge to clutter the recipe with too many herbs or spices, which would make it a totally different kind of soup. Here, you need only a Parmesan rind, that nubby end of cheese that most people throw away. Next time you spend good money for real Parmeggiano-Reggiano, keep the rind and store it in the freezer for later use.

-3 tablespoons olive oil
-1 whole yellow onion, minced
-2 teaspoons salt
-2 carrots, diced
-2 celery stalks, diced
-3 cloves garlic, minced
-1 lb. Lentils Du Puy (also called French lentils)
-28-ounce can whole peeled tomatoes
-2 quarts water
-Parmesan rind (you could use a few tablespoons of the cheese if a rind is unavailable)
-bay leaf
-salt and pepper to taste
-Red wine vinegar (optional)
-Parmesan cheese for garnish

In a large Dutch oven, heat olive oil and sautée the onion and ½ teaspoon of salt over medium heat until it starts to lose its raw smell. Add the carrots and celery and cook, stirring occasionally, until all the vegetables start to take on a golden color, about 10 minutes. As the vegetables start to lose water, their song will be a mellow hum, rather than the hiss they make when you first put them in. That’s the moment to add the garlic and give a good stir. All of a sudden, the garlic will reach up and charm you into its sensual embrace and you’ll feel like you just want to run off with the garlic then and there, but focus here. You need to finish raising these beans and water into a fabulous soup. It’ll be worth it.

Add the lentils and stir around until they look slick with olive oil. Add the can of tomatoes– juices and all, water, Parmesan rind, bay leaf and the remainder of salt. Bring to a brisk boil and then immediately turn it down to simmer. Cook on low for about a half hour until the lentils are plump and soft. When done, turn the heat off and let the soup sit on the stovetop for about an hour before reheating to serve. Alternatively, you could refrigerate for up to a week and serve at a later time. When you reheat, check the seasonings and adjust with salt, pepper and a drop or two of red wine vinegar if you wish. Enjoy!

Note: Don’t skip the resting phase of making this soup. It really will have more depth and taste creamier after the flavors have lived together for a while. A lot of cooks have discovered this anecdotally, but I swear I read a scientific explanation for it. For the life of me, I can’t find it anywhere, but if you happen to have an article where Cook’s Illustrated explains why soups and stews taste better the next day, will you send it my way?

It may seem a bit fussy to make cornbread into madeleines, but hear me out. I found these molds at a garage sale a few years ago and they remained tucked away in my cabinet until last month when I decided to create this recipe as a nod to the movie Paris, Texas. That said, I wouldn’t accuse anyone of being off their rocker for purchasing these molds at full price. Even at a whopping $12, they’re still a bargain. Here’s why: Madeleines are one of the only molded foods that still have cachet. They look classic and pretty instead of something leftover from the jello-mold era. In other words, you can dress up countless desserts with this one little pan. If that’s not enough, I have one more reason you should add these to your arsenal, especially if you’re a parent. PARENTS, are you listening?

It was a happy accident to discover that my kids couldn’t get enough of these things. I took a closer look at the recipe and realized that they are actually more whole-grain than refined, and they even have a small serving of vegetables if you count the corn (in a world that counts pizza as a vegetable, this probably does count.) I suspect you could even swap out the all-purpose flour for whole wheat or rice flour (for a gluten-free option), but I’m not on record for saying that until I actually try it (or you could try it and report back to me).

My kids’ health and happiness aren’t things I take lightly, and when they gobbled up two dozen– running from their baby dinosaur game in the living room one at a time to snatch a few here and there before dinner even started– I decided to beef it up a little and make a bigger batch. And so I present to you the latest recipe in a series I like to call Healthy Lunchbox Snacks that Pass as Fancy Food for Dinner Parties (see Gougères).

A friend expressed interest in watching Paris, Texas and I jumped on the idea. It’s been on my list forever, and I’d never seen it. Plus, the Homesick Texan cookbook had been staring me down for a few months and I was ready to crack it open and try some of the drool-worthy recipes. The movie was good, but I was secretly more impressed with these recipes. Wim Wenders and Ry Cooder have nothing on Lisa Fain. So they made a cult classic? Woop-de-doo. What I want to know is– can they make carnitas? Can they?

The Menu

Pimento Cheese
Recipe here via Homesick Texan blog. Don’t miss the great story, which is almost tastier than the recipe, itself.

Cornbread Madeleines
My nod to Paris and Texas, both. Communal Table recipe here.

Carnitas

I think this might be my new favorite recipe. This is among the fantastic recipes in Fain’s book, but this particular recipe can also be found here.

Flour Tortillas

Once I discovered how much better homemade flour tortillas are, I went on a tortilla-making binge. There are two recipes in the Homesick Texan cookbook alone, but I didn’t stop there. I got my hands on every recipe I could find and fed my family a couple hundred tortillas one month. My absolute favorites, in the end, were the Houston-style flour tortillas in Lisa Fain’s book. They have a sinfully rich secret ingredient, but you’ll just have to go get your own copy of the book for that one (or if you ask really really nicely, I might spill). In the meantime, this recipe by my friend Brenda was a close runner-up. These buttermilk tortillas were fluffier and richer than their kin, and the stars were aligned the afternoon I spread leftover pimento cheese (above) onto them.

Carne Guisada
Recipe here via Homesick Texan blog

Slaw with Jalepeno Buttermilk Dressing
Recipe coming this week

Chocolate Chess Pie

When I think of pie and Texas in one sentence, Chess Pie comes immediately to mind. Maybe it’s because I first had chess pie while visiting a friend in Austin several years ago. I had recently had my eye on this recipe by Jennifer Perillo on In Jennie’s Kitchen. This pie really is as easy as it’s sold to be. Trust me, even the crust is easy to throw together and it’s so worth the extra effort. It’s made with a little cornmeal and vinegar and those two ingredients seem to transform it into something that can be classified as both gossamer light and delicately crisp. I’m infatuated with it’s quirky texture that keeps you going in for more.

A few months back, before the frenzy of holiday cooking set in, I sat down to read the New York Times, and settled in for a Mark Bittman piece. The article was unforgettable, but to be honest, I just now had to look up what the article was even about so I could tell you about it (apple pie). What made it unforgettable was one eensy-weensy half a sentence.

“—you have to address this question: how precious do you want this thing to be?”

That was all it took to send me into a months-long conversation with myself. That one phrase settled into my subconscious like a bejeweled artifact that dislodges a little closer to the surface every time I set foot in the kitchen.

How precious do you want this thing to be?

People, let me tell you—if you want one phrase that will motivate you to get cooking, there it is.

It’s liberating to remember that none of this has to be precious. The supermarket is out of romaine for the salad you planned for dinner? Oh well. Use spinach. No buttermilk left for the cake you were going to make? Wouldn’t it be fun to see what happens if you use yogurt instead? Oh my god! Barely have time to frost the said cake? Just ask your 5-year-old to help. See where I’m heading here?

Cooking is about getting in the kitchen and doing it. You don’t have to have perfect skills or fancy lessons because none of this is precious.

With this handy mantra, holiday cooking was more fun. I took on six dozen biscuits in one day because, well, what was the worst that could happen? There’s nothing sacred about a biscuit. And I let my kids help make them, which brings me to another point. Kids have this not-precious attitude naturally built in, so if you really want to drive this point home, cook with your kids.

Parents are always lamenting that getting dinner on the table with kids underfoot is a hassle. I understand. I’ve been there. But ever since I’ve adjusted my precious attitude, I’ve been letting my kids help make dinner. While I’m sautéing onion or boiling pasta, they’re using these knives to make salad. And while we’ve had a few funky concoctions of parsley, mandarin, and carrot peel salads, we’re also having a lot of fun.

I don’t have a recipe to share today, but here’s a challenge for the new year. Ask yourself how precious you want this thing to be? Then head to the kitchen to make something just for fun. If it’s a cake, let flour and frosting get all over the place.

If you’re cooking alone, use your senses and play. Make something without a recipe, just because the memory of some flavor ignites a creative spark.

If you’re making food with a lover, definitely look at each other more than you look at the food.

If you’re cooking as a family, let everyone touch and taste whatever they want, even if it means sweeping sugar and egg shells off the floor and cleaning sticky hands and cabinets.

When we’re able to set our precious aside, we are left with the spirit of what we are doing, which is to say, feeding ourselves. Let’s feed all parts of ourselves before this whole thing gets too, well, too precious.

I am home for the holidays, but in the strictest sense, I am not actually in my home.

In July 1996, Gregg and I started a union that led to a road trip 5 months later at Christmastime. We hopped in my white VW bus and started driving north to Kentucky. I was bringing him home for the holidays. We had been friends for years, but after 5 months of dating, I was going home with him to meet his whole family for the first time. On that journey “home”, we saw Rock City, broke down in Atlanta, had a surprise visit with great Grandma Stone, ate red velvet cake (first time for me), stopped in Charleston to see my best friend, and spent New Year’s Eve in a truck stop.

Looking back, I should have realized that the man who would indulge my desire to spend New Year’s at truck stop in Georgia (and brag about it to friends) would probably be the man I would spend my life with. I didn’t realize, though.

I didn’t fathom that the heart of that road trip—the part where we dropped our bags in his mother’s guest room and headed to the table for chicken n’ dumplins, teasing her about her humongous Christmas Village—would become a part of my life that would mean “going home for the holidays”.  Gregg’s yearly ritual of returning to the place where he grew up became my yearly ritual. As much as he did, I looked forward to Moonlight BBQ, watching late-night movies with his dad, hiking in Audubon, having Rick’s Una cracker-like pizza, walking on the riverfront, and all that luscious southern charm.

This process of intertwining your life with someone else’s is its own kind of road trip. One where the highway weaves through time with little pit stops of memory to break up the trip. Our Henderson Christmas is the part of our lives with big road signs painted on the side of barns. It’s like See Rock City, only much homier.

Have you ever been home with someone for a holiday?

I look back on that first year in Henderson with a sense of excitement and discomfort at once. Entering someone’s family and their traditions can be arduous, as well as exhilarating. I basked in the southern food that lined the table and was proud that I liked collards every bit as much as they did, but there were times I didn’t know those ingrained signals that tell you how to conduct yourself. The third time I offered to help with the dishes and was told to sit down and relax, I realized that was just something they said. You were really supposed to say something like, “Nonsense, I’ll help” and grab a dish towel. That’s how you let them know you want to be there.

That first year, I hung out with the younger cousins and helped them put on a dance performance for the adults. Truth be told, I hung out with them because they accepted me in all my weird, no-make-up, Jewish-Italian drapey-clothed ways so much faster than the adults. Now some of those same cousins have kids of their own and I watch A and D run around with all the kids—their own family—and I have to smile. The route to this family, the one that they are a part of, is hidden behind their arrival in this world. To them, being in Kentucky for the holidays is just a fact of life, like Gregg coming to my Grandma’s Sader at Passover is a fact of life. They don’t know about the whole period of uncomfortable adjustment that comes with fitting two families together. I suppose, it’s the same way I take for granted my background where rugelach and pasta braciole makes perfect sense on one table.

In them, I see that we are finally home for the holidays, and the journey continues…

Happy holiday to you all. I hope you feel at home wherever you are today.