Pie, kids, cooking, to bed

I cooked all day, minus a quick trip to the farmers market. By and by, it was lovely. 

A sautéed mushroom, cheddar, speck and egg sandwich for T's Father's Day breakfast, lobster rolls and farmers market salad -fresh red leaf lettuce and snap peas and tomatoes- for lunch, chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches for Jack's birthday party tomorrow (Jeopardy; it's going to be epically fun), cold potato salad with tiny new potatoes and mustard-caper vinaigrette, and this gorgeous, scrumptious strawberry balsamic pie.  

A friend gave me the Four and Twenty Blackbirds cookbook for my birthday, and, having just bought two quarts of strawberries at the market, I wanted a special way to use them. 

This pie perfectly fit the bill, and it did not disappoint. Good thing as it took about three hours to make.  

I picked the boys up around 5. What a joy to see them, and how loud and kinetic our home now feels again. Here's hoping things are a bit quieter tomorrow. 

Happy Father's Day to all the dads, uncles, male teachers and mentors out there! 

On the night she is finally well

They celebrate their last night sans kids
with cocktails
on the deck.

applejack rabbits

It is a humidity-free night, a breeze whispers past their shoulders and through their hair, a full moon hangs low and pregnant in a clear sky. The heady, earthy scent of newly laid mulch is subtle and lovely.

tonight's moon

Inexplicably, but also because it makes complete sense, chicken stock simmers on the stove, liquid amber redolent of leeks and celery and a happy bird. The bones leave each other, the skin slips, the broth is golden; never having boiled, it is not cloudy. 

A pizza sizzles on the grill, another round of cocktails boogie with icy cubes in a silver shaker. They show their age by dancing madly, wildly, happily, freely to the Summer of '69 and You Shook Me All Night Long stations on Pandora.

Fat Bottomed Girls, Jessie's Girl, Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, Right Now, Dream On, Paradise City, Your Love, House of the Rising Sun scream from the speakers; anthems for two who came of age in the 80s, that time of awful hair, leg-warmers and great music. 

Their cat watches with gimlet eyes. What does he think? He flicks his tail imperiously, knowing he is beloved.

They dance and twist and spin and breathe heavily; they are not in their twenties anymore. They are glad. 

Their boys are coming home tomorrow, and they can't wait to wrap their arms around their tan little bodies but they will also miss this sort of time. 

The Mamas and the Papas sing about the leaves turning brown and winter's days. The Stones paint it black, the cocktails are drunk, the stock starts to cool, tired bodies take to the couch, the cat joins, purring. 

New York

We are in New York for Oliver's first taste of the Big Apple. As always, I am gleefully happy to be here, as is Mom, and so far, Ol seems pretty enchanted.  

Last night (after a ludicrously delayed train ride north; don't even get me started on the massive need for government investment in American infrastructure.), we ate a lovely meal at Nice Matin (the fava bean tortelloni were to die for)  before crashing into deep sleeps.

Today we went to Brooklyn for a visit with Percy and Suzanne, to a chocolate restaurant, the Empire State Building and Times Square before returning to the hotel for a rest! Ol delighted in seeing the Naked Cowboy. Seriously! LOL!

Tonight? A perfect dinner at Boulud Sud. Aah!