I cook because I love to eat. I garden because I love to cook.
My wife Marci and I had a wonderful trip to Scotland last fall. Wandering around Edinburgh one morning, we searched out Pantry, a well-regarded breakfast, brunch, and lunch spot in Stockbridge, a high-end neighborhood with stately stone homes. The plates on neighboring tables were spectacular. …
My early childhood was mostly lacking in trauma, but there is one glaring example of distress I suffered about which I am reminded annually in the heat of midsummer. As a young child, I rarely had a birthday party. It was pain and suffering that …
Every year it happens. The weather gets hot and sweaty, and the zucchinis grow from finger to baseball bat-size in a matter of hours. I am swamped. It’s the equivalent of a zombie apocalypse in the garden. They can be so prolific, it’s almost obscene. …
I am hesitant to talk about the current state of my garden in the same way that when traveling I don’t discuss the traffic, lest a sea of red taillights appears around the next bend in the highway. I don’t want to jinx anything. But …
Some of the happiest days of my youth were at overnight camp. Camp Onas became an integral part of my childhood, adolescence, and development. I was a camper for five years from age 9 to 14 and a staff member for five more beyond that. …
I am thankful that during the heat wave currently enveloping the eastern United States I have air conditioning in my car. As a child, that was never the case. To fit three rambunctious boys in the back seat, our cars were always the size of …
My maternal grandmother, Jeanette, was hardly a vision of health. She smoked, did not exercise, and ate lots of traditional Jewish foods and baked goods that one would never classify as nutritious. When we drove to visit her in Atlantic City from our home in …
I was recently sifting my way through a plastic shoebox that contained three recipe card boxes, piles clipped from newspapers, and other loose recipes. I assumed they were entirely Jeanette’s, my maternal grandmother’s, however, they could not have all been hers. The cards were written …
As a very young child, my daughter Ariana was the meanest teacher around. She loved to play school with a pointer and easel, standing in front of the class made up of my wife Marci, my son Jacob, and me. She wielded the stick dangerously, …
As I took my daily walk on this early February morning, I couldn’t help but notice the green stalks of spring flowers already peeking through the ground. It left me conflicted. On the one hand I love that spring – my favorite time of the …
