This week, as Saturday crept closer and Allison’s excitement grew, I became seriously worried that she had somehow conflated peewee soccer with eating an unlimited supply of chocolate bars. She was very excited, anxiously asking when her ‘chin’ guards and new soccer ball would arrive. This was a new experience for me.
I’ve become accustomed to shrieks of delight over dance recitals, princesses, tulle and glitter tattoos. I’ve never had a child this excited about a sport. She almost passed out when the box finally arrived on Friday. I’m pretty sure she would have slept with her shin guards on if we had let her. Maybe all my Premier League watching has somehow seeped into her brain?
Did I mention I would be coaching these all these (equally excited) 4 year old’s at 9 a.m. Saturday morning?
First, of all any recipe that not only includes beer, but includes it prominently in the title definitely has my attention.
Second, this incredibly simple bread is easy to make and tastes like Thanksgiving.
Third, do you really need another reason to make this quick bread?
For everyone, there are certain dates on the calendar that ring with a resonance, whether its happiness, sadness or excitement. Those same dates are undoubtedly absolutely hollow for others. Just another Tuesday.
Two years ago, I added August 18th, previously just a random collection of 24 hours, to my own personal significance list. That was the day I ended up in the hospital and ultimately, after a week’s stay and many, many tests, ended up diagnosed with Addison’s Disease, a very rare chronic condition that affects the adrenal glands.
One day each fall the kids run feral in the woods, crisp spirits bubble freely like they are running from a mountain stream, food appears as if from a faerie’s spell and music invites everyone to grab a friend and dance as if you actually know how to box step.
It’s not a dream. It’s one of my favorite days of the year out in the ‘burbs. It’s Oktoberfest at the local German club.
You can’t fight the polka. Best to imbibe and join in.
Five years ago, in a fit of either homesteading fever or uncontrollable Amazon Prime clicking, I bought a Ball home canning kit. It promptly sat in its box. First in the office and then down in the basement. I did flip through the Ball preserving book, but it suddenly seemed like a lot of effort and a lot of bother.
We moved to a new house. Conveniently, the canning kit was still packed and moved right along with us. It went on a shelf in the basement in a new house. It didn’t even get to stop in the office this time around.
Nothing changed except we joined the Tangerini’s CSA and occasionally I’d see the Ball book on my cookbook shelf. I’d quickly avert my eyes. Then, one day this summer while picking up our CSA, I saw an advertisement for a Canning and Pickling class at the farm. I signed up before I could talk myself out of it.
The week after the class, I was putting up jam, salsa and vegetables like a 1900’s prairie farmer.