Meatloaf

"What is this?" my father asks, pointing to a picture of something I can't quite decipher. We are at Erik's DeliCafe in Gilroy, CA, on our way home to Los Angeles from a week long road trip to San Francisco. The sandwich guy tells us it's meatloaf, to which my father asks quizzically, "What is meatloaf?"

You see, we are not an American family. In Singapore, meat doesn't come politely ground - it comes in chunks, slices, and sometimes, still with a face on it. Meatloaf, which in that photograph looked more like a hunk of bread than a piece of meat, is as foreign to my father as haggis is to an American.

When I explain that meatloaf is exactly what it sounds like - a loaf of ground meat seasoned with onions, ketchup, and held together by eggs and bread crumbs - my father's eyes light up. This makes me laugh, and realize that whether American or Singaporean, man's love of meat must be congenital.

Later in Solvang, CA, my father tries to order meatloaf off the restaurant menu, which is how I realize he's been thinking about this "loaf made of meat" for the last day and a half. Except we find out that the meatloaf on the menu is made of beef, the only meat that my dad does not eat. My father shrugs and says something like, "Well, I guess it's not in the cards."

"Why don't I make you some meatloaf when we're back in LA?" I ask, "We can use pork and turkey."

My father doesn't say it then, but he's happy.

Back in Los Angeles, I scour my cookbooks for the perfect recipe. The last time I made meatloaf, I was just out of college. I used cheap ground meat and probably half a bottle of ketchup. Since then, I've grown to be a food snob who doesn't think ketchup should really be an ingredient in any recipe.

For my dad, I wanted a recipe that fell somewhere between the American 50s classic and gourmet. For some reason I couldn't articulate, I wanted to give my dad something that was a classier than ground meat and ketchup.

Bon Appetit's Turkey Meatloaf with Sun-dried Tomatoes from their 1996 issue calls for ground dark turkey, sauteed onions and celery, sun-dried tomatoes, and dried sage and oregano. Ketchup is used as a glaze, rather than a key ingredient. In other words, it satisfied the snob in me, while still having echos of the classic American comfort food that is meatloaf.

As I preheated the oven, poured olive oil into my pan, and heard the sizzle of chopped celery and onions, it struck me that I was doing something that was quintessentially Asian - serving my father. Traditional Asian culture is highly patriarchal, women serve their men. Wives serve their husbands, single daughters, their fathers. My mother grew up being told that an education for a woman wasn't necessary - women were, after all, destined to be married and spend their lives serving their husbands, and really, who needed an academic education for that?

My father, as a father of two daughters and no sons, straddled the world of traditional patriarchy and the world of meritocracy where a good education was the key to success for both men and women. Even as he used to say to my mother, "What's a wife for, if not to serve?" he never raised his daughters to be home makers. When it came between a choice to take Home Economics or Music as an elective in high school, both my sister and I took Music. Which is why, today when I serve you chicken for dinner, I can do so with a side of Chopin. My sister and I grew to be articulate, well educated, high functioning women with careers who can be financially self-sufficient, single or married.

And yet, I know my father harbors double standards - boys must be more independent than girls, daughters, once married, belong to their husbands' families. And though he never says it to my face, single daughters should serve their fathers in a way that sons are never called to. I think that's partly why when I made my father meatloaf without him asking, my dad beamed with pride. He'd raised a daughter who would serve. As a father, he'd arrived.

When we sat down to dinner, and I put a slice of freshly cooked meatloaf on his plate, my father said something else that sent a shiver down my spine. "Who would expect that a man like me, from such a poor family, would be able to send my daughters to university, and be sitting in LA with my daughter, eating meatloaf?"

As a man, my father had arrived.

Pumpkin Muffins & People Pleasing

I don't need you to like me all the time, I just really, really want you to.

I am a self-admitted people-pleaser. I'm not proud of this. Quite the opposite, I try to deny it at every turn. I have my own judgements about people pleasers. Being a people pleaser means the desperate need for the acceptance of others. It means low self-esteem. It means always accommodating others at the cost of self. Being a people pleaser means being a doormat.

I judge these things because I am these things - maybe not all of them, all of the time. But I am definitely some of these things at any given time.

At the heart of it, I want to make them happy. Who is them exactly? It doesn't matter. They are anyone. They are everyone. I want the happiness of the other more than I want happiness for myself. Because I believe if I can make someone happy, they won't hurt me, or worse, leave me.

Or so I think, anyway. In truth, there can be no promise of emotional safety just because I can make someone happy. This kind of mechanical exchange isn't necessarily how relationships work. Because relationships of all kinds - personal, intimate, and even professional - involve people. Intricate, nuanced and quite honestly, complicated people. People who have free will to do whatever they want.

No one is bound to liking me just because I make them happy. The reverse is also true. Just because a person has made me happy doesn't mean I owe them some kind of emotional pay-back.

I've been in therapy for this (and many other things) and will be in therapy for this again, and possibly, for the rest of my life. But the need to please the other is so intricately woven into my DNA that while I may squash the people-pleaser in some areas of my life, I subconsciously act out the people-pleasing in other areas.

Case in point - these pumpkin muffins.

I made these pumpkin muffins because I was depressed that I was unable to "please" in the context of a business relationship. I had worked so hard to make "them" happy. To negotiate, to compromise, to give them the best of myself and my time. I wanted so desperately to find the mythical "win-win" situation that everyone talks about in the business world.

But there would be no solution. And there could be no appeasement. This was a situation where no one could be pleased. Ever. I knew this logically, but my heart still longed and yearned for acceptance.

So when it finally came to pass - that this business relationship could not be salvaged - I felt personally rejected. Even though it was "nothing personal" - it felt emotionally like being the jilted girlfriend. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was the one who was "unloved."

And then, I felt a great urge to bake. It was specifically to bake - not cook, not create a meal, but to bake a sweet treat. I wanted something simple; that I knew would turn out beautiful, tasty and perfect. I needed this perfection because the other part of my life was so not  perfect. I wanted just one moment where I could feel some success at a job well done.

This, ladies and gentleman, is the story of how I came to craft my own pumpkin muffin recipe. I simply wanted to be liked and feel special. And no one rejects a girl who makes (and shares) sweet treats.

 All psycho-analysis aside, these pumpkin muffins, tender, moist, sweet and with just a hint of pumpkin are designed to be a crowd-pleaser. It uses pumpkin pie filling rather than canned pumpkin. There's no special "cook's secret" for using pumpkin pie filling - it's just that this is what I had in the pantry and I didn't want to buy any more groceries.

One of my little "personal touches," however, is to brown the butter before adding it to the wet ingredients. That way, I know these muffins always have that "just a little something different." I know they are... wait for it... special and loved. (Hint hint: just like me?)

Pumpkin Muffins
Makes 16

Ingredients
For muffins:
8 oz all-purpose flour (approx. 2 cups)
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp pumpkin pie spice
1 tsp salt
2 eggs
4 oz butter (1 stick of butter)
4 oz brown sugar (approx. 1/2 cup)
10 oz pumpkin pie filling (approx. 1- 1/4 cups)

For streusel topping:
3 to 5 tbsp of all-purpose flour
2 to 4 tbsp of granulated sugar
1 tbsp of brown sugar
1/2 tsp of cinnamon
1/4 tsp of pumpkin pie spice
2 tbsp of butter, cold and cut into small cubes

1. Perheat oven to 400 degrees.
2. In a sauce pan, melt butter on medium heat.  To prevent butter from burning, swirl the butter in the pan as it melts. As the butter melts, it will start to foam, and will go from yellow to honey-brown. Once the butter turns honey-brown, remove from heat and transfer to a bowl to cool.
3. In a large bowl, mix eggs, brown sugar and pumpkin pie filling. Make sure sugar is dissolved in the mixture.
4. Pour the cooled browned butter into the pumpkin mixture.
5. In a separate bowl, mix flour, baking powder, salt and pumpkin pie spice.
6. Fold the flour mixture into the pumpkin mixture until just combined. Do not over-mix or the muffins will be tough.
7. In a separate bowl, combine 3 tbsp of the flour, 1 tbsp of brown sugar, 2 tbsp of granulated sugar, and the cinnamon and pumpkin pie spice.
8. Using a pastry cutter, or two knives, cut the butter into the flour mixture until the mixture resembles cookie crumbs. If the mixture is too clumpy, sprinkle some additional flour and sugar and continue cutting the butter into the mixture.
9. Line muffin pans with cupcake liners. Fill muffin cups 1/2 to 2/3 full with batter. Generously sprinkle streusel topping on each muffin.
10. Bake for 14-15 minutes at 400 degrees. Muffins are done when a toothpick inserted in the center of the muffin comes out clean.

Chocolate Chip Cookies and Mothers

I learned to cook not as a girl in my mother's kitchen, but as an adult from Betty Crocker.

Although my mother cooked for us, she never cooked with us. My father - of course - was not expected to be in the kitchen. My sister, seven years older than me, was called on to do selected kitchen chores. But I, the baby of the family, was kept out of the kitchen.

I didn't really have to think about my inability to cook until I found myself living in my first apartment and unable to feed myself. I didn't even know how to boil water without a microwave - seriously.

Out of sheer necessity, I got myself one of those classic tomes for beginner cooks, the Betty Crocker Cookbook: Everything You Need To Know To Cook Today, It held true to its title. It did have everything I needed to know - from basic cooking equipment, to what to stock in the pantry, to how to select the fresh ingredients, to ingredient substitutions, to knowing different cuts of meat.

Betty taught me the ins and outs of many of my go-to dishes - chili, meatballs, blueberry muffins, and pancakes. She's been my guide for the dishes I pull out when I want a long, leisurely cooking session on a rainy afternoon - cheesy Bechamel for homemade mac and cheese, silky cream of mushroom soup from scratch, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate fudge for hostess gifts.

From Betty Crocker, I learned to make the perfect chocolate chip cookie - with rounded, crisp edges and slightly chewy in the middle. The secret, says Betty, is in the butter. Butter that is too soft or partially melted results in a cookie that is flat and spreads. Perfectly softened butter retains its shape, and leaves a slight imprint when you press your finger into it. It also results in the picture perfect chocolate chip cookie.

Thing is, my mother is a wonderful cook. She just didn't choose to share this skill with me. And now, though I can cook, I'm not completely at ease making the recipes of my culture and my heritage. Instead I whip up specialties from the culture of Betty. Who is not my mother. She's not even a real person.

I am deeply conflicted about almost every aspect of my relationship with my family. Learning to cook from my mother is no exception. Watching my mother over the years, I've come to suspect that my mother's way of showing love for us children is to serve - that is, to cook, to clean, to make sure we are taken care of. If I learn to cook and no longer need her help, how then can she show that she loves me?

But I am equally poor at showing my love. I want to show her my love and respect by learning her recipes and her cooking tips. And yet, by doing so, instead of connecting, I am pushing her away. I am taking over for you  - I no longer need you. 

And so we push and pull, my mom and I. She pushes, I run. I pull, she withdraws. We did this when I lived  at home. And now, though I live in a completely different continent, we still find a way to push and pull. Maybe this is the only way we know how to show our love. Maybe this is the only way we know how to stay connected.

I worked to master the chocolate chip cookie because, to me, the chocolate chip cookie represents the ultimate in Mom-ness. I have some 1950s fantasy in my head that I'd be one of those moms with cookies baking in the oven when my kids came home from school. I would spend Sunday afternoons with my kids in the kitchen, teaching them how to make chocolate chip cookies on their own. And when the kids grew up they would, hopefully, do the same with their kids.

I worked so hard to master the chocolate chip cookie because I didn't want to be my mother.

I know my 1950s Mom Fantasy, is probably just that - pure fantasy. My kids may or may not like to cook. They may find it a drag to be in a kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. Heck, they might even have gluten allergies and never be able to have a real cookie for all I know.

Nonetheless, I want to be able to express my love for my children in a way they can feel. I want to be able to accept their love no matter how they choose to express it. I want us to be able to talk - no matter how difficult or painful the conversations may be.

I love my mother very much, but I want something different for me and my children.

Betty Crocker's Chocolate Chip Cookies
Makes 4 dozen

Ingredients
3/4 cup of brown sugar
3/4 cup of white sugar
1 cup of butter (2 sticks)
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 large egg
2 -1/4 cups of all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 bag (12 oz) of semi-sweet chocolate chips

1. Cream together sugars, butter, vanilla and egg in a large bowl.
2. Stir in flour, baking soda and salt. The dough will be very stiff.
3. Stir in chocolate chips.
4. Drop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls on a cookie sheet.
5. Bake 8-10 minutes or until light brown. Cool for 1 to 2 minutes before moving cookies to a cooling rack.

The original recipe can be found here.

Chicken Kabobs and Self Care

In my twenties, the idea of cooking for one horrified me. Cooking for one... it reeked of loneliness, spinsterhood, and the inevitable arrival of cats.

Over the years of singleness though, cooking for one simply became a necessity. It was either cook for myself or be subjected to pre-packaged, processed food or take out. And since I had neither the budget nor the metabolic rate to eat out all the time, cooking for one it had to be.

Cooking for one has its benefits - there are no finicky eaters to appease, no critical palates to impress. Weekly menu planning centers around you, and only you. It's one of the many joys of singleness - that absolute freedom to cook what you want, when you want, how you want.

But with no family to feed, and recipes that serve at least four people at a time, Singleton cooking usually means buying more ingredients than you'll use and lots of leftovers.

Then, there's also the reality that cooking just takes time. There's the prep, the actual cooking, and then all the clean-up. Cooking for one means shopping by yourself, hauling those groceries up the stairs by yourself and cleaning up, all by your lonesome.

In Los Angeles, where my work days are long, a five-mile commute can inexplicably take forty minutes, and the down time between the next activity is fleeting, cooking for myself on a regular basis is a challenge.

Los Angeles encourages the pre-made meal. Whole Foods and Trader Joe's offer shelf after shelf of relatively healthy salad and sandwich options. Otherwise there's vegan, organic, and farm-to-table eateries galore. Here, eating out isn't merely pizza or Chinese. Or if does happen to be pizza or Chinese, it's artisan or locally grown. So many and delicious are my food options that I wonder - wouldn't it be such a time saver if I just picked something up on the way home?

Even as the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want, is a joy of my singleness, it is also a challenge. In this place where I'm not particularly obliged to care for another, it's easy to forget to care about myself. Why bother to make a meal if the only person that'll enjoy it is me? It's such a waste of time, for, well... no one.

Except, I am someone.

This is a lesson I've had to learn over and over again as a Singleton: being one is just that, one. Not zero. Not "just one." Not "even one." One. No negation necessary. And it is just as important to care for one - me - as it is to care for the multitude of others.

It may be the more practical option, with my full life and over-flowing schedule, not to cook, but cooking for myself is about self-care. Caring for my body because my cooking is likely more healthy than dining out. Caring for my wallet because eating out and frozen dinners add up. Caring for my sanity because cooking exercises my creativity and calms my soul.

For me, cooking is enjoyment, pleasure and rest. Hours in the kitchen, by myself, once terrifying in my twenties, is now my zen. A good meal is restorative after a day battling this city that is Los Angeles. To lose such a gift in the name of saving time is tragic.

It's impractical for me to cook every day, so I've come to an approximate cooking schedule that works for me. I cook one major meal on the weekend, with leftovers to last me until the middle of the week, and then I cook again sometime mid-week, with enough leftovers to last me until the weekend. This way, I get a happy break in the middle of the work week to play around with some fun recipes.

When the Splendid Table's Cumin Lemon Lamb Grill in Lettuce Rolls with Grilled Vegetables recipe landed in my email In Box, it made my mouth water. Until I saw that it was a recipe with multiple steps and a long prep time. It was definitely not a recipe I could easily make on a weeknight evening.

But the marinade was something that could be done in 10 minutes, especially since bottled minced garlic is a staple in my refrigerator. The only catch with this recipe is that it's probably best if you let the chicken marinate for about 40 minutes. I used that time to soak the bamboo skewers and cleaned my kitchen - I barely noticed the wait time.

The recipe makes enough for about two to three meals, depending on how hungry you are. Paired with lemon rice, it makes for a meal that has protein, veggies and carbs. If you're into the low carb/no carb thing, then these skewers make for a good meal on their own.

Chicken Kabobs with Lemon Cumin Marinade
Makes approximately 4-5 skewers

Ingredients

For the marinade:
3 to 4 large garlic cloves
Pulp of 1 large lemon (cut away all zest and white pith), seeded
2 teaspoons sweet paprika
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon each coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons of Agave nectar or honey
1 tablespoon of water (optional)

For the kabobs:
2 to 2.5 pounds of boneless skinless chicken breasts
2 red peppers

1. Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees.
2. Chop the chicken into bite sized pieces. Set aside.
3. Blend ingredients for the marinade in a food processor until smooth.
4. Pour marinade over the chicken pieces and mix thouroughly. (I like to use my hands here.). Allow to marinade for approximately 40 minutes.
5. While waiting for the chicken to marinate, slice the red peppers into bite sizes pieces and soak the skewers in warm water.
6. Alternate placing the chicken pieces and red pepper slices on the skewer.
7. Place the skewers on a cookie sheet and bake in the oven for 12-15 minutes.

Monday Night Cooking Fest

I'm going to share yet another a little secret with you - I'm not by nature an organized person. Those who know me in my work life are stunned by this. I'm as detailed oriented at work as the best of them. I keep deadlines, balance project budgets, read the fine print. And it takes all my energy to be this organized.

That's why my home life and, by extension, my cooking life, is relatively free of structure and organization. I need my personal time and space to have room to be a little messy, to meander without an agenda, to use this freedom to foster some cooking creativity. It's like resetting me from hyper-organized to my default which is, for the lack of a better phrase to describe it, sort of "Eh, I'll roll with whatever."

For the most part, I get by on not being too organized in my cooking life. Unfortunately, one of the side effects of this kind of lackadaisical living is that I don't always check my fridge and pantry before going shopping, and will end up buying food items that I already have.

Right now, the half eaten block of brie is wondering why I came home with six wedges of Laughing Cow cheese. The open gallon of milk is a little insulted by the sealed pint of milk that arrived this past weekend. The orange juice got all excited when I pulled it out for mimosas, but knows that it's about to go into the freezer in the form of frozen juice cubes. An ailing cucumber calls to me. A plethora of vegetables are begging to be eaten before they go bad.

I just hate throwing out perfectly good food just because I couldn't get to cook it in time. On Sunday evening, I finally channeled my Uber-Organized Work Self and made a list of everything in my fridge. My plan this week is to cook anything that would otherwise go bad.

Monday night was part one of the great cooking fest. I made a series of dishes either out of the contents of my fridge, or because it paired with something in my fridge.

Lots of cooking stories to post soon from the night's cooking activities so stay tuned.  In the meantime, thanks to Instagram, I have some artsy foodie photos for you to enjoy.

I made over three dozen chocolate chip cookies that I could bring to the office and to my church small group. Chocolate chip cookies are an easy favorite, but the best thing about them is that they  go with milk. As in, the unopened pint of 2% that's in my fridge.

I caught the cherry tomatoes and bell pepper at their final moments, I believe - some of the tomatoes were already beginning to wrinkle. To these vegetables, I added one small onion, and then tossed everything in olive oil, salt, pepper, dried basil and dried oregano. This concoction went into the oven to roast for 40 minutes and will be tossed with Quinoa for lunch (and quite possibly dinner).

The ailing cucumber got to be showcased in a savory quick bread, with dill, cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese. I'm particularly proud of this quick bread because I created the recipe all by myself. This quick bread recipe is definitely turning into a full blown post at some point.

Downton Abbey and English Tea Sandwiches

I came to the Downton Abbey craze a little late. While the rest of America swooned over this English period drama about the lives and loves of an upper class family and their servants, I remained blissfully un-addicted. That was until a few weeks ago - while recovering from a late summer cold, I started watching the series on Netflix, and instantly got addicted.

Like everyone else, I was intrigued by the plot, the character development, and the mysterious Mr. Bates. But what no one had told me was that Downtown Abbey is a foodie's dream - there's fancy, multi-coursed dinners to be hosted, filled with soups, roasted fowl, and colorful desserts eaten with tiny silver spoons. Each episode is filled with all sorts of  delectable English upper-class dishes that are seen but not often discussed outright, leaving me, the food obsessed viewer, to imagine how these dishes could possibly taste.

And let's not forget the English teas served on the show - scones with clotted cream, delicately cut sandwiches, biscuits (cookies for you American folks), bite-sized tea cakes, strong cups of English tea sweetened with cream and sugar.

Watching Downton Abbey made me grateful that I wasn't a single, young woman living in the early 1900s, where my fortunes and future would be dependent on whom I was born to and whom I was given to in marriage. I found that the girl in me wanted to dress up and go to the ball. But most of all, watching Downton Abbey left me hungry for an English tea.

I love everything about a good English tea - the crisp table clothes and napkins, the three-tiered serving platter that they bring to your table, the delicate china cups and saucers, the sound of spoons clicking as you stir the cream and sugar into a cup of hot, black tea, and, of course, the dainty scones, cakes, and tea sandwiches.

I think what so captivates me about an English tea service is how it's meant to be slowly delighted over. It feels almost sacrilegious to scarf down those teeny-tiny cakes and chug down the cup of tea when you think about how carefully everything's been put together. So you're left to slow down, savor, and just enjoy.

The pace of an English tea gives room and space for a similar slow delight with whom you're enjoying the English tea. It's a time to pause, catch up, and connect about what's going on.

I have a tradition - every time I go back home to visit, I take my sister out to an English High Tea. Because I live clear across the other side of the world from my sister, this almost annual tradition of English High tea gives us a chance to connect face-to-face in a way that email and Skype calls just can't do. I love this time together away from the rest of the family where we can enjoy each other's company as adult siblings. Over the years and multiple cups of tea, we've talked about being women, being daughters, and being mothers (or in my case, wanting to be a mother). The topics of conversation have changed over the years, but the quality has only gotten better.

I used to go straight for the English scones with preserves and clotted cream at every English tea, using the tea sandwiches as a palate-cleanser for the next round of sweets. But I've come to appreciate the savory English Tea Sandwich.

The English Tea Sandwich consists of two pieces of bread, either white or brown, and filled with a variety of savory fillings such as cucumber, chicken salad, egg salad, or smoke salmon. The crusts are cut off, and the sandwiches are then cut diagonally into four triangles, or into three rectangular "finger" sandwiches. The "rule" with English Tea Sandwiches is that they are supposed to be small enough that you'd be able to eat one in two, at the most, three bites.

Inspired by Downton Abbey, I spent a Sunday afternoon crafting two English tea sandwich fillings. One of them is a take on the classic cucumber sandwich, the other is a slightly sweet and spicy curried chicken salad sandwich. Both are simple, no-cook fillings that can be prepared even on a hot, summer afternoon.

May the idea of an afternoon English Tea inspire you to take a pause, call a friend, and find some time together to connect over something delicious.

Cucumber Sandwiches with Cheese Dill Spread
The following will make approximately enough spread for 3-4 sandwiches. One sandwich can be sliced into four quarters, or three finger sandwiches.

Ingredients
2 tbsp of cottage cheese
2 tsp of dill
Salt and pepper to taste
1 cucumber, thinly sliced
Slices of bread (white of soft whole wheat)

1. Process the cottage cheese, dill, salt and pepper in a food processor until smooth.
2. Spread a thin layer of the mixture onto each slice of bread.
3. Place 4-6 slices of cucumber on one slice of bread, place the other slice of bread on the top, press gently.
4. With a sharp knife, slice off the crusts and then cut diagonally into four triangles, or cut into three finger sandwiches.

Curried Chicken Salad Sandwiches
The following will make approximately 6-8 sandwiches. One sandwich can be sliced into four quarters, or three finger sandwiches.

Ingredients
1/4 cup mayonnaise
1/4 cup mango
3 tsp of curry Powder
1 1/2 cups of cooked chicken
1 cup celery
1/4 cup golden raisins
Salt and pepper to taste
Slices of bread (white, or soft whole wheat)

1. Combine mayo, mango and curry powder in a food processor until smooth. Set aside 2 tablespoons of mayo mixture.
2. Chop celery and chicken into 1/4 inch cubes.
3. Mix remaining mayo, celery, chicken and raisins.
4. Sprinkle salt and pepper to taste.
5. If you have time, refrigerate the chicken salad for 30 mins. This allows the flavors to absorb.
6. To assemble sandwiches, thinly spread a small amount of mayo mixture on each slice of bread. Take 1/4 cup of the chicken salad and spread over one slice of bread. Don't overfill the sandwiches. Add the other slice of bread on the top and press gently. With a sharp knife, slice off the crusts and then cut diagonally into four triangles, or cut into three finger sandwiches.

A Beach Picnic with No Cook Kabobs

We've been having a hard couple of weeks trying to get together, the Dude and I. It's been a whirlwind of Summer colds, the start of a teaching year with classes that start at 7AM, and the reality that we're both of an age where bedtime comes earlier than when we were in our 20s.

I'm not the type of girl that needs to see the Dude in her life every day, but the lack of face-to-face connection was starting to wear thin. So when the Dude suggested a beach day, I rejoiced.

I love the beach. I think blue sky, ocean and sand are one of the most beautiful views known to man. Also, I have a soft spot for the beach - the Dude and I spent our early dating months going to the beach, sitting in the sand, listening to the roar of the ocean while we revealed our hearts bit by bit, both a little awed at taking the risk, both a little relieved that we did.

I decided to pack us a picnic - nothing too fancy or complicated. The Martha Stewart in me wanted to make chicken salad, a fruit cobbler, and rolls. But the thing about the beach is that, lovely as it is, sand is one of the hardest things in the world to get off you. I still have sand in the trunk of my car from those early months of dating - and it's been a year.

So the good rule of thumb with beach picnics is this - less is more. Any kind of food that lends itself to less silverware, less plates, less napkins, less containers, less on-location prep, is the kind of food you want to pack. Imagine trying to scoop chicken salad onto a paper plate when a gust of wind picks up the sand and dumps it on the beach towel you're sitting on. Yep, exactly.

This is why food on a skewer is so great for a beach picnic, All the prep, mostly cutting and skewering, can be done in the comfort of your kitchen. Anything that can be cut up into bite sized pieces can be put on a skewer. Putting multiple, complimentary tastes on a stick gives everyone a little variety with every bite. And, most importantly, when you're at the beach and you have sandy hands, you can have grab a skewer and munch away without ever having to touch the food.

I ended up making a set of fruit kabobs with strawberries, grapes, mango and bananas, and a set of savory kabobs with cherry tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and chicken sausage. All of these could be served cold - which would be refreshing in 80 degree weather. I also packed the cooler some lemonade in a recycled 64 oz juice bottle and my stash of Girl Scout cookies that'd been sitting in my freezer.

We threw the cooler, two beach chairs, a gigantic polka-dotted beach umbrella, and assorted beach blankets in the back of his car, and headed for the ocean.

Days where we spend the entire day with one another are all about ebb and flow. Just like the ocean, there are moments in the day where the Dude and I swell with conversation - both meaningful and mundane. And then there are other moments in the day where we fall silent.

I have to admit - the silence between us is something I've struggled to get used to. It's not that I'm uncomfortable with silence per se. I've spent days by myself, talking to no one, and been absolutely happy and content. I think it's the silence of the other - whether be it the friend, the date, the Dude - that I often  find challenging. The silence leaves a gap of unspoken and unknown. This is a gap I'm quick to fill with my own insecurities: I must have offended him. He must be angry at me. He's about to leave me. 

When I relax into this silence, though, I'm often rewarded by surprise. I suspect the silence gives space and time for those quiet, back-of-our minds kind of thoughts to grow a little, push through the soil and become a seedling of new conversation.

So in between soaking in the sun, reading cooking magazines, and sipping on a dollar diet coke, the subject of our future was broached. I'm not fully sure what brought it on. Maybe the weeks we hadn't seen each other brought home the reality that life doesn't feel quite right without one another. Maybe it's because we've been together a year now and what's next in our future is an obvious topic. But perhaps it was the silence that gave each of our inklings of the future a little space and time to turn into a full-blown thought. A thought that would lead to a concrete conversation, then a direction, then somewhat of a plan.

And so, I celebrate silence. It's not such a bad idea to exercise some quiet - and what better place than in the kitchen with this no cook kabob recipe? There's minimal work involved here - only some chopping and certainly no turning on of the oven. Personally, I think there's something very soothing about making kabobs. It's all that repetition and pattern - grape, strawberry, mango, repeat - that helps me focus and quiet my mind.

Fruit Kabobs

Ingredients
Grapes
Strawberries
Mango
Bananas

1. Slice the mango into approximately 2 inch cubes, and the bananas into approximately 1 inch slices.
2. Remove the leafy stems from the strawberries. Depending on the size of the strawberries, you may want to slice them into halves as well.
3. Skewer the kabobs as desired. It's probably easiest to start with grapes, since they hold their shape well, and can be used to keep the mango cubes firmly on the skewer.

Sausage, Cheese and Cherry Tomato Kabobs

Ingredients
Fully cooked chicken sausage from Trader Joe's
Cherry tomatoes
Mozzarella balls - bite sized ones, may be labelled as Bocconcini

1. Nothing to slice here, simply skewer each item in the order desired.