Don’t ask me what this has to do with angels, but I haven’t cooked all week. My daughter Louisiana and her bff Mia are in an all-day cooking camp, where, among other things, they prepare a gourmet dinner to bring home to family.
Since Mia is visiting us from New Hampshire (without her family), we find two families’ worth of food on our table each night. When we saw what that meant Monday evening, we called our cross-the-street neighbors and told them to come right over for beef empanadas, corn salad, fresh baby greens and carrot cake for dessert.
The next night we invited a family friend, a single man whose specialty in the kitchen is pasta. Dinner? Whole wheat penne pasta and meatballs with marinara sauce, zucchini parmesan, and garlic knots with rosemary and sundried tomatoes. Biscotti for dessert. Our friend pronounced the meal “remarkable,” and took the leftovers home for lunch the next day.
Last night Louisiana invited some girlfriends for stuffed salmon, crab cakes, parsnip mashed potatoes, and bib lettuce salad with lemon juice and (very good) olive oil. We all managed to make room for the creamy blueberry cheesecake that followed. Tonight we will host my best commuting buddy and her family for a meal so exotic Louisiana is keeping it a secret until I get home from work. She just texted me to say she’s especially proud of tonight’s offering because it looks “professional.” Iron Chef, watch out!
Well, someone’s in the kitchen with Lulu to make her and much of our neighborhood so happy this week. Someone besides her fellow campers and counselors and bff Mia. It’s the angel who looks over her shoulder while she’s stirring those pots and washing those pans, all so she can please the full table of people she’ll come home to.
