The Measure of a Meal

~By Heather Ray My daddy is a good cook, the kind who remembers all the ingredients and measures by instinct: another touch of brown sugar or yellow mustard or chili powder to perfect his irresistible caramelized sloppy joe, prepared for a family of four with “oh, about a pound and a half? of ground beef.”…

The Love of Cooking

~By Jaclyn Liechti They say that women are attracted to men that remind them of their fathers, and I suppose in my case, it’s at least partially true. My father is a great cook, and I find this quality immensely attractive in the opposite sex. Growing up, I didn’t have the normal ideas of gender…

In the summertime…

~By Katie Blais A bulk of my childhood summers were spent at the Swedish Social Club … a men’s club that my grandfather and dad belonged to … it was this huge old building on a lake that turned into a playground for my brother and my cousins and me on those hot summer days. …

The Healing Powers of Soup

~By Kate H. Knapp If I could go back in time and impart one piece of wisdom to my younger self, it would be to appreciate the soup. Granted, I’ve learned plenty that could benefit the immature me, plus things that would redefine many of the mistakes I have made since those days of youth….

A Not So Rockin’ New Year

~By Katie Blais OK, this might not be the nicest thing to say, but my mom isn’t the best cook. Many a debacle has taken place in our kitchen. One time she set pork chops on fire on the grill-my dad came home from work to charred pork chops floating in a pail next to…

Lessons from my Grandmother

~By Katie Blais So many memories of my grandmother involve some sort of food and eating.  Picnics at the lake on Sundays in the summer with her green canteen full of lemonade. Coming up from the beach at noon, covered in salt and sun screen and having her make me an egg salad sandwich ……

Don’t Mess With Perf-Egg-tion

~By Emily Workman My Mother’s family, the Jorgensen’s, had very structured guidelines about holiday traditions.  For instance, they always went on a picnic and rolled hardboiled eggs down the steep hills of Logan Canyon on Easter.  In observation of this particular tradition, my Alaskan family and I have ended up shivering inside a car, looking…