Currah - Savory sweet life : 100 simply delicious recipes for every family occasion

I dont like gourmet cooking or this cooking or that cooking. I like good cooking.

JAMES BEARD

BY REE DRUMMOND, THE PIONEER WOMAN

Alice and I met for the first time at a conference in San Francisco. She introduced herself, then presented me with a small jar of sea salt from Puget Sound. We stood there and talked, and within a minute or two I knew a friendship had begun. Alice didnt bother with small talk or uncomfortable, introductory how-do-you-dos; instead she launched right into emotional, meaningful conversation as if those few minutes would be the only time wed ever get to spend together. I remember our conversation as if it were yesterday.

When I returned home from the conference, I whipped up a batch of chocolate truffles... and sprinkled some of my Puget Sound sea salt over the top of each one. I stood back and admired the truffles, reflecting on what a unique, memorable gift the sea salt had been and what a sweet soul Id met in Alice. In the years since, Ive protected the little jar of salt as a precious treasure, using it only when I feel that what Im cooking or baking is worthy of such a fine adornment. And whether its dusting the top of salted caramels or buttered rosemary rolls, I always think of Alice when I use it.

I savor that sea salt, in much the same way Alice savors life.

Alices contemplative appreciation for everyday joys is evident in her writing, whether on her website, Savory Sweet Life, or in her e-mail correspondence with me. Whatever the topic, she always manages to write something that makes me slow down, take a moment, and take her words to heart. In this time of hurried, hectic schedules and overflowing in-boxes, seeing a message from Alice always makes me smile because I know Im in for some sort of treat: a word of encouragement, a beautiful photo, or just a chuckle. Alices silly sense of humor is the icing on the cake.

And then theres her food. Ive been a fan of Alices cooking blog from the beginning, mostly because she pours her heart and creativity into the things she cooks and bakes. Her ability to nail simple-but-delicious food is what keeps me coming back. I could marry her Caramelized Onion Clam Dip and live happily ever after with her Rustic Spiced Plum Tart. My kids, on the other hand, would eat her Caramel Corn every day for the rest of their lives and never tire of it. Yum!

I cheered for joy when I learned that Alice would be writing this book. And as I read it and inhaled not just the delicious recipes, but also her stories about how the food colors all the occasions and celebrations in her family, I settled in and savored every word. And my heart... well, it just felt happy.

I know the same thing will happen to you.

Love,

Ree

When I close my eyes, I can still remember vivid details about the dishes my mother prepared for my siblings and me when we were kidsdishes like spaghetti with sauce from a Prego jar, which was hardly difficult to make but comforting nonetheless because of the personal touches Mom added to make the recipe her own.

Most of Moms meals were of the one-pot variety because both my parents typically worked twelve- to fourteen-hour days. Mom would make dinner in the morning before leaving for work so it would be ready for us when we came home from school hungry. In hindsight, we should have appreciated her spaghetti more.

I knew my father as a gardener long before it was considered cool to grow your own organic food. I grew up with four sisters and a brother in North Seattle, where Dads garden was nearly as big in square footage as our tiny brick home. He grew all sorts of vegetablesred-leaf lettuce, spinach, broccoli, cucumbers, squash, potatoesand the chain-link fence around our property also served as an arbor for grapevines. We had an apple tree that produced small greenish-red apples, which wed pick for Moms homemade applesauce during the autumn months. I was convinced the apples from our tree were exotic because Moms applesauce was the best. The only ingredients she ever added were a touch of cinnamon and a smidge of water.

My mother was a great cook, although she said her approach to cooking was too simple to be considered good home cooking. But I disagree. Her food was honest, comforting, and delicious. There were never leftovers and we always had enough. Cooking was her strength, but baking was another story. I dont recall her ever baking a single thing in our oven.

Fortunately for our family, we were blessed to have a wonderful elderly neighbor named Alice, after whom I was named. While she never married or had children of her own, we considered her our second grandmother, which she loved. She was short in stature but full of energy and stories of her travels to Africa and other exotic places. I loved her stories, but what I loved even more was her passion for baking.

Every Sunday we waited anxiously for our old olive-green rotary phone to ring. When Mom picked up the phone we would watch intently for signs that it was Alice inviting us to come visit her. Her enthusiastic voice was the only prompt we needed to know it was time to go. My sisters and I would get our shoes on as fast as we could and race to her house, fighting over who would ring the doorbell. When Alice opened her door, the aroma of freshly baked goods was always right behind her: apple pie, blue-berry muffins, and a host of other treats.

Alices baking had a way of making us feel loved and fortunate. Whether it was homemade cream puffs filled with vanilla-scented whipped cream, a fresh fruit pie with berries picked from her yard, or a batch of sugar cookies just out of the oven, everything she baked was scrumptious and every Sunday with Alice was special.

Every year Alice would bake each of us a beautifully decorated birthday cake. There was always a card attached with a one-dollar bill inside. We waited on pins and needles to see what our cake would look like. As soon as Alice called to let us know it was ready, we ran to her house and carefully carried home her masterpiece. Mom would insist we wait until after dinner to eat our cake, which was torture. When it was finally time for cake, Mom would cut eight small slices, with us stuffing our mouths as quickly as we could, hoping for a shot at a second piece. Our family never celebrated birthdays with presentsbeing together and Alices special birthday cakes were the only gifts I ever needed.

My family has always believed that I supernaturally inherited Alices baking genes, and Ill be forever grateful to her for the love of baking she passed on to me. If Alice were still with us today, I know she would be proud to know her legacy continues through me and my children, Abigail, Mimi, and Eli.

It wasnt until I was an adult and had moved out of the house that I recognized the correlation between the food I grew up eating and the memories of my childhood, and realized how both of these things kept me emotionally connected to people, places, and events. Particular dishes have been like snapshots in my life journal, helping me to remember more fondly the details of time spent with family and friends.