Norwegian Pancakes

Mika decided to shed herself of the abnormally normal sleep routine imposed by her lackadaisical authoritarian parents, choosing instead to put head to pillow long after Mom, and at an hour often eclipsing her Dad. Usually, there is dancing. A tap routine across a pillow top mattress, a few pirouettes through Mom’s hair, a high…

Salmon Cakes With Cucumber Sauce

The Italian farmer I was an indentured servant for spoke in a decaying patois whispered behind a discolored tongue routinely pushing a single front tooth upright. I never understood his mumbling agrarian demands and tried to read facial expressions to decipher the urgency and importance of directions delivered via a countenance which perpetually resembled a…

Steamed Buns

Our oven broke. According to the horizontally blessed repairman, the problem is “Grunt (burp) mumbling mechanism” and will be fixed when “Grumble grumble (sigh) fart.” (audibly passes gas) It’s been several days since the wheezing repairman’s sausage fingers deftly tickled the Frigidaire, thus leaving us with an inability to cook food unless it is a)boiled…

Flax Teething Biscuits (Crackers).

Mika’s front teeth broke through as we were boarding a plane to celebrate her first birthday in California. The mountain range building on pink gums didn’t seem to upset her, at least not in the “When your baby finally begins to teeth, she will scream, run a fever, forget motor skills,  and require an endless…

Meal Boxed.

The local grocery recently implemented a change in how one purchases meat from the butchery counter: (most) every cut of meat or fish is painted with glow in the dark marinades fostering dental caries or use a “secret” spice rub applied as if one were breading for the deep fryer. There is no bread. Or…

Lengua De Gato (Lengua De Bagno!?)

The flirtations with terrible not quite two tantrums were slyly winked by way of an exaggerated charade of weak legs and heavy feet made immobile after a wrinkled thumb mashed an elevator button and not, as Mika was accustomed to, her own. There were intimations in the tremolo of her cries and the strength of…

Lebanese Eggplant

I haven’t figured out if Mika enjoys the flavor of eggplant, or, if her aubergine preference is inveterate in the elongated vegetable’s sponge-like ability to absorb whatever liquid and/or fat one decides to cook the purple egg in. Does Mika find steamed/grilled/roasted eggplant enhances ingredients she prefers, or, does the mild, meaty flesh simply add…

Wild Rice & Beet Patties (alt. We Do Not Own A Grill)

We do not own a grill, so are unable to join the free world honoring the fallen with slabs of grilled meat rapturously slathering greasy BBQ sauce over a rediscovered white wardrobe. The makeshift public park pits saddled with rusty grates are claimed by handcuffed overzealous carnivores refusing adherence to meteorological prophecies of rain. Our…

Farro With Nettles and Puree of Carrot

We’re predictably bored. Spring blossomed one weekend. Followed by glimmers of hot, swampy summers Minnesotans pretend to enjoy. We debated installing the air conditioners, only to be forced to turn on the radiators the following day. The farmer’s market sells roasted nuts and tie-dye MAGA T-shirts. Crudely designed cards land in our palms, “Next week,…

Pappardelle With Beet Greens, Pancetta & Flora Nelle

The first time Mika showed fear that was not steeped in the uncertain terror associated with life outside the womb, was when my wife squealed like a pig. Flared her nostrils, inhaled and (we thought) playfully grunted like our friends responsible for giving the world bacon. Mom oinked. Mika panicked. Inconsolable, she flailed limbs until…

Syttende mai meatballs!

How we’re celebrating Norwegian Constitution Day: Public readings of Knausgård. A-ha! and Ylvis on a continuous loop. Writing a 10,000 word blog post advocating for the United States to adopt the Nordic model. Watching people knit. Pickling fish. Petitioning for Jante Law. Pulling small automobiles with our teeth. Regretting eating that entire brick of gjetost….

Paella.

Mika has never met her godmother. She in the Bay area, we, for better or worse, rolling one eye at the middle west while the other eye squints until we see glimmers of the Golden Gate. I make it a habit of telling Mika about the city where her parents met. It’s an act of…