Escape

I'm hitting the open and snowy road in a few moments to visit my mother, who will celebrate her birthday next week. I hear murmurings of a junk food rebellion in my absence. The offspring are restless. Whatever. I'm not the food police.

A beef vegetable stew is simmering in the crockpot, the kitchen is stocked with fruit and homemade granola bars, and I've left helpful notes about tortilla chips (fewer than five ingredients) that might be purchased, along with some baking suggestions. My work here is done. All culinary pyrotechnics are cancelled until Monday.

At my Italian-American mother's house, there is no such thing as ramen noodles, no instant soup or Kraft Dinner. She has never stirred flourescent orange dust into overcooked macaroni. These things simply do not exist. She has a hard time understanding this KD-loving country.

I will borrow from her foodie bookshelf--titles such as Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma, and another book on real food (I forget the author and title) that I want to re-read. This last calls for keeping a cow and eating raw liver, neither of which will be happening here.