A charcuterie board, but one where you can eat the board, too.
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Summer has always been lemonade. Cool hose water, fresh grass, sea salt or mountain air. But, over time, it’s easy to forget summer as it was— those simple pockets of magic nostalgia that are waiting to be found again. So, in an effort to remember when summer was three glorious, free months with little to no schedule or responsibilities, I made lemonade.
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This simple recipe is from our wonderfully 1970s “Recipe Collector” binder. The one that holds a slew of index card recipes from friends, newspapers, parties— all in different styles of handwriting, some yellowed, some with ingredients stained into the paper.
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On a frozen Eastern Montana day, one of the best feelings is coming in from the cold to thaw out. Your toes and fingertips have a biting pain in them from getting too cold, your eyelashes are sprinkled with frost, and you’re covered in hay dust, manure, and God only knows what else is on that dirty coat.
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My maternal grandmother, Twila Wilhelm, is the only person I know who still bakes a plateful of goodies to give to family around the Holidays. Miniature loaves of poppy seed bread, homemade potato mints, chocolate-covered toffee, and the ever-elusive divinity are coveted items that we all await to receive each year.
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Chocolate Bavarian cream pie has been a Rowson holiday staple for generations. Of course, like most family recipes, I thought that the Bavarian cream pie was a proprietary Rowson family heirloom.
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An æbleskiver (ei·bluh·skee·vr) is a traditional Danish pancake— a fluffy sphere about the size of a tennis ball. My Nana always makes them for Christmas, and we always did the same growing up. The family record for number of æbleskivers consumed in one Christmas morning is held by my Uncle Nick: an impressive twenty-one.
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My grandma, the GM, lover of root beer floats and chocolate, and Eastern Montana’s historian was a force to be reckoned with.
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Today, when I lifted the pie crust to be draped over the top of the apples and sugar and cinnamon, I realized I was moving in the kitchen with the same effortlessness I watched my grandmother use. She drifted from countertop to countertop, mixing ingredients, shutting cupboards, and deftly lifting wax paper to lay crust atop a pie that already smelled like heaven.
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The women in my family have a long history of hands that smell faintly of onion and garlic. I was raised in an apron, learning how to cook cherry pie filling thickly and to peel a potato skin paper-thin. I’m proud to come from a long line of strong women and incredible cooks— including my Great-Grandmother, Amalia (Mollie).
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