The 10 p.m. news anchor had just announced a hard frost. The only sane and logical thing for me to do was to leap from the couch, grab a few ziploc bags, a pair of clippers and run outside in my husband’s jacket and a pair of slippers.

Maple tree with herb garden

Maple tree with herb garden


I had pushed my garden to its limit. It was cold and getting colder the herbs would not make it through the night, but I couldn’t bare to let them go to waste. So there I stood in the dark, hunched over my herb garden frantically cutting woody branches of rosemary, clipping scraggly stems of thyme and praying that the parsley and sage would make it. My hands were freezing and my husband was shaking his head in the doorway, but 10 minutes later I ran into the house victorious with four huge zip loc bags full of herbs. Well, herbs and dead leaves.

Little did I know on that fateful night three years ago that procrastination and a little bit of crazy would lead to the best way of preserving fresh herbs.

My herb garden is planted under the shade of a teenage Maple tree. As the weather cools the leaves drop and insulate the plants a bit. I like to think it extends the growing season for me. When I clipped all those herbs and shoved them haphazardly into the ziploc bags, I scooped up quite a few fallen leaves in the process. I was eager to reclaim my spot under a blanket and on the couch so I didn’t bother to pick the leaves out of the bags. Ever. Thanksgiving arrived and I retrieved fresh rosemary, parsley and sage from the bag to make stuffing and dress the turkey. Christmas came and I did the same. Sage is the first herb to die off followed by parsley but it lasted until the end of January and some even made it until Valentines day. The rosemary and thyme made it until March, by then I was only weeks away from the early growth of a new herb garden and didn’t mind the wait. My theory was that something about the decaying leaves some how preserved the herbs and kept them fresh. I repeated this process for the next two years and it worked both times.

I highly recommend adding dead leaves to your herbs when you cut them down for the year, maybe do it a little before the hard frost so you don’t freeze.


Herbs shoved in bags by a crazy woman.




Apple Cinnamon Cake

Apple Cinnamon Cake

Six fruit trees arch and bend near the last place I stood before I became a wife. Steve and I planted them the year after we were married. We intended no significance, it was just a flat spot at the bottom of the hill.  Now that we are years into this rural existence, I realize we picked a terrible spot for a grove of trees, but such is life — we learn as we go along.

The trees, five apples and one pear, are all that remain of the original grove. We had another pear and a couple of cherries, but they didn’t survive the hail storms, winters and late frosts, or the deer, the damn deer who nibble away at the tender branches in spring and fight to rub against the bark to mark territory and destroy trunks during the rut. When I agreed to shed my urban skin and move to the country nearly a decade ago, Steve agreed that the land we lived on would be a “no kill zone.” Contracts like that happen when a hunter falls in love with a vegetarian. Though my vegetarian days are long gone, I still protect those frolicking menaces while my hunter husband sits waiting anxiously for me to say, “Forget it, get the gun and let’s have venison for dinner.”

This year marks the first that our apple trees have produced. Rather than being a not so young bride standing in my front yard waiting to marry my not so young groom. This fall I stood in the middle of the trees as a fully indoctrinated wife and mother of two. The four of us hauling wagons of apples to the house where I made honey cinnamon applesauce, apple pie, apple crisp, and, the much awaited apple cinnamon cake. A few months ago, I wrote a post about a chef who made a cake for us when my husband was hospitalized just before Christmas a few years ago. Many of you asked for the cake recipe. I didn’t have the chef’s exact recipe, but I wrote my own and it’s close to the taste I remember on Christmas morning when my family and I indulged not only in its flavor but in the respite it provided us. I can’t think of anything more true to the taste of home than making it with apples from a tree my husband planted, when we were not so young but not as old as we are now.

Apple Cinnamon Cake


  • 1 1/2 cup granulated sugar (divided)
  • 1 tablespoon + 2 teaspoons cinnamon (divided)
  • 2 apples (peeled, cored and thinly sliced)
  • 1/2 cup oil
  • 1/2 cup applesauce
  • 2 eggs
  • 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon extract
  • 1 3/4 cup all purpose flour
  • 1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt
  • 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly grated)
  • 1/8 teaspoon ground clove


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Butter the bottom and sides of a spring form pan. In a small bowl combine 1/4 cup of sugar with 2 tsp of cinnamon. Take half of the mixture and sprinkle the bottom of the buttered pan with it. Save the rest for later.
Peel, core and thinly slice the apples so they are ready when you are.
In a medium-sized bowl, use a spoon to stir together the remaining 1 1/4 cup of sugar, oil and applesauce. Make sure it's mixed-in well. Next add the eggs and extracts, mixing it in thoroughly as well. In a smaller bowl sift together the flour, salt, baking powder, and spices. Add the dry mixture to the wet mixture and stir until almost all the dry ingredients have been dampened, but you still see pockets of flour. Add the apples and stir until coated. This step will make or break the texture of the cake. If you over mix, it will be tough. So take your time, fold a little here, stir a little there until everything is coated. Pour it into the prepared pan, sprinkle the top with the remaining sugar and cinnamon mixture. Pop it in the oven for about 30-35 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
Let the Apple Cinnamon Cake cool on the counter for about 15 minutes, before removing from the pan, cutting and serving this warm (its good at room temp too). If you want to get fancy, loosely whip some heavy cream and serve a dollop on top and dripping down the side.



A Little Bit of Honey

I accidentally watched the news last night, something I have worked diligently to avoid since I became a mother. The broadcast, of course, lead with crime, had an unnecessary amount of weather, then finished with crime because its cheap and easy to report. I went to bed thinking what a terrible world we live in.

This morning, I kissed my kids, went to work and called a honey producer in South Dakota. He’s not a fit for the book only because he gives away his honey rather than sells it. The chef is a friend so he is the lucky recipient of it. I won’t be writing a story on him for the book and shared that with him, but even still he invited me to dinner the next time I’m ready for a bite to eat in Sioux Falls.

The number of times I’ve been invited to sit a table with relative strangers for the simple sake of making new friends and swapping stories has happened more often than I can remember throughout the writing of this book. They have been little presents that kept me motivated on hour 15 of a 17 hour day. Everyone is SOOOOOOO friendly and kind and wonderful, it reminds me why I started writing this book in the first place. To show the world what we have to offer here in terms of food, yes, but also in terms of place and people. The quality of our human capital is high. It reminds me that the world is full of people who are kind for kindness sake, most of us live in the middle states (wink to my coastal friends) and that my sweet little babes are going to be just fine.

The other thing that strikes me is how this honey making man has no idea how he lifted my spirits today. Great gifts come from small actions.

My fist book contract! I'm crazy excited!

My fist book contract! I’m crazy excited!

More than three years ago while I was round with my second baby and waddling from one coffee shop to the another. Laptop bag on my shoulder and tall non-fat decaf latte in hand, I met and old friend who convinced me to write a little book I’d been thinking about for awhile. The concept was simple — farmers, chefs, recipes and a few props for this place I call home. A few months after that I met up with the amazingly talented Dana Damewood, who agreed to photograph the project.

It’s a seasonal cookbook with stories about the people who grow food and chefs who create masterpieces for our plates and our palates. I’d like to say that writing this book has been about the food for me. I mean, that would make sense. A cookbook is essentially about food, but the food isn’t the centerpiece of the book anymore than it is the centerpiece of our dinner table. Food serves one purpose and that is to sustain us for our families and friends. It is to sustain the conversation and carry it beyond the functional and into the fundamental. A well-made meal helps us slow down and linger with one another. The food and drink bring us to the table, while the stories we share and our time together become the warm glow the keeps us in our chairs.

The dinner table is where my husband, Steve, and I sit and listen to our five-year-old share the tales of his day, often with no way of knowing what is fact or fiction. It’s where our almost 3-year-old says she is not hungry because a lion ate all of her food. It is where my husband and I amid the chatter and even the frustrations of mealtime with young children teach them to be still and listen to one another. When we take the time to cook a meal and share it, we give of our time and ourselves to those we love. The book is about creating an opportunity live in this space together, and to honor the home cooks and chefs, farmers and artisans of Nebraska, Iowa and South Dakota, who choose to make these places of sand and structure, forest and prairie and husk and hooves their home. Without them, their trust in me and their contributions, this book would not exist.

People from other places, busier places, more densely populated places call these flyover states, as in there is nothing worth stopping for, so just flyover it. It’s a shame really because people who feel that way are sacrificing sacred spaces, historic neighborhoods and genuinely kind people. The book highlights these culinary and community diamonds, hopefully to encourage those flyover naysayers to touch down for a visit, break some bread and stay awhile. We are known for being friendly around here, and feeding people is kind of our thing.

Now that I’m a little less round, a lot less pregnant, and the mother of two busy kids this book is almost complete. I am thrilled to say I have signed a contract with Agate Publishing out of Chicago.  I’m going to share that journey here where I hope you will also share your journeys with me. Make a sandwich and pour yourself a drink. Let’s be great friends.


Spring Forward

Jackson wakes up a half an hour on either side of 6 a.m. He has done this for his entire life — all four years of it. Any parent with an early riser loves and loathes two time-sensitive events springing forward and falling back of daylight savings.

During the pre-baby time of my life falling back meant the world was full of new opportunities — an extra hour to get loaded at the bar, an extra hour to sleep in the morning — really important and critical events. Life post-babies makes falling back a brutal, soul-sucking experience. Trying to train a child to go to sleep an hour earlier takes weeks of preparation and training — ticking back bedtime 5 minutes at a time, day by day until finally you reach the moment when daylight savings time requires us to retreat and beg these little ones to go to bed. “But it’s still sunny!” they say. “I don’t have to sleep when it’s sunny!” “Yes, you do,” I say and the saga continues. The battle seems endless. It’s a horrible, horrible time. The spring, however, is a time for rejoicing if you are a parent.

Right now at this very moment I can’t help but fantasize about what my life will be like tomorrow morning when I roll over in bed and see that my alarm clock reads, “7:00 a.m.” it will be like Christmas. Angels will sing. Church bells will chime and I will know that for the next two to three weeks until Jackson’s internal clock starts ticking its way back toward the unholy hour of 5:30 a.m.  two great gifts will be mine. First, I will wake on my own without the sledge hammering of little feet running to jump on my head and ask me for me milk and second the sun will be shinning and I will, at least for two weeks, be a rested and reasonable human being. If you need to ask me for anything. This is your window of opportunity.