Serenity & Spice

I remember years ago, one cloudy afternoon when my dad decided to take me to Vino’s Pizza and Brewery not too long after my 21st birthday. He ordered two beer samplers and then proceeded to go through each one with me. My dad had been a BJCP (Beer Judge Certification Program) Judge for years and he took this as the perfect opportunity to teach me about beer styles.  It was probably January or February of 2006, and I had recently returned from my first tour in Iraq. Growing up, he had given me tidbits but never gave me an actual class before. To him, a beer tasting was a rite of passage for me. Ken Haycook was determined that his daughter would go out into the world knowing how to drink beer. In honor of Father’s Day, I made I Love You, Dad Pizza . I made pizza crust with 6 Bridges Cream Ale from Vino’s. A few months back, I did a beer and cookie pairing but wasn’t able to include Vino’s in the mix. Given this memory, I felt it deserved something a little more special.  My d...

Last week, I may have come off as a bit negative. Recently, I’ve realized that most of the writing I have done in the past year, if not for this blog or the time I participated in NaNoWriMo , has been for therapeutic purposes. Although it has helped me emotionally, it has not helped creatively. For this post, I will focus on something more positive. You can’t be sad with ice cream. My initial plan was to build a sundae that would completely represent everything I loved about myself when I was a kid. I was creative, silly, energetic, brave, and I tried to be kind. Who we were as children is probably the purest version of ourselves. That was before the stress and trauma of everyday life alters our personality. Seven-year-old me would not have been afraid to go after what she wanted. She was awesome! Do you think it's possible for a person to re-raise themself? I don’t own an ice cream maker, and given the limited space I have available in my kitchen, I don’t see the point in getting ...

I have a habit of stumbling upon memories while cooking. On an ordinary weeknight, I will throw together something quick for dinner. Usually it’s pasta of some kind. On occasion, I will start a roux and add some milk, basil, and garlic. With that first taste, I am eight years old. In a dark corner of an ordinary shopping center in Casa Linda, there existed a tiny restaurant called Frankie’s Little Europe. Frankie, the owner, would greet every guest who walked through the door. He knew who his regulars were and treated them like royalty. My parents and I had been regular customers there for years. Because of how expensive it could be, my father would limit taking us there only on special occasions which ended up being at least once month. Frankie would drop what he would be doing, rush over and kiss my mother’s hand as soon as we stepped through the door. Regardless of how busy they were I never remember waiting. At places three times their size, we would wait for over an h...