I grew up in a family where food was part of the rhythm of everyday life. My parents had both lived through the Great Depression, and the lessons of those years stayed with them. Our pantry was well stocked, very little went to waste and meals were made at home.

My dad served in the Navy, my mom was an RN, and I was the youngest of four children. Trips to the military commissary weren’t casual shopping trips. It wasn’t close to home, so when Mom went, she stocked up. Two full carts at checkout weren’t unusual.

Looking back, I think much of what I love about cooking began in the home I grew up in—not with any one recipe, but with the understanding that the kitchen was one of the ways we cared for the people we loved.

One of Mom’s Tricks

The milk wasn’t quite what I thought it was.

One of the things Mom bought in quantity was milk, which raises the obvious question: how did a family possibly use all of it before it spoiled?

Mom had a system. She froze it.

When we needed another gallon, she would thaw it and mix it with powdered milk to stretch it even further. As a child, I couldn’t stand milk and wondered how anyone could drink it, little did I know the reason it tasted so awful was because it wasn’t truly milk, it was my moms own concoction that made it so bad.

It took me years to realize that our “regular milk” wasn’t quite as regular as I thought.

Growing Up

The Kitchen Table

We didn’t go out to dinner at all growing up. Dinner was at home, and we sat around the kitchen table together night after night.

And almost every night, somebody spilled a drink.

I’m not exaggerating.

It happened so regularly that it became part of dinner. We’d sit down, somebody would knock over a glass, and after a few colorful choice words-the mess would be cleaned up—and then we were ready to eat.

Those ordinary evenings probably didn’t seem particularly important at the time. Looking back, they were.

“Some of our strongest memories have a way of finding their way back to food.”

At Home

Why the Kitchen Still Matters to Me

Maybe that’s why the kitchen remains one of the most important rooms in my own home.

It’s my happy place.

I can disappear into the kitchen for hours—experimenting with a recipe, baking bread, working with my sourdough or taking something ordinary and figuring out how to make it just a little more special.

But what I love most isn’t really the cooking itself. It’s what happens around the food.

It’s having family gathered around the table. It’s making something because you know someone loves it. It’s pulling out a recipe that immediately reminds you of another kitchen, another holiday or someone you miss.

A Thanksgiving Memory

The Purple People Eater

One Thanksgiving after we moved into our home, I was finally able to host dinner there for the first time. My mom and my middle sister were able to come, which made the day especially meaningful to me.

I made a purple sweet potato casserole for the first time. Mom loved it—and because it was purple, she promptly christened it “The Purple People Eater.”

Mom is no longer with us, which makes that little memory mean even more to me now. I love remembering her sitting at my table, enjoying something I made and giving it a name that still makes me smile.

It will always be Mom’s Purple People Eater.

From My Kitchen

A few recipes worth keeping.

I’m slowly gathering the recipes that have earned a place in my kitchen—family favorites, old standbys, holiday dishes and the ones people keep asking me to make again.

Stay Awhile

There’s always something happening around here.

Wander around the house, see what’s growing in the garden or find out what project I’ve gotten myself into next.

At Home with Roxie

Good food. A well-loved home. A curious life.