Best Dill Pickles [Refrigerator Pickles.]

As someone who absolutely loves pickles, I was thrilled at the simplicity of the recipe.

I have kept the very first index card I wrote with the recipe on it. It is many, many pickles old and has many markings of use. [See photo above.] Many friends have asked for this recipe so I know it's a good one. I enjoy making them throughout the year, but especially during Summer when the dill and cucumbers are in season. 

These are known as "refrigerator pickles." The original recipe noted to refrigerate them for three days before trying. Mmmm. Hmmmm. I try them within hours and they only get better each day. I do not know exactly how long they last but as my friend said "They're in vinegar, they're fine."

So without adding unnecessary and cumbersome text to this latest blog post, I'll keep it as simple as the recipe. 

Let me know if you try it. 

Boil the brine (water, vinegar, kosher salt)

Place cucumbers, sliced however you'd like, in the containers. Add garlic, dill and anything else you'd like (onions, crushed red pepper, black pepper)

Once brine is boiled, pour it over the cucumbers.

That is all. Here are some details: 

Bathe the cukes in cold water and a little vinegar to clean them.
Ten min will do.

Get your containers ready!

You'll only need three measuring cups.

Wash that dill also. If you don't have fresh, just add dried to your containers, it's fine.

Get those fresh garlic cloves ready. Peel and slice or leave whole. The pickled garlic is delicious to eat as well.

Salt out. I use Kosher every time.

Make your brine by adding the measured water, white vinegar and salt to a big pot. Bring to a boil.

As your brine boils, cut the cucumbers, add them along with the dill and garlic pieces to your containers.

When the brine is boiled, pour it over the cucumbers until they are covered. I use the large measuring cup or ladel.

Extra bring leftover? Pickle something else. Pickled onions? I just use the same brine and I added a teaspoon of honey to each jar. I also added dill to one just to see how it would taste.

Save those jar to use for pickling!

I repurpose and add my own labels. 

Enjoy!

From August 16, 2012

It has been three years today, August 16, 2012, since my dad passed away. Three years ago today, my husband was in South Africa with his siblings and their father, mourning the loss of my mother-in-law. Yes, three years ago, my husband and I both lost a parent in a matter of one week. We were discussing this the other day as we were returning from a camping trip. We met and came from worlds apart sixteen years ago, yet had something so significant happen to us the same week in time so many years later. At the time, it seemed so surreal and it still seems somewhat mysterious.

I'll never forget this ridiculous statement I said just minutes after my father was pronounced dead at the emergency room. Very inappropriately, I said that my mother-in-law must be saying, "Dennis, what are you doing here?" Yes, I actually said that, to my mother of all people and yes, I tried to mimic her lovely South African accent as I said it. But, that's how incomprehensible it all was and I'm sure I was simply trying to cope.

I recently read an account I had written just days after, about what transpired that week. In it I wrote how we had learned just two weeks prior to Penny's death that the end was near from a cancer she battled for at least two years; about how my father had just finished cooking us all dinner on the grill when he suffered a heart attack and I held his face in one hand and his left hand in the other and he very abruptly took one of his last breaths as a tear left his eye and slowly journeyed down his cheek. I could very much dwell on these things and find myself full of grief or allow myself the stress of memorializing the trauma that occurred even that one day.
There is a periodic, but remarkable sadness that my children don't have a grandfather here in the states, there will always be an emptiness and a sorrow that my brother and I both have children whom my father would have adored, but he never knew because they were born after his death. I especially feel that grief for my brother, who had the best relationship with my dad; he knew how to forgive him, honor him and how to be his friend. He was such a good son, regardless of what kind of parent my dad was. My dad would have been so proud of my brother for the father that he is today. My dad loved all his children, but our relationships were quite strained. I find it strange now that it doesn't take away the enormity of the loss.
I often see my kids do something cute or a new skill and I wish I could share it with my mother-in-law. For a moment, I forget that she is no longer here. I think she would have absolutely adored my little girl, as would have, my dad. I wish my dad could have been there for my brother when he lost one of his twin boys, who was my dad's namesake. His death only seven months prior made it even more of a strain on my brother and all of us really, I'm sure. I wish he had been here for my three boys as their little baby sister was fighting for her life in the NICU and hospital for weeks on end.
When my dad died, my friend shared with me that she wished she could tell me that it gets better, but that it doesn't and that she always misses her dad. She had shared her thoughts with me in the initial period when a grieving person is absolutely exhausted. The time when running one errand to the store feels like you accomplished something big. So, when she said that, I dismissed it and thought, "that just cannot be true, no one could live like that." She also had an incredible relationship with her dad, I really didn't. So, that also made me dismiss her account. Now, I realize what she meant. It really doesn't get better because you will now always feel that absence.

As my children grow and I am witnessing my firstborn enter into the teens, it really brings to mind quite often the old cliche, that time flies. It really does. 

 Life can't be what you wish it was or is. 

Back to Nonni.

 Italian I am not. However, living outside of New Haven, Connecticut, I grew up with one of the biggest Italian populations in our country. I'm familiar with a lot of Italian food, traditions and the beautiful customs that Italian-Americans enjoy. My childhood friend Rose would spend summers with her father who lived one street over and I would frequently observe her immigrant stepmother and father as they created a little Italy on West Street. I couldn't speak Italian and her stepmother didn't seem to know much English, but somehow during a hot summer day, I found myself semi-voluntarily peeling nearly scalding my palms, blackened peppers they roasted on an open fire in their backyard. I witnessed their canning process from start to finish. I remember watching the manure being offloaded by a old, dented truck that was backed into their long driveway, past the three story colonial in the very modest neighborhood in which I grew up. When it wasn't occupied, Rose and I would play in the furnished basement apartment. I couldn't believe how much room there was and we would find ourselves playing "pretend house" in that spacious area. I am not aware of what happened from manure to harvest, but I do remember the mounds of soil and plants growing. It wasn't until Rose's stepmom planted that hot, roasted pepper in my hands that day and motioned directions that I would find myself becoming part of their harvesting process. I marveled at their wall shelves deep enough to be jampacked with glass jars with the fruits of their garden. I'd never seen anything like it and I wondered when they would eat it all. There wasn't a single jar with a store-bought label on it. 
My friends and some family members are either from Italy, or 1st, or 2nd generation Italians. My own husband is an Italian citizen, but that's a "whole notha" story! To put it mildly, there are a lot experts floating around my world. If someone is Italian around here, you hear about it and you hear about it in abundance. Sometimes, all you hear is how great it is to be Italian even if it just means they are sitting around talking about being Italian–somehow there's a greatness in that. 

Recently at a baby shower, my cousin's brother-in-law told me about his mother's cooking schedule every week that he and his brother (my cousin's husband) experienced growing up with two Italian parents in New England. Nonni, who is beloved by all of us, is a master seamstress with lots of clients, but what I learned from her son, was that she was also a master breadmaker, a master lasagna and sauce maker and a master of a wife and mother. Tony had no idea, but I was completely enthralled in his description of his mother's weekly menu. I could not believe the fortune I happened upon as he began to list his mother's weekly schedule. She would begin with the numerous loaves of bread at the end of the week, as described by son Tony. He motioned with his hands demonstrating how she'd place the dough around the kitchen. I imagined dough rising on countertops and window sills with cloths over each ball. I then pictured her placing the floured and risen dough in to the tins for baking. The sauce would be cooked over the weekend. And, this would be the food they ate all week. And, by the following Thursday, that food that was started seven days prior would be done and Rosalba would begin the routine again. As he described his mother's food, you could almost savor it, his love for his mother's cooking was so apparent and heartwarming. I urged him to write this down as he shared her unique lasagna recipe which she had in years past promised to make with me one day. He spoke for over and hour about their upbringing and their cooking and I loved hearing every minute. I did not grow up with grandfathers and the grandmothers I had shared no ethnic recipes as they were too busy being single-mothers and offered no centuries old traditions that I know of. I envy people who grew up with family gatherings of traditional foods and as much as I've tried to make traditions of my own, I'm not sure my kids will ever get the same senses I heard from Tony that day.

Back to Nonni. Back to Tony. The last thing Tony described after uncovering her secret ingredient for lasagna was regarding his family's tomatoes. It was an annual tradition as is with every family that cans their own. Tony said they never had the same amount of jars filled. Some years, it would be 63, some years 45, he recalled as he pointed his fingers to motion how they counted after the end of each season. But, they'd be the only jars they'd open and use–never store bought–his main point being it was their labor that produced what they would consume. Hearing that I just thought, gosh I can't remember a single thing my family did together annually. What an incredible privilege to grow up in this kind of culture. Sadly, most families are not carrying this on. But, it's certainly incredible that he can share this tradition through story telling.

Most Italians are proud and their sauce is always the best. And it's true, on a certain day, with that certain pasta and the certain surroundings—without any measurements to Italy-boot—your sauce is the best. And, if it begins with the fruit of their labor, well, that's just the pearl in the oyster, isn't it?  I'll never mess with your Nona's directions nor criticize that she didn't use San Marzanos. I don't judge her if she doesn't fry her meatballs stove-top first or use Pecorino-Romano or fresh parsley as a staple garnish. And yes, I also chuckle when a recipe calls for two cloves of garlic as I learned is the correct response because who measures garlic? Italians don't. But, they do, "do it best." This, I know. And, if you don't know, give it a minute and an Italian will tell you. 

That FOUR ingredient tomato sauce.

 I love recipes out of New York Times or other food publications. I married as a completely inexperienced cook and used to think I was hot stuff after heating up a Stouffer's salisbury steak dinner in the microwave and throwing together instant mashed potatoes for our meal as newlyweds. My goal pretty early in our marriage though and then after having children was to learn– really learn how to cook from scratch. And, so my journey began with falling for not only good recipes, but the stories behind those recipes. While scrolling through these boring blog articles in order to get to a recipe may be a pain in the butt, once in a while, there's a really great history behind that directive that makes the recipe that much more meaningful. When I came across this recipe from Marcella Hazan I couldn't believe it. Her recipe calls for four ingredients. Just add basil and garlic, right? No. No basil, no, and gulp, not even a clove of garlic. 

I made this sauce which is titled, "The Best Tomato Sauce" and I was absolutely delighted and surprised at how incredibly delicious it is. I began to look up other opinions on this sauce and was feeling like I was on to something—most people who make homemade sauce, have no restraint. Most write-ups on this recipe will start off calling it a four ingredient sauce, but they always end up commenting on what other ingredients can be added or alternatives for the four. And, friends and family that I've shared the recipe with gawked at the lack of spice or said something like, "Well, it was OK, I added garlic and parsley to mine." I began to care not so much about whether they liked the sauce, but I was humored by the again, lack of restraint. People simply cannot hold back from adding what they think  should be in an Italian sauce, rather than being willing to just try it. The main point of the recipe is that it is only four ingredients. Marcella's husband described Marcella's creation as being scientific and noting, she was born to make such a sauce, and her education in the sciences only helped her realize the chemistry of butter and onions. It just made sense.

There is a hero of this story, my longtime since childhood friend, whose grandparents arrived via Ellis Island from Italy. This is my seven fishes on Christmas Eve, every Saturday at Big Nanny's type of Italian friend. I nonchalantly shared the recipe with her thinking man she's gonna shoot me down for this one. A couple months later, I cautiously asked her about it and threw in, "hey I know you probably think it was a stupid recipe..." and without any hesitation she voices back, "Are you kidding me, it's now the only sauce I make, it is delicious!" That New Year's Eve, we made the sauce and put it over stuffed shells and baked them in my oven. I remember as we both took our first bite, we paused and looked at eachother with that look–like pardon my french but that is dang good. I think there may have been a little headshake and a minor bit of moaning and grunting. We both describe the sauce as velvety. And, now it is the only sauce both of us make. We just made it recently for a family gathering–hers over sausage, mine over meatballs and the the compliments were endless. I do not remove the onions when I serve. And, as Marcella's family advises, Marcella always added grated cheese when she served the sauce and so do I. 

The four ingredients are:

• 2 cups of fresh or a 28 ounce can of San Marzano tomatoes
• One onion, halved
• 5 tablespoons of butter
• salt

https://www.epicurious.com/expert-advice/marcella-hazan-famous-tomato-onion-butter-sauce-article

You bring to boil and then quickly turn down and let it simmer for at least 45 minutes. 

Ice Cream Bar for Dessert

For my son's recent "Jack n Jill" we set up an ice cream bar for dessert. We kept it simple and didn't serve anything else.The bride and groom chose their own candy. A cookie tray delivered a beautiful touch and we provided syrups and good whipped cream. 

The bride's grandmother placed all the candy into the dessert dishes and on trays that were all purchased at the dollar store or borrowed from the kitchen! Adding the silver trays added a little elegance to the set up.

 I found margarita glasses, fish bowls, candle holders and the shiny silver trays all for $1.25 each. Using larger silver spoons for serving worked perfectly. All the guests seemed to truly embrace the ice cream bar and the bride loved it. 

 The two tubs of ice cream were from Restaurant Depot and cost $45 for both. We used half of each tub--this was for approximately 80 guests.  Most people didn't want more than two scoops.

It was helpful for us to have two scoopers and start to prefill the bowls about two minutes before guests came up to the self-serve bar. My husband and myself were the scoopers and honestly, it gave us the opportunity to interact with every single guest. The bride and groom were served first. Of course, we customized the ice cream for the beloved, picky guests and gave extra scoops to those asking. It was truly a fun and unique way to have dessert and celebrate before the bride and groom opened their gifts. Guests ate their ice cream as they began to watch the gift opening!