Irene's Orange Rolls

I never had the opportunity to meet my Grandmother Irene. She died before I was born, fighting a cancer that eventually took her life. She was a strong woman, raising my mother and her two sons on a farm in small town America. There are a few anecdotes my mother likes to share with my sister and me, both humorous and sad, so we can hope to know her too, if only in a small way.

Though I never had the chance to meet my grandmother, I feel as if I have gotten to know her most through her cooking. Over the years, my mother has shared her recipes with me, whether it was a meal she served on our dining room table, stories about the food she created, or a recipe card handwritten by her mother. Each recipe, big and small, allows me a small window to see into the person she was.

Her everyday food was simple, but no less delicious because of it. For breakfast, she would serve pancakes with a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar, using a swirl of cream instead of maple syrup to bring in a little decadence. During the long days of summer, she'd serve up peaches and cream, taking advantage of seasonal fruits.

It was the holidays, however, where she showed the true love for her family to the extent she was willing to go with her food. During Christmas, she'd be up to her elbows in holiday treats. My grandfather fell head over heels for her signature honey cookies. For as long as she lived, she made sure he never went a winter without them. On Easter Sunday, she served up these bright orange rolls for a sweet breakfast. My mother tells me they grew to be quite famous around town. After tasting them for myself, it doesn't take much imagination to understand why.

My grandmother's photograph is proudly displayed in the kitchen; a felicitous reminder of where my relationship with the grandmother I never knew began. The picture is slightly faded, in sepia tones, but she's sitting tall, with a humble smile dancing across her lips. My mother looks just like her, from her eyes and her cheeks to her nose; sometimes I wonder if I do too, in a more subtle way.

I never imagined food would become the connection between myself and my heritage. I've learned the past and present can be connected by food and a simple recipe can reveal the heart and soul of its creator. As food was an expression of love for my grandmother, so it has become for me.

Irene's Orange Rolls have a bright, sweet citrus flavor. The dough is reminiscent of a brioche, made with sour cream and butter, and is an absolute dream to work with. The dough is rolled out and filled with a sweet mixture of orange zest and coconut before being rolled back up like little croissants. After coming out of the oven, golden and warm, an orange glaze is poured over top, which soaks deep into the rolls. These little gems keep for several days at room temperature and make for a wonderful breakfast for holidays and weekdays alike.

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Coconut Pineapple Banana Bread

After traveling on the road, skiing down mountains, and falling asleep under heavy comforters hours before normal, my weekend vacation has come to an end. It's a bittersweet affair. I love to run away from "real life" for a moment, reveling in the suspended time only travel can lend. Even so, all good things must come to an end and (unfortunately) that also includes vacations. Returning to reality jolts my senses and it takes me a moment to realize that this is home and I'm back where I belong. I feel a great sense of loss, but for what I'm never quite certain.

Nevertheless, after a day or two, I settle back into reality as if nothing had changed (and maybe nothing really had).

The anticipation and build up before the trip, the rush to pack everything, the early morning turn out of the driveway, the frantic screaming to stop the car!, the last minute dash back inside to collect forgotten items, and finally hitting the highway, leaving the familiar brush of reality behind—this is what I love about traveling. There are many more moments I have fallen for, but this is where they all begin.

Maybe my early start turns later than expected. Maybe, for once, I haven't left something behind. Maybe I make it all the way to the airport before I realize I've left my cell phone behind (which is only made more ironic after strongly asserting to everyone within earshot that if I didn't pack it, I don't need it). Sometimes the order of events is different, but it's the on ramp of the highway or the takeoff of the airplane that I look forward to most.

After coming home from my getaway and remembering once again that I do, indeed, like to bake, a loaf of banana bread with tropical flair seemed to fit my bittersweet mood just right. Pineapple and toasted coconut remind me of faraway places and the banana part of bread keeps me grounded. A balancing force for a Wednesday morning.

As I sit down to eat this bread, I can only dream of the tropical vacations to come...

This Coconut Pineapple Banana Bread combines the fruits of the tropics and dishes them up in a familiar experience. Pineapple chunks and coconut flakes are scattered throughout the bread, with a sprinkling of toasted coconut to round off the top. The bread is moist and flavorful on its own, though it pairs perfectly with a pat of butter. It's just the right combination of flavors to bring sunshine up an ordinary weekday.

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Rosemary Focaccia

Growing up, my mother made a loaf of homemade bread in our bread maker every Sunday during the cold winter months. Sunday's lunch was often the most looked forward to meal of the week, as it was always prepared from scratch and with lots of love. Homemade soups and stews were the feature, but a loaf of homemade bread was never amiss. My family devoured the loaf of bread in one sitting, arguing over the final pieces.

Everyone, of course, but me.

I was a picky eater. I was an indignant eater. I didn't like sandwiches. I didn't like bread. And I certainly didn't like crust. Occasionally I'd manage to eat half a piece of my mother's homespun bread, but I always opted for the saltines if they made an appearance. As it so happens, over the years my tastes evolved and I found myself wanting to eat more bread and less saltines. However, because I was an indignant eater (and terribly stubborn to boot), I couldn't let my mother know I actually liked her bread.

So, I begrudgingly ate my saltines and lifted my nose at the sight of the beautiful, crusty bread. I did this for years.

Stubbornness was (and still is) one of my many flaws.

It wasn't until I moved out on my own that I began to eat bread with great fervor, savoring each piece as I wish I had in the previous years. When I moved to Montreal, my love for bread flourished. With a dozen bakeries in walking distance wafting the smell of yeast and crusty bread into the streets, a baguette or two found its way to my kitchen more than my waistline would have liked.

Baking my own bread has really allowed me to appreciate each loaf for its own unique taste and texture. This Rosemary Focaccia was my first foray into the realm of focaccia and, long after this bread has disappeared, I still find myself wishing for just another piece.

Oh, what I would give for just another piece...

This Rosemary Focaccia is salty and chewy, with an unbelievable crust. The bread is made with fresh rosemary, coarse sea salt, cracked pepper, and olive oil. The bread's thick crust develops from baking in the oil, giving it an almost fried quality. It is perfect served plain, with no additions or spreads. This bread shines on its own. I've made this bread twice in the last couple weeks and, though it is fairly involved, I have a feeling it will make an appearance again very soon.

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