Harvest and Honey

An open-ended love letter, culinarily inspired.


a healthy candy bar

A Healthy Candy BarWith my neck outstretched and eyes squinting, I stood on my tip-toes and methodically scanned the supermarket, hoping my gaze would once again lock on my daughter. You try to not look alarmed or at all unusual in those moments, as a parent. “Oh hello! Hi! It’s fine … just misplaced my child, nothing to see here … I’ve got it all under control.”

“Elle. Elle? Elle!!” Where did that girl run off to now …  

There’s a moment, somewhere in between the initial realization that you’ve temporarily lost sight of your small child and the sigh of relief you experience when you spot them again, when you experience a world of emotions – a lifetime of emotions – in what seems like the blink of an eye: Subtle panic. Mild annoyance. Impatience. Worry. Stress. A rush of blood to the head … This emotionally-charged moment to which I refer is something I live again and again as the mother of two small, curious, busy children, and I suppose it’s just part of the special package deal of parenthood.

I found Elle with her nose squished against a vending machine, ogling the rows upon rows of colorfully wrapped candy bars and sugar-laden treats.

“No, no. Not today, Elle. We’ve still got heaps of Easter candy to work through at home.”

But then fate laughed at me and said, “Ha! Watch this Elle’s Mom!”

“Watch this, Mom!” Elle said. With that, she pushed a button and out came a chocolate bar. And then another one. And another one. And so on and so forth. Continue reading


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little burro

Tucked away on the back side of the busiest neighborhood on Hong Kong island, the old abandoned cake shop waited quietly. Amidst the hustle and bustle of one of the most high-energy, fast-paced cities in the world, it waited; a darkened oasis of quiet in the jungle of lights, (cameras) and action. It waited for its next inhabitants, for the noise to return. Abandoned, vacant, empty. It waited to come to life again. 

It needed a good spit shine, sure, but seemed promising nonetheless. Just out back, through the narrow shop and past the prep area and kitchen, sat a beautifully grimy yard lying fallow, untouched for some time. Perfectly imperfect. Across the street there was a Japanese matcha frozen yogurt shop with a perpetual line around the block. On one side of the former cake shop, sat the Indonesian embassy. On the other side was a hole-in-the-wall bar that had been there for 14 years. The owner: an ex-corporate chef who just wanted to do something different. In addition to beers on tap and Japanese whiskeys, the chef had also created a secret food menu that featured dishes such as clams in white wine sauce and sautéed chicken breast. And so, there amongst the bar, yogurt shop, and embassy, on a street bustling with people from all over the world, the little abandoned cake shop sat, and waited.  Continue reading

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the ghost train


You could hear the food rolling around in the back as the car came to a sudden, unexpected stop. In one unified and seemingly choreographed collapse, the canvas grocery bags had toppled over, letting go of their overly stuffed contents. Two bottles of wine clanked and banged into one another, perched on the precipice of a shatteringly terrible mess. It was red wine, no less. Were it not for the two loaves of whole wheat bread who so gallantly stood in as buffers (buy one, get one!), they surely would have broken, those wine bottles, spilling their dark red liquid all over the trunk of my car. I eyed the receipt that was sticking out of my purse, trying to remember what I’d purchased that could have spilled or burst or wreaked utter havoc in the way way back.

We almost made it, though. We almost cleared the tracks before the lights started flashing and the gate came down. Almost. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had to stop for a train, and this one seemed to have come out of nowhere … the flashing lights and ringing bells catching me off guard and causing me to slam on my breaks. So alas there we sat, my two children and I, waiting for the impending arrival of the train that we could feel coming before we ever saw or heard it. Here it comes! Here it comes! All aboard! The kids were ecstatic, thrilled. We were first in line for the viewing of this train and last, incidentally, to arrive at the gymnastics class to which we were headed. Thanks, train.

And now, we wait. Continue reading


strawberry & pistachio pie, two ways

I started this blog on a whim. It was Winter 2014 and I’d found myself at a crossroads of sorts, having (kind of) gotten the hang of motherhood and seeking something more – something that would help me feel creative and inspired and motivated and excited, I guess. A food blog has an uncanny ability to do all of those things, if you let it … if you want it to. A truly incredible outlet and platform for all types of creativity, a simple food blog is a veritable blank canvas for everything from delicious recipes and unique photography to artful styling and personal storytelling  … and more. Had I known how genuinely beneficial this little online space would be to me – and in how many ways – I would have started it long before I actually did. We all know what they say about hindsight, though …

I even deleted it once, my blog. After nearly a year of posting, in one hasty, nearly insane moment of total weakness, I deleted every. single. post. because I decided I didn’t really like them very much, the whole lot of them. Well, hello neurotic lady! 

I’m still tempted to do that sometimes, but I think part of the beauty of a living, breathing, real-time journal like this is that you get to see the evolution of a person. That’s something I particularly enjoy as a lover of many blogs. It’s nice to watch someone grow and develop in their style and voice, and to delete past work purely because it doesn’t quite sync up with current work, seems silly and almost sad. And so, I will delete no more. Continue reading


comfort food

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When you’re little, people tell you there’s no such thing as the boogeyman. They say that there are no ghosts, demons or scary things that go bump in the night. They tell you that monsters don’t hide under beds – that monsters don’t hide anywhere. Because there’s no such thing. But even so, you always check … just to be sure.

But then you grow up, and it’s your turn to be the reassuring one. Do you believe what you tell the kids, when you say that there is nothing to be afraid of and that everything will be okay? Usually you do, because you’re a grownup and you know that there’s no such thing as monsters. Even so, your pace still quickens when you run up the stairs at night or pass through a dark, quiet room when you’re all alone. Because remnants of those childhood fears are still there somewhere, buried deep down below that grownup, rational, reasonable exterior. Because the feeling of not seeing – of not knowing – what lurks behind you is an unsettling, oppressive feeling for anyone … even if good sense is trying to tell you that everything is fine. There is no such thing as the boogeyman, after all.

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Exactly a week ago today, while my whole family was sleeping, a man came into our home and robbed us. He helped himself to our belongings … taking my purse, my brand new laptop computer, our desktop computer, and ultimately driving away in our car. The process of discovering that each of these things was missing was a gradual one, each item coming to our attention as we walked through our small house in a daze, the very kind police officer helping us to understand the situation and to come to grips with what had happened. As if one can really even do either of those things. Continue reading


blackberry & fig jam buns with sour cream glaze

Blackberry & Fig Jam Buns with Sour Cream Glaze

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Confession. My consistent attempts to “waste not, want not” often lead me to many an awkward morning, where I find myself sitting down to dinner before the sun has even had time to fully light up the sky. Dinner for breakfast is decidedly not a thing – but it is for me, bizarre though it may be. My kids wander through the dining room in their PJs and, little as they are, they usually give me a skeptical sideways glance or two when they see the spread that I have laid out before me. Coffee next to a casserole. Orange juice next to the previous night’s salmon or pasta or … roasted chicken. “That’s silly, Mommy!” Elle will say, giggling at the fact that her Mom isn’t having breakfast for breakfast but rather, the same foods that she had for dinner the night before. It is silly, I’ll admit.

The good news though, is that there is a trick to this practice of dinner for breakfast: you can top almost anything with a fried egg and bring it much, much closer to the breakfast side of things. It’s amazing, actually – the egg’ed disguise is incredibly effective. Last night’s roasted veggies? Put an egg on them and you’ve got a stunner of a breakfast hash, and there aren’t too many better ways to start the day, if you ask me. Have some pizza left over? Same thing – put an egg on it, et voila! Breakfast pizza. We all know that steak and eggs is a classic, as is the fried egg burger … and that salmon to which I just referred recently accompanied some chive cream cheese, thinly sliced red onion and a toasted bagel for a dinner-turned-breakfast that I’d like to think would rival anything at your favorite deli. So, thanks to the incredible edible egg, the awkwardness of my whole eating dinner for breakfast thing is greatly reduced. Thanks eggs! Or, thank you to the chickens … hard to say which came first. Continue reading


smoke rings in the dark

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I never minded that the grass made my legs itch, or that its dewdrops soaked through my summer dresses. Long and rarely cut by the blades of any man-powered machine, these blades of sweet summertime bluegrass provided a bed for us to do all of our daydreaming in – the best kind of bed. Real bedroom beds are for Lights outIt’s past your bedtime, and Time to get upYou’ll be late for school! Tossing and turning, sleeplessness, alarm clock buzzes and snooze button pressings and Can I have just five more minutes, please? And even, heaven forbid, the occasional nightmare. No, I’d never heard of anyone having a scary or bad daydream out there, in that field. Is there even such a thing? Daydreams are reserved for hopes and happiness, for wistful imaginings and nostalgic musings … where your thoughts go when they want to play a little, to get lost in the best of ways before you have to coax them back to reality. At least that’s what I’d like to think, anyway.

I’d go to this one grassy field sometimes when I was younger, an opening in a grove of tall trees set just behind a popular park in my small Kentucky town, and there I would lay, paying no mind to those pesky drops of water still clinging to the tips of each blade of grass. It was always morning when I was there, so the fierce summer sun had yet to burn them away. No matter though, I’d think as I stared up at the sky, patiently awaiting the arrival of the perfect cloud. Because on cloud watching day, one couldn’t be bothered by something so trivial as a dewdrop or two. Or two thousand. Continue reading