Kolaches in Boston

It's quite difficult to find kolaches in Boston. I looked online. All I could find were people talking about how difficult they were to find here. So sometimes, one must take matters into one's own hands.

Growing up in Texas, kolaches were a big deal. Grandma made them for special occasions. And there were some bakeries here and there that we'd stop at to get some. It was high praise for a bakery if my dad declared, "those are some gooooood kolaches!"

So, while recently flipping through the Homesick Texan cookbook, I stumbled on a recipe for kolaches. They looked just like I'd remembered. So I had to try making them myself. 

While I remember them being made with prune filling, I opted to buy premade cans of apricot and raspberry. I wasn't so sure about mixing preschoolers with prunes...

And here's the result.

I used bread flour, as I'd somehow run out of all-purpose flour, so they ended up being huge! They were at least twice as wide as I remembered them. But they were good. They're more doughy than sweet, although the filling is quite sweet. They're best when fresh, so I distributed them among friends to avoid eating 12 tablespoons of butter in 2 days. But I'll be making them again soon. 

We're still trying to figure out what our family traditions will be around the holidays. So far, they consist of getting together with friends at Thanksgiving and me working the day after Thanksgiving while BestestHusband and the girls start to decorate for Christmas. But I feel like kolaches should be one of our traditions. It's a part of Texas German-Czech heritage that is so easily lost living in Boston. And a memory I want my girls to have. 

And now that I can make them, I feel like I have a certain mom cred. Hard to explain, but... Growing up, there were always a few ladies at the church who would bring things to potluck dinners and their food would disappear first. Mrs. Smith was known for her chicken'n'dumplins, Mrs. Jones was known for her sausage, Mrs. Brown would make tamales, etc. You wanted to get in line early to make sure you actually got some. I've always wanted to have The Thing that I could make. It's like church-lady street cred. And I feel like maybe I have it now. Maybe...

The Hat

We took a trip to the playground this morning to let the girls get some sun, burn off some steam, and prep for a trip to a chaotic pre-Thanksgiving grocery store. They played on the playground for a while, then decided to play in the baseball field. They ended up repeatedly rolling down a hill.

MeToo ended up covered in leaves. They clung to her knit hat and somehow made their way down the back of her coat. She was unhappy about that. She yanked off the hat and handed it to me to fix.

I picked the leaves off of the hat and held it in my hands. It was made of basic off-white yarn, probably acrylic. It was simple in design, but quite warm. My grandmother had made that hat. She made it when HeyMama was very tiny, and the hat was comically large. She made it before she forgot how to knit. But now she's gone. And MeToo has grown up to fit into the hat perfectly.

I'm thankful for family members that make things. I like to think that Grandma knitted and purled love into that hat. I can see it in her hands, with the rings she always wore. I can see her knitting it in her favorite chair. Her love cradles MeToo's little ears and holds in her wispy blonde hair. MeToo won't remember my Grandma, she was a tiny baby when they last saw each other.  And HeyMama will only remember the pictures and the stories that "Grandma Rose", the reason for HeyMama's middle name, typed up of her childhood adventures. But I can show them the hat she made for them - tangible proof that someone loved them. 

I used to think that intentions mattered more than actions. But now I know that's not true. Actions can produce evidence of love that endures long after the gift-maker is gone. I'm blessed to have a home that is full of things made by loved ones. We have quilts, furniture, scrap books, and other odds and ends. I can touch the objects and feel the love that went into them. And for that I am thankful. 

The Hat

In the Beginning

We took a day trip to the headwaters of the Mississippi River today. It's not so far from where we're staying, and it would be a shame to miss it. 

It doesn't look like much. There's a lake, some rocks, then you're in the Mississippi. Kids were splashing and playing, and it was shallow enough for MeToo to stand in. Tiny fish swirled around our ankles as we walked along the pebbly bottom.

But I think it's worth noting that great and mighty things have small and unassuming beginnings. Without the signs, I'd think it was just another forest stream. But by the time it reaches the southern end of the state, it requires significant bridging, and when it reaches the Gulf of Mexico, it has its own delta.

The girls venture into the water

Well, the girls were underwhelmed. Probably because they were under-napped. We didn't stay long. There were too many tears and meltdowns. But in the future, I hope to show them a picture of themselves knee-deep in the tiny stream while they look at its giant southern counterpart. And someday use it as a metaphor for humble beginnings, possibilities, and hope for the future.

Me in the Mighty Mississippi

Going Looney

Never before coming to MN had I heard the call of the loon.

It's such a distinct and wistful sound...

But it's one of those sounds that transports you to a time and a place. And, so far for me, it's always a good time and a good place.

I hope it does the same thing for the girls...

A family of loons on Lake Belle Taine. Please ignore the tacky popup trailer. I promise we stayed in a nicer place...