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Big Crumb Strawberry Rhubarb Cake

February 6, 2022 by chrissy@mythankfultable.com

While I write this entry, it is sleeting, and miserably cold. It was 40* earlier this week, and last weekend we had a big snow storm. So, there you go New England weather…Good times.

I don’t mind the cyclical movement of the seasons, there is something absolutely beautiful in each, and there is a reminder that things change. Winter brings about a certain type of darkness and quiet that I do not get in the summer.

Which is all a gift. I’m more apt to be comfortable in my own skin during the warmer productive months. Summertime brings long days outside working either in my own yard or my other job (which I love- working on a local flower farm). I am up really early, am outside later, and I go to bed tired. I like the long hours of sunlight. I like the sound of crickets and birds.

So during winter, I have found, I am not good at sitting still. I’m working on it, but it’s not something that comes naturally. I kind of envy the people that slowly ease into their day or sit on a sofa on a Saturday morning just to watch TV. It is just not who I am. I had a friend who could nap anywhere. What a talent! Winter is nice for a few weeks, but it is wearing out its welcome. Winter is just too quiet.

No matter the weather today, I have to remember that soon the days will get longer and the plants will send forth their shoots, and the world will be green again. It will happen, I mean, in a few months or so…but still. A girl can dream.

I planted four Rhubarb plants over the course of the last few years, and they are always a welcome reminder that spring is coming. They pop up with their little “hello world” selves and my heart is so happy. Four rhubarb plants provide enough for multiple recipes, even being newly established.

In Pennsylvania, my children’s great grandparents -affectionately called “Grandma and Grandpa Choo Choo” (because he had built an elaborate train set in his basement) had a real-deal victory garden. He had served overseas in WWII, they had known what it was like to live without during that time. He would tell stories of having to ration items, to make due with what they had. Every year their garden was sizable and productive.

They had rhubarb plants so big you could hide in them. Or maybe that’s just my memory.

What I loved most about that garden was, whenever you needed rhubarb, Grandpa would hold back the leaves, grab an old knife hidden/stuck in the ground near the base of the plant, and whack off a few stalks. It was genius. Maybe not super safe according to today’s standards, but it worked.

I know rhubarb isn’t an ingredient well loved by all. It’s a sour-celery sort of thing. But when it is baked into a cake with strawberries, it provides the moist, bursts of flavor that balance a sweet cake and definitely the cinnamon sugar buttery topping.

There are a few renditions of this recipe out there in the recipe world, the original one I found was the New York Times recipe that is straight up rhubarb. I added the strawberry. You can add or substitute as you see fit. It might be really good with blueberry or without anything extra.

The cake batter comes together quickly and is the top and bottom layer for a generous fruit filling.

Now, the crumb topping is out of this world. When you make it and set it aside as the cake bakes, you think…did I do this right? It may appear stiff and clumpy. The answer is yes, yes you did. The buttery cinnamon and sugar goodness is so complimentary to the strawberry rhubarb/cake part of this recipe. Don’t skimp.

When this bakes up the crumb topping stays in chunks, and it is glorious.

Now if we could just get the weather to agree and move on to spring. Soon, soon, soon.

I hope you enjoy this recipe, and as always, I thank you for coming to the table.

Love, Chrissy

Big Crumb Strawberry Rhubarb Coffee Cake

Print Recipe

This perfect spring dish combines the tart tangy rhubarb and the sweet bright taste of strawberry. Topped with a big crumb cinnamon brown sugar streusel, this coffee cake is a winner. Originally in the New York Times, my version is made in a bigger pan due to the increase in ingredients and addition of strawberries. I hope you enjoy it!

Author: chrissy@mythankfultable.com

Ingredients

Butter, for greasing pan

FOR THE STRAWBERRY RHUBARB FILLING:

2 Cups rhubarb, chopped into small dice
2 Cups sliced strawberries
¼ cup sugar
2 teaspoons cornstarch
½ teaspoon ground ginger (I used fresh)

FOR THE CRUMBS:

1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
⅛ teaspoon salt
½ cup melted butter
1 ¾ cups flour (original recipe called for cake flour but I used all purpose)

FOR THE CAKE:

½ cup sour cream
3 large eggs
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup flour (cake or All purpose)
3/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons softened butter, cut into small pieces

Instructions

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease an 9×11” baking pan.

For filling:

Slice rhubarb and strawberries 1/2 inch thick and toss with sugar, cornstarch and ginger. Set aside.

To make crumb topping, in a large bowl, whisk together sugars, spices, salt and butter until smooth. Stir in flour with a spatula. It will look and feel like a solid dough. Set aside.
To prepare cake, in a small bowl, stir together the sour cream, eggs, and vanilla.
Using a mixer fitted with paddle attachment, mix together flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and salt.
Add butter and a spoonful of sour cream mixture and mix on medium speed until flour is moistened. Increase speed and beat for 30 seconds. Add remaining sour cream mixture in two batches, beating for 20 seconds after each addition, and scraping down the sides of bowl with a spatula. Scoop out about 1/2 of batter and set aside.
Scrape remaining batter into prepared pan. Spoon strawberry and rhubarb mixture over batter. Dollop set-aside batter over rhubarb; it does not have to be even.
Using your fingers, break topping mixture into big crumbs, about 1/2 inch in size. They do not have to be uniform, but make sure most are around that size. Sprinkle over cake. Bake cake until a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean of batter (it might be moist from rhubarb), 45 to 55 minutes. Cool completely before serving.

To My Daughter On Her 18th Birthday

January 31, 2022 by chrissy@mythankfultable.com

I’ll be honest with you, I haven’t had the bandwidth this year as a writer or a baker, there hasn’t been a lot of joy in it. The ever looming question is, “Who cares about what I have to say.”

I mean, we are still amidst a global pandemic, in a time of social change, political drama, and that’s just the headlines.

That’s not the people living day to day in the thick of things. After more than a year in public education Covid style, I too am more apt to go out and pull weeds than I am to engage in conversation. I don’t think I am alone in this.

So when my daughter graduated, I didn’t cry (don’t judge..I cry plenty). The whole college acceptance and scholarships so she could get there, end of the year parties and celebrations were like things we checked off. Card and check to this awesome kid. Done. Go to this dinner, and so on. Newly back in the realm of social gatherings, vaccinated, pre-Delta and Omicron. Let’s do all of the things and wrap up this chapter.

And then I got the gift of spending this entire summer working along side my kid. Up for five am. Harvesting or planting or setting up together at the best place I could ever imagine being lucky enough to work. With my daughter. Who actually liked the fact that we were together. We have always been close, and after a year of being home together, this gift was more than I could have dreamed.

She is full swing in college now, and even though I see her face daily, the time spent together is short. Assignments, schedules, work, and life all play a role in this.

As it should be.

Because, I have always known my children were on loan for a time, and then they were supposed to go and do their own thing. My job was to get them ready to be decent humans in the world and do good things. To be kind, but take no crap. To meet the need if they could, without being taken advantage of.

So slowly the bandwidth has come back. Just in time for me to let things go.

This past August, when she turned 18, I finally had the space to write the things that I probably should have written in her graduation card. The one I never gave her, because I just couldn’t find the words. I held onto this post a lot longer because I’m still grasping at the parts of me where creativity and words come together cohesively. This is also tender, and the world isn’t always a place to put forth the vulnerable parts. But here goes.

This is an adapted version, the total version of her love letter is hers alone. I am claiming the parts back that I feel work for every single young person I know. So therefore, it probably has an ever bigger audience. Overwhelmingly, I feel like our babies need to know more than anything, that they are loved. As they are. And we as parents need to get out of the way with our own “stuff.”

Our journeys aren’t over yet either.

So maybe we can read this letter to ourselves and know that we too, are just perfect…In all of our imperfection. Loved, even when we feel alone or unlovable. Accepted, just as we are.

Dear Emmy,

I need to start this letter to you by backing up about eight years, when my dad was first diagnosed with cancer. The one appointment I got to drive him to, we were heading to radiation- and it was in the beginning of things.

My dad told me that he had written letters to important people in our lives saying all the things he wanted to say. He had mentioned family members and important friend’s names that he just wanted to say thank you to…for loving his family and taking care of us.

And then there was a brief pause and he said to me, “But I didn’t write one for you… Because, you already know.”

I cannot tell you how many times I wish I knew what my dad would say to me if he had written me the letter. In my heart I do know all the things that he would say. I know them because his is the voice in my head. But it still would have been nice to see those words in print.

So today on your 18th birthday, two months after you have graduated, I want you to know all of the things.

Or, at least some of the things, the things that matter right now.

One: You have been a gift from the start. You were wanted, and we are so so glad that you were born to us as parents. I say “us”, because even though Dad is not here anymore, his joy was you Emmy. He fought hard to be a part of your life, and he loved you so much. So, he is a part of this.

Two: Who you are on the inside is as beautiful as who you are in the outside. You are not perfect, but you don’t need to be.

I thank you for the way you read a room, for the way you are polite and kind, for the way you meet the need when you see it. I thank you for your discipline and for your hard work and for your ability to stick with things even when they’re tough or stressful. I have seen you be beat down and yet you continue to work. There are things that I would have quit that you have persevered through. I am so proud of you for the things you have accomplished in your short life. And I look forward to seeing all of the things that you do accomplish moving forward.

Three: I hope that one day you are loved by someone who loves you for exactly who you are and who you will grow to be. I hope your heart is open and you receive the love that you deserve. I hope you don’t settle or compromise in anything ever, but especially in this.

Four: In this life you will not have a perfect easy path. Sometimes (as you have already experienced), things are crappy before they are better. Don’t give up. Yes, things are hard – but you are strong.

Fifth and Lastly: no matter where I am in this life, you are loved until the last day of yours. I am so thankful for you. I am so excited for the path ahead of you and you will do great things.

Of all of my life accomplishments, being your mom is by far the one I consider the most important and wonderful. I’m sure you’ll need therapy for many things LOL, but I hope you know I really did try my best.

You are everything I ever wished for in a daughter and so much more.

All my love,

Mom

I’ll get back to posting recipes soon. I have the photos edited and ready to go. But for now, I thank you for coming to the table. 🙂

Love,

On Tootie’s Pickled Beets and the Stuff We Do Right

March 29, 2018 by chrissy@mythankfultable.com

This is a story about pickled beets, but mostly, not.

I am meal planning for Easter. I realize that my table will not be filled except for my essential peeps, there will be leftovers to share and people can drop in for dessert as the day allows, but still, the planning and the prepping are all part of the joy for me. It’s like vacation; the planning part is almost as much fun as the going part. I’m a fan of anticipation and delayed gratification. For the most part, anyways.

I have been brewing a post about one year anniversaries of loss and navigating a year of parenting children who have lost their Dad, and how to write about it…but the things in my head and my heart don’t always mean I have the words to say them, or that anyone would want to read them, so they stay put.

Then, I come across a recipe from a lifetime ago, and I can hear his voice,

“Hey, do you have that recipe from those people out in the country? The Beet Recipe? I just got my hands on a ton of beets and want to try to make it.”

And there it is, all the good and the bad and the life that was and is. A woman named Tootie gave us her beet recipe when our son was just a baby…and it has stayed with me ever since. And yes, I shared the recipe, and he made a batch of these beets all of those years later.

So, I thought, instead of remembering all of the things we didn’t do the best, I would write about the things we did right.

We cooked, and made meals, and fed people. We loved people. We loved each other.

Even when it was ugly ugly. Even when it all fell apart. Even when all the things you think are safe and protected aren’t. Even when the worst happens and the bottom falls out. We had grace and respect. Sometimes better-late-than-never grace and respect, but it showed up eventually.

We did disagreeing until it was appropriate right. We did long distance parenting as best as we could. We did making sure as much of their lives was accessible to you to celebrate and participate in could happen. Made it so you were there for the every day ear-piercing stuff as well as the end of the year concert stuff. They talk to your parents at least once a week.

We had two great kids.

They are such a blend. They have a drive for adventure. They love to eat and cook new foods. They find a reverence in the cool old things one finds along the journey. They like competition, they see the best in people.

They flow. They wear ball caps, like you. They sing along to country music. These are just some their Dad’s qualities.

They have chosen to remember both the good and the bad things.

They have chosen to hold their questions for you, until they see you again.

And, even when you disappeared, we were there when you came back. We did a lot of it right. Or, at least the best “right” we could.

I don’t even begin to know what it is to wrestle with addiction, other than to have lived it from the outside. I know it doesn’t respect race or religion or socio-economic status. Addiction touches more people than we realize. I know there can be so much shame associated with addiction, for all who are touched by it.

Even though the world is changing, even though there is help out there, many people stay silent. It’s destructive and devastating and exhausting. It’s smoke and mirrors, weeding through to get to the real story, and building gut-wrenching boundaries.

I’ve read that addiction is the only illness that convinces you that you can cure yourself.

For those on the outside, it’s a briar patch of wanting to help and protecting what you can. There is no one-size-fits-all hand book for it. There is no easy way for anyone involved.

I wish I knew how to do more. I wish I knew how to do things the right way. Or how to have gotten through. I will always wish these things, I think.

We did as much “right,” for the space of time and life that we were given. The things we didn’t do right shape my point of view for the rest of my days as well as the stuff we did.

Some days, I just sort through it. Some days, the fact that you are gone is still an elusive, shimmering truth that I can’t wrap myself around just yet.

He got into college. He made it to States. He got the Most Improved Award for the second year in a row. She makes honor roll every quarter. She won the Italian competition. She played field hockey all fall and winter long. They are sarcastic and funny and kind. They are amazing. They work together and laugh and play their ukuleles and guitars. They protect each other.

Photo courtesy of Larry White Jr. Photography

And you are missing all of it.

The list of stuff you are missing is overwhelming if I allow myself the time to think it.

Then I think, no. You aren’t. And maybe, from where you are, a safer, quieter place, where you don’t battle anymore, you can see them better. You can really see all of the things that perhaps, you wouldn’t have if things ended differently. I don’t have the answers.

We did not do all things right, but these two kids, we did.

Sometimes my blog is all about the recipe, and this has one too, but sometimes, it’s about the stuff the recipe holds that doesn’t involve ingredient lists or cooking time. It’s about the other parts of life. Which is all a part of being welcome to come to the table.

I hope you enjoy it, and as always, thank you for coming to the table.

Chrissy

Tootie’s Pickled Beets

Print Recipe

This pickled beet recipe came from a woman in Pennsylvania from a lifetime ago. The cloves, cinnamon, and allspice bring a different flavor to the pickled beets you may not encounter regularly!

Author: chrissy@mythankfultable.com

Ingredients

Scale

4 Pounds cooked, peeled, and sliced beets.
3 Cups sliced onions
2 1/2 Cups Apple Cider Vinegar
1 1/2 Cups Water
1 Teaspoon Salt (Kosher)
2 Cups White Sugar
1 Tablespoon Mustard Seed
1 Teaspoon Whole Allspice
1 Teaspoon Whole Cloves
3 Sticks of Cinnamon, broken

Instructions

Boil liquids and spices and then reduce to a simmer for 5 minutes.
Add beets and Onions and cook in simmering liquid for approx. 10 more minutes.
Remove cinnamon sticks from cooking liquid.
Using sterilized mason jars, pack beets and onions, leaving 1/4 inch remaining space in canning jar.
Ladle hot liquid over beets and onions.
Finish canning process with a water bath or allow to cool and refrigerate.

On Three Year Anniversaries, Being Kind, and Baked Potatoes

November 5, 2017 by chrissy@mythankfultable.com

When you lose someone a love, even if you have time to prepare, you are never ready.

You can heart wrenchingly try to imagine a world without them, do everything in your power to cling to every moment; embrace all of the goodness life has to hold with them in it. But in the end, you have lost someone…and in return find yourself lost.

And this was when you have had the time to prepare.

When my father was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, even with a top notch battle plan, the odds were not ever truly in his favor. It was a year filled with appointments, medications, cutting back on social stuff, trying to maintain normalcy, and being ever so positive.

It was treating every day like a gift.

And when suddenly, swiftly, he was rushed to the emergency room…and then an ICU; Those final hours were a lifetime and a nanosecond, a breath, a vapor, and an eternity.

You are never ready.

Me and Dad

Three years later and even now it’s hard to write about. Three years later and my brain is starting to piece back the events that happened in that window of time. Physician’s words, nurses who worked with my father during his career at the hospital stopping in to check on him. Being cold, and having some kind person give my mother and I blankets. People to keep my children safe and fed while we spend two long days in the intensive care unit.

My brother, making it home just in time.

There are just some days you need to stop, and let your mind roll through the waves and memories so you can find yourself again. So you can say, “yes, this thing was real, and happened. This sad, awful journey happened.” Let it shape you. Leave its mark on your heart.

When I was younger, my father dabbled in fly fishing. Very “A River Runs Through It.” Ten and Two O’ Clock (if you never read the book, you may not get that reference). He had a fly tying station, and even went to Orvis to build his own rod.

Dad’s Fly Fishing Gear

I picked these up yesterday.

And everything is fresh again.

Why the anniversary of my father’s passing and my children’s father’s passing is back to back, I do not know, but I know my role in each is leader. Leader of

a home, leader of my family, leader in the journey of being fatherless but being anchored all the same. I hold the lantern on the path of grieving. I hold the hand and try to be more…always more than I am.

My point in all this is to say, I do cook and bake all of the time, we have an abundance of recipe trials and rotation of suppers, home cooked beautiful meals and time around the table, because my father believed in family dinners. If you were late, you were in trouble. Even as an adult, with children of my own, people know I would hustle for Cliff’s family dinner.

But some days, you need to be kind to yourself. It’s ok to bake potatoes and put out an assortment of toppings, maybe even pan sear some broccoli and call it supper. It’s ok to eat a salad and a bowl of soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, or a bowl of cereal, and call it family dinner. It’s ok to cut up cheese and fruit and crackers and call it snack plate supper. Or make pancakes. Or yogurt, or chicken nuggets on a sheet pan. Nutritional needs are met and bellies are full.

It’s OK.

It’s OK to say, “Today, it is too hard to cook, too hard to do more than I am doing.”

I remember every fruit basket, muffin container, soup bowl, Shepherd’s Pie, sandwich tray that was brought to our door. We didn’t ask for food but it was there. People stopped over and hugged us and loved us and fed us. That is a gift. Kindness is a gift. Gathering together as a community-big or small is a gift.

When someone is grieving, there is never any kind thing that another does that goes unnoticed.

If you don’t know what to do for a family who is suffering, do any kind thing.

Kind isn’t something people push away or get angry over. Even the small stuff, the things you think won’t matter, matter.

In our town this week, we have suffered an unthinkable and unexpected tragedy- the kind that makes you hug your children closer. The kind that makes you wonder how the human heart can go on.

Blue balloons throughout my hometown symbolize a life a a precious boy who is no longer with us. As a community, we do the small things together to make the big hurt less.

We ask ourselves, “How can I help share this burden?”

We rally. We act.

We do go on, even shattered, in spite of loss.

The posts have been sparse this week, and I will get back to my banging out of treats and recipes. I will.

But this past week for me has been one where I am kind to myself, kind to my kids, kind to my Momma. Where I choose to sit with my daughter on the couch, or teach her to make scrunchies (they are back, did you know that?), or watch my son hit the punching bag, or eat the soup that was supposed to be for library cook book club but I forgot to plug the crock pot in, or go to my mom’s to get my father’s fishing stuff.

We walk on this earth, and every day is a gift.

Every. Day. A. Gift.

So, my recipe for you today at my thankful table, is this:

1 Cup of Kindness

1 Cup of Patience

1 Cup of Helpfulness

1 Cup of Seeing a Need

1 Cup of Meeting the Need

1 Overflowing Cup of Love

1 Cup of Healing

1 Cup of Grace

1 Cup of Mercy

1 Cup of Understanding

1 Overflowing Cup of Gratitude

1 Cup of Empathy

1 Cup of Resilience

1 Cup of Past Heartache that Made You Stronger

1 Cup of Wildfire

1 Cup of Sass

1 Strong Backbone

1 Big Heart

2 Willing Hands

1 Cup of Strength

1 Cup of Rest

Mix it together, and you have yourself one remarkably amazing human. This is you, friend. This is you.

I hope you enjoy this post today, and I thank you, truly, for coming to the table.

Much love,

Chrissy