For years, June was one of my favorite months. June was like Friday for the working people, marking the beginning of a long-awaited break. Linden trees lining the streets in the neighborhood blossomed and their sweet smell offered the promises of long, summer days filled with adventure and hope, as another school year ended.

June 15 was Mother’s birthday that opened the season of numerous summer birthdays in the family. Today would have been her 75th birthday. But this time our living room will not be filled with her friends from the city choir harmonizing Russian ballads, Serbian town songs and French chansons. No one will have to carry trays precariously spaced with tiny porcelain cups of Turkish coffee and slender stemmed crystal glasses filled to the brim with Mother’s home-made cherry brandy. We will not have to fret if we brought the pastries right on time for she won’t be there to cast a warning glance our way.

Last year I wished Mother a happy birthday on Skype. I was in California, and she was too weak to turn her webcam on. Three weeks later the girls and I arrived to Serbia, and I managed to plant a big birthday kiss on her sunken cheek.  A few days later she left us forever, while my sister and I held her hands and my brother stood at the the foot of her bed. It was inevitable. It was a relief for her. It was a merciful end to a battle she fought valiantly until the last day.

I wish that I could click her name on Skype and hear her voice again. I wish she could have lived to see the photos of Nina’s graduation from UC Berkeley I posted on Facebook. I wish she could have heard Zoe’s Lady Macbeth monologue. I wish she could have read Anya’s most recent short story. And I wish she had left in peace, knowing that I would be fine, trusting that I was strong enough to make a new start in my life.

I miss my “Mamicken” every day. And every day I think of her. Yes, I cry sometimes, craving her words and yearning for her hug. But most of the times I smile, finding her traces in our everyday life, in my admonishing the girls, in their desire to keep all the sweaters she knitted for them, in the dishes I prepare, in the smiles I offer to neighbors… Today is her birthday and even though she is not with us any more, I know that she is hovering around, reminding me to look after myself, caressing the girls’ hair, and singing softly, with her perfect pitch, telling me that everything will be fine with the world. And I believe her.

Ever since I started elementary school, my family spent two weeks of winter break in the mountains, where we had an adorable, miniature, and very rustic cabin. Everything we needed, we had to pack into the trunk of Father’s Fiat 1300; there were no stores and the narrow, mountain road was often buried under the enormous snow drifts, which made it impossible for anyone to navigate for days.

The week before our departure, Mother and Njanja would rarely leave the kitchen, preparing enough food to sustain us and guests for the fortnight. The refrigerator and pantry shelves slowly filled up with enameled pots of beans, sarma*, cabbage with pork, and goulash, trays of pastries, rolls, and cookies, and bowls of semi-prepared side dishes.

Father would pack them tightly around snow tires, along with packages of frozen meat, wooden crates of vegetables and fruit, sacks of pantry staples, and casks of red wine. Five of us would remain pretty much immobile during the three to four hour trip to the cabin, Mother and the three of us buried under the canvas bags and baskets containing the rest of the supplies, Father intensely focused on the road conditions. Filled with excitement and sense of adventure, we never complained, even after we had to help unload the car and take the provisions in the house down a path Father shoveled for us moments before.

He would immediately get to work defrosting the pipes and building fire in the fireplace. It took a long time to warm up the foot-thick stone walls and we sat on the couch with our full winter attire on, shivering, but awaiting with anticipation the first offering: a cup of hot tea and a plate of cookies. Mother would empty a bottle of water she filled at home into a teapot, turn on a small two-burner gas stove, and get the tea steeping, while unwrapping gurabije, not too sweet, but crispy butter cookies topped with chopped nuts, she and Njanja prepared ahead.

The balls of dough are about 1 inch in diameter

Never did those cookies taste better than on those frigid early afternoons, when we dared take the gloves off only to dunk a piece in our tea. They dissolved on our tongues, their buttery flavor chased by the fragrant aroma of hibiscus and wild flowers, bringing comfort, and temporarily easing hunger caused by the unrelenting mountain air. The tea would warm our hands just when the fireplace came to life, and we would finish the last bites huddled together in front of fire.

I have never even contemplated making gurabije here in the New World, as for me they are inextricably tied to those long-gone winters and our beloved small cabin that is not there any more. But the memories flooded me when I opened Jerusalem: A Cookbook,  by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi, looking for a dessert to make for our monthly virtual club started by my friend Beth of OMG!Yummy. There on page 260 was a recipe for Ghraybeh, simple butter cookies topped by pistachios. I knew that I had to make them right here in my kitchen, even though southern California comes in contact with snow and ice only via Hollywood.

I am sure that graybeh and gurabije have a common ancestor somewhere in the Middle East and that the cookie reached the Balkans carried in fond memories of many Ottoman Turks who occupied the area for several centuries. Unlike Njanja’s version, it asks for orange blossom and rose petal waters. I am lucky that I live near two Persian grocery stores and finding those, to me, elusive and exotic ingredients does not pose a problem.

Njanja used various cookie cutters to shape gurabije; in this recipe, the small balls of dough are flattened by hands which gives them more old-fashioned, rustic look. There is no egg-white wash, nor chopped nuts on top, rather a solitary shelled pistachio in the center of the cookie. They baked to slightly golden color and accompanied by a cup of strong tea, they were satisfying and comforting, albeit lacking the tantalizing promise of adventure the cookies of my childhood miraculously possessed.

Jerusalem: A Cookbook is a treasure filled with recipes that have the power to instantaneously whisk you away to those enchanted, ancient lands. One day soon I hope to walk the streets of Jerusalem and experience a new adventure. In the meantime, I am filling my wandering soul with promises just by flipping page after page. Why don’t you join me in Tasting Jerusalem?

*Sarma is a Balkan take on dolma; it features sauerkraut leaves stuffed with ground meat and rice).

Happy campers! Thanks Christina and Joel for this beautiful photo!

I spent the last weekend in the San Bernardino Mountains, just on the other side of Big Bear where the Technicolor blue sky meets majestic peaks enveloped in snow. I would have been happy gazing at the blue expanse through the pine branches alone, breathing in the crisp and sharp mountain air, listening to the gurgling of streams and feeling the strain in my leg muscles as I climbed yet another hill covered with pine needles.

But I was not alone. I shared this beautiful spot with more than 100 fellow food bloggers attending Camp Blogaway, a brainchild of our own Patti Londre who orchestrated every little detail perfectly. Yes, some girls had to sleep on upper bunks (do not get me started on the VIP treatment of our several token boys!), the beds squeaked, we had to leave the water in the sinks dripping to avoid freezing, and they warned us that there are real bears roaming the property. But this was the best all-inclusive vacation I have had in a long time.

What was included?

Clumsy and not so clumsy attempts at making the most photogenic Bloody Mary with an amazing array of garnishes provided by Duda Farm Fresh Foods (Where can I find some of those celery straws?).

Christina’s tomato juice and vodka concoction was the winner of our table

Networking table displays that challenged bloggers to come up with the theme that represented them the best.

Wine tasting by Wente Vineyards that continued barely interrupted throughout the weekend.

Turning a few pounds of Idaho® potatoes into a mound of thin slices using sleek and shiny, stainless steel “Ferrari” OXO mandolin.

Standing in line waiting for meals and gabbing happily to people in front and behind.

Leaning back on the couch by the fire, browsing through a pile of cooking magazines, ripping the best ones without feeling guilty.

Controlling the urge to be the first one to spoil a perfectly arranged platter of Jarlsberg cheeses, fruits, and crackers, deciding what to try first: triple-cream Brie or Snøfrisk, a mild, Norwegian goat cheese unfamiliar to most of us.

Getting up at 6:30 to make it to the walk around Jenks Lake, cutting through the forested hills and standing in awe at the indomitable beauty of  the calm sparkling surface of the mountain lake, surrounded by silence, interrupted only by pebbles that rolled under your feet.

A warm bowl of Bob’s Red Mill cereal topped with steaming stewed fruit right after that morning walk.

Making the best lunch combo using CravOn “never fried French fries”, hangar steak, carnitas, and a dozen complementary condiments for a chance of winning a $250.00 gift certificate to Sur La Table.

Zumba class that started with first rays of sun, with reggaeton and salsa tunes blasting from a boombox waking up squirrels (Yes, we were eternally grateful that there were no mirrors anywhere in sight!).

Uncontrollable giggling while making our way back to the cabin past midnight, warmed by cabernet and limoncello, our cheeks flushed from excitement and our step somewhat unsteady.

A tightly-packed pink swag bag whose contents inevitably spill all over the trunk on the way back…

I have been writing my blog for three years and this was not my first food bloggers’ conference. I don’t consider myself a novice, but after each session during the weekend, little bubbles of inspiration settled in my brain and I felt energized, motivated, and empowered. At any other conference you have to pick the sessions that interest you, as many are scheduled at the same time. But at Camp Blogaway everyone gets a chance to learn everything, and this year again we were treated to some truly talented and creative speakers.

Down and Dirty Truth About Being a Cookbook Author, Trina Kaye and Chef George Geary.

What’s Wrong With My Shot?, Denise Vivaldo.

Strategies to Keep a Blog Going and Not Run out of Steam, Stephanie O’Dea and Jessica Fisher.

How Bloggers Trip Themselves up and Savvy Tips to Avoid Traps, Sarah Henry.

Blueprint for Cobbling Together a Bona-Fide Food Career, Karen MacKenzie and Bonnie Tandy-Leblang.

E-Books – Could This Be Your Path to Becoming a Book Author?, Amy Treadwell and Nancie McDermott

Inside Scoop on How PR Agencies Work, Dee Munson.

The “Business of Me,” Not Just My Blog, Patti Londre (as our intended speaker, RaShelle Roberts, could not make it to camp).

Long-stemmed and red celery from Duda Farms

Patti wanted us to mingle, and we mingled. She encouraged us to talk to strangers, and we discovered that most of the strangers are genuinely warm, nice, and sincere people, eager to open up and share their lives and experiences. There wasn’t one of us who did not lament the lack of time and wished for another couple of hours devoted to forming friendships. We laughed, we giggled, we screeched, and we cried.

We recognized our similarities and praised the differences. We shared, learned, discussed, and questioned every aspect of our blogging lives. And as the afternoon on Sunday approached, we said our hasty goodbyes, hugged each other, waved through the car windows, and promised to keep in touch. The weekend was magnificent. The farewells were emotional, with a tear or two hidden between the smiles.

As we were driving down the mountain, the reality was slowly coming toward the horizon.  But I realized that no matter how many hills I have to climb and descend, I know that I can do it, propped by the smiles and kind words of my friends.

It’s a sweltering July afternoon and even though the back door is open wide, only the scorching dry summer heat comes into the kitchen. Mother is standing by the gas stove, flipping thinly sliced zucchini  just as they turn golden brown. A tray sits on the counter, filled with a few layers of the uncooked ones, salted and dipped in flour, just luxuriating and waiting to be covered with egg batter and pan fried.

Father walks in on his way back from the hospital, grabs the top-most zucchini, and pops it in his mouth without stopping, oblivious to the fact that it’s still sizzling from the hot pan. The three of us saunter in the kitchen, refreshed from the shower we just took, exhausted and ravenous after a few hours spent at the city pool. I can’t help but sneak a zucchini off the platter, even though I make sure that Mother notices me rolling my eyes at the sight of her pan-frying a mountain of them on the hottest day of the century.

Chewing slowly to prolong the enjoyment, I swear that I will stop the tradition and avoid the kitchen when I grow up. After all, Aristotle would not have been Aristotle had he spent every waking minute cooking, cleaning, sewing, and helping children with their homework, as I sagely pointed to Mother fairly often, scolding her for abandoning her easel and her sketchbook for the degrading and not-at-all rewarding life of a housewife.

Some years later, here I am standing next to a gas stove in my southern California kitchen, flipping golden brown egg-battered zucchini slices, my apron speckled with flour. I checked the items off the list in my head as the mound on the platter next to me keeps on growing. I will have finished everything I intended to before going to work in the afternoon, including pan-frying zucchini and eggplant for next day’s Food Bloggers LA monthly meet-up.

As I proudly pat myself on the shoulder, my fourteen-year old enters the kitchen in a quest for something “sweet, creamy and delicious”. “That looks like the most tedious chore in the world!”, she proclaims, throwing one of her famous disdainful looks my way. And all of a sudden I am transported from this gorgeous, balmy May afternoon in California, with the breeze that brings the smell of roses and rosemary through the open front door, to one of the scorching summer days in Serbia filled with crates of pale green, tender-skinned zucchini begging for attention.

And I understand that Mother did not find her role as degrading as I thought it was at the time. She enjoyed preparing the most wonderful meals for her family, even though the job was not that rewarding and we definitely took her creativity, talent, and effort for granted. My precocious teenager is as haughty as I was at her age and I know better than to try to explain to her that Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan would probably praise me for my choice to sacrifice a few hours of my precious free time to cook a delectable meal, as it makes me infinitely happy.

Bella Italia! (photo by Vamoos Travel)

If I ever win lottery, I will spend the rest of my life traveling. That is, after I donate a large sum to juvenile diabetes research, fight against cancer, eradication of hunger, and education. And after I help some of my family and friends better their existence. And after I secure a substantial amount for my daughters’ college tuitions. As I don’t have to stay in four star hotels and I don’t have to travel first class, I believe that there will still be plenty left for my traveling budget.

Vineyards as far as you can see (photo by Vamoos Travel)

I am not a great fit with guided tours, preferring to explore the unknown places on my own, following my curiosity and interests, rather than bowing to the general assumptions of what needs to be seen. I carefully plan my vacations doing a lot of research, reading comments and recommendations, and bothering friends and family who ventured in the the area before me.

Balsamico di Modena (photo by Vamoos Travel)

I like to book rooms in small, un-glamorous hotels which sometimes do not offer AC and definitely do not have every cable channel available on TV, providing there even is a TV set in the room. I like to be on the first name basis with the receptionists/owners and get their input on the best-ofs in their area. I like to ride buses with the locals across towns and get lost in small village farmers markets.

Suzie and Erika, the founders of Vamoos Travel

On a few occasions in the past I was pleasantly surprised to discover small tourist agencies that cater to unorthodox tourists like me who remain behind, hidden under huge, floppy hats and Victoria Beckham-sized sunglasses as their group herds after a guide carrying a flag and talking in a condescending kindergarten-teacher manner.

Making fresh pasta (photo by Vamoos Travel)

Therefore, I was thrilled to meet Erika Suhr and Suzie Agelopoulos, the founders of Vamoos Travel, a small company that promises to take you off the beaten path and let you immerse yourself in the real life just waiting to be explored behind the glossy posters adorning the glass walls of most travel agencies. These two long-time friends hail from Seattle, where they dabbled in different careers before discovering their true passion: Erika sold pharmaceuticals and Suzie ran a Greek restaurant. Sensing that there is so much more out there, they embarked on an adventure and spent more than a year traveling the world and managing to feel at home at most places they visited.

Truffles of Emilia-Romagna (photo by Vamoos Travel)

Passionate and vivacious, they befriended locals wherever they went and spent many hours experiencing their day-to-day existence. People they met opened their hearts and their homes to them, eager to share their hospitality, and in no time they learned that they were the happiest when sitting down at the family table, sharing food and wine with strangers who became fast friends before the first glass was empty. The seed of an idea was planted, and shortly after they returned to the US and relocated to Los Angeles, they started Vamoos Travel.

Prosciutto di Parma (photo by Vamoos Travel)

Their first destination for the culinary travel tour is Emilia-Romagna, a northern province of Italy rich with traditions, culture, and history, and home to some of the best regional cuisines. Small groups (not more than ten people) would visit family-run factories that make Parmigiano-Reggiano, prosciutto di Parma, and aceto balsamico the old, traditional way; they would watch some of Bologna’s most acclaimed chefs prepare their dinner and learn how to roll pasta in some nonna’s small kitchen; they would ride in the pick-up truck to forage for truffles, and taste wine produced in small countryside vineries.

I want to be there! (Photo by Vamoos Travel)

I cannot imagine better way to spend a week. If that winning lotto ticket would somehow materialize in my hands, I would book this November tour for me and nine of my friends without blinking. In the meantime, I can keep this dream alive by practicing my Italian with my friends Barbara and Christina and eating simple, but flavorful foods that are the essence of Italian regional cooking. I offer you a recipe for baked vegetables, one of the quintesential Italian dishes our Food Bloggers of LA group sampled several days ago at home of Erika Kerekes in Santa Monica (whose kitchen I covet with every ounce of my being – when I get my own house, can I borrow Michael to help me with design of the kitchen, pretty please?)

Erika Kerekes prepared an amazing Italian lunch

I apologize for the poor quality of the photo; the sample of baked vegetables (eggplant in my case) is on the upper left side

Please visit Vamoos Travel site and look at the photos. These girls will fulfill their dreams and make dreams come true for so many of us. I wish them all the luck in the world. Arrivederci a Bologna, amiche mie!

Thanks, Erika, for your hospitality, for preparing those fabulous Italian dishes and for introducing us to Erika and Suzie.

For a few years, we have been facing some tough times. At moments, the panic would strike and I would not be able to breathe from anxiety, helpless, ambushed by an existential crisis that completely blocked my view.  I felt like a rabbit caught suddenly and without a warning in bright headlights, unable to move, frozen, awaiting with dread whatever came at me from the darkness.

The end to our troubles was an elusive, a pie-in-the-sky kind of thing, but I still believed and held firmly to that belief. Passage of time did not bring it closer, as it always stayed far enough away, tempting us with the promise, but never becoming a reality. And now, that there is no more “us”, my world changed completely, including new strategies, new goals, and new promises.

There were days when I did not know if the refrigerator and pantry would yield an edible meal for two teenagers, and I would drag out the printouts of all the places in the neighborhood that offered free meals to the indigent people. In time I learned the addresses of churches and temples, but fortunately did not have to use their services and hospitality. I was raised to be Aesop’s proverbial Ant and I somehow always managed to put food on the table. It helped that my girls were adventurous eaters, not picky at all, satisfied with whatever they found on their plates.

I want to think that those days are behind me. Freida, who opened her house to us, marvels at all the food that I manage to cram in the fridge, freezer and pantry, assuring me that I am not the only one who draws comfort from it. I don’t really want to do it, but in my head I keep a tally of all the meals I can prepare from the food I diligently dragged home. Just like there has to be some money stashed somewhere for emergencies, so there has to be emergency food. Once bitten, twice shy, they say. I was bitten twice already in my life in the US, and I’d rather be prepared really well.

These days I can send my girls to the neighborhood ice cream place with their friends without wringing my hands and second-guessing my decision. I feel secure enough in our family finances to indulge their occasional cravings for a milk shake or an In-N-Out hamburger. And I deliberately silence voices in my head who pipe up immediately as soon as I even think of doing something for myself, trying to make me feel guilty. I have to work on that, but I am determined to prevail.

My finger lingered for a few moments before it pressed the button that would make an online purchase final, but I made it move down. In a few days, the mail man delivered a box from Amazon and in it a beautiful book I coveted for months: Jerusalem: A Cookbook, by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi.

Some time back, my friend Beth of OMG! Yummy invited me to participate in Tasting Jerusalem, a virtual cooking group that explores the recipes of this fascinating region as seen by two people who grew up in the city, an Israeli and a Palestinian. For a long time I just watched from the bleachers, unable to take part, anticipating the day when I would be able to bury my face in the book and smell its fresh-from-the-press pages.

Jerusalem: A Cookbook, deserves a post all by itself, but today I have to concentrate on the topic of the month, which is couscous. I have cooked with couscous for many years, ever since I discovered the versatility of these small pasta spheres made of durum semolina wheat. Instead of replicating a recipe from the cookbook, this month’s challenge was to come up with our own dish using couscous.

My girls recently developed a love affair with tabbouleh, a zesty Middle-Eastern salad made with chewy bulgur wheat, sweet, ripe tomatoes, pungent parsley, fresh mint, and lemon juice. Substituting toothsome whole wheat Israeli couscous for bulgur wheat was a no-brainer and the results did not disappoint. I used mint that grows rampant in the bed of calla lillies and lemons from the yard next door. I only wish the tomatoes came from the garden, but that will have to wait for a few more weeks.

I don’t know if I will win the contest for the most creative use of couscous. I am just excited to be a part of this group that takes me virtually to a city I long to visit one day soon. It all started with a hesitant press of a button, an action that was not possible for me even a month ago, a deed that seemed courageous and momentuous that left me feeling comforted and content…Almost like a glance into my fully stocked pantry.

“Tasting Jerusalem is a virtual cooking community exploring the vibrant flavors and cuisine of the Middle East through the lens of “Jerusalem: A Cookbook” by Ottolenghi and Tamimi published by Ten Speed Press. You can follow along and cook with us by subscribing to omgyummy.com, following the hashtag #TastingJrslm on Twitter and Instagram, and liking our Facebook page.”

Once a month I play Bunco with a very diverse group of women. In my previous life across the ocean, I enjoyed playing cards and board games with my friends and I am still very passionate about sharing a few leisurely hours in a relaxed and lets-pretend-to-be-competitive atmosphere.

First time around I was a complete novice, ignorant of the simple rules. It did not help that I was the newest member of the Bunco tribe that had previously met for years. I was understandably anxious, but my fears were assuaged immediately by an exceptionally warm communal welcome that included a glass of red wine and a nice and versatile spread of nibbles. I felt comforted by the thought that these women are witty, funny, approachable, and as eager to pop a cork on a bottle of wine as I was.

As I said, the rules of the Bunco game are stupidly simple and not meant to be challenging, nor ambiguous. Anyone can win, and even if you lose, you can win. Throughout the night, I switched tables, rolled the dice, and got to know my fellow Bunco-ites. I concluded that the point of the game is not to win, to compete, to be better, but to make friends, to relax, and to enjoy the company.

I was introduced to the group by my friend and neighbor as a food blogger, a “foodie”, and a make-it-from-scratch kind of girl. It is only logical that I would think really hard about the potluck dishes I had to bring, having to uphold my reputation. Food for Bunco nights is supposed to be fun, unpretentious, and easy to eat. Small portions and bite-size offerings are hugely appreciated as we eat while standing up, holding a plate and a glass of wine.

The last time we met, I had to work during the day. I knew that I would not have enough time to make something very special and time-consuming, but bringing food bought at the grocery store was definitely out of the question. Having decided that I had all the ingredients necessary to make cheese crackers, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. I was confident that these little cheesy bites would be popular with the ladies, as they pack just enough punch to wake up your palate in the most delightful way.

I was not disappointed: the crackers were a success, not only with the members of my Bunco group that night, but with my girls and Freida in my absence. I now have a standing request for these easy snacks, one that I am more than happy to comply with. Crackers are easily adjusted to tastes and availability of ingredients, very simple and fast to make, and satisfy kids and adults equaly. And my Bunco ladies never suspected that I did not slave in the kitchen for hours to bring these cheesy morsels to them.

I used Special Reserve Extra Sharp Tilamook Cheddar Cheese and it was divine! No, Tilamook cheese company has not supplied me with cheese – I just happen to love it.

When I look back in time of my childhood, I have to be in awe of Mother and Njanja for all the baking they did, almost on daily basis. I cannot remember a single day that we did not have something sweet to round up our meal and to snack on. I definitely took it for granted and only when I became a mother and faced the demands of the adult world did I realize how fortunate we were growing up.

My children do not enjoy daily doses of pies, cookies, tortes, cakes – not even crepes, the ubiquitous dessert that most of the European children learn to make about the time they start preschool (yes, I am kidding, but crepes are a simple, inexpensive and versatile dessert that can be whipped up in minutes, and as such they are considered ordinary by many of my “paesanos”). That way, when I bake something, anything, they are elated and tremendously happy.

Sure, I have inherited Mother’s hand-written cookbook and Njanja’s painstakingly recorded page after yellowed page of decades-worth of recipes, and one of these days I will embark on a project of preserving the old-fashioned, delicious, and oh-so-time-consuming European dishes of the past. I hate to see them lapse into the oblivion, but I am not ready yet to tackle Njanja’s Dobos Torte or Mother’s Napoleon Torte. My girls know nothing about this idea and that’s for the best. In the meantime, I bake the simplest of desserts, once every couple of weeks, and make a grandstand of it, accepting accolades, praises, and, of course, sweet kisses with feigned modesty.

Our Food Bloggers of LA April meeting was held in the Orange County, at a beautiful house perched on a Tustin hill. Kim of Rustic Garden Bistro was our hostess, and as this was the second spring she and her ever-so-nice husband Barry have kept chickens, it was no surprise that the theme of the get-together was “Egg-stravaganza”.

I planned on making a quiche, a Russian Salad, or maybe an assortment of deviled eggs, but I was ambushed by a few unexpected errands the day before, which left me literally scratching my head as I had to go to work in the early afternoon. I did not completely disregard the teachings of my female ancestors, though: every time I make mayonnaise, I save the egg white and keep it in a plastic bagie in the freezer – as I add more, I just change the number on the bag with my Sharpie.

I promptly excavated a baggie containing three egg whites, placed them in a cup of warm water to defrost, and danced a happy dance in the middle of my 70s kitchen in anticipation of light-as-foam, crispy meringues. They might not have been Mother’s elaborate masterpieces combining several beautiful flavors that sing to your palate in a delicious symphony, but the members of my household, including Pepe, the French poodle, were exctatic.

The recipe is versatile – you can omit the lemon zest and top each meringue with a quarted of a walnut or a pecan. You can add a bit of cocoa to color it and give it chocolate flavor. You can add chocolate chips or chopped nuts as Judy of Bumbleberry Breeze did. And besides, they are so easy to make that I entrusted my girls to watch them, turne the oven off, and let them dry out while I went to work.

A long time ago I read that baby animals are cute on purpose, to make us like them and protect them. I can’t say that I loved our several cats and dogs any less when they became fully grown, but I definitely lamented the passage of time that rid them of their round, fluffy faces, innocent playfullness and adorable tininess.

As a child I wished for a potion that would stop the kittens from becoming cats and puppies for becoming dogs. At the same time, I could not wait until my next birthday and rejoiced at every centimeter that added to my height. I envisioned my teenage self at seventh grade, yet I brought home countless animal orphans I encountered on my meandering way back from school, all of them very young, very neglected, and always abandoned. Alas, Mother would not allow me to nurture these pathetic specimens until adulthood and as soon as they gathered strength, I had to release them into the world, shedding uncontrolable tears and saying long, melodramatic goodbyes.

I did not stop driving my Mother crazy with my penchant for all things miniscule even when I became an adult. I had to fend off her exasperated looks when I gulitily placed on the kitchen table the tiniest new potatoes I could find at the farmers’ market, the slimmest carrots, cornichon-sized cucumbers and ripe, locally grown tomatoes slightly bigger than golf balls. My onions, peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers destined for the ubiquitous Serbian summer salad were daintily cut in half-inch pieces, and I vehemently defended my approach as I wanted the flavors to meld and each spoonful to have some of all the vegetables present.

To this day I have not changed. I secretly yearn to adopt a teacup chihuahua or two and keep them in my purse. I wish I could bring home the whole litter of kittens found abandoned in a neighborhood church’s cellar. I still cut the food on my plate in the tiniest bites and pick the smallest specimens at the farmers’ market. I look at my leggy teenage girls and see the round-faced babies they used to be, perfectly fitting in the crook of my arm as I rocked them to sleep with one of my Serbian lullabies.

The world of miniatures enchants me and it takes a big dose of reality to make me resist the pull of speckled quails’ eggs beckoning from the shelves of our local Persian market. And when I opened a box from Melissa’s Produce that arrived a few weeks back, I whirled around whispering terms of endearment looking at the cuteness in front of me embodied in boxes of delicate baby kiwis and colorful kale sprouts.

Baby kiwis looked just like regular kiwis that experienced a shot of Rick Moranis’ special ammunition and shrunk, except that they were hairless and soft-skinned. Kale sprouts, on the other hand, resembled no plant I have seen so far. I examined them thoroughly from all sides, admiring vivid purple that marbled deep green in the perky leaves. They looked like something Liliputians would plant to fool Gulliver, a doll-house variety of  Brussels sprout that had a menage-a-trois with cabbage and kale.

Mesmerized as I was, I knew that I had to prepare them in a way that would preserve their resplendent coloring and keep their texture from going too soft. There is a dish served at the Adriatic to accompany grilled fish that is made with cubed potatoes, Swiss chard and garlic. It is simple and unassuming, but flavorful and satisfying at the same time. I thought that these purple and green bundles would be a perfect fit for such a dish, especially if I paired them with sweet new potatoes.

The final result did not look, nor taste like the original, just like the kale sprouts did not look like anything familiar when I fist examined them. Yet, what I ended up with was a dish that celebrates spring, its freshness and color. Slight bitterness of kale sprouts was mellowed by sweetness of new potatoes, and garlic, while not assertive, brought a distinctive fresh note to the mix.

Even though I was convinced from the beginning that odd little sprouts would not disappoint, I felt victorious. I did not do the chosing this time, Mother, but the miniatures worked for me again!

Use herbs, garlic skins, onion sacks, rubber bands and discarded sticky “dots” from a three-hole puncher to get unusual and festive designs.

I use onion skins, turmetic, and coffee to color my eggs naturally and I love the hues.

• 1 inch piece of fresh yeast (or 1 envelope of dry instant yeast)
• 2 tsp sugar
• 200 ml warm milk
• 2 eggs, slightly beaten
• 100 ml plain yogurt or buttermilk
• 1 tsp coarse salt
• 2 Tbsp butter at room temperature
• 650gr all purpose flour (a bit more for dusting the counter)
• 120 gr (1 stick) butter at room temperature
• 1 egg, slightly beaten