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Roasted Summer Tomato Quiche

September 16, 2019

At our house, we love quiche and we love summer tomatoes. But, Colin doesn’t like the texture of a cooked tomato – many of the fresh tomato tarts just use slices. So I tried to come up with a way to make a summer tomato tart/quiche that involved a tomato puree (based on this recipe from the NY Times) but still utilized our own summer tomatoes, not canned.

I used the Mediterranean Whole Wheat Pie Crust – it was beautifully pliable and easy to roll. I will totally make this again! And, as far as pie crusts go, this one packs more protein and much lower fat macros than a traditional crust.

I roasted the tomatoes, garlic and a whole yellow onion according to this tried and tested method: When Bad Tomatoes Go Good. 

Then I basically followed the rest of the recipe for the Winter Tomato Quiche. I pureed all that yummy, roasty goodness in the blender. Dumped it into a saucepan with the additional herbs (I used fresh thyme and basil) and boiled it down for another 15 minutes until there was almost no liquid left. Added it into the egg and cheese mixture according to the directions and baked it in my two little tart pans for ~45 minutes.

Next time, however, I’ll do it in a single pie dish – the tart pans were cute, but we didn’t like the quiche-to-crust ratio and they were thin. I’ll also do more than just par-bake the crust – I’ll fully pre-cook the crust before baking the quiche – whole wheat takes longer to bake, and ours was still chewy on the bottom. Not awful, but crispy would have been nicer. And I will probably add more herbs. Because you can never have too much basil…

Served with a simple green salad dressed in lemon juice and olive oil, topped with feta crumbles, this was a perfect late summer meal!

A Plea for the Broken-Hearted at the Holidays

November 22, 2018

When you’ve lost someone important to your life, every holiday approaches with equal parts anticipation and dread.

A life lost abruptly or violently or prematurely — it only magnifies this phenomenon. Even the most stalwart mental fortitude cannot help but hear faint whispers around the edges. If…

If she were here…
If he had lived…
If I had not….

We stuff them down, packing noise and duty into the void to silence the hurtful whispers, but the scars we bear are only faintly healed.

This time of year, there are so many memories.

They’re everywhere, in every window and spoonful. In every box and bow. It’s inescapable.

Be it five years or ten, a lifetime or a heartbeat, the scars still split at the slightest touch. These holidays will, forever, be etched in love and anguish.

Please, I beg you. Do not look down on us, the broken, the ones who bear these fragile wounds that never fully heal. We are not weak. We are not flawed.

We are strong. We have survived. In spite of pain, in spite of grief, in spite of loss — we keep on living, and doing, and merrymaking. Don’t ask too many questions. We’re leaking a bit, beneath that smile. We’re cradling a carefully-assembled facade and if you push too far it might crack open and all that hurt is going to spill out all over again.

Just give us a hug or a pat on the back. Tell us you remember. Don’t be offended if we quickly turn away.

It’s the best we can do.

She would have been 70 on Monday. Thanksgiving was a holiday that belonged to her, often falling on her birthday. It’s impossible to separate the day from the memories. It’s impossible not to wonder what might have been, what it could have been like, if she had lived.

My Kids Are Not Playing Fortnite, Here’s Why

March 4, 2018

Mean Mom of the Year, right here, folks. Why? Because this weekend, my husband and I made the decision to pull the plug, so to speak, on Fortnite.

If you haven’t run across this game yet, then you either don’t have tweens or teens living in your house, or you live off the grid in Arizona. I see posts on Facebook daily from parents who either love the game, or hate it. Google it, and you’ll see forum posts like “Why are kids so obsessed with Fortnite?” and “I saw a kid in Taco Bell playing Fortnite” and blog posts like “How I Lost My Children to Fortnite.”

What’s the allure? It’s a free strategy survival game that works on several platforms. It combines Minecraft-type collection of resources and building, with team-based survival shooting like Call of Duty. Kids (and adults) can play with up to 100 strangers, creating teams and crafting strategy.

One mom writes that gaming…”has now become a social activity amongst children (and adult men) breaking down barriers and connecting children from different communities. My kids are playing with their camp friends, school friends, and family friends from neighboring cities.., they are creating stronger bonds with some kids they rarely see and friends they see all the time.”

So what’s the big deal? Team work = good, right? (The same mom above is also complaining that her kids no longer remember to eat or bathe…)

The big deal for me was when my 10 year old sat next to me on the couch and proceeded to explain the difference between a Gatling Gun and an AR-15. My 10 year old is suddenly an expert on…assault weapons.

Assault weapons. The very things used in some of the deadliest mass shootings in America. Las Vegas. Orlando. Parkland, and more. The United States has the honor of hosting nearly half of the deadliest mass shootings in the world over the last 30 years. I don’t need to tell you that no other country appears on the list as many times as we do. This country is obsessed — and I mean obsessed — with guns.

I feel strongly that the gun culture of America needs to change, and it needs to change now. There’s not much I can do single-handedly to make this happen — I will vote, I will use my voice when and where I can — but I can change what I teach my kids. Does playing violent video games lead to violence? The jury is still out. But, God help me if I allow my children to believe that shooting assault weapons is normal or fun. God help me if I allow them to become desensitized to violence and the idea of holding and firing a weapon.

37 Mass Shootings in America

563 children wounded or killed.

2,461 dead…

This year. That’s just three months. Gun violence in America isn’t just a problem. It’s a massacre.

Charles Figley, director of the Traumatology Institute and a professor of social work at Tulane University, has worked directly in school shooting interventions, and says growing accustomed to repeated violent acts is a form of adaptation, and most people do it without even realizing it.

“People adapt, they adjust, they try to look on the bright side,” he says. “There are two primary methods of dealing with a traumatic event: to respond, or to put it out of your mind. That’s what’s happening now. We’re still shocked, but we watch the people in the communities where this has happened, and we see their shock, their unpreparedness. We think, ‘There is nothing they could have done.’ The more frequently this happens, the more it reminds people there’s nothing they can do, so they put it out of their minds.”

God help me if I continue to sit back and do nothing.

Long ago, my husband and I decided that we weren’t going to allow (or play ourselves) any first-person shooter games. We stuck by that rule, despite the popularity of Halo and Call of Duty, and our kids have done fine. Pulling the plug on Fortnite, however, definitely had a sting, especially for our youngest who is (was) really into the game. But when we explained to him why…why we don’t want him playing a game that involves holding any kind of semi-automatic weapon, you know what? He understood. He’s seen the news, he knows what’s been happening.

And he doesn’t want any part of it, either.

Times up, people, in more ways than one. Times up for thinking gun violence isn’t your problem, or it won’t ever happen to you (or your kids). Times up for thinking you can’t make a difference. Times up for believing that change isn’t possible.

Thanks for listening. I’d love to hear your thoughts.


Want to know what else you can do to stop gun violence in America? Here’s a few ideas:

Text RESIST to 50409  – This is the coolest thing ever. Using your zipcode, Resistbot allows you to write custom letters and faxes them directly to your Congressional representatives, your governor, and CC’s them to your local paper if you wish. Takes about two minutes, you write what you want, they send it. Easy peasy.

6 Things You Can Do Right Now to Fight for Gun-Control

Pledge to be a Gun Sense Voter

Sign the Petition: Pass Gun Safety Reform

Five things you could do right now to reduce gun violence in America

Hope Like A Heartbeat

December 12, 2017

A noun. A thing, elusive and ephemeral. To grasp, to cling, to clutch. But slippery. Sliding away when we’re not paying attention. Open hands, it’s gone. Again.

A verb. A choice. An act of myopic faith, blurry in the distance but promising. What might be, what could be? Active belief in possibilities as yet unseen.

Hope in a family with Huntington’s Disease is a risky business. We’ve hoped and held on to hope for so long already. Hope slipped away the day I knew my mom was dying. Hope returned, a tiny flicker of belief that perhaps my life would not end the same as hers.

Hope, like a heartbeat, pulses in the background, at times strong, at times so faint it barely exists.

I may not carry the Huntingtin gene, but there are people I love who do.

Hope began to beat again, this week, when a drug company in the UK released the results of trial using new methods to treat HD.

The results are promising.

Weary, we lean down and pick up Hope again. Choosing to believe, choosing to carry this thing we’ve held and dropped so many times before. Tucking it back into our pocket.

Perhaps, this time, we won’t have to let it go.

A Love Letter to a New England Summer

August 25, 2017

It is nearly midnight but I don’t want to go to bed. Because when I wake up, it will be the last Friday of summer and it will all be over. On Monday it will be school, and schedule, and routine. 

This summer, our first full summer in New England, was extraordinary. It was full of all the things that summer should be. Swimming and sunburns and mosquito bites. Add a dash of poison ivy because it is, well, everywhere and to go without it is to never walk in the woods and what kind of life would that be?

It was ice cream and warm rain, cut grass and baby goats. It was small town parades and eating outside, food trucks on the parkway and the farmer’s market. It was plane rides to faraway places, heavy lidded boys with brown cheeks and tousled hair. It was air thick with humidity and sweating as you step out of the shower. It was a little work, a lot of play, staying up too late and sleeping in too long. 

It was all that summer should be.

But now, it’s over. 

Fall is peeking around the corner. The forecast proves it. She’s ready for her turn in the spotlight and we love her, we really do, but summer….

A New England summer isn’t anything like those long, drawn out seasons of the west. She’s only here a moment, and when she’s gone, she’s gone and she’s not reappearing for a long, long, LOOOONG time. 

Tonight I’ve got the windows open. The crickets, a cacophony outside my window. Tomorrow will be back packs and school supplies, sharpened pencils and notebooks. It will be laundering all the new school clothes and pulling the long-sleeved shirts and jeans from the back of the closet and drawers. (It will also be astonishment at how much their feet can grow in three months, but I digress.) Tomorrow will belong to fall and I’ll have to put on a sweater to walk them to the bus stop on Monday. 

But tonight…tonight belongs to summer and to the crickets and to me. 

Things I’ve Learned Since Moving to New England

July 24, 2017

June 21 marked the one year anniversary of our exodus to New Hampshire from Northern California.

It’s been quite a year — we survived the winter splendidly — it was quite fun, in fact. Spring, however, was not so much fun. It was cold, and raw, and the 9th wettest May on record. Mother’s Day nearly done me in — the rest of the country (it seems) was hanging out by the pool and we were still in hats and mittens. But summer did arrive mid-June, on schedule, and we are now gallivanting around to fairs, the beach, and eating our body weight in locally produced ice cream. It’s a good life! 

For those of you who still think we are crazy to leave La Buena Vida of California…here’s a few things I’ve learned in the past year:

  • The most frequently accessed app on my phone is The Weather Channel. I am obsessed. But for good reason! Like Forrest and his box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. And just because they said that three days ago, does not mean that’s what’s going to happen today. Meteorologists around here are local celebrities; they really have to be on their toes! 
  • Having lived in Maine, I already knew that Autumn was spectacular. But it’s nice when memory doesn’t exaggerate.

  • Car seat warmers: Not a novelty. Essential to survival.
  • Mittens not gloves. If you live here, you know. 
  • Winter is a time for rest. We never had that in NorCal — when the sun was shining, we just HAD to be doing, and going. It was kind of exhausting in hindsight. When the storms roll in around here, we actually do hibernate. By the fire, in our PJs, with a good book. It’s a beautiful and refreshing thing to have permission to Just. Be. Still.

  • Wind chill is a thing. A very important thing. (And, may I repeat, mittens, not gloves!)
  • Hats are not a fashion statement, nor are they optional. After a haircut in the winter, I ended up wearing one around the house and to bed for about three days until my scalp acclimated.
  • Bluebird Days are the very best kind of days.

    noun: bluebird day: denoting or relating to a period of time characterized by sunny, cloudless weather, typically after a night of snowfall.

  • The advent of spring is very much like that part in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy leaves the monochromatic world of Kansas and wakes up in Technicolor Oz. It’s JUST LIKE THAT.
  • I’ll never buy ice cream in the grocery store again. Because locally made is a THING around here, and there are so many places to choose from. I’ve made it my personal mission to try every version of Moose Tracks that exists. So far, Richardson’s is the best, but only when it’s purchased at Stillwell’s on the Riverwalk, Exeter. 
  • Hearing the words “poison ivy” elicits the same physical response as does the word “lice.”  
  • After nearly six months of cold and freezing temps, any sunny day over 60°F is sufficient for wearing shorts and/or sunbathing. 
  • Spirea, Ninebark, Doublefile Viburnum….(flora of a truly exquisite nature I’d never even heard of before.)
  • Mosquitoes still bite even when it’s pouring out. 
  • Farm-to-table is more norm here than exception. We have farm-to-table Mexican, pizza, burgers…you name it, we got it. So much yum.  
  • Tick checks. Every. Single. Day. 
  • Baby goats are addictive. And they do not smell. They are joy, on four legs. And sometimes, two. 

  • Getting out of school in late June seems awful in theory, but given summer’s late start around here, we will be enjoying a full month of summer in August while you people are back in the classroom. 
  • If there’s not at least three festivals, fairs, parades, or cook-offs to choose from every weekend in the summer then something is terribly wrong. 
  • Traffic is not. There really is no such thing around here, unless it’s 95 at the front or back end of a holiday weekend. But that’s easily avoided. When locals complain about the “awful traffic” in Exeter, we just giggle. A whole 10 minutes! So brutal. More than three cars at a stoplight is what the locals call traffic.
  • Remember the film Doc Hollywood? The quaint, small-town life where everyone knows each other and the town parade and fair is a huge deal and it’s all so charming and story-bookish? Well, that life really does exist. Whether it’s the town’s 300th anniversary parade (yes, you read that right. Stratham isn’t as mature as most towns around here, at ONLY 300 years old….) to the Memorial Day parade, to fireworks over the river, to the Independence Day re-enactment of the delivery of the Declaration of Independence to Exeter on July 16, 1776 (complete with horseback couriers and Royalist hecklers) to the local 4H exhibits in baking and sewing and horticulture at the town fair. That life is real, and we’re now living it.

In short, as I’ve said before, I feel like I am finally home.


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My History with Huntington’s Disease: Writing From The Inside Out

May 2, 2017

Mom and me, spring of 1992, my sophomore year of college. Her decline had already begun, and this is one of the last “normal” photos I have of her.

As you probably already know, May is Mental Health Awareness Month.

I took this opportunity to rip out my own guts and wear them on the outside for a while, and I wrote about my mother’s decline into mental illness as she began to succumb to Huntington’s Disease.

To say I feel a bit exposed is a understatment. But, this illness, this horror, it needs to be brought out into the light. The world needs to know. The suffering has to stop. There are so many people still at risk. Some of them I love.

This post, The Story Of An Enabler, is running on the Redbud Post website this month. I hope you’ll take the time to read it. Take the time to share it. Take them time to spread the word.

The suffering has to stop.


An enabler is a person who encourages or enables self-destructive behavior in another. So often we think of enablers in terms of addicts and alcoholics or the mom who keeps feeding her 700-pound, bedridden son. People who keep hidden what everyone else can already see. We think of them with derision and judgment, as if they had a choice in their actions.

Perhaps, though, we, the enablers, are creatures just as broken and bereft as the individuals we try to protect. Desperate victims in a dark-shrouded world, who cannot see a way out of the darkness.

The beginning was subtle. She began to worry about strange things. She became convinced that odors of any kind would make her sick and refused to allow any cleaning products in our home—she even demanded that hotels we visited not clean our room with anything but water. If she encountered any kind of construction work or gardeners, she would flee immediately, running home to lock the house and close the windows lest the smells or the dust make her sick. Or worse, she would approach the crew and demand they stop their work, regardless of the circumstances or employer.

Late one night when I was a junior in college, she called, whispering into the phone that my dad had just tried to kill her…

Read More


If you’d like to read more about HD, or about my history with Huntington’s Disease:

My Story: Why I Write

On Death, Joy, and Tattoos

What Not to Pray (Unless You Really Mean It)

The Waiting: On Fear, Friendship and Snorkeling

Friday FAQ: Life After Huntington’s Disease

On Belonging, Friendship and Surviving Renae’s Hikes

Pray for a cure.


The conversation continues!  See the boymom life in full Technicolor.  Join me over on Instagram.

Like this post? Subscribe to receive future posts via email or a quarterly newsletter that positively glimmers with good stuff.