Pinching Pennies by Pickling (Roasting) Peppers

My favorite grocery shopping experiences happen at Caputo's. I like that it's a family-owned chain of stores. And I like that the produce section takes up about a third of the store, only rivaled by the fresh bread section and the deli that offers homemade Italian sausage. Inside the store, it's noisy and bustling. People call to each other from one end of the deli to the other. The fish market guy will let you select a fish, and he'll ask you if you want him to cut off the fish heads or not (and whether you want the heads bagged to take home).

In the middle of the huge produce section, where stout women are squeezing mangoes and picking the best potatoes and husking their own corn, is what I refer to as the "Veggie Hospice," where vegetables are sent to die with dignity. Boxes are packed with an assortment of veggies that are bruised and sadly, a little past their prime. They are facing the dumpster or the compost heap if someone doesn't act quickly and take them home so they can fulfill their destiny.

This is when I leap into action.

I take my time in the Veggie Hospice. I must choose wisely. The boxes are marked to sell—most of them can be yours for the low price of $1.99—but exactly what does one do with an entire box of wilted lettuce? I have to take into account how much time and energy I'll have once I get home, and which kitchen tool will help me with the salvation of the veggies. Once, I scored a box full of huge Portobello mushrooms, which I immediately put in my dehydrator for future use in delectable soups.

Another time, I brought home a box of oranges and lemons, and I attempted to make homemade marmalade. It didn't go well. Say the word "marmalade," and my cheeks will burn with the memory of that mishap.

But last week, my eye caught a box of big red bell peppers, still in good shape. I snatched them up and took them home. Thank goodness for the internet, where I immediately could call up all sorts of ways to roast red peppers. Laying these red jewels on the baking pan in a hot oven until their skins were blackened was a really fun process. Then, I transferred them to a paper bag, where they steamed. After their veggie sauna, their blackened skins peeled right off. Now I have a huge jar of my own roasted bell peppers. I've been making roasted red pepper hummus and layering cheese and the peppers on some of my homemade bread, then toasting it in the oven.

Tonight, I'm making tabbouleh—my favorite refreshing salad of bulghur wheat, cucumbers and lemon—and I'll be sprucing it up with some more of my red peppers.

I can't wait to see which forsaken vegetables I can rescue next week. Thank you, Caputo's.

Hold On to Every Moment—It Goes So Fast

Fourteen years ago, my husband and I were still getting the hang of being new parents. One day we had packed the diaper bag, loaded the car seat, and carefully strapped in our newborn for a family shopping trip. After sleepless nights, we were starved to get out of the house and feel normal again. Our first little boy had been a preemie, and for the three weeks he spent in the NICU, we measured his growth in ounces and fractions of inches. At birth, his tiny ankle was the same size as my thumb. His entire little body was as long as my forearm.

At the department store, between the racks of clothing, a man approached us, and congratulated us on being new parents.

"Hold on to every moment—it goes so fast," he smiled, before he turned and left.

"Wasn't that sweet of him to say that?" I said to my husband. We smiled satisfactorily at this new inner circle we had stepped into, simply by having a baby.

But then the second baby came, and the third. And the fourth. At any given time, I was breastfeeding someone, or changing a diaper. More often than not, I had throw up or snot or poop smeared surreptitiously on my clothing. And it seemed wherever I went, a well-meaning older, wiser parent would come up to me, pat me on the shoulder and say, "Hold on to every moment—it goes so fast."

"Why does everyone keep saying that to me?" I'd complain to my husband. "It's so patronizing. Do they think I don't understand how fast they grow up?"

But the truth was, I didn't. How many times, when the kids were babies, did I think to myself, "I just can't wait until they're grown up so they can feed themselves/wipe themselves/clean up after themselves/drive themselves.

This past Mother's Day, my oldest son came up to me as I was pouring my morning coffee.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom."

I was looking my son in the eye. In the eye. His voice is starting to creep down into the lower register, and he is beginning to take on that look of a young man.

Last week I visited a friend of mine, who is a brand new mother. I got to hold her newborn baby, who opened his deep blue eyes just for a few moments to look at me before drowsily zonking out in my arms in that wonderful newborn slumber that I remember so well. I looked into his sleepy face, and listened to his quiet little coos and smelled the warm sweetness radiating off the fine, downy hair on his head. I squinted my eyes and tried to imagine him as a toddler, pulling all the toilet paper off the roll and draping it across the house—for the second time that day. I imagined his toothless grin he'd have when his baby teeth started falling out in elementary school, or the day he'd tower over his mother with his hands on his hips saying, "Why can't I borrow the car?"

The words were right there on my tongue. I wanted to say it so badly. I wanted to tell the new mother how fast it goes, how she'll look up one day and see her son's eyes looking right back at her and she'll wonder where this little baby went. But I didn't say it to her.

She'll find out for herself.

Fine and Dandy Dandelions

How am I supposed to know if I should love or hate dandelions? I mean, I should hate them, right? That's what the flyers tell me—tucked surreptitiously in my front door handle of chemical lawn services trying to drum up business in my neighborhood. I walk my kids home from school in the afternoon and see the little flags lined up to warn pedestrians that chemical has just been applied to the neatly squared suburban lawns.

My husband and I have never applied chemicals to our lawn. I just don't like the idea of my kids and dog rolling around in chemicals. But in the spring and summer, when the bright yellow dandelions start popping up like little exclamation points in my yard, I feel conflicted. I am drawn to the bright yellow heads, with their perky, spiky petals and leaves. My kids are delighted.

"Dandy-lions!' They exclaim.

My daughter picks a bouquet for me. My sons swing a baseball bat at them, knocking off their heads.

"You think we should call a lawn service?"

I ask my husband this question every year. We'll talk about it, consider it. Then we ultimately decide not to. Much to the chagrin of our neighbors, I'm sure.

In fact, the fear of my neighbors hating me is the sole source of my hate for dandelions. I'll worry so much about their private tsk-ing and head shaking, that I'll grab my dandelion digger, that metal fork with the ergonomic grip handle, and start stabbing away at the roots, flinging murdered dandelions into a large bucket. For every one that I dig up, I swear 10 more appear instantaneously.

My daughter watched me somberly as I went on a dandelion murdering rampage earlier this week.

"Why are you throwing away the dandelions?" she asked me, her lip protruding ever so slightly.

"Because they're weeds," I answered, never stopping my rhythm of plunge, rip, toss. Plunge, rip, toss.


"Weeds? What are weeds?"

I lean back on my heels, wipe the sweat from my forehead.

"I don't really know," I say.

She hands me another bunch of dandelions, offering them up like a little cherub. As soon as you pick a dandelion, it starts wilting, which makes them all the more endearing to me. The bright yellow heads nod slightly in the grip of her little chubby hands. Where a flower is aware of its beauty and intrinsic value and will stand straight and tall on its stem, the dandelion seems to know that it's a weed, and isn't invited to the flower garden party. It shows up in its glorious golden crown, but tips its head humbly as if to say, "I'd like to stay ... if you'll have me."

I take the bouquet from my daughter, and wrap her up in a hug and thank her profusely. She waits and watches me, probably suspicious that if she turns her back on me, I'll toss her treasured bouquet into the bucket with the others—cold, heartless dandelion murderess that I am.

I won't. I will hold the dandelions in my hand, my other arm around my daughter. I will put them in a tiny vase on my windowsill, knowing they will wilt immediately. Or we will pick more dandelions and put them behind our ear and let out our inner forest divas.

If you're my neighbor, I'm so sorry. I will not be calling the chemical lawn service again this year. Maybe next year?

Nah, probably not.