LIKE GOOD WASPS, Paige and I really enjoy a Passover Seder, though we have our different reasons to love the celebration so much. Hers is food. Mine, well, it has something to do with an imaginary friend. Don’t believe me?

When Bibbi Geggy came to live with us, he showed up in all the best places, including the Passover table set by our dear friends. Had I known what Paige was bringing to the table, we might have snuck in an extra dinner with her before Bibbi moved on to points unknown. But all is not lost, since we’ve got Bibbi Geggy’s tale of Passover right here for you to read.

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MAKING A LIST. That’s my duty, according to Sheilaa, everyone’s favorite astrologer. And it’s advice I’m comfortable with, since I love making lists. What does Sheilaa have in store for you? Are you brave enough to look?

In her April, 2011 predictions, Sheilaa reminds us that we are in another Mercury Retrograde. During the last one I lost my kitchen. Totally. To water damage, right down to the studs and bare floor, and it was the grace of sisterhood that got me through the project.

Now Sheilaa suggests for me a prioritized list, and I’m good with that, since if you know me at all, you know how I love my lists. In fact, I have an entire category here on my blog devoted to them.

Check it out. And check out what the stars have in store for you.

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A RECENT STUDENT said simply, “I write to understand myself.” And I loved that. The world would be a better place if we all understood ourselves just the eensiest bit more, don’t you agree? Does it mean that all the people who are writing about themselves should publish? Of course not. In fact, this particular student has no aspirations toward publishing. And good for him. His aspirations delight me, as does his increasing awareness of the life he leads. How about you? Have you got something you’d like to examine about yourself? I bet you do, and that all you need is a little inspiration. Here’s some.

Here are some great reads that might inspire you to write down something about you.

One of my new favorite websites is Bookslut which, true to its name, is passionate about the printed page. Home to reviews, features, a blog, and columns, this is a place for lovers of the book. And it is here that I discovered Deb Olin Unferth, whose adventures in socialism sound like the perfect memoir for those of us who want to learn to laugh at ourselves while learning a little something about what one woman did to follow her political leanings. The title is Revolution: The Year I Fell in Love and Went to Join the War (Henry Holt).  It’s next on my bookshelf, and can be on yours, as well.

That book reminded me that I’ve been meaning to tell you about the astonishing Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family, (Harper Collins, 2011) by Tamara Chalabi, whose insights and exquisite use of details make this book positively shimmer. Chalabi’s father was among those who provided the U.S. with intelligence on weapons of mass destruction that led up to our misguided invasion of Iraq. Talk about a difficult detail to write about. She does it beautifully, and while you might think that details such as this do not appear in your life, think again. What gnarly thing is it exactly that keeps you from writing something down? Right. That one. Read this, and learn how to turn those previous obstacles into firm navigation markers. And here’s the beautiful part of Tamara Chalabi’s book: that is but one small detail of her story. Read it and learn, sisters.

For those of us newshounds who cannot get enough of life behind the keyboard/camera/microphone, there is a fine book by Belva Davis entitled Never in My Wildest Dreams: A Black Woman’s Life in Journalism. The first black woman television news reporter in the West, she has reported on some of the best stories of recent memory. Here is all you need to know: The incomparable Maya Angelou wrote of this book,  “No people can say they understand the times in which they have lived unless they have read this book.”

For those of us who like to eat and cook, and eat, and well, I guess this is all of us, the most fun I’ve had outside the kitchen is reading the brand new Blood, Bones and Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, by Gabrielle Hamilton, the famous chef from Prune, NYC’s cool-chic-fun eatery. Gabrielle Hamilton is a writer and a cook, and while you may know that she is among the best chefs around, the writing part, quite honestly, is giving her culinary skills a serious run for their money. This book is a total joy. The structure is the key here, and I will nor ruin if for you, except to say that you’ve rarely had more thrills reading about food, I promise. A contributor to The New York Times’ Chef’s Column, the New Yorker, Bon Appétit and other food magazines, Hamilton earned an MFA in fiction, studied at Iowa Writers Workshop and has the words to prove it.

Not to be outdone in the kitchen or the page, is Kim Severson, whose memoir, Spoon Fed: How Eight Cook Saved My Life. The Atlanta bureau chief for The New York Times, this foodie can write, as well, and dish, and tell a good tale about one’s life. What I love about her is her generosity, crediting those people who have taught her some good solid lessons. It’s an intelligent woman who credits those who educate her, yes, or do you not remember that is one of our 15 Rules for Us Girls to Live By?

Upcoming memoirs, you ask? We can look forward to a memoir by Ashley Judd coming out with All That Is Bitter and Sweet (Ballantine Books) in April. And then, my very favorite wait-by-the bookstore upcoming tidbit is that the great Angelica Huston is penning her memoirs, to be released in 2013 by Scribner in the United States and Simon & Schuster in Britain. She reports to be writing about “the exceptional highs and lows” of her life, and will discuss her famous father, John Huston, her beautiful mother, Enrica Soma, some insights into being part of the only family trio – grandfather, father (Walter Huston) and herself – to win Oscars and, of course, Jack Nicholson.

Read a good memoir by a sister, sisters? Add to my list, please.

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A KITCHEN RENOVATION can go only one of two ways: either to transcendent awareness or to divorce court. And our renovation was not elective. Not a bit. Ours was thrust upon us by severe acute water damage, and suddenly I found myself saying the one thing you do not ever want to say in your own kitchen.

“Rip out the floor and take the walls down to the studs.” That would be the brand-new plywood on the floor and the newly painted walls, since when the disaster occurred, it did so in the midst of a simple cosmetic upgrade.

After I heard those words come out of my mouth I went back up to my office and wept.

And then I called my sister, who said all the right things, and then told me to call Paige. That was right before Christmas, and on Boxing Day I was sitting with Chloe Smith, Paige’s mom, mapping out a whole new kitchen.

Chloe Smith of Lowe’s, this post of thanks goes out to you. And to the sisterhood, since it was the Margaret-to-Paige-to-Chloe laying on of hands that got me to a place where I can laugh, if only a little, about what all has been going on in my house.

I am one of the few people I know who has said forever and ever that I will never, under any circumstances, undergo a kitchen renovation. To me, all design leads to a death of art. What do I mean by that? That you can busy yourself forever designing the place in which to work and in doing so, put off forever getting to the work. I’ve seen this in my friends who build music studios in which to play, and offices in which to write, and it has lead me to this grand unified theory that I took awfully seriously about how this all causes a great gap in creativity.

Yeah, well, you can see here just what an ass I can be. But I was transcended out of this, I promise you, the minute I opened the first crate and ran my fingers over the creamy, clean surface of a honeysuckle-colored cabinet door; the non-pitted sink nearly made me swoon right into it,  as did the soft-closing silverware drawer. Then there is the counter top, whose color is the precise shade of the eyes of…oh well, you can see where this is going.

I’m changed. I’m grateful. And it was the Sisters in the Kitchen who got me here. Don’t know them? Meet us here, and give me some suggestions of what to cook first in my brand new kitchen.

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FOR TEN YEARS I’ve been living on an anti-inflammatory diet. This was brought on by a friend’s suggestions, and since that friend is America’s premier science writer, I took the suggestion seriously. In the years on the diet, my cholesterol dropped, my blood pressure dropped and I lost (and maintained) weight — oh yeah, and my pain went away. Now, his advice is a book. By him. And sisters, you can throw away your other books on nutrition, health and weight loss, read this, and change forever how you live. I promise.

The writer is Gary Taubes, who for many years now has been an honorary Roach sister. It’s no small distinction, or so we like to think. Honorary Roach sisters are born, not made, and as the years pass, the fates throw us together and we delight in the understanding of what we have in common. We felt so when we met Paige and Anastasia, of TSP. My husband is an honorary Roach sister, and damn proud of it, as he’ll tell anyone who asks. Gary, the other honorary Roach sister of the male persuasion, is the author of the fine new book, Why We Get Fat And What to do About It. Just out by Knopf, you can get it here.

Gary has been causing a stir for years with his brilliant work on how what makes us fat also makes us sick. Or is that phrase new to you? It’s true: what makes us fat does also make us sick, though what it is that makes us fat may surprise you. Read the book. Change your life. It’s only sisterly of me to advise you to do so.

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WHERE I COME FROM, the word “salad” means lettuce. Perhaps that lettuce will be accompanied by onions, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, crumbled cheese, or all of the above, but lettuce—and I believe I speak for all my homepeople when I say this—would be the foundation of all things “salad.” And, being a New Yorker, I went along thinking my way was the highway until fate stepped in and threw a man in my path some 21 years ago who, when he said “salad,” was speaking a different tongue. So we got married, and mixed things up.

The culinary has always been a great curiosity in my marriage. It still is, though never more so than at the beginning of the union. Leaving my safety/comfort zone for my first foray into my husband’s homeland and driving to Indiana many years ago, I was confronted at a Bob’s Big Boy with something known as white gravy. On biscuits. For breakfast. Where was the bagel with a schmeer, I wondered? Where, for that matter, were the delis? My father-in-law, accompanying us on this trip, sighed the sigh of gustable repatriation when the waitress plunked down the plate of biscuits and gravy. Having been east just long enough, it seemed, his sigh had all the satisfaction of a man who’d come home.

We were then driving west to memorialize Lillian, my mother-in-law, whose recipe boxes I’ve written about before. That would be the unforgettable Lillian of the Spam-Chop Suey recipe, and it was on my return trip that I’d be carrying with me that inherited recipe box, though not before my lexicon of cooking got a good shaking up.

Planning her memorial service, though painful, was lightened by the family patterns of grieving. There were prescribed ways to do things, and that helped. My father-in-law was a pastor, so is his brother, as are what seemed me to be an inordinate number of family members, so things went pretty much by the prayer book.

How could I help? At the reception following the service, I was asked to man the door and accept the food that would inevitably be delivered. Those bearing the meal would be what my Hoosier father-in-law termed the “widdaladies,” an endearment I untangled some hours later to mean, the “widow ladies.” I was told they’d bring salads.

How nice, I thought. How healthy. Though how many green salads could one party possibly need?

And then the doorbell rang and an indelible image, still seared into my brain, appeared: A lasagna pan of jiggling mini-marshmallows and mandarin oranges suspended in red Jell-O. Somewhere under it, no doubt, was a pair of feet in sensible shoes, though I have no memory of those, recalling only that a side-bowl of mayonnaise was thrust into my hands.

And the doorbell rings. Again, an enormous glass pan, this time green, in which was floating ham chunks and diced pineapple. Again I was handed the mayonnaise.

Two bowls of mayo held aloft, I floated into the crowd.

“What is this?” I think is what I asked my new husband.

“It’s salad, sweetheart,” he said in that comforting way people do when they mistake what you are feeling for something as normal as grief.

Really? Well, then I’m a peeled cucumber.

And the doorbell rings.

“No, no. Let me. Please,” I said, handing the mayo bowls to him.

An enormous platter was set before my eyes on which wiggled a veritable tower of orange Jell-O, pocked with cherries. I put my hand out for the mayo I now thought traveled with this dish like salt with pepper.

Nothing.

“Mayo?” I asked.

The woman viewed me suspiciously, and then the light of recognition went off. Oh, yes, it seemed to register, this is the New York daughter-in-law. I think she patted my hand.

“Where would you like this?” I asked.

“On the dessert table.”

I see. No mayo if it’s dessert. Mayo with entrée Jell-O only. I get it.

Doorbell. A layered, tri-color veritable rainbow of stacked wobbly gelatin stood before me. Oh thank God, I remember thinking. The gay community is here.

Nope: This is the palate-cleanser Jell-O, the in between entrée and dessert course. No, you might ask. There is no mayo with this. This comes with shredded carrots suspended in the tower, under it, and around the sides, providing not merely a jolting color combo, but some roughage.

A few days later we were en route home when I opened that recipe box for the first time, immediately flipping to the tab marked “Salads.” The key, I figured, the Rossetta Stone awaited me, until I discovered that the main ingredient in “Mandarin Orange Salad” was Lemon Jell-O; “Christmas Salad” necessitates lime Jell-O; “Strawberry Salad” needs black cherry Jell-O, and “Rhubarb Salad” calls for strawberry Jell-O.

Apparently my salad days were just beginning.

(Images from Shelf Life Taste Test’s fun Flickr stream.)

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MUCH LIKE A PARTY at my house, the party in my mouth only goes well when some forethought is given to who sits next to whom. Chocolate and peanut butter? Hate ‘em as a couple; love ‘em alone, which is the same damn thing I frequently hear myself say about many of my friends.

So I’m not the least bit surprised to apply the thought to my palate, bringing to mind a whole new way to look at food. Ham and tomatoes? Huge retching sounds heard now. Saltines with butter? Gross. Almonds and anything? Too gross. Hot dog and ketchup? Get out of the way, I’m coming for the bucket. Liver and onions? Ah, never. Of course, no two women’s palates are the same. My sister’s tastes are not my own.

She likes peanut butter and chocolate together; my daughter likes butter on, ah, hmmm, everything, though particularly on Saltines, which leads me to think of each mouth as its own sorority to which only certain members need apply. Kind of makes the world of food look like one big pan-Hellenic rush week, with every recipe vying for your attention. With my obvious distaste for some of the classics, I guess my sorority is for the offbeat and oddball, the not-so usual tastes. And with that in mind, I’ve made a list of my new favorite twin sets.

Here they are:

• Pen and Fork’s Buttermilk Pancakes with Quinoa
• Backseat Gourmet’s Blue Cheese and Bacon Combo
• Austin Agrodolce’s Radishes and Soy Sauce
• 101 Cookbook’s Green Beans and Raisins
• Apartment Therapy’s Blue Cheese and Rosemary Combo
• Smitten Kitchen’s Citrus and Feta
• The Women’s Colony’s Samosa Pot Pie (by Melanie)

Got a food combo that rocks your ‘buds, or one you can’t abide?

What’s going on in your sorority, sister?

(Thanks to Eudaemonius on Flickr for the vintage punch recipe card.)

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TWO-HUNDRED CHEESEBALLS. Not a phrase—or dish—to throw around lightly. But that’s what I made for our annual celebration of Emily Dickinson’s birthday, which is December 10. Not a big birthday this year, so I limited myself somewhat in the celebration, making the light fare myself so I can rest up for the huge blowout planned for Emily’s 180^th in 2010. Once there was a time when my husband and I were a little torn as to which holiday to celebrate, and how. Long story, lots of history, but years ago, after being married only a short time, we compromised on one totemic holiday to appreciate:  Emily’s birthday, and most years we have a party.

For a good long time it was a bowling party, complete with t-shirts and prizes. But we’ve matured, this year hosting the fete (a week early; another long story) at Market Block Books, our local independent bookstore, and not wanting to crumb up the place, or sticky up the place, or dip up the place, not wanting to bring plates or forks, I thought long and hard about what to serve and soon I—and the dog, and the kitchen—was covered in cheese.

These were not just any cheeseballs, mind you. These were chutney cheese balls, the recipe cadged off a Cabot Cheddar advertisement.

Here it is.

Emily Dickinson Birthday Party Chutney Cheese Balls

Makes about 24

• 16 ounces grated sharp cheddar cheese
• 6 tablespoons cream cheese
• 2 tablespoons Major Gray’s Chutney
• 2/3 cup crushed walnuts

Yes, I multiplied the recipe about 10 times. Uh huh. Emily would love that. How do I know? Have you ever seen her recipe for black cake? It’s a little, ah, big. Enjoy.

Refrigerate for several hours before serving in truffle papers

Shape into 1-inch balls and roll in chopped nuts

Combine cheese and chutney in bowl and mash with fork.

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IT’S BEEN A TOUGH YEAR for John, our beloved friend, and subject (as well as object) of our series, Teaching John to Cook. But a year it has been since his wonderful partner died, and since all of you, in response, took on the loving assignment of teaching him to cook. And look! Here comes Thanksgiving, that high holy day of recipes, and we’re asking you for some for a man on his own to bring to the table.

One of the traditions Margaret and I grew up with was cranberry ice, so I think I’ll try that on John. A confection that needs no ice-cream maker, it’s really little more than cranberry sorbet, and a wonderful refresher at the table amid the other, how shall we say, less-light fare. I find it cleanses that palate of mine, resetting it for the second (and third) helping I am already anticipating.

The cranberry ice that Margaret and I knew was made by our grandmother Marion, for whom I am named, and while I mentioned it in our 25 Random Facts About Our Childhood, as well as in a post about the lunar cycles of sisters, I’ve never before given you the recipe. One dish, several stories. I love that about food and memoir, don’t you? The cranberry ice we knew was served in small, oblong, footed silver dishes, for which no doubt there is a proper name, and one Margaret will know, particularly having worked for so long with Martha Stewart. Me, I’m kind of table-ware-ignorant, though that is only one of the She Said, She Said(s) of our lives.

The exact family recipe for the cranberry ice is long lost, despite possessing my grandmother’s recipe box, as well as the recipe box of the daughter of my grandmother’s best friend (our mother didn’t so much cook as make drinks, if you know what I mean, so no recipe box of hers exists). So I went online a few years ago and reconstituted a recipe from there.

Here it is.

Grandmother Marion’s Cranberry Ice

2 (12-ounce) packages fresh cranberries

2 cups sugar

1 1/4 cups fresh orange juice

1 cup fresh lemon juice

Into a large pot add cranberries and enough water to cover.

Boil until cranberries begin to pop. Drain and put through a food mill placed over a large bowl.

While still warm add sugar to taste; dissolve in the warm berries.

Stir in both juices.

Pour in 8 or 9 inch square pan and freeze overnight. Take out of the freezer 5-10 minutes before shaving with an ice cream scoop, serving in whatever it is you call those small bowls.

Here’s to you, John. We’re proud of you and the hard work you’ve done this year. Hope the holidays bring you a special peace.

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TWO SISTERS PLUS ONE BOOK equals two soups. This is the sisterly cooking math we did when our friend and uber-agent Kris Dahl sent us both a new book, and two households went on a pretty much liquid diet. But oh, what liquid!

Love Soup by Anna Thomas is a wonder, and just out by W.W Norton & Co. If I could fit the camera in my kitchen, I’d photograph the counters, stainless steel prep table, and kitchen island, except you cannot see them right now but for the produce I’ve hauled home from the CSA, harvested from my garden, and also from my compost (oh, I love those compost volunteer plants!) in just the last two weeks. I was thinking of learning to juggle squash, though that would only take care of one species of the problem, since are we are also happily full of potatoes, leeks, onions, garlic, kale and chard.

I don’t have to learn to juggle, after all, since soup (as all cooks know) is the great reducer.

So, what did the Roach sisters cook up this week? I went to an old favorite, the leek and potato, and tightened up my otherwise by-memory version, adding fresh thyme and a splash of cream, as recommended by author Thomas. Margaret mastered the book’s “green soup with sweet potatoes and sage” (the author uses lower case titles, so we will here, as well).

Thomas has made the cookbook vegan-friendly; it includes 160 vegetarian recipes, which is marvelous, since Margaret, a vegetarian, prefers this while I, a hot-blooded, meat-eating omnivore, am good either way.

And you? Love soup? Here’s your book. (And here’s what Margaret thought of her copy.)

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