Hello, my friend!
As I write this, the revelers are still asleep. The house is packed to the rafters with grown children home for the weekend, and this morning there’s a stillness, only the buzz of the refrigerator, because it’s not yet 6 a.m. By tonight there will be board games, cackles, and French 75s on the beach. Happy Father’s Day.
↓ In today’s email:
- This week’s inspiration: Christmas in June
- Latest blog post: Feeling puffy after the feast
- What I ate this week: My husband’s famous fruit galette
This Week’s Inspiration: Christmas in June
As I write this, the revelers are asleep. They’ve migrated home in couples to pay homage to the man who has cooked thousands of dinners. There’s a stillness now, only the buzz of the refrigerator, because it’s before 6 a.m.
But don’t be fooled: the house is packed with grown children who’ve come home with their significant others: a DJ, a filmmaker, the woman who can get you a reservation at the most coveted restaurant in Manhattan. We’re just missing one: a collegiate rower whose thighs are twice the girth of my waist, steady and calm, a lovely addition to the rest. He’s with his own father this year.
And then there are the others, the ones for whom Father’s Day is fraught: forsaken by a child, or grieving a father who has passed. We’ve adopted them, for this and every holiday.
The excitement is palpable, if a little strange. For a house marked mostly by serenity, there are suddenly board games and cackles, feasts ending with plum, nectarine, and blueberry galettes. Tonight they’ll stay up even later, have a cookout on the beach, and drink French 75s into the early morning. I, for sure, will not make it that late.
It is Christmas in June.
We all adore my husband and are so happy for the chance to celebrate him. Exquisitely kind, always fixing something, always grateful, and this year especially, healthy. He’s the leader of this exuberant group, their patron saint of stability and unbelievable feasts. When he was younger he was a restaurateur, a chef, and, very luckily for all of us, a pastry chef too.
Even though he’s still asleep, I hope he mops up every bit of joy in these frolicking children he’s created and the loved ones they’ve brought in tow. This is where he feels love, where he belongs, where he deserves to feel celebrated.
Happy Father’s Day, Hubby. And happy Father’s Day to the men in your life, to the joy of being together, and of picking up a few extra family members along the way.
Latest Blog Post
The Role of Lymphatic Drainage in Reducing Bloating and Water Retention
After a weekend of galettes and French 75s, this one felt fitting. Some mornings you wake up and your rings are tight, your face looks puffy, your middle feels heavier than it did the night before. That’s almost always fluid, not fat. Your lymphatic system, the network that moves that fluid along, has no pump; it relies on movement, muscle, and breath. In midlife, shifting hormones make us hold onto water more readily, and a salty dinner or a glass of wine tips it further. The good news: fluid is something you can actually help move. Here’s what lymphatic drainage really does, what the evidence says, and how to tell whether it’s the right tool for your kind of bloating.
What I Ate This Week
My husband’s famous fruit galette
The feasts this week ended, more than once, with a galette — this one all blueberry, the fruit warm and barely holding together under a golden, buttery crust.
The crust is a version of the mixer dough my husband used to make at Bubby’s, his restaurant in Tribeca. A stand mixer does the work cold hands used to, and a splash of vinegar keeps it tender. For the fruit, there’s no plan; you use whatever is ripe and lovely that day: plums and nectarines and berries now, strawberry and rhubarb at the front edge of summer, pitted cherries or sliced peaches when they call to you. You roll out the dough, pile the fruit in the middle, fold the edges up over it, brush with butter, and sprinkle with sugar. It’s meant to look rustic, which means it’s nearly impossible to get wrong.
Don’t fret if it leaks or slumps a little. A friend’s Norwegian grandmother once said that if a pie doesn’t fall apart when you slice it, it isn’t going to be any good. This one slices nicely and tastes even better — somewhere between a tart and a memory of summer.
Wishing you a table full of the people you love this week.
Dr. Catherine