PGH

Earlier this week, in Rockford, Illinois I met George Washington. A friendly, African-American produce supplier who was going to help me show restaurant managers how to make our new product. We hit it off immediately. He had a great smile and fascinating career.

But the moment you hear someone say 'aht,' you lean in a little closer. What did you say?
Oh you take the tomatoes and onions aht ... 
No. Way. Where are you from?
Oh Jeanette. Greensburg area. Pittsburgh.
I knew it. Me too!
The conversation stopped. Then escalated.
You're kidding. Where from?
Shadyside.
Oh I know Shadyside well. 
Walnut Street. Little's shoes.
Ha! That was our shoe store growing up. We went there every year. 
You know Buddy?
And that was our favorite shoe man.

When you meet someone from Pittsburgh, it's more than a geographic connection or a chance to play the name game; when you meet a fellow Yinzer, you share a unique language, history and family.

Your class picnics were at Kennywood, you went dahntahn on special occasions, you don't use cardinal directions to tell someone how to get to the Waterfront, and you rooted for Barry Bonds when he was thin and played at Three Rivers Stadium.

You've learned that the greatest people in American History are Roberto Clemente, Rachel Carson, Andy Warhol, Mr. Rodgers, Mean Joe Green, Andrew Carnegie, and Henry Clay Frick. And George Washington, because he visited Pittsburgh too.

You've explained that we're not a dirty steel town and we're not Philadelphia; in fact we're on the opposite side of the state. You've shared articles siting Pittsburgh as the place to be / dine / live, and you might even have my parents' coffee table book, 'Pittsburgh: the Paris of Appalachia" on display in your home.

Pittsburgh is one of those random cities on the map that a lot of people know nothing about. They have a distant cousin that lives there and he likes it. Or they've been to Cranberry on business and eaten at Panera and TGIFridays. (Not Pittsburgh.) But like any other girl who can easily slip into Yinzer twang, I have an inflated pride in my hometown. And I'm telling you it's one of the best cities in the country. My advice - book a long weekend in the heart of the Golden Triangle and get an itinerary from someone who lives there. (Or me.) You won't be disappointed.

Peter, Mary and I just landed in Pittsburgh's big, beautiful, always empty airport - and there's no place like home.

Lo.

Good Eater

Mary has a tint of red in her hair; it actually looks strawberry blond in certain lighting. When I mention it to my Mom, she tells me that my Grandpa 'Red' would have loved her. Of course he would have. And it makes me think of her other qualities that would have made him smile: her chubby thighs, her translation of hugs and kisses, and the fact that she is already a good eater.

Growing up, he classified me as such. With the exception of meatloaf, I didn't discriminate against meals - especially the heirloom recipes served at family gatherings. Sure, I had preferences, but with the promise of dessert on the other end, I always carried the badge of a clean plate.

Aunt Dee's annual St. Patrick's Day dinner was no exception. Injected with a quarter dose of Irish blood, I was a champion chewer when it came to corned beef, cabbage and Irish Soda Bread. Following dinner, I'd find a seat next to my Double G and gloat about the head of cabbage I polished off as he laughed with loving approval. 'That's my girl. Always a good eater.'

As soon as Mary got her chompers, I had sensed that she was going to be a good eater too. But after this weekend, one of the most delicious ones we've had in a while, I feel like she cemented her claim to the title.

Our household theory is that Mary eats what we eat; and she sits down to dinner when we do. So far, she hasn't refused a thing. She ate all of her mushroom risotto on Friday night. She was likely showing off for Tess, but on Saturday she nearly ate a whole breast of chicken. On Sunday morning, she showed our friend Jess how she brunched. And on Sunday night, she would have made her Irish Grandpa very proud as she noshed on her first slice of corned beef. Definitely a good eater.

I'm pretty sure my Grandpa's Irish eyes were smiling down on Mary, his little leprechaun yesterday.

 Lo.

Corned Beef

1 3-pound Corned Beef Brisket, brined.
1 can beer
1 onion, cut in eighths
2 carrots, cut in thirds
2 celery stalks, cut in half
1 shallot roughly chopped
Enough water to submerge corned beef
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 small head of cabbage, cut into eighths
8 small red potatoes

In a large Dutch Oven, combine water, beer, vegetables and corned beef. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and let simmer for 4-5 hours.

Remove the Corned Beef from the Dutch Oven, scraping away any larger chunks of fat that might remain. (I had to do this on the underside.) Set the Corned Beef aside, covered in aluminum foil. Strain out the vegetables and fat from the liquid.  Add cabbage and potatoes to the leftover liquid, bring to a boil again and then reduce heat to low, simmering at a gently rolling boil for 45 minutes or so.

Meanwhile, about 10 minutes before ready to serve, heat oven to Broil. Cover the top of the Corned Beef with brown sugar then broil on high for 5-7 minutes. Careful to watch it because the sugar will caramelize and then burn quickly. Cut on the diagonal grade and serve with potatoes, cabbage and Irish Soda Bread.

Happy Birthday

Dear Mary,

A year ago, as you entered our world, time stood still. And I was breathless. (Delirious, sore, and exhausted.) But completely overcome by the miracle that was resting in my arms. We had the whole day, just to hold you, look at you, and cherish every moment that your eyes opened and closed; every time that you ate, that you cried and that we found the voice and embrace to sooth you.

Today, time will likely move as fast if not faster than it moved all year. You'll spend the day crawling, laughing, playing, moving faster and faster away from being a baby and into a little girl. You'll probably learn a new word or two; you might even get the confidence to walk without a hand. Regardless, you'll lay further claim to the unique person you are going to be. And I will become even more proud of you.

You have grown and seen and learned so much in just 52 weeks. And in those same weeks, you have given me an education that I didn't anticipate. You have taught me that life and the responsibilities I hold are sacred; that the definition of a good night's sleep is relative and that crying in public is okay. You taught me that parties with a 4:00 start time are awesome and that play dates can be the highlight of a week. I've learned that reservations for three and lap baby scenarios are very underrated, and that reading aloud to you is better than getting through the latest best seller. You taught me that life is too short to worry if my jeans are a little snug and that 52 weeks wasn't nearly enough time to call you my baby.

While I know I can't slow you down. Tonight, just like every night, I will try to freeze a moment or two and lock it in my heart. As we read together, and as we rock in your great Grandma's rocker; as you finally give up on your special day, close your little eyes and nuzzle into my arms so you can hear my heartbeat the way you used to; I will hold that moment. And in it, you will always be my little girl.

Thank you for making one year so marvelous. Happy Birthday, Mary.

Love,
Mommy.

(Cue somewhere near 52 weeks of photos)