In the latter 1960s my parents traveled to Denmark to visit my mother's brother. While there, they enjoyed a rice and cream dessert, a delectable treat Mom couldn't forget.
The good brother he was, Uncle Fred searched for the recipe and found it in a Danish language book. I think I remember the day the book arrived via mail. It was a tall thin book with glossy photos. The words couldn't be understood, and the recipe's measurements were in metrics. Neatly written in pencil are Mom's translations from metrics: milliliters to tablespoons and kilograms to ounces and pounds.
Fifty years later, I cannot remember a Christmas without cherry rice. When we stopped traveling for Christmas and stayed in our own home with children, my daughter was old enough to make the creamy white concoction.
This Christmas she 22 x (twenty-two times-ed) the original recipe to make a huge bowl for the whole family, a huge bowl for her own family, and a medium bowl for a sister's in-laws who've come to love cherry rice too.
Two days after Christmas, I awake at 6: 31 a.m. Given the house, my study, most extra space is taken with sleeping guests, I retreat to the closet for morning reading and writing. Twenty minutes doesn't pass before I think about the little bit of cherry rice left in the fridge.
But I wanted to start today off with lemon water and a spinach blueberry milkshake.
Only seconds pass before I tip-toe down the stairs in the dark, careful not to disturb any and everyone still asleep. I open the fridge and scoop a reasonable portion to satisfy a nostalgic palette, leaving enough for someone else who might awaken with the thought of cherry rice on their tongue.
The good brother he was, Uncle Fred searched for the recipe and found it in a Danish language book. I think I remember the day the book arrived via mail. It was a tall thin book with glossy photos. The words couldn't be understood, and the recipe's measurements were in metrics. Neatly written in pencil are Mom's translations from metrics: milliliters to tablespoons and kilograms to ounces and pounds.
Fifty years later, I cannot remember a Christmas without cherry rice. When we stopped traveling for Christmas and stayed in our own home with children, my daughter was old enough to make the creamy white concoction.
This Christmas she 22 x (twenty-two times-ed) the original recipe to make a huge bowl for the whole family, a huge bowl for her own family, and a medium bowl for a sister's in-laws who've come to love cherry rice too.
Two days after Christmas, I awake at 6: 31 a.m. Given the house, my study, most extra space is taken with sleeping guests, I retreat to the closet for morning reading and writing. Twenty minutes doesn't pass before I think about the little bit of cherry rice left in the fridge.
But I wanted to start today off with lemon water and a spinach blueberry milkshake.
Only seconds pass before I tip-toe down the stairs in the dark, careful not to disturb any and everyone still asleep. I open the fridge and scoop a reasonable portion to satisfy a nostalgic palette, leaving enough for someone else who might awaken with the thought of cherry rice on their tongue.
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