Life is just a bowl of cherries
Don't make it serious
Life's too mysterious.
You work, you save, you worry so,
But you can't take your dough when you go, go, go.
So keep repeating it's the berries
The strongest oak must fall.
The sweet things in life
To you were just loaned,
So how can you lose what you've never owned?
Life is just a bowl of cherries,
So live and laugh at it all.

Apparently the expression was coined in this song by Lew Brown and Ray Henderson, which was sung by Ethel Merman in George White's 1931 production of Scandals. Ah, the carefree life. We gaze with longing upon that which we perceive to be free: children, butterflies, trust-funders... But it ain't about the Benjamins. Free is an attitude as much as anything else. Just ask Nelson Mandela who, after a rather lengthy stay on Robin's Island, said, "To be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others." Or, as written on my favorite album cover of all time, released by Funkadelic in 1970, "Free your mind and your ass will follow."
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When I was growing up, every 7 years my family lived in Spain. My father was a professor of Spanish literature, and he spent his sabbaticals doing research, writing and collecting the Sephardic ballads that were his specialty. The year I turned 15 there, my sisters (5 and 7 years older than I) were already out of the house, so I was  essentially an only child. I went everywhere with my parents, which meant a very diverse cultural life (opera, theater, dance, symphony, museums, galleries), lots of meals out and visits to some very fancy Madrid residences. Perhaps because we were in Europe—or maybe it had something to do with the almost exclusively adult company—the rules relaxed a bit and I was often allowed a glass of sherry, cointreau or vino tinto. This set the stage for expanding my appetite, too, and I tried many unknown delicacies: octopus, white asparagus, kidneys, membrillo. The latter was a deep-amber-colored jelly that was often brought out with the cheese course (another novelty), a sticky, sweet confection to pair with the rich oily Manchego. At the time, I had never seen a quince, and it's a bit of a leap anyway from that fuzzy, essentially inedible fruit to this jammy nectar of the gods.
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One of the more beloved tales in my family's rich lore is of how my father, very early in his marriage to my mother, came up behind her as she was leaning into the oven and goosed her—except it turned out to be my grandmother!! I can just see the shock on both of their faces, and imagine the explosion of laughter that followed. They both had a wicked sense of humor, especially my dad. He and my maternal grandparents loved each other dearly, once the deeply Christian Chávez family got over the idea that their beloved eldest daughter was going to marry a Jew.

But this is about another sort of goose altogether. A goose egg, actually, no doubt laid by a female relative of the lovely fellow from River Brook Farm who was the centerpiece of our Christmas dinner.
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One of my favorite quick and easy dinners is to quickly sear a couple of confit duck legs (my nephew Chase used to call it "comfy duck") and plop them on top of a nice mound of sauerkraut with a few juniper berries and let the whole thing roast for a bit. Toss a salad and you're done. So I was a little thrown off my game when G unpacked a couple of fresh duck legs the other day. What the hell am I going to do with all that fat? was my first thought. But then I laid hands on Alice Waters' incredible The Art of Simple Food and there was the perfect recipe for Braised Duck Legs with Leeks and Green Olives (two other ingredients I just smugly happened to have on hand, along with the required stock, wine, carrot and bay leaf; some day I will do a post on Essential Things to Stock in Your Fridge and Pantry). I got things started, and then G stepped in and brought it on home, stirring up some delicious polenta to go with the duck. It turned out crispy and lush, not fatty at all, and the vegetables caramelized into a delicious sauce.
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It is thought that the quince—and not the apple—is actually the fruit being referred to in the Song of Solomon; the one that caused Atalanta to pause in her fateful race; perhaps even the fruit of paradise. Today, in this country, the quince is not widely known, and is available primarily at specialty or farmers markets. It ripens in September and October but can often be found through December. The quince's gorgeous perfume, sweet and floral, belies its astringent taste and hard texture, which is sometimes covered with a sparse, velvety fur. But roasted, baked or stewed and always sweetened, quince takes on a rich, rosy color and a deliciously complex flavor, like an apple or pear but with hints of guava and pineapple. Most often seen as a paste to accompany Manchego cheese or in jams and jellies, Alice Waters offers this simple poaching recipe.
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