A favorite childhood photo is one of my dad and I washing carrots. I was about four years old. My mom had me dressed like an Artic air front was likely to come blasting through at any moment – red overboots, hooded jacket zipped all the way up to my neck, hat, and mittens. Our row of freshly washed produce lined the cement divider between the lawn and garden. From an early age, I knew that when it came to chores, my dad had definite ideas of how things should be done. It was time to work; play and reward would come later.
The necessity of pumpkin chocolate chip bread
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