Four teenage boys are staying with us for the weekend. They’re coming from Europe and South America, en route to a global camp for kids here in Nova Scotia and are in need of a bed for a few nights before the camp begins. My son Rex went to a similar camp last summer and now he’s a wise alumni. I’ve agreed to be his co-host. He’s just set up four mattresses on the basement floor beside the ping pong table. I’ve bought groceries. Extra maple syrup for morning pancakes. Orange juice. Strawberries. Bacon. Three pounds of dried pasta. Enough ground beef for sixty meatballs. My aunt just dropped off a big tin of chocolate chip cookies. Sheets are in the wash. Rex is hiding the mountain of socks in a basket under the stairs. I think we’re almost ready.
I open the heavy window in our kitchen and prop it up with an old milk bottle. It’s funny what you think about when you’re about to host strangers in your home, even if it’s just a handful of boys for a few days. Will we be ready? Will they be comfortable? Will they like our food? Will we understand each other? Will I have time for a nap?
And now I am thinking about the scratches on the window sill from years of our cat’s claw marks. She used to maneuver her way up to the window by jumping on a large wicker toy trunk that leaned against the house. From there she’d pull herself up to the window sill with her claws and sit, resplendent in her black fur tuxedo, and tap a white paw against the window. Eventually we’d see her, open the window and she’d hop inside. But then the boys grew up, we gave the toy trunk away and our cat lost her step ladder. Now she has to go through the back door like everyone else, but her claw marks, and perhaps the last hints of a feather, remain on the sill. And wait, are any of the boys allergic to cats? Or what about a yellow lab who loves to shed?
I reach my hand through the open window in search of a breeze. There’s no relief. The air is still and steamy, inside and out. I turn and look around the warm kitchen. There are little disasters everywhere, the kind that accumulate when my boys are all at home. And soon there will be four more. I quietly panic, then reach for my scissors and head outside. The roses on either side of the back door are in bloom - creamy white on the left and rich pink on the right. I clip a bouquet and put them on the mantle beside the growing collection of bachelor buttons I’ve accumulated since last week.1 I reached for the little purple spears earlier this week on Canada day and danced them over a meringue cake2 topped with whipped cream and strawberries. A red and white scene with just a touch of whimsical purple.
I really should get started on the meatballs. Or turn over the laundry. Or clean up this kitchen. Or boss Rex around. Instead I reach for the two sticks of unsalted butter I’ve left out to soften on the counter. I have a friend celebrating a birthday, a friend with beautiful taste, a friend who always packs French butter in her suitcase whenever she’s in France. I want to stay in this warm stillness filled with cut flowers and birthday wishes, so I whip the butter with a good pinch of sea salt and a few spoonfuls of maple syrup. I roll the mixture in parchment and sprinkle the log with the edible petals from the mantle. I scrunch an extra pinch of sea salt over everything and tightly roll the butter inside the parchment. The effect looks like rice paper stretched over a salad roll, a thin veil hinting at what’s inside. I tie the ends with kitchen string, trim the paper and place the log in the fridge to harden.
This sweet butter can be sliced and served over, say, pancakes, warm tea biscuits, scones, a piece of cornbread or a warm muffin. Or whenever there’s a need for a sweet, salty, floral moment amidst the chaos.
Postscript - the boys have arrived. I had forgotten how simple hospitality should be. They greeted us with big hugs and smiles filled with braces. They body slammed onto their beds. They played ping pong. They each ate six of my aunt’s cookies. They marvelled at the neighbourhood with its colourful wooden houses and tree-lined streets. And then they put themselves down for an afternoon nap.
To make this gift of butter, combine 1 cup (227g) unsalted butter with 1 teaspoon flaky sea salt and 2 tablespoons maple syrup or honey. Whip until fluffy. Scoop butter onto a sheet of parchment and using a rubber spatula, shape roughly into a log. Sprinkle with organic, edible blossoms and another pinch of sea salt, rolling the butter to allow petals to cover the whole surface. Roll the paper tightly around the log of butter and tie off the ends with kitchen string. Refrigerate or freeze to firm up. Unroll and slice when ready to serve.
From last week’s post - Sardines in her purse? - and other secret tastes
Claire Ptak’s Strawberry Meringue Cake (10/10) from her latest book Love is a Pink Cake 💕
I’ve never heard of sweet butter and now can’t wait to try making jt! ❤️
6 cookies, perfect number