My mother stayed with us during her recent visit from back east. She
emerged early each day from the back bedroom in need of coffee. In the
kitchen she would find me up to my elbows in three-grain biscuit dough
or in the midst of mixing a large oven baked pancake, or perhaps
dropping oatmeal scones onto a cookie sheet. I was always in the midst
of something made from scratch, time consuming and terrifically messy.
A ritual that was met with a quizzical look and her quiet reproach, as if I couldn’t hear her say, “Nu? Whats wrong with frozen waffles?” My childhood breakfasts came straight out of a box from the freezer in the cold mid-western kitchen where I grew up. My mother taught in downtown Detroit, and early morning school days were mostly about getting up and getting out. Yet, somewhere in between the up and out part, I remember a breakfast ritual that my mother and I shared, just her and I, before she left for work.
“I’m hungry. Can someone please help me? Please. This is serious. I haven’t eaten since early this morning. Please.” The plea came from a diminutive man I had just rushed passed on 8th Avenue in New York City. He was wearing a grey cap pulled down over his forehead and held a tattered white plastic shopping bag. It was 12:30 a.m. A hard March wind was blowing through Chelsea and everyone who passed this pleading man, was hurrying to someplace warm, including me. 
Since I photograph at least 50% of what I cook and bake, just in
case I might someday wish to write about it and preserve an ephemeral
cupcake or casserole for posterity, my camera is always where I can
easily find it. Today, however, my camera was at a Minor League
baseball game with Sam, after a prolonged series of
“pleaspleasepleasei’llbe caaaaaaaaareful!” attacks wore me out. It
didn’t occur to me until after we had eaten what I considered to be an
interesting lunch that I could have photographed it using my phone – I
just scrapped the whole project when I remembered that my camera was on
walkabout among a herd of sugar-addled sixth graders.
Do you regularly cook foods for people in your family that you yourself don't eat? I do. Turkey burgers.
A Monte Cristo consists of ham, turkey or chicken, and Swiss cheese sandwiched between two slices of white or challah bread that is dipped in an egg batter, then grilled or fried in butter until golden brown. It is often dusted with confectioners’ sugar and served with a side of red currant jelly.