My stolen family tradition

Never are our traditions and rituals more evident than in December.  Family traditions are the most obvious reminder of where we come from, who we are, what is important to us, as individuals, families, communities.  That "every year, we........" is what bonds a family beyond the walls they inhabit together.  These are the benefits you take with you, the moments that make you yearn for home when you are 20-something, the pull of repetition you recreate when you build your own nest.

My parents gave me plenty.  I'm so thankful for that.  Silly songs to sing every day:  a wake-up song, a coffee song, a night-night song, even a song to sing everytime we saw the water tower against the horizon in our town.  (my mother.............)  We absolutely decorated Christmas cookies.  We  absolutely sang carols around our sparkly tree.  We absolutely unwrapped just one present after Midnight Mass every 24th of December.  We absolutely sang Happy Birthday to Jesus and enjoyed his birthday cake, even though we were all eyeing the unopened  presents.

I carry most of these with me, a torch of sorts.  I keep my heritage in the flame of these actions, these silly songs, those cookies.

My French man brought his own.  We go for a walk on Christmas Day.  Sometimes we drag our friends along.  We have a nice meal in the late afternoon.  There is Champagne all day long.  We go easy on the presents.  We go heavy on Family.

I respect this joining.  These symbolic traditions are powerful, molding our children to show them what is important, what is valued between Us:  two individuals, two cultures, who joined together with love.

I've looked around in my French man's cultural backyard, partly because I love my French man, and the more I add of his heritage, the more he participates in his American experience, but also because I not only love this man, but his country and culture as well.  I have, over the years, picked up French holidays, French values, French traditions.  I borrow, and then, if it works for Us, I steal.   

I found one in particular that thrills me:  a Christmas tradition that is specifically from Provence, in the South of France.  It is, like many things French, centered around a meal.  It is entirely symbolic, which the poet in me thrives on.  The Thirteen Desserts, in Provence, show up after Midnight Mass.  (France is predominantly Catholic...) The Thirteen Desserts is  a meal at 1:00 in the morning, a series of fruits, nuts, dried fruits and bread that represents the thirteen seats at the Last Supper.

This meal begins with "the four beggars", representing the four monastic orders of the Catholic Church:  raisins stand in for the Dominicans, dried figs are the Franciscans, the Carmelites transform into almonds, and hazelnuts symbolize the Augustinians.  Trail mix, a la Monk!

This wintery  platter may have apples, pears, oranges, grapes, or tangerines.  What it must have, representing Good and Evil, is nougat.  This not your 3 Muskateers nougat.  This is French Nougat, a confection (either White or Black) that contains nuts, candied fruit, and honey.  Dates are always there, as is quince paste (yum!), and a special bread made with olive oil called "Fougasse." 

I'm not Catholic, although my father is. I grew up attending his church weekly, rising, kneeling, sitting, singing. Catholicism is rife with ritual, an indirect influence, perhaps, on this young girl. As a recently-married woman, I found this Thirteen Desserts (in a French movie, no less!) and couldn't get it out of my head. I researched (no internet back then!) and came upon the lessons behind this smorgasbord that is, in fact, supposed to stay on the table for 3 days! 

My French man didn't know about this one.  It is obscure, regional, and old.  I stole it and wrapped it in my American Christmas.  The Thirteen Desserts  has become our Christmas morning breakfast: a platter of nature's candy that lasts all day, a foil for all that chocolate falling out of the stockings, a something-something to munch on before our little hike.

I've replaced that fougasse with a gingerbread, or sometimes, a Stolen, my father's German sweet bread that appeared on Christmas mornings.  The oranges may appear in a tarte.  The apples may show as a Tarte Tatin.  It doesn't matter.  My Thirteen Desserts is alive!  Transformation!  I wonder what my children will do with this one in 30 years....

Mignardise

The tree is up. My Christmas shopping is done. (are you jealous?) The cookies are baked, decorated by a pack of little giggling girls. Everything is lovingly wrapped in reds and greens. My house if full of twinkling stars, twirling snowflakes. Those fruitcakes are soaking in rum. My kitchen smells like rum, cinnamon, spiced cider. Our advent calendar is only half-full, we've run through all our Christmas music. Now, it's all just ANTICIPATION.

There are days when the kitchen table is covered with drying citrus, chocolate-covered marshmallows, cookies that glisten with sprinkles.  Some evenings the aroma of spiced cider pulls us together.  We re-learn that Rudolph tale with mugs of hot chocolate...a homemade marshmallow plopped in there! We play Jingle Bells on the piano and sip hot buttered rum.  Eggnog becomes our new dessert. Chocolate truffles infused with cardamom, Frangelico, star anise are tucked into small boxes.  My fruitcake gets its last rum bath.  For a few days my kitchen becomes factory-like:  small treats packed into red boxes, shiny bags, ribboned baskets.

Everyone gets something:  one brother gets a pack of spice rubs.  The other:  chocolate.  My parents don't expect--or want!--a store-bought present. Made With Love is the message from my house.  Friends may get a pack of marshmallows:  peppermint, chocolate, orange.  Others get a sampling of truffles;  the most reliable ones get the motherload. 

My favorite Christmas confection doesn't leave my house.  It's not for everyone.  Sweetmeats are beautiful sculptures formed with dried fruits and nuts.  They are not the indulgence of chocolate.  They are, in fact, vegan!  (They are actually good for you!)  Bonus:  they're not hard to make.  These require only  frilly paper cups for display:  small bite-sized squares, pyramids, spheres  of sweet nestled in pretty paper feels so Martha.

Chopped dried apricots may meld with toasted pistachios and ginger, transformed into a pyramid of shiny orange studded with green.  Dates, stuffed with candied orange peel;  dried plums, full of lemon confit;  dried figs and almonds, pop-in-your-mouth globes;  a trio of dried pineapple, mango, and crystallized ginger, rolled in toasted coconut.

Sweetmeats do not shout.  These confections are not jump up-and-down excitement.  Sophisticated, quietly elegant, they slide right next to an espresso on its saucer.  They partner perfectly with that post-feasting coffee.  They are the perfect foil for cognac.  They are Second Dessert.  In French, this course is the Mignardise:  the little mouthful that accompanies that after dinner drink. (What other culture not only has 2nd dessert, but gives it a name?!)

Sweetmeats symbolize that savoir-vivre.  With their sneak-up-on-you charm, they perk up the tired dinner table, full of crumbs, crumpled napkins, the menagerie of emptied glasses.  Suddenly, our smiles widen.  This treat is totally unexpected!  These sugarplums pull you through the rest of the evening, the crowning jewel of your dinner.

The Jewels of Winter

Winter is here!  Did you notice?  There's a lack of fruit in the produce section;  the mangos are sorry, we're tired of apples, and I always wonder why they think canteloupe belongs here in December!  Turn your cart and revisit that citrus section:  oranges, lemons, grapefruit.  Clementines!  Blood oranges!  The colors are so happy, so warm in this cold season.  This chill gives these fruit their perfect balance of sugar and acidity. 

Citrus gets a bad wrap.   Besides a carton of OJ, most people bypass these gems:  they're messy! Exactly!  Citrus are juicy, dripping, squirting, pooling nectar that gives you a powerful punch of immunity, intense flavor, and a sinless dessert all at once.  Everything else is dying or sleeping.  These bright orbs wake you up!

You don't have to juice these winter fruits to enjoy them.  Citrus have a myriad of disguises, each one yummy.

One of my favorite transformations is candied peel.   This is not the only way to eat the skin of a citrus, just the sweetest.  A process of simmering and soaking your orange peel, (or grapefruit, or lemon) in a stew of sugar, water, and its own juice produces, after days of saturation and another day of drying, a sweet, juicy little something that looks perfect next to a cup of coffee, a cognac, a chocolate truffle.  These make great love presents.  They just scream:  "I spent DAYS making these!"  (Don't be surprised if you get some for Christmas.) Open a date or dried plum and nudge a candied peel inside, sandwich style.  Yum!  Want even more yum?  Add a slightly melted square of chocolate.  Heaven....oh my.

Somewhere in my gadget drawer lies a grapefruit knife, waiting for this season to kick in.  I cut them in half, myself half-asleep.  Like geodes, those Red Rubies shimmer. I like a powdering of brown sugar, and then I get to pull out my blow torch--at 6:00 in the morning, no less!--and caramelize that acid with that sweet.  Mmmmm. We may squeeze an orange over that grapefruit and slurp it for snack.  My French man drizzles grenadine, Chambord, or Creme de Cassis.  Dessert!

If your knife is sharp, pull it out and carve that peel and pulp away from your lemons, grapefruit, oranges.  Sculpt those "supremes" of citrus into a trio .  Add a blood orange or two and OH!  Spectacular!  On a bed of mesclun, it's an awesome salad.  On top of vanilla ice cream, its an original dessert.  (I dare you to add a little Cointreau!)  Squirt some juice over these beauties and you have a small course to add to your celebration, a sophisticated after-school snack.  Sprinkle those pomegranite seeds...this just looks like a party!

Layer thin slices of oranges (yes, you will need that really sharp knife again!) in a piecrust and bake it, just like that, for a Christmas Day tarte.  Use those blood oranges for this special occassion.  Ooh!  A little gingered whipped cream and it will disappear faster than that wrapping paper.

Of course, you could just juice them.  Any combination becomes interesting and so pretty in that glass your children will widen their eyes no matter how sleepy they are.  Forget that honeydew.  Just because it's sitting there doesn't mean it's in season.    Pick up a new yellow, a pink!, or simply, an orange and imagine the possibilities!

Jolly Old St. Nick

My father comes from Germany.  His father, my grandfather, was a German man who brought his traditions and his wife to this country.  Besides my appearance, however,  there isn't much German about me.  I tried to pick up this language in school, but it confounded me. I don't especially relate to sauerkraut or knockwurst.  The polka never held my interest.

The month of December, though, shows my German heritage.  We start the month with a sacred day:  St. Nicolas Day.  It is December 6th.  St. Nick will come to your door and leave treats.  He will ring the doorbell and run away before you have time to run down the stairs and answer the door, leaving you a package of oranges, peppermint sticks, the first eggnog of the season.  A Ding Dong Ditch with benefits! Imagine three little kids in their pajamas waiting at the top of the stairs for that doorbell to ring.  We wanted so badly  to catch him!  There's my father, grinning at the dinner table, who suddenly shouts:  "I think I just saw him out the window!"  And we clamber down the stairs to open the door to the snow and the chilling wind.

It never occurred to me that other children were missing this benchmark evening. Until I started this tradition myself, I hadn't thought to ask my dad how he managed, every year, to be in two places at once. (another reason to be friends with your neighbors...or have two doors with a doorbell!) Once I pondered the loot that arrived, I realized that, really.... just fruit and nuts? I was so excited for fruit and nuts?!?  There's a lot to be said for anticipation!
For me, the Christmas season doesn't start until St. Nick has visited.  He represents the glee, the delight in pure expectation, the joy in simple things:  clementines, nuts, candy canes, eggnog, and hard cider... for mommy.   Hmmm...that St. Nick!  He somehow knows what we like!   He may even tuck in an ornament for each little one.

December 6th is the day we decorate our tree.  The Christmas music starts today and won't stop for 20 days. (Honestly, I never tire of Charlie Brown...) We open our Advent Calendar--that countdown to Christmas Day.  We are in the starting block: cookie decorating, gingerbread houses, champagne,  fruitcake, carols on the piano, sitting in the dark of our living room with a twinkling tree...

My parents will call and ask, "Did St. Nicolas come?"  My father giggles.  Now I do too.  Of course he did!

Waiter! There's Art in my Soup!

As a culinary aficionado, I have developed certain idiosyncrasies.  They are little rules I engage in with myself.  It bothers me when they're broken--like wearing white shoes after Labor Day.  Even though I've heard that now you can, I just wouldn't.

I wouldn't cut a sandwich any way but diagonally.  It just looks better triangular.  Don't you agree?  See what I mean?

I wouldn't put anything on your plate that couldn't be eaten.  A garnish should be edible.  If it's not, what were you thinking?  That bay leaf should've left before it hit the table.  Those chilies too.  What are you doing, placing fear and trepidation in front of your guest?!

I wouldn't put two or four of anything on a plate.  There should be three or five.  It's just the way it's done.  Place two potatoes next to that steak.  It looks so wrong.  Too symmetric.  Add another--oh yes!  Much better!

Sauce gets draped across chicken, but not pork or beef.  I know.  I'm weird, but really, it's a rule.

In cooking school, there was a class for this:  Color and Aesthetics.  We studied the color wheel:  families, opposites.  We discussed plates, shapes, food arrangements, height.  We learned (yes, I'm not kidding!) how to make squiggles, swirls, fantastic polka dots, beautiful chaos on a plate.  We created towers, jenga structures, pictures on a plate.

There was the lesson on contrasting colors:  red with green, the colors of hunger:  diced tomatoes in a salad, sun-dried tomatoes with pesto, a palette of peppers.  There was a lesson on color families:  warm colors:  yellows, oranges, and reds.  I built a matchstick house of peppers and placed that chicken breast next to it;  sprinkles of paprika and a red pepper coulis tied it all together.  I discovered that the ubiquitous blue plate special was actually blue for a reason:  blue does not appear in food.  (Blueberries!?"  you say?  Not really.  They're purple....)

We learned how to stack, how to drape.  One of my chefs made an arrangement of flowers using candied fennel, over-dried tomato petals, and fried basil leaves.  Another taught me that every salad should be a bouquet, and then he proceeded to make one!  (It was delicious!)

The most important lesson from this class was "plating."  You've got it all done, your creation is waiting on the plate, your fingerprints have been cleaned off the border.  Wait!  You've forgotten to sign your art!  You need that garnish.  A garnish is that last touch.  It takes a dish from bistro to Restaurant.  A garnish may be as simple as a sprinkling of freshly-cut herbs, an edible flower, a blooming onion.  It's not the complexity that matters.  At home, we tend to ignore this last hurrah.  I suggest you try it.  Yes, it's "one more thing," but it's the thing that changes your meatloaf and potatoes into Meatloaf and Potatoes.  They will actually look at their plates.  Savor the sight. 

 Squiggle that sauce.  Sprinkle that parsley.  Grab that little box of flowers and watch your salad become a bouquet.  Turn a tomato into a rose!  Spoon a little quenelle of tapenade next to that tuna.  Snuggle a few raspberries between your ice cream scoops.  Arrange a few long chives on top of that protein.  Scatter some fried capers (yes!  fried capers!) atop that fish, that steak.  Sprinkle a little cheese over that soup.  Some croutons. 

Garnishing is a learned  habit. Such a small gesture, but that's what people see!  It shows your care, your attention.   It can turn your weekday dinner into "What's the Occasion?"  Just smile, pick a reason--or not-- and enjoy the ambiance you've created.

Turkey Red, Turkey Blue....

Thanksgiving is upon us:  another reason to cook a great meal, gather friends and family, spend the day around the table.  Thanksgiving allows us to get dressed up, slow down, wait for it. 

The Thanksgiving I celebrate has no resemblance to the Turkey Day I was raised on.  In my mother's home, nobody was busy but the women.  My mother was stuffing her turkey with that Midwestern oyster dressing (oysters in Iowa: some things just cannot be explained...) while the rest of the house lazily gazed at the Macy's parade.  She was layering yams, pineapple, and marshmallows while the rest of the house casually perused football.  She was mixing green beans with that ubiquitous cream of mushroom soup, those French fried onions, while my brothers and I snickered at my father nodding off in his chair.  She was sliding that cranberry gel onto a pretty dish so that it could be passed endlessly around the table later while my brothers started a whispered wrestling match.

My mother would assign us poetry--one for each place setting.  "Turkey Notes," she called them.  My brothers and I would sit amid cheese and crackers, Howard Cosell, intermittent snoring and compose:  "Turkey Red, Turkey Blue, Turkey says, 'I love you.'"  I think my mother always got that one.  My oldest brother might scribble off:  "Turkey Red, Turkey Pink, Turkey says, 'You stink!'"  And slide it under my plate......

Those were the days.

There's no football in my house. (French guy!)  I keep my family busy while I create Thanksgiving 2.0, humming along to "Fly Me To the Moon." My oldest knows how to set a table, down to the 3 glasses and 2 forks.  My French man dutifully polishes the wine glasses, sets up the bar, vacuums the Everywhere.  My little ones wash windows.  Three times!

People tend to discuss food with me; they tell me their stories, their desires, their worries.  Yes, they also tend to ask me for advice.  What I hear is that Thanksgiving is a stressful food day:  people have expectations.  Some yearn for a meal from childhood.  Others insist that ice cream should be on the menu.  Vegetarians and vegans get to reinvent their meal, but so do we!

I left my mother's home 26 years ago.  There is still a part of me, nudging me right about now, that whispers:  "You're not serving marshmallowed yams?!?!?!"  There is still a part of me that thinks I'm insulting my mother.  I love her marshmallowed yams.  I even love those green beans.  It's that last tie we have, we women, with our mommies:  the menus we grew up with, that  daily display of affection.  

I have abandoned my Mother's Thanksgiving.   It took me a years to forgive myself.  I have decided that my little family deserves its own traditions:  a cheese course for my French man, a charcuterie plate for my little carnivore, roasted vegetables for my adolescent vegetarian, and pumpkin cheesecake with marshmallow topping to ease my conscience:  I have found a place for marshmallows in my menu!

Yes, there will be turkey, butterflied and rolled. The only cranberries, juiced, appear with vodka. I prefer brussels sprouts to green beans, carrot flan to mashed potatoes, Tarte Tatin to pumpkin pie. 

Maybe I'll even find the time to compose a Turkey Note!  I'll keep you posted!

"Le Beaujolais Nouveau est Arrivé!"

I live a double life.  I am an American woman.  I sneak into French territory, physically when I'm lucky, spiritually on a daily basis.  My family is full of French names and French passports.  We kiss on both cheeks when we greet.  We eat bread at every meal.  We enjoy snails and frog legs, champagne and stinky cheese. 

This double life of mine affords me a glimpse into a different culture, a refreshing lifestyle, a new way of thinking.  I don't always agree with what my French man's culture brings to our table, but mostly, I have embraced this new country with...... well, they don't hug (isn't that a shame!)

I have gained insight into the leisurely French--so frustrating when you need paperwork done but so lovely when you sit down to eat.  I have studied, quite devoutly, the French table:  its food and drink, their hospitality, their joie de vivre, that standard three course meal.  This is my favorite part of my French man's contribution to our family, our well-being, our "this is how we roll."  We entertain.  We have people over.  We celebrate;  we feast;  we convene.

When I see a French holiday that inspires a get-together, I adopt it.  We do Bastille Day, that "crepe day" in February called "Chandeleur."  (Do we need a reason to eat crepes for dinner?!)  And one of my favorites:  Beaujolais Nouveau.

 This "holiday" celebrates the first wine harvested and bottled from this year's harvest, but  Beaujolais Nouveau is not a real holiday.  It is a marketing ploy by a French wine region to sell more wine.  Beaujolais is a wine region north of Lyon, France.  It sits between the Burgundy region just north of it and the Rhone -Alps to the south.  The Gamay grape typically used in the wine is a  Pinot Noir, adding acidic taste, with a older grape varietal that gives Beaujolais that fruitiness it is known for.  This grape varietal, Gamay, was kicked out of Burgundy  twice in one century before settling in the granite soil in what is now known as Beaujolais Province. (This wine has a reputation.  It is not a good one....)

Beaujolais isn't a nuanced wine, especially new.    It's a meat and potatoes kind of wine.  The only attempt at sophistication may be the pretty label!  Georges DuBoeuf, the most well-known Beaujolais producer, often commissions labels from artists.  This wine works best with stews, charcuterie, estouffades, boeuf bourguignon, even chili.

This new red wine isn't a keeper. It is a very, very, very young wine, only a month or two old.   You may have to shake the bottle to release those tanins.  (I'm serious!  It will change a young wine for the better...)  Beaujolais is one of the few red wines that needs to be served slightly chilled. 

To me, Beaujolais is the first stop along the Feasting Route that runs through New Year's.  This harvest celebration occurs the third Thursday in November, exactly one week prior to our Thanksgiving.  How perfect:  an occasion to try out a few bottles of red to put on your table next week!

I invite you to add this one to your annual calendar.  It's not hard.  Get your crockpot ready.  Thursday, stop by the store and grab a few diverse bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau.  (A good grocery store will have a display!  They know!)  Throw one or two cheeses in your cart.  Add a baguette.  Invite someone over to empty a few bottles with you.  (You'll survive Friday just fine!)  Play taste test.  Expand that oenology vocabulary with phrases like "...deep floral notes of lilacs..," "flavors of dried berry and sour cherries," and maybe "the afternotes of crushed strawberries."  Let me know how it went!  Santé!

Treats

"Would you give my kid some candy?"  When would you ever say that?  To a perfect stranger?  While standing on their doorstep?  I love Halloween--the costumes, the Jack o'lanterns, the visit to the pumpkin patch, the Monster Mash.  Love it!  Love it!  Love it!

Really, though, what other holiday do we have that allows us to say hi to our neighbors in such an intimate way?  When was the last time you knocked on your neighbor's door just to say hello?  When was the last time you went out of your way to buy something for someone  you DON'T EVEN KNOW?!
And yet, one day, every year, we Americans--isolated, solitary, independent though we are--rely on complete strangers for our good time. 

I distinctly remember  traipsing around in the dark with a gang of goblins, vampires, Tinkerbells, and Chewbaccas.  It was so freeing to roam without restrictions, without worry, without care.  Those were the days, you nod.  I know.  I'm nodding too.

Fourteen years ago, I experienced the other side of Halloween--the side where, every time some stranger opens their door and drops of piece of candy into your kid's bucket, you say a silent "thank you" to your Community, the Us that disappears every other day of the year.  You walk the sidewalks searching for brilliant porchlights, glowing Jack o'lanterns, crossing the street randomly to check out that house over there...it really is awesome.  Inspiring. 

I send out a compelling thank you to my city, my community, my neighbors, my circle of friends and family who all ensured that my kids had a great time.  The candy--we didn't manage to fill our bucket to the top--is secondary.  This experience is not about the stash you come home with.   (Okay, my four-year-old thinks so...)  My daughter already gets it.  That six-year-old knows that the wandering in the dark, the mystery of a mask, a moonlit night full of fellow conspirators, a little fear mixed with your fun, is the perfect antidote for our woes.

My teenager grasps this concept with two hands, and runs with it:  you and your friends become a pack, you're not ever too cool for a Halloween costume, and no, it's not about the candy.  My teenager wants to roam with her herd, howl at the moon, laugh like she's eight.  For one night, she throws off the shackles of high school, peer pressure, adolscence.  She is courageous.  She is mysterious.  She is wild.  This is the beauty of Halloween.

I'm taking down my skeletons, putting my skulls away.  The spiders get packed up with the cobwebs and the ghosts are wound up...but I'm thinking I may keep that candy bowl out.  You might be knocking on my door! 

Risotto

Rice is a staple for most of the world.  It goes without saying that, given its popularity, there have evolved more than 15 varieties of rice.    Short grain, long grain, basmati, jasmine, red, black, sushi! All of them can be reduced to length:  short, medium, and long grain, and therefore, more, or less, sticky.   Rice, literally, feeds the world. This seed provides a staple for almost half the world's population. Before I started cooking, my favorite rice varietal was Uncle Ben's.  That wild rice mix was just the respite I needed from my collegiate diet of ramen noodles and cereal.

I've accumulated an appreciation for the different aspects of rice.  I know that wild rice isn't a rice at all, but a grain.  I enjoy foraging at the Co-op for weird rices;  that black rice really is something to try!  My favorite rice remains the Italian standard:  arborio.

Arborio rice can't just be thrown into the rice cooker.  You can't walk away from this one.  Risotto is a labor of love.  It is also a great excuse to stir the pot and do absolutely nothing else.  Okay--you can shout "I'm thirsty!" and take a well-deserved sip.  What you can't do, while making risotto, is "come here for a minute."

You will be forgiven.  Someone else will set the table while you sway to your favorite tunes and stir.  And stir.

Rice is simple:  boil some water.  Add some rice.  Cover it and lower the heat.  Risotto is different.  Boil that water.  Add an equal amount of stock.  A little white wine splashed in there won't hurt either.  One for you, one for me...

In a different pot, heat some oil.  Add garlic and onion, and then--listen up!--add your arborio rice to that hot oil.  Stir.  Stir some more.  Make sure it gets warm.  Grab that ladle --the one you keep next to your stovetop--and add a cup of stock to your rice.  Stir.  Around and around.  Back and forth.  Slowly.  Gently.  When your rice has absorbed all of that stock, add some more.  Stir.  Around and around. Back and forth. Slowly. Gently.  Do it again.  And again.  Keep watching for that track that follows your spoon.  Time to add more stock!

Fall into this rhythm.  It is important to have already poured your apperitif so that you don't have to walk away.  It will improve that improvisational dance you've got going on.  Stir.  Around and around. Back and forth. Slowly. Gently. 

Just when you think you should be done, add a little bit more.  Then add some butter, and (this is my favorite part!) whatever combination of vegetables, protein, cheese that you want.  Sometimes, I actually plan my risotto:  corn, scallops, chopped parsley.  Butter.  One of my favorites  is simply mushrooms, three or four different kinds, a little parmesan, lots of chives.  Butter.  A springtime favorite of mine is Three Pea Risotto:  peas, sugar snaps, Chinese, some lemon zest, a dusting of parmesan.  Butter. 

Risotto is the ultimate recycler.  Whatever you've got in your fridge, on your shelves, will work just fine.  You may find a new favorite simply by throwing in whatever you're not ready to throw out:  broccoli, that shredded cheddar, some leftover torn chicken.  Some butter....

Whatever you decide to throw in, make sure you've cooked it, roasted it, boiled it first.  Raw doesn't work in risotto.  You're just warming it up.  Some chopped herbs sprinkled at the end turn Whatever You've Got into Exceptionally Pretty.

You've emptied your glass.  You've stirred and swayed.  You're singing that "Dinner's Ready" song that everyone knows.  Someone refills your glass as you weigh your options:  You can spoon this onto a plate.  Just like that.  You could add a pork chop, chicken leg, sauteed chard/spinach/ bok choy, grilled salmon.  You could get fancy-schmancy and fill a round cookie cutter with risotto, lift it off, and present your risotto restaurant-style.  Voila!

You've just spent 20 minutes doing a  "leave -me- alone-I'm cooking" dance.   You are relaxed, you've got comfort on your plate, leftovers for lunch, and a family that simply won't complain about this one.  Risotto is what you make it.  Make yours!  Make it great!

Grace

My six-year old is learning ballet.  It's a little ballet and a lot of squiggling, squirming, giggling, and cleaning the dance floor with her leotard.

These silly girlies are our next generation's young women;  I watch them gliding across the floor, and then, suddenly, sliding across the floor!  They plie at the barre, building  muscles, controlling that core, all the while whispering and humming to the classical piano.  I supress a grin when they sashay across the room, their bodies learning to express beauty, emotion.  Some day, I think, a handful of these women-in-progess will be enviously graceful, pliable, with posture unequaled.  They will possess that elusive  "je ne sais quoi."

Someday.  Not yet!

For now, their tongues are sticking out while they attempt a leap, their butts are sticking out as they tendue, their arms are flailing and suddenly all their body parts are flailing and they are on the floor.  Cleaning again.

I see my six-year-old.  She is already muscular.  She stretches and I see the beauty peeking out.  It is a hide and seek game.  Mostly hiding. 

It will take years of practice--rigorous practice--to get it all working together:  posture, legs, pointed toes, rounded elbows, straight necks, buns that don't fall out!  It will take years of daily stretching, weekly rehearsals, to transform these gangly girls into remarkable women.  We may not get there. I don't aspire, in my daughter's stead, to a short career in dance.   It is the journey we value, the effort and time it takes to learn this elusive grace;  the miles and minutes of pounding feet transformed into fluttering toes, calm and poise in the face of serious musculature, immense pressure enveloped in a perfectly tensed grand jette. 

Of all the people thriving and flailing on this planet, little girls are the ones who know how to multi-task:  they can have a good time no matter what demands are set in front of them.  "Write my name?  Okay!"  A little girl will add curley-cues, smiley-faces, hearts and flowers.  "Go get my sweater?  Okay!" Little girls will pirouette along the way, maybe make up a sweater song on the way back.  "Do my homework?  Okay!"  A little girl--do you have one?--may do it with her imaginary friend, chatting away....

I understand why ballet is perfect for little girls.  It's not the pink leotard, or the pretty tutus (although they are so appealing!)  It's work;  it's play.  Yes, she may take years to perfect that plie.  She may need months to remember fifth position.  She knows where she's going, but she will benefit from dilly-dallying.  "What's the point," she may state," if you're not having fun?"  Indeed!

This ballet lesson is not just for our little girls.  This benefits humanity:  There is no instant gratification here.  Progress is marked in months, not minutes, and --here's the secret--all the while,  we are having fun!  I look at my busy life, my friends, our scurrying and scheduling. I stare into the mirror and see a blur of activity:  schedules, responsibilities, meetings and playdates.  I keep looking, deeper, and I see Beauty peeking out at me.  Joy.  Grace. There they are, those little girls surrounding me!  They caress my face as they glide by.  I feel sincerity in their affection.  I get a glimpse, in that mirror,  of life at Six:  Life is Beautiful!  We may be dancing along, tongues out, butts out, doing our best.  We are working hard!   I hope, above all, that we are having fun.  Laughing!    With each other.  With ourselves.

My Signature

They are something from the 50s, when chemistry was the housewife's hero,   a 20th century manifestation of everything industrial:  the Marshmallow.  They are also my Frenchman's weakness.  If I bring home a bag, they disappear within 24 hours.  Yes he shares--his enthusiasm for marshmallows has rubbed off on my children.

We came across a homemade marshmallow, covered in chocolate, on a stick!  It was at a Farmer's Market years ago.  My French man didn't share.  I saw the glee in his eye.  I take my wifely duties seriously, so I resolved.  I researched.  I have conquered this concoction.  My French man's only lament about my marshmallows is that I share!

A marshmallow, at its humblest, is only three ingredients:  sugar, gelatin, corn syrup.  It must be heated precisely.  It must be measured meticulously.  It must be beaten until it has quadrupled in size, then spread and "dried."  Making marshmallows is serious business.  It often takes 2 days! (Hey, I have three kids...)

My marshmallows, the homemade kind, have evolved.  Sometimes they are just plain.  I started just cutting these confections into cubes.  Then we began dipping them in dark chocolate.  oh!  That's when I realized I had to double my recipe.  I began to add spices, essential oils, to make these fluffy cubes sing:  star anise, orange oil, cocoa powder, cinnamon.  A little food coloring --don't scoff!  We're talking about marshmallows, after all!--a little food coloring, and we've got the perfect Valentine's treat:  airy pinks and pale reds, lilac and peach wrapped up with L-O-V-E.

I can pipe marshmallow ghosts, perfectly white forms that float off the plate...Homemade becomes the perfect topping for my S'mores cupcakes, right down to the blowtorch that toasts this twirl of fluff.  If I'm industrious (let's be honest, this doesn't happen very often anymore...) I can stuff my marshmallow gracefully into chocolate-lined baking cups.  Picture mini-muffin tins, chocolate, ganache, marshmallow.  You know I love you if you get these for Christmas!

I cook a lot.  I bake often.  I can keep my family stocked in cookies and cakes for months, yet they only remember the Marshmallows. They are industrial!  They should be disdained!  They have corn syrup! They are also magical, and, somehow,  they have become my signature treat:  Mom's Marshmallows.  My teenager is suddenly clinging to my side while I cut and roll them in powdered sugar to magically coat the sticky.  My French man finds reasons to swing by the kitchen while they dry, and suddenly, I remember why I always make a double batch!

.

Orange

Orange is a peculiar color.  It can be so bright and cheerful that it scares people away.  Too much emotion.  Too much.  Orange can be deep and somber, mellow, nostalgic so that people stare off into the distance and long for another time, another place...

I have trouble choosing just one favorite color, but orange is always hovering in my Top Three.  These days, it is Number One.  It is Orange Season.  I look around and it shocks me out of my complacency:  orange leaves, orange scarves, orange pumpkins beckoning me...Even my table gets woken up.  Orange is so In right now.  So hot, so cool.  I dare you to put it on!

Peppers are in season!  You can julienne some red, orange, and yellow to brighten up that pork loin.  Puree two of these bright colors into a magnificent sauce--a coulis, if you will--for a savory strata, a simple pasta, that pan-fried chicken.  Dice them large and add them to your roasted root vegetables.  Sprinkle them in those black beans to make your chili/taco/quesadilla a true fiesta. 

Orange just keeps popping up everywhere.  Grab a yam--I know, it's not Thanksgiving!--grab one anyway and wrap it up like a Russet.  You can smush some butter in that baked yam, a little cilantro, or oh!  chipotle....Stuff that sweet potato with those leftover black beans.  Sprinkle some toasted pepitas over the top. Yum! 

Cut that mellow butternut squash in half, scrape out the seeds, and add a dollop of butter and brown sugar.  Slide that into your oven.  Roast it.  Steam it.  It's all good.  You've got a happy  hour before dinner's ready.  You have time to toss a salad.  Even crumble some bacon into that happy lettuce.  Roast that squash in giant cubes and toss it with some tortellini, sauteed mushrooms, a little sage.  Stuff that cavity with wild rice.  Maybe some brussels sprouts.  Parsnips,  just to make it interesting.

Orange is good for you.  It's that Beta-Carotene.  Orange is the right thing to do, and there they are:  those ubiquitous pumpkins.  No, not the jack variety.  Those won't do.  Grab a Baby Pam, a Sugar Pumpkin, or a Peek-a-Boo.  Don't feel like butchering a pumpkin?   Grab a can.  You don't lose much in the translation.  With very little effort, you can transform that can into a myriad of quickbreads.  You just need a secret ingredient:  chocolate chips, pumpkin seeds, shredded carrot, crystallized ginger, or--my personal favorite--uh, no, sorry, not going to tell you....

Canned pumpkin makes great pie. Yes, we know.   Try something different.  Transform that can into a great smoothie.  Hand it to a teenager and watch their face become five years younger.  (So worth it!)Turn that big can into muffins. Add cream cheese frosting. Drizzle caramel. Top them with buttercream, a pinch of Five Spice, a whisper of molasses....Orange pancakes! Pumpkin waffles!   Turn that mush into a pureed soup so fast your kids won't have time to set the table first!  Add it to your polenta;  pumpkin and corn go together like siblings (well, not mine, but you know what I mean...)  Turn this stuff into a souffle--sweet or savory.  This is the beauty of pumpkin:  there's nowhere it doesn't work. 

"Oh!" People will say.  Orange on the plate creates a palette of comfort combined with the promise of  surprise.  It is beauty:  the suggestion of a magnificent sunset.  It is whimsy:  the murmur of mischief on the horizon.  Put it on!  It looks great on you!

Something Wicked

It's sweater time!  I dig out my dusty slippers from under the bed, put away those tank tops, try on last year's corduroys just to make sure...October:  Falling leaves.  Chilly breezes.  Foggy mornings.  Darker nights.  I turn on my oven.  I pull out my crockpot.  We bake.  We braise.

October may be my favorite month.  Change is never more evident than this month that celebrates the macabre, Death, even.  The season changes our shade trees to candy corn yellows, oranges, reds, dark purples.  Even the produce turns dark. I begin my autumnal feast:  a cornucopia of roasted root vegetables baked in a pumpkin, stuffed sweet potatoes, butternut squash filled with wild rice and brussels sprouts, a trilogy of potatoes layered like plaid in my casserole.  It could be a mellow celebration:  golds, browns, ambers, except that this transition is turned upside-down by impending glee:  October 31st. 

There is candy coming!  My family feels this like the first rumblings of an earthquake:  a little fear, a little excitement, eyes wide.  "We are going to be zombies!  No....vampires.  Um...zombies, maybe."  This becomes our dinnertime chant. 

We've spent the  last month readjusting to 'get-up-on-time,' 'do-your-homework-first' lectures, and 'not-on-a-school-night' sighs.  We look up from our work and find, delighted, that our home has become a party.  Here we are!  I have framed my doorway with flying bats, replaced the family photos with pumpkins and skulls, exchanged those white plates for black with crows.  My house is full of cobwebs--purposefully!--and Scary is lurking around every corner.  Ghosts moan.  Spiders greet you unexpectedly.  Skeletons freak out my dog, my children, my guests.  We giggle.  We scream.  We are orange and black! We are afraid!

We measure our Haunted Trail Mix, assemble Candy-Corn Jello, bake bleeding cupcakes, spin cobweb cookies in the mixer, ice the tombstone cakes, lay out the skeleton meringues.  "We are going to be mummies.  No!  Vampires!  Maybe pirates...Hmmm."  We flip pumpkin pancakes, bake pumpkin bread, decorated pumpkin muffins, and toast those pumpkin seeds.  Finally, we stab that pumpkin--killing to create.  So October!

Skeleton hands pop up in the yard.  Mice scurry across the table.  We eat brain:  cakes, jello, popsicles!  "We are zombies!"  Our delight brightens the darkness that creeps into our house.  Halloween is S-C-A-R-Y!  Dark.  Creepy.  It makes you shudder.  It gives you goosebumps.  It may make you scream!  It is the ultimate month-long rollercoaster.  We cuddle, creating a campfire in our racing hearts, as we read scary stories, do the Monster Mash, and finally decide:  "We are going to be goblins.  No...maybe vampires...."

Halloween is S-C-A-R-Y.  Just don't let my kids know....

My Chemistry Homework

My daughter is taking chemistry.  Sophomore year. She's into science, which I admire and envy at the same time.  Her English-major Mother avoided chemistry.  Even now, I prefer to call those tried-and-true reactions "Magic."

We enjoyed science experiments after school.  That little brain and I changed the liquid from red to blue:  Ooooh!  We created static electricity on a balloon and watched the salt leap up to attach itself:  cool!  We made our own playdough, silly putty, papier-mache.  We got the egg into the bottle.  We even transformed an oval egg into a square!  (vinager...)

But that Table of Elements.  Yawn.  There it is, on our kitchen wall.  We glance at it over ice cream.  We discuss.  We quiz ourselves.  Mostly I listen.  Make jokes...about myself.

My daughter's chemistry teacher had the audacity to give me homework last week.  I have to write, my teenager claimed, then nagged, how chemistry appears in our everyday lives.  Hmmm..  You mean it's my job to explain why she's learning this?

As that Liberal Arts Joke goes, I know nothing about chemistry.  I could write a poem for you...about chemistry...and what I don't know.

But I've got another profession up my sleeve:  Chef.  It's still slightly artsy, but there's science in there.  I get it.

I start with Yeast.  It's ALIVE!  Already this chemistry thing is cool!  In cooking school, I had the pleasure of waking up at four in the morning, trudging to school to make the bread.  Boulangerie.  Breadmaking.  This art/science has more chemistry than any other culinary art, alcohol aside!  Not only do we measure precisely when making bread, we also take temperature:  the flour, the water.  If your water is too warm, you will kill the yeast.  If it is too cold,  the yeast will not wake up.  Yeast creates a reaction in the mixture of flour, water, and salt that creates gluten.  Stretchy, gluten needs to rest after its creation.  The yeast, like The Blob, grows and oozes.  If you keep this reaction too cold, the process will stop.  If you keep this mess too warm, it really does become the Blob.

This chemistry lesson gives you wonderful yeasty holes in your baguette. Splash some water in your oven just before you slide in that baguette and the steam it creates will leave you with a shiny, crunchy crust.  (You know, the one you can't find to save your life at the grocery store...)  Eat a slice of this baguette while it's hot, and the gases created by the yeast will work on you, too.  You've been warned!

We make some quick bread.  Why is it quick?  No yeast.  No waiting around for the Blob.  Instead of yeast, we use Baking Powder.  Just a little.  It works like yeast: leavening for Impatient People.  What happens if we forget our baking powder?  You get quick brick.  No fluff.  No air in there.  No rising.  Chew it.  and chew it.  and chew it.  It's actually hard to eat.   It actually kind of hurts to swallow.  What happens if we beat our baking powder too hard?  Too much?  Tough bread.  Dry. Crumbly.  You're eating dust.  You've killed the chemistry. 

We make some brownies.  We praise the Judaic community for their anti-leavening stance.  No baking powder.  No baking soda.  No chemistry.  Just sugar, flour, butter, chocolate.   Why people think they need a box in order to make  these I'll never understand.

Transformation!  Transformation!  I can turn raw, sliced onions--onions that make you cry, attack your taste buds, make you burp--into sweet, caramelized jam with a little fat, a little heat, a long, long time.  I can chop some shallots, boil them in white wine until I have a millimeter at the bottom of my pan, add some vinager and do it again, and then, whisking like a madwoman, add knob after knob of butter until I have what some have deemed the best sauce in the world:  beurre blanc.  Thick, creamy, smooth.  Weird?  No!  Chemistry!  What is mayonnaise but egg yolks, mustard, and oil?   It's all in the technique.  And what is technique but chemistry,  step by step.  Creme anglaise is not creamy at all until you've heated your milk to transform the lactose. 

Chemistry.  No, you can't live without it.  You could live in ignorance, but  chemistry is cool.  It is magic, explained.  Even then, it still feels like Christmas morning when your sauce suddenly thickens, your souffle poufs, your angelfood cake rises and rises!

There's chemisty happening every second in our bodies.  Exchanges at the atomic level.  Firing of neurons.  Eat some chocolate.  Feel happy?  Chemistry!  Have a good cry!  Feel better?  Chemistry!  Spoon in that comfort food!  Those carbs--they make you feel better:  chemistry. We are, after all, Stardust. Every interaction we have with another person creates a chemical exchange at the atomic level!  Yes!  The people in your life truly do change and influence you!  Chemistry!   Knowing the Why doesn't take anything away from this experience.  It leaves you in awe of this World.  This Universe.  Ourselves.

Winter on a Spoon

Ice Cream.  This frozen treat is an obsession for some--not only a favorite dessert but a snack.  Marco Polo, it is said, observed the Chinese enjoying "ice cream" as early as the 1300s, but there are records dating back to the T'ang Period (618-907) of an ice milk product at court. 

"Ices" didn't reach Europe--via the Moors-- until the early 1600s, and this was simply sorbet.  The idea of egg custard as an ice cream base didn't take off until the 18th century.  And then it went, divisively, into gelato, kulfi, sherbet, granita, and spooms, depending on egg, cream, milk, and cultural tastes.

Ice cream:  a puzzlement.  You must cook it in order to freeze it.  A simple creme anglaise with your favorite fruit (cooked!) becomes an airy, glacial surprise:  the cream coaxes out the sugary fruit, the acidity tamed by eggs and milk. 

My ice cream maker was one of the first major appliances that I bought.  I saved and saved, returning to stare longingly at the machine in the Williams & Sonoma window.  I felt the urge to go beyond the grocery store offerings.  I had never heard of Cold Stone.  Ben and Jerry were just taking off.  I had had a Haagen Daas Pear Sorbet with a fudge ripple that I couldn't find in the States.  I couldn't get it out of my head, so I made it. ( I still do!)

I've learned a lot about ice cream making since I churned my first strawberry.  I strongly believe that cream cheese doesn't belong anywhere near my machine.  I know that there's a balance between milk and heavy cream for a reason.  I know that inverted sugar --honey, or glucose--will keep that apple cider sorbet from getting hard and grainy, and that granitas usually benefit from a little alcohol.  I believe that coconut ice cream kicks butt, but coconut sorbet lacks...and that coconut anything surely is better when coupled with pineapple, mango, banana, papaya...

I've done some experimenting, because I, like Ben, can't help myself.  There are certain flavors that stand alone.  Others need help.  White chocolate ice cream, yes, is good, but becomes Queen with strawberries, blueberries, cherries, raspberries!  Caramel makes anything better.  Fudge rippling through your ice cream does too.  Chocolate ice cream is awesome, but really hard to perfect.  A little chili powder or sea salt changes everything.  Milk chocolate ice cream with malt...oh my!  Chocolate sorbet is that fudgesicle we used to enjoy as kids, but if you use premium dark dark dark chocolate, it is over the top!  Rocky Road is Classic.  Creme fraiche ice cream pairs magically with a scoop of strawberry.  A deep, ripe tomato sorbet is the perfect foil for pan-seared tuna.  I've had the occassion, in the mazes of Old Nice, to try lavender ice cream:  unforgettable.  Seriously, that pastel violet hue, the subtle perfume.  I've smeared my face black enjoying licorice ice cream.  (Thank you, Baskin Robbins!)  I've celebrated St. Patrick's Day with my own Guiness ice cream.  Nutty, chocolatey, yum!  I've bravely spooned Dijon ice cream--yes!  it works!--and the list goes on.  I am one of those who never wants the same flavor twice.

This "winter on a spoon" makes my children literally jump for joy.  It brings a smile to my French man's face.  He reverts to childhood and I get to witness him as a little boy, licking his bowl.  Ice cream is a celebration without reason:  the ultimate "just because."  We make ice cream soup, we whine between gulps about our "ice cream headache," we linger at the table:  maybe just one more scoop....

I Scream!  You Scream!  We all Scream for Ice Cream!

Think Outside the Lunch Box

It's that time of year.  Cool mornings blossom into hot afternoons.  My mind turns to the coming onslaught of holidays, and my alarm gets set again.  I awaken in the dark, start the coffee like a thief in my own house.  It's Back to School.  New pencils.  Clean shoes.  The optimism of a fresh start.  "We're all in our places With bright shiny faces!"  I begin making breakfast and lunch.  I am Short-Order Cook!

I've got half a cup in me, my babies gather focused on waking up around my scratch- and -dent table, each with breakfast their first of many tasks for the day.   Boxes of Batman, Hello Kitty, and a sorry brown bag line up in front of me.  I am Sysiphus!  Each day a new conundrum. 

Batman is easy.  He'll eat anything.  He gets a banana, an awesome PB&J, some Laughing Cow and crackers, those ubiquitous baby carrots.  This one eats with concentration.  His brow is scrunched.  He doesn't have time to chat.   I put a napkin in knowing he'll use his shirt.

Hello Kitty has a list of things NOT ALLOWED.  No fresh fruit...(what will people say?)  "Applesauce?"  No thank you.  "Cheese?"  Only string cheese.  "String cheese tastes like plastic," I say.  "How about a sharp cheddar?"  She shakes her head adamantly.  "A nice triangle of Brie?"  She stomps her foot and frowns.  String cheese.  I throw it in, frowning slightly. 

She'll eat PB&J.  Sometimes she allows Ham and Swiss.  I've got her hooked on leftover quiche, but only if I remind her that it's Egg Pie.  I've sneaked in cold tortellini.  Miss Picky gets a steady rotation of graham crackers, veggie sticks, organic Goldfish substitute.  She may allow a hard-boiled egg;  it may or may not get eaten.

She's pretty sure she deserves a dessert every day.  "Really?"  I regard Little Miss shoveling Lucky Charms while I finish her lunch.  "Figs are Nature's Candy.  Wouldn't you like some?"  She nods enthusiastically until she sees me packing them.  Tears well in those stormy blue eyes.  My drama queen has vetoed the dried figs.  I pop one in my mouth and mumble  "More for me..."

All of this drama may turn to dust during lunch. She may choose to giggle and conspire at the lunch table, abandoning her precious Hello Kitty for the jungle gym.  This social butterfly may traipse out of her classroom without it at all and follow her friend to the school lunch line!  I close the box and move on down the line.

My Brown-Bag-It Girl grunts from the breakfast table as I pack her lunch.  She's turned vegetarian on me, this teenager who adores bacon, orders escargot with glee whenever she can, puts proscuitto on her grilled cheese.  I fill a tupperware with mesclun.  I layer thick slices of juicy heirloom tomatoes with soft buffala mozzarella.  I mumble something about proscuitto...She glares from above her smoothie.  I pop in my balsamic vinaigrette and a fork.  She may eat this standing up, sitting on the grass surrounded by friends and the Top 40 glaring across the Quad.  She may eat this during a game of D&D, or while practicing for Academic League.  But she'll eat it!  She may even smile, but I won't see that...

It's the only meal My Pack eats separately, the only Table where my Young are on their own.  I send them out with a box, a reminder of Home, Mommy, Us.  I watch them trudge toward School, the Great Corruptor, and hope.  I just hope.

Fruit of my Labors

My oven is officially off.  No more gratins, not one baking sheet of cookies, quiche is over. It's summer and my kitchen has changed guards:  the comfort food has gone, the meat banished to the grill, and dessert, like everything else I place on the table, becomes simpler.

I don't cook dinner anymore. I make.  I assemble.  It's my three-month vacation:  the season of California's best.  I visit the markets and stores to whiff those aromatic peaches as I saunter by, gaze at the bounty of berries, and, for sure, grab the cherries and figs while I can.

Fuzzy peaches and nectarines barely have time to hit the fruit bowl before the sandbox hands take them out.  Watermelon chunks and halved strawberries cool in rosewater.  Dulcinea melons become a casual bowl for berries, or port and proscuitto, or sea salt and pink peppercorns.  Apricots get devoured in twos and threes.

My spice drawer gets busy this time of year:  Fruits get dressed up in simple syrups:  blueberries and nectarines swim in a bath infused with star anise, lemon peel and ginger.  Plums and pluots with cardamom.  Pineapple and papaya spears loll in white ginger.  Lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and tamarind all perfume fruit salads.  I pluck mint and toss it with  reduced balsamic vinegar to mingle with chopped strawberries and crystallized ginger.

By mid-August, I start getting frantic.  I see the end of the season and wonder who thought Thanksgiving belonged in November.  I imagine this American holiday smack in the middle of summer when this cornucopia of nature's candy collides with a plethora of fresh vegetables. 

Tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, ramps and green onions meld with red, pink, and white radishes, mache, watercress.  This plethora of greens and reds feels like culinary Christmas in July.  I introduce juicy pineapple and mango to my arugula;  I sprinkle my mesclun with julienned radishes, red peppers, baby beets;  I present a coupling of melons and figs to proscuitto-laced red and green lettuce, their sturdy leaves supporting a cool port vinaigrette. 

Classic ratatouille gets redressed inside peppers and  giant sweet onions. Sliced into a layered pie (a tian, they call it over there...)  Stacked into a tower of summer and pesto, shimmering on that cool white plate with a teaspoon of tapenade surveying the table. Served rustic in a thrown-together crust (that's a galette!)  Even wrapped in a tortilla with tuna, chicken, or rice.

The best part of summer, however, is my French man's morning gift to me:  a green smoothie.  In the summer time, this thick liquid might contain pineapple, peaches, watermelon, mango, or a handful of grapes, topping off  that blender stuffed full of kale, radish greens, swiss chard and romaine.  I get my 5 a day along with my coffee, knowing that everything else I eat is bonus. 

Whatever gets me through the day?  Yes!  But summer is the best time to give yourself this ritual:  a green smoothie gives you more than just an awesome breakfast.  It turns you into Energizer Bunny.  And yes, that liquid goes down so much easier sweetened with juicy peaches,  sweet, sweet pineapple, dripping mango to offset the bitter leaves that give me the energy to chase my kids around the house after work, cook dinner, and still have some Me  left for post night-night time. 

I'm first up.  I do the coffee.  Yes, I resent it!  ( I'm a princess, what can I say?...) But there he is, handing me that big glass of green.  I feel so healthy, gulping down greens, peppers, beets, and ginger.  I feel so energized, leaving for work with this cholorphyll rhapsody evolving inside me. Most of all,  I feel so loved....My French Man is watching out for me. 

Fries with That?

I have a collection of appliances.  Of course I do!  The enthusiasm of cooking is equal to the amount of electrical  outlets you need in your kitchen. I have a kick-ass blender, that Kitchenaid mixer (in red, no less), a waffle maker, a juicer, two ice cream makers (yes, I do need them both!).  I'm almost there. 

My French Man looks at me, exasperated.  "What else is there?"

Seriously?  "Well..."  I fidget.  I look away.  I mumble quietly.  It's one of the last things on my list.  What I'm missing---it's that DEEP FAT FRYER!

I know!  I know!  There's nothing good about a fryer, you say.  I know!  You can stomp your feet and insist that I stay the course.  I know!  I like healthy.  I like the TASTE of food.  But...really?  Sometimes, fried is what you want.  Food is not always about need.

It's not something I would use daily.  Not even weekly.  I don't like that "Fried Regret" that sits in your stomach--no, it pulls you down--so it's not that I want to make my own fries.  I just keep imagining that I'm missing out. 

Imagine...come on, come with me!  Imagine triangular wontons with a little chocolate and a little banana, sealed and slid into that bubbling oil.  Okay. Don't imagine the oil.  Think about that crunchy wonton, melty chocolate, soft banana.  Oh!  Now dip it in some mango puree.  OH!

Imagine piping little choux pastries into kisses.  Now imagine them crunchy on the outside, airy and soft on the inside.  Dust them with cinnamon and sugar:  French donuts!  (Actually, they call them Nun's Farts.  Those French!  How gauche!)  Pop these in your mouth between sips of coffee.  Mmmmm.

Still with me?  Hungry?  {deep fryer}

Imagine sweet little hush puppies, a simple corn meal mush.  Slide these off a spoon into bubbling oil and--transformation!--you've got a corn dog without the dog.  Dip these into a tomato chutney while you finish that glass of rosé!

I picture my own chicken fingers, dipped in buttermilk, panko, my own spices.  Custom KFC!  Crispy golden.  Just the right crunch.  Not dry.  Not soggy.  There I am making coconut shrimp! Tempura!  Oh!  Sweet potato!  Zucchini!  Carrot!

Deep Fat Fryer.

There's a part of me that really wants that machine.  Yes, I can do without.  I have that thermometer.  I have a deep stainless steel pot.  I know how to survey and adjust the flame to try to maintain that perfect temperature.  Too hot and you get that burnt aftertaste.  Too cool and you get a mouthful of oil.  A machine would maintain that temperature for me.  A machine would keep my kitchen from smelling like McDonald's. 

So I dream of my own onion rings.  I think of the day when I can wrap a meatball around a handmade crust and get that perfect browned exterior.  I conjure cooled polenta--buttery, even cheesy-- cut into two-bite wedges, fried and dipped in my best marinara.  Delicate zucchini blossoms stuffed with herbed ricotta or creamy goat cheese, then battered.  Hmmm.  I'd be The Hostess With the Mostest!

And then off I go again. Forget frozen fish sticks!  Do it yourself:   Fish and chips.... Fish tacos!  Catfish, dusted with cornmeal.  Ravioli.  Yes!  Ravioli!  Just thrown in and then out--one more way to love your pasta!  Pasilla chiles, stuffed and fried, Mexican-style.    Take a chunk of that string cheese you feed your kids.  Bread it and fry it, and you are there...oh my!

I won't think about cholesterol.  Or fat.  Or calories.  I manage to eat sanely ninety-nine percent of my time here on Earth.  Nothing should be forever banned.  Fried food gives you instant gratification.  It also, in the end, reminds you how good the rest of your diet feels for your body.  But the Fryer, that's not for my body.  It's not even for my mind.  It's for that child in me.  The one who dreams up new things just because. 

I'm dreaming. I'm saving them up the day I make room for one more machine on my counter.  Got one for me?

Tools of My Trade

A chef without a knife can't do much.  I've made the mistake of arriving to help prep someone's party and getting stuck with a dull knife.  The wrong tool can double your prep time.  It can suck all the joy out of your task, and who wants that?! 

My first day at cooking school, I received a shiny suitcase full of tools:  mostly knives that I didn't know what to do with, a peeler, a pair of shears.  By the time I finished school two years later, my suitcase was stuffed with even more knives, gadgets, and that microplane grater that everyone eyed with envy.

I have a knife just for slicing bacon!  There exists a knife (it's in my box) for the sole purpose of slicing smoked salmon paper thin.  I gained a knife for shaping a potato into the classic 7-sided chateau potato.  I have a cleaver!  Don't argue with me when that one's in my hand!

But really, most people only need 2 or 3 knives.  A serrated bread knife, a chef's knife, a paring knife.  If you have more than that, you probably just need to sharpen your old knife.  Really.  Unless maybe you bone your chickens yourself...?  Do you...?

I shun most gadgets.  They're usually expensive replacements for a spoon and a little finesse.  But there are certain tools I'm thankful for.  Tools that save time, save clean-up, save the day:  my mandoline, an Asian tool designed to thinly slice anything, even coconut. (Yes, I speak from experience!)  Add a small blade and those slices will turn into matchsticks.  Watch your carrots become perfect for coleslaw.  Watch those potatoes become shoestrings.  Watch your thumb!  (Yes, I speak from experience!)

A great whisk, NOT a balloon whisk, is essential, not just for eggs, but the perfect tool for mashing avocados, turning hard-boiled eggs into egg salad, thickening that salad dressing. 

That rubber spatula gets the last bit of whatever out of any bowl.  It folds your egg whites gently into your soufflé base, your waffle mix, your meringue.  It artfully fills your pastry bag, smoothes frosting in a pinch, moves your scrambled eggs around, and matches your kitchen at the same time!  Personally, every kitchen deserves some red.

I've lost my nutmeg grater, and my zester, but replaced them both joyfully with an awesome microplane grater.  This thing perfectly zests my citrus--and fast!--, fixes the nutmeg problem (fresh nutmeg, totally worth it!), grates cheese and chocolate, and takes up almost no space in my drawer.  A microplane takes my lemon curd to a new level in half the time, not to mention what it does to a handmade granita!

My mother, trying to identify with a daughter who cooks, sends me little things:  a grapefruit knife, a cherry pitter, that avocado peeler we talked about, even an egg slicer.  All cool.  I've been offered a kiwi spoon--from New Zealand!--an apple corer, and spatulas, spoons and tea balls.  They have their place;  they work for me too.  There's nothing in that drawer that I don't use.

I have best friends:  that mandoline, my knives, that don't even go in the drawer.  They stick close to me.  I use them daily.  I have acquaintances that hover in a coffee cup near my prep area:  my scissors, peeler, a pair of tongs, corkscrew!  They come out to play regularly.  Then I have my facebook friends:  that tea ball that works not just for tea but for infusing my creme anglaise with spices, a bouquet garni in my stock, a handful of pineapple and ginger in my water.  The candy thermometer I rely on for perfectly soft marshmallows, crunchy praline, homemade caramel sauce.  I don't use these daily, or even weekly, but I'd be lost without them. 

The right tool for the right job is half the lesson.  A saucepan has sloped sides for a reason.  If you're peeling 40 pears, you really do want a Y-shaped  peeler.  Just try to slice that bread with a chef's knife.  Not happening!  If you are "one of those" who just can't stand all that prep work that comes with cooking, take a serious look at your toolbox.  Check your knives.  (Are they even sharp anymore?)  You may suddenly find yourself with time to spare for that apperitif  once you give yourself a break and invest in your dinner.

A Reed in the Wind

I exercise.  I try to devote time each week to the Trinity:  strength, cardio, stretching.  Each part of this threesome satisfies me.  I love them all.  I give and they give back to me, like my children, each in a unique way.

My French man and I leave the house, clandestine, once a week for our personal R & R.  We call it yoga.   We don't do high-brow yoga, hot yoga, or even cult yoga.  Just  a little together time where we don't talk, but there we are, side by side.

I love this hour-long warm-up.  I stretch and my body sighs.  I look longingly at my toes and find that within fifteen minutes, I can tickle them with my fingers.  My back elongates and my shoulders drop.  Ahhhhh....  Our instructor speaks softly, filling our quiet time with simple instructions and little philosophical something-somethings to direct our bodies, our minds, our hearts--tiny suggestions that follow us out of the room and throughout the week.

This week, she crouched and subtlely suggested:  "Flexibility requires a strong base."Flexibility integrates range of motion with balance at its core.  (Falling off your mat, you know, is never the goal...)   So I listened, because, even at 44, I can't help but be studious, and spent the next hour--the next week-- contemplating the idea of flexibility:  Downward-facing dog.  Camel.  Dolphin.  Warrior!  I cemented my base.  I flexed and stretched. Flexibility:  the extent to which a person can cope with changes.    I performed and practiced mental yoga simultaneously:  what is Psychological Flexibility, and do I own it?

I carry my screeching four-year-old across the parking lot and find a lesson in patience.  I let that car swerve in front of me and keep belting out Neil Diamond.  I see risk and potential catastrophe careening toward my family, my loves, and I cradle them with dancing, kisses and soft voices.
This flexibility can only happen if, according to Maslow, I have safely climbed that mountain of needs.  This is my most important job--a consistent reach for the summit of Me.  This, according to so many philosophies and religions, is Everyone's Work.  Buddha did it.  Gandhi sure tried.  We are all on this journey, and the most beautiful aspect of this reach for our personal summit is that we are travelling together! 

I may be on my slow way to enlightenmnent, trudging along, but it's not a race.  It's a group effort.  These people surrounding me, day after day, form my base.  My relationships must be strong, supportive, constant.  Otherwise, I may stumble off my mat.  These people help me deal.  No matter what.  My base gives me the courage and confidence to smile at adversity, shrug off that black cloud, ignore the cold pricklies, walk with confidence into any room, even a mental one. 

And vice-versa.  This makes me responsible not only for my children and the beginning of their trek but my husband's as well.  And my friends'.  And people that cross my path.  How I respond, my perceptions of people, of the world, begins and finally ends with Us. 

My yoga instructor reminds us that our hour of stretching is considered preparation for the final pose:  corpse pose.  I lie on my mat in a darkened room and relax only because I've spent the last 55 minutes getting my body to this place.  It is, in Yoga World, the journey that matters as much as the destination.  It is our curiosity, our strength of character, our optimism that allows us to stretch backward and reach, find, grasp that which we deem--not impossible!  We are doing it!--but miraculous.

I pondered this:  Am I a reed in the wind?  Do I bend and stretch, following the flow of my life, even whistling during life's most trying moments?  Or do I break?  Do I respect and admire each aspect of life as an opportunity?  Or do I label them according to the damage I foresee?  Do I scream with delight during this metaphysical roller coaster ride, or hurl and cry?

I've got an army of positive on my side.  Family.  Friends.  An ardent outlook to give any enemy pause.  The optimism and good nature necessary to pass that obstacle and keep looking up.  Namaste!

Life Through Rosé-Colored Wine Glasses

The Aperitif.  Cocktail Hour.  The "After-Work-Dinner's-Not-Done-Yet Get-Together."  It's a mingling warm-up for dinner table conversation.  I first noticed this ritual in Mary Poppins and other cultural icons:  The Man comes home and pours a drink.  Even my Midwestern parents practiced this ritual:  cheese and crackers, herring!, sardines, and a cold beer while catching the 6 o'clock news.

It hit me personally while visiting my mother-in-law.  Individuals would convene without summons in the living room.  Last to appear was my French man's mom:  svelte, shining, a smile bursting from her sun-kissed face and champagne glasses on a tray.  "Champagne?"  she asked innocently.  I am not the kind of person who says no....Later, my father-in-law would school me in pastis--that Green Fairy that I forever associate with the South of France, hot, dry summers, and older French men with kind, knowing smiles. 

My family practices this with vigor.  Sometimes it's me, my Frenchman, and beer after our weekday run.  Sometimes it's white wine and cassis (think French wine coolers!) with a bowl of pistachios.  We may come across perfectly ripe avocados, and --what's a girl to do?--I am suddenly squeezing lemons and limes for my margarita.  (I may have two, and then dinner gets downgraded to quesadillas....)  My kids may pull me outside for the sunset and a game of petanque.  I am presented with a glass of pastis, milky white and icy.  I sip and lose with dignity.

My favorite aperitif is a chilled glass of rosé.  Blush wine.  So feminine.  So coy.  So misunderstood.  What better way to spend that soft limbo than with a pink drink.  In the US, they call it "white zinfandel".  In the US, they cheat and mix a little white and red together to create a Frankenstein beverage that's too sugary and not at all refeshing at the end of the day.  In the US, this wine is neglected, ostracized, relegated to two brands in the grocery store, a lower class bottle.

I beg to differ.  A great rosé, whether it's pale palette is sunset pink, barely peach, or stained watermelon red, has a place at your table, especially before it's set.  Rosé is a perfect foil for salty tapenade, garlicy bruschetta, spicy nuts.  Serving a salad first?  Keep that glass, refill it and hit that dressing head on.    Serving Mexican?  Indian?  Thai?  Caribean?  Go PINK!  Having cheese pizza?  A nice little glass of rosé, even a Grenache, will cut through that stringy layer of melty yum and present your mouth with the perfect contrast.    Pour a rosé instead of white with your chicken, your pork chop!, your crab, your scallops or shrimp...

Some will stare.  Some will smirk.  "Pink wine!"  The guys may chuckle.  Let them--more for us!  Smile and blink and pour yourself another. Now THAT'S Happy Hour.

The Year of the Geek

I spent last weekend traipsing around the largest Comic Conventon in the U.S.  I held hands with my teenager as she pulled me through Star Wars, Star Trek, Superman, Batman, Yugiyo...She would pause and point:  "There's another Doctor Who!"  "Look!  It's Snape!"  "Check out the Assassin's Creed characters.  Where's my camera?"  I would stumble and stammer:  "Who's that?"  "What's that?"  "It's Harry!  Harry Potter!" 

Besides the loveliness of my 15-year old holding hands unabashedly with her mom, I totally immersed myself, with thousands of others, in the joy of geekdom.  Yes, there were scantily-clad Supergirls and silly Anime hotties with funky hair, but the menagerie of characters offered up on the convention floor  provided a glimpse into the diversity of our individual passions.  Why does this person, seemingly mundane on any other occasion, choose to don a Batman outfit while another is dressed in some dystopian steampunk attire?  (goggles a must!)  A suburban family of four parts the crowd with their monochromatic Incredibles suits.  That fat girl has transformed into Mario's sweet princess.  The accountant slips into The Joker, purple hair and all.  They all look awesome.

Some people don't get it.  I say, "What's wrong with you? Where did your sense of whimsy go and why aren't you out trying to find it?"  Everyone should have an inner geek,  somewhere in there.  We should all find the occasion to let it loose, sometimes, at least.  Geeks have no shame.  They don't apologize for their passion.  They just are.  They grab it and don't let go, whatever their IT is.

I feel fortunate that my teenager is a Geek.  She may never be Prom Queen.  Her room is not full of sports trophies.  She's not even going to be Valedictorian.  I think she's got something else...a secret weapon that will take her anywhere she wants to go:  Passion. 

It's the Year of the Geek in my household.  Find what fascinates and hold on tight.  Want to be a Scuba Diver?  Okay!  Let's swim, learn about dolphins and sharks, wear that mask and snorkel literally EVERYWHERE!  Check out the ocean.  Play with the kelp.  Live that dream!

Are you a dancer?  Okay!  Sashay across the kitchen floor.  Float to that ballad.  Shake your booty to Gaga.  Find that Prima Donna in your soul (oh, that's been there for a long time already...), grab her by the waist and spin with Glee.  Learn to make your own music.  Sing your own song! 

I'm thankful for the Geeks in my life.  The Geeks in my community.  The Geeks in the world.  What a bore we all would be without them to remind us that whimsy and magic are still going strong, that if you wear it like you own it, then you really do own it. A true geek believes it.  You can too.  Just grab their hand---or those cool coattails--and get taken along for the ride.  Wheeeeeeee!

The Forgotten Vegetables

Vegetables, according to the USFDA pyramid, circle, steps, whatever!, are supposed to be our largest intake on any given day.  We should be eating vegetables more than anything else.  And yet we tend to consume less than 5% of our calories from vegetables on a daily basis.  What?!

Most of us make do with potatoes.  We may throw in broccoli, peas, those "baby" carrots, corn (not a vegetable, by the way!).  Green beans.  Still, five percent!  And almost two thirds of that is potatoes.  That's a lot of spuds!

I'm here to advocate for the forgotten legumes.  Those that sit on the sidelines, subject to your weekly disdain, ignorance, even your fear!  They hear you!  "Yuck!" you say before you've even tried it!  "What is THAT?" you ask nobody.  But you could ask your green grocer. Find the older guy working in produce and I promise he will know its name and how to cook it.  He's been waiting for you! 

Take the time to pick up a squash.  Take it home, cut it half and stick it in the oven with some butter inside that hollowed out cavity.  Add some brown sugar.  Mmmm.  Hold that eggplant and see how beautifully that purple skin shines!  A purple vegetable!  I can count them on one hand:  radicchio, cabbage, endive, beets, eggplant.

Stop your cart and grab those radishes, then spread it with the best butter you can buy.  Spoon your crab salad atop a spear of endive.  Saute those leeks and add them to your quiche, your soup, your diced potatoes, your eggs.  Swiss chard completes polenta like nothing else can.  Surprise your kids and make it rainbow chard.  Add it to your lentil soup.  Throw in some sausage and a sprinkling of parmesan and there you are in Tuscany.  Wilt it with that crumbled bacon you just cooked and scoop it onto a garlicky crouton.  Yum!

Pick through those brussels sprouts:  baby cabbages that bring out the best in meats.  Shave these, julienne them, halve them.  Add butter.  Maybe some lemon zest.  Orange zest!  Parmesan!  Boiled, roasted, steamed, this bitter veggie loves to complement chicken, bacon, beef.  Add apples.  Be bolder and add quince!  (a neglected fruit!)

Don't judge a vegetable by its looks.  You'd be missing out on some of the ugliest secrets:  celery root, parsnips, salsify, jicama.  Celery root really is the root from which celery grows.  A hidden bonus!  But nothing like celery.  This root is a hideous, wrinkly brown with knobs all over it.  Cut it all off and you have a root vegetable that can be eaten raw or cooked.  Add some to your next slaw.  Matchstick this one all by itself with some mayo and a sprinkling of salt and parsley and you've got a refeshing picnic salad.  Add one to your mashed potatoes and you've got mashed potatoes that people will talk about.  When was the last time that happened to you?  Your root vegetable gratin will thank you.  (Yes, those parsnips and turnips go in there too!)  Your roasted vegetables will welcome this stranger like a prodigal son.  Convene these underground treasures and you might even feel like you can skip the pot roast.

Some of the best veggies are alien:  jicama, that Mexican pear, has a crunchy pale flesh hiding behind boring brown skin.  Nopales:  add them to your next taco, stuff them with your pulled pork, throw them into a hollowed out tomato.  Tell your family you're having cactus for dinner and just smile as their mouths drop open. 

Variety, they say, is the spice of life.  This must especially ring true at the table.  Cultures who enjoy diversity in their diets tend to be healthier.  Look around you.  That Meat and Potatoes diet doesn't seem to be working too well for us.

Throw caution to the wind!  Grab that stranger and take it home.  Conquer that "I don't know what to do with it."  Start a conversation in the produce section.  You may make a friend, vegetable or human...does it matter?  And when in doubt, do what the French do:  add more butter!

Breakfast of Champions

A break from your fast. Your body has just spent 8+ hours without input and needs a jumpstart.  Coffee gets you out of the house, but it doesn't take you through lunch. 

I love breakfast.  With three kids at three different schools, breakfast is just part of the coordination that so easily tips into chaos during the week.  One appears in Spiderman underwear, the oldest has her blanket wrapped around her, and Little Miss Sunshine has her "I'm a Morning Person!" smile on.  I glare and wait for my coffee.  Here we all are, around the table and it really is a miracle.  Once a day for dinner already feels like an accomplishment, but twice!?   A miracle and a joy!

Sometimes breakfast is silent.  My teenager slurps her cereal, steals bacon from her helpless sister, rolls her eyes and reads the cereal box.  Some mornings breakfast is a cacophony:  the Only Son is whining, the Teenager is whining, and Miss Good Morning is singing her own little morning song, oblivious and immune. 

And then my teapot is singing, and then so are we:  "I'm a little teapot, short and stout!"  I cradle my coffee cup while this one gets dressed, help that one with her backpack, hand money over to the teenager (don't ask me why, just do it!)  I sign permission slips and slide scrambled eggs on this one's plate, spread peanut butter on toast while my eyes pass over backwards sixes and sound out the words.

Our breakfasts do not resemble our dinners.  We are wound up and at the starting gate.  We look forward, each to his or her own adventure.  We start our day with this song.

I love breakfast.  Even better?  Breakfast on Sunday.  It's nonchalant, mellow, sleepy.  It happens after two cups of coffee.  It happens after 9:00.  It inevitably happens in pajamas, and sometimes we're outside.  We set the table.  We set out carafes of juice, knives, forks.  We read the paper, chuckle at comics, feed the dog the last bite, languish the morning away to Frank Sinatra, Prairie Home Companion, Hall and Oates. 

We have time for pancakes.  French toast.  If I've been a Smart Mom (not always...!)  I've made strata and do nothing but slide it in and out of the oven.  Or bread pudding.  Coffee cake.  These are mimosa days. 

Sometimes Miss Sunshine is up at 6.  How did this Night Owl end up with this Abomination in my house?  But she's smiling and singing and caressing my drooly cheek, and  so we are up.  This bright-eyed girl sifts flour, whisks eggs, measures and spills, giggling quietly.  No cynical teenagers up at six!  No whiny little brother!  We are conspiring girlies, whispering as we break eggs and create the beginning of Something Good.

Tremendous Dynamite

"She is a formidable opponent. 

She could put up a hard-won fight. 

Got her head screwed on real tight. 

Being the bomb's her birthright. 

She's tremendous.  She's dynamite."

--the Eels

I am a Runner.  I run slowly.  Sometimes I'm too busy--no, that's not it--my children are too busy, and I have to miss my run.  I have gone years without running because of babies, work, self-neglect, but I am a Runner nonetheless.

My three mile walk to drain that last ten pounds of baby fat slowly sped up to a 7 to 9 mile run three times a week (if I'm lucky!)  I ran my first half marathon this spring.  I bought a tank top with a dorky runner's quotation.  Yep, a Runner I am.

I stretch, finding my playlist as traffic behind me starts and stops.  And then I'm off.  One foot  in front of the other as my body heats up and my shoulders relax, serenaded by Ritchie Havens, Iggy Pop, Blondie.  One foot in front of the other as my breathing falls into its own song, the sun sets behind me stretching out my shadow into the lean, mean running machine I know is hiding inside me.  I feel the raw power of this silhouette, the promise of amazonian strength, earth-mother endurance.  My silent avatar reflects what no mirror can:  I am tremendous dynamite!

Around mile 4, my legs take up the rhythm of my run and my mind floats away, cleaning house.  I see my day, my week, my work, my life more clearly.  I am zen.  I arrive home sweaty.  It's not a feminine glow.  It's beyond perspiration.  It is a symbol of my accomplishment. 

I have found my way.  My bliss.  Even my children recognize it.  When I am "up to here", my teenager will hand me my running shoes.  When I am meloncholy, a good run chases that dark cloud away.  When I am pensive, it becomes my meditation:  breathe, breathe, breathe.  There I go....

In the end, my run works for me on many levels:  it keeps me healthy.  My heart is strong, my muscles leaner, my cholesterol lower.  (My metabolism too!  I can eat more!)  But that was never my goal.  It's good for my head.  I get an hour vacation from everything.  A restart button.  My stress gets pounded out with every step.  But the greatest benefit:  empowerment.  I feel good.  I feel great about what I can do.  Ask any man:  there's nothing more beautiful than a woman who believes in herself:  confidence, assurance, bliss. 

One cannot get this bliss from shopping.  Surfing the internet will not take you there.  Work may leave you wanting.  Your honey bunny doesn't do it for you.  He can help you, though.  Take the time to do this for yourself, and you will be a happier person.  Less grumpy.  More energetic.  (better sex life!)  Imagine a new you. 

Imagine doing something that gives you more than it takes from you.  Something that makes you feel like the bomb.  All that power wrapped up in little you!  Your honey will be awed.  Your children will be proud.  You will be amazing!

The Problem with Cupcakes

There has been, rather recently in the scheme of things, a cupcake fad in this country.  Little shops devoted only to cupcakes are popping up everywhere, even in my large "Mexican-food-is-king" city.  I peruse the cooking section of my bookstore and see at least ten--ten!-- books devoted solely to this confection.  Ten!  Really?!

A cupcake.  A few bites of fluffy, light-as-air cake with half a pastry bag of frosting swirled atop. Is it the cake part we covet, or the sugar and butter concoction that floats over it?  Painstakingly piped buttercream, tinged to match that kitschy wrapper, sprinkles, whimsical confections, delicate chocolate curls, matching candies, painted ganache tie this thematic baby cake to the message of the day.  They have become an artform, too beautiful to eat!  Cupcakes are that pretty girl who doesn't have an opinion:  she looks great, but if you are looking for a conversation, she leaves you wanting.

A muffin doesn't worry much about frosting.  A muffin is all about taste and fulfillment.  Muffins don't slip on a funky paper wrapping.  They wear their white or shiny silver liner like a perfectly worn pair of jeans.  A muffin is just as good if not better plain.  Don't pile on the frosting.  Skip the sparkling sugars, the gum paste and marzipan "play-doughed" into a ladybug!  If you must, a dusting of powdered sugar will do.  A muffin is about the muffin.  Doll it up and you're going to miss the best part:  muffins taste good!  Even a bran muffin--a good one--tastes like you could have another.  You can actually eat one for breakfast and survive your morning.  Muffins have that midwestern work ethic:  you simply don't exist to be idle.

I'm tired of the parade of form over function.  Close that Martha Stewart Living and have some uncoodinated fun.  Get dirty.  Get lost.  Live a little and wear mismatched socks.  Talk to the next stranger who smiles at you. Buy a painting because it speaks to you instead of matching your decor.  Close that cupcake shop and open a place where substance wins over style. 

It's What's on the Inside That Counts

We, as a society, are accustomed to eating flesh.  It goes without saying that this Western society eats animals.  Culturally, pigs, cows, fowl, fish are all game.  And yet, for the most part, we neglect the inside:  the Offal.  Kidneys, livers, heart, thyroid gland,........brain!

I know.  Brain is no longer really an option.  Not since Mad Cow.  But I remember sitting in my cousin's kitchen as his wife prepared brain for his birthday.  "It's his favorite!" she smiled at me.  It smelled delicious.  I went to play with the children.

Liver and onions was one of the first meals I learned to prepare by myself.  It helped me through college.  (Liver and onions is cheaper than McDonalds!)  The blood bank marvelled at my iron count and asked me for more.  (I obliged)  Later I added balsamic and toasted pecans.  Even Yummier!

Chicken livers are even better.  Breaded and fried, I pop these in my mouth like candy.  I roll them atop my salads, puree them into a pate, and, seriously, place some on a little plate with a cool white wine:  tapas perfection!

And that thyroid gland.  These are in my top 5.  The thyroid gland of a sheep or veal is called sweetbreads (I know...What?!)  My chef first introduced us in cooking school.  He brought me a bowl full of sweetbreads soaking in milk, showed me how to carefully peel off the outer membrane, and then we coated them in flour and lightly sauteed them.  Lightly browned, crunchy on the outside, creamy warm on the inside.  I think I swooned!  My chef beamed like I had passed some secret test.

I have dreamed about boudin since I first had it in the French countryside:  black sausage with sauteed apples flambeed with Calvados and cream.  Black boudin literally melts in your mouth.  Sometimes it has tiny specks of Granny Smith apple in the sausage.  You can find it with onion, too.  My  tablemates, including my French man, were smirking terribly as I asked for thirds, and then passed the blood sausage down the table.  It took me a few minutes:  Blood sausage?  Really?  My stomach started to lurch, but my brain and heart told me to get over it, and I managed that third helping quite fine.

Put a plate of andouillette sausage in front of me with a little pot of mustard and I'll enjoy it thoroughly:   white sausage stuffed with chopped onions and intestine.  Take me to a South American BBQ restaurant and show off those chicken hearts!  Paper-thin tripe sauteed in brown butter and parsley...mmmm. 

I realize that some people can't do it.  They are Meat-Eaters, not Everything-Eaters.  I get the whole texture issue, the smell, the idea in your head that keeps you from enjoying it even if it does taste good.  I won't argue with you.  I'll tell you this, though:  putting offal on the menu is the sign of a knowing chef.  Look for sweetbreads and you can have confidence in anything coming out of that kitchen.  Not every chef can pull off tripe, and it takes belief in your clientele to put liver on your menu.

A suggestion?  Pour yourself a red wine and put some little cornichons on a plate with some liver pate and toasted baguette slices.  Close your eyes, breath a little, and there you are:  Sitting in a little cafe next to the Farmer's Market, your basket of fruits and vegetables at your feet.  You're taking a French break, thinking about dinner, but it's far away, and you've got your afternoon ahead of you.  Everything is still possible.