New calendar. New date to write in the checkbook. Fresh start at school. We start this year washing off and putting away the holidays, and yet, here I am, only weeks after I whined "I'm tired of partying...", looking at the calendar and wondering when I can start getting ready for Valentine's Day.
Valentine's Day shocks me in its excess. A day set aside to show love and kindness has degraded into a day to use money as a measurement of love. How can that be? The hearts abound in February and yet it seems to all boil down to a purchase. It becomes a necessity instead of the intended thoughtful gesture of loving, caring, intention.
I've been trained, you see, by a European man who insists that every day is Valentine's Day. On February 14th, I don't get flowers, candy, jewelry. But I might have gotten them at any time during the year, without reason, without warning...just because, well, because every day is Valentine's Day!
He didn't come with the expectations of gifts, the hype of an excellent dinner at a chi-chi restaurant. It is an American pretense, this fury of buying, overpriced roses, sought-after dinner reservations. He came from France. Yes, the reputation is true. He is an excellent lover--he loves daily, hourly, no matter what crap I end up standing in. It makes him diligent, and in turn, me too, to make sure that February 14th feels as good as every other day.
Don't get me wrong. The first few years of our marriage, I mourned Valentine's Day. I was bitter. Definitely disappointed when we ended up having pizza with his friend at a dive on Valentine's Day. "Why is it so crowded in here?" he boomed over the din of couples conspiring. "It's February 14th." I mumbled. Our friend smiled, shaking his head. I didn't get it. Didn't care. I wanted my holiday. I wanted my presents!
But I caught on. It made our marriage better, to remember that Every Day is Valentine's Day. I try to apply this to all of my loved ones--my babies, my friends, the people who fill my daily life and make it easy to be here even with all the crap that hits my fan. I hope they know how I feel on a regular basis. If I'm doing it right, we don't need a special day to say it.
I don't use Valentine's Day as an artificial day of Romance. I use it, instead, as an excuse to entertain. Sometimes, we invite single friends for dinner. We have, in the past, chosen to celebrate Valentine's Day with a wine tasting party. Sometimes, it's just Us: my man, my babies, the dog.
Yes, I do the treats, the cookies, the handmade love notes. That's the fun part! I adore the heart-shaped plates, pepperoni cut into little hearts on our pizza, cinnamon rolls baked into hearts. The Reds! The Pinks! The Peaches and Violets! February begins with me and my kids making, cutting, pasting, coloring. We bake and sprinkle. We hug and say it: "I love you!" It's a loving month to top off a loving year. We find a hundred ways to say I love you, and then, we just keep going...
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Punxsutawney Phil
Groundhog's Day always puzzled me. What's it all for? What's with the little beast? Why him and not some other groundhog in another state? These are the questions that filled my childhood brain.
I grew up. I became slightly pagan. I discovered that Groundhog's Day just happens to be the exact halfway point between Winter Solstice and Vernal Equinox. It is, in fact, halfway through winter, six more weeks until the First Day of Spring, March 20. It is, in some circles, the day you burn your Christmas tree and let go of your regrets. It is in other circles a day called "Candelmas." In France, they call it Chandeleur. I call it Crepe Day.
February 2--it's sooner than you think!--is Groundhog's Day, Chandeleur, Imbolc, Candelmas. Such a loaded day for Punxsutawney Phil. He has the lore and traditions of several cultures and religions riding on his little furry back.
And it's my Crepe Day. The French flip crepes with a coin held in their hand. There's something about good luck in there. We create a stack of sweet crepes for dessert. We clear dinner and set out jams, sugar and cinnamon, Nutella, chantilly cream. And then we watch as our pile reduces to a few left for each person, and suddenly, it's: "Who wants the last one?"
The seasons turn, and we roll right along. Life is passing us by! We get busy working, driving, wondering what to make for dinner, and how to find time to read a book that doesn't have pictures. We pass each other at a run. It's days like February 2nd that allow us to stop and smell...the crepes. Life is passing us by! Stop! Make some crepes. Let them ask why. Spend the night explaining our ancestral worship of the sun, the seasons, the light, the stars, the planets. Take an evening to contemplate our small place in this universe. I promise this conversation will last through dessert...
I grew up. I became slightly pagan. I discovered that Groundhog's Day just happens to be the exact halfway point between Winter Solstice and Vernal Equinox. It is, in fact, halfway through winter, six more weeks until the First Day of Spring, March 20. It is, in some circles, the day you burn your Christmas tree and let go of your regrets. It is in other circles a day called "Candelmas." In France, they call it Chandeleur. I call it Crepe Day.
February 2--it's sooner than you think!--is Groundhog's Day, Chandeleur, Imbolc, Candelmas. Such a loaded day for Punxsutawney Phil. He has the lore and traditions of several cultures and religions riding on his little furry back.
And it's my Crepe Day. The French flip crepes with a coin held in their hand. There's something about good luck in there. We create a stack of sweet crepes for dessert. We clear dinner and set out jams, sugar and cinnamon, Nutella, chantilly cream. And then we watch as our pile reduces to a few left for each person, and suddenly, it's: "Who wants the last one?"
The seasons turn, and we roll right along. Life is passing us by! We get busy working, driving, wondering what to make for dinner, and how to find time to read a book that doesn't have pictures. We pass each other at a run. It's days like February 2nd that allow us to stop and smell...the crepes. Life is passing us by! Stop! Make some crepes. Let them ask why. Spend the night explaining our ancestral worship of the sun, the seasons, the light, the stars, the planets. Take an evening to contemplate our small place in this universe. I promise this conversation will last through dessert...
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Why I Cook
Why do I cook? I started late. I didn't have a mother who cooked for the sake of cooking. I had a mother who had a repetoire of 8 to 10 dishes, recycled weekly, maybe seasonally. I had a mother on a budget. In the Midwest. In the 60s and 70s. She, like all of us, was my model. What is a mother? What is a wife? What are my duties? My responsibilities?
I turn back, wearily, to Iowa, to my youth, and see my mother: intelligent, layered with children she loved, a stay-at-home life she didn't, a husband who loved her and played his role. I remember ghoulash, tater-tot casserole. chili, stroganoff. My mother is a good cook. She gave me the love for liver and onions (just the two of us), the understanding of lasagna, the inspiration for my best potato gratin.
She gave me, mostly, the idea that the kitchen was just another play area. We made cookies. We made cake. She taught me how to make crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, good orange juice from that concentrate can...(It's an art, that's all I can tell you...) She also endowed me with the idea that families eat together. Play together. Sometimes at the same time.
She taught me that Family Time was Always: there was no down time, no Time Out, no uncounted hours. Like Sands Through the Hour Glass...And so I make our time count: my time in the kitchen is Our Time in the Kitchen. My little ones pull up a chair an stir, add the cheese, whisk the eggs. We played this game so often that my first child grew tired of cookies, named her first doll "Garlic," proclaimed proscuitto her favorite food at the age of four.
I saw the need, as soon as I knew my French man, to cook. Meals. To create. Ambiance. A welcoming. I knew when I met him that I was lacking: I was The American. In a bad way! Six months later my trip to France confirmed my suspicions: I needed kitchen skills. Hospitality. Savoir Vivre. I have strived, since that first trip 18 years ago, to replicate the lessons I perceived on that visit.
Cooking is a large part of the French culture. It is now a large part of mine, so much so that I felt compelled to attend cooking school. In France. I now enjoy every aspect of the experience. (okay, maybe not the dishes....) Living in France, perhaps I could even say in Europe, gives one a new persepective on food. It is not "I eat to live." It is rather "I live to eat." The mode tends toward quality, rather than quantity. Food becomes the focal point for every occassion. The table is the vehicle that moves the event.
How serendipitous, then, that I began cooking at the first murmurings of Martha Stewart. Make fun of her. I do! But do it respectfully, for she has turned entertaining into a regular household affair. I immediately subscribed to Bon Appetit. Learned what Montrachet was. Discovered proscuitto. Avocados. Fresh herbs. Shallots. (Iowa, remember?)
I made my own pasta. (not anymore...pasta is for lazy days...) I made my own salad dressing (still do!) I made my own ice cream, waffles, pie crusts. I added appliances, tools, essential spices. I studied: Indian curries, Norweigian cured salmon, Spanish tapas, Italian sauces and pasta shapes. I get the Latin fusion. I know what sauce goes with pig's feet (gribiche) and what to serve with intestine-filled sausage (mustard).
I love cooking. It is an endless lesson. It is a pasttime everyone is happy that you have. It is meant to be shared, one way or another, with others. It creates only good things, good feelings, good moments, to have a cook in the house.
Really, I love cooking because it is limitless. There are rules. They are meant to be broken. I want to learn them all. Then I plan to break them all. It will take me a lifetime. I'm looking forward to it. Bon Appetit!
I turn back, wearily, to Iowa, to my youth, and see my mother: intelligent, layered with children she loved, a stay-at-home life she didn't, a husband who loved her and played his role. I remember ghoulash, tater-tot casserole. chili, stroganoff. My mother is a good cook. She gave me the love for liver and onions (just the two of us), the understanding of lasagna, the inspiration for my best potato gratin.
She gave me, mostly, the idea that the kitchen was just another play area. We made cookies. We made cake. She taught me how to make crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, good orange juice from that concentrate can...(It's an art, that's all I can tell you...) She also endowed me with the idea that families eat together. Play together. Sometimes at the same time.
She taught me that Family Time was Always: there was no down time, no Time Out, no uncounted hours. Like Sands Through the Hour Glass...And so I make our time count: my time in the kitchen is Our Time in the Kitchen. My little ones pull up a chair an stir, add the cheese, whisk the eggs. We played this game so often that my first child grew tired of cookies, named her first doll "Garlic," proclaimed proscuitto her favorite food at the age of four.
I saw the need, as soon as I knew my French man, to cook. Meals. To create. Ambiance. A welcoming. I knew when I met him that I was lacking: I was The American. In a bad way! Six months later my trip to France confirmed my suspicions: I needed kitchen skills. Hospitality. Savoir Vivre. I have strived, since that first trip 18 years ago, to replicate the lessons I perceived on that visit.
Cooking is a large part of the French culture. It is now a large part of mine, so much so that I felt compelled to attend cooking school. In France. I now enjoy every aspect of the experience. (okay, maybe not the dishes....) Living in France, perhaps I could even say in Europe, gives one a new persepective on food. It is not "I eat to live." It is rather "I live to eat." The mode tends toward quality, rather than quantity. Food becomes the focal point for every occassion. The table is the vehicle that moves the event.
How serendipitous, then, that I began cooking at the first murmurings of Martha Stewart. Make fun of her. I do! But do it respectfully, for she has turned entertaining into a regular household affair. I immediately subscribed to Bon Appetit. Learned what Montrachet was. Discovered proscuitto. Avocados. Fresh herbs. Shallots. (Iowa, remember?)
I made my own pasta. (not anymore...pasta is for lazy days...) I made my own salad dressing (still do!) I made my own ice cream, waffles, pie crusts. I added appliances, tools, essential spices. I studied: Indian curries, Norweigian cured salmon, Spanish tapas, Italian sauces and pasta shapes. I get the Latin fusion. I know what sauce goes with pig's feet (gribiche) and what to serve with intestine-filled sausage (mustard).
I love cooking. It is an endless lesson. It is a pasttime everyone is happy that you have. It is meant to be shared, one way or another, with others. It creates only good things, good feelings, good moments, to have a cook in the house.
Really, I love cooking because it is limitless. There are rules. They are meant to be broken. I want to learn them all. Then I plan to break them all. It will take me a lifetime. I'm looking forward to it. Bon Appetit!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Little Men
Snips and snails and puppydog tails: After two lovely girls, I have received the challenge of raising a boy. This curly-haired ragamuffin passes through superheroes, police and firefighters, zombies and vampires--sometimes simultaneously! He may tout a motorcycle helmet, vampire cape, Ironman underwear and boots one morning, pounding down the hallway on his way to....fight the bad guys? be the bad guy?
I watch, mostly, astounded, sometimes on the verge of appalled, as my little man grasps his newest toy, asking himself: "How does this break?" It is his birthright, I guess, to break, then cry because it is broken: his Batmobile, his Lego helicopter, his mother's heart!
I have done my best to shift out of the LaLa Land my daughter's brought me to, hands held. I sit between my Coloring-Quietly Six-Year-Old and the Tasmanian Devil who has constructed a battle scene at my kitchen table: soldiers on one side, zombies on the other, all of them against the giant spider menacing the world in the middle of this chaotic warzone.
No, this is not LaLa Land! This is serious business, this Boyhood. For a while, the song was "We don't play with guns." But sticks became a gun, magic wands became a gun, swords--I know! It's a weapon already!--became a gun! What's a mommy to do? I stutter now, when I say it: "We don't shoot people!" because not only does this boy of mine turn everything into a gun, but the people surrounding us have a tendency to give him guns: double-barrel shotguns, Star Wars guns and light sabers, cowboy six-shooters...
I have become a different kind of driver because of my son. We seek out cops, fire engines, guys on motorcycles. We roll down the windows and wave with the enthusiasm of, well, a four-year old. "Hi!" he'll yell with love in his heart, a huge smile on his face, joy in his voice. They all wave back...
Besides, what mommy couldn't use someone in the back warning you about the police car behind you?!
My son and I rarely build things without an earthquake, godzilla, perhaps an unnamed monster of the Human variety knocking it down: destruction should've been my boy's middle name. While my daughters pirouette and float, this guy jumps and stomps, flailing, kicking at the air--joyfully! My girls find beauty in pinks, purples, sparkles. Our boy wants skulls, shrunken heads, mummies, blood! Halloween, for this one, lasts all year long.
At first, I was flabbergasted. I didn't get it. But I see him, really see him, lounging in his car seat, watching all those cool cars and trucks go by. There is contentment on his face. His wants are simple: hang out with me and check out the cars. Hang out with me and build a story with his Lego people. Hang out with me and whisk the eggs (just another form of destruction, mind you!).
I have insights into the opposite sex that I did not have after years of marriage. Boys are simple: they want to play, physically. They want to hang out with their favorite people: Me! They love to shock and scare you--proof, after all, that you are truly interacting! They build things, destroy, build again, but in the midst of all that construction and destruction is a little man prancing toward you with a "mommy, come see what I made!" smile on his face. The icing on his cake is when you join in the neverending process of construct-crash-smash...and help him clean it all up.
I realize my responsibility: I am molding a Man. Someday this lovely boy will shave, shoot hoops, fall in love...wear a tie! I see my calling here: raise a man that I would want my daughters to marry. This finished product, above all, should be a nice guy.
I duck my head as the remote control helicopter goes whizzing past me, read stories of love and caring, remind him one more time that we don't hit people, hug him deeply. I watch, satisfied, as Spiderman flies in to visit the Batcave, and, upon leaving, gives Batman a kiss good-bye. Yes, I think he'll be alright...
I watch, mostly, astounded, sometimes on the verge of appalled, as my little man grasps his newest toy, asking himself: "How does this break?" It is his birthright, I guess, to break, then cry because it is broken: his Batmobile, his Lego helicopter, his mother's heart!
I have done my best to shift out of the LaLa Land my daughter's brought me to, hands held. I sit between my Coloring-Quietly Six-Year-Old and the Tasmanian Devil who has constructed a battle scene at my kitchen table: soldiers on one side, zombies on the other, all of them against the giant spider menacing the world in the middle of this chaotic warzone.
No, this is not LaLa Land! This is serious business, this Boyhood. For a while, the song was "We don't play with guns." But sticks became a gun, magic wands became a gun, swords--I know! It's a weapon already!--became a gun! What's a mommy to do? I stutter now, when I say it: "We don't shoot people!" because not only does this boy of mine turn everything into a gun, but the people surrounding us have a tendency to give him guns: double-barrel shotguns, Star Wars guns and light sabers, cowboy six-shooters...
I have become a different kind of driver because of my son. We seek out cops, fire engines, guys on motorcycles. We roll down the windows and wave with the enthusiasm of, well, a four-year old. "Hi!" he'll yell with love in his heart, a huge smile on his face, joy in his voice. They all wave back...
Besides, what mommy couldn't use someone in the back warning you about the police car behind you?!
My son and I rarely build things without an earthquake, godzilla, perhaps an unnamed monster of the Human variety knocking it down: destruction should've been my boy's middle name. While my daughters pirouette and float, this guy jumps and stomps, flailing, kicking at the air--joyfully! My girls find beauty in pinks, purples, sparkles. Our boy wants skulls, shrunken heads, mummies, blood! Halloween, for this one, lasts all year long.
At first, I was flabbergasted. I didn't get it. But I see him, really see him, lounging in his car seat, watching all those cool cars and trucks go by. There is contentment on his face. His wants are simple: hang out with me and check out the cars. Hang out with me and build a story with his Lego people. Hang out with me and whisk the eggs (just another form of destruction, mind you!).
I have insights into the opposite sex that I did not have after years of marriage. Boys are simple: they want to play, physically. They want to hang out with their favorite people: Me! They love to shock and scare you--proof, after all, that you are truly interacting! They build things, destroy, build again, but in the midst of all that construction and destruction is a little man prancing toward you with a "mommy, come see what I made!" smile on his face. The icing on his cake is when you join in the neverending process of construct-crash-smash...and help him clean it all up.
I realize my responsibility: I am molding a Man. Someday this lovely boy will shave, shoot hoops, fall in love...wear a tie! I see my calling here: raise a man that I would want my daughters to marry. This finished product, above all, should be a nice guy.
I duck my head as the remote control helicopter goes whizzing past me, read stories of love and caring, remind him one more time that we don't hit people, hug him deeply. I watch, satisfied, as Spiderman flies in to visit the Batcave, and, upon leaving, gives Batman a kiss good-bye. Yes, I think he'll be alright...
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Do you?
Okay, I know I'm a wuss when it comes to the weather. I whimper when the temperature dips below 60 and start scrambling for my slippers. I live in one of the most temperate states on the continent, and yet...I'm cold! There are parts of me--that chef inside, the fashionista--who look forward to cold weather. Yes, I whine, but at the same time I'm slipping on a mohair sweater and pulling out one of my favorite "appliances:" the fondue pot.
My first fondue pot came from my mother. I don't remember ever having fondue growing up, so this pot--a seventies orange-- came still in the box, plates, skewers, and all! So funky!
Fondue is a great meal, so convivial! Everyone sits close, elbows touching. We all reach in, drawing that circle closer. Like a tabletop campfire, a fondue dinner creates a glow around the table, some primal urge to congregate around that heat source. I love this about fondue.
Fondue is so easy! Pull out this "appliance" when you don't want to cook! Fondue, a French adjective, states: Melted. What you need to make a meal with this simple pot is minimal: bread will do. It helps to have Great bread. If not, great cheese will probably make up for it. Add a few other dipping pieces to this meal: a protein if you're inclined. We use sausage that coincides with our cheese, almost always potatoes, boiled or roasted, and usually one more thing....The only thing to remember with a fondue is that the ingredients are few and so must be high quality.
My basic fondue is great: so simple! Swiss cheese, white wine, a little cornstarch (cooking secret, right there!) I slice a batard or miche into bite-size cubes. I boil or roast baby reds, little yukon golds, fingerlings. I slice some sausage diagonally while my kitchen warms. I sip some wine (quality control!) and try to look busy, stirring my cheese occassionally, flipping through that magazine...
Fondue can carry an entire meal. Yes, you can start or finish with a nice little salad, perhaps some grapes, but a fondue all by itself gets stretched out, full of conversation while your family, your friends (just the two of you?!) slowly empty platters of sausage, bread, okay...carbs.
There are as many variations to fondue as there are melty cheeses: swiss, cheddar, monterey, gruyere. Add some spicy Pepper Jack and turn your fondue south towards that border. Slice up that chorizo, char those chilis. Suddenly, your fondue deserves a beer! Turn toward northern France and add a little apple cider, apple vinegar, Calvados. Green apples and gruyere with this combination: mmmm. Combine cheddar with gouda. Stir in some stout! Meld garlic with your cheese combinations. Throw in some goat cheese, a little Brie, some roasted tomatoes. Skewer some roasted mushrooms, a few tortellini, cubes of roasted pumpkin, chunks of blanched broccoli and cauliflower. Add some cubes of ham, small bites of ciabatta, hunks of olive bread. Suddenly, the possiblities excite!
And no, I haven't forgotten that fondue appears just as often as dessert. Chocolate. Warm. Melted. The possibilities for what might go with that...well, really?! Pound cake. Angel food cake. Croissants. Strawberries. Apples. Pears. Bananas. Marshmallows! Rice crispy treats! Donut holes, biscotti, macarons. Then again, there's always a caramel fondue.
The problem with fondue isn't what to make. It's what to choose! So many choices, so few cold months in the year!
My first fondue pot came from my mother. I don't remember ever having fondue growing up, so this pot--a seventies orange-- came still in the box, plates, skewers, and all! So funky!
Fondue is a great meal, so convivial! Everyone sits close, elbows touching. We all reach in, drawing that circle closer. Like a tabletop campfire, a fondue dinner creates a glow around the table, some primal urge to congregate around that heat source. I love this about fondue.
Fondue is so easy! Pull out this "appliance" when you don't want to cook! Fondue, a French adjective, states: Melted. What you need to make a meal with this simple pot is minimal: bread will do. It helps to have Great bread. If not, great cheese will probably make up for it. Add a few other dipping pieces to this meal: a protein if you're inclined. We use sausage that coincides with our cheese, almost always potatoes, boiled or roasted, and usually one more thing....The only thing to remember with a fondue is that the ingredients are few and so must be high quality.
My basic fondue is great: so simple! Swiss cheese, white wine, a little cornstarch (cooking secret, right there!) I slice a batard or miche into bite-size cubes. I boil or roast baby reds, little yukon golds, fingerlings. I slice some sausage diagonally while my kitchen warms. I sip some wine (quality control!) and try to look busy, stirring my cheese occassionally, flipping through that magazine...
Fondue can carry an entire meal. Yes, you can start or finish with a nice little salad, perhaps some grapes, but a fondue all by itself gets stretched out, full of conversation while your family, your friends (just the two of you?!) slowly empty platters of sausage, bread, okay...carbs.
There are as many variations to fondue as there are melty cheeses: swiss, cheddar, monterey, gruyere. Add some spicy Pepper Jack and turn your fondue south towards that border. Slice up that chorizo, char those chilis. Suddenly, your fondue deserves a beer! Turn toward northern France and add a little apple cider, apple vinegar, Calvados. Green apples and gruyere with this combination: mmmm. Combine cheddar with gouda. Stir in some stout! Meld garlic with your cheese combinations. Throw in some goat cheese, a little Brie, some roasted tomatoes. Skewer some roasted mushrooms, a few tortellini, cubes of roasted pumpkin, chunks of blanched broccoli and cauliflower. Add some cubes of ham, small bites of ciabatta, hunks of olive bread. Suddenly, the possiblities excite!
And no, I haven't forgotten that fondue appears just as often as dessert. Chocolate. Warm. Melted. The possibilities for what might go with that...well, really?! Pound cake. Angel food cake. Croissants. Strawberries. Apples. Pears. Bananas. Marshmallows! Rice crispy treats! Donut holes, biscotti, macarons. Then again, there's always a caramel fondue.
The problem with fondue isn't what to make. It's what to choose! So many choices, so few cold months in the year!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year! After sleeping in--a good start to the new year!--I am washing champagne glasses and looking backwards at this past year. 2011 was a whirlwind year for me and my family. We stood up to a series of drastic changes in our life, buffeted by changing finances, new work for both of us, loss of friends, and the joyous gain of new ones. I lost friends to cancer, began to believe in my own eminent demise, and found myself reading my Kindle a little farther away from my nose. I colored my hair! At the same time, I secretly started writing a little blog: this housewife needed a little intellectual time in her week! Imagine that!
I'm still a housewife, but I work. With three children, a dog, a husband whose "I work at home" means he works whenever he is at home, I find myself inundated with piles of laundry, "what should we have for dinner?", and homework--mine and theirs! I spent a good part of last year purging my house, reorganizing my piles, and trying to sleep in a bed with no children in it. (Still working on that one...)
As I put away a menagerie of wine glasses, I say good-bye to this tumultous year that gave me so many reasons to rise to the occasion. I am still adapting to unexpected bumps in the road, and finding the silver lining even in my biggest mistakes. 2011 challenged me--over and over!-- to grow rather than wither. After all that character-building, I am blooming at 44.
I see this coming year and find myself grasping the hands of my loved ones, hugging them close to my heart, and breathing in that unconditional love that I give and get right back. I wish this for everyone in the coming year: that the people in your life empower you, that you do the same for others and yourself. That we shelter one another, share our best, and have the will to do something about our worst.
I look with anticipation and optimism at this coming year--oh! it's here! It's now!
I'm still a housewife, but I work. With three children, a dog, a husband whose "I work at home" means he works whenever he is at home, I find myself inundated with piles of laundry, "what should we have for dinner?", and homework--mine and theirs! I spent a good part of last year purging my house, reorganizing my piles, and trying to sleep in a bed with no children in it. (Still working on that one...)
As I put away a menagerie of wine glasses, I say good-bye to this tumultous year that gave me so many reasons to rise to the occasion. I am still adapting to unexpected bumps in the road, and finding the silver lining even in my biggest mistakes. 2011 challenged me--over and over!-- to grow rather than wither. After all that character-building, I am blooming at 44.
I see this coming year and find myself grasping the hands of my loved ones, hugging them close to my heart, and breathing in that unconditional love that I give and get right back. I wish this for everyone in the coming year: that the people in your life empower you, that you do the same for others and yourself. That we shelter one another, share our best, and have the will to do something about our worst.
I look with anticipation and optimism at this coming year--oh! it's here! It's now!
Friday, December 23, 2011
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....
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....
Sunday, December 18, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
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!
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!
Sunday, December 4, 2011
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!
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!
Sunday, November 27, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
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!
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!
Sunday, November 13, 2011
"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!
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!
Sunday, November 6, 2011
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!
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!
Sunday, October 30, 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, October 22, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
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!
.
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!
.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
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!
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!
Sunday, October 2, 2011
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....
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....
Sunday, September 25, 2011
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.
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.
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