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!

My stolen family tradition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mignardise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Jewels of Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jolly Old St. Nick

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

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

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

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

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

Waiter! There's Art in my Soup!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turkey Red, Turkey Blue....

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

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

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

Those were the days.

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

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

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

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

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

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