I spent last weekend traipsing around the largest Comic Conventon in the U.S. I held hands with my teenager as she pulled me through Star Wars, Star Trek, Superman, Batman, Yugiyo...She would pause and point: "There's another Doctor Who!" "Look! It's Snape!" "Check out the Assassin's Creed characters. Where's my camera?" I would stumble and stammer: "Who's that?" "What's that?" "It's Harry! Harry Potter!"
Besides the loveliness of my 15-year old holding hands unabashedly with her mom, I totally immersed myself, with thousands of others, in the joy of geekdom. Yes, there were scantily-clad Supergirls and silly Anime hotties with funky hair, but the menagerie of characters offered up on the convention floor provided a glimpse into the diversity of our individual passions. Why does this person, seemingly mundane on any other occasion, choose to don a Batman outfit while another is dressed in some dystopian steampunk attire? (goggles a must!) A suburban family of four parts the crowd with their monochromatic Incredibles suits. That fat girl has transformed into Mario's sweet princess. The accountant slips into The Joker, purple hair and all. They all look awesome.
Some people don't get it. I say, "What's wrong with you? Where did your sense of whimsy go and why aren't you out trying to find it?" Everyone should have an inner geek, somewhere in there. We should all find the occasion to let it loose, sometimes, at least. Geeks have no shame. They don't apologize for their passion. They just are. They grab it and don't let go, whatever their IT is.
I feel fortunate that my teenager is a Geek. She may never be Prom Queen. Her room is not full of sports trophies. She's not even going to be Valedictorian. I think she's got something else...a secret weapon that will take her anywhere she wants to go: Passion.
It's the Year of the Geek in my household. Find what fascinates and hold on tight. Want to be a Scuba Diver? Okay! Let's swim, learn about dolphins and sharks, wear that mask and snorkel literally EVERYWHERE! Check out the ocean. Play with the kelp. Live that dream!
Are you a dancer? Okay! Sashay across the kitchen floor. Float to that ballad. Shake your booty to Gaga. Find that Prima Donna in your soul (oh, that's been there for a long time already...), grab her by the waist and spin with Glee. Learn to make your own music. Sing your own song!
I'm thankful for the Geeks in my life. The Geeks in my community. The Geeks in the world. What a bore we all would be without them to remind us that whimsy and magic are still going strong, that if you wear it like you own it, then you really do own it. A true geek believes it. You can too. Just grab their hand---or those cool coattails--and get taken along for the ride. Wheeeeeeee!
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Forgotten Vegetables
Vegetables, according to the USFDA pyramid, circle, steps, whatever!, are supposed to be our largest intake on any given day. We should be eating vegetables more than anything else. And yet we tend to consume less than 5% of our calories from vegetables on a daily basis. What?!
Most of us make do with potatoes. We may throw in broccoli, peas, those "baby" carrots, corn (not a vegetable, by the way!). Green beans. Still, five percent! And almost two thirds of that is potatoes. That's a lot of spuds!
I'm here to advocate for the forgotten legumes. Those that sit on the sidelines, subject to your weekly disdain, ignorance, even your fear! They hear you! "Yuck!" you say before you've even tried it! "What is THAT?" you ask nobody. But you could ask your green grocer. Find the older guy working in produce and I promise he will know its name and how to cook it. He's been waiting for you!
Take the time to pick up a squash. Take it home, cut it half and stick it in the oven with some butter inside that hollowed out cavity. Add some brown sugar. Mmmm. Hold that eggplant and see how beautifully that purple skin shines! A purple vegetable! I can count them on one hand: radicchio, cabbage, endive, beets, eggplant.
Stop your cart and grab those radishes, then spread it with the best butter you can buy. Spoon your crab salad atop a spear of endive. Saute those leeks and add them to your quiche, your soup, your diced potatoes, your eggs. Swiss chard completes polenta like nothing else can. Surprise your kids and make it rainbow chard. Add it to your lentil soup. Throw in some sausage and a sprinkling of parmesan and there you are in Tuscany. Wilt it with that crumbled bacon you just cooked and scoop it onto a garlicky crouton. Yum!
Pick through those brussels sprouts: baby cabbages that bring out the best in meats. Shave these, julienne them, halve them. Add butter. Maybe some lemon zest. Orange zest! Parmesan! Boiled, roasted, steamed, this bitter veggie loves to complement chicken, bacon, beef. Add apples. Be bolder and add quince! (a neglected fruit!)
Don't judge a vegetable by its looks. You'd be missing out on some of the ugliest secrets: celery root, parsnips, salsify, jicama. Celery root really is the root from which celery grows. A hidden bonus! But nothing like celery. This root is a hideous, wrinkly brown with knobs all over it. Cut it all off and you have a root vegetable that can be eaten raw or cooked. Add some to your next slaw. Matchstick this one all by itself with some mayo and a sprinkling of salt and parsley and you've got a refeshing picnic salad. Add one to your mashed potatoes and you've got mashed potatoes that people will talk about. When was the last time that happened to you? Your root vegetable gratin will thank you. (Yes, those parsnips and turnips go in there too!) Your roasted vegetables will welcome this stranger like a prodigal son. Convene these underground treasures and you might even feel like you can skip the pot roast.
Some of the best veggies are alien: jicama, that Mexican pear, has a crunchy pale flesh hiding behind boring brown skin. Nopales: add them to your next taco, stuff them with your pulled pork, throw them into a hollowed out tomato. Tell your family you're having cactus for dinner and just smile as their mouths drop open.
Variety, they say, is the spice of life. This must especially ring true at the table. Cultures who enjoy diversity in their diets tend to be healthier. Look around you. That Meat and Potatoes diet doesn't seem to be working too well for us.
Throw caution to the wind! Grab that stranger and take it home. Conquer that "I don't know what to do with it." Start a conversation in the produce section. You may make a friend, vegetable or human...does it matter? And when in doubt, do what the French do: add more butter!
Most of us make do with potatoes. We may throw in broccoli, peas, those "baby" carrots, corn (not a vegetable, by the way!). Green beans. Still, five percent! And almost two thirds of that is potatoes. That's a lot of spuds!
I'm here to advocate for the forgotten legumes. Those that sit on the sidelines, subject to your weekly disdain, ignorance, even your fear! They hear you! "Yuck!" you say before you've even tried it! "What is THAT?" you ask nobody. But you could ask your green grocer. Find the older guy working in produce and I promise he will know its name and how to cook it. He's been waiting for you!
Take the time to pick up a squash. Take it home, cut it half and stick it in the oven with some butter inside that hollowed out cavity. Add some brown sugar. Mmmm. Hold that eggplant and see how beautifully that purple skin shines! A purple vegetable! I can count them on one hand: radicchio, cabbage, endive, beets, eggplant.
Stop your cart and grab those radishes, then spread it with the best butter you can buy. Spoon your crab salad atop a spear of endive. Saute those leeks and add them to your quiche, your soup, your diced potatoes, your eggs. Swiss chard completes polenta like nothing else can. Surprise your kids and make it rainbow chard. Add it to your lentil soup. Throw in some sausage and a sprinkling of parmesan and there you are in Tuscany. Wilt it with that crumbled bacon you just cooked and scoop it onto a garlicky crouton. Yum!
Pick through those brussels sprouts: baby cabbages that bring out the best in meats. Shave these, julienne them, halve them. Add butter. Maybe some lemon zest. Orange zest! Parmesan! Boiled, roasted, steamed, this bitter veggie loves to complement chicken, bacon, beef. Add apples. Be bolder and add quince! (a neglected fruit!)
Don't judge a vegetable by its looks. You'd be missing out on some of the ugliest secrets: celery root, parsnips, salsify, jicama. Celery root really is the root from which celery grows. A hidden bonus! But nothing like celery. This root is a hideous, wrinkly brown with knobs all over it. Cut it all off and you have a root vegetable that can be eaten raw or cooked. Add some to your next slaw. Matchstick this one all by itself with some mayo and a sprinkling of salt and parsley and you've got a refeshing picnic salad. Add one to your mashed potatoes and you've got mashed potatoes that people will talk about. When was the last time that happened to you? Your root vegetable gratin will thank you. (Yes, those parsnips and turnips go in there too!) Your roasted vegetables will welcome this stranger like a prodigal son. Convene these underground treasures and you might even feel like you can skip the pot roast.
Some of the best veggies are alien: jicama, that Mexican pear, has a crunchy pale flesh hiding behind boring brown skin. Nopales: add them to your next taco, stuff them with your pulled pork, throw them into a hollowed out tomato. Tell your family you're having cactus for dinner and just smile as their mouths drop open.
Variety, they say, is the spice of life. This must especially ring true at the table. Cultures who enjoy diversity in their diets tend to be healthier. Look around you. That Meat and Potatoes diet doesn't seem to be working too well for us.
Throw caution to the wind! Grab that stranger and take it home. Conquer that "I don't know what to do with it." Start a conversation in the produce section. You may make a friend, vegetable or human...does it matter? And when in doubt, do what the French do: add more butter!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Breakfast of Champions
A break from your fast. Your body has just spent 8+ hours without input and needs a jumpstart. Coffee gets you out of the house, but it doesn't take you through lunch.
I love breakfast. With three kids at three different schools, breakfast is just part of the coordination that so easily tips into chaos during the week. One appears in Spiderman underwear, the oldest has her blanket wrapped around her, and Little Miss Sunshine has her "I'm a Morning Person!" smile on. I glare and wait for my coffee. Here we all are, around the table and it really is a miracle. Once a day for dinner already feels like an accomplishment, but twice!? A miracle and a joy!
Sometimes breakfast is silent. My teenager slurps her cereal, steals bacon from her helpless sister, rolls her eyes and reads the cereal box. Some mornings breakfast is a cacophony: the Only Son is whining, the Teenager is whining, and Miss Good Morning is singing her own little morning song, oblivious and immune.
And then my teapot is singing, and then so are we: "I'm a little teapot, short and stout!" I cradle my coffee cup while this one gets dressed, help that one with her backpack, hand money over to the teenager (don't ask me why, just do it!) I sign permission slips and slide scrambled eggs on this one's plate, spread peanut butter on toast while my eyes pass over backwards sixes and sound out the words.
Our breakfasts do not resemble our dinners. We are wound up and at the starting gate. We look forward, each to his or her own adventure. We start our day with this song.
I love breakfast. Even better? Breakfast on Sunday. It's nonchalant, mellow, sleepy. It happens after two cups of coffee. It happens after 9:00. It inevitably happens in pajamas, and sometimes we're outside. We set the table. We set out carafes of juice, knives, forks. We read the paper, chuckle at comics, feed the dog the last bite, languish the morning away to Frank Sinatra, Prairie Home Companion, Hall and Oates.
We have time for pancakes. French toast. If I've been a Smart Mom (not always...!) I've made strata and do nothing but slide it in and out of the oven. Or bread pudding. Coffee cake. These are mimosa days.
Sometimes Miss Sunshine is up at 6. How did this Night Owl end up with this Abomination in my house? But she's smiling and singing and caressing my drooly cheek, and so we are up. This bright-eyed girl sifts flour, whisks eggs, measures and spills, giggling quietly. No cynical teenagers up at six! No whiny little brother! We are conspiring girlies, whispering as we break eggs and create the beginning of Something Good.
I love breakfast. With three kids at three different schools, breakfast is just part of the coordination that so easily tips into chaos during the week. One appears in Spiderman underwear, the oldest has her blanket wrapped around her, and Little Miss Sunshine has her "I'm a Morning Person!" smile on. I glare and wait for my coffee. Here we all are, around the table and it really is a miracle. Once a day for dinner already feels like an accomplishment, but twice!? A miracle and a joy!
Sometimes breakfast is silent. My teenager slurps her cereal, steals bacon from her helpless sister, rolls her eyes and reads the cereal box. Some mornings breakfast is a cacophony: the Only Son is whining, the Teenager is whining, and Miss Good Morning is singing her own little morning song, oblivious and immune.
And then my teapot is singing, and then so are we: "I'm a little teapot, short and stout!" I cradle my coffee cup while this one gets dressed, help that one with her backpack, hand money over to the teenager (don't ask me why, just do it!) I sign permission slips and slide scrambled eggs on this one's plate, spread peanut butter on toast while my eyes pass over backwards sixes and sound out the words.
Our breakfasts do not resemble our dinners. We are wound up and at the starting gate. We look forward, each to his or her own adventure. We start our day with this song.
I love breakfast. Even better? Breakfast on Sunday. It's nonchalant, mellow, sleepy. It happens after two cups of coffee. It happens after 9:00. It inevitably happens in pajamas, and sometimes we're outside. We set the table. We set out carafes of juice, knives, forks. We read the paper, chuckle at comics, feed the dog the last bite, languish the morning away to Frank Sinatra, Prairie Home Companion, Hall and Oates.
We have time for pancakes. French toast. If I've been a Smart Mom (not always...!) I've made strata and do nothing but slide it in and out of the oven. Or bread pudding. Coffee cake. These are mimosa days.
Sometimes Miss Sunshine is up at 6. How did this Night Owl end up with this Abomination in my house? But she's smiling and singing and caressing my drooly cheek, and so we are up. This bright-eyed girl sifts flour, whisks eggs, measures and spills, giggling quietly. No cynical teenagers up at six! No whiny little brother! We are conspiring girlies, whispering as we break eggs and create the beginning of Something Good.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Tremendous Dynamite
"She is a formidable opponent.
She could put up a hard-won fight.
Got her head screwed on real tight.
Being the bomb's her birthright.
She's tremendous. She's dynamite."
--the Eels
I am a Runner. I run slowly. Sometimes I'm too busy--no, that's not it--my children are too busy, and I have to miss my run. I have gone years without running because of babies, work, self-neglect, but I am a Runner nonetheless.
My three mile walk to drain that last ten pounds of baby fat slowly sped up to a 7 to 9 mile run three times a week (if I'm lucky!) I ran my first half marathon this spring. I bought a tank top with a dorky runner's quotation. Yep, a Runner I am.
I stretch, finding my playlist as traffic behind me starts and stops. And then I'm off. One foot in front of the other as my body heats up and my shoulders relax, serenaded by Ritchie Havens, Iggy Pop, Blondie. One foot in front of the other as my breathing falls into its own song, the sun sets behind me stretching out my shadow into the lean, mean running machine I know is hiding inside me. I feel the raw power of this silhouette, the promise of amazonian strength, earth-mother endurance. My silent avatar reflects what no mirror can: I am tremendous dynamite!
Around mile 4, my legs take up the rhythm of my run and my mind floats away, cleaning house. I see my day, my week, my work, my life more clearly. I am zen. I arrive home sweaty. It's not a feminine glow. It's beyond perspiration. It is a symbol of my accomplishment.
I have found my way. My bliss. Even my children recognize it. When I am "up to here", my teenager will hand me my running shoes. When I am meloncholy, a good run chases that dark cloud away. When I am pensive, it becomes my meditation: breathe, breathe, breathe. There I go....
In the end, my run works for me on many levels: it keeps me healthy. My heart is strong, my muscles leaner, my cholesterol lower. (My metabolism too! I can eat more!) But that was never my goal. It's good for my head. I get an hour vacation from everything. A restart button. My stress gets pounded out with every step. But the greatest benefit: empowerment. I feel good. I feel great about what I can do. Ask any man: there's nothing more beautiful than a woman who believes in herself: confidence, assurance, bliss.
One cannot get this bliss from shopping. Surfing the internet will not take you there. Work may leave you wanting. Your honey bunny doesn't do it for you. He can help you, though. Take the time to do this for yourself, and you will be a happier person. Less grumpy. More energetic. (better sex life!) Imagine a new you.
Imagine doing something that gives you more than it takes from you. Something that makes you feel like the bomb. All that power wrapped up in little you! Your honey will be awed. Your children will be proud. You will be amazing!
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The Problem with Cupcakes
There has been, rather recently in the scheme of things, a cupcake fad in this country. Little shops devoted only to cupcakes are popping up everywhere, even in my large "Mexican-food-is-king" city. I peruse the cooking section of my bookstore and see at least ten--ten!-- books devoted solely to this confection. Ten! Really?!
A cupcake. A few bites of fluffy, light-as-air cake with half a pastry bag of frosting swirled atop. Is it the cake part we covet, or the sugar and butter concoction that floats over it? Painstakingly piped buttercream, tinged to match that kitschy wrapper, sprinkles, whimsical confections, delicate chocolate curls, matching candies, painted ganache tie this thematic baby cake to the message of the day. They have become an artform, too beautiful to eat! Cupcakes are that pretty girl who doesn't have an opinion: she looks great, but if you are looking for a conversation, she leaves you wanting.
A muffin doesn't worry much about frosting. A muffin is all about taste and fulfillment. Muffins don't slip on a funky paper wrapping. They wear their white or shiny silver liner like a perfectly worn pair of jeans. A muffin is just as good if not better plain. Don't pile on the frosting. Skip the sparkling sugars, the gum paste and marzipan "play-doughed" into a ladybug! If you must, a dusting of powdered sugar will do. A muffin is about the muffin. Doll it up and you're going to miss the best part: muffins taste good! Even a bran muffin--a good one--tastes like you could have another. You can actually eat one for breakfast and survive your morning. Muffins have that midwestern work ethic: you simply don't exist to be idle.
I'm tired of the parade of form over function. Close that Martha Stewart Living and have some uncoodinated fun. Get dirty. Get lost. Live a little and wear mismatched socks. Talk to the next stranger who smiles at you. Buy a painting because it speaks to you instead of matching your decor. Close that cupcake shop and open a place where substance wins over style.
A cupcake. A few bites of fluffy, light-as-air cake with half a pastry bag of frosting swirled atop. Is it the cake part we covet, or the sugar and butter concoction that floats over it? Painstakingly piped buttercream, tinged to match that kitschy wrapper, sprinkles, whimsical confections, delicate chocolate curls, matching candies, painted ganache tie this thematic baby cake to the message of the day. They have become an artform, too beautiful to eat! Cupcakes are that pretty girl who doesn't have an opinion: she looks great, but if you are looking for a conversation, she leaves you wanting.
A muffin doesn't worry much about frosting. A muffin is all about taste and fulfillment. Muffins don't slip on a funky paper wrapping. They wear their white or shiny silver liner like a perfectly worn pair of jeans. A muffin is just as good if not better plain. Don't pile on the frosting. Skip the sparkling sugars, the gum paste and marzipan "play-doughed" into a ladybug! If you must, a dusting of powdered sugar will do. A muffin is about the muffin. Doll it up and you're going to miss the best part: muffins taste good! Even a bran muffin--a good one--tastes like you could have another. You can actually eat one for breakfast and survive your morning. Muffins have that midwestern work ethic: you simply don't exist to be idle.
I'm tired of the parade of form over function. Close that Martha Stewart Living and have some uncoodinated fun. Get dirty. Get lost. Live a little and wear mismatched socks. Talk to the next stranger who smiles at you. Buy a painting because it speaks to you instead of matching your decor. Close that cupcake shop and open a place where substance wins over style.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
It's What's on the Inside That Counts
We, as a society, are accustomed to eating flesh. It goes without saying that this Western society eats animals. Culturally, pigs, cows, fowl, fish are all game. And yet, for the most part, we neglect the inside: the Offal. Kidneys, livers, heart, thyroid gland,........brain!
I know. Brain is no longer really an option. Not since Mad Cow. But I remember sitting in my cousin's kitchen as his wife prepared brain for his birthday. "It's his favorite!" she smiled at me. It smelled delicious. I went to play with the children.
Liver and onions was one of the first meals I learned to prepare by myself. It helped me through college. (Liver and onions is cheaper than McDonalds!) The blood bank marvelled at my iron count and asked me for more. (I obliged) Later I added balsamic and toasted pecans. Even Yummier!
Chicken livers are even better. Breaded and fried, I pop these in my mouth like candy. I roll them atop my salads, puree them into a pate, and, seriously, place some on a little plate with a cool white wine: tapas perfection!
And that thyroid gland. These are in my top 5. The thyroid gland of a sheep or veal is called sweetbreads (I know...What?!) My chef first introduced us in cooking school. He brought me a bowl full of sweetbreads soaking in milk, showed me how to carefully peel off the outer membrane, and then we coated them in flour and lightly sauteed them. Lightly browned, crunchy on the outside, creamy warm on the inside. I think I swooned! My chef beamed like I had passed some secret test.
I have dreamed about boudin since I first had it in the French countryside: black sausage with sauteed apples flambeed with Calvados and cream. Black boudin literally melts in your mouth. Sometimes it has tiny specks of Granny Smith apple in the sausage. You can find it with onion, too. My tablemates, including my French man, were smirking terribly as I asked for thirds, and then passed the blood sausage down the table. It took me a few minutes: Blood sausage? Really? My stomach started to lurch, but my brain and heart told me to get over it, and I managed that third helping quite fine.
Put a plate of andouillette sausage in front of me with a little pot of mustard and I'll enjoy it thoroughly: white sausage stuffed with chopped onions and intestine. Take me to a South American BBQ restaurant and show off those chicken hearts! Paper-thin tripe sauteed in brown butter and parsley...mmmm.
I realize that some people can't do it. They are Meat-Eaters, not Everything-Eaters. I get the whole texture issue, the smell, the idea in your head that keeps you from enjoying it even if it does taste good. I won't argue with you. I'll tell you this, though: putting offal on the menu is the sign of a knowing chef. Look for sweetbreads and you can have confidence in anything coming out of that kitchen. Not every chef can pull off tripe, and it takes belief in your clientele to put liver on your menu.
A suggestion? Pour yourself a red wine and put some little cornichons on a plate with some liver pate and toasted baguette slices. Close your eyes, breath a little, and there you are: Sitting in a little cafe next to the Farmer's Market, your basket of fruits and vegetables at your feet. You're taking a French break, thinking about dinner, but it's far away, and you've got your afternoon ahead of you. Everything is still possible.
I know. Brain is no longer really an option. Not since Mad Cow. But I remember sitting in my cousin's kitchen as his wife prepared brain for his birthday. "It's his favorite!" she smiled at me. It smelled delicious. I went to play with the children.
Liver and onions was one of the first meals I learned to prepare by myself. It helped me through college. (Liver and onions is cheaper than McDonalds!) The blood bank marvelled at my iron count and asked me for more. (I obliged) Later I added balsamic and toasted pecans. Even Yummier!
Chicken livers are even better. Breaded and fried, I pop these in my mouth like candy. I roll them atop my salads, puree them into a pate, and, seriously, place some on a little plate with a cool white wine: tapas perfection!
And that thyroid gland. These are in my top 5. The thyroid gland of a sheep or veal is called sweetbreads (I know...What?!) My chef first introduced us in cooking school. He brought me a bowl full of sweetbreads soaking in milk, showed me how to carefully peel off the outer membrane, and then we coated them in flour and lightly sauteed them. Lightly browned, crunchy on the outside, creamy warm on the inside. I think I swooned! My chef beamed like I had passed some secret test.
I have dreamed about boudin since I first had it in the French countryside: black sausage with sauteed apples flambeed with Calvados and cream. Black boudin literally melts in your mouth. Sometimes it has tiny specks of Granny Smith apple in the sausage. You can find it with onion, too. My tablemates, including my French man, were smirking terribly as I asked for thirds, and then passed the blood sausage down the table. It took me a few minutes: Blood sausage? Really? My stomach started to lurch, but my brain and heart told me to get over it, and I managed that third helping quite fine.
Put a plate of andouillette sausage in front of me with a little pot of mustard and I'll enjoy it thoroughly: white sausage stuffed with chopped onions and intestine. Take me to a South American BBQ restaurant and show off those chicken hearts! Paper-thin tripe sauteed in brown butter and parsley...mmmm.
I realize that some people can't do it. They are Meat-Eaters, not Everything-Eaters. I get the whole texture issue, the smell, the idea in your head that keeps you from enjoying it even if it does taste good. I won't argue with you. I'll tell you this, though: putting offal on the menu is the sign of a knowing chef. Look for sweetbreads and you can have confidence in anything coming out of that kitchen. Not every chef can pull off tripe, and it takes belief in your clientele to put liver on your menu.
A suggestion? Pour yourself a red wine and put some little cornichons on a plate with some liver pate and toasted baguette slices. Close your eyes, breath a little, and there you are: Sitting in a little cafe next to the Farmer's Market, your basket of fruits and vegetables at your feet. You're taking a French break, thinking about dinner, but it's far away, and you've got your afternoon ahead of you. Everything is still possible.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Sack of Potatoes
My father-in-law is one of my favorite long-term visitors. He arrives with presents, eats whatever I place in front of him, walks my dog and plays with my kids. In exchange, I get his good company: great stories of the depression, forgotten French songs hummed in the car while we run errands and chauffeur children. Half of my French vocabulary came through this man. He spouts colliquialisms and proverbs at me. He has one for every occassion.
One of my favorites: "A sack of potatoes is much nicer to look at as a gratin." I have a sneaking suspicion he was talking about me, sitting next to him in my ratty jeans and favorite flannel shirt. I smiled. I am a Potato! Who knew? Do French woman grow up knowing, deep down, that they are a sack of potatoes, full of potential? Was that a compliment, somehow? After all, we've all sung the Meat and Potatoes song nightly. Woman is clearly essential....
Potatoes appear to be our favorite vegetable. Seventy-five percent of the vegetables Americans consume are potatoes. Most of those consumed potatoes appear on our plates dressed as French fries. (Am I, then, as an American, a French fry?! The irony!)
Potatoes. Pomme de Terre: Apples of the Earth. A staple, a starch, a tuber. They are steadfast, those spuds. They keep forever, sitting patiently in the dark, growing eyes. The potato is a member of the nightshade family, forever associated with danger. How like a woman!
Potatoes can be the simplest thing on the table: toss some baby potatoes with olive oil and sea salt (kosher works, table salt doesn't...), throw them in your cast iron pot and slide those in your oven. Forty-five minutes later, put your drink down and you have perfectly roasted potatoes with a crunchy exterior and fluffy flesh. Grate some stinky cheese, chop some salami, and put your ski sweater on. Add some chopped garlic and parsly and roll them right next to your medium-rare steak. Classic.
There are over 20 different kinds of potatoes. We know russets, yukon gold, Finn, fingerling, sweet potatoes and yams, red and blue, baby whites. Mash any of these. Smash those little ones! Add celery root to your russets and you've made the best mashed potatoes ever. (I promise!) Fold in olive oil and egg yolk to your yukon golds and your mashed potatoes become golden. Stir in sour cream and parsley and pipe them back into their brown skins. Sprinkle some bacon on top --you know it belongs there!-- and you've got sophisticated potato skins. A mashed potato works with beef in any form, turkey, chicken, pork. It's your little black dress: a sure thing.
Pull out your mandolin, or your sharpest knife, and slice those Yukon Golds really thin. Layer them in your casserole dish. Add heated milk and cream, salt, garlic. Let this meld an hour, an hour and a half in your oven, and you have a meal all by itself: gratin. Add some great grated cheese and you have gratin dauphinoise. Use chicken broth instead of dairy and you have gratin boulangere. These gratins make a mediocre meatloaf brilliant, overshadow your chop, inspire you to light candles and turn down the lights. This is the potato with cleavage. Yes, you can buy "potatoes au gratin" in a box: dehydrated potato slices, a packet of something mixed with your own milk. Not the same. Don't do it.
Dice those russets. Brown them in some oil and butter and add peppers. Cook that egg on top and you've got hangover breakfast. (Party girl...!) Add sweet potato squares to your russets. Maybe some cubed apples. Peter Brady was right. "Pork chops and apple sauce!" Make a quirkier marriage --menage a trois?!--with potatoes, apples, and quince. (Find it. Cook it. It's lovely.)
Am I a sack of potatoes? Do I resent that little observation from my father-in-law? I am grateful for this new friend I have through my French man. I giggle and think of me on the couch with my fuzzy slippers and sweats. I am a baked potato. Simple. Filling. Comfort. That's woman. I smile and slip on my short little sweater dress with my over-the-knee boots. I am "Potatoes Anna": a crown of paper thin potatoes browned in butter. Sexy. Elegant. That's woman. So many facets. So many looks. All of them work for me. Even fries!
One of my favorites: "A sack of potatoes is much nicer to look at as a gratin." I have a sneaking suspicion he was talking about me, sitting next to him in my ratty jeans and favorite flannel shirt. I smiled. I am a Potato! Who knew? Do French woman grow up knowing, deep down, that they are a sack of potatoes, full of potential? Was that a compliment, somehow? After all, we've all sung the Meat and Potatoes song nightly. Woman is clearly essential....
Potatoes appear to be our favorite vegetable. Seventy-five percent of the vegetables Americans consume are potatoes. Most of those consumed potatoes appear on our plates dressed as French fries. (Am I, then, as an American, a French fry?! The irony!)
Potatoes. Pomme de Terre: Apples of the Earth. A staple, a starch, a tuber. They are steadfast, those spuds. They keep forever, sitting patiently in the dark, growing eyes. The potato is a member of the nightshade family, forever associated with danger. How like a woman!
Potatoes can be the simplest thing on the table: toss some baby potatoes with olive oil and sea salt (kosher works, table salt doesn't...), throw them in your cast iron pot and slide those in your oven. Forty-five minutes later, put your drink down and you have perfectly roasted potatoes with a crunchy exterior and fluffy flesh. Grate some stinky cheese, chop some salami, and put your ski sweater on. Add some chopped garlic and parsly and roll them right next to your medium-rare steak. Classic.
There are over 20 different kinds of potatoes. We know russets, yukon gold, Finn, fingerling, sweet potatoes and yams, red and blue, baby whites. Mash any of these. Smash those little ones! Add celery root to your russets and you've made the best mashed potatoes ever. (I promise!) Fold in olive oil and egg yolk to your yukon golds and your mashed potatoes become golden. Stir in sour cream and parsley and pipe them back into their brown skins. Sprinkle some bacon on top --you know it belongs there!-- and you've got sophisticated potato skins. A mashed potato works with beef in any form, turkey, chicken, pork. It's your little black dress: a sure thing.
Pull out your mandolin, or your sharpest knife, and slice those Yukon Golds really thin. Layer them in your casserole dish. Add heated milk and cream, salt, garlic. Let this meld an hour, an hour and a half in your oven, and you have a meal all by itself: gratin. Add some great grated cheese and you have gratin dauphinoise. Use chicken broth instead of dairy and you have gratin boulangere. These gratins make a mediocre meatloaf brilliant, overshadow your chop, inspire you to light candles and turn down the lights. This is the potato with cleavage. Yes, you can buy "potatoes au gratin" in a box: dehydrated potato slices, a packet of something mixed with your own milk. Not the same. Don't do it.
Dice those russets. Brown them in some oil and butter and add peppers. Cook that egg on top and you've got hangover breakfast. (Party girl...!) Add sweet potato squares to your russets. Maybe some cubed apples. Peter Brady was right. "Pork chops and apple sauce!" Make a quirkier marriage --menage a trois?!--with potatoes, apples, and quince. (Find it. Cook it. It's lovely.)
Am I a sack of potatoes? Do I resent that little observation from my father-in-law? I am grateful for this new friend I have through my French man. I giggle and think of me on the couch with my fuzzy slippers and sweats. I am a baked potato. Simple. Filling. Comfort. That's woman. I smile and slip on my short little sweater dress with my over-the-knee boots. I am "Potatoes Anna": a crown of paper thin potatoes browned in butter. Sexy. Elegant. That's woman. So many facets. So many looks. All of them work for me. Even fries!
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