A Blithe PALATE

Trains and Monuments

"You don't write anymore."

It's as much a question as an admonishment.  I know.  Not at all since last December.  Which coincided with Hubby's deployment to Afghanistan.  I'm in denial about it all.  I focus on the positive things going on and avoid thinking about those out of my control.  The blog lies more or less dormant because with one quarter of my little family gone, part of the purpose of cooking is gone.  More than nourishment, food is love and comfort for me.  It's hard to throw myself into cooking when I'm distracted; and it's hard baking when I'm not inspired. And  writing sometimes feels burdensome.

But there are some things that must be celebrated; Hoss' first birthday in December, and Puggle's third birthday this past week were two such events for which manic party planning and all-morning cooking and baking were apropos and welcome.  Having two boys, I'm aware that my time for over-the-top parties is finite; and I fully intend to indulge myself.

Pug's first birthday involved block cakes in the spirit of the alphabet blocks cake from my baby shower; his second birthday was all about rockets; and given his obsession with all things train related, we went the choo choo route.  Hoss, who turned one in December, got a circus theme.

I'm still enamored of cupcakes despite recent sentiment that cupcakes are passé.  Pug loves a  moist and rich and not too sweet cupcake.  (He'll hand back overly sweet desserts more often than not.)  My current favorite recipe is a vanilla bean cupcake; and it was a toss up between buttercream and cream cheese frosting.  Ultimately I wasn't in the mood to make a vat of Italian buttercream so the cream cheese won out.  But as it happens, I had a new baking book I've been reading,  The Craft of Baking by Karen DeMasco, the former pastry chef at Craft and its sister operations, which has a lovely recipe for white chocolate cream cheese frosting.

I have a great recipe for sugar cookies but tried her recipe which yielded fantastically buttery cookies that my parent and Pug devoured.  Not having my icing recipe handy, I used hers - and it was a little more sugary than I would have liked; as a result, I ended up icing only the railroad crossing cookies; I outlined the train cookies but left them un-iced (I'm not keen on a too sugary sugar cookie).

Maybe I should have made the effort to properly decorate the train cookies because my sister pinged me a few days later and the following conversation ensued:

Her:  "What were those cookies that you made?"

Me:  "Sugar cookies."

Her:  "No #$%^.  I meant, what were they supposed to be?"

Me:  "Oh.  Trains."

Her:  "They look like Moab Utah Monuments."

Me:  "What?"

Her:  "Yeah.  Those look nothing like trains. I seriously thought you were trying to make a national park landscape birthday theme party. That said, Monument Valley and Moab are my two faves."

Should I be insulted or complimented that she thought I would take on a theme like national parks for a birthday theme?  I mean, I'm nuts but that's certifiable.  Although the idea of a Mount Rushmore cake is interesting.  Hmm....

You decide.  Trains?  Or Monument Valley?

The Sweetness and the Heartbreak: An Intermezzo

I have other stories to tell about the other two in this series but that's for another day.  Consider this an interlude.

A friend brought me dulce de leche he had made.  Milk and sugar are slowly simmered until the milk evaporates to one sixth of the volume of the milk used.  Two simple two ingredients which together yield something rich, complex, and unique.

Kind of like this equation:  Boy meets Girl.  They fall in love.

What happens afterward, ah...well, I suppose that's the richness, the complexity, the uniqueness.

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I imagine The Boy sitting at the window in his hotel room, arms resting lightly on his stomach, legs stretched out and propped on the ledge of the window sill; the darkness in his room bathed in the light on the other side of the glass.  I see him in this pose and in the darkness because it's probably the most accurate reflection of his mood lately.

He's heartbroken.

The Girl has called things off after two years together.  She's younger than he by several years and she's reached a cusp in her life where she wants to explore her life, beyond the confines of the relationship in which they have placed themselves.  She thinks she's too young to commit fully despite the fact that she, in her own way, loves the Boy as much as she understands that emotion now.

It's funny:  how age means different things in different times.  A hundred years ago, she would have been considered "on the shelf" and too old to be unmarried.

He calls her the love of his life.  The first time he did, I was hard pressed not to smile condescendingly.  At almost twice his age, it's hard to imagine that someone so young can be so certain, so emphatic and so immutable in his belief that this girl completes him.  But in the midst of condescension comes the memory of Christie and Mark, a couple I met years ago -- they had been married only a few years, but they had been together since kindergarten, where they'd met twenty-two years earlier.  Yes.  Kindergarten.  So time and age clearly aren't the defining factors of what makes this one The One and not One Of The Possible Ones...

The Boy tries very hard to be cynical but he's too young to achieve the nonchalance with any credibility.  It's impossible for him to contain his yearning or his hopefulness.

The Girl tries very hard to be kind but she's too young to know that breaking someone's heart is painful stuff no matter how well meaning her intentions.

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Hubby and I were once talking about books and I mentioned that I had never managed to read "Catcher in the Rye."  He said, "It's too late."

Apparently there is a finite period of time in which you can read and relate to the book; and while it is possible to enjoy and appreciate the work as an adult, its power can only be felt when read as an angst-ridden teen on the cusp of adulthood, at once certain and befuddled about what happens next.

There is a kind of love that exists only in a specific period of time:  when it is infinite, expansive and intense.  It is de facto existentialism:  it is whatever it does.  I used to think it could only happen when you were very young, when all things seem possible; but as I get older, I think it exists somewhere between the tender pause of a hopeful beginning and the brutishness of disappointment so deep that no optimism can be carried forward into the next relationship.

Which is to say, beginnings are always so so lovely; and endings are so hard.

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I don't make dulce de leche. I get my friends to make it for me.  I have a tendency to burn my dulces.  And burnt caramel, like burnt love...is, for lack of better word, yucky.

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When last I talked to darling G., she said solemnly: "I'm ready to be happy and in love."

And D.? Oh, his love life keeps me riveted.

There's an Act III.  I've been watching theirs unfold...

 

 

Seasonal Eating Depression

S.E.D.

I suffer from it year round, living here.  Welcome to my Seasonal Eating Depression.  It occurs when I long to be conscientious and eat locally and seasonally.  You know what constitutes seasonal 'availability' here in Georgia in March?

Carrots, greens and strawberries.

That's it.  You know what just SOUTHERN California gets?  

Artichokes, Asparagus, Avocado, Beets, Blood Orange, Broccoli, Cabbage, Carrots , Cauliflower, Celery, Chard , Collards, Dates (Medjool), Grapefruit, Green Onion, Green Peas, Kale, Kohlrabi, Kumquats, Lemons, Lettuce, Mushroom, Mustard, Navel Orange, Passion Fruit, Spinach, Strawberries, Tangelos, Tangerines, Turnips. 

This doesn't consider the northern part of the state.  They get:  Almonds, Apples, Artichokes , Arugula, Asian Greens , Asian Pears, Asparagus, Avocado, Beans, Beets, Bok Choy, Broccoli, Brussels Sprouts, Cabbage, Cardoons, Carrots, Cauliflower, Chard, Cherimoyas, Collards, Cress, Dandelion/Chicory Greens, Dates, Endive, Fennel, Garlic, Gourds, Grapefruit, Green Garlic, Guava, Herbs, Horseradish, Kale , Kiwi, Kumquats, Leeks, Lemons, Lettuces, Limes, Mandarins, Mushrooms, Nettles, Olives, Onions, Oranges, Parsnips, Pistachios, Pumelos, Potatoes, Radish, Rapini , Rutabaga, Scallions, Spinach, Strawberries , Tangerines, Tomatoes, Turnips, Walnuts.  Closer to us, Florida also gets an unfair wealth of produce. 

Wanna cry with me?

Our little town has a farmer's market that runs every weekend from June through October.  We always go to support the local farmers.  Sure, the herbs are lovely to pick up fresh; but the produce they offer is your run of the mill bell peppers, beefsteak tomatoes, some bok choy and chard.  Our local farmers very seldom veer from what is familiar to the denizens; which makes perfect sense.  Why grow produce on expensive land that no one recognizes much less eat?  I don't begrudge them their livelihood in growing and bringing vegetables and fruits that their local customers want.

The grocery store offers a little more variety, but not by much; and with produce prices up almost 30 percent in the last few months, I'm not inclined to continue paying for vegetables and fruits that were grown in Chile and Argentina.  And I'm still stunned that my grocery store, in Georgia, home state of peaches, stocks peaches from other states and other countries.

But with what does that leave me?  Not a lot of choices.  I yearn for heirloom tomatoes.  I crave Seascape strawberries.  I want English peas in the spring to make  mint pea soup.  I'm getting sick of paying $4.99 for a bag of fresh herbs at the grocery store.  I would love a cutting garden for fresh flowers -- tulips are my second favorite flowers and Gerbera daisies make me swoon.

What this means, of course, is that I have to do this myself.

And I am the owner of a garden featuring six large beds with built-in, in-ground sprinklers, all within the confines of a white picket fence, courtesy of the previous homeowner.  I haven't got much in the way of an excuse not to grow my own fruits, vegetables, herbs and flowers.  When we first moved to the house, I planted Roma tomatoes, peppers and herbs.  Subsequent years found me traveling or too lazy to make an effort.  But with my friend Amanda's recent return to Georgia, I found a renewed inspiration, and a partner with whom to tend the garden.

The rosemary bush has taken over its box as have the thyme and sage.  The recent addition of curly and flat leaf parsley completes the Simon and Garfunkel song; and I reintroduced basil.  I also decided to try my hand at germinating seeds - and stunningly, they took -- so chives and Thai basil will enter the herb boxes next.  Our tomatoes from Laurel's Heirloom Tomatoes will be arriving soon:  we have Green Zebra, and Goose Creeks and Laurel herself is selecting some varieties that will flourish in our climate.  Seascape strawberries have been ordered from Raintree Nursery.  We are also planning to add blueberries and corns; it's too late for carrots this season but we'll add heirloom carrots to the garden for next March:  purplish Dragon carrots, yellow Amarillos and the Atomic Reds.  I'm thinking about artichokes, cabbages, melons and oh the list is just endless, isn't it? 

I'm hopeful that by this time next year, my S.E.D. will have been transformed into a nice little O.C.G. (obsessive compulsive gardening).  Wish me luck.

Popovers

Popovers remind me of my cousin Wendy, and of one of the sweetest periods in my life, when I was living and working in San Francisco.

It was a strange time:  at once unsettled and upended, yet bearing inexorably towards a very pragmatic end.  I was commuting between San Francisco and New York with stopovers in the south to see Hubby, who at the time was The Fiancé.  As we were to be married in Napa, being in San Francisco made it easier to make runs into wine country to plan and tweak the wedding. 

I have very fond, very happy memories of being in San Francisco and not a day goes by that I do not miss being there.  The city offered so much and strikes a chord in me that no other city before or since has been able replicate.  If Paris is feckless and spirited and London my soul's home and haven, then San Francisco is indelibly magical, misty and foggy, all romance and sensory overload in one sophisticated package.  I have so many beautiful wonderful memories associated with this city; of exploring it with Hubby; of eating in so many spectacular restaurants; of hanging out with beloved family; of traversing its streets with friends and engaging in earnest conversation.

Most of my time when I lived in the city was spent in Wendy's company.  I was staying at her home in Sunnyside which was high on a hill and had a great view.  One of my favorite escapades involved looking at the long, unmoving line of traffic on I-280 from her balcony and deciding not to go to work until later that afternoon.  We elected instead to settle in on the couch and watch The Haiku Tunnel.  Then too there was the night we went salsa dancing because I decided I wanted to learn how to dance and Thursday night was Salsa night at a local club.  I don't know why I torture myself (or others) with this continued desire to learn how to dance.  I lack timing and I have no rhythm to speak of; a dance instructor was once rendered speechless by my inability to wiggle my hips ("But you're a woman!  It should be natural for your hips to sway!").  But it didn't stop me from having fun at my own expense.  Late night forays out having drinks and talking about everything under the sun.  Exploring the city from top to bottom.  And food.  Oy, if there was a food run to be made, there we were.  Crepes, lengua tacos, chocolates, sushi, In'N'Out burgers;  cooking in San Francisco was like a slice of heaven:  farmer's markets, high end grocery stores stacked with every conceivable odd item -- whatever you wanted, there you could find it.  Whatever there was to be consumed, there was my cousinly cohort accompanying me or cooking with me.

One particular excursion found us in Union Square searching for wedding dresses.  After a morning of trying on dresses and doing mental wedding gymnastics, we considered where to eat; and Wendy said decisively, "Neiman Marcus.  We need to go have their popovers."  And indeed we did:  with strawberry butter, the ginormous popovers were airy and delicate.  It was the first time I'd ever had popovers; and until this past Saturday, the last time. That was five years ago.

Another cousin has been posting pictures of her baking mania to her facebook page recently and one photo reminded me of popovers; and suddenly I was consumed with the memory of how those Neiman Marcus popovers tasted and how nice it would be to have a Saturday brunch with popovers and strawberry butter.  I hunted down the Neiman Marcus recipe, which is terribly fussy:  everything needs to be at room temperature before mixing and even then the batter needs to rest for an hour.  It can't be made the night before so requires a just-in-time approach, which doesn't make it convenient.  But oh, when those popovers came out of the oven, spilling out in soufflé-ish domes, the smell brought me back to that day in the city with my cousin and it was worth the hassle.  And smeared with strawberry butter, I could almost pretend for one moment that I was back in San Francisco with Wendy -- and maybe I was.

This is not a fleur de lis.

Jenn and I are co-hosting a baby shower for our friend Katie in two weeks.  For party favors we decided to make cookies in the shape of a fleur de lis; the motif is particularly special for the parents and Jenn and I thought it would be a nice touch.  I ordered a fleur de lis cookie cutter online last week and it arrived in today's mail.

I dunno.  It looks more like a flamingo to me.

At least this was good for a laugh today.

Words fail me.

This was sent to me by a friend today: http://tinyurl.com/4mgw5q

Apparently PETA is asking Ben and Jerry's to consider swapping out cow's milk for human breast milk in making their ice cream.

You can and you can't go home again.

In the eight week state of bliss back "home" in the metro DC area, I didn't bother to post for a variety of reasons, not least of which was because I was too busy enjoying the moment, eating at favorite and newly discovered restaurants, shopping at farmers markets, cruising down my favorite roads with Pug in tow, and generally enjoying the thrill of being back in town in which I had grown up.

Nearly a month into being back in this part of the world, I've struggled with the real letdown of being back, having no access to the sights and smells and sounds to which I had become so accustomed.

On the day we departed Arlington, I sobbed.  Hubby tried to console me by promising that we'd come back soon.  All I could think of to express my very real pain was to blurt, "I don't want to eat at Carrabas."  [one of the many chain restaurants that passes for culinaria here]

Our trip back took two days, with a brief stopover to visit family friends whose lovely Roanoke home cheered me immensely with its wildly beautiful and imaginative touches (including an 18 foot tipi, a trebuchet and a giant slingshot -- very popular with Hubby and with Pug; a romantic wooden pergola that stretched the length of their patio; and five acres of quiet serenity).  Our hosts, Ron and Renee, made a brilliant dinner of sea bass with caramelized onions and roasted potatoes, accompanied by steamed asparagus and chased with a lemon meringue pie.  Simple, flavorful fare...

The next day found us on the road for the final leg of our trip.

The sign said:  "WELCOME TO GEORGIA."

I burst into tears.

Some places are home.  Other places are a way station.

Here we are....

The last two months have been a blur of personal and professional changes and a stockpile of blog posts have been building up with no where to go...

But the house is soon to be in the hands of a sitter, Hubby on the road while I and Baby are  now ensconced not too far from where I grew up.  We will be here for some eight weeks and Baby is having a bit of a rough patch; I think that he, like me, misses his namesake.

Sometimes, in the little corner of the world where we live, I deliberately forget what exists outside because I do not want to live in resentment and want...

...but yesterday my sister and I went with Baby and Gina to the Dupont Circle Farmer's Market...

and I felt like I was breathing again, as if long dormant senses were called once again into action: sounds, smells, tastes, sights and touch.  There were ripe beautiful fruits, Rainier cherries in gorgeous golden amber colors, deeply red raspberries, sweet yellow squash, heirloom tomatoes, bright green herbs, farm fresh eggs and a variety of meats in abundance.

...and with the return of my senses comes to the return of my desire to write about what delights me culinarily...I remind myself this is temporary bliss but I plan to eat and eat well in the coming weeks...

Run away! Run away!

These are conversations I should avoid getting enthusiastic about:

"I'd love it if you could make our wedding cake."

These are responses I should avoid spewing:

"Oh absolutely, no problem!"

She notes she prefers certain flavors and her fiance other flavors:

"Oh no worries, I'll make one for you in your favorite flavors, one for him and one for the guests to enjoy."

She mentions certain motifs that have meaning for them:

"Oh that's easy!  I can totally make fondant cut outs of the fleur-de-lis!"

See, if I didn't already know that I was insane, I've now confirmed it for myself.

Don't I ever learn?

Battered and Fried.

K. and I met for lunch today at the updated River Mill restaurant, where sandwiches and soup have given way to an actual menu.  The chef has great imagination and greater ambition; the lunch menu is chock full of dishes more commonly found on a dinner menu and some of the ingredients actually surprised me.  Bear in mind....there are routinely hour long waits to eat at the Olive Garden in these parts, so I'm always interested and pleased when someone does something differently in town.   I picked the vegetarian lasagna with fresh tomato and cream sauce.  It was a little overdone and lacked subtlety, but for a cool day, proved hearty and  pleasing for lunch.

It growing late in the hour we considered dessert.  For the most part, none of the proffered sweets were tempting (chocolate torte, banana pudding), but one sounded so bizarre I had to try it. 

"Deep fried strawberries with dark and white chocolate sauce."

It actually gave me pause.

I've remarked previously about the frying culture of the South.  I joke that  they can render vegetables unhealthy here.  But never in my imagination had I ever considered taking a perfectly good fruit and battering it, frying it, and covering it with even more fattening sauces.  Fantastic. So of course I had to order that.

Would that the actual dessert had lived up in taste to the intriguing idea. 

I love strawberries.  I grew strawberries at one point in a desire to have heirloom strawberries that tasted like strawberries.  Strawberries are my go-to easy dessert accompaniment.   

But this...NO.  Really.  NO.  In essence, I bit into fried cinnamon and sugar dusted beignet batter covering a too warm and mushy strawberry.  NOT a good combination.  And apart from not tasting good, I'm sorry, but strawberries look great when they are red and inviting, not brown and beige looking like clumps of little fried fish nuggets.

It's bearing down on midnight and I"m still perplexed.  I love battered and fried food and spend a lot of my time happily consuming said foods.  But battering and frying a strawberry is right up there in the weird, right alongside deep fried Coke (you think I am joking, don't you?).