Morsels

Fess up — I know you all have embarrassing freezer stories. You know how it starts. There’s some sort of catalyst (in my case, it is a gray, cold August day that feels more like October than it should and school starts for young Christopher tomorow). You approach the freezer cautiously but with determination, poke your head in and lo! lumps of aluminum clad frozen meat (unlabelled, despite all best intentions), tomato sauce made fresh one August afternoon TWO YEARS AGO. But I need someone out there to top this one. Waaaaay back in the lowest depths of the freezer, settled on a puddle of day-glo goo which I believe it a left-over popsicle I found a cigarillo. Yep. I know whose it is (my older son Arthur’s best friend smokes them) but, really what made him think it was a good idea to put in the freezer? I wonder if it was one of those — quick mom’s coming, throw that thing out! moments?

On an entire other subject. I decided at the tale end of my vacation (which may tell you that it was a tad too long) not to buy supermarket bread again. Nope, I am going to be baking fresh bread every weekend! So, yesterday I pulled out my trusty Tassajara Bread Book and cooked me up two of the foulest tasting whole wheat loaves I have ever tasted. I threw them out and am trying again today, using the King Arthur bread recipe on the back of the bag. Wish me luck.

Well, there is much food to report up here in Maine. First, there is the best rabbit stew I have EVER had made by my own mama who says the only secret to it was cooking it longer than usual with a rest in between. She found the rabbit with mustard cream sauce recipe online and is busy looking it up even as we speak. Found it. She had no creme fraiche and just added cream on the top as it finished in the oven.

Meanwhile, there was also my aunt Mary’s birthday last night and that had to be accompanied by a meringue (made again by the mom) that was then filled with Roundtop Ice Cream (this, the ice cream of the childhood may no longer be the best around but it’s like your perfect childhood dog — you conveniently forget the burping and the smelly ears and the silent farts just outside the dining room…. the dog is just perfect, past-perfect as the french like to say). And then, the meringue, coffee ice cream concoction is topped with homemade warm chocolate sauce and chocolate shavings and one birthday candle carefully stuck just SO by little cousin Sarah. We ate and ate and had to add ice cream to get the sweetness balanced and listened to the time my cousin Kinloch ate so much of a similar desert that he had to punch his brother Robert.

And this morning off to the farmer’s market to eat cinnamon buns made with croissant dough.  I have never had a success with that but am very happy for the nice crazy lady who has made it her livelihood.

Now off on the boat to go find some islands and passages and views.

It’s been so long since I’ve posted I wonder if anyone will bother to check out the blog. Maybe that’s a little on purpose though? I am having trouble with the fine line between privacy, writing, sharing and audience…. when I write my “book” or “we shall see” as I prefer to call it (note: I haven’t been writing THAT either), I can let the audience be far away, almost never. But with this and especially after I added it to my notes on my facebook page, there isn’t much pretending that no one will see it.

And yet, I do like writing. I like how the words tumble out and mostly fit together and how much I enjoy making them fit and telling about life. So I suppose I carry on and forth and whatever.

We’re in NY and having adventures. Dennis felled his first tree ever and with it an old bat. Brian tells us that the old bats “silverbacks” don’t get to migrate south with their brethren. They are left behind to die. So this one had a surprise fall from the tree and scuttled under some bark. Dennis and Brian also found a wood frog, which I had never seen before. Apparently, they come out of the vernal pools and live in trees and such. It was beautiful, light almost salmon-colored brown with dark brown stripes along its eyes. It was quite a jumper. We had it in a box (ok, yes an open box) as we carried it back to where it had come from (Den and Brian having brought it to the house for viewing). Our happy parade was interrupted when Christopher exclaimed “oh, cute, it’s itching itself” and then “whoaaaa!!!” when it leapt out and plunged itself into the comfort of the dry brown leaves. Better that way, really. And the bat was nowhere to be found.

Tomorrow we head up to Maine and I am looking forward to that (understatement). Hope the lobsters and oysters have found safe places to hide. If there’s any lousy weather, I plan on making pickled cauliflower from the Well Preserved book I just bought. But only if there’s no sun and no boating — that’s too precious to waste. Bone, the author of the Well-Preserved book, has a blog. I just took a look at her pork and sour cherry recipe — looks tremendous.

Promise I’ll be back with more later.

It is our anniversary today (happy us!) and we are up in soggy finger lakes house. I know it has been forever since I have posted but I did want to tell a funny story about yesterday and our marriage (as it relates to food of course) and also post the recipe for a wonderful souffle I made (if I do say so myself).

Here’s the story: we went shopping at Wegman’s yesterday. Some weekends we cart all our necessary food up and sometimes we (read I) are too disorganized to do anything more than make sure there is milk for coffee in the morning. So this weekend was a disorganized one and we needed food for our anniversary dinner. The idea in my brain and vetted with Dennis was duck breast with cherry sauce, rice pilaf and snap peas. Grand Marnier souffle for desert. Well, we get to Wegman’s which was more packed than I have ever seen it — I guess it’s the only thing to do around here when it is pouring rain? And they have no duck. Well one frozen one but it didn’t look like it was going to cooperate with being cooked for dinner in a few hours. So I grabbed a couple of little fresh cornish game hens and figured we’d be down with that.

Get to the check out line and as I lift them up to the conveyor belt thingy I show them to Dennis and say “here’s what I got instead of duck.” Poor guy’s face fell. “Oh,” he says. You see how sweet he is in the face of a disappointment? So I said, “you really wanted steak didn’t you?” and he nodded. So I sent him back to the meat department on his own to return the two little game hens and bring back a steak.

Now we all know what it is like to get to the check out line with all your variously gathered goods and realize that you forgot the sage, or garlic or whatever. The pressure IS ON. Luckily, we had the two slowest check out guys I have ever encountered. So Dennis was able to return with his steak. It was a three pound (at least) sirloin. Huge. All I could see when I looked at it was the slaughterhouse (sorry). I am eating meat again, yes but I am trying so hard to keep it to local and at least grass fed. Food is rumbling along the conveyor belt. He has just dodged about six women in carts and a couple of really old ones who seem to do a lot of standing in the middle of things all with this huge bloody steak in his hands. I looked at him and said. “Umm that’s a lot of steak. Mind if I go grab some smaller grass-fed ones I saw?” He shakes his head no. And now I’m the one running through the aisles past the very same women who are still standing around with the same piece of meat ( I mean I have the piece of meat and THEY are still standing around). I actually started laughing at the spectacle, which only made it more spectacular I guess. Anyway, got my little more appropriate steaks and phew! made it back.

So there you have it. Our daily negotations. Particular to us at that moment I suppose but really not at all. We are all (us marrieds and committeds) juggling daily details and back and forths. Sometimes more gracefully than others. It certainly helps to have a sense of humor and (thank you Dennis) patience.

And it also helps to make a souffle now and then. I took this from Bittman’s How to Cook Everything book and switched it up because we had no Grand Marnier. But we did have Amaretto and it was really, really good and really easy. Believe it or not, this was my first souffle. I am going to make more.

I was in New York City and Jersey City this past week for meetings related to work and Big Project. I didn’t at all NEED to be in NYC for the trip, in fact it wasn’t the most practical decision. But I was able to have dinner with two of my best friends, Sabina and Andrea and to walk every morning down sixth avenue, past Bryant Park and to the PATH. Just being on the streets. My room looked over a section of Times Square and the digital signs with their lustrous, saturated colors — in the night with the rain splashing the huge windows, it all looked very Blade Runner(ish).

Sabina, Andrea and I ate at Marseille on 9th Ave which was quite good. We had a salad that was comprised of pear, gorgonzala, smoked walnuts and lettuce. What I want to know is how does one smoke walnuts? (no smart remarks please) because they were really, really good and I have never had the like.

And here is my most recent painting. It is after an image that I have toted from Maine, to apartment in NYC as a young woman, to office at New York Woman. Most recently, I rescued the picture from the back of a closet and put it up in the Finger Lakes house. And since painting an image that haunts you and that you want to BE with over a period of time is important and worthy and etc….I decided to work on that.

Here it is.

I had an episode this morning involving brisket, feelings of utter organization, competency, rapid shift to INcompetency, safety glass, disintegration and the sense that if anyone actually peeked in my kitchen window they might get very, very worried.

Here’s the thing. I decided this weekend to try and “live out of the freezer” as my mother used to declare (usually towards the end of the month, hmm) and yesterday grabbed a huge Bucky Brisket from the freezer. Last night I made a chinese beef stir-fry from it but it was really large and so there was plenty to put in my trusty crock pot this morning at about 7 am. So, I salted and pepper and dried herbed that old brisket and sauteed it in a pan (meanwhile, packing C’s lunch, checking my email, the headlines, inhaling first cup of coffee — the usual). And I popped it in my crockpot with a couple of cups of beef broth and headed upstairs for a shower. Well, it all took longer upstairs. There was laundry to move from one place to another, earrings to select, and so forth. I got downstairs feeling somewhat on the late side and went to check said brisket.

Ever have one of those moments when you are looking at something that you simply do not expect and therefore can’t quite see? Think Escher or one of those crazy eye/mind exercises where you are supposed to see a fish in the midst of something if only you could get that soft-focus thing happening. What I saw was just not registering at first because it was so unexpected.

The top to the crock pot had shattered. The handle plummeted with various bits of glass all over my lovely seared brisket. First I tried lifting the top, hoping to get if off of the pot without getting any more glass on the meat. I had this wild thought (not kidding) that I could remove the top, rinse the meat and re-cook the whole thing.

Luckily, it was GARBAGE DAY. So I gathered my trusty, mis-matched potholders and took the crockpot, brisket and all and dumped it in the garbage can which was waiting expectantly on the curb. And I hoped that none of my neighbors were watching. Because if they were it seemed to me that I looked as if I was violently rebelling against my suburban existence. TAKE THAT! Damn brisket. Damn crockpot.

So much for planning ahead.

I have a (very) soft spot for Oprah. I am not sure that that is a “cool” thing to say. But I love her magazine. I actually never see her show. In fact, I don’t know that I have ever watched it? But I love the ideas, the writing, the spirit of the magazine and so I bought the latest issue for our drive to Haverford for our first viewing of my new nephew, Luca. And I found this delightful piece by Michael Lewis on fatherhood. Really, the beginning of the piece, which is about being somewhat uninvolved and lackadaisical didn’t interest me much. I like an involved, loving father, I say. BUT he tells a story about his daughter Dixie standing up to some boys in a pool in a Bermuda resort that is just priceless. And I am somewhat irritated that I can’t link to it because it doesn’t seem to be up on the Oprah website.  The anecdote is really long but I am going to go ahead and type it out for you because I love it and I hope we all buy his book:  Home Game: An Accidental Guide to Fatherhood which is coming out in June.

Here goes:

We’re at a fancy hotel in Bermuda. Like fancy hotels everywhere, the place is paying new attention to the whims of small children. The baby pool is vast — nearly as big as the pool for the grownups, to which it is connected by a slender canal. In the middle of the baby pool is a hot tub, just for little kids. My two daughters, now ages 6 and 3, leap from the hot tub into the baby pool and back again. The pleasure they take in this could not be more innocent or pure.

Then, out of nowhere, come four older boys. Ten, maybe 11 years old. As anyone who has only girls knows, boys add nothing to any social situation but trouble. These four are set on proving the point. Seeing my little girls, they grab the pool noodles — intended to keep 3-year olds afloat — and wield them as weapons. They descend upon Quinn, my 6-year-old, whacking the water on either side of her, until she is almost in tears. I’m hovering in the canal between baby pool and grown-up pool, wondering if I should intervene. Dixie beats me to it. She jumps out in fron of her older sister and thrusts out her 3-year-old chest.

TEASING BOYS! She hollers, so loudly that grown-ups around the pool peer over their Danielle Steel novels. Even the boys are taken aback. Dixie, now onstage, raises her voice a notch.

YOU JUST SHUT UP YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE!

To the extent that all hell can break loose around a baby pool in a Bermuda pool, it does. A John Grisham novel is lowered; several of Danielle Steel’s vanish into beach bags. I remain hovering  in the shallows of the grown-up pool where it enters the baby pool, with my entire head above water. My first thought: Oh…my…God! My second thought: No one knows I’m her father. I sink lower, like a crocodile, so that just my eyes and forehead are above the waterline; but in my heart a new feeling rises: pride. Behind me a lady on a beach chair shouts, “Kevin! Kevin! Get over here!”

Kevin appears to be one of the noodle-wielding 11-year old boys. “But Moooooooommm! he says.

“Kevin! Now!”

The little monster sulks over to his mother’s side while his fello Orcs await the higher judgement. I’m close enough to hear her ream him out. It’s delicious.

“Kevin, did you teach that little girl those words?” She asks.

“Moommm! Nooooo!”

“Then where did she learn them?”

As it happens, I know the answer to that one: carpool. Months ago! I was driving them home from school , my two girls, plus two other kids - a 7-year old boy and a 10-year old girl. They were crammed in the backseat of the Volkswagen Passat, jabbering away; I was alone in the front seat, not especially listening. But then the 10-year old said, “Deena said a bad word today.”

“Which one?” asked Quinn.

“The S word,” said the 10=year old.

“Ooooooo,” they all said.

“What’s the S word?” I asked..

“We can’t say without getting in trouble,” said the 10-year old knowingly.

“You’re safe here,” I said.

She thought it over for a second, then said, “Stupid.”

“Ah,” I said, smiling.

“Wally said the D word!” said Quinn.

“What’s the D word?” I asked.

“Dumb!” she shouted, and they all giggled at the sheer illicit pleasure of it.

The the 7-year old boy chimed in. “I know a bad word, too! I know a bad word, too!” he said.

“What’s the bad word?” I asked brightly. I didn’t see why he should be left out.

“Shutupyoustupidmotherfuckingasshole!”

I swerved off the road, stopped the car, and hit the emergency lights. I began to deliver a lecture on the difference between bad words and seriously bad words, but the audience was fully consumed with laughter. Dixie, especially, wanted to know the secret of making Daddy stop the car.

“Shutupmotherstupidfuck” she said.

“Dixie!” I said.

“Daddy,” said Quinn thoughtfully, “how come you say a bad word when we spill something and when you spill something you just say, ‘Oops’?”

“Stupidfuck!” screamed Dixie and they all laughed.

“DIXIE!”

She stopped. They all did.  For the rest of the drive they whispered.

So here we are, months later, in this Bermuda pool. Dixie with her chest thrust out in defiance, me floating like a crocodile and feeling very much different than I should. I should be embarrassed and concerned. I should be sweeping her out of the pool and washing her mouth out with soap. I don’t feel that way. Actually, I’m impressed. More than impressed, awed. It’s just incredibly heroic, taking out after this rat pack of boys. Plus she’s sticking up for her big sister, which isn’t something you don’t see every day. I don’t want to get in her way. I just want to see what happens next.

Behind me Kevin….. is relaunching himself into the baby pool with a real malice. He’s as indignant as a serial killer who got put away on a speeding ticket: He’s guilty of many things but not of teaching a 3-year old girl the art of cursing. Now he intends to get even. Gathering his fellow Orcs in the hot tub, he and his companions once again threaten Quinn. Dixie, once again, leaps into the fray.

TEASING BOYS! She shouts. Now she has the attention of an entire Bermuda resort.

YOU WATCH OUT TEASING BOYS! BECAUSE I PEED IN THIS POOL TWO TIMES! ONCE IN THE HOT POOL AND ONCE IN THE COLD POOL!

###

It goes on but you just can’t top that. Oh, O love her. And I do believe, whenever I hit a snag or a bump or an irritant I will remember TEASING BOYS!!! It’s a wonderful alarm call.  Ladies, channel your inner Dixies as appropriate.

Luca, btw, is just adorable and I am sure he will have better manners than those bad boys.

There are a few things that I am pretty bad at — identifying small birds (it was small and brown), mushrooms (it was umm small and brown?) but one of the most seasonal frustrations I run into is my complete lack of talent in the compost-making department. It may not seem very important to those of you who do not fancy themselves suburban farmers (which, btw, is all the rage) but for anyone who wants to tuck some tomatoes into rich, organic soil, harvest some fresh-snapped peas and so on and so forth, you really must have a nice compost pile.  I will admit that Bay Village is not the most compost-friendly environment (sort of feel odd running out in the morning in my “work” clothes, heels and all, dumping eggshells, lettuce leaves, apple cores and the like into the growing pile beside my little vegetable garden). But dump I do and for those of you who are excellent and worthy composters, yes I alternate “green” material with the food and I make sure it has water and it is in a sunny spot. Poo. It is still lumpy and matted and seems to enjoy resurrecting the food that I am trying so desperately to turn into dirt. By that I mean that I think there is a potato growing out of it at this point. Now my mother? She is a damn good composter. Plunge a pitchfork into her compost pile and turn it over… you will be rewarded with rich, warm earth. Perfection. Arthur felt bad enough for me that when he left for college he made sure to print out this article in his favorite magazine (Arthur) about the Sodfather. Take the time to read the article — he’s a real character.  But read as I might, it has been to no avail.

Which brings me to my mother’s placemats. Stay with me here Since seester had her little boy Luca Mom has taken to frequenting local thrift shops very frequently and snapping all sorts of lovely little things for the baby. At some point in her forays she found what she described as beautiful, multi-colored placemats that were like little rag rugs for your table. They were perfect for the Finger Lakes house she decided if a little musty. So home they came and into the washer. Unfortunately, once removed from the wash, it turned out that they had become a little frayed. My mother said they had grown beards. And what do you do with unruly beards? You trim them naturally. By now we were several days into the saga. It took a few weeks for beard trimming what with gardening, yoga, cooking and etc. And then once they were taken off, the little mats turned in on themselves (think those pot holders we all made as kids). Apparently they aren’t as bright either. Mom skyped me last week and said she thought either they were just fine or I might want to use them as mulch. See? Compost connection made. Oh snap.

So at this point I am a little afraid of what they will look like when she presents them to me. I will take a photo and post it maybe. And then if I can figure out polls I will let us all vote: Compost? or placemat? Only I will have to think of wittier questions.

Here’s the thing. When your nineteen year old calls you up in the afternoon of say a Friday and says “mom, I’ve been thinking” it’s best to drop what you are doing (in my case packing frantically for Finger Lakes) and listen up. Turns out that Arthur has made friends with a Sri Lankan prince — or so he says. In any case, the friend has invited Arthur to Sri Lanka and Arthur is wondering, umm, can he go. Well. It seemed unwise to say no immediately. Instead I mentioned that it might be expensive. And he allowed as how he might need to save up. Course, it entirely depends on what airline you choose. Air India seems to be a mere $1200 give or take while Saudi Arabia Airlines is over $6k — guess that latter is for those who need to find interesting ways to spend all their extra money. Arthur says it could be a once-in-a-lifetime chance, which is true — Bennington tends to attract various and sundry international kids — probably a few other royal-types hanging around. OU? Not so much. Also, Arthur says his friend hangs out with elephants. That of course, cinches the deal.

I told him to work over the summer and save his pennies and then asked him if he was at all worried about travelling over there. Isn’t there some sort of civil unrest? I asked….Tamil Tigers and such? He agreed that it would be reallly embarrassing if he ended up being the American-who-gets-kidnapped. How about just plain old killed?

We agreed to discuss it more. But that was before I read the State Dept’s travel warning. (which is linked to under the word “killed”) I support adventure and travel but I’m thinking I will have to draw the line.  Instead, I will be sure to make him some baked cheese prawns. And when the Cleveland Zoo has elephant rides I’ll make sure to encourage a visit.

“That’s it, I’m just going to blog about you!” This was a threat I leveled at Christopher the Younger this morning for reasons that shall become clear in a minute. But of course he thought THAT was pretty funny. And it is quite the 21st century parental threat right?

Anyway, here’s why. At some point last week it came up that he has always liked pineapple and why don’t I ever get it for him and etc… also, he needs fishsticks. Because he is deprived of fish sticks. So, this Sunday, I dutifully stroll over to the pineapples (already cored and not at all local or in season or anything, mind you) and buy him some. And later I get him a box of extra crunchy fish sticks. Then this morning I carefully dice some pineapple up and place it in a lovely white bowl with a fork while he moseys around upstairs (yes, I spoil him and yes I enjoy it). And down he comes and has the nerve to eyeball the pineapple in semi-mock horror. Apparently he does not really like pineapple, just likes to say that he does. Or some such.

So I brought it to work and just now!!! realized that I forgot to eat it.

Anyway, that is why he is in the doghouse with only fishsticks for dinner.