Writing was my way of having fun. It was as habitual as brushing my teeth.  It was what got me through my adolescence. For a long time it was a secret I guarded almost shamefully.  It was how I created a perfect world, a place I could live in, that was superior to the reality I was plopped into.  At the same time it was how I understood the world I was actually living in. Writing has been my most constant constant.
 In my far-flung fantasies I let myself dream of becoming a writer.  Now I realize I was a writer all along, even before anyone knew of my "cute little habit", before I got paid for it, before I had a book published.  Back when I was a precocious teen, I was feeding myself on books and authors I admired.  Studying them and copying them.  I clutched tightly onto "The Catcher in the Rye" and "The Great Gatsby, half in love with Jay Gatsby and completely besotted with Holden Caufield.  Being a published author was my idea of the greatest heights of success. 
Part of me believes that I willed being a published author into being.  All those years of concentrated scribbling and inveterate dreaming and never missing a chance to wish on a shooting star or my birthday candles. And my other part just feels like a lucky little girl.  But now I want more...isn't that just like a human being? Wanting something so bad, making it into the be-all-and-end-all, the top of the mountain from where you can contentedly view a vast vista believing that once you get there then you'll be happy, satisfied, successful.  Only to realize when you get there, it's nice and all but  you want to get to the next mountain-top that is even higher and has an even better view from the top.
 I try to remember the Lionel Richie Theory when my all-too-human desires start to sabotage me.  Lionel Richie in an interview recounted how all through his career he ardorously worked to get to the top of Mt. Scintillating Success, and once he got there, breathless and worn-out I'm sure, he realized that there was nothing there. Nothing.  Getting to the top of Mt. Scintillating Success was what it was all about.  I'd like to test that theory out...

Cake-a-rama

  Last week, in honor of our tenth anniversary Hub and I decided to throw a dessert party on Saturday after services. I gave myself the goal of 12 cakes in 3 days. I ended up with 11 and a batch of cookies.
 To me, those three sugar covered and flour dusted days were as mellow as a pat of room temperature butter.  It was just the right time to lose myself in a world of sweetness and spice and all things nice. Sometimes when things are starting to get sour and bitter and hard and brittle it's nice to make it over as sugary and rich, soft and smooth.

The sunday before the Shabbat Sugar Party, I went through all my baking and dessert cookbooks and magazines. I hoped to try one of the cakes in Rose Berenbaum's aspirational cake bible, but I think her cakes are so magnificent that they need to be the prima diva of the event, not crowded out by 10 other lovelies. Besides I was going for quantity as well as quality and her cakes are an investment in time, which unfortunately is something you can't pick up at the supermarket.
 I ended up with a cross-section of cakes and desserts from my post-it fringed gourmet mags. The Pecan Caramel Tart came from one of those baking booklets that slows you down at check-out when you're at Stop 'n Shop. It was very well-received, particularly with the gents.  A  crisp and buttery shortbread cookie crust served as stage for  crunchy caramel glazed toasted-pecan topping.

Next up was a Maple Mascarpone Cheesecake, the slightly-tart-totally-smooth maple flavored cheesecake was baked atop a beautiful walnut butter crust. I think I will adapt this recipe for Passover purposes, since there is no flour or any verboten items in this wonderful dessert. Garnished with a scattering of toasted chopped walnuts on top, the two layers of warm nuttiness both enhanced the warm flavor of the maple syrup, and balanced out the sweetness, not to mention, added another pleasing texture to the cake.

I wanted to try a new Carrot Cake recipe, so I decided on a Fine Cooking Sweet Cakes recipe for Carrot Cake with Classic Vanilla Frosting. To be fair, this was my least considered and regarded recipe. I didn't have the right amount of carrots, I added ground cloves when it probably should've been ground ginger. The frosting, which allows what is basically a healthful baked good, into the cake bakery, was pretty good. A little too sweet for my taste, not enough cream cheese tang due to the equal amount of butter. I think I'll go back to my original.

Pineapple Upside Down Cake. So uncomplicated and simple, yet so profound and beautiful. The small pineapple we received for Purim, had plenty of time to ripen and get heavy with sweet juice. I cut it into eight 1/2 inch slices, removed the tough core. And lay them over a base of sweet brown sugar syrup, spiced up a bit by some ginger mixed in. The coffeecake batter was smooth, creamy, and gentle with just a hint of ginger spice mixed in at the last minute with the buttermilk. After it baked for enough time to make the pillowy coffeecake surface light golden yellow I let it cool. And then with some anxiousness I flipped the baking pan onto the serving platter. It came off (mostly) without a hitch, and what was revealed was an edible Van Gogh composition . The pineapple rings shrunk slightly and looked like sweet sunflowers. The brown syrup background was at the center of the pineapple petals. Gorgeous, especially since Hub and I spent our real anniversary weekend in Philly, where we were lucky enough to take in an exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum, of Van Gogh.   I was so impacted by the obvious amount of strained effort Van Gogh made. He tried hard to be a great artist. Always working to improve and learn more. Toiling  to get better. Trying to be healthy and sane. Trying to figure out how to be a painfully sensitive person in a harsh world. Eat more cake.
 

Two Layer Peanut Butter Pie, was my zen meditation of the week. Nothing insists you be more present and in the moment than making pudding from scratch. You have to stir, stir, stir, and if you get sidetracked by a telephone call or by checking your email, it will scorch, and leave a black layer on your saucepan that is a bitch to remove. Better to just focus on the pudding for 5 solid minutes. And the second effort was totally worth it. Half of the pudding was mixed with peanut butter chips, the other half with semi-sweet chocolate chips. After more stirring I had two separate yet equal pudding flavors. First the chocolate pudding was spooned over a crispy crust made from crushed peanut butter sandwich cookies and butter. It was followed by the peanut butter pudding, and then a fluffy layer of white whipped cream with salty pops of chopped peanuts. I never even got to try it. It was gone twenty minutes in
.

Lemon Meringue Pie: I hate you. Ok hate is too strong a word. I resent you and your sour ways, which you cover up in gobs of fluffy super-sweetness. I am not faultless in your lack of success. Fine Cooking this month features a beautiful slice of pie that boasts fluffy cloudlike topping and bright sun-yellow filling. They promised to reveal the secret to Lemon Meringue Pie. And here's the spoiler: It's just not worth all the effort. I scrimped on the meringue. I just didn't feel like standing around making marshmallows for the full 11 minutes of beating time. So this little tart repaid me by falling flat. The rich yellow gel poking ungracefully through the flat white layer.

Caramel Cake. (This paragraph is to be read with a deep southern drawl). The true southern belle at the cotillion. It demanded time, quality ingredients, and lavish attention. And ultimately garnered the most adoration. The provenance of this recipe came from Saveur Magazine. The cover zoomed in on a slice of red velvet cake that was sublime looking, and after glimpsing the other southern layer cakes in the article, I knew that it would take me to the next level of cake baking. The Southern Layer Cakes unit, which was all about this caramel cake. First the light and fluffy golden yellow cake layers, I substituted buttermilk for milk, because when in the south... But it was the frosting, my sweet lord, the frosting! In a big stock pot, butter, vanilla, cream, and sugar and a pinch ot two of pink salt mingled and cohabitated and became one: Caramel. 45 minutes of steady stirring resulted in a warm soft pudding texture that dripped oh-so-lazily over the three light yellow layers, coyly making it's way to the cake stand platter like a southern belle making her way over to the most eligible gentleman in the room.

The new version of Chocolate Mocha layer cake was well received, but I prefer the mocha mascarpone chocolate layer cake from Bon Appetit. One of the three cake rounds broke so it only ended up as a squat looking two layer cake. It was pretty strong on the coffee flavor, which was a credit to this rather average cake.

My Chocolate Bundt is my old faithful, it pleases in a way that a good brownie pleases. It's just good- there's nothing show-stopping about it, although the thick chocolate glaze that collects at the bottom is ooey-gooey-yummy-in-your-tummy looking.

The Tres Leches cake was my sleeper favorite of the afternoon. A nice subtle white cake, poked periodically to allow the creamy rich combination of whole milk, evaporated milk, and condensed milk (tres leches) to soak in. Topped with cold lightly sweetened whipped cream and fresh sliced strawberries, it was a strawberry shortcake with a bread pudding consistency.

And then there were the snickerdoodles...Sweet, slightly spicy, soft, circular snickerdoodles. Simple really. This will be my default cookie. Easy, uncomplicated, and they hold their shape nicely.

By the end of this baking adventure I was twitchin' like a kitchen timer. Between the lack of sleep, glut of sugar, periodic doses of caffeine, and the general adrenaline surge of a good absorbing project I was a bit...keyed up. But also revived back to engagement and interaction. It was a bit like a sugar defribrillator shocked me back into being.

Sunflowers Pineapple Upside Down Cake (adapted from BHG Holiday Baking)

1/2 cup butter

1 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 tsp. ground ginger

6-8 1/2 " slices of cored fresh pineapple

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. ground ginger

1/2 cup butter, softened

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup packed brown sugar

2 eggs

3/4 cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Heat oven to 350F. Grease bottom and sides of 13x9" casserole pan

2. In medium saucepan melt 1/2 cup butter over low heat. Stir in 1 cup brown sugar and 1/2 tsp. ginger. Bring mixture to a boil, stirring often. Pour into prepared pan spreading evenly. Fit pineapple rings into surface of pan.

3. For cake: in a medium bowl whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, and ginger; set aside. In a large bowl beat 1/2 cup butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar with an electric mixer on medium speed for about 2 minutes. Beat in eggs until combined. Beat in half of the flour mixture on low speed. Beat in buttermilk and vanilla until combined. Beat in the second half of flour mixture. Spread batter carefully over pineapple slices.

4. Bake for 35-40 minutes or until a woodpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Once cooled, loosen sides of the cake and invert onto a serving platter.

Sour Times

What a year it's been, and I'm only in three weeks deep. But thick into the split pea soup that life feels like when it gets all muddled, foggy, and lumpy. Perspective is a thing of the past, it went out with 2011. This used to be a breezy lighthearted food blog that actually posted recipes, now it's a sour true confessional.

It's times like these that I am grateful that no one I know really reads this thing. My computer is the confessional screen, behind which I am faceless and unknown. It all comes rushing out, and then it is lost in a galaxy of words and a universe of humanity and all the conditions associated with that. I'm in a wholly wretched mess that is turning my head upside down and my guts inside out. It will be OK because there is no other way it can be. But there will be a stain.

Serving as a suitable distraction is the news that the Kiddles school is closing in June. I can't express my sorrow over this without sounding dismally uncool and fatally unironic, so I won't even try, and will instead suffer the slings of sentimentality. This little school in it's tidy little building felt like home the minute I walked through it's door with a pre-K aged Samwich. The warmth and family feeling that filled it's halls was obvious to everyone who visited. And being associated with their school helped me to let go of some of the bitterness and corrosiveness that I felt about school and teachers, which was a hold-over from my school days when I was plonked into a school that didn't know what the hell to do with me, so they just threw me away (figuratively speaking ). I actually joined the PTA, something I definitely snorted at in my pre- kiddles school days. I helped run the yearly plant sale and organized the dinner dance one year (poorly, I freely admit). I loved this sweet little Jewish school that emphasized the importance of the Golden Rule and acceptance and appreciation of all difference types. And now it is over. My kids are going to go to a new and bigger school and will have to adjust, and this is the one good thing that comes out of it. Life is all about adaptation, they might as well learn this sooner than later.

And then there's the book. When I conceived this book I had definite notions and ideas of how it would be. Existing perfectly in my mind it was to contain everything I wanted to say through words and flavors and pictures. It didn't take me long to understand that everyone else working on the book (coauthor, editor, publishing co. at large) had their own definite ideas as well, and that sometimes I just have to suck it up, because after all, who am I? I'm an unknown girl with some good ideas. It takes more than good ideas to publish a book. I recently lost the round regarding the book title, and that burned a lot. I don't get to name the baby, I feel like it's starting out with the wrong name. Regardless of any disappointment, I can't give up on it. I've got to fight right through, take the kicks when I have no other choices, and push through whenever there is an opening.

And I have to be grateful. Always be grateful for what I've been given, good and bad because from it I am growing and learning and adapting and becoming the person I am meant to be.

I end this True Confessions post with a recipe for Lemon Cake, because nothing is just one way.

Lemon Yogurt Cake

(adapted from Marlene Sorosky)

2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature

2 cups granulated sugar

4 large eggs

juice from 2 large lemons (about 1/2 cup)

6 oz. greek yogurt, lemon flavor

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon grated lemon rind

Lemon Yogurt Glaze

1 cup sifted powdered sugar

1/4 cup lemon yogurt

1 tbsp. lemon juice

1. Grease a 12 cup bundt pan. Preheat oven to 350F

2. In a large bowl cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Mix in lemon juice and lemon yogurt.

3. In a smaller bowl stir together flour, aking powder, baking soda, salt, and lemon rind. Mix on low speed until incorporated.

4. Spoon batter into bundt pan. Bake in oven for approximately 50 minutes, or until toothpick inserted into center comes out clean.

5. Cool for a few minutes and then invert onto baking rack to cool completely.

6. For glaze: in bowl sstir together sugar, yogurt, and lemon juice. Spoon glaze over top of cake allowing it to run down the sides.

10,000 Hours

Just started reading Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. One of the first chapters in the book is titled: The 10,000 Hour Rule. His theory is that being truly great at something doesn't take talent so much as practice. Doing it over and over again, educating yourself, training, making mistakes, working out problems. Effort and time is what distinguishes the Great from the good. Ten thousand hours is a lot of time to spend on something, and really requires perserverance and a great amount of passion, perhaps this is what actually makes a person Great at what they do. That is what is their talent actually is; Great perserverance and passion. Of course being the self absorbed writer that I claim to be, I thought immediately how I don't have enough hours of doing one thing: Maybe I have an accumulated 8,000 hours doing a bunch of things that are kind of related: Candymaking, Cooking and Baking, and writing about it . I wasted at least 2,000 hours shopping, gossiping, and psuedo-existential cotemplation. Not sure 10,000 hours of Mothering can even be claimed.... Technically I've put in much more than 10,000 hours, as there are 8,736 hours in a single year. But how many of those thousands of hours were performed with full gusto,consciousness, and awareness? I'd like to hope at least a coupla thousand.

Thanksgiving 2011

While still enjoying warm and cozy Thanksgiving leftovers, a blog entry is a great idea. It's important to let nothing go to waste, neither good food nor a good mood. The cooking began on Monday night with a loaf of pumpkin walnut bread and a pan of cornbread, as well as a tray of mini sweet potato knishes. Tuesday was Baking Day: chocolate pecan pie x 2, cranberry crumb bars, pumpkin pie, and a caramel apple pie. Wednesday had me elbow deep in two kinds of stuffings (sausage cornbread and classic sourdough herb). I tinkered with a dry spice rub for the chicken wings (needs to be a little more herby). Cooking fresh cranberries into a chunky sweet tart relish, blanching brussels sprouts, mixing up a maple dijonette dressing , and finally making a few cups of white bean sundried tomato spread ended my night on a fresh and healthy note. Thursday: A big platter of crunchy Persian rice was assembled first thing in the morning. The Korean ribs were marinated and then braised, the tofu squares were pan fried to a nice crispiness and the honey-sesame-soy sauce simmered in the saucepan. Fresh chopped parsley and onion and a pinch of turmeric and salt was all the ground lamb needed before it was shaped into kebabs.

The three round tables we rented for the occasion, were set in orange tablecloths and yellow flowers and a spray of candy corn for sweet measure. The buffet table had a horn-of-plenty offering a variety of rolls and mini pumpkins, and there were turkey shaped tealights. And then it was four o'clock, two out of three of my kiddles were dressed in appropriate attire. After a few last minute switcheroo's I settled on a sparkly hostess ensemble that was hopefully festive and elegant but was definitely comfortable. Hub was sporting oven mitts, as he was experimenting with his brand new smoker out in the back.

And then the guests started to arrive. And I had to readjust and execute the next phase of operations. The people aspect, the personality intergration, the real world part of cooking and entertaining. When left to formulate and grow in your head and imagination a big holiday meal or party is as great as you want it to be. The scene from your head can be played out in the coordinating plates, cutlery, napkins, potted plants and of course, candy. It serve as a lovely backdrop where everyone happily sips apple cider, and are pleasantly catching up or getting to know each other. The kids gladly wear the paper bonnets and pilgrim hats (complete with gold sticker button) that were purchased for the occasion. People are brimming with thankfulness and cordiality.

Real life: The guest who needs a diet coke while you are spinning around in the kitchen ("Umm yeah, it's not on the side board?...Hmmm, ouch! burnt myself. "Hub!!! Can you get the diet cokes from the fridge downstairs?") the kid who insists on wearing his ratty Manning football jersey, the cranky family member who just can't help but grouse, the kufte kebabs that are running behind schedule, the mini knishes that need more work. The headache hiding in the back of the head. The chronic latecomers, who throw kitchen timing into disarray.

These gatherings do have a few sweet and perfect little vignettes in time.

There was the Mmmms and the yummms. There was the oldworld older couple who couldn't get enough of the tofu. And the grilled wings that were devoured by the bored teenagers. And the pumpkin walnut bread that was the sleeper hit of the meal. The ribs were gone in a few, along with the kebabs. And the sausage stuffing that continues to please. And then there are parts you have to look for: the table of old-timers happily chatting and catching up, the New York newlywed couple discussing with neighbors the virtues and drawbacks of abandoning City life for a semi-country pace. There was my toast that I kind of flubbed on, but was still OK. And then there are the leftovers.... and the idea that I don't have to cook at all this weekend.

By the time dessert time rolled in, I was beyond preconceived notions and expectations, I was sipping a glass of red and let someone else locate the extra forks and pie slicers. The pumpkin pie was surprisingly my favorite dessert of the feast. However, as we had a few chococrazies at our gathering it was unsurprisingly that the chocolate pecan pie made with a bar of chopped 70% Scharffen Berger garnered the most support and appreciation.

But now, what I am feeling most thankful and warmly about are the leftovers.... and the delcious fact that I don't have to cook at all this weekend.

CLINK!

Hear that CLINK ? That's my first draft in the can. Guided by doggedness, light terror, slight tension, real enthusiasm, and more than a little Mazel, we did it. Five weeks that were cut up with marathon Jewish holidays, the flu, and a week-long power outtage. Of course, there is a world more of work to be done on this beloved manuscript, before it is fully formed and gleaming ready to enter the world. But it is beyond the tricky first trimester.

I ended the cookbook fittingly with a recipe for Whoopie Pies with an option of classic marshmallow frosting, or a more serious Dark Cocoa Buttercream. That was fun. During this process I've learned several things: thesaurus.com is an invaluable tool, loaded brevity is crucial in expressing an idea, I have a strange relationship with my kitchen appliances, sleep is overrated- but so is tired-looking skin, you can never go wrong when trying to create goodwill.

Up next: really trying to get a handle on my doughs, cooking for Thanksgiving- turns out, issuing an open call will result in many guests.

Whoopie Pie

1 2/3 cups all-purpose flour

2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 ½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

4 tablespoon butter, room temperature

4 tablespoons vegetable shortening

1 cup packed brown sugar

1 large egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup milk

1. Preheat oven to 375F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

2. Sift together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt into a medium sized bowl.

3. In large bowl beat together the butter, shortening, and brown sugar on low speed until combined, increase speed to medium and beat until light and smooth. Add egg and vanilla and beat for another minute.

4. Add half of the flour mixture and half of the milk to the batter and beat on low speed until combined. Add remaining flour and milk and beat until completely incorporated.

5. Using a tablespoon drop batter onto prepared baking sheets and repeat spacing them at least 2 inches apart. Bake each sheet individually for about 10 minutes each, or until the cakes spring back when pressed. Remove from oven and let cool before filling with frosting. (Makes 12 whoopie pies)

Classic Marshmallow Frosting

1 cup marshmallow fluff

4 tablespoons milk

½ cup vegetable shortening

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

½ cup sifted confectioners sugar

1. Beat together the marshmallow fluff and vegetable shortenening, beginning slow and gradually increasing speed until the mixture is smooth and fluffy.

2. Reduce speed to low, add confectioner’s sugar and vanilla, and beat until blended. Increase speed to medium and beat for a minute or two more.

Cocoa Buttercream

1 ½ cup confectioner’s sugar

½ cup cocoa powder

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature

4 tablespoons heavy cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

¼ teaspoon salt

1. In medium sized bowl beat together the confectioner’s sugar, cocoa, and butter starting low and increasing speed t medium until frosting is crumbly.

2. Add heavy cream, vanilla, and salt and beat on high until smooth.

Book Marks

Well, I'm in the thick of it now. So deep into this first draft, that it's what I dream about at night, and it's on my mind all day. I'm too close to it to really have a fair opinion of it right now. All I'm doing is pushing through. Trying not to neglect everything else in my life- while trying to carve out enough time to get it done.

Happy New Year

It's really a new year for me. Today is my birthday- the first day of my 38th year. It zooms by - but at the same time every day is lived in actual time, maybe sometimes even in slow motion. I want to make this upcoming year a good one. I am determined to be productive. This book will be my main focus. I am trying to say everything in my words and flavors.

I want to read all of Roald Dahl's books to the kiddles this year. And take them on some fun excursions in the City. I want to live more healthy this year, do yoga regularly, breathing exercises, and all that good-for-you stuff . I want to do something special for Hub for our tenth anniversary in March. I'm ready to finally master pie crusts this year.

This year I want to work on being less irritated. See more art and less TV. Cook and share lots of good food. And try and remember to be grateful.

Mainly Maine

In Maine

we are glad to be part of a land

that remains so beautiful under it's green skin

of woods and open fields, that is glitteringly

bordered by thousands of miles,

of breaking waves, and that is lovely

too, with an unbroken tradition

of concerns, with the kind, enduring grace

of it's neighborliness.

-From Neighborliness by Kate Barnes

I love New England. I loved the idea of it before spending 4 years of college there; and my notions were not disappointed while living outside Boston- from the age of 18 to 22. I have quietly loved New England for a long time now. So I always try to steer family summer trips Northwards. All year long my affection sleeps, as I focus my passion on the City. But when Summer arrives my tenderness for New England stirs itself.

This adventure begins in Portland, Maine. Hub's Sis Deene is visiting from Israel with her husband and three boys, so we really wanted to present them with something grand and striking and American. The colonial architecture and aspect of the old port town was definitely something different for our Israeli cousins. As was the chilly summertime rain.

We brought my mom with us as well, because we wanted her to spend some time in this beautiful part of the country. Until this trip, her experience of New England was limited to the Comfort Inn, Waltham MA. I knew she'd love it- and she did. While the boys took a three hour boat trip, Mom, Girlette and I explored the shops and cafes around Congress street. And it was at a cafe called Paris in the Morning that I tried my first Whoopie Pie. It was maple pumpkin, and I've since come to realize that it was mini-sized. The cake part was soft and spongy and tasted like sweetly spiced pumpkin quick bread. The cream filling was subtle in it's maple-ness but undeniable in it's cream cheese-iness. Hmmm interesting, I thought to myself, more research was needed.

Mt. Desert Island Ice Cream on Exchange St. was also another delightful discovery. Flavors like Chocolate Wasabi, Thai Chili, and Sweetcorn made it apparent that this wasn't your Gramma’s ice creamerie. I decided on the Fig. And I can really say that I've never had anything like it before. The ice cream had a deep caramelly sweetness to it and the chopped dried figs interspersed throughout my generous sized scoop provided a pleasing texture and reinforced the sweet figgy taste of the ice cream. I was off to a wicked good stahht!

The afternoon spent with Les Kiddos (six in all) at the fantastic Portland Children's Museum provided me with plenty of time to review in my mind the wonderful taste discoveries I had just enjoyed. A simple plan was hatched: I was to sample as many Whoopie Pies as I could handle during our stay in Maine, in the hope that I’d be inspired to concoct my own version for the cookbook. The fig ice cream was shelved mentally in my Possible Truffle Flavor file.

Get ready for the revelation of the Century: Travelling in a group of eleven is difficult, especially, when more than half of the group is under the age of ten. Notions of fine dining and elegant sight-seeing are hurled out the window. After a dinner at Denny's whose memory I wish I could surgically remove from my brain, I knew that I would have to sneak away every now and again, to maintain my sanity as well as make any delicious discoveries.

My mother kindly granted Hub and I a date night opportunity, which we eagerly spent at Becky's Diner on Commercial St . Becky's is a very ordinary looking diner, but what is contained between the laminated pages of a very ordinary looking diner menu explains the attention it recieved from Bon Appetit. Our waitress was a plain spoken Yankee girl, who described the specials with an economy of words and evenness in expression- that still managed to convey the scrumptiousness of the items. Hub decided on the broiled haddock and I had the fishcakes. As we waited for our food, I studied my fellow diners. Locals and tourists, a few Hipsters thrown into the mix (Portland has a strong hipster element- kind of like a Brooklyn up North feel). New England thriftiness was exhibited by the single piece of bread we each recieved as we waited for our dishes.

The food was....mouthwatering. It was delicious. It was a joy to eat. From the moment I took the first forkfull until I walked out the door, I was smiling. I was as happy as a kid enjoying her favorite birthday meal. I could not stop eating until every scrap was gone. The cole slaw was crunchy and sweet, the fries were crispy and well- seasoned. Every part of our meal was marvellous. Our astute waitress capably steered us in the right dessert direction. And she had the good sense to make a fresh pot of coffee for us to enjoy with our Blueberry Cream Cheese Layer Cake. A die-hard sweet tooth can always sense what a fellow sweet tooth needs. With a lightness in my heart and a belly full of good food, my fondness for New England was reconfirmed.

One of the things that I really appreciate about New England is the plain-spoken character of it's people. They speak simply. They use less words. There is an editing that occurs in their daily vernacular. There is a reserve to their attitude. This kind of stoicism makes my exuberant verbosity seem frivolous and even over-the-top. But I'm OK with it. I'm not a Yankee. I’m not a Maineahh.

After Portland we went up to the Moosehead Lake region where Hub’s bro, his wife and 2 kids joined us for three days of camping in the rain. It wasn’t so bad, it was actually fun in a rustic, once-in-a-lifetime, roughing it kinda way. The campground was just outside the town of Greenville, and believe me when I say that I took every and any opportunity to make runs into town. Be it for paper plates, milk, or to do laundry at Wishy Washy. And it was on one of these laundry runs that I made another great discovery: Northwoods Gourmet Girl. This little gem is located across the street from the Laundromat. Unable to watch our clothes tumbling for another second, I did a little investigating.

The room is large with clean lines and is on the spare side. I sat at the bar and exhaled gratefully. All was quiet and calm, the lighting was soothing, my sneakers were drying, and I was alone. No one was asking me for anything, there was no crying, whining, fighting or shouting. And I now know what to serve with my Krab Kakes: roasted corn, tomato and pepper salsa and a spicy remoulade. And then there was the dessert… a blueberry cobbler that felt like it was beamed down to me directly from God. A soft cakey biscuit sandwiched pleasantly between warm, syrupy and deep dark violet blueberries and a scoop of slowly melting vanilla ice cream in a fine dusting of cinnamon. Surely this must be a gift from God when you’re damp, cold, and cranky after dealing all day and night with damp, cold, and cranky kids.

Upon further investigation I learned that this was the same Gourmet Girl whose bottles of homemade ketchup and jams grace the shelves of the high end kitchen supply store in Portland where I spent an hour and about $60 in (Tupelo honey, Dishing Up Maine cookbook, and assorted gourmet chocolates). My prediction: Gourmet Girl will be as big and wide ranging as Stonewall Kitchen in a few years. Except she’ll be for the Hipster Foodie. Who can resist an ingredient list that includes TLC?

After camping, we moved on to the Sunset Cabins in Rockwood. Never before has a bed been appreciated as audibly and by so many. Flushing toilets as well. The cabin’s kitchen beckoned and I responded by broiling up some salmon and haddock. We enjoyed our fish and the variety of salads I assembled (pasta, garden, and Asian cole slaw) while sitting at picnic tables in front of beautiful Moosehead Lake.

By this time in our trip there were several conclusions I was able to make about Whoopie Pies. Wicked Whoopie Pies are my over-the-counter choice. It has a good cream-to-cake ratio, and is not overly sweet. My favorite flavor is the vanilla chocolate chip. I did not like the peanut butter one that the competition makes.

It’s hardly surprising that the best Whoopie Pies are homemade. The Maple Whoopie I had in Portland was a great intro to this regional treat. I had a tightly saran wrapped Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Whoopie at Jamo’s General Store in Greenville, that was also darn good. Sadly, I do not think I will be whooping it up at next month’s dental appointment.

We climbed Mt. Kineo, the lot of us (minus a grown up or two and a kid or two). It rained and we kept on going. We kept on climbing through tantrums, tussles, and terror until we reached the top. I was very proud of us.

On Sunday we packed up the cars and crossed the border into Canada. S’ long Maine, Bonjour Quebec! This time I was shameless in my desire to learn more French. I broke my teeth at Subway when ordering our 6-pouce sandwiches. I perservered at the Hotel Jardin in Veille Quebec while checking in as my Mari (aka Le Hub) found parking. I ordered my vin blanc at Portofino the Family-style restaurant that was smart enough to give us our own room and isolate us from civilized company. I hissed “Arret!” (and about another half a dozen angry epithets) as my Kiddlers had epic melt-downs in a couple very public spaces. Hub, Deene, sis-in-law Mishtophe, and I clinked “Salut” after everyone was at last, quietly sleeping. Not fluent yet, not by a long shot- but a little more suave.

We went through Vermont on the way home. Vermont is my all-time favorite state. Burlington is just such a great town. The amount of young people and the vibrancy of it’s food scene really makes it gleam. Tried to get into American Flatbread but it was packed three deep at the bar on a gloomy Monday night (rain, rain go away…).

Our drive home the next morning in clear and gentle sunshine showed the green pastures and sloping fields that hem the country road in their most beautiful light. The Vermont countryside is soft and rolling and wonderfully green. It is in contrast to the craggy and rugged Maine landscape where forests of pine trees line the road for miles and miles on end. Both states are natural beauties, but one is more severe and ascetic. The other lush and curved.

“I love her valleys broad and fair,

The pathless wood, the gleaming lake,

The bold and rocky bastions, where

The billows of the ocean breaks: “

From New England by Albert Laighton

Progress

Done with the Hanukkah chapter, and I'm pretty happy with it. Hope to wrap up July 4th Chapter in the next few days . Testing summer salad-as-a-meal recipes. Grilled Steak and Veggies Summer Nicoise Salad, has potential- needs to be expanded and the garlic grilled pitas need to be served immediately for it's full effect. Note: Include grilled corn in next version.

Hub's sis and fam arrived today from Israel . More captive Tastebuds- yippee! Perfect crowd to test out cherry cola ice pops. Tonight's Bibimbop was hopeful. I seared tuna in a crust of sesame seeds, cracked pepper and a little salt, made some gochuchang which is a spicy Korean pepper paste which is mixed into the jasmine rice that the seared tuna, matchstick carrots, snow peas, and bean sprouts rest colorfully atop. I also brewed up some spicy sweet soy sauce which is the dressing for this filling yet light summer salad. On the whole very delicious- except I might suggest serving the gochuchang on the side for the benefit of milder palates.

The Blue Cheese dressing that I shook up last night was also noteworthy. I plan on serving it over a wedge of iceberg lettuce garnished with cherry tomato halves. A nice side to the simple tuna sandwiches I plan on serving tomorrow night for dinner. Might make a salad pizza for Thursday Pizza Night (TPN). I'll report back from the tastebud set.

Blue Cheese Dressing

1/2 c. sour cream

1/2 c. buttermilk

3 tbsp. mayonnaise

1 tbsp. minced red onion or shallot

1 tsp. worcestershire sauce

2 tsp. garlic powder

pinch of sugar

salt and pepper

1/2 c. blue cheese crumbles

Mix up all ingredients in a large jar.

The Sweet Taste of Summer- The Bright Side of Winter

Like everyone I have taken some lumps, but on the whole life has been pretty good to me. I am currently living my dreams of being a writer and a mom. OK, so I had to readjust the setting of the dream, but in this version I'm only 30 minutes away.

That's just the thing about dreams, you have to be flexible to let them come true. Nothing is perfect, except for a dream that just lingers softly in your mind and heart. Making the dream come true, working on it, bringing it into being- well, that's where flexibility and effort and a little heartbreak come in.

The first chapter for the book is due in two weeks. After my initial baffled "Huh?" reaction, last week I sprung into action. We decided that we would start with Hanukkah, which 10 days into the process I'm having another "huh?" moment, this time with irritation. I'm smack dab in the middle of the loveliest summer weather I have enjoyed in a long time. So while working on Hanukkah I'm also doing July 4th. I'm serving fried food for dinner, accompanied by light crunchy summer salads, and fresh, sweet, fruity desserts. I haven't heard a complaint from the tastebud set yet.

Donz and I are trying to figure out the format of the chapter introductions and recipe headers. Being a writer I care as much about the words as I do the food. The two go hand-in-hand, without one there cannot be another. Donz is breakneck-speed busy, with a show a day, and a couple of meeting sprinkled into the mix, in addition to her homelife. And we are trying to figure how this all works, and how we work ourselves into it. As is my way, I'm figuring it out as I go along, sometimes I'm a few steps behind- once in a while I'm a little ahead.

For guidance I have turned to books. I have consulted with Julia Childs editor; Judith Jones. She was very helpful, informing that many of the best cookbook authors were unschooled culinarially. She also told me that many were over 40 when they got their start. But her best nugget of advice was to have passion and a point of view.

I also turned to a contemporary. Molly Wizenberg's "A Homemade Life" is based on her blog Orangette. In addition she was a contributor to Bon Appetit, and that's how I became acquainted with her food and words. Since I didn't follow her blog, the book is fresh and new to me. She has a charming style, I say this through gritted teeth. She is very very talented. And she deserves the attention and acclaim. She has passion and a point of view, which she expresses often-times with beauty and grace. What more can you ask for?

So here's what I've come up with: My best offering so far, the one that delights everyone the most - is the summerfruit kuchen. It's a snap to make and can be personalized to taste. I like it with plums personally, but nectarines, peaches, or apricots work just as well. The cake layer is soft and sweet thanks to the juices of the fruit layer on top. I made this stonefruit dessert every day last week, for many of my taste buds. It will fit nicely into my Fourth of July menu, which has been a pleasure to devise. Summer is my muse, and the plentitude of fresh fruits, veggies, and herbs provides me with real inspiration.

My Hanukkah menu, which calls for an inspiration that takes me in the opposite direction, has been a little more challenging. Why we decided to start with a holiday that is placed in the heart of cold and barren (vegetationally speaking) winter, mystifies me, and makes me think that my intuitive powers may need some fine tuning. I have recipes for three different kinds of fried fritters so far, that are solid. My jelly donut muffins are good, and the chocolate dipped dreidels are adorable. I'm still playing with a couple of crispy-fried ideas. Trying to get myself back into a winter-state-of-mind, which happens to be a difficult time in the year for me to begin with, is a bit of a drag. But, on one of our hot and sticky days, it's not hard to yearn for the cool austerity of winter. I need to idealize winter, and get that Brighter side of Winter in the Hanukkah menu.

Summerfruit Kuchen

1/2 c. butter/marg

1 c. sugar

2 eggs

1/2 tsp. vanilla

1 c. flour

1 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 c. reg milk, soymilk, almond milk, coconut milk

4-5 thinly sliced peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines (or a combination)

2 tbsp. sugar (I like turbinado)

1 tbsp. butter/marg

Preheat oven to 350F

On medium speed and in a medium bowl mix together butter/marg, sugar, eggs, and vanilla until a batter forms. In a sperate small bowl whisk together flour, baking powder, and cinnamon. Add to wet batter and mix in until combined, the batter will be thick. Fold in milk to make a smoother more spreadable batter. With a spatula smooth out batter evenly over bottom of greased baking pan. Place fruit slices in whatever design you desire over batter, overlapping, and ensuring the top is completely covered with sliced fruit. Sprinkle sugar over surface and dor with butter/marg that was cut into 6-8 little slivers. Place in oven for 40-45 minutes, the fruits will be shrubken and golden around it's edges, and a toothpick inserted will come out mostly clean (save for a few clingy crumbs).

Enjoy this fresh taste of summer with ice cream, whipped cream, or on it's own.

Montreal

Bonjour tout le mond! Just back from Montreal. This French weekend getaway was well-placed, so much so that if it wasn't for it, I might have found myself in the loony bin or receiving a visit from the coppers. Last week was tough. It contained several scenes that I am ashamed to even recall. Sometimes you gotta hold on for dear life, and last week was one of those weeks. Clutch onto sanity, balance and equilibrium; scrounge around for even a shred of patience and kindness, dig deep and try to find your better nature. It ain't easy. There are a whole lotta excuses: The flooded basement fills the house with the rank odor of cat piss, it's that time of the month-my exclamation point. The first draft of the book is due in three months and I am paralyzed wondering what to do next? And the collective culture in chez nous is that Maman has no other purpose in life other than the blind and unyielding service to Hub and Kids many needs. And last week there was a lack of female adult conversation that serves as a crutch sometimes. Crutches are necessary when one feels themselves stumbling and hobbling around in discomfort and pain. But it doesn't stack up, for me the measure of a successful person is how she overcomes her situation. I didn't overcome nuthin' this week.

The purpose for our visit up North was a wedding, our long-time friend Zelig was getting hitched to une fille Canadienne. They had the good sense to pick the perfect spot in the Montreal Summer Calendar: Jazz Fest. Friday morning I threw a few sundresses in my bag, my pink batik caftan with the plunging neckline for the wedding which called for "Shabby Chic" attire (?), and as an afterthought a few lacy undergarments for Hub's sake. And of course Judith Jones memoir: The Tenth Sense, My Life in Food". She was Julia Child's Editor, as well as many other reknowned food writers.

To further set the scene: As La Mother-in-law pulled up to pick up les jeunesses, I hosted the battling impulses of Motherdom; wanting to hold onto them and be with them and make up for all the horrible lost moments of the past week. But also needing to breathe, wanting to be unattached and unhindered to experience life on my own terms. And then they were gone, and we were off. Vive La Liberte!

A recollection of the weekend's best moments: Waking up in an elegant and stylish hotel room, to the thrilling notion that the day was all mine, to do as I pleased. With that delicious thought, I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep next to Hub.

Sauntering through the fashionable shops and boutiques near L'hotel (two summer blouses and a bangle). Forcing myself to speak French, dreadful accent be damned!

Brunching with Hub at a Super-Duper French Brasserie. Decent Mimosa. Sampled a Montreal bagel, and am not ready to give up the New York ones yet. The Montreal bagels are smaller and sweeter and chewier. Hub's Oeufs en Cocotte were delicieux! His Bloody Mary was just right.

Our meandering path to Old Montreal cut right through Jazz Fest. The sights! The sounds! The chance to just walk, observe, and enjoy! The revived inclination to flirt!

Dinner at Kitchenette was good. Texas home cookin' fare; comfy, cozy, flavorful stuff. But the dessert is what made the good 'n tasty meal great. Sticky Toffee Pudding Sundae with Cracker Jacks- it was gone in two minutes. A sweet and dense square of toffee pudding topped with a dollop of classic vanilla ice cream and bathed in warm homemade caramel sauce, with a homemade cracker jacks as a garnish (which I thought were more of a distraction).

Then there was brunch and a brief hike up Mont Royal with NY friends also in for the wedding.

The wedding. Zelig was previously married, and after his divorce he went through a bit of a rough patch. This wedding was a triumph of Romance and Second Chances and all that good stuff that makes a lump rise in your throat. It was clear to all how happy and in love Zelig is with his bride. Instead of the usual speech Zelig crooned a love song to his new wife. It was a heart-melter. The wedding band was phenomenal. Even if I wanted to, I could not stop dancing. It was as though all the stress and aggravation of the previous week was released on the dancefloor.

Late to bed, early to rise. It was back to New York the next morning. I return with the desire to be better. To be a better mom, to write a better book, despite feeling overwhelmed by both assignments.

Book

Just as I imagined it would be. It took what felt like forever to get the contract, and then to get it finalized. And the first draft is due in three months from yesterday. Of course, this to me really is a dream of a problem. But I am shit-scared. I am so worried that I won't be able to harness it and express it in a beautiful and effective way. I think I have 2/3's of the recipes that I need. I have to figure out the last third, while coming up with the narrative with Donz. I am now exiting overwhelmed and entering pre-panic concern. How do I do this?.... you just do it. That'll be my answer- whenever I ask that question.

A book! Me writing a book- look at me world, I am writing a book.

Emilie's Sweet 'n Silent Visits

“It’s a decent pie…it’s fine” she said unenthusiastically after swallowing a forkfull of the triple berry pie that she baked for dessert. “It’s great! It’s delicious!” the women countered as they happily devoured their wedges. She rolled her eyes as she stared at her plate, poking at the crust with resentment. “Well, what’s wrong with it?!” asked an exasperated Dina.

“I would be so proud if I made this pie. And my husband? He would be thrilled!” was Amanda’s contribution to the pie’s defense.

“I’m berry happy right now” came from Anna, ever the goofball .

“Roxanne, you’re never, ever satisfied with anything you make, no matter how tasty and perfect it is” Caren correctly observed.

“It’s just missing something” Roxanne said with the slightest tinge of bitterness in her tone.

Now it was their turn for eye rolling. “You always say that!” said Caren as she placed the last of her piece in her mouth.

Roxanne took a swig from her mug of black coffee, and then chased it with a gulp of white wine. She felt drowsy and keyed up all at once. Her friends had never tasted Emilies’s baking, she reminded herself. If they had her chocolate cake or peanut butter tart, or carrot cake or peach pie or anything Emilie made they would realize the difference between Roxanne’s “good” baking, and Emilie’s magical desserts.

She briefly considered explaining Emilie to her friends, but as usual she dismissed the impulse. How could she describe Emilie without making it sound like a juicy nugget of coffee klatch gossip? She knew her friends would seize upon the details of Emilie’s late term miscarriage, they’d make shows and sounds of pity, but like Roxanne, they would never really understand how this could result in this woman’s complete silence.

“I’ve had cake that tasted so good that it made me cry.” Roxanne said without sentiment.

“I don’t think cake could make me cry- no matter how delicious” said Dina

“Maybe if it was chocolate” mused Amanda

“I don’t know about crying, but if it was good chocolate I could come” this, of course, belonged to Anna.

“By cry do you mean a single tear or were you full on sobbing?” asked Dina the skeptic.

Roxanne remembered when she dropped off a lasagne for Emilie and her family, days after her miscarriage. She wanted so badly to say something comforting, to offer her some kindness, she stumbled around for words, Emilie’s emphatic silence making her act more and more awkward. She retreated from her house feeling spurned and embarrassed. And pissed with Emilie, which then made her feel bad. But still, hadn’t she gone to the trouble of caring, and making a freaking lasagne! Her better side reminded her of the trauma Emilie had just suffered.

For three weeks Roxanne’s phone calls, emails, and texts to Emilie went unanswered. The day that Roxanne decided that there was just no excuse for such rudeness, Emilie turned up at her door holding a big and beautiful carrot cake. With a wary smile she extended the cake to Roxanne. Roxanne felt shamed as she received the double decker cake covered in a light and swirling layer of fluffy white frosting. She looked from the cake to Emilie’s face. A flatness had settled over her fine features. Her blue eyes had a dull gray aspect to them. “For me? Wow…” Roxanne clearly remembered being a little confused by the cake. Emilie just stood at the door, looking at Roxanne, as if trying to organize her thoughts. “How are you doing, Em?” Roxanne asked feeling trepidation as she waited for her friend’s answer and reaction. Emilie smiled thinly, nodded, and turned to leave.

“ Well, if you don’t like it. I’d be happy to relieve you of it and take it home with me and give to my kids, they’d love it with some whipped cream” Caren offered helpfully.

“It’d be great with vanilla ice cream” suggested Dina

“ Ben and Jerry’s make THE BEST vanilla ice cream. It has actual vanilla beans in it, so it looks and tastes very gour-met” Anna took pains to pronounce the T.

Roxanne recalled the cream cheese frosting that topped Emilie’s carrot cake in a flash. It was flecked with those delicate little vanilla beans. She was confused, and more than a little unsettled after her strange interaction with Emilie. Roxanne placed the cake on her kitchen counter, and with her pointer finger took a swipe of the frosting. First it was a gorgeous and simple sweetness, followed by a fresh tartness, which flowed into a luscious creaminess. With a plastic knife she indelicately carved out a piece. The carrot was bright orange and flecked the spice colored cake, much like the vanilla beans decorated the frosting. It was soft and fluffy to her fork. And it tasted like home, it tasted like warmth, it tasted like a mother’s loving touch. The cinnamon and nutmeg was like a hug. The beautiful flavor filled her heart and almost made it burst. Tears sprang to her eyes.

Emilie’s sweet ‘n silent visits. That’s how Roxanne came to refer to the semi-frequent visits from her long-time friend. She’d show up at her door and wordlessly hand her a different dessert every time. On a crisp mid-autumn afternoon she received a maple pecan bundt cake that was sturdy and dense and mellow in it’s golden sweetness. It made Roxanne think of the turning leaves outside. And begged for a mug of coffee and some friendly chatter to go along with it.

The day before Passover it was a flourless chocolate cake, that took her seder from dark, rich bitterness to an exaltant sweetness and ended in the brightness of the infused orange rind.

Change just takes some getting used to, fighting against it only increases the discomfort. Roxanne knew this instinctively. But she struggled with Emilie’s new non-verbal way of being. Her husband, Greg, was no help. He hid his unease behind caveman humor. “ A woman who bakes cakes and pies instead of talking? Sounds almost too good to be true!”

She ran into Edward, Emilie’s husband, at the wine store, and noticed the extra pounds added to his frame.

“What do you think goes with a dark chocolate truffle tart?” asked Edward conversationally.

“When in doubt, I always say Cab”

Edward selected a mid-priced bottle. “I don’t know if she ever made this tart for you before, but it’s…. magic. The chocolate is endless … and even a little bit sexy, if it‘s possible for a baked good to be sexy .”

Roxanne wondered what to say. On the rare occasion she saw Edward since Emilie’s miscarriage and subsequent silence, Roxanne followed Edward’s cues and pretended that everything was fine and that Emilie had just discovered a new-found talent when it came to the obsessive baking.

“Mmmm sounds incredible! That Cabernet will do nicely, I’m sure” Roxanne said jauntily.

“My friend Jordan is going through a divorce. Her kids are having a really hard time with it. The daughter was kicked out of school, and her son got some girl pregnant. And I‘m sure Jordan, has that thing…what‘s it called? Workout Anorexia, y‘know what that is? It’s when you workout obsessively.” said Caren sadly.

“Who left who?” asked Amanda

“ Jordan found out he was cheating with a co-worker” Caren revealed in a stage whisper.

“Ugggh how predictable!” Amanda shuddered

“Yeah, she was suspicious for all the usual reasons, and then she did some snooping and found a few texts that she says are beyond obscene- perverted shit apparently”

Anna reached for the triple berry pie and cut herself another slice. She gestured to the coffee pot. “Any more of that left? Let's make another pot”

5/28-6/4

Had to back away from the Van Gogh re-edification project. Thought of the Alexander McQueen exhibition in short spurts. Came up with a few really refreshing and tasty ice pop ideas. And one sweet li'l truffle named Blueberry. I was tinkering around with the blueberry filling of last week's pie. The blueberries, sugar, cinnamon, and lemon juice was cooked down down to a thick and juicy compote-like consistency. Swirled with fresh frothy cream, it was a beauty to behold. Although sweet, creamy, fruity, and lovely to taste it is not the summer thirst quencher that the mango-lime-strawberry popsicle is.

The leftover pie filling was the starting point for a delightful new truffle flavor. The replayed image of a wedge of blueberry pie in a beautiful puddle of vanilla bean flecked ice cream led me to fill vanilla bean infused white chocolate ganache with tiny spoonfuls of soft jammy blueberries. I had to hold back on the inescapable sweetness and introduce a dark and slightly bitter note in the form of the dark chocolate coat it wears. But the dusting of cinnamon graham crumbs takes it back to it's homey dessert origins. The initial response has been overwhelmingly positive.

Recognizing where chocolate was most needed, a few bonbons were quietly slipped into a few needy hands, as all eyes were focused on our First Graders who performed so well onstage. The smiles and the deep sighing is all that is needed to know. However, the tale of a terrible day full of in-law friction, morphing into a fine day after enjoying the truffle, was happily received.

The fish in chips recipe made for the kiddles the other night needs a lot of work, but might be something in a few more tries. The mac 'n cheese is solid- especially when topped with french fried onions.

As for Hub's birthday Open House, we are not on the same page. Considering it's next week- we need to figure it out. Being a man who is turning 40, he wants to eat red meat and celebrate his deepening masculinity, while beating his chest. Visions of fat slabs of beef and stein's filled with ale fill my head whenever his ideal birthday party is imagined. But when left to my own devices, bowls of fresh,crispy green salads thinly slicked in flavorful aromatic dressings occupy my vision. And platters of cheeses and fruits, and every kind of bread to soak up the pitchers of fruity sangria's and exotic punches. Of course, all of this is just biding time until Dessert. A table covered in jewelled toned pies (blueberry, strawberry, peach), A tall and proud chocolate layer cake, a devious little chocolate tart, a couple cream pies (key lime, banana peanut butter). Of course a sturdy bundt ( Lemon? Maple Pecan?), caramel sandwich cookies, salt caramels with pink peppercorns (?!) an assorted truffle platter, shooters of butterscotch pudding. And a fanciful cheesecake.

The obvious question is how to coalesce the two? How to make it work without too much dissonance? Serve the sangria in beer steins? Make a garden deli party? Trays of meat tastefully arranged and garnished, served alongside finger friendly potato knishes, and bowls of fresh green salad, and an gourmet inspired cole slaw- OK, maybe, but dessert is all mine.

May 20- May 27

Words, words, words, stir, stir, stir, think, think, think, drink, drink, drink. The week in review.

Started reading Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace this past weekend. Because college was almost a million years ago, any academic knowledge acquired is steadily leaking out of my brain. The stacks of cookbooks that line the room, reveal a certain kind of tunnel vision. Leaving Van Gogh is not a cookbook inspired by the colors and subjects of Van Gogh's painting. The only edible things that were mentioned in the book were coffee and absinthe. It is a historical novel told from the point of view of Dr. Gachet, Vincent VG's physician and subject in a few paintings. She described Vincent's canvases lovingly. She represented Vincent and his struggles with real sympathy and regarded his huge talent with admiration. It sent me straight to the Met this morning to get up close to his canvases to study his thick and rapid brushstrokes and strong colors. His paintings are so full of feeling and personal sentiment, a very normal looking woman was secretly observed tearing up and sniffling while looking at Wheat Field with Cypresses.

The museum visit was the culmination of a week spent in quiet rumination, which is another way of saying there was room for a nation of heavy thoughts and unhappy questions. It could have been one of those coincidences that happen when Mercury is in retrograde, or is upside down or something cosmically trippy like that, but almost every planned social interlude was thwarted by what can only be viewed as garden variety flakery. A wide array of flaking: the "oops! I totally forgot!", the "damn! I am supposed to be at ________ at that time" double booking, the "sorry, I'm feeling so tired", and my favorite: "My friend wants me to take a yoga class with her, and I kinda really want to". As I walked across Manhattan I noticed how every second person was huddled over their personal communication devices. Eyes glued on those little contraptions of wonder and social alienation. When everyone is staring at their palms, moments of spontaneous connection are much less likely to happen. It is oddly ironic to have 182 friends, but not be able to meet anyone in person for a cup of coffee and some pleasant chit chat. Well that's not entirely true, there was book club on thursday night.

It was a good showing at Daz's. I made a blueberry pie twice. The first one boasted a beautiful lattice crust but was not nearly sweet enough, so that was deemed a mistake that the kiddles and hub picked over. The second one was sweet and had the slight suggestion of cinnamon, due to the addition of a cup of sugar (instead of half a cup) and a generous pinch of cinnamon, a squirt or two (not 4 or 5) of lemon juice, and finally, stirring it all up so that the individual berries are coated in what looks like crystal frosting. Daz made a couple delicious springtime salads. Her pasta salad is a personal favorite- it is full of flavor and texture. She also made a watermelon feta concoction that was quite refreshing. She purchased a couple of bottles of Skinnygirl Margarita's that went down nice and smooth. The pie was rather enjoyable when served with a scoop of Ben and Jerry's Vanilla ice cream that the hostess had thoughtfully provided. The flaky wedge of soft, sweet,slightly tart berries in a puddle of vanilla bean flecked creaminess is one of those simple culinary joys that is worthy of quiet festivity. Her home is elegant and tidy in a rustic style, and it made the blueberry pie taste that much better.

So the contrast of that tasting experience clashed quite a bit with my eating experience in the city the next day. After departing from the museum, Streus, a college friend who was visiting from Los Angeles, and I strolled down Fifth Avenue and chatted amiably. The memory of what is was like to have a leisurely personal conversation returned. It was a perfect spring day in Manhattan, warm bare skin was all around. We walked and talked all the way down to 60th, where the venerable Plaza Hotel stood before us. New York Magazine had a review of The Food Court in Plaza a few months ago, and interest was piqued.

They didn't renovate the Old New York grandeur out of the Plaza. It is still sparkly and grand and grandmotherly (if your grandmother has over-the-top rococco tastes like mine). Downstairs is a village of little boutiques and stands. The Food Hall takes up a lot of space, and the seating arrangement seems a little confusing. Guests are seated at counters and islands and there are stations for various cuisines and options; seafood, grill, pizza, salad. Streus, had to get across town to meet up with friends. Bye, bye. Kiss, hug. I'm glad we saw that McQueen exhibition, yeah, let's do it again next time you are in town.

Seated at the edge of the pasta station right next to a distressed and vintage looking mirror, the white tiled floor was noted, and the art deco in Paris motif to the room was understood. It was loud and crowded. The service was uninterested and impersonal. I decided to be good and ordered the watercress salad and a side of parmesan french fries for good measure. The salad was bland, the thin little pannini hiding in a jungle of salad was nothing to talk about, and the shmear of lemon jam on the plate was not lemony enough. The parmesan fries were as good as McDonald's fries- which is praise (McDonald's fries are pretty good). The parmesan added nothing. Thankfully the 2 gourmet soft pretzels (feta and olive, roasted garlic) procured from the pretzel truck outside the Met, were tucked away in a bag for later. The restaurant represents a side of New York that is irritating in it's self importance.

Once outside the Food Hall Payard's perfect little confections beckoned, and the passionfruit macaron was good. The salted caramel was delicious; buttery, soft, bitter-sweet. But the pretzels were enjoyed the most while window gazing at Bergdorf's. The garlic pretzel was so soft and buttery and garlicky. It was my culinary adventure of the day. I'm still trying to digest the McQueen exhibition: Savage Beauty. It was something completely new for me.

Next up for next week: An article on gourmet popsicles. A couple boxes of truffles, new spring flavor raspberry? blueberry? Hub's 40th birthday open house has to be considered. Need to try out a couple of weeknight recipes on the kids ( sausage pie, mac 'n cheese, and fish in chips). Homework for the week: Finish Van Gogh Vision and Reality, and think about McQueen exhibition.

Spring: Take Two

Yesterday was a perfect spring day. The kind of day that inspires art. I wrote a post that attempted to convey the splendour of the beautiful afternoon. But I realized that everything I wanted to say was penned by the Romantic poets, depicted by Van Gogh or Monet, and conjured by Vivaldi and Dvorak. At the end I decided that the best I could offer was a berry pie; a juicy, sweet-tart very berry pie.

I was excited about my assignment; an edible tribute to Spring. I put the post away for later, to be continued after I completed the the pie. No pre-made pie crust for this offering, I needed to make the dough from scratch. I regard pie crusts as the final frontier in baking, I haven't found a dough yet. I settled on a Martha version, hoping for better results this time.

Skip forward through swathes of lush green grass dotted with tiny bright yellow buds. Bright spring sun fades into a crisp night. I reviewed a few recipes on the internet, and came up with a plan. I imagined the pie while relaxing in bed and watching TV before going to sleep.

Gray, overcast chilly morning. The dough is crumby. My flinging over spring draft is missing. I meet up with Daz at the diner and the conversation is on the somber side (yet, no less interesting). Think about how it's just as well that I lost yesterday's flowery post draft. Keats does it so much better.

The berries are plump and juicy and deeply colored. I use a combined 6 cups of raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries, add in juice from half a lemon, half a cup of sugar, the scrapings of one vanilla bean and some flour to absorb the berry juice. I gracelessy graft the dough together and piece up a lattice crust. After baking it in a preheated 375F oven for about 50 minutes the aroma is good, and the berry center is inviting. I'm not sure it's a glorious tribute to Spring, but it'll be a nice ending to tonight's dinner.