Greek Tragedyhi

vod boxers

I'm heading to the Vod Box inside Nic's tonight for a straight up drink with my BFF Leigha. Then, I'm hoping to find a restaurant to satisfy my inner foodie fatty, but it needs to be within walking distance because after warming up in a freezer, I won't be in any condition to drive. I love research. 42 Below makes a ridiculously good HONEY vodka. Also liked their PASSIONFRUIT vodka. Will definitely be adding one of those to my home freezer. Lunch at Porta Via was far better than the last minute lazy dinner at Nic's. Tonight I'm heading back to Koi with my friend Colleen (and Abigail), which leaves today to work, shop, and grab a lunch somewhere (Doh, no food for me. Bad Jew, what was I thinking? I will instead go to the park and feed the ducks too many carbs--to symbolize the ridding of my sins--not that carbs are always a sin, right?) Oh, how I love it here. I do miss the fam though. Abigail now recites the whole alphabet. Too bad my little monkeys can't taste the honey vodka; no honey for babies.

birthday by the bushel and a peck

As a child from Long Island, NY a quick trip to the Jericho Cider Mill was never quick. On Route 106, it's one of those seasonal places with cars strung up against the shoulder, lines of patrons winding through a maze of apple butters, pumpkins, and baked loaves of sticky breads tucked away in clear plastic bags rigged with ribbons and tacked with scalloped stickers. Back then it seemed all its goods were showcased on its deep-sloping lawn like a woman outfitted in a new day dress with even newer bazooms. With nothing to hide, the Mill seemed to lay it all bare, exposing its many apples in their individual crates, each with its unique description*, distinguishing the tart from the sweet, a good eating apple (Macoun, Gala, and sorry, but Red Delicious are anything BUT) from an applesaucey tartlet (hello, Fuji), and an apple built mostly for its composure under heat (Idareds hold their shape; and no one can resist a Honeycrisp--no one). But what consumed me most was beyond the stacked confections, side by side, pie to pie.

Even more than their apple turnovers, I always looked forward to inching our way up to the checkout counter. Inside the storefront, pent up behind refrigerator doors, were gallons and half-gallons of their clouded liquigold--a murky brown juice, so tart and crisp, I salivated in the waiting. I liked to gulp it cold, until my stomach had no more room. One cup was never enough, and that first go at it couldn't be a taste. I had to finish it, right then. Without stopping. Even if some were to drip down my face. Even if the person behind me was impatient, leaning over me, extending a folded bill. I couldn't walk and drink. I had to stand still and deal with it--with the respect it deserved. It's the only way to do cider. Cold. Gulped. Tang at the top of your palette, a snap. And, damn, do I miss it.

Those days where the lawn seemed large, where the driveways seemed immense, where everything seemed bigger, and home always felt like socks warmed on a radiator. Not so young that peanut butter smeared on an apple passed as a fun snack, but young enough not to know what it's like to miss. Young enough where you don't know any differently, where life feels like it will always be lived in the walls of your house. When you think that room of yours will always be yours. Where home life consists of your mother dragging you through her errands, getting a lollipop from the man at the dry cleaners, a sticker from the lady at the bank. You hold your nose when your mother forces you to accompany her into the seafood store for a pound of flounder and some raw deveined shrimp. Your father clunks his way up the stairs in his heavy leather shoes, briefcase in hand, the one you always saw on his bed, with that yellow legal pad, a place for a pen, but the calculator was on his desk. You liked those golden little dials, the combination on the outside. Your favorite part was pushing those little chicklet buttons, watching the clasps fly open. It was the closest you came to a trap door. Those days were spent fighting your sister for your parents' attention after a day filled with school bells, hallways, cafeteria ladies, and bus stops.

There's so much strung up in such a simple memory of a quick stop at a mill with your mom. Thanks Mom and Dad for the 33 years you've given me. 

* As a side note: I can't help but also think of vanilla in this way: Madagascar Vanilla can arm wrestle all the rest, boasting brightly in ice creams, but paired with its brainy sister Indonesian Vanilla is better suited for baking since it can withstand high temperatures. I LOVE LEARNING THIS SHIT. It's always worth the trouble to me, even if I'm the only one who knows. For texture, I also blend cake and bread flours when I make chocolate chip cookies. Psycho? Just a wee bit.

autumntinis and nightingale droppings

The other night while out at The Range with the girls--only in Texas is a rooftop bar called "The Range"--a few rounds of "Pineapple Upside Down" shots found their way to our table. This makes for an excellent girl shot, but one cannot consume such full-sized sweet drinks without an insulin shot nearby. With summer now officially over, it's time to get the autumn drink on. I know ordinarily this consists of mulled things, or even maple syrup red apple martinis, but I'm on the watch for something new and am most willing to be a Guinea Piggy. I have to admit that one of the benefits of the 'burbs is getting porch drunk and ordering curbside pick-up from the Cheesecake Factory (though, not in that order). Tonight while ordering, I noticed that they totally rocked the summer addition drink list with their Asian Pear Martini, but it does beg the question, who drinks at the Cheesecake Factory? Seriously.

PINEAPPLE UPSIDE DOWN SHOTS
Absolute Vanilla Vodka, Hazelnut Liqueur, Pineapple Juice, splash of Grenadine (sinks to bottom and looks like a cherry nipple)

ASIAN PEAR MARTINI
Absolute Vanilla Vodka, pear, sake and passion fruit

Now, aside from a few adult beverages to enjoy the Emmy Awards, all I really need is nightingale droppings for a facial and an Ambrosia Judith Ripka bracelet for my world to be complete. Or would applying Visine to an aggravated pimple get the red out? I pushed way too hard and am suffering the popping consequences. It looks as if there's a bit of raw food on my cheek.

slow starts

Today was their first day of "school." We decided they need more socialization, so we've enrolled Lucas and Abigail in "developmental mornings," which basically translates to "let's swap germs!" Two days a week they'll spend their mornings, and early afternoons, away from Mama, Poppa, and Norma, so they can learn to nap elsewhere. With access to a full gymnastics facility, L&A had best step up their rings routine, or at the very least improve their dismount techniques. I love that there is an entire floor made of springs. It's basically a trampoline off which it's impossible to fall. When they aren't at the gym, they're at the outside playground or in sign language class. Awesome.

Not so awesome: waking up today after a night of drinking. I'm throwing up a little in my mouth and the room is spinning. I think I blew my nose on the fitted sheet beneath my pillow. It's morning, and I have major food remorse. At one point in the wee A.M. hours the ladies and I found our way (mind you after consuming a full on dinner) to Katz's Deli where we ordered and devoured the following:

• A bagel with cream cheese, lox, and capers
• Fried pickles, I want to say with ranch dressing
• Some type of blintz that reminded me of pie filling from a can
• Potato latkes. I think there were six of them. Those small plastic cups you find at beach snack bars or concerts at Jones Beach or at the fixin's station at Roy Rogers or Wendy's or some such establishment were filled with apple sauce and sour cream. At some point, I remember sticking my finger in one and deciding that sour cream could stand on its own as a meal.

"You have to wake up," Phil says.
"No, I really don't."
"It's their first day at school. You told the administration that they'd start today."
"So, I'll untell them."
"You're not being responsible."
"So what? Who's going to know? They'll just start next week instead."
"No, I'm not your parent. I don't want to be having this conversation."
"That makes two of us." My head is buried under a second pillow to parry the light.
"Come on. They're not going to miss school just because you feel sick."
"I promise you I won't miss it either--not even a little bit. Bye, now."
"Stephanie."
"What-ie?"
"Get up."
"I hate you."

After an unproductive stare down with the bowl, I found my way into a clean pair of pants, a questionably clean shirt, and even managed a bra. Party.

I handed the car keys to Norma and licked the babies a little. Off to school, with my eyes closed. But when we arrived, I put on my game face. My Mama face. I smiled and kissed and stayed until Abigail warmed up to the room. Lucas shot off, my smiling flirt of a boy, saying "Hi," then waving, then smiling again to each staff member and each child in the room. In contrast, as soon as Little Miss's feet touched the playroom floor, she grabbed hold of my legs, burying her head in my stance as if she were the one with the hangover. And I loved it. I love their firsts, the coaxing, the letting go. I love encouraging them and making them feel safe enough to let go.

Other children were crying with the good morning goodbyes. Abigail wasn't crying. She stood, frozen, absorbing. Too scared or fascinated to do anything about it. I stayed long enough to entice her with a doll and a mock-bottle. She fed her baby, and without saying the word "goodbye," I let her know that I'd see her soon. I watched for a while through the small window in the door, and I wondered when in the day she'd realize that I was really gone.

end of summer salad

I love chopped salads, uniform vegetable jewels, mingling and popping. Knife-skills 101 come in quite handy. Here: Radish, Cucumber, Carrot, Scallion, Tomato, Tarragon, Pine Nuts, Sauteed Apples, Golden Raisins. Off camera, there was the addition of roasted red pepper and a few tortilla strips. Grilled corn painted with Mexican Chile de Naranja/Mayo, then rolled in a very fine grate of an aged cheese, with a lime. And of course, the ultimate hamburgers and cheeseburgers. I opted for pepper jack on mine. I love a fun salad bowl, and I kinda live for the fact that Cheesecake Factory now sells all their dressings.

tomatoes and lazy peppers

I spent, what felt like a whole summer, but more realistically was probably a stretch of two days, making fresh summer tomato sauce. Marking each tomato with an X, dipping each into a pot of boiling water, inspecting them for when the skins began to curl up like the corners of a page. I'd fish them out, with a bowl of ice water at the ready. "Blanched." It sounds like a grandmother who wears short white gloves and long white pearls, a small hat pinned to her head with a fine netted veil pulled down, lipstick on her teeth. A real tomato.

I skinned each tomato, revealing a mealy, veined, translucent oddball, filled with seeds. How they haven't been commonly compared to testicles is beyond me. I slipped a finger up its center, then broke through each of the chambers, the viscous seeds slipping into my garbage bowl. I passed the broken bodies through a chrome food mill, cranking the handle over a mixing bowl, as beads and mash passed through. A raw puree.

I should take the time to savor more than summer. Continue to delight in the small side roads that give me a strange sense of peace. I should go outside more and let grass stick to the backs of my thighs. I should learn how to make a fire in my fireplace. I should toast some marshmallows and work on a good ghost story. I shouldn't feel guilty about the fact that I'd love to spend an afternoon doing nothing but planning the perfect fall picnic menu for when the leaves begin to change. I should learn how to tailgate properly. I still need to buy a flask. I love the smaller moments, but I need to be better about sharing them.

* * *

Speaking of sharing and capturing moments: A friend of mine has a gallery show in New York, and this week is the last chance to see it! His work is stunning, especially if you love New York. Imagine one of his prints in my New York room?! Stop by for me. I wish I could be there. Information below:

INCANDESCENT
Group show with Joergen Geerds, Richard Roth and Carol Salmanson
532 Gallery (http://532gallery.com)
532 West 25th St, second Floor
Open: Tuesday to Thursday, 11-6 and ALSO by appointment
Close: August 15

And for anyone checking in on Phil's results, they still are not in, which makes my stomach squirrely.

pink in the morning, sailors, take warning!

I poured myself a glass of wine from Napa this morning. Actually, that's not true. I hadn't finished my glass of Peju Provence last night, so I shelved it in the fridge for another time. I swirled the glass, then looked above the oven at the time. Turns out "another time" is 10:59 AM.

This particular wine is kind of a flirt. She's definitely a one-night-stand kind of girl, the one who sits on your boyfriend's lap at the barbecue, then tells him how lucky he is to have a woman like you. She's at her best when she's slightly chilled, but her friends describe her as warm. She giggles and dots her i's with fat round circles, as if each one were a rhinestone. She doesn't wear underwear to church. She'll always be able to pull off braided pigtails, and she never once wished she was a brunette instead of a strawberry blond who wears raspberry perfume. She has the body of an eleven year old girl and refuses implants, embracing her whole carefree Kate Hudson look. And of course, she's pink. With a white father and a red mother, she never needed counseling to deal with being a child of a mixed marriage. As easy as she is, you can't really tire of her. She has that sweet way that never makes you sick, just a breezy flirt who always knows the right thing to bring for Thanksgiving. Mothers love her. She giggles, but her laugh is infectious and musical, and she always leaves you wanting more.

I could drink a case of her. Without question, she's a sailor's delight.

Oooh, and if you're a foodie or looking to do some very early holiday shopping (I live for Christmas in July), you must check out all the fantastic wine "aroma" kits out there that teach you to distinguish between Hawthorn, Lychee, Muscat, and toast. Blackcurrant bud vs. roasted hazelnut. Here's what I know about wine when I taste it: I know what I like, but I'd never be able to tell you what I like about it because I not only am at a loss about the proper vocabulary, but as good as my sense of smell is, I have a hard time pulling apart the hints of flavor. I know it would be easier, if say, I learned to memorize certain smells. It would bring a whole new level of enjoyment to drinking...as if I needed another one! Now, excuse me while I get my drink 'n' sniff on as I twitter search my way to a sensible wine kit suggestion.

Follow me on twitter

A list of common aromas found in Le Nez Du Vin kits:

Fruit Aromas
              01 - Lemon
              02 - Grapefruit
              03 - Orange
              04 - Pineapple
              05 - Banana
              06 - Lychee
              07 - Melon
              08 - Muscat
              09 - Apple
              10 - Pear
              11 - Quince
              12 - Strawberry
              13 - Raspberry
              14 - Redcurrant
              15 - Blackcurrant
              16 - Bilberry
              17 - Blackberry
              18 - Cherry
              19 - Apricot
              20 - Peach
              21 - Almond (kernel)
              22 - Prune
              23 - Walnut

Floral Aromas
              24 - Hawthorn
              25 - Acacia
              26 - Linden
              27 - Honey
              28 - Rose
            29 - Violet    

Vegetal Aromas
              30 - Green pepper
              31 - Mushroom
              32 - Truffle
              33 - Yeast
              34 - Cedar
              35 - Pine
              36 - Licorice
              37 - Blackcurrant bud
              38 - Cut hay
              39 - Thyme
              40 - Vanilla
              41 - Cinnamon
              42 - Clove
              43 - Pepper
              44 - Saffron

Animal Aromas              
              45 - Leather
              46 - Musk
              47 - Butter

Grilled Aromas              
              48 - Toasted bread
              49 - Roasted almonds
              50 - Roasted hazelnut
              51 - Caramel
              52 - Coffee
              53 - Dark chocolate
              54 - Smoked

people thought he was charming

"I grew up in a two-room apartment. My mother made us mashed potato sandwiches for lunch. And I rose above all that. People thought he was charming. When he stole my $15,000, it brought it all back. And he would have been on my back if I hadn't taken care of him." --Closing moments of Law & Order (an episode titled "Purple Heart:" The investigations of seemingly unrelated murders of a cab driver and a hit man lead Briscoe and Logan to the cabbie's wife.)

All I could say after watching the episode: Mashed potato sandwiches? Oh, quit your whining.

food, news, & views

Food, News & Views: Stephanie Klein, author of Moose: Memoir of a Fat Camp, and chef Howie Kleinberg (from Top Chef Miami), executive chef at The Food Gang in Sunny Isles Beach, discuss their experiences at camp with host Linda Gassenheimer plus Miami Herald columnist Fred Tasker with wine tips; 1:30 to 2 p.m EST, Thursday, July 10: WLRN-FM (91.3)

40 carrots

I ate lunch at the bar of Gramercy Tavern yesterday. A pinot noir from Oregon. A delicate vegetable stew of young ramps and perky asparagus tips. Parmesan crisps. Parsley puree. Garlic bread. It was so flavorful, salty without ever being described as much, that I wanted to rush home and replicate it. Perfectly aldente turnips (totally underrated). Petite carrots, tender but still in need of a knife, not the edge of a fork, to manage them. It kinda makes a girl long for a cooking day with a fancy Artisan Publishing book. French Laundry. Bouchon. Tough call. I'm working on soup stocks when I return home.

For now though, I'm off to Bloomingdale's for a blowout nearby followed by their plain yogurt. It's a stop I never miss when I'm in NY. I leave later today for LA and wonder how well a Lady M cake will travel this time. Too bad 40 carrots yogurt melts. OMG, you know what would be so good? Making large-pearl tapioca with the melted plain yogurt from Bloomies! Stir in some passionfruit puree. Done and done. I've totally eaten my way through NY. I mean, a girl has to get in a white slice of pizza before she goes, right?

endorphins and other lies

Exercise people piss me off. I'm not speaking of people who enjoy exercise or even the women who eventually come to say "I kinda miss it" on their day of rest (though I kinda want to kick them in the vagina). I'm referring to those who advise others to find an exercise they enjoy and can stick to, the ones who use the word "routine" and say "habits" and "burn" without referring to illegal substances. As fond as I am of tennis, if I have the choice between chasing a fuzzy yellow ball or loafing about on a boat with a cold crisp glass of white, I might just sprain an ankle dashing for the nearest life vest.

When I was last in Italy, Smelly and I went on--what I thought was going to be--a leisurely stroll in Cinque Terre. It was the hike from hell. Never mind that I wasn't prepared and was lugging a 40lb. backpack while wearing an ill-fitting bathing suit, walking shorts, and pumas without socks. It was treacherous, and I was about as in shape as Humpty Dumpty after the fall. And yet...

When we finally made it to the last town, I didn't want to stop. It was not, I assure you, anything to do with endorphins. It was the sunset falling over the buildings, the lavender shadows, and the way white seemed to have a pulse. I dropped Smelly off at a bar, and despite my quivering thighs, I negotiated more steep hills and chased the sun to capture the moment, to get the gesture, to remember a time when what was going on around me seemed so much more important than the hurly-burly defeatist crap in my head. And it was then that I realized, if I was ever going to exercise regularly, I wouldn't be allowed to know it.

Sex these days hardly lasts 4 minutes, never mind a continuous 40 minutes. Sure, once upon a time hunters got their exercise by, well, hunting, searching and sometimes tackling their prey. Sadly, even composing each and every suggested item on a Bon Appetit menu wouldn't burn enough calories to negate the caloric damage of an aperitif. So as enjoyable as sex and cooking may be--and as much as they might be the direct route to a man's heart--they'll never be the solution to my exercise woes.

Those mall power-walkers are onto something. Jean shopping, I'm convinced, has to burn as many calories as elliptical-machining my way through an episode of Army Wives. A shopping spree, or even the idea of running errands as if the time it took to complete them earned me some type of valuable points toward a grand prize (much the way the program "Supermarket Sweep" worked), might just do the trick. When I was younger, I could easily spend the day at an amusement park without even once thinking about food. I'd buzz through the park, racing from one accident-waiting-to-happen to the next. And I realize, it's really just about finding what it means to you today, to go outside and play.

What activity can you do without even noticing the time? Sure you might be tired, but you're too excited to stop. I imagine it's the way some kids feel playing tag. I've never once found a sport that I wished would never end. Running my mouth doesn't count.

love thy neighbor... back

I need to find a way to out-nice my neighbor--all my neighbors, actually. For one, I'm still receiving holiday cookies. Ever since we raved about her chocolate chip cookies, they seem to arrive monthly, to celebrate the postal service, nurses, or national scrapbooking day. I'm by no means complaining, mind you, but I have no time to return the love. Phil suggests we give her a $100 bill and say, "Take that!" How is one to love thy neighbor back with no free time or proclivity to bake? A card would be ever so lame. A bottle of wine with a note suggesting we open it together soon? But there'd be no follow through. Oooh, I know the perfect gift. I'll buy a stack of amazing cookbooks and tie them with a silk a ribbon, tucking in a card that reads: We think you're running out of ideas.

Is it wrong that I want all my coffee table books to be cookbooks?

the heart of me

Upon viewing some of my past skinny pictures, someone recently commented, "Seeing how amazing you look at 118 pounds, what keeps you from going on an extreme diet to recapture that?" I have an answer.

Ignoring the wrongs of "extreme dieting" outright, I will say that the times in my life where I've been my thinnest, looking my best, I was, in fact, at my worst. I smiled pretty for the camera, but inside I weighed more than I ever had; I was heavy with anxiety, self-doubt, and felt the pangs of rejection. I was miserable, but damn did I look good. And you know what? I don't want that back, not even for a second.

Aside from hate-dieting my way to thin, there were times when I thought thin was the answer. We all have been victims of the "someday" mentality, believing that someday when (X) happens, all our "Y" eldest dreams will come true. But it doesn't work that way, and I can honestly say, I'm happy with where I am right now. Could I stand to lose 15 lbs., absolutely. But I'm at a normal weight, and I feel extraordinary. Do I like having a double chin? No. But do I want to work my ass off, keeping a food journal, and watching those around me feast while I abstain? No.

I have no desire to sustain the unsustainable weights of my past, a life lived in single servings of fat-free yogurt with grilled chicken dinners without carbs or dessert. A weight attainable only if I ate at home where I knew the exact measure of olive oil, the precise cut of the butter, or the seconds with the non-stick spray to the pan. I don't want a life of occasional indulgences. I want it to be filled with everything I love as often as possible without sacrificing my health. I want every last thing I can get away with. Life is too short to deny myself shortening, and I believe, above all else, life should be lived with gusto. Not excess, but gusto.

At my thinnest moments, I didn't even feel like a person. It felt like a lie. It's not that I aligned myself with a fat girl identity and believed the thin me wasn't real. I wasn't sabotaging myself because thin didn't feel familiar. I felt empty, soulless, ghost-walking through my life. I wasn't nurturing my spirit or my body. I was anxiety in a size 4. It didn't feel real because I wasn't eating or living real. I was exercising too often, and eating too little. What I did eat wasn't real; it was processed, unwholesome. Chemicals. Substitutes. Never mind healthy, it was all empty.

Whereas the calories that people have come to consider "empty calories," sustenance from your mother's chocolate chip cookies, for example, were a comforting, calming, indulgence. This might just draw one to argue, "Aha! You use food as comfort, and that's your problem!" I can only respond, it's not my problem. I have no qualms about food anymore. I don't feel guilt or fear or panic when it comes to fueling my body. Sometimes I eat too much, sometimes not enough. But at least I feel whole.

In the photos where I'm thin, I smiled. In my behavior, I was more forward, less inhibited, eager to meet up with people from my past. But in the quiet moments, alone in bed, I didn't like myself. I wasn't really a person, just a thin container. I loved fitting into fashion-forward clothing, that men seemed to be uncritically fond of me, but really a part of me was missing. The heart of me.

So now I eat the heart out of everything, and I'm happy.

chinese hams on easter sunday

Chinese food always sounds like a good idea come Sunday nights. I'm a Jew, so I'm sure it's stamped on my DNA. Though, I've been told that the Jews religiously devouring Chinese food on God's day of rest is only a regional phenomenon. Well, even living here in Texas I sometimes find myself craving orange-flavored beef and a Shirley Temple--mostly I like the idea of fruit in unexpected places. Admittedly a fruit garnish in a drink is hardly unexpected, but when you're a child and are offered a fancy drink with an umbrella and (Yessss!) two cherries--well, if only we were that easy to please as adults. The truth, though, is that we all really do think we're that easy.

I like the idea of traditions but only the fun ones. I realize "fun" is subjective and it changes as we age. I believe the elderly take great comfort in their traditions because it's a link to their pasts, a door really, inviting them to remember and recount and ask for another scotch. Traditions can add great meaning to your life, a depth and understanding that there's something bigger than you and your now, but you don't realize that until you're older, and even then, you kinda roll your eyes at the idea of having to put on a suit. "Respect your elders" old people say. "Learn some respect, what it is to suffer, so you know how good you have it," they continue. These are words I cannot imagine saying very often. I'd rather show than lecture, and I'd rather learning be fun, not tights and wool and dress coats with stiff shoes.

When you're young, "fun traditions" are sometimes about presents or the activities surrounding gift-giving, surprises upon awakening, that special one-on-one time with Grandpa in the yard. For me it was an opportunity to talk all about me. My school. My friends. My favorite color. And oooh, Grandma, come play my favorite game (Hook Line and Stinker). Then I'd (c)harm the audience with my vocals. Such a ham. I still am. I wish I weren't, but I totally am. So over the top. I know because when I see myself in videos I cringe. And I can tell when I can tell I'm being filmed. My voice is different. You're not supposed to hate yourself on Sundays.

Chinese food livens everyone with its little tastes on little plates, with the thin brown sauces in their little shallow bowls, glimmering like loose stones. But I never really feel satisfied unless it's Peking duck, and even that I mostly enjoy for the curly scallions and the sting of hoisin, the way the pancakes taste of nothing more than raw flour. When people eat these foods in the movies it means their lives are good. Especially good if they're in pajamas eating from the cartons. Male roommate, no shirt. Female roommate, no bra and barely-there terrycloth running shorts. Platonic (eye roll). Their eating Chinese food from the fridge is foreplay, a little golden ticket for the patient audience. You always know things will be okay if Chinese food's involved. No one gets cancer in a Chinese restaurant. There are no breakups, and the good "let's make the chick look difficult" scenes always happen at some vegan place with lesbians giving the dude nasty looks. Chinese restaurants save the (holi)day. That, or they're the go-to place for the cops in law and crime shows, to ask an Asian man, usually dressed in a puffer coat and wool cap, "have you seen this man?"

But when I see people in the movies eating with chopsticks, I think that maybe if I eat noodles from a box my life will be lived in pajamas with inside jokes, strung together with the times that'll come to me in montage--the moments I'll never forget, wound in the rich tastes of our traditions. That, or I'll just feel thirsty and want a dish of ice cream.

pork popcorn and all things new york

I leave for New York tomorrow, to-do list in hand. At the top of it, like the good Jew that I am: pork fried popcorn. Apparently that's the draw to Spitzer's Corner. That, and the homemade donuts. How fast can you say angioplasty? I don't care. It's rare that I'm able to indulge in such toothsome confections here in Austin. I'm actually not the biggest meat eater, aside from lamb, so all the brisket, ribs, and andouille sausage are kind of wasted on me. I was adding to my list today and reasoned a wine shop would not be completely outrageous. Italian Wine Merchants, in particular. Yes, just what I need: another thing to carry home. As it is there will be the laptop and bulky Nikon D300 SLR (I only say this because so many ask). I'm not entirely sure how I'll fit everything in. Not just into my bod, or my schedule, but into my suitcase.

It wouldn't be the worst idea to pack an empty bag inside my luggage tonight. My life used to be so much different. I actually bought a new top each time there was a birthday party to attend. Absurd. But it's what I did, what my friends did, too. And now the birthday parties are in backyards with water wings and cakes in the shape of Dora. The other odd thing about anticipating going back is, I associate New York with being single. And it will be strange to be back and not have plans with a boy. No intimate meet-ups for wine, no butterflies in my stomach. As I said to a friend recently, "at least I won't have to worry too much about what I wear now." And it makes me sad in a way, to say goodbye to all I knew. The oddest bit is, I've never felt this before. Not when I first moved away, not when I returned with the babies, just now, returning alone for the first time. There's a disappointment, a sadness, the way goodbye often is. Even though I'm saying hello again.

Lately I've been feeling anxious, missing, questioning my choices. Is Austin for me anymore? I don't want to move back to New York City, but I'm missing something. Friends, family, the newness factor, where there are openings of new restaurants, where there's an energy when you open your door, people walking places, not in circles around a lake (and the type that were always circling Central Park I avoided anyway). It's also a feeling I'm sure to solve with some crusty bread and a glass of red. But if it snows while I'm in New York, I will surely weep. Until then, though, I will charge forward with my lists of eyebrow threading appointments, of drinking and laughing and sharing stories with the girls I love so. The pork popcorn is just confetti.

Though I must also confess, when I think of such celebrations, of drinking and parties and cab rides, scarves and braving the cold just one more block, I remember, so clearly, what it was to want, so desperately, to have someone with which to share it all. At celebrations, I'd get a little quiet, like something was hanging inside me. I'd pine for a man to roll my eyes with as someone inevitably did or said something inappropriate, especially when that someone was me. Proximity mattered. I didn't want to share it over the phone, via text, or IM. I wanted someone to accompany me to a life I wanted to live. Not just someone to notice I was no longer in the room as the guests continued to file into a crowded apartment, but I wanted someone close, to watch the lights in apartment windows across the way, escaping to a terrace wondering about the lives of strangers feeding their cat or adjusting their TV (not that anyone does this, actually). To live and witness the quieter moments with me, in leans, and toasts, and lost footing because of how much wine I found. I wanted an escape from that party, where our moment mattered more than the one we'd come to celebrate. Where we'd create our own interesting story. The one we'd remember for the rest of our lives.

We'd awake hungover, and I'd say, "Now don't kill me. I know I hate Chinese food, but how do you feel about dim sum? I know a place with good pork."

the hit list

I leave for New York next week. Feb 27-Mar 2. The trip has been scheduled for a while, even if it is just a quickie. I'm coming in to celebrate Dulce's 30th birthday, staying with Alexandra and her Mr. Alexandra to be. All the girls are already asking where we're having dinner. What stores do I need to hit? Which bars do I miss? Where must I go before I leave? I haven't had time to keep up with what's in and what's out (despite my New York magazine subscription), but I haven't forgotten the standbys. It's going to be a girls' weekend, filled with alcohol, shopping, and getting ready. Meeting at bars, avoiding my camera, catching up on all the lives and details in person.

What I'm looking forward to most is the getting ready time. The showers and dressing, and deciding what to wear (though really, thanks to packing and suitcase limitations, it won't be all that challenging). The accessory shopping, blow dryer time, and the clit-rock. The stories shared over too much wine and too little food. So, now I need to put together my list of do not miss spots. In the coming days, I'll add to this must-hit list, but off the top of my head...

Balthazar. Goat cheese onion tart, French martini.
Pookie and Sebastian.
Ino. Truffle Egg Toast.
Mink on Mott because it's more fun to say than Mink on E.11.
Nanette Lepore, the actual store, not the Saks counterpart.
Sushi of Gari. Only for the spicy tuna roll, to go. I will eat this as I walk the streets. Unless it's too cold, which will mean hitting an Upper Least Side watering hole mid-day.
I definitely need to hit up a store with good accessories. Earrings and necklaces, maybe a bracelet, but I doubt it. There are too many statement bracelets out there now, cute ones from J.Crew and Banana. There's no need for special when it comes to bracelets right now.
A Gray's Papaya hot dog, or nine. Unless I hit PDT for the grown-up version.
And let's just face it, I'm a complete food snob and sloth, and I'm fine with that. I fully intend to cram too much in by way of plans and food, and reckless gluttony including the following stops:

Degustation
Sfoglia
Tailor
PDT
Death & Co. (because really, how many times can one get thee to Pegu Club?), and how does one pass up a Wicked Kiss?

I already know I'll be hitting up Kittichai and of course the birthday girl's forever young celebration at the new Islero. Mostly I'm looking forward to hooking up with New York again. It's been a long time since I've been in a cab drunk. And I'm going to make the most of it by being on my worst behavior. Or something like that.

the international language of love

I feed my children sushi. Not raw fish, mind you, but a California roll never hurt anyone. And it certainly won't hurt mashed into itty bitty bite sized beads of sustenance accompanied by edamame. They eat smoked salmon, chilean sea bass (only off my own plate), and tilapia. They've had curry, now, twice. Seem to live for Saag Paneer (but don't we all, though). Had coconut soup, some "grilled cheese muffins," and caviar on New Year's. Today I offered them some of my sandwich: toasted rosemary bread, dijon mustard, Shallots Confit (seriously, aside from lemon curd, this is the best thing ever found in a jar), with heated pastrami and havarti cheese. While they stick to oatmeal and p-fruits (pears, plums, peaches, excluding pomegranates and prickly pear) for breakfast, when it comes to lunch, I try to take them from Italy to Istanbul. The problem?

My children have garlic breath, and it's disgusting. We keep feeding them hummus because it's so good for them, packs in protein, calories, veggies, all in a single tablespoon. They eat garlic portabella burgers. They don't make the non-garlic type, so I'm out of luck there. While they love to eat all the veggie burgers and boca burgers and veggie booty I thrust on them, what I really need to do is get them to eat parsley for better breath, ready them for kissing and all that goes with the international language of love, including croissant. I don't make them separate meals and believe they should always eat what we eat. We don't eat hotdogs or bologna, so neither will they. We do, however, grill cherry chicken sausage and bratwurst. I know at a certain age they'll be corrupted, that they'll fuss and only want chicken nuggets or some such thing. Though, I'm not certain when this actually happens. When do kids refuse anything aside from grilled cheese, fries, nuggets, pb&j, and pizza? I'm going to be ready for it, with my sneaky purees, because food is my language of love.

In the coming days, I hope to have a little tasting with them. I want to present them with different tastes and see which they favor. Salty, Sweet, Sour, Crunchy, Smooth, (and fat). Fat is actually a taste. It has its own silky texture, and people crave it. Sour is under appreciated in this country. It's why I offer them thai food and grapefruit. And you can bet, I'll be giving them small tastes of Confit of Figs and Balsamic Vinegar (so good served with cheese, but also incredible with a roasted beet napolean, where you layer the condiment with sliced beets, then shower with minced pistachio nuts and a touch of fresh mint. Yum.)

my favorite recipe

It might not be glamorous, not even a little, but it makes me think of my childhood. Some kids wanted flat hamburgers, "like McDonalds does it!" Others wanted chicken nuggets and fries. I wanted--above all other things, including ice cream--cheese puffs. In kindergarten, we were instructed to bring in our favorite recipe for our class cookbook. I was then charged with lacing these white hole-punched photocopies together with thin rigs or yarn, then creating a cover with a few knit stitches and macaroni elbows. Sadly I cannot find this funky little treasure, but upon unpacking items from New York storage recently, I came across the book from which the recipe was originally taken. Calico Pantry, with all proceeds going to the United Cerebral Palsy Association of Nassau County, Inc. I hurried through the book, could it be? The very one with my cheese puffs recipe?! Ah, it's there! And then, I just now looked at the ingredients.

2 cups sharp, grated Cheddar cheese (8 oz.)
1/2 cup butter
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. paprika
pineapple chunks (or olives)

It not only sounds vile, it sounds inaccurate. 8 oz. is 1 cup. So am I to use 8 oz. or the 2 cups? Ooooh, I hate baking! Still, I am going to attempt to make these without the pineapple, as I'm quite sure Mom's puffs were never contaminated with pineapple.

Mix all ingredients, except pineapple or olives, together with fork or fingers.
Cut pineapple chunks in half or use olives, and roll in cheese mixture into balls;
Or make plain cheese balls. (Now we're talking).
Freeze on an ungreased cookie sheet until hard. Can be put into containers and kept frozen.
Bake frozen on ungreased pan in preheated 400 degree over for 15 minutes.

Next stop? Stuffed mushrooms. I miss Mom's cooking. It seems what I loved most, and for what I have the fondest affection, is Hors d'oeuvres, even as an eight-year-old. Some things never change.

pretty in pink

I never understood baking, that something we eat could be that precise, right down to an eighth of a teaspoon. I don't like opening the thick bag of flour, having to do so over the sink or a garbage can, for fear of it showering my floors and counter tops, never mind my black clothes.Then leveling it, just so, with a straight edge, only to then have to sift the stuff. I tried once to store my flour in airtight containers, use one of those fancy flour shovels, usually reserved for bins of ice. Bugs. Flying bugs. Hatched. Now I keep the flour in the fridge. Baking is just too calculated. You have to worry about measurements and the calibration of your oven. Your altitude. If baking were a woman, she'd have an irregular period, wear a sweatband, and be the first to tap her foot and remind you "it's been thirty minutes on the elliptical. Time to let others go, like the sign says." Uptight and moody.

And yet, I buy silicone liners for my baking sheets. I walk the aisles of Target and simply cannot resist. Sprinkles. Pink sugar. I think of half-baked butter cookies, the edges glittering in fine sanding sugar. And I add it all to the cart. Now I have an obligation to make Valentine's Day cookies. So I buy the cookie cutters, in XO shapes, lips, and hearts. I imagine each one different, on a white serving plate, there for the taking. I wonder when I'll be up to the challenge. In the meanwhile, I do love just looking at the sprinkles... and Martha Stewart photos (like above). Or how about making cookies with wafer paper and any stamps you have at home, like these beauties:

And who ever said no to red velvet cupcakes? Or vintage wallpaper printed cookies? Thank you fancy flours for the instructions. Now, if only I can find the time.

ain't no sunshine when she's gone

I'm so damn happy today. I hear the muffled sound of the sleepy-time CD we play for the tots during nap time piping in from behind their bedroom door. The CD was a party favor from a baby shower. I haven't been to many baby showers. A few when I lived in New York, fancy ones with tea sandwiches, crumpets, and strawberries with clotted cream. Fancy because all the ladies dressed in suits with scarves, floral jewelry, blown hair, lipstick. A lot of preparation to celebrate the preparation of a life. I kinda love baby showers.

I think I love all showers because they're daytime affairs. You get design ideas.Fruit-filled ice rings made in bundt pans. Creams piped from pastry bags. Tablescapes. Fancy cocktails. Yet, showers are casual enough that you don't have to worry about which black dress. You get to mingle without screaming, and no one forces you to dance. And, hello, there are always tea sandwiches! Oh, how I just love small sandwiches. Fig, marscapone, a mint leaf, on a walnut cranberry bread. Died and gone. Just love it.

I love the ruffles, the laughter through the rooms of a house, the way people speak of their jobs and other people they know. I always admire the clothes of others. From across a room, I'll wonder where they got that bracelet. I love being surrounded by women at showers.

Luncheons, however, are a beast. The word itself reminds me of my ex-mother-in-law, Rome. Luncheons are forced. It's business or obligation. Someone's always pushing something. It's too uptight with tables and centerpieces, a speaker or agenda. Oh, but the shower, what glee. Free to float about, feasting on seconds, to up and leave when the company bores. Onto a new clutch of women with new stories to tell.

You sip champagne and clink glasses and get to eat as many diminutive delectables as you'd like. Smoked salmon, dill, and a dollop of creme fraishe. I love the dollop. Sweet butter with cucumber. Life, I think, should have more showers.   

The last one I attended, here in Austin, the baby shower for Gus Dupuy, was fantastic. During all the ho-hum oohs of gift-opening, there was a kitchen counter stacked with scrapbooking supplies. Guests were encouraged to create a page for Mama, leaving blank spots for her to simply slip in photos of Gus once he arrived. Guests signed their names to the back. And, not only were there sandwiches galore, and sugar-rimmed glasses,  but the guest of honor is just about the brightest woman I've ever met. Bright in a way that when you're near her, you light up. Her voice, the things she says, I just love her. And the strange thing is, I hardly know her. When I first moved to Austin, we went on a grown up playdate, set up on a double-blinder. Maybe saw each other a handful of times. Walked the lake in the morning once. Did dinner and drinks. Not much of anything, but she's full of personality and life, and it's a joy to be near her. Especially when she has something to bitch about. She's sinced moved from Austin, but I get the photo updates of sweet Gus, the mass email moms seem to come to between feedings. But just thinking of her makes me smile. We should all know people like this.

not lenny kravitz funky

Last year, I had a foodie-themed tree. This year, I cannot decide. We're going to chop down our own Christmas tree tomorrow.  When I say we, I mean Phil.  The elves and I plan to watch and cheer as he heaves and hos.  Phil's not much of a social person, except when he's around people.  That is, he doesn't like making plans, especially plans where I plan a party, because inevitably he ends up having to do stuff.  "Everything.  I end up having to get involved in everything, even if you say you'll be taking care of it."  So if I bake cookies and ask him to taste them, he's involved.  I roll my eyes and know he'll come around, as he always does, after putting on his pout.  And once people are around, he couldn't be more social and hospitable.  So, go figure.

We've been lighting the candles and singing our prayers with the tots.  I've started to sing them the Adam Sandler Hannukah songs before bed each night.  And tomorrow there will be a tree.  We're making our own traditions and honoring the ones we both grew up with.  On Christmas Eve there will be seafood.  I don't know about seven fishes, but I'm going to try to get close.  We're not Italian, but my first cousins are, so I grew up with that tradition.  It's part of who I am, even though I'm not Italian.  And to me, that's what this season is about.  Coming together and carrying on traditions of our past, and lighting new ones along the way.  I'm so thankful Phil is accepting of these things.  In fact, he's the one who researched the "Cut your own tree" place, an hour from our home.  He's even gone ornament shopping with me, since all my childhood ornaments were lost.  So now we're creating a new tree style.  And I'm a Libra and simply cannot decide which way to go with decorations, style, and theme.

I've posted about themes before.  But now I'm more into color.  Clear twinkle lights are playing it safe.  Make a kick-ass tree with multicolored lights?  I don't know how it's done, unless you go the traditional red, green, and gold route.  So I'm returning the colored lights and going safe and clear, adding color with the ornaments.  First, I thought I'd make a preppy tree, all pink and green, with bright plaid ribbon and bows. Then I was swayed with the idea of silver and a deep purple, chandelier pieces and velvet bows.  I simply cannot make up my mind, so I've purchased everything my eye has been drawn to, keeping receipts, hoping to construct something we'll all love.  The trick is coming up with something the kids will love for the years to come, too.  I love the old world toys look, candy gumdrop garland, but that's not going to happen this year.  We're definitely going with the silver/funky theme.  Not Lenny Kravitz funky.  Pine cone people funky.  Though I have noticed that I've purchased quite a few knitted sparkling sweaters and felt skater girls, even a few strappy shoe ornaments.  Oh how I'd love to deck the new mantle Phil's getting us with fashion-forward Barbies!  I might just have to work a few into the tree or room somewhere.  I still love to love Barbie.

I hope to one day have enough time to create my own ornaments from fabric and tassels, but it will never ever happen.  Because when I do have that much free time, I'll fill it with other things.  I just will.  I don't have time to be icing cookies to hang on a tree.  I wish life could be just one big crafts project class, where all you did was learn new things, try new things, and get your hands dirty.  I love to play. 

I've been looking for tree inspiration in magazines and blogs (and looked back at my photos from last year) and haven't found ANYTHING!  Just one good tip, to put small silver ornaments in toward the trunk of the tree to really make the tree light up and reflect lots of light within.  Any other tips, please add to the discussion. Anthropologie ornaments above were my first purchase.  Below are some others...

assembly required

You're either handy or you're not.  You're the kind of person who hires someone to install a lock on your bedroom door, or you're the kind who bribes someone to come over for you (with shitty offers of pizza and cheap wine).  And someone always shows up to help. 

When I was single, living in a one bedroom apartment in New York, I only ever hired someone once.  I paid the building handyman $50 to assemble a heavy, and complicated, bookshelf.  I never could have tackled this myself, and even if I could, personally, I'd derive zero pleasure or sense of satisfaction.  It's not the way I tick.

As for all the other things I needed done, I bribed with food.  Please, I'd whimper, please install my new air conditioner.  And then more promises of food with a simple, "can't you just come hook up the TiVo, the dvd player, the speaker system, the television, and the CD carousel?  Oh, and run the speaker wire under the rug?"  But really, it wasn't cooking.  It was assembly.

The only thing I really assemble are salads.  "Thanks for cooking.  You're such a good cook."  Well, technically, I hadn't cooked.  Not even a poached pear.  I assembled.  But I suppose it has to count, assembling, deciding really what to include.  I won't say "building blocks" or "flavor profiles" because these seemingly innocuous phrases make me kinda twitch.  It takes all the love out of the game.  It's sounds too complicated.  Assembly required.  Way more daunting then continuing to throw shit in a pot until it tastes good.

They say a good chef can make excellent scrambled eggs.  A good composer can orchestrate an incredible salad.  Simple ingredients used in a unique way, or an unusual pairing of these ingredients, always impress.  What are your favorite salad ingredients?  I love thinking of new salad "profiles."  Because it's easy to do, usually requires very little cleaning and time, and they can be all the more impressive when they're shoved into a circular mold beforehand.  This is the reason I happen to adore the book titled, STACKS.  So damn good.  You know, if you're into the art of assembly.  Think Gotham Bar & Grill, the art of vertical food.

season of delights

It's good to be home.  Especially when home is tied with order, where life is clean and bright, cozy and slightly inebriated, as it appears in the staged pages of food and decor magazines.  Where the dining table is always set, with bright table runners, fit with place mats and name cards, the silverware is polished, and all matches, the dishes--there are enough of one kind, and each type of wine has its proper glass, shining and clear of marks, prints, or dishwasher spots.  Cheeses are on a wooden board, netted in cheese cloth (oh, that's what it's for).  The music is piped in.  Clean socks, sheets, windows, and floors. There's new wine to try.  Cab Francs and white burgundy.  New silky cotton sheet sets, crisp cold bedding.  The tater tots tucked into warm jammies, with new toys, and books, a big chair, the three of us cuddling as I read to them a new journey.  Homemade parsnip puree.  Apple pie with cheddar crust.   

The weather is cold enough for mittens and bulky cashmere sweaters, scented lingerie, warm and clingy.  I'm making homemade hot cocoa kits, fresh tomato soup with gougeres (light and airy cheese puffs made with gruyere-laced pastry).  I love that I can make these, pipe them onto a baking sheet, then freeze them for future use, as they're best eaten still warm.  Oh, how I'm enamored with this season of delights. I want to spend the next few days buying holiday ribbons and preparing the house for the season, a season of wreaths and homemade marshmallows.  I want to do prep work, so all that's left to do is light some candles, and reach for that handsome and well=placed throw... and brush up on some good tasty books.

Ah the recipe for Gougeres from Artisinal

Ingredients:
4 Tbl. unsalted butter
1/4 C. milk plus extra for brushing
1/2 tsp. each salt and ground white pepper
1/2 C. all-purpose flour, sifted
1/8 tsp. baking powder
1/2 C. grated Gruyere plus extra for garnish
2 eggs
Coarse sea salt

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

2. In a saucepan, bring the butter, 1/4 cup of milk, 1/4 cup of water, salt, and pepper to a boil.  Remove from the heat and add the sifted flour and baking powder.  Stir well and return to medium heat.  Cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture pulls away from the sides of the pan and forms a ball, about 2 to 3 minutes.

3.   Place the 1/2 cup of cheese and the milk mixture in the bowl of a mixer fitted with a paddle, and beat until just warm.  Add the eggs slowly as the mixer funs, until the dough is smooth and shiny.  (Alternatively, stir to cool by hand and beat in the eggs with a wooden spoon.)  Transfer to a pastry bag and pipe in 1-inch mounds using a No. 4 tip, or drop with a teaspoon on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.  (At this stage, the gougeres can be frozen and then stored in a plastic bag.  They do not have to be thawed before baking, but 1 1/2 to 2 minutes should be added to the cooking time.)  Brush with milk and sprinkle with cheese and sea salt.

4.  Bake for 10 to 12 minutes; when the puffs are golden-brown, reduce the oven temperature to 375 degrees F and cook for 2 to 3 minutes more.  Serve hot or at room temperature.  May be reheated.  Yum... serve also as "croûtons" in any winter or autumn soup!

the lard factor

I recently went to dinner and shared a trio appetizer.  That is, we ordered one appetizer: a trio of foie gras.  I know.  I'm a terrible person.  Now onward.  One piece was seared and lovely, crisp and yielding.  Your standard go-to move.  The next taste was a foie gras brulee style, complete with a burnt sugar top, and finally, foie gras ice cream.  The ice cream tasted like just that.  Ice cream.  The after taste might have been foie gras, I suppose.  But really, I liked it more for the idea than the execution.  And I suppose that's true with a lot of things. 

Imagine if you will, a chocolate chip cookie made with duck fat in place of cow's butter.  It would of course still have sugar and vanilla.  But you'd pay extra for the idea.  I imagine French Laundry, or some other fabulous restaurants experiment with such things.  I wonder if it makes any difference.  I love fat.  Not the kind I can see.  The kind I taste.  The way it coats, a silky luxury to it.  I can't help it.  I don't think everyone is this way, wanting to try duck cookies, and to see if using clarified butter makes a marginal difference in flavor.  I do love learning about fat, too.  How melting it, freezing it, or using it room temperature before creaming it with sugar makes a difference.

I'm just back from the dentist, clean of cavities, tartar, and plaque, which stands to reason that there's no better time to eat sugar.  I have been having a serious craving for chocolate chip cookies for days now.  I want to bake some, at least six dozen or so.  Freeze some, eat some.  You know the drill.  Ah, but to find the right recipe... it's a task.  Everyone has views on what the prefect chocolate chip cookie should be.

Someone once said the perfect breast should fit into a champagne glass.  I don't know who this someone was, nor do I care to.  But they didn't say a flute, long and narrow, or those fat champagne glasses that they often stack in a wet pyramid.  But clearly, everyone has views on what a perfect set are, just as we all have opinions on our cookies. 

There's the crisp camp.  People who prefer Tate's Cookies (formerly Kathleen's Cookies), buttery, thin and crisp.  Then there's Martha Stewart's recipe for Alexis's Favorite Brown Sugar Chocolate Chip Cookie, which is very large, thin, crisp on the edges, and very thin and chewy.  It uses 4 sticks of butter, not 2, like most recipes.  These are the kinds I often make.  Where the butter is creamed, not melted first.  Things like this make a difference.  If you melt the butter vs. simply cream it, you'll get a different type of cookie.  Of course there's the butter to flour ratio to consider.  And then of course there's the lard factor.  Crisco or butter?  Or half and half?  I'm pretty old school when it comes to my chocolate chip cookies.  I don't care for pecans in my chocolate chip cookies.  I feel they're too soft.  I want a hard walnut to the tooth.  It's nearly a meal on its own.  *Oh, and as for potato chip cookies... blech!  Some people like them.  But really, do you need any more added fat and crap in your body during the holidays?  They're so not worth it.  Don't bother.

Some prefer their chocolate chip cookies large and chewy and use a special technique to get them this way.  They'll spoon out the perfect sized drop for the sheet, then split it apart, then rotate the pieces and reassemble them, leaving rough edges.  Insisting this adds a new texture to the mix.  I wouldn't know.  I don't have patience for this.  I also SUCK at baking.  I have a convection oven and need to learn how to use it.  For those hoping for a chewy cookie, I direct you to Alton Brown's chewy recipe.  There you'll also find his recipe for the thin and the puffy.  But really... who likes puffy cookies is beyond me.  They seem so store-bought to me.  Please, if you have a recipe to add in the comments, please say what type of cookie it yields.  And if you know anything about what the lard factor adds to the mix, please share. 

I think the consensus is probably crisp on the edges, chewy and yielding in the centers.  Some like them more soft and light, others, more crisp, softened with a dunk or two in milk. Of course there are other fantastic cookies out there, but right now, I need to get the chocolate chip cookies underway before I get to my cranberry, white chocolate, macademia nut cookies.  Oh, how I love cookie season.

that special something

"A green tomato maybe?"  I took another bite, then looked up, as if the answer were chalked on the ceiling.  "No, it's not slimy.  It's juicy, but firm.  Tomatillo?  It's like a cucumber but not as refreshing or watery."  I'm eating something green, a little tough, definitely some type of vegetable.  It's a spear, similar to a pickle spear, except without the seeds.  I love when I'm stumped.  There was once a game show on the food network, where for the "showcase showdown" the two finalists were served a portion of a single dish.  The object of the game was for contestants to alternate identifying an ingredient in the dish.  So, if say, it was apple and smoked-bacon salad, a smart contestant would first name the obvious ingredients, like apple or bacon, then move onto the trickier elements, remembering salt, then trying to decipher what that, was that a lychee?  You take another bite, certain you've got it.  "Oh, I just know it.  I have it all the time.  What is it?"  And you know but you don't.  Fish sauce!  Lime juice... oh, that just snuck right in there.

I play this game with myself all the time.  Tonight was no exception.  "Cactus," Phil chimed in.
"Ya think?"
We ask the waiter, who needs to ask the chef.  "So, guys, what we have for you tonight is chayote, a Mexican squash."  Phil and I nod at each other and thank our waiter for the information.  Neither of us then turned to the other and said, "Did he just say Coyote?"  Because really, that only happens in a romantic comedy, a bad one at that, something where Uma Thurman is trying to giggle.  It just doesn't work. 

ruby red

I named Abigail after a cocktail if you must know.  I have always loved ruby red grapefruit, and while pregnant, I couldn't get enough grapefruit juice.  Oh my God, and fruit in general.  I ate a pineapple a day.  Seriously, the whole thing.  Every day.  I liked juicy and tangy, and I've always been partial to the grapefruit, thinking it more sophisticated than it's humdrum Judy of a cousin, the orange.  The orange is too easy.  It's a sweet citrus.  But the grapefruit is challenging, complex, and when you hit it right, pick one with thin skin (that's the key really in picking a good grapefruit), it's so rewarding, a light deliciousness that seems like a secret.  Abigail Ruby, say hi to mama's favorite cocktail:

THE ABIGAIL RUBYTINI

4 oz. freshly squeezed Ruby Red grapefruit juice
1 oz. grenadine
2 oz. Ruby Red Absolut Vodka
Sugar for rim of martini glass

Freeze some martini glasses.  Rub the rims with the skin of a grapefruit, roll them in sparkling sanding sugar (large chunks of sugary crystal).  Mix up all ingredients with a cocktail shaker and some ice, then pour into your frozen glass.  Try not to say, "Holy shit this is so damn good," with every single sip.  It will annoy people.  Trust me.  I've been there, said that.  This is my all time favorite drink... and girl.

speaking of impressive

I'm having people over for dinner next week.  I can, like few others, make a three-day weekend of planning a menu. "Please don't let it rule your life," Phil warns, "or I don't want to have people over." 

"Well, then you should have married someone else because this is what I do." He still doesn't get it.  He sees menu-planning as a distraction.  I should be writing.  Instead, I'm devising.  I'm plotting.  I'm trying to compose a menu that will look impressive while remaining quite simple to tackle. 

"Well it doesn't get easier than make-your-own-sundaes for dessert," I say thinking of all the fun toppings I could offer: crushed peanut butter cups, graham crackers, twix pieces, miniature marshmallows... oh and of course a homemade fudge meant for profiteroles. 

"Of course there's easier.  It's called buying a cake."  But I don't want to buy a cake.  "Stephanie, I know you think make-your-own-sundae sounds clever or creative or whatever, but no one cares!  You're the only one who gives a shit."  I don't, as it happens, think it's clever.  I think it says, I've cooked and can't be bothered with dessert.  And I care.  It matters to me.  So what if no one else cares?  It makes me happy.  If I want a create your own night, what's the big deal?  "You waste too much time" seems to be the big deal.  There are always larger issues masked behind these arguments.  I hate when I have to feel his stress and it somehow equates to my having to change.  No one gives a shit? I do. And that should be enough.   Ice cream for everyone!  Or more likely, the company will bring a dessert.  That's certainly one way to clamp an argument.

As for the rest of the menu, of course I could paw my way through one of my Charlie Trotter books, but come now.  I don't have the time nor inclination to cull 82 ingredients for one entree. Still, I treasure my time with cookbooks, articles, and recipe web sites. He believes if cooking is done properly it's done efficiently, effortlessly.  My grandmother, for instance, could manage to tent a table in tasty morsels without a moment's notice.  She had a proper pantry, was masterful with leftovers.  And I'd agree, great chefs are impressive in their ability to surprise us with the ordinary.  I'm not arguing.  But it's a different task at hand when you know company is coming.  You have the opportunity to plan, to assemble, to scribble out ideas, to delight your guests.  And mostly, you have the opportunity to share with others the thing that excites you most.  It's a gift being able to share something you love.

The worst of it, I would say, is cooking for those who simply eat to live.  Their bodies are machines, and food is simply fuel.  Sometimes they forget to eat.  I don't like these people.  At all.  I like big characters with stories who gulp wine and spin tales and ask for seconds. They're appreciative of the work that went into it, the thoughtfulness, the smallest details.   The plates you've chosen, the linen napkins and the delightful napkin rings with their whimsical motifs.  The tumblers for the wine, in lieu of long-stemmed glasses, setting the mood.  The music you've selected.  It's an orchestra.  The flavored butter you'd made days in advance.  The way you took care to see all your vegetables were cut uniformly, into distinct even pieces, delicate little jewels.  This is lost on Phil, and on most actually, but it doesn't make me love it less.  It's so much a part of my enjoyment, the planning that goes into a meal.

And lately, here's what I've discovered: there aren't enough (any?!) books out there paying attention to impressive, yet manageable, menu planning.  Sure, there are cookbooks dedicated to easy meals; get dinner on the table in less than an hour.  But where do you turn when your in-laws are coming for dinner?  When it's the first meal you're cooking for him?  When you're meeting his out-of-town friends for the first time?  Where is the cookbook that tells you which music to play, which cocktail to serve, and how many hors d' ourves to make?  We're talking manageable yet ridiculously impressive meals, right down to a killer dessert.  And I don't care if some of it is semi-homemade (a la Sandra Lee).  A book that will tell you how to just make it look fancy, even though it isn't.  With the use of cookie cutters and molds, or that one ingredient that will change the way they look at the entire dish.  A book that tells you to add truffle oil to the white pizza appetizer (and that tells you to buy the dough, not to make it yourself).  Yes, it should have menu ideas for the bigger occasions, but much more to the point: it should make small days the occasion.  Anniversaries, just because you've been working so hard, because you kicked ass in soccer, because no one should have to put up with that friend of mine who's been sleeping on our sofa menus.  Maybe the star of one menu is the entree, and with another, all your time is spent on an impressive dessert.  The point is, the book isn't out there.  And I'm doing something about it!

the foxy kitchen

Because so many of you ask, I decided to include links to some of my favorite products.  This week, I'm focusing on the kitchen.  The foxy kitchen, because cooking is fucking sexy, includes a list of things I covet in my kitchen, the pulse of my home, from essential gadgets that make your food look fancier than it really is, to simple solutions and "cheat" items that make you seem like a real gourmet.  Each week (okay, more like every two weeks considering the twins) I'll update with a new category of must-have essentials.  This week it's cooking stuff.  Don't you just love stuff?!  Do you have any "can't live without.. well maybe I could, but it wouldn't be as fun" stuff?  Here are mine.  Oooh, and my new fav is the cookbook titled, Chef Interrupted.  I used it last night to make slow-roasted salmon (in saran wrap!) with chive oil and rosemary apple puree.  Earthy divine, my children.  Earthy divine, I tell you.

pack your knives and go

"So whad'ya think?" I asked as I licked the last bits off my spoon.
"Eh."
"Really?"
"Yeah, now that you've forced me to watch that Top Chef marathon, I'm an expert."
"Dude, I would totally make this at home." This was Affogato, an espresso dessert I'd never heard of before.
"What's the big deal?"
"True, it doesn't get easier than brewing espresso and pouring it over a moon of ice cream, but it is ingenious and quite smart that they included it on the menu."  I'd use vanilla, not chocolate, gelato, and I didn't say "moon."  "And it looks impressive on a menu.  Yes," I say in a mock-sophisticated voice, "and for dessert, I'll be serving Affogato."  I enunciate each syllable.  "Then people will raise their eyebrows only to learn it's as simple as a pour.  I love it.  Ingenious, really."
"I say, pack your knives and go."

We've come to discuss all our meals as if we're now experts, the both of us.  Once upon a time I was a food critic.  But now Phil is on board.  He suddenly feels the need and right (it is his right after all) to critique all his meals, all the chefs, quite harshly.  I highly encourage you all to watch TOP CHEF on Bravo.  HIGHLY.  They air previous episodes all the time, so you can catch up on the drama.  I love being inspired by the ingredients and challenges.  What would I create, say, if I were to compose a menu of the seven deadly sins?  Oh the fun in imagining it all and then having another dinner party!  So not going to happen now, but someday. In the meanwhile, I'll keep my knives sharp.  I'm not going anywhere.

baby fat

I've just had babies, I know.  There's this thing called the 4th trimester, too.  Clothing stores know I'm not about to bounce back into my clothes, but I'm miserable.  The lactation ladies insist I cannot diet or my milk supply will plummet.  I need 1000 extra calories per day, they say.  500 for each baby, and I believe them.  I don't want to diet.  I want to eat out at Cheesecake Factory every night.  I want to believe the sites that say it takes 8 months to safely get back to your pre-pregnancy weight.  Though I am torn.  What the hell do they know? I think to myself.  They're not in this body, or in my closet, where nothing fits.  I bought four new tops today, and I'm walking around in sweats and the same two pairs of jeans that took me through my pregnancy.  How can I keep shopping for fat clothes?  It's like saying, "Okay, I accept this fatter life.  Come on in."  Giving them prime spots in my closet.  I need help.  I need a nutritionist.  I cannot do this by myself.  I have no self-control right now.  Normally I'd get some coffee and go to a weight commando who'd give me drugs and yell at me.  But I can't do that with babies to feed.  Instead, I could join Weight Watchers, do their nursing points program.  And while I do love the program, I NEED to be held accountable to one person.  I need personal attention.  I need a dictator.

I'm not just NOT losing weight.  I'm gaining weight.  "The weight will fall off when the kids come home.  You'll be too busy to think about food."  Maybe I'm bored now.  Maybe I'm exhausted and confu