Queen of Cuisine

More fish tales.

2012-01-30T11:48:00.000-05:00

In a completely unexpected twist of events, returned home from work today to find Nucky swimming alone in the fish tank. I know this because I spent about 10 minutes staring into the tank, at the gravel, the rocks, the plants, the lone fish and saying to myself, “Are you SURE he’s not in there?” because, geez, where the heck else could he be? After walking away and spinning back to see if he was just playing a crazy joke, fully expecting him to be staring back at me, I decided that yes, Eli was indeed missing. After questioning Nucky regarding his whereabouts (he was in the tank) and activities (he was swimming) it was time to take a look at other possibilities of Eli’s disappearance. Nucky did not kill him, unless he hid the body in the back yard. He was not on the floor around the tank that I could see. There were no signs of wet or struggle. Willow was watching me, but not in a “Oh-crap-she-figured-out-I-killed-the-fish” kind of way. But Eli was missing. Seriously. I put my most logical mind to work. I had fed them both right before I stepped out the door in the morning, and recalled closing the tank lid. They were both in there. So, that meant that someone broke into my house, and in an attempt to terrify me, removed Eli and put his dead body somewhere unexpected. Of course! Heart pounding, I realized the obvious answer. Dead Eli was in my bed. Like Kartoum. Anxiously, with Willow following along, now with a concerned look on her dog-face (hey, it’s the only face she has) I went up to the bedroom. Gingerly, and with one eye closed, I lifted the bed cover up. No fish. Gathering all my resolve, I flipped the whole cover off the bed. Still no fish. Under the pillow. No fish. Instead of relief, my dread heightened. Obviously, my fatal attraction-like stalker was very devious. I headed to the shower. Where else would one be naked and vulnerable while finding a dead pet? It made perfect sense. However, no fish. In either bathroom. Or my underwear drawer. I think it was while I was hanging my head into the washing machine (no fish) that my actual brain took over and said, “Um, what exactly, is going on here?” It was as if someone had flicked a switch. I was acting like a crazy person. Really crazy. Newly sane, I returned to the scene of the crime. With a flashlight. Indeed, Eli had jumped out of the tank. I found him behind the tank stand, wedged between the leg and the wall on top of a very old cat toy. He was pretty well camouflaged, which is why I missed him the first time around. The cat toy he landed on top of, ironically, was a fishing pole with a tuft of yellow feathers which was a favorite of my cat back in the day. It had been completely out of sight. I reached back to grab it by the handle, and pull it out of the way so I could recover Eli’s corpse. Slowly, so as to not disturb Eli, I pulled it forward and lifted it upward, only to discover a very dead, very crispy Eli dried to the feathers. The screaming was epic. I don’t like dead things, especially when they are swinging toward me all dried up and stuck to feathers on a pole I have in my hand. To my credit, I did not drop Eli. Once the screaming stopped, I placed him and the pole into the trash. In honor if Eli, I said a few words, like “Ugh! That was so GROSS!!” tied the bag up and removed it from the house.

In a calmer state, I went back to the scene. Was it fishicide? Premeditated fishslaughter? Only Nucky knows. And he seems to be keeping that to himself. He has his own apartment now, and it’s going to stay that way.

Brothing. Stocking. Whatever.

2012-01-24T09:42:00.003-05:00

Stock. The life-sustaining juice we squeeze out of animals. Yum. Making delicious stock is as important, if not more, as recycling. Wasting bones and marrow and meat remnants off a chicken carcass or steak bone is just as thoughtless as throwing your Diet Pepsi cans in the garbage- just don't do it. Stock is easy, tasty and versatile. It keeps in the freezer for a good, long time, and stock you've made at home is unlikely to have nasty chemicals (I mean you, MSG) in it. I've posted about stock in the past, but that was more about a personal journey, and this is more about, well, a recipe. And that's why we tune in from time to time. Let's get cooking.

Broth and stock are a little different. The actual technical difference is that stock must contain bones, while broth does not. However, I like saying "I'm having broth for lunch" better than, "I'm having stock for lunch," so, feel free to call it what you like. Just know the difference if someone asks. Stock will taste and feel richer in the mouth because of the gelatins that are pulled from the bones, and a good stock will actually turn to jelly in the refrigerator. Broth, which is made by simmering meat, veggies and spices in water, is thinner, lighter tasting and can be almost fat free if the fat is skimmed off after cooking and chilling.

The ingredients can be as simple, or complex as you'd like. Many stocks call for different seasonings and techniques based on their application. Good stock is the base for the coveted demi glace, an ingredient that catapults many a recipe on to greatness. (However, in this time of quick meals and chain restaurants, demi glace is often succumbing to a cornstarch-laden rendition. Don't even get me started.) The stock we will be talking about today will be a basic roasted stock. Roasting the bones and the vegetables will deepen their flavors, and the color of the stock itself. The first step to making good stock is eating dinner. Reserve any bones that have NOT BEEN LICKED CLEAN- and place them in a ziplock bag in the fridge until there is time for stock making. (As an alternative to slapping the family off tasty beef bones, get them directly from your butcher.) When it's time to make stock, heat the oven to 400, get out a large roasting pan and toss in 2 onions, cut in quarters, 4 carrots, garlic and the bones. Drizzle the whole thing with about 2 tablespoons of olive oil, toss it around. Roast for 25 minutes, or until the bones are browning and the vegetables have a few dark spots. Transfer all of this into a large stock pot on the stove. Cover it with cold water. Add a dash of red wine vinegar. This pulls out a little more flavor and gelatin from the bones. Bring the pot up to a boil, then turn the heat down a little- there should be bubbles, but not a crazy party- slow simmering is all that's needed. Skim the top from time to time, and leave it uncovered. The stock is done when it tastes like meat. Or chicken. Because the bones have been roasted, this can go for an hour, if it were made from raw bones, 4 hours or so would develop the flavors and texture more fully.

Strain the stock into a container, chill it completely. Once it's cold, skim off the fat from the top. (I used my beef fat to make a suet cake for the birds.)

The stock is unseasoned, so I usually reheat it, season it with salt and then store it away. It's a great quick lunch heated up and poured over some cooked meat, baby spinach leaves and noodles. Drizzle that with some hot chile oil... Now I'm hungry.

Move over, water tanks.

2012-01-16T20:37:00.000-05:00

There's a new, terrifying thing in town. Not my town, but the next town over. It's a murder of giant wind turbines.

The first time I caught a glimpse of these behemoths, I froze. This was bad, since I was driving. My eyeballs were frozen in place, my arms went weak and my heart pounded in my chest. These turbines were not just big, they were gynormous. Like monsters from space. Scary, scary stuff. My reaction surprised me, because I have been working on my tank phobia, and making very good progress. The turbines set me back a ways.

Take a look and see why....

This one is trying to hide in the night. So it can hunt me and kill me.

This one popped up over night. It has no protective fence. It sits right off the highway where it can distract drivers and watch them crash and bleed. While it laughs.

I'm pretty sure it has sharp, pointy teeth. Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it's not there.

I appear to be the most obsessed with this one. Because here it is again.

I had to get dangerously close for this shot. I kept one eye on it as the other looked through the lens. Used a fast shutter speed because my heart was rocking and rolling.

Watching us.

Peeking over the trees to watch us more.

Yup. You know what they're doing.

Looking the other way is not fooling anyone, buddy.

There's a fuzz in my lens. But I still see the danger.

Hunting an innocent mall-goer.

Dun dun. Dun dun. Dun dun dun dun dun dun........

Yes, I know that wind turbines are touted as the gentle giants of the energy world. But I'm really not convinced. You shouldn't be, either.

Avocado Banana Smoothie.

2012-01-12T13:31:00.001-05:00

Sometimes, glitzy photos and tasty text makes us try crazy stuff. That's pretty much how the avocado banana smoothie came into creation for my breakfast this morning. Sounds so cool and interesting, right? Would Martha Stewart and her Every Day Food steer me wrong? One would think not. Also, as an aside, her magazine is seriously one of the finest iPad mags I have experienced. If you have the chance, purchase one edition and see for yourself. However, in this case, I think the article on avocados just got a little out of hand. I imagine a team of recipe-tester-copy-writers standing around a kitchen, everyone with 20 avocados on their workstations, tossing ideas at each other. Avocado sandwiches? Soup? Ice Cream? Avocado cheese balls? Fritatta? Stuffed with more avocados? Pancakes? Souffle? Doughnuts? Hey, how about a smoothie!! Everyone loves a smoothie! Put a banana in! And that Greek yogurt that costs a fortune! Don't use sugar, that's the devil, use honey! Orange juice! Bingo!! Greatness is born. Or is it.......

Want to give it a try? Go right ahead. Be warned, you may want to have someone around to hold your hair.

How to Boil Water Cooking Series

2012-01-03T09:13:00.001-05:00

It is time to take the upper hand in the kitchen, Kitchen Newbies! No longer shall the produce aisle mock you with their bright colors and funny shaped fruits and veggies! Now you will learn to pick up a knife in confidence, slice, dice and chop with gusto and sear the bejesus out of a chicken breast. (To juicy perfection, that is.) In this interactive cooking series, you'll learn to make a salad dressing from scratch (yes, YOU can do that,) whip up a meatloaf in no time, and roast a chicken. Come learn how to feel comfortable in a room full of sharp implements and fire- let the Queen of Cuisine get you started in your cooking education. Amaze and stun your friends by cooking a 3 course meal after you've learned from the Queen of Cuisine...

When: January 12, 19 & 26. 7-9:30 PM.

Where: www.woodpalacekitchens.com

Fee: $75 for the full series, or $30 per class.

Contact: lisa@queenofcuisine.com

Christmas Dinner

2012-01-03T08:32:00.002-05:00

American Tank Horror.

2011-12-21T19:23:00.002-05:00

If I can catch you with a bit of dental floss and a moth, slap you in a pan, and roast you for dinner, you probably shouldn't scare the crap out of me, Mr. Fish. But, oh, you do. My fish tank contains one of the meanest, sneakiest Red Tiger Oscars you could ever meet. An aquarium is supposed to be relaxing and tranquil? That depends on how many killers it has in it, and how well they are at doing a Jaws imitation at each feeding time. Gonna need a bigger finger. I think I have it bad, but his tank-mate is far worse off. He suffers regular beatings with whatever weapons there are in the tank, and from the scrapes and scars, they must have some significant hiding places for shivs. After much pondering, I have named them Nucky and Eli. (For those of you who do not watch Boardwalk Empire, there is no 'nicer' brother, just one is better at killin' than the other.) Finally, names that work. When I returned from Italy, and they hadn't killed each other, I was going to name them after the Medici brothers, but those names did not roll of my tongue when I had to continually shout, "Lorenzo, stop chasing Guiliano into the tank wall!" and, "Lorenzo, get your teeth out of my thumb!" Also, I couldn't remember which one was which, so I think Guiliano received some very harsh tones when he didn't deserve them. Sorry, buddy. For a short while, after "the incident" I named them Devil Fish I and Devil Fish II, but that seemed to be a self fulfilling prophecy, because their behavior just worsened over time until I was just blindly flinging small animals into the tank and slamming the lid down and running away before they could come after ME. Ok, totally kidding about the small animals, but I do see that in the future. As it is, they have tried to take me down. It all came about one innocent evening, I'm chatting on the phone, and wander over to the tank to feed the "guys" some dinner. I lift the tank lid, and IMMEDIATELY there is a fish, eye level with me, flying by my head. I know he was aiming for my neck, but my cat-like reflexes and woman-like shrieking saved me, and he landed on the rug at my feet. Quickly, I ended my phone call with some reassuring statement like "Uh, the fish! Oh my god- I have to go- it tried to KILL me!" Click. (My caller did try to call back right away and was a bit anxious that I didn't answer. Funny, now.)

My first instinct when it comes to nature emergencies is to scream. My second one is to run away. In this case, however, I did neither of those. I looked at Nucky and said, "Well, now what Mr. Smartypants?" He just layed there. No embarrassing flopping, no gasping for air. Water? Whatever. He just rolled that big fishy eyeball my way and LOOKED at me. I backed up a little. Having no idea how long a fish can survive without water and covered in dog hair, I began to consider my options. Certainly, he had to be picked up, but how? I had been stabbed by Che enough times to know that another fish finger infection was not something I wanted, and this guy had big spiny fins, and I was pretty sure he knew some Vlad the Impaler moves. Not interested. I rushed off to the kitchen, and grabbed a kitchen towel. After tossing it over the eerily calm Nucky, I picked him up and chucked him back in the tank, fully expecting him to swim to the lower bottom corner and cower for a while, thinking with his tiny fish brain, "WTF was THAT????" Nope. He swung right around and gave me the fish eyeball again. That's when I knew it was time to take the upper hand before he thought he could.

Feeding time became more of a "Fish Rehabilitation" time, with me loudly announcing as I approached the tank that NO ONE was to leap, bite, splash or otherwise make any sudden movements. After they completely ignored me and started bumping the lid with their snouts (I have no idea what the face part of a fish is called) I would then slap the lid to get them in line. When they were quiet, I would open the lid, toss in the food and close the lid, my heart pounding all the while. After a week of this, and they were actually behaving like gentlefish a little more, I started feeding them by hand. I'll be honest, I would have to tap Nucky on the head with my knuckle from time to time to get him to cool his jets, but he did settle enough to let Eli eat. And it was always disconcerting that Nucky did not care AT ALL that I was bopping him. In fact, I think he liked it.

Things were progressing quite well, and then we had a bit of a back-slide. Nucky became super-agressive and began stressing Eli out so badly that he got sick. Really sick. Time for the Fish Hospital. This consisted of me placing a small tank in the big tank and then expertly maneuvering Eli into it. In actuality, it was more like me trying to lasso a cat. A big, scary cat with spines who had the capability to drench me with gallons of tank water. With my net in hand, I gingerly chased a now-renewed Eli around the tank, each of us becoming progressively more aggressive, until I was yelling, "Get in the f-ng net, you f-ing fish!" and he was zipping back and forth in the tank, smacking his head on the tank wall in his desperation to get away. This was going well.

Eventually, I got poor head-injured Eli into the tiny tank and slapped the lid closed. It took him a few minutes to realize he was virtually in a fish bowl, but once he did, he settled right down and rested in the corner. Nucky came over to investigate, and seemed somewhat annoyed that his punching bag was now protected by an invisible bubble.

I medicated the whole tank for a few days, and left Eli in his safe cocoon for a week. He started to look better in two days, and truly appeared to enjoy his relative safety. Finally, health restored, he was ready to be released back into the "wild." I left the hospital in place with the door open, and it became "the apartment." I would find one or both of them in there, having "Man Time." I'm waiting for them to install the pool table and dart board.

Spread the love.

2011-12-19T17:23:00.001-05:00

Happy December!! Let's all remember to be grateful for what we have, hold our family and friends close and carry forgiveness and peace in our hearts. A strong positive outlook is a powerful thing. Here's hoping for a tasty, fun, positive 2012- and let's start with a happy and safe TOMORROW.

Yeast. Sometimes it lets you down.

2011-12-09T22:22:00.001-05:00

I am a baker of bread. It's enjoyable to me to add the yeast to warm liquid and a little sugar and watch it bubble and grow. For the most part, it's quite dependable. Tonight's project was making a few holiday babkas, which for me, is now a very pleasant task. I measured out the milk, and heated it to a precise 105-115 degrees. (A ten degree leeway is far precise enough for me.) After adding a few teaspoons of sugar to feed the yeast, the bowl was placed in a warmish place so it could bubble and froth, signaling me that I could continue on with my recipe. 10 minutes later, the yeast had still not stepped up to the plate, leaving me (and my starter) deflated and disappointed. My mise en place was assembled and I was ready to move forward. In my excitement to create some tasty babka, I had forgotten a crucial thing- yeast can be a big let down. And theres no warning- good yeast looks just like bad yeast, and it's not going to let you know ahead of time that it's not bringing it's best game. So, long story short, always make sure you have back-up yeast. Or just lower your expectations.

Gotta love Wikipedia. And teenagers.

2011-12-07T19:44:00.001-05:00

Check this out.... The definition of "Cuisine." Pay attention to the last paragraph. Thanks for thinking of me, evil genius. One day, you shall use your powers for good.

History

A book frontispiece (decorative illustration facing a book's title page) for Apicius, a collection of Roman cookeryrecipes, circa the late 4th or early 5th century CE.

Nature provides all foods^[4]

This section requires expansion.

There have been many significant improvements during the last century in food preservation, storage, shipping and production.^[5] Today, most countries, cities and regions have access to their traditional cuisines and many other global cuisines,^[5] and new cuisines continue to evolve in contemporary times. An example is fusion cuisine, which combines elements of various culinary traditions while not being categorized per any one cuisine style, and generally refers to the innovations in many contemporary restaurant cuisines since the 1970s.^[6]

Cuisine can be stated as the foods and methods of food preparation traditional to a region or population.^[2] The major factors shaping a cuisine are climate, which in large measure determines the native raw materials that are available, economicconditions, which affect trade and can affect food distribution, imports and exports, and religious or sumptuary laws, under which certain foods are required or proscribed.

Climate also affects the supply of fuel for cooking; a common Chinese food preparation method was cutting food into small pieces to cook foods quickly and conserve scarce firewood and charcoal. Foods preserved for winter consumption by smoking, curing, and pickling have remained significant in world cuisines for their altered gustatory properties even when these preserving techniques are no longer strictly necessary to the maintenance of an adequate food supply.

Historically speaking, there has been a royal line of cooks going back to the 18th century in Italy. There, the crown of cuisine royalty stayed up until the golden age of western cooking beginning in the mid 1900s. Currently, the Queen of Cuisine resides in Massachusetts, USA and is one of only 3 Americans to hold the esteemed position since the title's inception. A similar title exists in the world of baking, this one last belonging to a women in New York, USA. The two recently united for a royal banquet, but the Royal Baker lost her title after a crumbly batch of peanut butter cookies. This event marked the end of the only pair of Americans to hold the crowns together, and the world's baking leaders will convene soon to crown the next recipient.

Thanksgiving. Right.

2011-11-26T11:44:00.001-05:00

Now that Thanksgiving day has come and gone, let's give some thanks, shall we? First, I am thankful for Queen's Mom, and ESD, and the rest of my family. While I was not able to be with the entire clan for the day, I was thankfully reminded that sometimes, family can cause some disruption in one's rather regular life, and it was just fine with me that ST1 (heretofore referred to as Amy) was able to join me for the royal cookin'. As for those of you whose regularly scheduled programming was disrupted by drama on this fine day, well, that's family for you! I am also thankful for my good friends, who are an uproarious fun group and I am blessed to have each and every one of them. I am grateful for Willow, who puts up with my odd comings and goings, tolerance for a freezing house and random insane mutterings. I think she does it for the cheese. And today, I am thankful for vodka. Let's just leave it at that for now.

Cider Brine- Looks like sludge- but it made the turkey mighty tasty...

The turkey was brined for 24 hours. It was small so it was able to fit in the fridge in a pot, but in past years I've had to use coolers filled with brine and ice.

Apple Pecan Foccacia Stuffing getting underway.

Thyme-Nutmeg croutons for the Pumpkin Bisque.

Libation for the cook and the guest- Pumpkin Martini... Hmmm. Makes me thirsty.

Caprese Bites and Gougeres. The Italians and the French joining forces for some international appetizer action.

The turkey emerged about an hour before we were ready, and the extra resting time (and very secret internal ingredients) made it especially juicy. From now on, I will always rest a turkey at least an hour.

Don't get me started.... This was a special request of Amy's.

Gruyere Potato Gratin

It was the most well-documented Thanksgiving meal ever, but even so, we still missed the pie... Suffice it to say, Amy made a killer Swedish Apple Pie and it was served with homemade pumpkin ice cream. It was a yummy day! Hope yours was a good one. Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

CHOPPED Thanksgiving.

2011-11-21T18:03:00.001-05:00

For my and your amusement, dear readers, I have required any of my Thanksgiving dinner guests to bring three secret ingredients to the meal. I will then have to incorporate these ingredients into my Thanksgiving menu, on the spot. I cannot wait.

R.I.P Maximillion.

2011-11-17T16:49:00.001-05:00

You are missed. I have the proof of a very sad Queen's Mom. And sad Evil Step Dad. Go see the tribute to this little cat.

Guess everyone has an off day.

2011-10-29T13:35:00.001-04:00

ST3 and I were fortunate enough to have a chance to get some dinner in Boston the other night, and being foodies and used to a fairly regular routine, it was exciting to go somewhere different. I made the restaurant choice based on a recent review I had read, naming the restaurant one of Boston's best in 2011. The chef has always been one of my favorites, and her cookbook has been on my cook shelf for many years. Needless to say, we were quite excited and looking forward to an excellent meal as we perused the menu for several minutes, chasing the server away about four times because we hadn't made our choices yet. Finally, we decided on the burrata appetizer (me) and grilled clams (her.) We sipped glasses of tasty wine and chatted while we waited, enjoying the atmosphere and anticipation. When our dishes finally arrived, we ooh-ed and ahh-ed and dug right in. My taste buds were immediately bombarded with so much vinegar, my right eye slammed shut (serious over-acid reaction.) With my remaining eye, I looked over and saw ST3's nose crinkle as she stopped chewing completely. Something was very wrong, indeed. Our appetizers were underwhelming, to say the least.

Our second, and final course came out next, steaming bowls of pasta (I abandoned my Primal plan for this evening) ST3's with orecchietti, sausage and greens, mine with lobster and bucatini pasta. Oops. Red sauce. Name one thing the Queen won't eat. Red sauce. This was seriously not going according to plan. Fortunately for me, or so I thought, ST3 very graciously traded dinners with me, and I excitedly bit into a little ear-shaped pasta and waited for the ecstasy. It resisted unpleasantly and stuck to my tooth. Really? Within seconds, I summoned our server and told her my pasta was extremely undercooked, and she whisked it off to be redone. The maitre'd trotted over to apologize and tell me my wait would be brief. Now, for all my food snobbery and big talk, I rarely send food back. If it isn't to my liking and I was paying attention to the preparation listed in the menu, or to my server, then it's on me for choosing something I would not like. But, if it's not prepared properly, that's a whole other story. And this pasta was not just undercooked, it was raw. There was a bright white strip of uncooked semolina in the noodle when I cut it open, which is not acceptable. When my new plate arrived, the maitre'd skittered over again, to be sure it was to my liking. He opened with, "I see you have your fresh plate." I smiled in agreement, fork poised to pounce. He stood there. As my fork descended, I was interrupted with, "Well, you know......" And I did. I did know what was coming next. I held my breath and silently counted to ten as this gentleman proceeded to tell me that "our handmade pasta may not be as cooked as you are used to and blah blah blah...." I put my fork down. ST3 cringed a little.

Me: "Did you taste my dish?"
M'd: "No."
Me: "Well, you should have. It wasn't undercooked. It was raw."
ST3: "She's a chef! She knows!" (I wasn't going there- she had my back tho... pretty cool.)

M'd just kind of stood there, so I took a bite of my new dish and said, "It's perfect." And it was- best dish of the whole night. So good, ST3 and I shared it, since the lobster dish was only ok, and mine was phenomenal, and actually ST3's original dinner. We declined dessert, since we thought the odds might be against us at this point. But we chatted and discussed the meal, and had a few laughs while we waited for the check.

But there's more... I'll get to that tomorrow- you must need a potty break by now anyway.

Tricky, tricky Halloween.

2011-10-23T12:35:00.000-04:00

It's that schpoooooky time of year again! Here's the Queen's (and friend's) latest creepy food.

Spider Bread with Green Hummus Guts

Cauliflower Brain.

I did NOT make this awesome, creepy, delicious cake. This is a creation of Flour Girl Cakes and Cupcakes, and it was as tasty as it was morbid!

Insomnia can at least smell delicious.

2011-10-07T06:11:00.001-04:00

I haven't been sleeping lately. Not the sound, restorative kind of sleep, anyway. I fall asleep only to find myself awake a few hours later, my mind spurting off in any direction like a greased football. This is disturbing to me, especially since it is so difficult to have actual productive thoughts at these restless times. After several nights of tossing and turning and waiting for the sun to rise, I decided that maybe I needed some kind of middle of the night comfort or reassurance. After carefully considering my options, I decided to look to my crock pot for solace. At least if I was going to be awake at some god-forsaken hour, I could be comforted by a yummy smell. My plan was simple, put something in the crockpot right at bedtime, and then when I woke up three or four hours later, I could lie there and enjoy the pleasant aroma, as well as be comforted by the knowledge that lunch and several servings of dinner were all taken care of. Genius, right? I thought so. Or at least did until I was awoken at 3:45 this morning from what I would have to call a food porn dream. I was in a magnificent restaurant, wait-staff bustling around me, filling my champagne glass with Krystal, whisking plates to and from other fancy diners like myself, and catering to my every restaurant need. My pristine white table cloth was scattered with the the most decadent array of plates, each prepared with the utmost care and precision. Roasted crispy duck. Papardelle with sausage, Swiss chard and chick peas. Baked chicken. Pho. Heaping bowls of vegetables of every color. Tiramisu. Each incredible dish was steaming and sending off an amazing aroma, like, well, chicken molé poblano. In fact, the restaurant was named Poblano, and each waiter carried a smoky poblano pepper in their pocket, which explained why THEY smelled like molé poblano. I couldn't help but notice that my fabulous poblano perfume was extra strong, as well, and that my table pillow (table pillow??) was also stinking of smoky pepper. My stomach rumbled. My eyes popped open. The memory of my happy restaurant dream faded, but the aroma lingered on. Well, lingered may be too delicate a term. The scent of chicken molé poblano filled the air, rousing me from my restful (at last) sleep. Humph. As I glanced at the clock, I noticed I wasn't the only one awoken by a growly tummy, Willow was sitting up staring at me. We both laid back down. Soon she was snoring, and I waited for morning, wide awake. But at least it smelled delicious.

Scallop Fest 2011

2011-09-25T14:41:00.000-04:00

While the scallops looked delish, I opted for a few Wellfleet oysters instead, garnished only with a little lemon and hot sauce. Tasty.

This strawberry shortcake belonged to the lady next to me. I told her I was a food blogger and she was kind enough to let me take a picture of it. I refrained from putting my thumb in it.

Abra-cadabra. Plastic wine glasses. Drink all day, get a set.

This lady really liked her pillow. It was pretty awesome. For a pillow.

This guy thought I was taking his pic, which I wasn't, he was just in the way, but he looked mean and angry, and I'm not sure if he just punched the elderly gentleman, or if they were both planning to get me in the parking lot, so I scampered away.

Don't mess with Woonsocket.

Awesome aerial photography. Not. Up on the ferris wheel, looking at other tall things in the distance. Gee, you can almost see the top of the railroad bridge.... Freaky.

Up on the Ferris Beuhler's Day Off Wheel- then onto the Bear Belly ride. Or not.

I think this is becoming an epidemic.

This nice family waved to us, I give that mom a lot of credit. At what age do those things get pushed out of the nest?

This family sat down next to us, and when we offered the kids some wine, they moved a safe distance away. Good times. Hey, I don't get out to these all-ages events too often.

Last fire of summer.

2011-09-24T08:16:00.000-04:00

Summer 2011. The end was a little disconcerting, for sure. What better way to usher it out than a conflagration in the fire pit? No toasty marshmallows, no gazing at stars. Just a match, some twigs fetched from the yard and pool and wherever else Irene put them, a couple logs split (by me!) with an ax, and, WHOOSH. Bye, summer 2011. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

Cooking Therapy.

2011-09-23T17:01:00.002-04:00

How they look before they're cooked.

2011-09-21T00:00:00.000-04:00

Round and round we go...

2011-09-20T13:43:00.000-04:00

Ain't life grand? Sometimes I sit back and laugh at it. That's been my new strategy, anyway. No recipe for food in this post- there's your fair warning, just a little of my new-found wisdom to maybe make your road a little easier. I'd guarantee that it isn't new information, either, but maybe just something you need reminding of in a time that may be less than spectacular. 2011 has been kicking some ass, some serious ass in my life and in the lives of many of my friends. It seems that one story is worse than another, and in general, the people who are actually happy and content are trying very hard to be just that. Some people would say we bring our own happy to us, and logically, we must be bringing down the rain, too. I cannot accept this. For no one, in their right mind, would do the things I've been seeing to themselves. Have bad thoughts? Absolutely. I learned if you fear/expect the worst, then you ward it off, like sage smoke clears a house of bad mojo. (Ok, I don't really believe that. But, I'd try it.) Some people would say that's like opening the door and saying, "Ok, bad stuff, come on in and sit down. On my head. Until I can't breathe anymore." Bullshit. Bad stuff happens. It's not the stuff we have to deal with. It's how we react to the stuff. My life is not turning out at all like I expected. Not even close. This does not mean it's bad. It just means that I have to get it under my control and take it where it needs to be. Just like everyone else. Very few of my friends have the life they expected either. In a few cases, it is considerably worse than they ever thought, with some good stuff scattered here and there like little bird seeds. In my case, learning to appreciate the good parts and limiting the amount of bad I will tolerate has been a learning curve. Somewhere along the road, I forgot the most important part of the whole equation. Me. Setting myself aside at the expense of my own mental well-being was making each hardship harder, and not allowing me to function in such a way that I could make any situation better. I was giving up, waiting to see what came next, rather than taking control (you'd be surprised how much power this one action unleashes) and steering my own life. Because if you are in charge of where you're going, everything else settles in around you. It doesn't happen TO you. It happens BECAUSE of you.

Over the past weeks, I have gotten back in control. Very simply. First, I recognize the good things in my life, and I concentrate very hard on them and do my best to make them better. Second, I come first. I am no good to myself or anyone else if I am not rested, healthy and clear-minded. My decisions are mine and I am the only one who can make them. And then I take responsibility for them, even if they are unpopular. Even if they change everything.

It's like a recipe that you're learning for the first time. Yes, one day, you can probably make it without paying attention to ingredients, amounts and cooking time. But the first few times, it's imperative that directions be followed until our skills are solid enough to manipulate the flavors and textures required to make a tasty dish. Something tells me I was getting that backwards. Taking a wait-and-see attitude with one's life direction is foolhardy and disrespectful of the time we are given here. So, as rough as times may be, at least I learned that.

They don't make them like they used to....

2011-09-20T00:00:00.000-04:00

My beloved Auntie has an awesome house. When I'm not breaking it, I am able to enjoy some of it's amenities, like it's built in mixer/blender. Big whoop, you may be thinking. Yes. Big whoop, indeed. I know this, because I was in the 'big whoop' camp myself, thinking "oh, boy, yet another thing for me to break.... with a strawberry."

It's a totally cool set-up, all nestled in a drawer- pretty progressive for it's time, the house was built in the mid-fifties, I believe. Nutone had it going on for the housewife with everything, that's for sure.

I tentatively set up the blender for a smoothie- adding yogurt, fruit and a little milk. Still being a little gun-shy from the whole, um, septic issue, I called Auntie over to start the thing up. If this was going to need a service call, it was NOT going to be on my head. No way. With an authoritative flick of the wrist, she turned the dial. It turned my strawberries to pulp in seconds. Faster than my Kitchen Aid Bar Blender, faster than my Oster-Judged-Best-Blender-By-Cook's Illustrated-blender. Faster than two blenders born less than 3 years ago! I was floored. Of course, I just wanted to make more stuff in a blender (I have a bad habit of that) to see what this baby was capable of. Reams of paper danced in my head. (GO HERE IF THAT CONFUSES YOU.)

But, I controlled myself, and sipped my smoothie. It was tasty and smooth. Not one ball of ice- the ice cubes I tossed in last minute were pulverized. And I didn't break it, so it must be quality.

Best Veggie Sandwich- Ever.

2011-09-19T00:00:00.000-04:00

The vegetable sandwich often gets a bum rap in my opinion. For that reason, I thought you might enjoy this recipe- it's tasty, filling and chock full of good stuff. The trick here is to make these sandwiches a day or two ahead, so the fillings can meld together and the flavors can soak into the toasty roll. It's one of the few sandwiches that are best four days later. Yes, I said four. I made a large quantity of these about two months ago, and took one to lunch at work each day, each one getting better and better. Even sworn meat-eaters were seduced by it's aroma and vibrant colors. It's a little labor intensive, but if you set up a little assembly line, it won't take too long once the veggies are grilled and the sun-dried tomato spread is prepared.

First, you'll want to grill up some sliced eggplant, summer and zucchini squash, whole red peppers and portobello mushrooms. Oh, and toast your rolls, also. Give them a little drizzle of olive oil and make them nice and toasty. If you leave them untoasted, they will turn quickly into sog monsters against the moist filling of this sandwich- so be brave. Go for the dark brown. Get a good char on the peppers, then put them in a paper bag and let them steam. Pull the blackened skins off when they are cool enough to handle, don't forget to remove the seeds. Cut them into halves. Set all your cooked veggies aside, and make the sun-dried tomato spread.

You'll need one package of dehydrated sun-dried tomatoes, 2 cups of boiling water, 4 inch-sized cubes of parmesan cheese, a handful of pine nuts and 3 garlic cloves. And some olive oil. Reconstitute the sun-dried tomatoes in the water, and when they are soft, drain them and put them in a food processor. Pulse until they are coarsely chopped. Add the garlic, cheese and pine nuts. Turn on the machine, and when the mixture has trouble spinning add a little olive oil. Keep adding oil until the mixture is a thick paste. If the amount of oil is creeping you out, use some of the tomato water instead- but if you use too much water, you will have very wet sandwiches if you keep them more than three days. Just warning you.

Now comes assembly. Line up your rolls, spread, provolone cheese (I hope you're reading this whole thing before jumping right in...) and veggies. Spread some sun-dried tomato spread on each top and bottom roll. Now, pile onto the bottom, in this order- provolone, eggplant, zucchini, summer squash, red pepper. Put the lids on. Wrap each one TIGHTLY in plastic wrap, pressing down to compress it a little. This will keep the filling from doing the tiddly-wink when you go to bite into it. Try very hard to wait a few hours for the first one. And it only gets better from there. Enjoy.

Corn Chowder

2011-09-18T00:00:00.000-04:00

Corn. The king of the summer summer harvest- plump, juicy, sweet kernels exploding in one's mouth in tiny bursts of corny goodness. It's as tasty as it is versatile, and this simple corn-potato chowder will help make use of the glorious summer bounty. Give it a try.

Summer Corn and Potato Chowder

6 ears of corn, roasted on an open flame grill until brown specks appear
2 small Yukon Gold Potatoes, small dice
1 small onion, dice
pinch of thyme
pinch of cayenne
2 Tbs butter
1/2 cup light cream
3 cups chicken stock
salt and pepper

Remove corn from the cob, separating out the corn from 2 cobs. Place the cobs, diced potato and onion in a heavy pot with the butter. Sweat the onion and potatoes, until the onions are translucent.. Do not let them brown. Add chicken stock, and the corn from 4 cobs, and the thyme. Turn heat to medium, and cook until potatoes are tender. Remove cobs, use an immersion blender (if you don't have one, turn off the stove and go get one. I'm serious. How long have I been telling you to get one of these things??) to puree the soup completely. Strain the soup through a mesh strainer, return to clean pot. (Just wipe the pot out with a paper towel.) Add in the reserved corn, cayenne and cream. Salt and pepper to taste. Heat through. Enjoy.

Sorry there isn't a fabulous "after" picture. It just speaks to how good the soup was, because it was polished off rather quickly.... Take a picture of yours and send it, I'll feature it on it's very own post. And send you an immersion blender as a prize if you're the first one.....

Going Primal.

2011-09-17T14:54:00.000-04:00

For 2 weeks, I have been participating in the Primal Challenge. While I have no desire to go into the details, let's just say life was beating me up pretty badly, and I no longer felt I had the physical, mental or emotional strength to deal with any of it. Something had to go. I chose bad carbs. While the first 5 days were hell, that's over now, and I feel pretty damn good. But this post is not about that. It's about Buffalo chicken wings. Because I promised a pic of them, so here they are. Enjoy.

Don't fear, the Queen's Blog and cookery are not going Primal. Just the Queen. But, that means I may need more tasters... Stay tuned.

Recipe for times of hardship.

2011-09-17T14:44:00.000-04:00

Earthquake! Hurricane! Flying twigs! Snapping trees! Power outages!

Certainly you will need some recipes for these events. As always, Yours Truly is here in your time of need. Here are some of my favorites.

Creme Brulee Torch Toast

1 Power Outage
1 Butane Torch
2 slices bread of your choice
Any topping of your choosing, preferably something perishable so you don't have to throw it out later.

Locate ingredients, preferably in daylight. Place bread on a non-flammable surface or hold with tongs. Light torch. Gently flame bread until it begins to toast, browning both sides. (BEWARE: Bread catches on fire really, really fast. While impressive and helpful in the dark, it is also a fire hazard, so be careful. Perhaps have a fire extinguisher or bowl of water nearby. I can't be responsible for your silliness.) When bread is toasted to your liking, spread with topping, and flame that a little if you are so inclined. Enjoy.

Hurricanes don't count.

2011-09-03T21:00:00.000-04:00

I know I promised a bit ago to stop posting about the weather. There's a hurricane coming! Certainly I have to be given a reprieve for that. Big Willow (her new name since she busted into the pantry and ate a 5 pound bag of dog cookies) and I are almost ready- I'm torn between draining the pool down more or just letting the rain come and hoping for power when it needs to be drained later. Um. Ok, decision made. Think I'll go drain that down a bit. Funny, in writing, I realized how ridiculous that was. Have I found a new method for smart decision-making? After surviving the Eastern Earthquake of 2011 without being prepared, perhaps I was getting a little cocky.

It's now several days later and I'm eating my own words- regretting not filling the bathtub with enough terlit-flushing water, not filling my freezers with dry ice, no preparation of nice soft landing areas for random trees and whatever other hurricane preparedness things I should have done. Thanks to BF, I did charge the Jump Start, so I can charge my cell phone at will, as well as my collection of iPods. Candles and batteries, check. Ready. Right on schedule, the power went out with a stiff breeze. A few hours later, the storm showed up, and I watched, mouth agape as my neighbor's 75 foot pine tree snapped off at 25 feet, fell toward my house and then bounced off the power lines, landing somewhat dramatically in the street at the foot of my driveway. It also took out it's BFF tree that was next to it, and they both lay there innocently, probably wondering what the hell. The ground shook, the neighborhood text circle fired up, and a long snake of power line laid frayed and tangled on the ground. I guess it's good the power had already left the building, so there wasn't a fire. Saw a bunch of those on TV earlier in the day, expertly narrated by the same reporters heard saying, "This wind is really tossing birds around in the air." No, that's called FLYING, and that's what birds DO. Sorry. I digress. Expect more of that. One night with howling winds and no power- not too bad. The place looked like a cool haunted house with flickery candles and the laptop was charged up enough that I could watch a movie. The next morning found me with an empty bathtub, which became an emergency rather quickly. Thinking outside the bathtub, I filled a bucket with pool water, which was hard to find because there were so many limbs floating around in the pool. The crystal clear, blue oasis of peacefulness had become a murky pond in a matter of hours. The few sticks that did not find their way to the pool were scattered all around the back yard, and I was fine with that. Better than a tree on the roof. It was only 15 hours earlier that I stood outside, actually yelling at the trees to stay standing as they creaked and cracked and bent precariously over the back yard. Good times.

81 hours later, my power returned. And I saw the news. Devastation all up and down the East coast. A power outage and a couple twigs scattered around didn't seem so important after all. But, I'm not done talking about the weather. So there.

Sunday Brunch

2011-09-02T21:30:00.000-04:00

Several weeks ago, I had the experience of dining alone, something that I don't do, well, ever. But on this particular day, a very rainy Sunday, I found myself unexpectedly on my own for brunch. My options were to stay home and maybe clean something, or go any way. I went anyway. My brunch-mates and I had decided to change up our usual Sunday haunt to a new place, and that's where I went. Not even the familiar companionship of our favorite bartender- just me, a new place and some breakfast. What I did not know was that dining alone is a completely different animal than going out with company. You're left with your thoughts, and all of your attention is on what arrives on the plate. While I thought I was really paying attention while I had company, it turns out, I was not. The other detail about dining alone is that I could only experience what I ordered- no dissecting my meal partner's plate or getting a taste of a different dish.

I ordered the proscuitto, melon and buratta appetizer. While I waited, the chef came out to greet me, which was very nice, and we chatted about Italy a little bit. (I was there, in case you didn't hear.) The bartender took good care of me, (when dining alone, the bar is the best choice because you will usually get some extra attention from the bartender) and she was also a foodie, so we talked about the menu she was planning for her dinner that night. The downside, and not a bad one, was that brunch was not crazy busy, so I had a bartender AND a waiter- a little too much attention. I was in a "it's raining, I'm not in any hurry, just hanging and enjoying the experience" mode while my waiter was in a "Oh, this chick is alone and I bet she wants to be on her way to meet up with all her fabulous friends. Therefore, I will ask her every five minutes if she needs anything. In my sexy Italian accent, of course" frame of mind. I toned the waiters stridency down a little bit by engaging him in some conversation, and letting him know I was in no rush. His intervals increased to fifteen minutes. By the time my appetizer arrived, I had enjoyed a very tasty peach Bellini. The plate was beautiful, very simple, a layer of melon on the bottom, topped by prosciutto and a ball of buratta, a fresh mozzarella cheese with a creamy center. It was fabulous, rich and a little salty, soft and creamy. The perfect foil for the melon and the prosciutto. The whole morning was worthwhile just for this dish.

My breakfast was the very un-Italian Eggs Benedict. Instead of traditional Canadian bacon, it was served with Pancetta and microgreens. It was okay. Probably should have gone with a panini, it's always best to stick to the cuisine of the chef, and I learned my lesson here. While it was very tasty, it was so far from the traditional recipe, the components didn't meld and nothing drew the dish together. So far, no one has been able to impress me with a home-fried potato. I am beginning to think I am not a fan of the potato at all.

The weather was seriously horrible, so I stayed for a while and chatted with the bartender, and made plans to come back for dinner soon. But not alone. While it was pretty cool to pay full attention to my meal and the going's on of the restaurant, it's more fun to dine with friends. And they can eat my potatoes.

Tanks for the memories.

2011-08-19T00:20:00.001-04:00

When I was a kid, my Dad worked for Dixie. The people that made the cups. It was kind of cool, because everyone knew what a Dixie Cup was, so when someone asked what my Dad did, it pretty much went like this:

Them: So, what's your dad do?

Me: He works for Dixie Cup.

Them: So he makes cups?

Me: Yes.

Them: The ones with the jokes on them, too?

Me: Yup.

Them: Cool.

No need for a big discussion or any puzzled looks. (I once asked a kid what his dad did and he said "phlebotomist." That poor kid. Everyone thought his dad was a vampire after the description.)

As a burgeoning comic (or so I thought at the time) writing jokes for the cups became my obsession. I would sit for hours and try to think of jokes, then I'd write them on little pieces of paper and give them to my dad, with my signature on them, of course, and direct him to give them to the "Joke Department." He would take each one, and say, "Ok, I will. I'll let you know what they say." For weeks after, I would read the cups (three jokes each) looking for my witticisms. I came up empty every time. Perhaps I was too evolved for the Joke Department, but for some reason, none of my jokes made it onto the Dixie Cup. For years, I was resentful, preferring the Dixie Cups without jokes.

But that wasn't the only cup that plagued me as a child. When we went to visit my grandparents, we would often drive by the GIANT Dixie Cup-shaped water tank. I remember it being off the highway, in the distance, all lit up (we seemed to always be there at night) and someone in the car (usually me) would say excitedly "There it is! The big cup!" and I would gaze at it as we went by. Now, someone, I do not remember who, said jokingly, "That's where they throw kids when they're bad. You wouldn't want to get thrown in there, right, Lisa?" (They didn't know my name was Queen yet.) Let me tell you, a shiver of terror went down my spine and back up again and all I could think of was being thrown in that giant cup with no way to get out and my crazy fear of water tanks was born. Not just cup-shaped tanks, either, any large tank became a frightening thing to me- right down to the water tank on the back of the toilet. The day I encountered an old fashioned pull-chain toilet with the tank up BY THE CEILING, I decided if I lived in the olden days, I would have never, ever used the bathroom. I sure didn't that day. Driving by a tank made me physically anxious, and if I wasn't the driver, I'd close my eyes and ask whomever it was to please drive a little faster. Encountering a tank by surprise, like a hot water heater in a closet almost rendered me paralyzed and once I knew it was there, I would give the door itself a wide berth. I especially hated water tanks up on giant stilty legs, being convinced if they really wanted to give chase, they most likely could. It was soon after that mindless comment when I began having dreams about the Big Cup. Haunting, scary dreams of the Cup looming in the background, never me IN the Cup, that was far too scary for even my dreaming mind to deal with, but it sort of crept around in the background, always present, ever ominous. I would wake up in a cold sweat. As time passed, the fear of tanks subsided, and while I still maintained a safe distance from most of them, fear no longer clutched at my heart if I happened upon one unexpectedly or if there was one on the horizon. The tank dreams continued, but they had been few and far between, and rarely caused me to wake up in a sweat.

This is quite fortunate, because while visiting my beloved Auntie recently, I encountered... The Cup. Now, I had mentioned the giant Dixie Cup many times on many visits, and was told at long last that it was gone and no longer did I worry that I'd be driving down the road and BOOM- there would be the cup of my child nightmares looming at me. The cup was gone. I was safe. What they failed to tell me was that the crazy people of the town where the cup had been were so distraught that the murderous, child-haunting demon Dixie Cup was gone, that they up and built a new one. Right on the idyllic, country road where I happened to be driving with my beloved Auntie. In the middle of peaceful, rolling, corn-covered hills, where one can't see a big, giant Dixie cup until one is, oh, let's say, 50 yards from it. 50 YARDS FROM IT! Fifty yards from the most terrifying object of my formative years! (Besides Queen's Mom's cupcakes.) I saw it before it saw me. I swerved. My hands broke out in a sweat. My heart picked up speed. So did my car. I gasped aloud. Beloved Auntie noticed.

BA: What? What's wrong?

Me: Um.....

BA:What?

Me: What is THAT doing there?

BA: The cup? Oh, they built that because the people in Easton were upset the original cup was gone.

Me: Oh. So it didn't MOVE there.

BA: No, of course not.

Me: So I have never seen this cup before. It's a NEW cup.

BA: Are you ok?

Me: We have to turn around.

BA: What?

Me: I have to see the cup. Up close.

BA: You do?

Me: Yes.

I turned the car around and drove RIGHT UP TO THE CUP. It was huge. I did not enjoy being near it. But it was on the ground, strongly rooted there, and it didn't look like it could come after me or anything. Much less scary than the one that loomed in my childhood dreams and memories. (I am not kidding, I just got a shiver just this second thinking about that danged Cup.) Summoning all my courage, I stepped out of the car. Keeping the car safely between the Cup and myself, I took its picture. And then I just stood there for a little bit. Daring it. It didn't budge. Getting back in the car, I was pretty sure the tank dreams were over.

*** Thanks to Dixie Home for the pic of the old plant in Easton. © Lafayette College Libraries, Easton, PA

August 1995

Blueberry Season

2011-08-18T13:56:00.002-04:00

It's that time- the time to go blueberry picking and blueberry eating. I love the blueberry. You know, there just are not that many blue foods, and... oh, never mind. If you don't remember that, well, good for you. My local farmer's market started up again this week, and although it's not quite in full swing, the blueberries are. My idea of picking a blueberry, by the way, is pointing at a quart that someone else picked, and then pointing at someone else and saying, "Pay the man." Unfortunately, the "man" was a woman, and I was having a terrible day of gender confusion, as well as a bad day discerning left from right. Yes, it happens. Actually, I haven't been myself all week. But this is not about me. It's about the blueberry. These berries were big and round and robust and bursting with antioxidant goodness and blueberry tastiness. I splurged on a quart rather than a pint, and swore every berry would be consumed in it's berry-wonderfulness. Some of them were scarfed down right out of the container- big, blue, plump and juicy, and very sweet. So good. Many were set aside for smoothies. Some, I tried to elevate to greatness by photographing them on the French Laundry Cookbook. To me, it seemed that would make them better in and of itself. In all honestly, I suppose I was just putting off the inevitable. My plan was to bake with them. A buckle. A blueberry buckle. Now, for those who don't know, a buckle is a single layer cake studded with fruit. (It is not a babka, in case any specific people read this and begin to wonder. It is also not a slump, grunt, cobbler, claflouti, crisp, pandowdy or crumble. More on that someday in the future. Ha! I said moron.) When I was a kid, we had a cake named a pandowdy, which I was confusing with a buckle at the time, so I was confused about the recipes I was finding. A pandowdy is not a buckle. For that reason, since a pandowdy was the thing I wanted to make, and a buckle is the thing I actually made, I was not satisfied.

And, in plain terms, my buckle sucked. It was dense, heavy, leaden, and any other words you can think of to portray a 12 pound cake. Why, it did remind me of my childhood, after all, but not in the yummy way I was hoping for. More like in a Queen's-Mom-made-cupcakes-again way. But I had made a promise to the blueberries. Something had to be done. After trying the sucky buckle both hot and cold, it was decided that I would cut it into squares and make a blueberry buckle bread pudding. Buckle Bread Pudding. Could I be on to something great? One could only hope. The custard was poured over the buckle chunks and placed in the oven. Was it great? No, it wasn't. But I was onto something much more edible than sucky buckle, and the blueberries did get the royal treatment after all. It was quite tasty while warm with a little ice cream on top. Makes me wish I had remembered to take a picture of it....

Butterfly Garden

2011-07-22T10:09:00.001-04:00

I apologize for the quality of these photos, but all I had was my camera phone, and any storm in a port, right? My cousin has a butterfly garden, and I couldn't resist taking a few snaps of this America's Next Top Model Butterfly. She insisted on posing for me- what could I do? The yellow one is a Yellow Swallowtail, and the orange one is a Monarch. I did not learn how to cook them.

Dining at the Daisy Bar.

2011-07-21T11:37:00.002-04:00

Summer in Pennsylvania is something I don’t usually experience. Most years, I’m here in the spring or the winter, so I don’t get to see the corn so high and the grass so green and the humidity so sweaty. This year, my auntie needed some company due to a fractured wrist (yes, my sprightly 80-something year old auntie was out trimming trees and took a tumble down an embankment and into her driveway) so off I went to cook and do whatever else needed to be done. Fortunately, Queen’s Mom was here first, and she’s a clean freak, so I was required mostly for cooking and watering plants and dogs and any other general stuff.

However, when I do visit, there is always some kind of odd crisis or major breakdown of some sort. Usually as a result of me. For instance, this past Christmas, I completely broke the kitchen faucet, rendering it useless for weeks because the required repair part was “all the way in Allentown” and my aunt felt bad making the plumber go just for that because he was “such a nice guy.” I was warned to be careful with it, it’s the toggle kind- so I mostly was, but another quirk of the house is that it will scald a person to death if they happen to be showering and you use one tiny drop of water from anywhere in the house. I was cooking, and mindlessly washing potatoes, only somewhat aware that ESD was taking a shower. When I remembered fully, the cold tap water was gushing out all over my almost clean potatoes, and I leaped for the faucet, slapping it down with the strength of a thousand Queens and saving ESD from a skinless life. Unfortunately, the handle came off in my hand, so when I spun around to see him coming out of the bathroom completely dressed and still with skin, it glinted in my hand. This was bad. Very bad. I felt five years old and was sure the punishment would be harsh. It wasn’t. Auntie looked at me, looked at the handle and walked over to the sink. I showed her how to work her now broken faucet. For a month or so, she had to shove the tip of her thumb in a hole to push a teensy weensy knob an angstrom to the left or right for water. Any more than that and she’d be scalded, any less and it would come out freezing. Temperature control was pretty much impossible. She smiled and said it was no trouble, the last time it was broken there was no water at all, so this was like vacation compared to washing dishes in the bathroom sink. Have I mentioned that my Super Auntie is also the sweetest human being on the planet? Happily, the sink was fixed, and now I use it quite gingerly.

This trip would certainly have none of the drama of the last- Queen’s Mom left me a clean, tidy home, and Auntie really isn’t any trouble. Feed her, feed the dog, dust a thing or two, how rough could it get? Well, there were some ants to deal with. Tiny house ants. Not a big deal, the bug guy was coming, and the ants pretty much kept to themselves. The ones that didn’t got smushed. Everything was moving along swimmingly. A little cooking, a little dog care, bed-making, and a load of laundry. Long story long, very soon after laundry, the drain in the basement completely clogged. No sink, no toilet, no water of any sort. Hmm... I was feeling a little deja vu. The plumber was called, and he advised us to call a septic man. By now, my Aunt’s son had also arrived, everyone completely stumped by the clog, in a house that had never had such trouble in all of it’s 57 years. The bug man and the clog man both showed up at the same time, around 5 pm, one rendering the kitchen uninhabitable for 4 hours and the other bringing in the big guns to clear whatever horrendous thing had blocked the pipe to the septic system. There was whirring, grinding, pounding and hammering. Then there was a glorious sound.... flushing. I stood at the top of the stairs as the bunch of them all stood around discussing their findings.

Clog Guy: It’s a tampon.

Auntie’s Son: A tampon?

Auntie: A tampon?

Clog Guy: Yup. A tampon.

Auntie’s Son: Whose tampon?

Auntie: Well, it’s not mine!

Clog Guy: It isn’t mine. (A clog guy with a sense of humor. Great.)

By now I’m pretty sure my very astute readers know exactly who’s tampon it was, and how much I wanted to get in my car and drive away and never, ever return. Honestly, I really don’t know what to say except that I am sorry for the graphic nature of this post for the weak of heart, and if anything this proves my honesty with my dedicated readers. Additionally, if you watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, you know I’m very trendy right now. I would also like to take issue with the makers of my feminine hygiene product, because they were extremely lax during the tragedy of Katrina- it’s obvious a box or two of these things strategically placed could have saved the entire city of New Orleans. It wasn’t twenty tampons, it wasn’t three, it was ONE.

Which brings me to the Daisy Bar. We went there for dinner. Enjoy these lovely photos, when you stop laughing at my pain.

Taylor Pork Roll. Classic PA food.

And that was enough of that.

Auntie's Fries. I don't get the catsup attraction at all.

Very lovely decor.

Outside dining at the Daisy Bar.

Awesome signage.

Onion rings- the formed kind- they're way too identical.

More retro decor.

Food in a bag. I think one needs to be a little drunk to really appreciate it. I was not.

Grilling- Breakfast!

2011-07-20T10:44:00.000-04:00

Usually, when one thinks of grilling, it’s a weekend afternoon or an evening activity. But, on a lazy Sunday morning, it can be the perfect vehicle for a tasty grilled breakfast. It’s easy enough to fire the thing up, slap a pan on it and make some flapjacks or French toast, but that’s kind of like cooking inside- so my twist was to make it a little more challenging. A main ingredient with the dish planned around it with whatever I could find in the fridge. No pans. Grill grate only. The ingredient: the incredible, edible egg. First, the hunt for ingredients. In the fridge I found the following: 3 strips of cooked bacon, a container of leftover Brussels sprouts hash, a carrot, crumbled gorgonzola cheese, and some grill bread dough. Perfect. A very good start to breakfast on the grill. Leaving the carrot behind I took my leftovers, the options spinning around in my head. First, the grill was lit, charcoal, as always, banking the charcoal to one side so there was a hot side and a cool side. While the coals burned and turned ashy gray, the plan for a grilled bread with brussels sprouts and bacon topped with an egg came to light. The trick to good grilled bread is a sturdy dough, and this leftover dough had a bit of cornmeal in it which gave it good texture and extra strength on the grates, which keeps it from sagging or cooking around the grate, which would make it impossible to remove. After stretching and shaping the dough, it’s placed on a well floured pizza peel, with the flick of a wrist, it spins off onto the grill. (Then, very carefully, go fix it so it looks like a pizza dough instead of a bow tie. Because that’s what I did. So much for showing off.) Grilling bread can be challenging in itself- if the fire isn’t even, and mine never are, one part will be scorching while the other side is still raw. It’s like a dance- a dance of the dough. After turning the dough over, and moving it to a cooler part of the grill, the brussels sprouts, and bacon were placed on top, with little wells left for two eggs. Next comes the cracking of the eggs, with a little prayer that the eggs won’t run off the dough and be incinerated at the bottom of the grill- most likely there for the rest of days. There was a bit of run off, but making an edge with the sprouts helps.

Next time, I would make a more round bread, so the width could help corral the egg- on such narrow breads, there was no hope of keeping both eggs contained. (These were crazy big eggs, from my Turkey Wrangler. Well, not from him, but from his chickens.) Once the eggs are on the bread, the lid is closed up, not all the way, but enough to make an oven-like situation so the eggs will cook and the toppings will get hot. I have always said, cooking with a closed grill should be second nature- if you need to close it up- go right ahead. I’ve said it from day one. Ask anybody. For the last few minutes, the gorgonzola was added and melted into the sprouts. The eggs cooked up nicely under the lid- but the bread had been through enough- there were parts which looked like they might be good fuel for the next fire. Even so, thanks to an uneven fire, there was plenty to be salvaged for a tasty breakfast. Don’t forget the grill in the morning- it’s a good way to start a Sunday Funday.

Corn Fritters.

2011-07-19T10:00:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, Queen's Mom, as much as she did not want to be, was in charge of the food and food preparation. I, as a kid, did not know that I could participate in this in anyway, and was surprised one day when she turned to me and announced, disappointedly, that so and so's kid down the street "starts dinner every night before her parents come home..." implying that my food preparation participation was not up to snuff. Hell, there was no snuff. I had no idea that was within the realm of what I could do, no one ever told me or asked me to participate with dinner- and for sure no one ever showed me how. So, ok. As I kid, I had little to no initiative, I admit it. Honestly, I was a sheltered, naive, dufus of a child, hardly knew the name of the towns outside of my own, and I swear, if I had to find my hometown on a map, I wouldn't have been able to. I was completely reliant on the people around me to direct the crowd, the activities, me. I know, not at all the person who stands before you today, but I'm serious. I had not a clue about anything. It was painful then, and it's painful to this day. But, as I was saying, before my cold medication induced rant, that Queen's Mom was in charge of meals. For a while, we belonged to a co-op, where we could get copious amounts of yogurt, veggies and other things depending on what was available. One time, it was corn. I believe we had enough corn to feed an army. We had corn on the cob every night (not a bad thing) and made jokes about stuff we could do with all the husks. Shoes? Bags? Curtains? Who knew? At any rate, it was a lot of corn, and try our best, we could not consume it fast enough in cob form. It was time for an alternative, and that's where Grammy's Corn Fritters came into the picture. I would believe the only technical term for how many corn fritters we had would be, well, a shitload. Corn fritters for breakfast. Corn fritters for snack. For lunch. For snack again. For dinner. With maple syrup. With butter. Cold. Hot. Room temperature. Corn fritters. For a while it was tasty, then it was funny, then it was a nightmare in fritter form. A nightmare, I tell ya. So, why was I inspired to make them myself? Because sometimes when you get far enough from a memory, it's not a bad one anymore. It's nostalgia. It's your past. It's a fond memory. I made a few changes to the original recipe, such as roasting the corn and flavoring it with cumin, lime and cilantro, and then doused the hot fritters with a sweet habanero syrup. (Yes, I would say I'm not the naive kitchen oaf anymore.) They were hot, crunchy, spicy and sweet. The first bite actually did take me back a little. The second bite made me glad to be where I am now.

Queen's Corn Fritters with Habanero Syrup

4 ears grill roasted corn, cut off the cob

1 teaspoon cumin

1 tablespoon lime juice

2 tablespoons cilantro

2 1/2 cups flour

1 1/2 cups milk

1 teaspoon salt

1 egg

1 tablespoon sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

2 tablespoons melted butter

peanut oil for frying

1 cup sugar

1 cup water

1 habanero pepper, seeded, but left whole. (Use gloves. Really.)

Mix corn, cumin, lime juice, cilantro in a small bowl, set aside.

Mix the rest of the ingredients together to make a batter. When it's well mixed, add in the corn.

Place the sugar and the water and the pepper in a small saucepan. Bring to boil for 5 minutes, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Remove pepper, allow to cool.

Heat 2 inches of peanut oil in a deep, heavy pot, to 350 degrees, or until a bit of batter sizzles and rises to the top immediately. Gently spoon in 2 tablespoons of batter at a time, making 4 or so at a time, leaving enough room in the pot for them to float and bubble away without bumping into each other. Gently flip them when they are golden, cooking for about 2 minutes on both sides. Remove with a slotted spoon to paper towels to drain. Drizzle with habanero syrup while hot. Serve immediately.

If you want to make these ahead, they can be frozen and reheated on a cookie sheet at 400 for 20 minutes. Maybe if you're lucky, the Queen has put some in the freezer for you!!

Queen Bee

2011-07-17T10:45:00.001-04:00

The backyard should be a sanctuary. Pretty flowers, grass, a sparkly pool. By night, some candles, a fire and maybe a little grill action. A nice, safe haven to hang out in, unbothered by the everyday nonsense. As I was sinking into the comfort of my little haven one evening, mindlessly plucking dead flowers off my very prolific cosmos, a searing pain ripped through my hand. Really searing. As I opened my hand and several dead cosmo-heads fell out, revealing the cause of my distress. A bee. With it's stupid ass stinger embedded in my palm, directly next to my best ring-wearing finger. I flicked it off and the pain intensified. Once inside, it was evident that the bee had left some stuff behind. Like it's abdomen and stinging implement. Carefully, and really not thinking about it so I didn't just get the heebie-jeebies and yell for help like an idiot, I scraped the stinger out and washed my hand under cold water. (I was mildly annoyed that I was stung at all, I am huge supporter of the honeybee. I often allow the clover to grow in my front yard to unsightly lengths so they have a place to frolic. When bees buzz my friends and visitors, I admonish them to sit quietly as the bees sniff them, telling them "They won't bother you if you don't bother them." Humph.) Now there was a throbbing quality to the searing pain, and I quickly grabbed and ice cube and hit up Google, looking for the best remedy for an unprovoked bee attack. There were many options, of which I tried two. Toothpaste, smeared onto the stung area results in a sensation much like setting the stung area on fire. I did not find this acceptable. Crushed aspirin made into a paste with a little water, did pretty much the same thing. After two misses, it was decided that trying anything else would be silly, since the ice felt just fine and so I clutched an ice cube for most of the night, leaving a little watery trail behind me wherever I went. (Insert pee joke here.) Slowly, peace returned to the back yard, and I began to wonder about this bee that just sacrificed it's life to teach me a lesson (don't garden in the dark.) Wait. Dark? Bee bed-time. Everyone knows that. Sunset is when the bees go to bed to rest up for another full day of pollen collection and Queen-pleasing (hey, I like the sound of that.) Why was my ex-bee out so late? Of course, there was only one explanation. Bee rabies. I had been stung by a rabid bee, and now I was going to get the hydrophoby and have to be shot out in the shed like Old Yeller. Awesome. I felt my heart rate creep up a little and completely attributed this to the onset of, yes, bee rabies. Google! Checking the symptoms for rabies, I discovered there were many things to look forward to. First, "individuals stricken with rabies become unable to swim." As one who has been swimming since almost birth, that would be a pretty significant and surprising loss. But I could live with it. Next, "the individual will become afraid of water in large quantities..." Well, since I have lost the ability to swim, this kind of makes sense. Far as I know, non-swimmers are not big fans of the water. (And how would they know they have rabies?) Many are actually afraid. Seems more like a self-preservation kind of thing to me. But there was more- "...as well as liquids in small quantities, such as in a glass." Uh-oh. Afraid of my filled wine glass? Unthinkable. This was starting to become disturbing. "individuals will have an unquenchable thirst." Yes, I would think so, if they are afraid of their glass of water. At this point, I stopped researching and decided some sleep was in order. If the bee rabies was coming, I wanted to be well-rested. My hand felt better, and off to bed I went, falling to sleep and dreaming that my hand had been crushed by a cement mixer. When I woke, it felt like, well, like my hand had been crushed by a cement mixer. My fabulous ring-wearing finger was swollen and every time I moved my hand, a wave of pain shot up my arm. Not awesome. Not at all. Finding no relief on land, my best option was the pool- it was a lovely day, so I perched myself on a floatie and dangled my injured hand in the pool. Ahhhhhh. Better. Of course, in the back of my mind was the complete possibility that I could become petrified of the pool I was floating on, AND lose my ability to swim, leaving me in a very precarious position. I was unsure that my Boxer lifeguard would save me. After some time floating about, the swelling and pain went away, and all seemed to be returning to normal. I could still swim. I had no fear of the pool. Maybe my bee just lost track of time as he was tasting the delicious cosmos. All was well. Later in the day, I found myself mindlessly scratching my now very itchy hand. Bee leprosy. Awesome.

Wine Can Chicken.

2011-07-09T08:00:00.000-04:00

In a pinch for some chow the other night, I perched a chicken on a beer can and tossed it on the grill. For a little change, I dumped out the Coor's Light (I have no idea why that was in the house or how it got here) and filled the can half-way with white wine, lemon juice and garlic cloves. The chicken sat precariously on the can, but did stay upright for the entire roasting process. This is a fun and different technique which results in juicy, flavorful chicken off the grill, and it's something everyone who enjoys grilling should try once. The real challenge is the canectomy, removing the can from a hot chicken without being doused with scalding wine and chicken juice does take a little skill. So, be careful!

Wine Can Chicken

One can. Empty and rinsed if it's soda, just empty if it's beer.
One chicken. Tuck the wings up behind the neck and tell it to "sit."
One grill, heated to medium if gas, two level fire if charcoal. Place a tin under the spot where the chicken will go to collect the drippings and decrease flare-ups if using charcoal.
5 garlic cloves, crushed
1 cup wine
fresh thyme
2 tablespoons lemon juice
salt

Put the wine, garlic, thyme and lemon juice in the can. Sit the chicken firmly on the can, pushing down until it can be propped up, using the legs as support. Salt the chicken. Place it on the grill, and cook until the thigh registers 155 degrees. Close the grill as much as possible, I had to prop mine open a little because I had a tall chicken. During cooking, rotate the chicken carefully, a quarter turn every 15 minutes. If you choose not to do this, it's fine, just observe the chicken for uneven browning.

Once the chicken reaches 155 degrees, remove it from the grill, carefully, and let it rest, on the can, for 10-20 minutes. It will then be up to proper temp for consumption, which is between 160-170. Lay the chicken down on it's back on a rimmed tray, and pull the can out. Remove the chicken to a cutting board, and carve and serve as desired.

500th post.

2011-07-08T15:18:00.000-04:00

Fortunately or not for me, I was visited by insomnia last night, perhaps as a result of failure to ask for a decaf iced coffee yesterday (haven't had any coffee to speak of in over a month) or I was just due for a sleepless night. Nothing worked- I counted sheep, tried to remember the last names of all my grade-school classmates, counted backwards by threes. No luck. Finally, against my good judgement, I got up. And went outside. It was 3:30 in the morning, and it was completely still. Not one pesky mosquito came to buzz me- and the air, although hot, was pleasant. Then there was a cracking sound in the trees and I ran in the house, all freaked out. I'm sure it was a bear. So much for a calm, peaceful moment of reflection outside to help call Mr. Sandman back. At least there's always FaceBook in these moments, so I checked out what my friends were up to (sleeping, apparently) and then moved on to my next diversion. The blog. After reviewing some photos that had not yet been posted, I whipped up a quick post, and went to publish. It was then that I saw that I was about to put up my 500th post. 500! That's half of a 1000. I don't recall sticking with anything for so long. So, a lousy little ditty about wine can chicken just didn't seem up to the occasion, and I used the rest of my sleepless night to make a plan for Blog Post 500. What I came up with was this- a review of blog posts, my favorites and least favorites, since the inception of my blog. Fun, right? Of course, right.

Favorite Post # 5- Stuff Made Out of Other Stuff.
It's important to enjoy making something new, especially out of something old. Or something else entirely. Or, the same exact thing.

Favorite Post #4- It Really DOES Hurt When I Laugh.
Had to give this one a vote because it reminds me that things do get better, if you can close your eyes and grit your teeth long enough. A good lesson for all of us, I would hope.

Favorite Post #3- Queen's Pizza Challenge.
This post was chosen because it was a super fun event and well, I won.

Favorite Post #2- Stromboli 101.
This one was added because I read it and it made me hungry.

Number 1 Favorite Post- Eat. Walk. Pray. Love. Walk.
How could I fail to include an Italy post? Well, I couldn't. While I wanted to include them all, this one most accurately grasped the spirit of our fabulous trip.

Ok, onto the fun part- my least favorite posts.

Least Favorite Post #5- Happy Thanksgiving.
Even in the text of this lame-ass post is a statement that it is a lame-ass post.

Least Favorite Post #4- Quadruple Bypass Burger and Flatline Fries.
It's not the post that I dislike, but the fact that it's one of my most popular posts through no cause of mine. I suspect this thing gets searched like crazy!

Least Favorite Post # 3- If We Aren't Looking In The Same Direction.......
It's honest, it's painful and it's here because I hate that I had to write it at all.

Least Favorite Post #2- Online Resources.
Um, have you SEEN the Next Food Network Star? Am I on there?

Absolute Least Favorite Post- Houston, We Have A Problem.
Not only is complaining about the weather a time-waster, it has no effect on the actual weather. I counted at least 20 weather-complaining posts, so I'm not going to do that anymore.

So, there it is. 10 Posts of Note from my 500 posts since the beginning of my blog in March 2008. A good way to spend a rainy morning. Oops.

I am doing something very wrong.

2011-06-22T17:31:00.001-04:00

This is just the most hysterical thing I have ever seen. Do not miss it. Thanks, Vegan Metal Chef.

GO HERE. Go right now. And, after that, go HERE.

Seriously, try to hang in for both videos, it's worth it. Also, just a warning, the Vegan Metal Chef uses some colorful language, so get the kids out of the room.

Thanks to Queen's Mom for turning me onto this guy, I think I may be in love.

Happy Father's Day.

2011-06-19T14:22:00.003-04:00

This gentleman is not my Dad. Because, sometimes, Father's Day isn't only about your father, but more about what he taught you as a young child. My dad taught me a few pretty good things, and that's what this post is all about. First off, my dad, who is now gone 28 1/2 years, taught me to be nice. He was a kind, gentle man, and I rarely ever saw him angry. The one time he was extremely, wildly angry he seemed like he wasn't sure what to do, as if his body had this odd rage in it and it had to get out, but he wasn't too sure how to do that. Of course, the cause of his uncomfortable anger was his precious daughter, I had done some stupid teen-aged thing that just put him over the edge, and he actually yelled. Ranted, actually. I recall being very shocked by that, and I never let him get so angry at me again. (So, I guess my dad also taught me to know how far to push a person before they exploded. Another very handy lesson. Thanks, Dad.) While I don't think "nice" is one of the first descriptive terms people would use about me, I would hope it's in the list somewhere, and I would credit Dad with that one. And, because I am so nice, you can see from above, the person sitting with me also scored a delicious margarita, and because I was so nice to the bartender, he let me take his picture.

My dad taught me to drive. When I was 11. He would let me lean over into the driver's seat and steer when I was a mere kid, and I was quite sure I was the best passenger seat driver (PSD) in the whole town. State, maybe. Yes, it was super cool, whizzing along right under the speed limit, steering, while Dad worked the gas and brake. I was also in charge of the turn signals. (Dad never went over the speed limit. He was an excellent driver. I don't think he had one fender bender in his whole life.) By the time I was 14, the passenger-side-of-the-car-steering had actually advanced to full-fledged driving. Dad lived in a large apartment complex, with a very large and sprawling driveway with parking lots, a circular drive and lots of turns. With enough whining and wheedling, I convinced him that OF COURSE it was ok if I learned to drive there, why, there were speed bumps and everything, how fast could I go, anyway? After a few years of PSD, I was a natural behind the wheel. After several formal lessons, he set me free in the driveway. I was allowed to take the car to the mailbox, up near the street to the turnaround, and back again. I was never allowed on the road by myself, and being an honest kid, I never went off the property. It did, however, take about 20 minutes to do the full "mail route." Had to do it just right, you know. And I was a car nut. I loved my Dad's car. I washed and shined it every weekend, then I would take it for a long driveway spin, pretending I was cruising the highways and byways of, well, my town, because I really didn't have that big an imagination for travel. I did, however, pretend I was working for Jim Rockford sometimes, because Rockford Files was a pretty big favorite in Dad's house, and I had a wild crush on James Garner. By the time I was 15, I was driving on the road, always with Dad beside me, usually on the way to my Queen's Mom's house on Sunday nights, when I would drive most of the way, and then we would stop and exchange seats before we got to her house. So, I learned to drive on the road at night. When Queen's Mom decided it was time for me to learn to drive, she took me and her car to a local parking lot for my "first lesson." My concern was learning the stick shift, which was actually on the steering column. I figured out the clutch and gas fairly quickly, I think, but I was more intent to drive "bad" so she couldn't tell how long I'd been behind the wheel. She still said something to the effect of "You're pretty good at this" and let me drive it home the first time out. I got my license on the first try. I still think of Dad when I'm driving, especially on long trips, which, thanks to him, I have no issue doing on my own.

My dad taught me to laugh. He was a funny, funny man. While he was generally a quiet guy, he had a big laugh and he loved to make people laugh. When I was a kid, I worked hard to do just the same thing. We spent a lot of time going to the parties his friends would throw, and my dad would always be in the middle, making people laugh. I would be doing the same thing in a group of "the big kids," or even better, the adults. While I was not always successful, I did learn the importance of maintaining a sense of humor through the tough times. It has served me well. Queen's Mom always tells me I have my dad's sense of humor. Glad to have it.

My dad taught me to appreciate what you have. We didn't have much time together, he and I. When he passed, I wasn't anything at all like I am today, I was just a little kid- not even accepted to college yet. Not graduated from high school, even. Only now, looking back, am I able to see the importance of appreciating what you have, the people you have, while you have them. If I had known he wouldn't know me as an adult or be around for me to lean on as a grown-up, I would have been more attentive, more affectionate, a better kid, a better daughter. I would have listened. I would have heard the last words he ever spoke to me, over the phone, calling from his apartment to say goodnight, rather than being anxious to get off the phone to get back to whatever kid thing I was doing. I would have heard him. I didn't.

So, he also taught me to listen.

Today is the day to think about what your dad has taught you. Whether he is still here with you or not, be grateful for the time you had, the time you have left and the lessons he taught. Thanks, Dad- for the blue eyes and all the other stuff. I miss you all the time.

I could never live in Seattle.

2011-06-14T19:05:00.000-04:00

One more day of 50's and cloudy is going to do me in. Seriously, this is not funny. It's June 14th, the day of our flag, and I'm cold and shivery. Considering putting the heat on. Had onion soup for dinner. Enough already. Complaining in March is one thing. Complaining a week away from summer is a whole different ballgame. I was in my pool last week and it was over seventy, thanks to my wonderful neighbors who cut all their shade-making trees down. It's back down to low sixties. Last year, my murky pool stayed murky through roasty-toasty July. Oh, wait... I think I see the reason. Queen's pool crystal blue in three days after opening, winter returns. Very funny. Not.

Glass noodles.

2011-06-05T20:55:00.000-04:00

Had a craving for the Thai last night, but no patience for cookbooks or research. Since I abandoned Thai Month (Wok-tober) so quickly, my Asian cooking style skills remain a bit rudimentary, but I thought, hey, I can do this, I'm hungry, I have stuff to throw together, it's so happening! Tuesday night was Thai Grill night, so there was Penang chicken in the fridge, and after my crazy shopping trip to the Kan Man, the pantry remains well-stocked with any other thing needed to make a nice noodle dish. And I wanted glass noodles with chicken and peanut sauce. So bad I could taste it. Or hoped to very soon. A plan came together very quickly, and dinner, although not as quickly, came together also. Fortunately, it was tasty and hit the spot. So tasty, you may want to give it a try. Feel free to use any leftover chicken breast- if Penang is not to be found, just increase the hot in the sauce and you will hardly know the difference.

These snowy beauties are mung bean threads. They are also known as cellophane noodles or glass noodles, and in their native tongue, wun sen. They are very bland, so they go well with stuff that has plenty of flavor, like, say, spicy peanut sauce and Penang chicken. They are found in your grocer's Asian isle, in a bag, tied together in a big loop- they are feet long, not kidding. Cooking them consists of soaking them in hot water for 15 minutes, then cutting them to the desired length. (Omitting the trimming step will have you wrangling noodles as long as your arm- or several of your feet, so make sure you don't skip this. It's not like you're Trump eating stacked pizza with a fork, this is an acceptable behavior, and will make the dining experience much less dangerous.) After they have been soaked and trimmed, they are added to a variety of stir-frys or soups. Alternately, these are the little white, crunchy noodles often served on top of Asian salads or dishes. In that application, they are not soaked at all, but broken up and fried in hot oil until they puff up.

Here's what I made:

1/2 cup organic, no salt, no sugar peanut butter
2 T soy sauce
2 T sesame oil
2 garlic cloves, pressed or chopped very finely
1/2 lemon, squeezed
2 T turbinado sugar (leave this out for dietary restrictions- no problem.)
1 teaspoon HOT sesame oil (feel free to use cayenne to taste. This dish should have a little bite to cut the richness of the peanut butter)
2 scallions, chopped
2 T fish sauce
1 small onion, cut into wedges
4 diced, cooked chicken breasts, preferably grilled, preferably Penang or even Cajun.
1 package cellophane noodles, soaked and cut to 4 inch lengths.

While the noodles are soaking, make the peanut sauce by mixing the first seven ingredients together in a bowl. Taste it, and adjust the sweet hot, sour, salty as needed. You should be able to taste each one. Add hot water to the mixture until you have a pourable consistency, taste it again, fix it and set aside.

Drain and cut the noodles. I did this with kitchen scissors. Keep the noodles in a strainer until you are ready to use them, they hold a lot of water.

Get out the wok or the large saute pan, and heat a little peanut oil in it. Toss in the onion and cook until translucent, but still firm. Throw in the chicken. Add the fish sauce, stir, add 1/4 cup of the peanut sauce, turn the heat down, and mix the whole thing together. Add one handful of noodles per serving, and mix well for 5 minutes. The noodles are now cooking, so test them for doneness. They should be quite soft, but still holding together. If they need more sauce, now's the time. When the noodles are done to your liking, serve them up in big bowls. Garnish with scallions and black sesame seeds, if you have them. People think they look like bugs, so that's always fun. I insist this meal must be eaten with chopsticks in my home, but you do what you want. I'm sure Thai gods won't chew on your soul in your sleep.

This is a really quick dish to make, even though I used a lot of words to explain it. Give it a try, let me know what you think. As always, feel free to substitute diced firm or extra firm tofu for a veggie option, and add any veggies you like. It's a very versatile dish- so have fun, and get cooking. Just let me know how it comes out!

Easter Chow. And some Kitchen "Help."

2011-05-30T12:24:00.001-04:00

Making the cheese sauce for the potatoes gratin.

Queen's Mom had the job of layering the sliced potatoes and cheese. This is a recipe I found in Cook's Illustrated many years ago. It calls for three kinds of potatoes, Yukon Golds, Russets and sweet potatoes. We used Golds because we could not find Russets, and I only remembered just now that sweet potatoes were called for. Whoopsy.

My best kitchen helper and floor cleaner.

Cranky Kitchen Supervisor. It was slave labor, I tell ya.

Main course- Roasted Pork and green beans.

Lazy Kitchen Helper. Got bored when stuff didn't fall on the floor.

Finished scalloped potatoes.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie by Cousin Judy.

Mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat.

The beginnings of a great cauliflower soup.

Dinner rolls rising.

Blueberry Custard Pie by Judy. Super yum.

Rolls done- they look like aliens, but tasted very good.

Buyer Beware.

2011-05-29T19:00:00.000-04:00

Retail therapy. Good stuff, right? Sometimes, it can be somewhat of a sport, if done correctly. While browsing at a high-end kitchen store recently, this item caught my eye. The Filled Pancake Pan. Uh-huh. Heavy duty cast iron, deep wells for the batter mixture, extensive directions on it's use and care. And a hefty price tag to go along with it's significant weight. In case one finds themselves in the middle of heavy artillery shelling making breakfast, this would be the pan to use. It will keep the filled pancakes safe, and can possibly double as some sort of protective gear. Or perhaps a weapon. The extremely perky sales associate buzzing around me like a happy bee informed me that this special pan made "Ebelskiver," a warm, stuffed pancake which was a traditional holiday food in Denmark. And, why, I could purchase the pan and the mix right on the spot and wow my friends with my Nordic food knowledge. She was making some right now, would I like to try one? We sauntered over to the Ebelskiver fixin' counter, and yes, there they were. Balls of dough, cut in half, with a filling of jam. Kind of like a very fancy donut hole. Not being a fan of the donut, or things with jam in them, I abstained. But I did have questions. Unbeknownst to my poor, earnest sales bee, she was dealing with an expert. An expert in food, and, at times, an expert in late-night infomercials. And I wasn't being fooled by any of her bells and whistles. She was hawking Pancake Puffs like the snake-oil sales person she was, and it was my job to out her, or at least let her know I was onto her charade. She babbled on happily about cooking the "ebelskiver" and the art of turning them and knowing just when they were done. Apparantly, there was some very skilled cooking going on in front of me. Putting on my best ignorant face, I asked how she flipped them. With a wide grin, she showed me a smooth stick of wood, with a curvy end. Honestly, it looked like a fine wood carving, smooth, grained and it had a twin. Yes. I knew that.

"Wow. Those are mighty fine flippin' sticks." Sales bee's smiled faltered and she looked at me a little sideways. She knew. She knew I knew I could get a perfectly good Pancake Puff Pan and 5 pairs of flippin' sticks for 19.99 in my local "As Seen On TV" store and I was not going to be fooled into tasting, let alone purchasing her 40 buck super war-safe Denmarkian made-up pastry-making pan with teak sticks carved by a bearded artisan. Nope. Wasn't going for it at all.

SB: "Um, so you don't want one, then?"
Q : "No, thanks. They do smell good, though."

She looked a little deflated, and I felt badly. Something told me I wasn't the first insomniac to come sniffing around the Edelweiss Pan.

While I am the first to pay the most I can afford for quality cookware, appliances, whatever, in this case, I was just not convinced. Do we need a filled pancake pan that will last a lifetime, or just one that will last until the kids decide pancake puffs are for babies? Do our flippin' sticks have to do double duty as art? Or can they be pointy chopsticks- 10 for 3 bucks? In this day when gas costs more every week, and families are trying to cut corners but still have a relatively healthy lifestyle, I am saying that the need for upscale one-use kitchen gadgetry may be waning. I guess the sales of the Edelskiver Pan will eventually tell the tale- but I think I know the ending. They'll be on special for 14.99 come Christmas.

Leftovers made new again.

2011-05-24T15:18:00.000-04:00

Heavy sigh. It's nearly eight o'clock, it's been a long day and NOW the stomach starts wondering where today's sustenance is coming from. Sounds like grab-something-from-the fridge-and-make-a-spot-on-the- couch-with-the-dog-to-watch-someone-on-TV-eat-some-real-food time. OR, take a few minutes to look critically at the pantry and fridge and whip up something spectacular! A little left-over Thai grilled chicken, some spinach in a bag, parmesan cheese, chives from the garden and risotto- presto! Dinner in twenty.

Assemble your mise-en-place- cut up your protein and veggies, grate the cheese. Heat a little butter or olive oil in a pan, and if one is available, chop and onion and toss it in. Not necessary at all- but it will boost the flavor of your dish, especially if you use water, like I did, instead of stock. Next, add the risotto, and stir it around until it is all coated with the oil in the pan. Next, stir in a half cup of white wine if you have it, if you don't, add half a cup of HOT water. Now, this is cheating, but I did use hot tap water, so unless you are boiling the water first, add it more slowly than usual so it does not keep bringing the heat in your pan down significantly every time you make an addition. Shake the pan a little, give it a stir or two, and keep adding hot water in small increments. Eventually, you will see the rice change- it will puff up and have a creamy exterior, and when it's cooked, it will still have a bit of a bite to it. You don't want it dry or clumpy, it should spread out behind the spoon when you drag it through the pan.

Until it's cooked properly, keep stirring and adding liquid.

And stirring.....

And stirring....

When the risotto is very close, add in your veggies and protein, and a little more liquid. Stir it all around a bit, and when the risotto is creamy and still al dente, add in the cheese, off the heat. Salt and pepper to taste, garnish with something from the garden, or sprinkle with some extra cheese.

I know, there are no measurements or times in this post. While it is important to use measures for yield when a certain number of servings are needed, nights when you're cooking for one or two are excellent opportunities to cook by feel.

Pasta a la Vongole

2011-05-22T10:19:00.000-04:00

The secret to making any pasta dish a hit is simple. Pasta water. Using well-salted pasta water in your dish to help make a pan sauce can turn any pasta and vegetable/seafood dish from pasta and stuff to an integrated, finished plate of food. Choose your veggies, whatever is nice and fresh and available, saute them in a pan with some olive oil and garlic. When they are tender, add in a little pasta water and simmer. The starches in the water will help thicken the sauce as the water evaporates. Add in your seafood and poach it just until done. Then, add the pasta into the pan, and stir it around. It will absorb the flavors in the sauce and will become part of the family, not just a foil for whatever you're pouring on top. If it's too dry, add a little more pasta water. Remove the pan from the heat, add in butter or cheese or both and plate. Sprinkle with parsley and feed the crowd. If you try it out, let us know what your veggie combinations were. Up for consideration this week: broccoli rabe and chickpeas. Oh, I'm hungry already.

Bake a pie, eat a pie.

2011-05-21T16:37:00.000-04:00

PIE!!

I don't like pie. But other people do, so that's a good enough reason to make one. Almost. This pie tried my pie-tience pretty well. I can make 20 meals in 2 hours and have nary a dish in the sink the whole time, but at the end of my pie-scapade, I had a bunch of pans, dishes, pots and cutting boards in a high pile in the sink. There was flour in my hair, on my face, and a lovely hand print right on my ass. BF laughed as he told me he had never seen me look a mess in the kitchen. Because I rarely do. Pie from scratch, well, that's not in my natural repertoire, so it took a little extra effort, and dusting. On me.

That's the reason there are not step-by-step photos, didn't feel like coating the DSLR in flour and all the rest- but the finished product looked so good, I snapped extras. This one, a strawberry-rhubarb, came out very nicely. My plan was a lattice top crust, but the geometry of that made my eyes cross, and I was nearing the mental shut-down point and getting close to making Strawberry-Rhubarb-Roll-It-Out-Yourself-You-Pie-Eating-Freak. So double crust it was. And no, there's none left- the pie did not have much of a chance at all. It lived about 5 days. I did taste it, and it was good, but I'd rather have a taco. And don't ask me to make you one. I won't.

Fiddlesticks! I mean, Fiddleheads!

2011-05-17T08:32:00.000-04:00

Ah, Spring. A time of fresh green things. Like the fiddlehead. This may be an ingredient which one may shy away from, say, like, brains or tongue, but there is no need for that. Why fear something you may see popping up under the bushes in early spring? (Don't eat those, for you shall surely die.) Fortunately, foraging in the bushes isn't necessary, the ones found in your grocer's produce section can easily be made into a tasty meal. And, like mushrooms, some of the varieties you find in the wild are safe to eat with proper cooking. However, I have no idea whatsoever which ones are safe, and which ones will kill you faster than your wicked step-mother, so again, do not begin chomping on stuff you find growing under the bush in the front yard. These were found at a local market, next to the poison apple and psychedelic mushrooms. I kid.

A great way to introduce a new food to your audience is to pair it with yet another food that confounds them. That way, when they are all befuddled and not sure what strange thing to avoid more, you can scarf down the whole thing. This is is especially fun with the peanut-butter and bacon sandwich (sometimes putting familiar, tasty things together is equally befuddling.) Not that I would ever engage in the scarfing-down behavior (that's just rude) but if it's your thing, I just helped you out, big time. And I got to use the word "befuddling" twice. Double score! In this case, Israeli couscous was as much a mystery as "hey, are these ferns?" After toasting the couscous in a pan, adding garlic and chicken stock, the fiddleheads were added for thorough cooking (they will cause gastric distress if undercooked. No joke) and the dish was finished with lemon zest, lemon juice and a drizzle of EVOO. (If you tell Tony Bourdain I said that, you are gonna get such a smack.)

All that's left to do, if you are so inclined, is top the dish with a protein of your choice, I just happened to have a stuffed pork tenderloin on the grill which I thought would go nicely with ferns and balls of wheat (see how I maintain the mystery?) The pork had been filled with parsley, garlic, lemon zest, salt and pepper and was brushed with more EVOO, placed over the fire and cooked until perfect. Slice, place on top, serve to unsuspecting dinner-eaters. There won't be leftovers, and there won't be a morsel left for the dog to lick- bad for the dog, good for the chef. So, run, run to the bushes, and then get in your car and drive to the local market for fiddleheads. You'll be glad you did.

Little Help? Sure!

2011-05-10T09:42:00.004-04:00

Queen's Auntie has a penchant for toasty things. Toasty pretzels, toasty browned butter, toasty potatoes, toasty corn meal. If it's cooked to golden darkness, she's a fan (except for chicken skin.) It was my pleasure to use some of her roasted cornmeal to make dinner for the two of us one night for two reasons. A.) I love to cook for her and 2.) I had never even heard of roasted cornmeal. Learning about a new ingredient always gets me hopped up, and this was an exceptional product. Call it heredity, but I have the same desire for dark, toasted items. One time, I set a whole tray of pretzel logs on fire under the broiler, trying to brown them. When I opened the oven door to check them, flames shot out toward me and I screamed in shrieky terror and leaped backwards in wild panic, leaving the door open and stood, frozen, staring at the fiery oven. It was then when my very calm husband came over, closed the oven door and stared at me as the flames suffocated. It was not one of my finer moments. My toaster is always set to the highest setting, and my bacon is always extra crisp. It's just how I roll. Therefore, the discovery of toasted cornmeal was pretty dang exciting. It was delicious. When I returned home from my visit, I was on the quest to find a purveyor of this product, because, unfortunately, the mill where Queen's Auntie bought hers was no longer in business. She had shared her precious last bit with me. After several attempts to find the product online, I was still coming up empty, emailing several website owners and asking where I could find the product. Lots websites full of delicious descriptions of roasted cornmeal and tasty things that could be made with it, but no place to purchase. My emails went unanswered. Until today. My blanket question was "Do you still sell roasted cornmeal? Thanks, Lisa." Pretty straightforward. When I opened my email today, I was treated to this...

Dear Lisa,

Thank you for your e-mail. I am writing you back from my GMAIL account. I have had security problems with hotmail over the years, and once I get the 400 plus web pages changed I want to drop it.

I was a little confused, I had no idea what this person was talking about with his hotmail drama, or anything about his 400 web pages, which seemed excessive to me. So I read on...

I am sorry I don't sell roasted corn meal. I have been restoring and reconstructing mills for the last 17 years. We moved out of Pennsylvania several months ago because my wife found another job with her company in another state.

Um, ok. I wasn't too sure what moving out of Pennsylvania had to do with my question, and while I was excited for his wife's new employment, once again, not too sure what it had to do with my search for roasted cornmeal. And the restoring of mills is totally cool- but his website mostly about stuff that gets pulverized in a mill, not so much the mill itself. Hence my confusion.

When we used to live in Pennsylvania, I used to buy roast corn meal and buckwheat flour from Wentzel's Mill by driving up to the mill from Carlisle. The Brinser's Roasted Corn Mill I used to buy from the local Neil's grocery stores in Carlisle. I have a long time friend in Carlisle who used to drive up to Groves Mill and bring sacks back with him.

Ok, so it seems now like I may need some sort of courier service to procure roasted cornmeal. This guy who went to Grove's Mill sounds pretty good to me, but unfortunately, his name was not included in the email. And mind you, I have no idea where any of these places are, I don't know if driving to pick up "sacks" is logical from where I live. I guess I could befriend someone from Carlisle just to get some cornmeal delivered, but that feels a little shady. It really does sound like it may be a significant journey to/from Carlisle, because I imagine a "sack" is quite large. Maybe enough to last the winter. Will it fit in my buckboard? It also sounds like the people of Carlisle like their roasted cornmeal, and take it quite seriously. I had no idea...

When I lived in Washington, D.C., years ago I used to drive up to Lancaster County and buy stuff from Rohrer's Mill. The mill burned down in December of 2006, and the Amish helped rebuild the mill, but I have not been back there to see what they are doing. The previous owners of the Burnt Cabins Mill used to mail their stuff by UPS, but I don't know about the new owners.

Ok, what? The mill burnt down in... 2006? More long drives for cornmeal! Living in Washington D.C. and driving to Lancaster for cornmeal is really making me wonder what the heck I've been missing. It does seem that perhaps this gentleman's life is defined by how he got his cornmeal. It was also very nice of the Amish to help rebuild the mill (AKA, stole a job right out from under this guy) and I, too wonder what those wacky folks are up to today. Also, naming stuff that burns down easily "Burnt Cabins" kind of made me chuckle.

Roasted corn bread makes the best Thanksgiving stuffing. When we lived in Pennsylvania, I developed some recipes using roasted corn meal. My corn bread has peanut butter in it. I have a corn meal waffle recipe and since we moved out of Pennsylvania a couple months ago, I have created a light and fluffy corn meal pancake recipe. If you find some I can e-mail some of my recipes.

Wait, you lived in Pennsylvania? And then you moved? Why, did your wife change jobs or something? Oh, and hey, thanks for offering me recipes for an item I CANNOT FIND ANYWHERE. It sounds delicious! It also feels very much like my hunt for roasted cornmeal. Ha ha! It's amazing!! We love it! You can't have any! Sounds like the recipe development with roasted cornmeal is coming right along, even though he's moved from the heart of roasted cornmeal country. So here's my question. WHERE ARE YOU GETTING YOUR ROASTED CORNMEAL???

I don't know of any mill that sells roasted corn meal over the internet, or by mail order. I just found a place that sells two pound sacks of the Brinser's Best Yellow Corn Meal - 12 Pack.

That's awesome. Not having any trouble finding YELLOW corn meal. But thanks. He included a photo to help me out.

Now armed with plenty of information, not necessarily information that will help me, I decided one thing was for sure. If I was going to have roasted cornmeal any time soon, I was going to have to roast it myself. Using the very-available yellow cornmeal, I cranked up the oven to 450, poured a couple of cups onto a cookie sheet and toasted away. There are different levels of toastiness, so I cooked it for 5, 10 and 15 minutes. At 15, the meal was very dark, and it looked near the smoking stage, so I stopped at that point. Now, it's just a matter of putting it into little baggies and sending it to Queen's Auntie to see which one is closest to what she's used to. Queen's Mill- open for business.

Recipe of the Day. Trout Almondine.

2011-05-08T10:07:00.000-04:00

Have some extra trout laying about? Need an idea of how to cook it? Back in the 70's, this recipe was all the rage- so maybe take a little journey back in time and cook up a blast from the past for your family. You'll need trout, flour, butter, lemon, wine and toasted almond slivers.

Dredge the trout in flour seasoned with salt and pepper, shake off the excess. Heat a non-stick pan and melt a tablespoon or two of butter. When the butter stops foaming, put your trout in, skin side UP. (Leave the skin on- it's completely edible, and if you don't like it, the flesh lifts right off when it's cooked.) Cook until lightly golden, about 3 minutes, then carefully, with a wide spatula, turn and cook the other side. Keep all the fish on a warm tray until they are all cooked.

Melt 2 more tablespoons of butter in the pan, and squeeze into the melted butter. Swirl, don't stir, the pan until the butter and lemon juice combine, and begin to thicken a little. Pour this sauce directly over the fish, top with toasted almond slivers.

Wasn't that easy?? Oh- and don't forget the parsley, like I did! It did NOT seem to impact the flavor- this dish was scarfed down quite quickly by BF.

Crispy, golden refuse.

2011-05-02T17:15:00.000-04:00

I love my family. Really, I do. It's certainly enjoyable to cook for them, for the most part. Let's take Easter for example. As the resident chef, and after proving my ability at Christmas, I was invited to cook Easter Dinner. Quite an honor, my cousin had been doing it for 18 years. While I was hesitant to take over, lest my cousin be insulted, she assured me that was not the case at all. She happily tossed the spatula my way. My first endeavor was to feed the family the pre-Easter dinner, I decided on a simple roast chicken and a side of Israeli couscous (I do so love feeding them stuff they have never heard of) with spinach and feta, and was pretty sure everyone would enjoy the meal. Queen's Mom was kind enough to wash and dry my chicken before I arrived, so that the skin would be extra crackly and special, which, as you know, is my thing. Dinner came together very easily, very quickly, more quickly than I expected, as I checked the chicken and saw many signs that it was done. Alas, it lied. As Queen's Mom stood by for a lesson in carving a chicken, it was appalling to see that my chicken was not quite dead yet. Well, dead, yes, consumable, no. Family was ready. Side dish was ready. Chicken was not. So, I cut it apart and tossed the parts back into the oven to finish- which I have to say, resulted in a lovely, crunchy skin. Total success. Each plate received a portion of breast with lovely, golden skin, resting carefully on a mound of Israeli couscous with spinach and feta- a beautiful plate of tasty goodness. The meat was succulent and juicy. The side dish was flavorful and cooked well, despite waiting an extra 15 minutes to be plated. And the skin was.... it was.... um, discarded. I sat there silently as my step dad and my aunt pulled it off the chicken and left it for trash. Queen's Mom actually ventured a taste, saying, "I don't usually eat skin, but this is pretty good." Honestly, if I had any idea, I would have de-skinned that chicken and been full for dinner, if you know what I mean. My stepdad, who I gave the MOST beautiful crackly skin, didn't even consider giving it a second glance. Just peeled it off like the trash it was, and let it sit there, getting soggier by the moment. It was heartbreaking. I swear, next time, they're getting porridge.

Recipe of the Day. Coq au vin.

2011-04-12T02:00:00.001-04:00

Julia Child has really caught my attention lately. TiVo has captured a few of her shows on PBS, and I watched them. This woman is (was?) hysterical! It's more like watching a sporting event than a cooking show- sometimes I root for the ingredients as they take on a life of their own and try to escape the cooking pot. Sometimes, they actually make it! She drops chickens, turkeys, pans, eggs, flings garbage to the floor, says totally whacked out things like, "Beat the eggs like you would a naughty schoolboy who sneezes" and other little ditties that cause me to rewind over and over to be sure of what I heard. It is easy to understand why she was so popular as the first TV Food Diva. Because, try as one might, it is impossible to look away. Her food looks pretty yummy, also, well, not so much in black and white, but Julia got more colorful, well, when she went to color television- she seemed more comfortable in the medium and just let it all hang out. Great TV, good inspiration. In honor of Julia, I made coq au vin over the weekend. While I didn't fling anything on the floor, I did save the liver.

If this is something you'd like to try- it's actually quite simple. This is not Julia's recipe, if you want to do it her way, you can find that recipe in her Mastering the Art of French Cooking. However, this recipe is based on hers, and a few changes were made to make the recipe a little faster and less involved. You'll need a chicken, cut up, or find some parts on sale- I used 6 whole legs. Feel free to use any parts you like, if you want all breast meat, that's fine, but use chicken with the bone in or you may end up with some rubbery chicken. Gather together the following:

3-4 lbs. chicken pieces, bone-in, skin on.

one bottle red wine, anything you enjoy drinking is fine

chicken stock

flour

1 lb button mushrooms

2 cloves minced garlic

2 cups pearl onions, frozen, unless you like torture

sprigs of fresh thyme or 1 teaspoon dried

4 slices of bacon

2 tablespoons tomato paste

1/4 cup cognac

In a deep, heavy pot, preferably ceramic, cook the bacon until crisp. Remove and reserve the bacon, and pour off the fat until you leave only 2 tablespoons in the pot. Dredge the chicken pieces in flour seasoned with salt and pepper. Cook them in the bacon fat over medium heat, turning when they turn a little brown. Don't cook them through, when they are browned on both sides, place them on a platter and repeat until all the chicken is browned. Add a little more fat if needed, but it shouldn't be, fat will also come out of the chicken skin. When all the chicken is cooked, put the mushrooms in the pot, by themselves, and cook until the water comes out of them and evaporates, and they begin to brown. Pull them out of the pot and reserve. Cook the onions in a little more fat, until they are spotty brown. Reserve them with the mushrooms. Put the chicken back in the pot, and bring the heat up. When the chicken is sizzling, turn the heat to low. Pour the cognac over the chicken, stand back a safe distance and light it with a match or long lighter. It will flame up a bit, so be careful and make sure your exhaust is off. Shake the pan until the flames die down. (If you don't want to flame the dish, don't. Just cook over low heat for 5 minutes.) Turn the heat back up to medium and pour in 3 cups of red wine, a cup of chicken stock, the tomato paste and the garlic. Mix the tomato paste in, sprinkle over the thyme and cover the pot. Set the heat to low after it returns to a boil, and cook for 20-25 minutes. Add the onions and mushrooms back in and cook for 10 minutes more. When the chicken is cooked, pull it out of the sauce and reduce the sauce down by about 1/2 cup. Taste for seasoning. The flour on the chicken should have thickened the sauce enough- but if you like it thicker, mix 1 tablespoon of flour and one tablespoon of butter together and whisk it into the sauce. Return the chicken to the pot and serve it right from there at your table. Great sides are roasted root vegetables or just parsley potatoes and something green, like spinach.

This is a great make-ahead dish, it reheats very well in the oven. It can also be made in a crock pot for a tasty weekday meal. So, go ahead, give it a whirl! And, bon appetit!

First grill of the season.

2011-04-11T09:39:00.000-04:00

Spring isn't quite here yet, but glimmers of it continue to pop up from time to time, and this inspires the griller in most of us to get busy cooking over open flame. After brushing off the last bit of frozen precipitation off the grill cover, the lighting of the coals is invigorating, a hot rush of flame against the still stiff and chilly breeze of March. While the front of the grill chef is warm and toasty, the back remains cold, requiring the cook to turn and warm the back end more often than the meat is flipped. It's a dance- cook the meat, warm the butt, poke the meat, toast the tush. As the meat cooks, the familiar aroma of summer floats through the air, sparking memories of grill nights past and evoking the hope of grill nights future, good food, friends, laughter. All the favorite recipes come rushing back, the ones that had been tucked away for winter, replaced with stews, braised meats, hearty soups and baked bread. Fresh asparagus, grilled pizza, the burger, steak tips, grilled chicken, salads, grilled vegetables with just a drizzle of olive oil. The fresh, light flavors of Spring and Summer, not quite here yet, but surely on their way. Their coming marked by the first grill of the season.

Best Food Blog Contest.

2011-04-10T10:37:00.001-04:00

If you like this blog, and think it deserves a little attention, please go HERE and vote! Saveur Magazine is doing it's annual Food Blog Contest, and hey, what the heck? Sure, it's not your "usual" food blog, but it has it's good points. If you are so inclined, I'd appreciate the vote!

Lisa.

Last Supper

2011-04-03T11:03:00.001-04:00

I have some serious Spring Blahs. It's cold, it snowed twice last week, and the grim reaper has been visiting wayyyyy too much in the past couple of weeks, taking out some very key players in the Queen's World. Overall, I'm inspired to do little but daydream and stare out the window. Unfortunately, there isn't much time for that, but one day, I did get a few minutes, and from the deep part of my brain which doesn't get much use, came this little ditty....

Let's say, someway, somehow, and for some divined reason, you know you are about to sit down to your last meal. (Maybe you went to a psychic to support your friend and the medium gave you a funny look, maybe your Magic 8 Ball had too much to say, whatever. It's not a big traumatic event, it just is. You're so cool with it, there's no angst about what comes next, after the transition. Think of it as a fabulous bon voyage dinner party.***) Anyone in the world can cook it for you, and it can be anything you want. Anything. What would it be? Who would prepare it? Think about it for a little bit, and leave your response. Now pay careful attention to this next part: On April 19th, a random winner will be drawn and they will receive a gift from the Queen. Yes, that's right. A gift.

Put your thinking caps on, and tell us what your last meal would be.

***Don't say I didn't warn you. Letting this part of my brain out for exercise was like turning a cooped- up horse loose after a long winter.

What's Italy without the vineyard tour?

2011-03-22T19:45:00.001-04:00

Yes, the day I was waiting for did finally arrive. The vineyard tour. Where the magic happens. Organizing this little adventure was no easy feat- it took several attempts with very patient Marco to understand what I was looking for. At first, we were offered the very private, very exclusive tour- but it was a bit too adventurous. It included driving. In the land of no driving rules. Nuh-uh. Not going to happen. We ended up on a bus tour- with a bunch of other people, also on a bus tour, and chomping at the bit for wine.

So, it made total sense that instead, we would go see a cave. Yes, a fabulous cave. It housed St. Brigid, a hermitess who brought Catholicism to the area where her cave was. From reading about her, she was quite spectacular, had a close connection with angels and stuff, but to a bunch of travelers told they were getting wine and really, really looking for some darned wine in the land where it was born, some of her history may have fallen on deaf ears. After all, we had been through her church, and looked at her tiny, protected-with-bars "living quarters" and enough was enough.

This is how rosemary grows in Italy. Isn't that kind of insane?

We were loaded onto the bus, and back on the up-the-mountain with the hairpin turns and speeding motorists and crazy ass cyclists. Eventually, we arrived at Castile di Trebbio. Holy God. It was a castle.

Full of history, full of well, stuff castles are filled with. Our tour started in the Conspiracy Room, where the Pazzi family, with the consent of the Pope, conspired to kill the Medici brothers. Unfortunately for them, they only killed one brother, which left the other one quite enraged and he took all their cool castles and belongings and that was kind of the end of them. (See? I paid attention and learned a little. I'm like the School House Rock of Italy.) The rest of the story of the castle included a castle caretaker named Mario, who had been with the castle since 1956, and the interesting and chilling fact that the castle was the only one left without any cental heating system whatsoever. As we stood and shivered and listened about the current family living there, we continued to wonder where the heck the wine was. Fortunately, it was in the dungeon. We went down there, and looked at the big barrels, learned how important Chianti was to the region, saw some really old wine, and finally, on to our tasting and "snack."

The wine was very good, the crostini misti was very good, but the olive oil was beyond words. Apparently, olive oil here in the States leaves a little bit to be desired, even the really, really good stuff. While everything on the plate was tasty, the bread with a little olive oil drizzled on it was by far superior.

It was ironic that on our journey to find wine, our favorite taste memory of the day was the olive oil. It was a common theme in Italy- local, fresh, carefully crafted ingredients result in amazing, simple food. A very good day, indeed.

Wings, Wings, Wings.

2011-03-11T08:52:00.000-05:00

Up until a few months ago, I was not one to eat a chicken wing in public. I enjoyed them in the privacy of my own home, and perfected my own hot wings recipe, which I would prepare on occasion and enjoy for a few days. (If you are making wings, it makes sense to make up a bunch, they reheat really well in the oven.) Then one Funday afternoon, I was invited to join some friends at the local sushi establishment, and I set off with visions of my usual sushi rolls and some laughs with some good people. WRONG. See, for a change, I wasn't in charge of the ordering. My friends were. Being in a pretty laid-back and adventurous mood that day, I kept my mouth shut (during the ordering) and was treated to a most fantastic day of dishes I would NEVER have ordered on my own. (I am a creature of habit. It is my most boring and uninteresting trait. Ask anyone.) Fortunately, I was with ST3, and she has her finger on the pulse of the cool stuff to do, and eat. Our afternoon began with steamed Peking ravioli, big, fat dumplings filled with pork and scallions, dipped in a soy based sauce. Very tasty, indeed. I made a mental note to have these another time. Now, when I go out to eat, I don't tend to order a whole mess of things and have them all there for everyone to take a bit of. I get a thing. I eat it. That usually does it for me. Since Italy, I get that having several small courses is just fine- and variety is the way to go. ST3 seemed to know this already. We had the ravioli, a fabulous noodle dish with rice noodles and veggies, a sushi roll. Not an incredible amount of food, just right. We sat, we laughed, we had sake sangria, we ate. When I thought it couldn't get much better, ST3 ordered chicken wings. I paid little mind- I don't eat them in public, and how good could they be, anyway? I was perfectly happy with what I had already, and I gave chicken wings not a thought at all. And then they arrived. On a golden platter, in a perfect circle, the most golden dark brown, gigantic, steaming, amazing-smelling chicken wings ever to have been put before me. (Ok, not a big contest, I know.) No sauce. Our bartender said- "These are hot. Be careful." Being the newbie of the chicken wings, I waited until my Funday partners took one. I had to try one, couldn't be rude, right? Not that skipping a wing was in my control any longer. The aroma wafting at me from this platter was indescribable. I took a wing. It was hot as hell. I put the wing down. That first bite was incredible, the skin shattered beneath my teeth and the meat was moist as anything. It was lightly scented with about 20 things- things that would wake me in my sleep in my quest to break the recipe wide open and, gasp, make them at home. Not that I was thinking that at that moment. At that moment I was thinking, "OMG. How have I not had these already???" I visited those wings several more times, bringing along BF, who also looked at me in scorn and malice that he had been kept from them for so long. Finally, at 4 in the morning, when all my best thinking is done, I cracked it. Those wings were brined. Brining was the secret to the flavor, and the dark brown skin. The Queen got busy. Can I help it if my local purveyor of wings had a bit of a sale?

Using my best sub-par taster powers, I put together a brine. Sugar, soy, rice wine vinegar, Chinese 5-spice. Sugar for sure- that was easy to smell in the wings, and knew that would lend to a browned skin. Totally had to guess about the 5-spice, but was pretty sure that anise was an ingredient, so it went into the recipe. June Cleaver got a chance to shine, chopping the wing tips off with ease. The wings were left whole, as in the original recipe. Most likely, this allows for a longer cooking time, and maximum juiciness. After tasting the brine (not fun) the wings went in for 24 hours. I added some ice cubes, and left this in the fridge. (Always keep poultry super cold when marinating. Same for any ground beef mixture. This has been a public service announcement.) After marination, the wings were dried off very well, and left, uncovered in the fridge to air dry for another 6 hours. Deep-frying, which is a very good cooking technique when done properly, can also be life threatening. (Did you see Top Chef this week??) The food going into the oil MUST be dry. The goal is crispy food, not fire, not death, not an oil-soaked mess. The candy thermometer was readied, the peanut oil heated (high smoking point, use it if you can) and the wings were brought to room temperature.

Happily, the wings went into the oil without incident. In small batches of 6. They were given a gentle stir every 3 minutes or so, and cooked for 7 minutes- the first batch. The second batch went for 8, the third and best for 9. It's possible that 10-12 minutes may work also, but there were not enough wings for more experimentation. But it didn't matter, the wings were fantastic. The flavor wasn't quite the same as the original, but it was just a matter of a little more of something, a little less of something else. It was sooooooo close. And so good.

Fresh Pasta 101.

2011-03-10T16:11:00.001-05:00

Time for a break from Italy (sigh) and a little bit of a cooking lesson. If you have been intimidated by making fresh pasta, or even if you've made it in the past and are up for a refresher course, this is the post for you. I don't know if you've heard, but I was in Italy about a week or so ago, and I had some miraculous food. Most of it was yummy pasta. Delicate, sensual, sexy, pasta. Oh, wait, that may have been the gentleman serving me. In any event, upon returning home, pasta became my obsession. Noodles. Fresh noodles. I pulled out the pasta roller for my Kitchen Aid. (Hey, I've made it by hand several times, and this earns me the right to use machinery to flatten my noodles. I made my bones.) I took a quick look through the pantry, and pulled out every thing I needed. I love when that happens. I used a very basic pasta dough recipe, 2 cups flour, 2 cups semolina, 6 beaten eggs, 2 tablespoons olive oil, and a teaspoon of salt. I piled all the flour in my mixing bowl, along with the salt and whisked it all together (this is instead of sifting, if you are not so inclined. I rarely am.) After making a well in the center of the bowl, and pouring the beaten eggs into the indentation, it was slowly incorporated, by fork, into a messy, sticky, raggy ball. Then the mixer took over, and beat the dickens out of it for about 15 minutes. The dough was now a smooth ball, and it was ready for a nice rest in a plastic bag. At this point, it needs to sit for an hour, but it's fine if it's rolled the next day. This is also a good freezing point, if it's being prepared ahead of time. (Just keep in mind it will have to be completely thawed before attempting any rolling. It's a better idea to roll the pasta, cut it or fill it, then set it on a cookie sheet and freeze. Once frozen, place your pasta in freezer bags. All that has to be done after that is pop the pasta into boiling water. Ta da! Fresh pasta in minutes. Kinda.)

In this case, the recipe was for mushroom ravioli. A mixture of wild mushrooms and cremini, garlic, thyme, salt and pepper went into a skillet for a long saute, until all the liquid was cooked out and the mushrooms were tender. Then, a quick deglaze with some white wine, and the mushrooms get tossed into the food processor for a quick spin. Don't make mush- shoot for about 1/8-1/4 inch bits- the mushrooms should be discernible as mushrooms, not gray matter. Ew, not brains. I just meant, oh, never mind.

When the mushrooms are completely cool, mix in some ricotta that has been strained, some freshly grated parmesan or asiago cheese, thyme and season with salt and pepper. Put the spoon down. Seriously. It will be worth the wait. Rolling out the pasta is a whole thing, so I am going to refer you to my other post for that dealie.

Once the rolling process is complete, you are left with a very long sheet of pasta. For ravioli, it's best to roll it out to #6 on the pasta roller, if it's by hand, well, let's say 1/16th of an inch. Have fun figuring that out. It should be as thick as a piece of, well, pasta rolled out to #6 on a pasta roller. Lay the pasta on a large board, and cut it in half, so there is a top sheet and a bottom sheet. Place the filling in 2 tablespoon amounts across the pasta, leaving space for sealing the top on. I like big, giant ravioli, but they can be any size at all. The idea is to have enough noodle to seal the filling in very safely, no one likes exploded, soggy ravioli. Brush the edges with water, and lay the top noodle sheet over, carefully pressing out any air bubbles (another reason for explosions) around the filling and sealing the edges by pressing them down firmly. The edges may be crimped with a fork, but it's not necessary. Cut the ravioli apart. These tasty morsels will cook in boiling salted water very quickly, about 4-6 minutes, so keep an eye on them and don't be afraid to stir them around a little. Sticky pasta is unforgivable.

All they will need is a little bit of butter, or olive oil, or if it's around, truffle oil, a sprinkling of freshy grated Parmesan Reggiano and a bit of fresh parsely. If you thought ahead and made a little pan sauce out of your mushroom cookin' bits, well, then you're ahead of the game. Just finish the sauce with a little butter, add your cheese and parsley, stand back. If you make ravioli, they will come, and they don't care who they trample to get them.

Tutti a tavola a mangiare!!!

A little inspiration goes a long way.

2011-03-09T16:23:00.054-05:00

Here we have a ball of pasta dough- the recipe is on my Fresh Pasta 101 post, and this is the place to read about rolling it out. I used a Kitchen Aid, but you can surely do it by hand, I've done it a few times and it's not that big a deal. It does take some patience and some effort, but it tastes very worth the effort. After your dough has rested, cut it into quarters and shape each quarter into a ball. Roll your dough out until it's oblong and about 1/4 inch thick.

Set your pasta roller to no setting, or as open as it can go. Run the dough through two or three times. Now, fold it into thirds, turn it 90 degrees and put it through the machine. Fold it into thirds and turn it 90 degrees again. Put it through the machine. Do this until you have a fairly even dough, as wide as the pasta machine. Now run the dough through several more times, no more folding, decreasing the wideness one notch each time. It will take a little practice to catch the dough and put it through without poking finger holes in it, I like to use the back of my hands, because this leaves my fingers free to adjust the machine, and to cut the dough at the end.

When it's rolled to the thinness you desire, lay it on a floured board, and cut it to one foot lengths for noodles, or as long as you can accommodate for ravioli. Use a pasta cutting adapter if you have one, or cut the noodles by hand. Flour them well, roll the pasta up and slice it into the desired width. Shake the noodles out an place them on a well floured pan until you are ready to cook. If making ravioli, go read Fresh Pasta 101. When you are ready to boil your pasta, fill a very big pot with water, and as it comes to boil, salt it well. Pick up the noodles and shake them out, try to get off most of the flour. Drop them into the water, and stir them, being sure none stick together. Don't leave them for too long, they will need stirring and checking frequently. Test them for doneness after 3 minutes, and every minute afterward. Depending on how thick they are, and how fast the water comes back to boil, they can be done any minute. Don't overcook this pasta! Drain it, sauce it and serve it.

In this recipe, I used pancetta, blanched asparagus, toasted pine nuts, extra virgin olive oil, lemon and shaved parmesan, salt, pepper. Fresh pasta begs for fresh ingredients. In this case, there was begging, and it was for more pasta. That's what's going to happen at your house, too, so be ready!

Sometimes, the long way is better.

2011-03-08T17:39:00.000-05:00

Oh, I miss Italy. Those little words don't even come close to how I feel about this place I was in for only 6 full days, living the life with my closest friend, feeling somehow like I belonged there. Don't get me wrong, I am pretty happy with my current life. I'm strong, I'm quite independent, I'm mostly in charge of what goes on. I've made peace with most of my demons, and am grateful for what life is busy teaching me. As I work to learn, it's apparent there is more to come, and while some of it may not be pleasant, it's likely I am now ready for it. But I never expected what happened to me in Italy. I found a place that made me wildly uncomfortable, wildly stupid, and I loved every minute of it. It took all the silly little things I was afraid of an put them in one spot where I could confront them at long last, and come out on the other side. It was a personal journey. A very fast, very baffling, personal journey. Oddly enough, the best minutes were completely unplanned, the restaurant we found by accident, the "American Breakfast," the scenic trip to Roma. While I kept my mouth shut for most of this, that accidental 5 hour train ride were some of the most precious moments for me in Italy. At the time, it seemed an expensive and unfortunate accident, hopping the 'slow' train to Rome- but gradually, I realized that I was seeing so much of Tuscany out my wonderful train window- things I would not have seen otherwise.

Tiny farms, with impeccably planted vineyards, more green than I ever thought possible, rivers, 17 mountaintop castles with their resident villages, and a true sense of what the Tuscan region is all about. The land. The grapes. The olives. The people. No neon signs. Not one traffic jam. For 5 hours. It may have been heaven.

As passengers climbed on and off, I romanticized about the trips they were taking- we were stopping in the most teensy little villages- and I watched carefully as the passengers were greeted on the platform. On young woman was hugged so intensely by her father- tears welled up in my eyes as I watched their emotional reunion. I saw grandparents reunited with their small grandchildren, friends greeting friends, lots of hugs, some tears, and it was a great ride. It was the greatest mistake of the whole trip, and I am completely grateful for every minute of it. Grazie, Italia.

Eat. Walk. Pray. Walk. Love. Walk.

2011-03-02T02:00:00.039-05:00

Julia Roberts is a bone head. There is absolutely NO reason for anyone to have to buy bigger pants in Italy. It is the land of the speedy walking people. (It is also the land of the stiletto heel. These things do not go together in my brain.) So, when they are not trying to run you over with their wheeled vehicle, or smoking, the fine people of Firenze are walking really, really fast, causing you to also walk really, really fast lest you be trampled and left in their wake. This is actually a very good thing, seeing as the food is so delicious. And, after careful observation of the local eating habits, we determined the following schedule was the most common.

9:00 Breakfast.

11:00 Dessert.

1:00 Lunch.

4:00 Dessert.

8:00 Dinner.

11:00 Dessert.

And still the skinny jeans. But we figured that part out, also. Portion sizes are not super-sized- they are normal-size, hence the non-super-sized residents of Florence. Eating is not a sport, it is not done mindlessly or in haste, it's an experience. We did not see anyone walking with food or beverage in the streets. You sit. You drink. You eat. You talk. You get up. You walk.

Our day started with breakfast. After finding a place near our hotel, and failing at opening the door (we could not operate doors in Italy. Not at all. I cannot explain this.) we were met by a charming, handsome man who thought it was funny to tell the confused and always-feeling-stupid-travelers that "You're a-late. No breakfast. You missed it," as he easily slid the door open. Sliding? Really? We sheepishly turned away, only to have him say, "I make a joke! I wake you up with my joke. Come in, have a-breakfast." Thus began the breakfast adventure- and a very tasty one at that. After a listing of what was available for "American Breakfast," toast-OJ-croissant-hot drink-ham-cheese-yogurt, and "Italian Breakfast," bread-proscuitto-pecorino-hot drink, we chose one of each, just because we could.

Breakfast, needless to say, made us very, very happy. We learned very quickly that some protein in the morning kept us satiated until it was time for a small lunch, which at times, we forgot to eat completely. But, the lunch specials were posted outside of restaurants, written by hand and sounding really tasty. There were also many sandwich shops filled with attractive sandwiches and pizzas, ready to go into the pizza oven for a few minutes before they were served. Cappuccino was always at the ready, just don't ask for it after four o'clock- because then you're an idiot. Or at least you feel like one, because you will be questioned about your request by your wait staff. "Are you sure? Do you know what the time is?" "Yes, Signore, it's damn midnight in my body, so get me a damn cappuccino." Fortunately, anything I tried to say in Italian came out "Si, grazie, scuzi, prego," so no one got hurt.

When 4:00 rolled around, we would find a little shop for a glass of wine or a ciaccolata calda, and we would be plied with tasty snacks. One never sits and drinks wine by itself in Italy. One sits and drinks wine with tasty snacks.

When dinner rolled around, we would find a nice osteria or restaurante and sit down for a meal. This is where I found some real charm in Italy. It was embodied in the tall, dark, handsome Italian-tongued waiter who served us some of the most amazing food I have ever eaten. Super clean, super fresh, super good. And the flirting didn't hurt. Even if we were stupid, once again. Our waiter had to explain the menu to us not once, but twice (and I call myself the Queen of Cuisine?) After we placed our order, my soon-to-be-new-regazzo returned to the table. He looked me in the eye. I struggled to maintain my composure. He said with the cutest accent, "The sea bass. It is marinated. So it is cold. And a-RAW." Oh, please. Like we're idiots. (We both changed our orders.) He gave me the same story when I asked for the beef carpaccio, but I was all over that, duh, and went for it. It was beyond delicious. I made everyone taste it- even a college student. They made nummy sounds, it was that good.

Let me apologize for the quality of the dinner meal photos, but after a day of sticking out like a sore thumb, I was not about to announce further my tourist status (especially not in front of regazzo, I'm sure I had him fooled) by flash photography of dinner plates. But, hopefully, the general deliciousness is expressed clearly enough.

So, the second day in Italy was showing good improvement for sure. We found some nice people, we did not get run over and we ate some delicious food. And, we don't need bigger pants. Take that, Julia.

Italy, the beginning

2011-03-01T03:00:00.000-05:00

I am doing everything wrong. I can't get anything right in Italy, and I have no idea why. I am failing miserably at finding the deliciousness of this place. The beauty was easy to discover, it was evident in the first seconds as we flew over the countryside, preparing to land.

The charm, well, that's another story altogether. I can't help but wonder if the Italian people, tired of loud, obnoxious American visitors (found them, can't seem to get away from them) have made their reaction to all Americans cold and contrite- no warmth and mostly, downright disregard. I can't seem to break through that icy exterior. As someone who uses wit to get through most exchanges, this place is a little disconcerting. My wit does not work here, because I cannot, in any way, master any part of this language. Nothing bothers me more. I freeze when confronted with the tiniest interaction. In fact, I was just corrected by Ledo, my bartender, as I ordered "vino rossa." Come on, I know better. I didn't need the stern "vino rossO" and the peering over the eyeglasses. Of course. Grazie, Ledo. For pointing out my stupid. Again.

I have learned things. Don't take for granted that you won't be killed by a passing bike, Vespa, car or truck. Because you will. I have learned to cross at the crosswalk, look carefully for anything on wheels, and did I say, cross at the crosswalk? I have also learned an empty trattoria is the yucky one- it's better to find a crowd and wait for a seat. On the day one has slept for one hour in 27, don't try to go to late dinner. On the night after one has slept only one hour in 27, set the damn alarm clock so you don't leave a college student waiting. They get really angry.

Take a good stair class before climbing il Duomo (really serious about this one) and for God's sake, don't have two espressos if you've never had one American one. Especially don't have ANY before climbing il Duomo unless you'd like to have a rousing panic attack near the top. Actually, there is no reason to have espresso at all, so I can't understand why I even contemplated having a second. I guess it's because, in the small part of my heart that remains romantic, I wanted to live out the dream of sitting on the piazza, overlooking the Arno, sipping an espresso and looking less like a big, lesbian tourist and more like a cool traveler contemplating my fabulous surroundings and getting into the true groove of my local. (I'm pretty sure my comfortable shoes, giant water bottle and snazzy vest gave me away completely.) What actually happened, after ordering (in apparently OK Italian because the barrista*** spoke to me in so much rapid-fire Italian I felt like Sonny in the Long Beach toll booth) if I could sit outside, fulfilling my romantic dream, I was sternly told by the server "this is my service" and I was left to stand drinking my espresso (#2) in the midst of diners. Um. Ok. Not really what I had in mind. But, damn them, I was drinking the thing. The horror remains with me still. Espresso. Not my cuppa tea.

At least I just broke the ice with Pasquale, my bartender (and seriously, good guy and he make a good joke from time to time). He helped me choose a restaurant for tomorrow night. It's a good start. I'm sure I'll fit in better tomorrow.

*** Please pardon my use of this most likely made-up word from Starbucks. I don't know what else to call her. Espresso-tender?

Taste of Italy.

2011-02-28T02:10:00.001-05:00

I have lots of words to say about this- but first I may require a nap. Please enjoy the pictures while your party is reached.....

Travel Jitters.

2011-02-16T17:38:00.000-05:00

I'm taking a trip to a little place you may have heard of. Italy. My journey is approaching quickly, and I have to say, it's a little overwhelming. While I am trying hard to appreciate the amazing opportunity before me, I am also scared shitless to leave my dog, my house, my country, my mommy. Especially while half the Eastern world has decided to take to the streets in a revolutionary manner. Yes. Oppression for hundreds of years can't wait another week or two. Awesome. I am not a fearful person. In fact, in the past few years, I have become downright oblivious to danger, my own or yours, and have failed to react with the appropriate level of excitement on many occasions. This is a marked difference from a person who used to fret over the littlest thing- often going to great lengths to convince myself the everything was just fine. One time, after cooking for a bachelorette party, I was convinced I left the stove on. When the party was over, the bachelorettes had headed to their all night bar crawl in Boston, and then they were all flying somewhere fabulous. This left the house empty for days before the owners, who had loaned their place for event, would come home to what I had completely convinced myself would be a pile of very expensive cinders. I didn't sleep. I kept the news on so I could see the fiery blaze. There was no one to call, no way to check if I had turned off the stove. So, the next day, in pure OCD/anxiety disorder fashion, I drove back, 50 minutes or so, to the house I was absolutely, positively convinced was in a smoldery pile on the ground. It was not. But I still remember the fear. It was real, and I was stunned to see the house still standing. It was at that time I took a very hard look at my irrational fears and what might be driving them. While they didn't go away immediately, that day was a huge step forward in my ability to determine what was worth worrying about and what wasn't. Over the years, I have gotten to the point where I don't seem to freak out too much. Last week, my neighbor called me at work because there was a S.W.A.T. team on the street and guys with big dogs and big dogs running through our back yards and my response was, "Really? Cool." I've come a long way.

But Italy is a big deal. I know it will be awesome and amazing. No doubt. Everyone who I talk to who's been there tells me how wonderful it is and that I will never want to come back. Well, except for the Gypsies, who smell bad and want to snatch your watch. I'm not sure what the uptight-ness is all about. I wasn't concerned about Pig-Flu-Ravaged-Killing-Tourist-Mexico back in 2009. I'm sure it will all be a piece of torta.

No one guessed the mess.

2011-02-09T17:53:00.001-05:00

I have a strong sense of self, so I don't feel TOO neglected that not one reader even tried to guess the mess, but I'll tell you, I got a call today for the recipe. The mess was Crock Pot Mole, and I made up a recipe to take along while visiting, and got the call this afternoon. Yup, mole that I threw together from whatever I had in the pantry. To give you a little reminder, it looked like this.....

After a hot and sweaty ride in the crock pot, it was whizzed to smoothness with the immersion blender and made into a speedy, tasty dinner.

Fortunately, I happened to have a roasted shoulder of beef around that was looking for a sauce, and this was just the one. There was enough for a few suppers and a quart of mole beef to take a-visiting. Not bad for 10 minutes of work. The recipe is available for those interested. Even if you didn't guess the mess. Just search for Crock Pot Mole in the search box, and you will find it. For even speedier mole, use tortilla crumbs instead of the tortillas.

Baking a traditional cookie.

2011-02-08T19:16:00.000-05:00

Since Mr. Weather has blessed the Northeast with one billion storms this Winter, I have gotten some baking done. Last weeks Weekly Wednesday Winter Whiteout allowed me the time to make rugelagh, a traditional Jewish cookie made from a rich, cream cheese dough stuffed with brown sugar, apricot jam, cinnamon, raisins and walnuts. There are many variations, so I also made a batch of chocolate, and another of raspberry jam and walnuts.

The first step was bringing butter and cream cheese to room temperature. When the temperature of the room is below 62, room temperature becomes moot. Fortunately, my Kitchen Aid has the strength of ten men with really big whisks, and it beat my butter/cream cheese into submission in a matter of seconds. Then, a little sugar and creaming action, and then an addition of vanilla and flour. When it's all a clumpy mess, it is turned out onto a board and shaped into a round.

See? A round. The dough then sits in the fridge (mine didn't have to, I'm sure, but I put it in there anyway. I tend to listen when a baking recipe tells me to do something.)

The round gets divided into three parts, and each is rolled out to a 9-10 inch round. A liberal coating of jam, the sugars and nuts are evenly spread on top. Then comes the fun part.

Each round is sliced into 12 wedges. Unless you are a math idiot (I am) and come out with oh, I don't know, 14. Some are small. Some are large. So we slice some more. At some point, we stop and decide that "rustic rugelagh" is a fabulous name for our pastry of the day. The big and small wedges all get rolled up like little crescents, and placed on a cookie sheet. They get a wash of milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon-sugar. Into the oven until the place smells really, really good.

At the end, there are tons of little and big rugelagh of many flavors. The first batch is gone before one can say, Mazeltov! for a rousing baking success.

Pete gets ready....

2011-02-01T09:50:00.000-05:00

Long ago, my friend Miss Liz traveled to Colorado. Or Arizona. I can't remember anymore, because the brain cells which held that info are now long gone. Still retained in my memory, however, is the fact that I gave her my glue stick and I asked her to take with her, in my place. (When I was in my twenties, I was either not that bright or just really goofy.) Miss Liz, being a good sport, packed up the glue stick and went off to Colozona with her family. I didn't think much of it while they were gone, but when she got back, she presented me with pictures. Of the glue stick doing stuff. The glue stick hanging out with a big Husky-like dog. The glue stick having a beer with her sister. (Liz's sister, not the glue stick's sister.) Unfortunately, the pictures are nowhere to be found. (I know, because I just looked. I've had some wacky hairstyles over the past 20 years, and I'm annoyed that no one mentioned that the Heat Miser hair was NOT attractive.) When I told Miss Liz that a trip to Italy was in my near future, she exclaimed, "Take the glue stick!" Knowing a 20+ year-old glue stick would never make the trip, the search for a logical replacement began. And ended in two seconds. Pete the Pirate, left here by my good buddy, Evan, just got lucky. In a traveling way, not a sexual way. I'm not sure how we'll get him on the plane with his giant sword and pistol, but it's worth a try. Arrrggggghhhh. Off to Italy, Matey.

A Tale of Two Willows.

2011-01-30T20:11:00.000-05:00

What happens when Queen's Mom and Amy both try to get the Queen the best Christmas present ever? Why, they get the same thing of course! It was the Christmas of Willow- she was immortalized twice. It's hard to say who was more surprised. Queen's Mom was rendered somewhat speechless as I told her over the phone of my "perfect" Christmas gift from someone else. I had to repeat it a few times. Honestly, she did not sound too excited. In fact, she was dead silent. It wasn't until Christmas Day that I fully understood why. Queen's Mom handed me a large package, and as I tore the wrapping from yet another bubble-wrapped item, my heart started to sink. Was it possible? A duplicate portrait? No wonder Queen's Mom was so quiet on the phone. I swallowed hard, and pulled the paper off- yes, indeed, a second Willow. Very different from the first- but remarkably, Willow. Poor Queen's Mom. I know how she gets about presents, and it must have been quite a blow to hear my excitement over someone else's gift, which was the same as hers.

The first Willow had been presented to me several days before, based on one of my favorite photos. I had taken it myself, and Amy had coerced it from me with some "I'm doing a website project" lies and making it sound so important that I actually chose a good picture after the first few less-spectacular ones I sent her. When I saw the portrait, it was quite a moment- after all, it was a portrait of my good girl! I couldn't wait to go home and show her. (She sniffed it, but seemed indifferent. Dogs.)

While the second one caused me to have all the same emotions, I was more concerned with Queen's Mom, and my head was spinning, thinking of how disappointed she must have been that she didn't have the biggest and best the first time around. But let me say this. It does not matter a whit who came first, in this case. Two people I love had the best idea ever, and I love both paintings so much. To have my beloved, smart, sweet, loyal Willow painted not once, but twice, is astounding. Both images capture so much of her personality and her beauty, I am proud to hang them in the Willow Museum of Doggy Art (Willow insists that's what we call the house now. It's gone to her head.) So, if you're in the area, and feel like a bit of doggy-art-culture, come on by. We'll surely have a tour going, and a dog cookie, if you're good.

You scream, I scream, we all scream for....

2011-01-28T06:37:00.000-05:00

I have an ice cream maker. I've had it for almost 4 years, actually. It has sat on a shelf, unused for 4 years. But, recently, I was inspired by a recipe for "Brown Butter Ice Cream." So I made vanilla. And it was good. (I'm reading the bible. That line is in there a lot. I'm not saying my ice cream was biblical. It was good, though.) Dang good. It made me want to try more. MORE! My next ice cream experiment was vanilla with.... leftover butter cookies that I had made for Christmas. They were just sitting around, I'm not a cookie-eater, so I threw them into my batch of ice cream as it was finishing up. This was biblical good. I am not kidding. God would forgive me for saying so, I'm sure of it. Onward and upward. It was time to try something else. Peppermint is one of my favorite flavors in the whole world. So, I smashed a large bunch of unsuspecting peppermints to smithereens one day, and used them, instead of sugar, in my ice cream recipe. O M G. Now we are talking heavenly.

More Winter Blast.

2011-01-27T15:40:00.000-05:00

Winter Blast 2011- Round... I can't keep count.

2011-01-27T08:37:00.001-05:00

Guess this mess.

2011-01-27T06:15:00.002-05:00

Ok. It's late. I'm hungry. I want a crazy good meal. The pantry beckons. Random ingredients leap out at me. A tiny bud of an idea starts to grow. It blossoms. It turns into the thing you see above. What is it? If you can guess, put your answer in the comment section. The winner will receive a fabulous prize- I'm not kidding. Let's interact, people. Fabulous prizes are being offered! Winners will be announced publicly, and given wild and crazy accolades. So, have at it, Mom and whoever else that one other reader is. And, I'm dead serious about the prize. I have it right here.