Mallomars and tea for Thanksgiving

I’ve no Thanksgiving recipes to share.  No warm stories of family togetherness or memories in the making, nothing about tensions overcome for a warm and fuzzy ending to the day.

None of these things happened this year because we were sequestered with the flu.  Two hearty doses of it, as a matter of fact.  Evan fell ill on Monday and, just as he seemed to be heading for the light, I was hit.  Fortunately, I am never taken to my knees quite as dramatically as he is—he’s one of those people who doesn’t get sick often, but when he does, he does it with real vigor—though hit I most certainly was.

Since I had mostly melted by dinnertime, our Thanksgiving supper was cereal and Mallomars.  And tea.  Yum.

I’m not a huge fan of Thanksgiving anyway.  I don’t like to see a turkey lying, plucked and sans head, in a place of honor on the dining table.  I haven’t eaten red meat in a hundred years and have had trouble of late eating chicken and turkey.  I think some of it has to do with feeding our chickens every morning, chickens we name and protect.  They are parts of this funny little family.  We worry about them when they’re sick and miss them when they die.

This summer a baby chick was left on our doorstep, in a sense, by the kind nanny of a family in the summer colony next door to us.  The chick was one of many purchased as “summer pets” by some moronic, doting parents there, and she was the only one to live.  The nanny cared for the chick with the help of one of the little girls in the colony, until fall approached and the family began preparing to head back to the city for the year.

We raised the little chick in the house, taking her outside into the sunshine every day, putting her in the “playpen” Evan made for her, hoping, hoping, hoping that she would survive.   Evan, a lifelong lover of animals, had warned me about the high mortality rate among baby chicks.  It was too late for me immediately, though, because we had named her—Audrey (Hepburn, of course)—and, as you know, once you’ve named someone, feathered or not, you have a whole new level of attachment.

But, happily, Audrey got bigger and stronger and more chicken-like with each day until, finally, one day she clucked and we knew she needed to be outside with the big girls.  Now she sleeps in the chicken coup with them and roams the yard, running up to us when she sees us, just to say hello.

And then there are the wild turkeys that come into the yard in the early morning to feast on the seeds and corn we put out for them.

After watching them wander out of the woods to eat, knowing they feel safe here because they have, over the years, always been welcome, the ritual of eating one of them has become absurd to me.

So, Thanksgiving dinner this year, as always, wasn’t about the food (though, I will admit, it would have been about the pie—I missed the pie).  It was about the family.  My parents were in from too far away, where they live now.  They were at my brother’s house, only a four hour drive from me, while Evan and I were here, sick and planted.  We had planned to spend some days with them and then to see those in Evan’s family who had gathered in the city, but, instead, we moved in very small circles all day, feverish and groggy. 

Even without a headless turkey lying plucked and baked on the table, I know what I’m grateful for.  I don’t need the mashed potatoes smothered in roasted garlic and sour cream, or the yams glazed with brown sugar, or the flaky crusted pie—as much as I’d love a piece (chocolate, please)—to know what’s important in my world.  

But if I needed reminding about what makes me feel good about my life, watching Evan lay out warmed pletzel, sliced cheese and grape tomatoes for us in an effort to counter our crappy cereal dinner certainly would have done it.  So would have thinking about my parents, so loving and kind that their only concern was that we get well, even though they had traveled so far for a long discussed, much needed Thanksgiving together.  Reliving moments shared with my siblings and their families, and feeling the warmth of those I hold among my friends and of those who call me friend are all the things that offer me a good, swift kick in the ass if I need to be reminded about the things that are valuable. 

In the end, I am so happy that I did get to see my parents and two of my brothers when I dragged my sorry, snotty self down to my brother’s house yesterday.  (How happy they must all be to have my sorry, snotty self sneezing and sniffling all over their now formerly healthy selves, but, hey, isn’t that what family is all about?)

And in this moment of gratitude, I want, too, to remember to make things better, to do instead of simply planning, to hold those who are dear closer while letting go of those who, in the end, just don’t matter.  It seems easy, like something we should know, but, for whatever reason, sometimes we need reminders and nudges.  If the absence of a headless bird on the table serves as the kick in the ass I need, then I’m happy for that, too.

THANK YOU, SOUFFLE BOMBAY!! (I never win anything!)

The other night, I was reading through some blogs I enjoy, and, to my surprise, Souffle Bombay was having a contest that was about to end. The topic was a childhood cooking or kitchen memory, and the prize was a Kitchen Aid manual chopper. My memory was easy--albeit, perhaps, a bit verbose--because it is one of those wonderful memories that follows me so many places. I think about this one when I'm making salad or playing in the garden, when I'm in the market, buying tomatoes, or watching a child and grandparent interact.

Oh, and Souffle Bombay gave two of these adorable little red babies away, and I won one of them! Here is what I wrote:


One of my most vivid, and probably one of my earliest, memories of “helping” in the kitchen was making salad with my grandmother. She and my grandfather had been farmers in Oklahoma most of their lives but, by the time I was born, they had retired. They had kept a huge family garden on their farm, the garden my grandmother tended was an about an acre big. The garden produced enough food for the family of 10, with surplus to give to “those who didn’t have,” as my grandmother would say. Once they left the farm and moved into town, they could have only a small garden. That garden took up the entire back yard.

I remember my grandmother saying, “Let’s go make a salad, honey,” as she handed me a smaller version of the big ceramic bowl she took. Clutching my heavy bowl close to my body, I would follow her out to the back yard and the beautiful, clean garden that held our supper salad. We would pick lettuce and cucumbers and peppers and beans, but my favorite part came at the end when we picked the bright red cherry tomatoes she favored. We would pick one, pop one in our mouths. Pick one, pop one in our mouths. Pick one….

To this day, a hundred years later, I can still taste the sweet, cool burst of heaven in my mouth and see my grandmother’s face, her eyes closed, a smile gracing her beautiful face as she bit down on a wonderfully plump, tiny tomato.

I’m sure we went into the house and actually prepared the salad, but for me, “making a salad” still is picking the ingredients, carefully, lovingly and always with my grandmother standing close by, even if only in my memories.

The NAME OUR BUSINESS Challenge

Okay, so here’s the deal.  We now sell cookies and breads under the name Joie de Cookies.  Evan came up with it and, until he saw it in writing, liked it.  In writing, however, he thought people would see “Joey de Cookies.”  I, however, thought that it was clever, and that it felt light and happy, like a cookie and bread business name ought to. 

Well, Evan was right.  On top of that, they don’t even seem to get the name when it’s said to them.  During our test of the name, the average person offered a blank stare, while a flicker of a smile, mildly reminiscent of the face one makes just before throwing up in public, twitched. 

Maybe four people got it, but four people does not a thriving business make. 

Oh, don’t misunderstand me.  The cookies and breads are still a huge hit when we bring them as our contributions to a party or dinner, and the people who have bought them regardless—or in spite—of the name, love them.  They are, after all, delicious. 

So, Evan’s new idea is this:  Help us think of a name for our cookies & breads business, and we’ll send you a nice, yummy batch of cookies if we use your idea.  (Or, if you’d rather, a nice, yummy loaf o’ bread instead.)

Evan is leaning now toward Ho-Made Cookies and Breads.  (As you can see, it's a combination of a play on the spelling--capitalizing on the current popularity of bastardizing perfectly fine spelling, which usually throws him into convulsions--and a play on words that makes him chuckle (me, too, frankly)--something he loves to make happen with words and images--and a commentary on...uh...well, on...hmmm...hey!)

I started this blog under the assumption that no one would actually read it, so writing about The Unspeakable would be pretty safe.  Now, I’m crossing my fingers for input.  And, just to be on the right side of my kind of shitty karma, not a single mention of….

Orange Shortbread Cookies with Dark Chocolate.

***I have, upon request, deleted this post.***
Orange Shortbread Cookies with Dark Chocolate

Yield about 4 dozen

Ingredients

1 cup butter, softened
¾ cup packed brown sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
½ teaspoon fresh orange zest
2 cups unbleached all purpose flour
6 ounces dark chocolate

Preparation

1.   Cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl.  Beat in the vanilla and orange zest.
2.   Add the flour gradually, incorporating it fully with each addition.

3.   Make balls (or any other shape) using about ¼ cup of dough; flatten gently, placing                           about 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet.

4.   Bake in preheated oven at 325 degrees for about 15 minutes, or until lightly golden.      Cool on wire rack.

5.   Melt chocolate in sauce pan.  Spoon melted chocolate over the cookies, either pooling it or drizzling, or dip the end of the cookie into the pot.  Replace on wire rack to cool.
6.   Eat with gusto and a glass of milk.

You can omit the zest if you prefer them without orange flavor.  Also delicious.

Blasts from the not distant enough past...and cinnamon bread, too...

Baking, for most of us, involves a trip into our own heads. We think about things, relive memories, mentally plot our gardens and plan our lives. Some of us think about our families and wonder who’s doing what as we bake this bread or that cake for them, while others come to decisions about what career paths to follow or which curtains to buy for the living room. It’s a solitary time filled with activity, emotion, thought.

Where we go in our heads depends, too, on what we’re baking. Different things bring up different thoughts or memories. Maybe it’s the smell of the individual ingredients or the cooking foods. I read once that the sense of smell is the sense that most stirs memories. I haven’t eaten bacon in at least 30 years, but, to this day, when I smell it frying, I’m transported immediately and completely to 1962 and my grandparents’ house in Hobart, Oklahoma. The smells of tomatoes and wet dirt have the same effect, and transport me to the same spot.

Yesterday, I baked cinnamon raisin bread. The kitchen was filled with the wonderful smell of warm dough and baking sugar. It was heaven. I should have been floating back to my grandmother’s house in Hobart, where I sat at the kitchen table, watching her bake wonderfully plump loaves of white bread for supper while she chattered on about people I would never meet. I was small and in awe of everything she did. I loved my grandmother and grandfather more than it seemed possible to love anyone. They were the happiest, easiest place in the world for me, and they offered that kind of unconditional love that only adoring grandparents can. I should have been embraced, right there and then, by the memory of that comforting aroma mixing with the hot summer morning air, of the sound of her voice, and the touch of the ever so light breeze from the fan on my moist skin.

But no. That’s not where my mind wandered yesterday. Nor was I thinking about curtains or my career (though I really ought to be—think about my career, not curtains, that is). For whatever reason, I was thinking about one of Evan’s old girlfriends.

Evan is an amazing man. Kind, generous of heart, brilliant, funny, beautiful inside and out, he is a man who hangs on to old people like nothing I have ever seen. I don’t mean “old” as in aged; I mean “old” as in “old girlfriends.” Primarily the kind of old girlfriends who really, really should have been discarded pretty soon after they became current girlfriends.

I’m not sure why, but the men in his family do this. More accurately, they permit old girlfriends to hang on to them. Most likely, it’s because they don’t know how to move away from people who continue to cling desperately to them, or because they can’t be bad guys, or because they allow themselves to be laden with the guilt others bestow upon them like carefully wrapped gifts, but they say it’s because of something else. Since I’ve never gotten an answer that didn’t incorporate into it muttering through a hand or into a glass, I’ll trail off here….

The most recent one, gone now for a few years, only stopped bothering us recently. She called, wrote e-mail messages, and sent why-don’t-you-love-me-anymore cards and letters long after Evan and I had started coming home to the same house. She’ll flair up again one day, of this I have little doubt, but more about that another time and another recipe.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It isn’t that I don’t absolutely adore having Old Girlfriend on the scene. She’s added a spice to everything. Old Girlfriend is a treasure, really, entirely worth keeping. I’m too mundane a person to fully appreciate her charm and glitter, of this I am aware. Yes, you heard me correctly, glitter.

OG pretends she’s a fairy. Oh, sorry—how very pedestrian of me—that’s fayrie. Or is it faerie? Anyway, she makes fairy wings out of wire hangers, tinted pantyhose and glitter glue in a rainbow of colors. And, I suspect in furtherance of the fairy…fayrie…faerie?…persona, she dusts herself with glitter, as a sort of accent, I guess, to the fairyfayriefaerie essence she perpetually sports.

OG is not a hypocrite, producing wings merely for retail sale, I’ll have you know. She wears those wings. Yes, wings, on her clothing. Permanently attached, protruding over her shoulders, flapping about with every sudden movement. And, just in case the wings don’t bring enough attention, she favors push up bras that assist the skin of perhaps once ample breasts to be gathered up in a mass of, well, skin, and shoved over the top of her necklines.

So, we have boobs oozing out of the top of the costume de jour, a wing twitching at each shoulder, and glitter. How petty would I be to not have absolutely adored the never faltering presence of this, our very own, sparkling, jiggling, flapping 50 year old fairyfayriefaerie?

We were fortunate enough to keep up with OG’s every thought and move after she and Evan broke up since she is her very favorite topic ever. Until recently, she provided updates in long, rambling, creatively spelled dissertations in which she happily filled in Evan on her latest hobbies and pastimes—nude modeling and attending belly dancing classes—while reminding him of how misunderstood, yet sweetly forgiving, she remains--“Maybe one day that horrendous bitch will allow you to remember our undying unding never ending love and the magic of all things me. I continue to make a point of being the perfect vision of fauxness always, spreading forgiveness and clichés wherever I go.”

I may have paraphrased.

So, these were my thoughts as I baked this delicious cinnamon raisin bread. I thought about the Faux FairyFayrieFaerie and felt mildly pissed off that I even had to think about such things, that I would ever have to wonder when she’ll grace us again with her glittery, jiggly wingedness.

The good part, though, is that it’s cathartic. I go through a range of emotions until I hit contentment, and that’s when I realize, each time, that my life feels good. I’m reminded that memories aren’t always happy or warm, but that, most often, they have something to offer. If we learn from the past, elect not to repeat unpleasant histories, decide to create happier, more conscious futures, we’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. I won’t feel pissed and I will have deliciously warm cinnamon raisin bread. And, best of all, I’ll have Evan.

Cinnamon Raisin Bread

Yield 3 loaves

Ingredients

1/2 cups milk (I used 2% with no difference to the taste or consistency)
1 cup warm water (110 degrees F/45 degrees C)
2 packages active dry yeast
3 eggs
3/4 cup white sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 cup raisins
8 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

Filling

2 tablespoons milk
1/2 cup white sugar
2 tablespoons ground cinnamon
Topping
2 tablespoons butter, melted

Directions

1. Proof your yeast by dissolving one package of yeast in a warm bowl filled with ½ cup of warm water and 1 teaspoon sugar; do the same with the other package of yeast in a separate bowl. (The water and sugar is a part of the ingredients above, not in addition to them.) Set both bowls aside until their contents are foamy.
2. When yeast is proofed, add to it eggs, the remaining sugar, butter, salt and raisins. Stir in milk.
3. Add the flour, a cup at a time, to the mixture. The dough will remain sticky.

4. Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface for a few minutes. Oil a large, warm bowl and place the still sticky dough in, turning to oil the surface. Cover with a damp cloth and put in a warm, draft free place until it has doubled.

5. Once the dough has risen, roll it out on a lightly floured surface into a large rectangle, approximately ½ inch thick, 26 inches long and 14 inches wide.

6. Moisten the surface of the dough with 2 tablespoons milk.

7. Mix together ½ cup sugar and 2 tablespoons cinnamon, and sprinkle the mixture over the top of the moistened dough.
8. Roll up as tightly as possible (the roll will be about 5 inches in diameter). You will take the 26 inch side farthest from you, and roll toward your body.

9. Cut into thirds, and tuck the ends under. Place each loaf into well greased 9 x 5 inch bread pan. Lightly oil tops of loaves. Put in warm, draft free place and allow to rise again for 1 hour.
10. Bake at 350 degrees F for 30 minutes, or until loaves are lightly browned and sound hollow when knocked. (Using a convection oven, I baked my bread at 325 degrees for 20 minutes.)
11. Remove loaves from pans, and brush with melted butter. Let cool before slicing.

 

(I nibbled.)

My bread didn’t have the swirl it was supposed to have and I suspect that’s because I didn’t roll it tightly enough. It’s not especially sweet, and I think I would add more sugar to the dough. I don’t love cinnamon, so I would probably reduce that. Evan, however, who doesn’t like cinnamon particularly or cooked fruit, loved it.

Geez, do you think OG, with her FairyFayrieFaerie powers, knew what nasty things I was thinking about her and put a FairyFayrieFaerie (okay, that’s the last one, I promise) hex on my bread?

Next time, I think I’ll make the swirl chocolate. There isn’t a way on earth that can ever be bad.

Stuffed Artichokes & True Love

On November 1, Evan and I celebrated our fifth year “together.” 

I say “together” because it was not the traditional meeting/dating/moving-in-together scenario.  We began by meeting about 15 years ago, by chance, just outside of the county courthouse.  I was a Legal Aid attorney and his friend was an assistant district attorney.  My friend, Colleen, also a Legal Aid attorney, and I bumped into them as we were walking out and they were walking in.  We were introduced, and, as Colleen has reminded me ever since, he and I were transported elsewhere for the few minutes we spoke.  I think he told me about his job in the film industry, which his friend had immediately volunteered as, I guess, his most admirable attribute.  His job wasn’t what drew me to him.  It was a combination of his radiant blue eyes and the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

So, we stood there, according to Colleen, lo, these many years later, flirting.  We spoke for only as long as Colleen and Evan’s friend could stand being ignored, and then we all walked off into our separate directions, he and his friend in one direction, and Colleen and I in another.  I glanced back just as he did the same, but that was it.

About 10 years later, we bumped into each other again.  That’s a story in itself, for another time, but I found out then that he had wanted to pursue the contact, all of those years ago, only to be told by his friend that I was married.  Although I was in a relationship, I was not married.  Hmm.

We ended up “together” this time, amidst disintegrating relationships and entangled in bad timing.  The end, so far, though, is happy.  The world continued to spin, everyone went on living, and, despite one incredibly pissed off old girlfriend who, like The Thing That Refused to Die, just would not go away (our fingers stay crossed), life is good.

And, so, here we are, happily “together.”  Dinner needed to be special, but simple.  The house is in the middle of renovations, and the construction site involving the leaking and disconnected washing machine had to be resolved on “our night.”  So, in honor of the moment, and the long night ahead, I made a simple dinner of stuffed artichokes and salad.  It was delicious (one of Evan’s favorites) and so simple.

Unfortunately, you’ll have to take my word for the beauty of the dish since, in my rush to feed my hard working sweetie, get his ass back to work and then make good on our traditional celebration of this anniversary, I failed to take photographs of it (“it” being the dinner, not the romantic night…).

Stuffed Artichokes

 

Ingredients

2 medium to large artichokes, washed and prepared as below

4 cloves garlic, chopped

½ cup large onion, chopped

5 medium mushrooms, chopped

1 stale good roll (large, or two pieces of stale good bread), cubed into small pieces

Fontinella cheese

Asiago cheese

butter

extra virgin olive oil

good red wine

Preparation

Preheat oven to 400 degrees

Prepare the artichokes by snipping the tips off of the leaves and cutting the stem off, providing your artichokes with flat bottoms.  Wash the artichokes well, turn upside down to drain all of the water out. 

In the meantime, prepare your pot.  I use one of those metal steamer racks and fill the pot with enough water to touch the bottom of the rack.  If you don’t use a rack, put about two inches of water in the bottom of your pot and set the artichokes in the water.

Steam the artichokes for about 20 minutes.

Stuffing

Melt a bit of butter in a hot pan.  You can add some extra virgin olive oil to help keep the butter from burning, but we prefer the taste without the oil.

Saute your garlic; remove from heat and set aside in bowl.  Do the same with the onions and mushrooms, separately, adding butter to the pan before each addition, and placing each in the bowl with the garlic when browned.  Lower the heat and place the bread in the pan, allowing it to absorb the butter.  Put all of the sautéed ingredients in the warm pan.  Add enough good red wine to cover the bottom of the pan, stirring constantly, and allow the flavors to mix until no liquid remains in your pan.

Remove from heat.  Stir grated cheeses into the mixture. 

You will have removed your artichokes from their pot and allowed them to drain and cool enough to touch.  Put the artichokes, bottom down, in a baking pan.

Gently pull the leaves out as you fill each section leaf base with filling, using a small spoon.  Use every bit of stuffing—there is no such thing as too much with this recipe.

Sprinkle more of your grated cheeses on top of the stuffed artichokes, cleaning the droppings from the bottom of the pan before adding about 2 inches of water to it.

Bake for about 30 minutes, or until the cheese is golden brown.   Perfect with a salad.

Delicious.  And it looks like you went to mounds of trouble.