Super Important Announcement!!!!

Today is my blogoversary!!!

No kidding. 2 years. 1200 posts. And you.

The last thing I expected out of this Bloggery experience was a community. A rich, diverse, interesting, terribly amusing community of creative people who would make me laugh and think and laugh some more. I didn't expect to find the kind of support you have offered over these 2 years, on all sorts of levels. I certainly didn't expect any of you to become "real". The fact that I have gained some really spectacular friends from this little adventure is nothing short of a miracle to me. And of course, I also scored some very delicious cheese.

Yes, Blogtopia is a wonderful place and I'm so glad I found this little Craftsman style bungalow with the wraparound porch in this little corner of the 'hood. I couldn't have found lovelier, kinder, more generous neighbors. I've made a big applesauce cake to celebrate, so come on over. And look! Music and circus people.

Love you. Mean it.

Near Death by Lumpia

I had a Parent Association Board meeting yesterday afternoon. It was a perfectly pleasant and productive meeting but it nearly killed me.

The couple that hosted the meeting are Filipinos. I don't know how many of you have the joy and privilege of knowing people from the Philippines but I know a lot of them. The Child's school is about 75% Filipino families and there's a sizable population of same at our church. Some of my best friends, as the saying goes, are Filipino (or filipina, depending). One of the marks of this particular culture, oh joy, is food. That is to be expected, of course. But it isn't just the preparation and serving of cultural delicacies like lumpia (skinny, little spring roll guys) and almond jell-o (trust me...yum). For Filipinos, feeding people is loving people. It's what you do. There is a crazy generosity to their feeding. Many is the time I have stood with my friend Stina in her kitchen before a party, looking at a table so crowded with food that you can't see the table cloth and she'll shake her head and say, "Do you think we have enough?"

Right. So I arrive at the party meeting yesterday. Alex is taking BBQ meatballs out of the oven. Monica is working on strawberry shortcake. She's already laid out the almond jell-o, little squares of white almondy bliss stirred up with tiny little bits of kiwi, mango and strawberry. There's fried chicken, a giant platter of lumpia (with 2 dipping sauces), puff pastry rounds stuffed variously with tomato and cheese or artichoke and cheese, chips, 2 kinds of wine.

And that's just what they provided. It was a potluck. Talk about carrying coals to Newcastle. I swear, the next time I'm invited to a Filipino potluck I'm bringing antacids.

We're waiting on some folks so we decide to start eating. I sampled one of the pastry guys and a little smidge of the pasta and pea salad I had foolishly brought. There was some Caesar salad but I opted for the almond jell-o stuff. (Mon says she'll score me some next time she's out...I've never seen it but with the plethora of Asian markets in town it's not a rare commodity). I had a couple of lumpia because, hello, they were there and I have never ever been known to pass up crisp deep-fried nuggets of joy. Especially when my favorite sweet chili dipping sauce is in abundance. I had some of the meatballs...tender, melting, the sweet and tangy BBQ sauce enrobing them with a glistening uh, robe. I had some white wine...it was a hot day.

My plate wasn't stacked. I was being selective, judicious. Prudent. I had a couple more lumpia. Because they were there.

And then we had the meeting. As we sat and discussed and planned and laughed, I began to undergo a change. The comfortable fullness that had been created by my flavorful and oh so carefully chosen lunch began to grow into something else all together. I found myself thankful that I'd worn my kicky top with its tummy hiding abilities. Then I realized that my skirt, which had hung quite nicely when I donned it, was becoming uncomfortably tight.

I left the meeting early.

I told The Spouse that under no circumstances was I cooking dinner.

I drank nothing but water and peppermint tea for 4 hours.

It is my sense that my stomach has returned to its natural, intended size but I don't expect to be hungry again for many hours to come. If it weren't for the fact that I have a date with a wizard today I would check myself into a spa. Pass the celery.

One More Chicago Related Story and Then I'll Shut Up About it For at Least 2 or 3 Posts

Thursday last ended with a show and dinner, but it began with a reunion. As we were fixing on taking off, Nicole et famille arrived in the US for a 3 week holiday. And, in a display of rather incredible friendship, they drove the 45 minutes or whatever it is from Jolliet, where they are staying with family, to meet up with us at Navy Pier. It wasn't only the drive from Jolliet, either. It was that they had just arrived the night before, were completely jet-lagged and had been up since 5 a.m. That is some serious dedication.

Navy Pier is the quintessential tourist destination, with it's Disney-esque influence, people in pirate costumes, carnival rides that cost entirely too much for what they are, shops selling all manner of useless memoriablia and all sorts of restaurants and kiosks full of food, food and more food. It is, in short, absolutely the sort of place I hate most and have the least need to ever visit.

Navy Pier does, however, afford some pretty kickin' views of the city.
It was also a comfortable 10(ish) block walk from the apartment. When we arrived, there she was, standing at the gate, waving.

Nicole and I have known each other for about 15 years, meeting shortly after I was married. We became instant friends and have managed to remain close despite her falling in love with a Frenchman, marrying him and staying in France to raise 2 bilingual babies. She claims we last saw each other in 1999, after she was married. That's a long time. So it was positively heartwarming to see her beautiful face. Although, I'd best get this out of the way: she hasn't changed a bit. So I kinda have to hate her now.

We went to some jazz themed place for lunch. Which was, for The Spouse and I, just salad because we really were all et out. The Child succumbed to baby back ribs and it was fun to watch both Nicole and her cheri ordering their lunch. She went for a BBQ sandwich. He wanted something "very American" and opted for a hamburger. And then the questions started, because you can't ever just order a hamburger, can you?

"Cheese on that?"

"Sure".

"Cheddar, Swiss, American, pepper jack or blue?"

He looked at me with his tired puppy dog French eyes. (Oh, those wicked eyes of his. He turned them upon me many years ago and said, with thick French accent, "I know you are afraid to fly, Lorraine, but it would mean so much if you would come to our wedding". I am a sucker for zee accent and zee puppy dog eyes. I digress).

"You want Cheddar", I said.

"Cheddar".

"Onions and mushrooms?"

The eyes again.

"Go for it".

"OK, sure," he says.

Poor guy. As if he wasn't already tired enough. 'Cause he also had to decide between french fries, soup or salad.

Lunch was fine and then we wandered off. We pursuaded Boy 1 to try Dippin Dots. "Are they good?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "Everything in America is good". (He's 5. And lives in France. Moving on).

Boy 2, however, insisted on proper American chocolate ice cream.

We admired the views.


The menfolk decamped to a beer garden (where there was a live karaoke band who included "Twist and Shout" in their repitoire and The Spouse, who didn't have his cell phone with him, kept waiting for us to return so he could have his Ferris Bueller moment. It never happened. He was sad).

The women folk and children wandered off to look at arty things and poke around in tourist shops.
We took the children off to ride on things.

This is a very huge Ferris wheel that looks very frightening, which is why I enlisted Nicole's niece to ride with The Child. What I didn't realize is that it is a very slow Ferris wheel that makes one revolution and then you get off. Kinda lame for $6 if you ask me but The Child thought it was super fantastic to be up so high.

And despite the heat, the crowds and my general lack of affection for such places, you can't beat the sight of truly happy kids.


The environment and the situation were not exactly conducive to the sort of heart-to-heart I was hoping to have with Nicole. They were accompanied by family members, who were very nice but had their own claim to the clan plus she was dealing with very sweet but quite tired enfants. There really was no possible way that we could have any sort of deep, meaningful conversation in the midst of all that. Which made me a little sad, just because I never, ever see her. But even if we couldn't be ensconced, just us two, in some little sidewalk cafe with a bottle of wine and all the afternoon stretching before us, it was still lovely to see her again, to be with her and to feel the comfortable ease that has always been the tenor of our friendship, no matter how much time or distance has spanned between us.

Sometimes just being together is enough. And when it isn't, you talk to your therapist.

"And how do you feel about that?"
"'Twist and Shout'. I just wanted to sing 'Twist and Shout'".

Some Observations and Some Food

Yesterday we went out for lunch at Iwanski's favorite hot dog joint.

A classic Chicago dog. Yum.
Words to live by.

Then The Child and I went out and did a little shopping. It was a little warmer yesterday than it has been, but still lovely.


The afternoon was all about getting ready for the Trailer Trash party. Merlene Hogswaller, fixin' up some of her dandy devilled eggs.


'Cause any proper Trailer Trash party starts with real good horses ovaries. And Miss Healthypants brought the fried pork rinds to round out the spread.
Talk about good! Corn dogs, baked beans, tater salad and a nice red Jell-o.
Cousin John Bob brought his real fancy NASCAR cooler full of some right fine beer.
The Mouse family came on up 'cause ain't no party complete without 'em anymore. (I'm really hoping they'll come out for my birthday party in September. If you are looking for property in the Chicago area, please contact the Mouse and let her sell you something).
Since The Spouse's Trailer Trash name is Buck, we had to call the actual Buck Two Buck. (Did you know that if he'd been a girl his folks were going to name him Jacqueline Creama? Creama Wheat. Seriously. He even called his mom to confirm the story. And then we passed the phone around the room to tell her what a lovely son she has).
John Bob, posin' fer the Kodak.
MHP and The Child, doin' the Shimmy Shimmy Shake.
On the roof for the fireworks show.
Jon makes watermelon daiquiris. I'm not a fan of the watermelon. But his drinks were really delicious. Went down real smooth. Stubbed my head on 'em, but sometimes you pay the price. Paying the price. That would also be why after all this eating I look 5 months pregnant.

Climbed a grueling 11 floors to the roof to watch the fireworks (using the elevators wasn't even an option as everyone in the building plus all their guests were headed up there as well)and then came back down to sit out on the "front porch" some more and talk and laugh and call both The Neighbor and JP and pass the phone around so everyone got to talk to them.

Iwanski finally hit his wall and went home like a sane person. But Buck, MHP and the fam were just getting started. So we did karaoke until 4 am.

At one point, well before the daiquiris had kicked in, I announced that I felt truly blessed to be in Chicago with this particular group of people. It was just the truth. And later, in the midst of much conviviality, Iwanski said, "Can you believe we just met 3 days ago?". Because, you know, there we all were just hanging in that totally comfortable way that friends do.

And I observed that when I told people we were making this trip to meet people I knew from the interwebs, there were often those who would lift and eyebrow or make a remark like, "Wow. Hope they aren't serial killers". (Which was silly because what are the odds that they'd all be serial killers? I mean, really. The odds of that would have to be like, what? really, really high).

But here's the thing: we weren't the only ones taking a risk. Crikey, for all Buck knew we were going to come here and sell all his stuff on eBay. And it should also be noted here, since I noted it last night, that this trip could certainly have gone the other way. Serial killers and scam artists aside, we could have discovered that all we had in common was the fact that we blogged. We could have spent 2 minutes saying "Hi, how are ya?" and then just sat around awkwardly, wondering how we were going to stand to be around each other for a week. Or we could even have found each other really obnoxious.

JP and I have talked about this before, about this magical little circle of bloggers we've found and our friendly little virtual neighborhood. And we talked about it again last night and how superfantastic it is that our expectations about these particular people have been met and exceeded. If I lived in Chicago I would totally hang with these people. And I think they'd let me hang with them. It's just a gift, puppies. A sheer, unmitigated gift.

Oh, and a big storm blew in last night, as we sat out there on the Balcony of Terror, watching a million people trying to get out of the city. (Bwahahaha). We'd been hearing about these legendary Chicago thunder storms and it was impressive. The Child was inside when it started and came out at the first flash.

"What was that?" she asked, all saucer eyed.

"God's fireworks".

"Oh. Cool".

Today has been spent in recovery mode...cleaning up, resting our heads and watching what appears to be an airing of every episode ever of "Twin Peaks" (which was one of my favorite shows ever). There has been some napping. And mineral water. And The Child continues to explore the wonders of Easy Cheese.

In a bit we're going to head for Chinatown and a much ballyhooed dinner at Lao Sze Chaun

I will not be eating beef maw.

Oh, and happy birthday America.

Sunday Morning in Chicago

Oh man.

I have met John Iwanski.

It's all gravy from here on out.

Yesterday Jon and I took the El to the north end of town to do some grocery shopping. We passed Wrigley Field and I held my hand over my heart. I love old ballparks. Got to the store and invented our menu in the produce department. Then it was off to Jack and Steve's...old friends of Jon's...who have a bigger kitchen and a dining table that seats 10 (we had 11). We spent the afternoon cooking, talking, drinking wine and occasionally just plain giggling because after emailing back and forth about food and sharing recipes for over a year there we were, cooking together.

The menu:

Tapenade with crackers and a nice rich bleu cheese for apertif. A mixed green salad with shallot vinaigrette and a goat cheese crouton. Big fat pork loin chops that had marinated all afternoon in garlic, red chilies and olive oil. (The Spouse grilled them up for us). These were accompanied by a cherry and jalapeno salsa. Steamed asparagus with a compound lemon butter and lemon zest plus summer squash and pine nut gratin rounded out the main course. For dessert I made strawberry-nectarine kabobs drizzled with caramel and served with creme fraiche that had been mixed with sugar and limoncello. It was all just fine. But you didn't come here to talk about the food, did you?

Did I mention I met John Iwanski?

I admit. I got a little nervous as the afternoon progressed. But all of a sudden, there they were, John and Miss Healthypants, MHP's niece Stacy (who is getting married next weekend and drove down from Wisconsin to meet me...yeah, I was honored) and Stacy's future SIL, Nayla (beautiful young woman from Lebanon) plus a chappie named Harry who's a good buddy of Jack & Steve & Jon's. He reminded us of The Cardinal so we've named him the Chicago Cardinal. 'Cause we're like that.

It was a terrific party. Lots of good wine, good food, a surprise cordial that Steve brought out at dessert (whiskey flavored with maple syrup. Seriously. Delicious). I was seated across from Jon and there were times I'd catch his eye and just give him a "can you frakking believe this" look and he knew exactly what I meant.

It's probably not fair to do this but I must. John Iwanski is a great guy. He's famously shy and described by his wife as a hermit. But a hermit with social skills. He's as funny as you'd expect, smart as you'd expect. He's also a genuinely nice guy. Really, truly nice. Sometimes I'd look down to the end of the table to verify that he was really there. Oh, I know. Gushing. But let's say you were at a dinner and, oh, I don't know, found yourself seated with Cyndi Lauper. Wouldn't you be pinching yourself? And wouldn't you subsequently become somewhat charmingly insufferable about the fact that you had dinner with her? Of course you would. Well, that's me about Iwanski.

MHP is absolutely adorable and funny. Stacy was a frakking hoot. Nayla was lovely, and she really gets snaps for being thrown into that situation and comporting herself with such grace. It was one of those parties where there were 3 or 4 conversations going at once and you didn't know which one to join. But I suppose the best part was just that it didn't matter that we'd never met before. That bit of it was dispatched in about 30 seconds. And let's face it, it's just terribly nice when reality exceeds your expectations.

After bidding our hosts a very goodnight, we all walked to the train together and rode back downtown to "our" place. Wine, laughter, talking, some singing. (MHP has a really nice voice, btw). Wandered down to Iwanski Manor for a bit more of the same and then Jon walked us back home and hung for a while. He and The Spouse have bonded over Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

The Child is currently singing karaoke (Uncle Iwanski loaned her his Playstation). The Spouse is perusing the packet of tourist info Iwanski graciously collected for us. And I'm starting to think that we should wander out and find ourselves a brunch somewhere.

And yes. I have pictures. But I haven't figured out how to download them yet. Just know that when they appear, that will really be me with John Iwanski. No photoshopping involved.

The Spouse and I were taking our coffee on the balcony this a.m., reviewing the fun of last night and both basically feel that we could sit on that balcony and admire the view for the rest of the week and this would have already been the best vacation ever. The fact that there is more to come....must stop now and catch my breath. We're really glad we came to Chicago.

Go Cubs.

Little to Report

The visit from the Best Friend was terrific. Golly, I love that kid.

The thing I have always loved about the two of them together is the effortlessness of their interaction. Even after not seeing each other since last summer, it was as if no time had passed. (Except for the very exciting discovery that The Child is now the taller of the two). They greeted each other with hugs and giggles, then scurried off to look at pictures of boyfriends and giggle some more.

We had burgers for dinner and watched "High School Musical", the two of them whispering back and forth:

"Zach is so cute!"

"You can have him, I'm going to marry Corbin."

tee titter tee

After the movie they disappeared into The Child's room for a raucous hour or two and emerged to share with me the "Harry Potter Rap" that they'd written. Word.

I finally sent them to bed and was amused to find the assorted girl litter strewn through the house: notebook paper scribbled with their names and those of their boyfriends ("Mr. & Mrs. First Love Crushybuns"), facial cleanser and toner in the bathroom, dresses slung over doors.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a bad tummy ache, which persisted throughout the day. No Corpus Christi parade for me. The Spouse went, as he was scheduled to drive van, but the girls stayed with me. I always make pancakes for them but due to my incapacitation they made their own. AND cleaned the kitchen. They kept busily to themselves while I watched Food Network shows and hugged a water bottle, coming in occasionally to check on me. Sweet kids.

The reason BF was in town was to celebrate the recent graduations of an uncle and brother. So she and The Child went off to the brother's party and when The Child returned home around 5, she made me one of her spectacular cheese omelette's.

I feel perfectly well today so there you go. Yesterday felt like a waste in some respects what with missing one of my favorite church liturgies and not having more time with BF and missing out on catching up with her folks at the party. But maybe I needed all that lounging and napping, for emotional as well as physical reasons. There are worst things than an enforced day of rest.

Cleaning Up

Well, that was a load of fun.

Thanks for coming to the potluck and making it such a superfantastic event. The food was excellent, we had enough for everyone and I even have a few bottles of wine left over. No beer, though ((JP). I had the last of Nicole's apple tart for breakfast. Yum. (OK, I confess. I hid away a slice just for that purpose. You people are ravening beasts).

I also want to give a shout out to Sling for staying after to help clean up. You're such a gentleman. And thanks to The Hat and Red for policing the butts after all the "not smoking". If there's one thing I hate it's sodden faux ciggie bits in the lawn. And it's raining today.

I've got to run the crockpot back over to Alice but I just wanted to say, in all seriousness, I totally knew that virtual potluck idea would work. You are a very fun, creative bunch of people and it's a frakking honor to know you. I mean it. I think we proved two things: 1) you don't need microgreens to have a swell party and b) cheese rules.

We're so doing this again next month.

FYI: there's a "Hello Kitty" fanny pack and a NASCAR cap in the Lost and Found. Oh, and Rosemary, I think I have one of your hamsters. How he got into the bread box I do not know.

Sur la Table

There are a number of items in the news that bear comment today. However, the thing that struck me was this article in the NY Times. Go ahead and read it. I'll wait.

la la la la la

Ooh, I really need a manicure.

dum di dum di dum

"I'm going down to Liverpool to do nothing..." la la la la la

Edward James Olmos won best actor at the ALMA's last night. I love "Battlestar Galactica".

Maybe red nail polish.

'K, back? That's right, kids, no schaudenfraude about Lewis Libby getting 30 months (whoo to the hoo). We're going to talk about how silly people are about food. I've confessed before to having, once upon a time, been a foodie. Which is why reading about these people in New York engaging in dinner parties like it's some sort of blood sport really got me going. Talk about missing the point.

Breaking bread with someone is one of the most profound symbols in human culture. We come to the table to nourish ourselves and strengthen bonds with others. Period. When feeding others becomes about impressing or even intimidating those gathered, something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

When we have a dinner party I thoroughly enjoy lavishing attention on the details of the feast with every intention of pleasing my guests. Because I want to please them. I want to do something nice for them and make them feel special. It is not, I repeat not so that they will spend 15 minutes between the entree and cheese courses telling me what a marvel I am.

Granted, a reputation for consistently serving good food has a price. Here is a list of people who cook for us:

The Cardinal and Mr. Mikey
The Neighbor
Seattle Coffee Girl
Jim and Kelly
JJ & Elroy
Stina and Dave
Ree (she rarely entertains but is always happy to bring food to parties)
The Sister-in-Law

This is not to suggest that cooking for us is the only way to prove friendship. There are plenty of people in our lives who show their love and friendship in other ways. That's fine. Not everyone entertains or enjoys cooking like we do.

But it does bother me when people say, and they have, that they are "too intimidated" to cook for me. "Too intimidated". As if I'm that Jeffrey Steingarten person who judges on "Iron Chef America". (He has a book called The Man Who Ate Everything. He regularly gives the impression of being the man who ate everything and didn't enjoy any of it. Ever. And furthermore, holds you in contempt for daring to cook).

This intimidation, and I know because I've asked, hasn't to do with me being some hard-to-please snoot, insufferably inquiring as to the pedigree of the brie. "Oh, no, it's just that you do it so well and I'd be embarrassed to serve you ordinary food".

Ordinary food. That's funny. Because I cook ordinary food. It isn't sprinkled with fairy dust or gilded or brought to the table on angel wings. Good food, lovingly prepared is all that is required for a nice dinner. Do you hear me? Food as art, the dinner party as weapon...this is so not the point. Crack open a bottle of 3 Buck Chuck, throw something on the grill and have a party. Lighten up.

It almost makes me not want to write about food anymore because it makes me feel I might be contributing to the madness. If joy, affection and a sense of celebration - even if you are only (only?) celebrating the gift of being alive together - isn't at the heart of your meal then what is the point? I'd rather have a dried out pork chop offered in love than duck breast in peach sauce served with ulterior motives.

One of the things I'm most looking forward to about our trip to Chicago is cooking for people. And Jon and I are looking forward to cooking together. Because it will be fun. Because it will be a way of showing these heretofore virtual friends that I care about them. I don't worry that I must somehow prove myself and therefore everything must be perfect or the whole evening will be ruined and my reputation along with it. If something goes awry we'll send out for pizza. I hear they have pretty good deep-dish pie in the Windy City. Maybe I'll screw up dinner on purpose.

Let's have some fun. I hereby invite you to a virtual pot luck. I'm making a simple roast chicken. What are you bringing?

"Beurre noir" is Just French for "Oops, I burned the butter!"

The Child cooked dinner last night. "I'm not really in the mood," she said.

Given that I am not always in the mood either she received no sympathy. And it was a simple meal...white fish with kalamatas, roasted red peppers, garlic and lemon, wrapped up in parchment and baked. Not much prep or fussing involved.

Cooking in parchment is one of my favorite methods, because it is quick and it assures minimal clean-up. Plus, there is the drama of opening a present at the dinner table. She soldiered on.

We sat down to eat. Grace was said, wine poured. We opened our packets. It smelled wonderful. The fish was perfectly cooked and a half a roasted pepper sat jauntily atop my fish, like an over-sized beret. Bits of olive were scattered about and the fish seemed to be swimming in a puddle of olive juice. Interesting, I thought. Good way to introduce a little flavor.

"Oh!" said The Child, brightly and quite pleased with herself. "I tried a little variation. I cooked the fish on a bed of black sea salt".

Needless to say, the meal was inedible. Beds of sea salt, I explained, are for fish with the skin still on, but not for slender pieces of red snapper that are going to absorb all the salt.

And then there was a welling of tears and a trembling of lip. "Don't cry," I told her. "This is the mark of a true chef. Trust me, every cook worth their, um, salt, has made mistakes. In fact, there are lots of things that people cook today that were probably mistakes to begin with. So don't be sad and don't worry".

"I told you I wasn't in the mood to cook," she pouted.

No one starved. She made herself a bacon and mayo sandwich and The Spouse and I had grapes and cheese and crackers.

We have a saying in our house whenever someone tries a new recipe: "This is either going to be really good or it is really going to suck". It all started with "Tuscan White Beans" that was a horrible slop. But in cooking, as in life you have to try new things. You have to be willing to fail. You have to put that curry powder in the tuna salad so that you even up the score and your wife can bring it up every time you try to tease her about the Tuscan white beans. And sometimes you have to take that beautiful black sea salt and see what happens when you put fish atop it. It's how you learn.

Dinner tonight: BBQ take-out.

Well, That Will Be an Interesting Conversation

I was just making a pass through the house, emptying out the various wastebaskets. I went into The Child's room and expected that before actually emptying her garbage it would be added to it with all the little bits of teen clutter that are usually present: spent lip gloss tubes, crumpled tissue and the inevitable banana peel or apple core that is always moldering somewhere even though she is technically not allowed to eat in her room.

But her room was pretty clean, which made me happy. As I made a mental note to compliment her on her efforts at tidiness, my eye caught sight of a plastic container on her bedside table- a plastic container full of shaved coconut. Annoyed at the idea of her 1) sneaking out the container and b) of eating crumbs of coconut in a bed that just yesterday received fresh linens, I went to retrieve the container. And tripped on an insulated food carrier that isn't even ours but was left at a party by some friends.

I picked it up. It was heavy. I opened it to reveal an ice pack, a quart of grape juice, a single serving of applesauce, unopened (thank heaven) and a baggie containing 2 thick slices of cheese. What the....

Stay tuned.

Hi. I'm So Glad It's Sunday.

I am sorely in need of a day of rest. I will not be getting out of my jammies. The glorious madness of non-stop parties is over, leaving me a happy little puddle of weariness.

But enough about me. Let's talk about the Carnevale feast, shall we?

Ah, Carnevale! One of the most favorite of all our feasts, the time when no regard is given to calories, carbs, grams of fat or any of that other nonesense. Time to eat large, drink plenty and generally indulge; it's one last fling with the table before the fast of Lent begins.

The party began with a little apertif of wamed olives with orange zest (pretty much my signature apertif snacky thing) and champagne or sparkly juice. Beads were donned.

The first course was a little wedge of paté with cornichon and crackers. I did not make the paté myself because Trader Joe's has a very good country style one but one of these days I'll get around to making my own in the proper little paté terrine that Nicole gave me long ago. (I also used to make cornichon from itty bitty French cucumbers that I grew myself. Note to self: find some seed again this year because that was just plain fun).

We have the same salad each year for Carnevale, a very simple toss of chopped celery and shaved Parmesan in a lemon juice/olive oil dressing. It is a surprising combination of refreshing crunchiness. Ancient Romans would secure celery leaves around their heads as a preventative to hang-overs.

Then came the main course, which is always lamb, but this year involved the discovery of something called ras el-hanout, which is Moroccan for "superfantastic and gorgeously aromatic powder of heaven". There wasn't time this week to go to the souk in the Public Market, which would no doubt have had many variations on the theme so I had to make my own. Never having used the stuff before nor having any idea what it is supposed to taste like, some research was involved. Ras el-hanout is like curry powder in that there are common ingredients to all the recipes but personal twists are given the concoction from region to region, cook to cook. Some of the recipes read like something you'd find in the notebook of a white witch and there wasn't time to search the city for many things unpronouncable. I finally struck on an accessible combination of cinnamon sticks, cloves, fenugreek and the seeds of mustard, coriander, cumin and fennel. One of the common ingredients to the mix, however, is rose petals. The co-op only had rosebuds for craft use and I didn't know if my Valentine roses were free of pesticides or whatever so I threw a pinch or so of rosehips into the mix.

All these lovely things were slowly warmed in a heavy pan until little seeds started popping and incense-like fragrance began wafting through the house. Then everything was whizzed through the spice grinder until reduced to a sneeze-inducing powder.

Instead of leg o', this year we did racks o' lamb. The Spouse rubbed the racks with the gorgeous ras el-hanout, then seared the lamb and tossed it in the oven to roast. Then the roasting pan was deglazed with shiraz and honey was added to the wine. I had mixed a few tablespoons of rosewater to the honey, to help make up for the absence of roses in the spice rub. The sauce cooked down to a silky little pot of yum. I have a bit of a thing for a good sauce and this one goes onto my list of "Top 10 Most Delicious Sauces Ever Eaten".

The lamb, which I can really only refer to now as My Favorite Lamb Dish of All Time, was accompanied by the following:

Bleu Cheese Potatoes Delmonico (involving quantities of butter and cream plus some emmantaler that was lying around because you can't have too much cheesey goodness).

Artichoke Heart Gratin, which was stupid simple. The original recipe called for cooking the artichokes in Italian dressing but I figured that was just fussy so used marinated artichokes to begin with. These were cooked by themselves for about 10 minutes, then mozzerella cheese was sprinkled over it all and baked some more, then the dish was sprinkled with french-fried onions and warmed for 1 more minute. It was, um, really yummy.

Green beans tossed with toasted hazelnuts (that ReeRee whacked into little bits for me) and lemon zest, olive oil, salt and pepper completed the plate.

Between dinner and dessert we have a pre-Lenten conversation wherein everyone shares his or her intentions for the coming fast. We draw names for our secret prayer buddy, who we will keep in our prayers during Lent. (In Holy Week we send out what The Child calls "love letters", revealing ourselves). After the sharing and a sung Our Father and a little Sanctus in Latin, it's time to get back to the table.

This year we had 2 desserts. The Neighbor, who came very very late because she was singing in a concert, procured for us a King Cake, baked fresh yesterday morning by a gentleman who is originally from New Orleans. It was very good, with lots of crunchy sugar on the top but as yummy as it was last night, it was even more spectacular this morning with coffee. King Cake, which actually has it's roots in Epiphany, has a little surprise baked into it and the person who gets the prize has the honor of procurring next year's cake. That would be Jerry.

But important as observing tradition is, one also needs something rich and decadent for dessert. This year I made tiramisu, from blog buddy Dariush's recipe. Hello. Let's just call it what it really is, shall we? Coronary in a Trifle Bowl. But what a way to go.

Layers of ladyfingers soaked in coffee and marsala (because I was too lazy to get amaretto) between which lurked cups and cups of luscious filling (marscapone cheese combined with a whipped egg yolk/sugar thing combined with thick cream). And for a little extra Carnevale glam, I also sprinkled grated chocolate between the filling and ladyfingers. Just before serving it got a nice sprinking of unsweeted cocoa. (I doubled the recipe, Dariush. It turned out really well. Thanks again). It was the best tiramisu I've ever tasted...rich and flavorful but with a good balance between all the elements, which is usually where tiramisu fails, imho.

And then there was the post-prandial indulgence of Scotch or a last glass of wine. The Neighbor arrived just as everyone else was preparing to take their sated selves away so she got to give out hugs and then The Spouse and I sat with her while she ate the plate of food we'd kept warm for her. And then we took our tired selves to bed and I didn't even care that there were still dishes to do. Someone will get around to them eventually.

Cultural Exchange

On Saturday The Neighbor, The Child and I walked to one of the 4 synagogues in our neighborhood. We'd been invited by the Rabbi's Wife to a kiddush for her daughter's newborn baby girl.

The Rabbi's Wife is a wonderful woman, English by birth, who looks out for the neighborhood. The Neighbor and I really got to know her when we were all working out in the mornings at our local Curves. She's funny, articulate, caring and a terrific cook. She has 3 grown children. One unmarried daughter, Tanya, lives at home. She's makes gorgeous hats. John, their son, lives in California and he and his wife just had their first baby. The middle child, Ana-Aliza lives next door to her folks, with her husband, Chaim, and 2 children. The Child babysits for them.

The Rabbi's Wife loves to tell us about Jewish customs and hear how we crazy Papists do things. It was in this spirit of increasing ecumenical understanding, and just 'cause she likes us, that she invited us to the blessing for the baby.

We arrived just as services were ending. Tanya spied us and hurried over to greet us. We exchanged hugs and "shabbat shaloms" and then she waved her mom over. Rabbi's Wife, wearing a huge black hat waving with black and white feathers came over cooing, "I'm so pleased that you came!" We had to duck under the hat to kiss her cheeks. She pointed out Ana-Aliza, who still looks fairly done in, having had to spend 6 months of her pregnancy on bed-rest. Her sweet little tiny baby was sleeping soundly. We gave Ana hugs and kisses and threw in a few "mazel tovs" for good measure.

Rabbi's Wife introduced us to Ana's mother-in-law, a charming woman from New York, who very graciously accompanied us over to the hall for the kiddush. The room was decorated with pink and white balloons and a gorgeous spread of food was arranged on tables in the middle of the room. Round tables with white linens sat around the spread, with pink toffees scattered on the tables. The congregation gathered around as the Rabbi offered up the kiddush for the new baby. ("What's he saying?" whispered The Child. "He's blessing Celia," I whispered back. "Oh. Right. That's Hebrew," The Child replied). Then the feeding frenzy began. The Mother-in-Law had told us to make ourselves comfortable and "Eat all you like", so we did.

This particular congregation is Sephardic. Historically, Sephardim are those Jews associated with the Iberian peninsula. Most of of them are descendants of the Jews who were expelled from Spain in 1492, who settled in places like Greece and Turkey. Those influences are prominent in the food. There was Greek salad, tyropita, smoked salmon with cream cheese and vegetables rolled in tomato and spinach tortillas, pickled fish, Caesar salad and some sort of fabulous crustless quiche thing with cheese and spinach. As I was filling my plate an old man came up to me, gestured to the tyropita and said, "Have you tried one? They're good".

"I certainly plan on it. They look delicious".

"They're better with whiskey," he said.

"Well, you'll have to point me to the bar," I joked. He grinned and gestured to the back of the room. Sure enough, there was a table containing several bottles of good whiskey, vodka and wine. (I'm not a fan of kosher wine. I'm sure someone somewhere makes very good kosher wine but I haven't found it yet). The Neighbor and I filled little plastic shot glasses with whiskey, toasted to the baby and drank. The old man was right. A bite of tyropita with whiskey...fabulous combination.

We seated ourselves and tucked in. Then I noticed a woman we knew, Judy, whose father, may he rest in peace, used to live next door to us. Judy rents out the house now and we rarely see her. I called her over and we had a lovely time catching up. She couldn't believe how big The Child had grown. We had a great time talking about the old days when her dad was still in the house and catching up on news of each other's families. Mother-in-Law came over to see how we were doing. "Are you getting enough to eat?" she asked.

"What are you, a Jewish mother?" Judy joked.

"Why, yes. Yes, I am", smiled Mother-in-Law.

Later we were joined by the Rabbi's Wife, who barely got to eat anything because every time she lifted a fork to her mouth some other congregant would come over to congratulate her. Just as we were getting ready to leave the Rabbi came over saying, "Are these our neighbors? Oh, I'm so glad you could come!"

It isn't always easy to be the outsider in a situation but I must say, we were made to feel very welcome. It was lovely to be included in a special occasion like that and to remember once again that the things we share in common with others are more important than our differences. I couldn't help but sit there, embraced by the kindness and hospitality of everyone, and think what a contrast it was to be enjoying such warmth when all over the planet so many people, even those who share a common birthright, are busy killing each other. It's so hard for so many to reach across their differences to find common ground and there we were, celebrating life together. It would have made me very sad but I was too full of good food to be melancholy for long.

The Neighbor and I went back to the bar for a final shot of whiskey and to say goodbye to friends, old and new, before walking back home. It was a good time. And as I told The Neighbor, "You gotta love people who do shots after services".

The Great Bistro Feast of '07

For the past 4 years we have donated a "French bistro feast for 4" to the auction at The Child's old school. Except that by special arrangment, it is purchased every year by the same group of people and there are more than 4 of them. They bring the wine, we do the rest.

We have always had a superfantastic time at this event (and it looks like we'll do it again because this year Sandy procured it before the end of the first course) but this year seemed like the most fun yet. I don't even know what it was in particular but we just laughed all night long and it was beyond enjoyable.

Plus, and I'm not trying to toot my own horn here, but dang! This year I surprised even myself with the general tastiness of the meal. Seriously, if I'd had this meal in a restaurant I would be telling everyone to get themselves post-haste to Chez Whatever. It was that good.

Apertif was, as always, green olives that have been sprinkled with orange zest and gently warmed. Goes great with champagne.

For the first course, I baked a little loaf of honey-wheat-walnut bread. This was toasted and served with a rough country pate (no, I didn't make it myself...Trader Joe's has an excellent one), a little smidge of Dijon mustard and cornichon.

The entree was a beef daube that was so superfantastic I want to make it every week. First came a mix of tomatoes, onions, garlic, capers, anchovy paste & cornichon that was then layered with thin slices of chuck roast. Add a bouquet garni and cook all afternoon and voila! a pot of sheer ambrosia.

We served it with a gratin of potatoes, parsley and cream plus a little dollop of a carrot-yellow pepper puree (mostly just for color but it was really tasty).

Here's the progress of the gratin: first a buttered dish and a bay leaf.

Then potatoes, each layer sprinkled with parsley and salt. Pour cream over it all, top with dollops of butter and another bay leaf and bake.

Couldn't be easier.

Sometimes I got so engrossed in hostessing that I forgot to take pictures of the food. Can you believe that? But after the entree we had a delicious salad of arugula, pancetta, Kalamata olives and large shavings of Parmesan, tossed in a lemon/olive oil dressing. Very refreshing and tasty. Then there was a cheese course with more of the walnut bread and table water crackers. 3 cheeses, manchengo, chevre with warm honey and a blissfully good Stilton with cranberries.

For dessert, I made crepes which were rolled around vanilla ice cream and frozen. They were served with raspberries and a hot fudge-rum sauce.

This leaning tower of ramekins gives you an idea of the state of the kitchen afterwards.

But we didn't care because this is what it looked like in the other room: