Let Them Eat Cake

The main thing to accomplish for The Child's Sweet 16 party was her cake. Which she envisioned in her chosen colors (chocolate brown and pink). Polka dots were involved. Despite my noteworthy stint as Worst Mother in the World, she seems to believe I can do anything. Like make a cake worthy of Duff Goldman. 'Cept the truth be told, I can barely ice a cake without embarrassing myself. (Reason number 13 Why I Love Pie: You don't have to ice it). But The Child, you see, wanted fondant. I knew exactly what she had in her head. I could see it, too. Just not so much with the execution. Also, I worked with fondant maybe a dozen years ago, in an effort to make "ribbons" for a cake for my parents' 40th wedding anniversary or something like that. And I had help. And it was just a decorative touch, not the entire set piece. Are you getting the picture?

First thing I did was buy fondant. I've made it. It can be made. But really, why would you when someone else has done the work already? That's right. And the woman who was selling the fondant had some in very hot pink. Which could be muted with some of the pure white fondant, thus saving me not so much time (still had to knead the stuff) but mess (like when I had to dye AND knead the brown fondant).

Here's the fondant in its larval state:

And this is how the pink turned out. Much toned down, right?



My original plan was just to cover each layer in fondant, decorate with the requested polka dots and let it go at that. The first layer of brown fondant was easy enough. But when it came to covering the round layers I was suddenly confronted with engineering issues. Like, how do you make the fondant all straight and flush to the cake when what it wants naturally to do is drape?

Well, if you're anything like me and you really don't have time to research the problem, you use your imagination. Hey! That looks like a skirt, doesn't it? A few polka dots, a nice bow at the back...

From a distance, and with plenty of distracting gee gawgery, it didn't look half bad.

Blowing Bubbles

Sunday was a ton of fun, hanging out with the the G-G Collective.

Pamelamama and I talked about our kids, of course. Specifically, the challenge of having them out in the world where everyone they meet isn't as wise and loving and accepting as we are, where they encounter values different than ours and how important it is that we are able to talk with our kids about all that. Not to mention the fact that we're supposed to raise them to fend for themselves, which raises the issue of finding balance between advocacy and interference.

She also watched The Child and I butt heads quite frequently, quietly observing that The Child and I are very much alike. Ya think?

It was a delightful afternoon of chatting and laughing and eating and kids playing and blowing things up. (The Child and S, the 8 year old, wanted to make a volcano. The Spouse shot popcorn out of a cannon for them, instead).

Little E, the 4 year old, and I had a great time in the early evening, blowing bubbles. He had a whole mess of wands and pipes and a huge jug o' "bubble juice". We tested the wands, to see which made the most bubbles, the tiniest bubbles or the biggest bubbles. We chased bubbles. We watched to see how high our bubbles would go before they popped. We blew bubbles at a spider.

It was the most fun. I'd forgotten how much I love to blow bubbles. It's the most soothing, nearly zen thing to do. I mentioned that I was going to have to get some bubble stuff for myself and Little E, with some gentle prodding from Pamelamama, chose 3 wands for me to keep and gave me a jar of bubble juice. Now I can blow bubbles every day. And I do.

Mmmmm...Smells Fresh!

There. The house is tidy enough, except for the Petite Bebe suite, but only because the sheets are in the dryer. I figure, if an adult has to sleep in the ultimate Tiger Beat bedroom, she at least deserves clean sheets.

The Hat will be arriving any moment. I have yet to bake the applesauce cake or make the honey-lavender ice cream but I figure, she can watch. It's not like we're eating dinner now, right? No, there will be much sitting and drinking wine and laughing before dinner.

I used this new all-purpose cleaner stuff, a brand called Method. It smells like cucumber. It's awesome. Also, my floors are no longer sticky.

Homekeeping tip #37: at least once a month invite someone to sleep over. It's a good motivator.

Have a nice weekend.

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.

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?

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.

Hi. I'm Very Nervous.

Ever have one of those times when you're going about your business, la la la la la, and then all of a sudden (or, as The Child says, all the sudden) you're feeling completely nervous and freaked out? That just happened to me and frankly, I'm still in the throes of it. It's not a panic attack where I need to breath into a paper bag and take a sedative. It's just a case of mega-butterflies. Me still no likey.

Part of it is the party tonight and all the stuff that still has to be done but that's only part of it. Plus, per The Child's request I found some purple hair gel, nail polish & eye shadow and some hair and body glitter. So even if the party ends up sucking and everyone hates me because it's so bad, she and I are still going to look super fantastically Mardi Gras-ish. OH! And per my request, all of the Executive Board members will be wearing tiaras tonight. Yay!

None of it has to do with Carnevale because I got the menu planned and have all the ingredients and it will be delicious. Seattle Coffee Girl, as is her way, sent a fabulous arrangement of flowers for the dinner table. See?
Pretty.

A tiny smidge of it was to do with money. I deposited a large check earlier this week and the bank put a hold on it. I figured they'd do that. For like a day. But they were going to disperse the funds over the course of two weeks. And I was all, "What?" It was a disbursement check from a large financial institution. One that regularly runs television ads and has, at a rough guess, 100 kajillion dollars in liquid assets. It's not like it was hand-written from Guido of Big Guido's House of Concrete and Financial Services or drawn on Sixth Little Tiny Bank of Red Ink. So I said to them, "Hey. Let's see if we can't get that money released just a little earlier, 'k?" Because I really want to use it now. But I got a call from the bank an hour ago and everything is good so that's not it anymore.

No, the fundamental reason probably owes to the fact that my cover letter and resume are now as good as they are going to get and all I have to do now is email them to the recruiter. And I'm scared.

As long as I don't do it I can just think about how great it would be to get a cool job doing work that is interesting and getting real money for it and not having to worry any more about whether or not I can get my kid's teeth fixed. In fact, I can not worry anymore about getting my teeth fixed. There's a concept. As long as I don't do it, I can just imagine them looking at my resume and saying, "Hello? Perfect fit. Golly, we sure hope no one else snatches a gem like this away from us. Somebody call her quick!"

But once I hit the "send" button, I have to deal with it. I have to deal with all the down-side stuff of looking for a job...saying something stupid in the interview or just plain being rejected outright and then having to start looking again for something that comes remotely close to being as fantastic an opportunity as this appears to be. Once the deed is done I have to deal with the reality that I might not get it. Or that I will. Because as exciting an opportunity as it is, it will mark a huge change in the life of our family. And change, even good, beneficial change, is a challenge. And you know me. I like things to be nice and sweet and easy.

So there you go. I'm on the edge of something, one way or the other. I've got this feeling I used to have when we were kids and we'd climb way up in the hay mow and onto a really high rafter and then jump. We knew it would be ok. We knew we'd land in nice, soft hay. But there would always be this incredible thrill in our chests, hearts pumping fast, right before the leap. After the jump, the rush would convert into a big big wave of euphoric relief. Yeah. It's like that.

Ok. Here I go....

5th Day of Christmas: Sing for Your Supper

A traditional part of our Christmas celebrations, we invite friends to come for dinner, with a catch. They must literally perform before being fed. They don't have to sing. Any sort of little entertainment is fine. Yes, we have to perform, too and no, I have no idea what I'm doing tonight. I kinda wish I could spin videos but that won't really work.

Anyhoo, the turkey is brining and I'll have to do a few things...bake a cake, make some dressing, like that. Not to mention pine needle patrol and probably rearranging the living room to allow for adequate performance space.

And after we have dinner we will likely have karaoke because we usually do after SFYS. (Should probably call Ree and see if she's bringing the box). And if we do have karaoke, I'll probably end up singing the following with Ed because it's what we do.

BTW, The Spouse once cautioned me against playing this video because it was "too predictable". Huh?

On the 4th Day of Christmas

Today is not a Cat Dog Day(1).

I have to do some budgetting, get new tabs for my car and buy groceries. I also want to go to what Jlow would call the "Bait Shop" and fetch caviar for New Year's Eve. (I love the caviar shop. They give you tiny tastes of roe on mother-of-pearl spoons and when you make your selection they wrap it all up very nicely and send it home with you in a fine little insulated cooler that is black embossed with gold writing and makes a very swellegant lunch box for those days when you can't find the regular one because someone left it at school). It is a very posh place to shop and the people are super fantastically nice and helpful.

The Spouse is going to take The Child ice skating and I will use their absence to remove things from her room that she's forgotten she owns.

We have to brine a turkey. Tomorrow night is "Sing for Your Supper" and the feast must be lovely because people have to work so hard to earn it.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll get an early start on "Here's the 80s", since it is a holiday weekend after all.

1 (I really worry about this international incident stuff: last night we watched "Gregory's Girl", which is set in Scotland and then we played the Altered Images video of "Happy Birthday" for The Child. I went to bed and had that song playing all through the dream during which The Spouse ate microwaveable oatmeal from a packet and Charlie, who had prepared a huge pot of Scotch oats, became very offended and thugs came to our house and were going to beat up The Spouse unless he ate proper oatmeal. It was harrowing).

La Vie En Rose

This Edith Piaf classic is one of the hits in the soundtrack of my life. I love it and one of these days I'm going to learn to sing it. It was one of the many French tunes that played during our Bistro Dinner Saturday night.

I know you're just dying to know what we ate. 'K. First course was apertif. When we were in France every apertif was composed of peanuts, olives and champagne, so that's what we served. This was followed by an amuse bouche of parmesan baskets filled with herbed chevre. Salade was a Pat Wells recipe, Cheesemaker's Salad, which is freakishly simple and delicious. You steep thin sliced shallot in red wine vinegar for a few hours. When it's time to serve you toss the vinegar and shallots with mixed greens, then toss the salad with a few tablespoons of heavy cream. Sounds kooky but it is lay-down-your-fork-and-make-yummy-noises-good.

Soupe was a bisque of roasted tomatoes, garlic & shallot.

The entree was bourride, poached white fish (in this case rock snapper) with a light sauce of aioli and shrimp. That was served with salt roasted potatoes.

Then it was time for fromage: Basque Shepherd's cheese, Stilton, brie champignon and some chevre that I had marinated in oil with garlic, red chilies, basil and pepper. Then and only then did we have tarte tatin with whipped cream.

Oui, it was yummy. Oui, the company was tres manifique and mais oui, the kitchen was piled to the ceiling with dishes afterwards. It was all bon, tres bon.

(What is pas bon are these riots in France. I have an email in to my friend Nicole who lives in Laval. I know from her that tensions between the French and their immigrant population are nothing new. I just want to know what's really going on. I'm a little skeptical of the US press casting this as a Muslim thing when it seems to be more related to poverty and discrimination. Whatever is going on, I don't like it and it is very upsetting to my little Francophile heart).

Returning to a lighter, rose-colored note. Last night, though still significantly fried from Saturday's fete, I made plate cooked salmon for the Family and The Neighbor and then we watched the West Wing live debate. I am getting a real kick out of West Wing this year...it's a giant exercise in "what if". What if a Christian Democrat ran against a pro-choice, atheist Republican? (What? You can be a Christian and a Democrat? Mon dieu!) What if we turned conventional issues on their head? What if candidates had a "real" debate? Seems to me that we need to have a different conversation about a lot of issues in this country, using different language than we've been accustomed to and this show, entertainment though it be, is showing us what that might look like.

Plus I just about plotzed when Jimmy Smits' character owned the name of "liberal". He cited "liberal" contributions to American life, like ending segregation, getting the vote for women and African-Americans, creating Social Security and Medicare, to name a few. Then he said, "What did conservatives do? They opposed every single one of those things. So if you are going to throw that label of 'liberal' at my feet, Senator, I'll pick it up and wear it as a badge of honor". 'Bout freakin' time. Oh, wait. I just remembered he's not a real candidate.

To top off this madcap weekend we watched "Iron Chef America", with Morimoto facing off against Seattle's own Tom Douglas. The secret ingredient was wild salmon and Tom kicked the Iron Chef. I think it would be fun to judge an Iron Chef competition. Unless the secret ingredient was offal and I had to eat sweetbread ice cream. Eeeww.