New Year's Eve

Here's an amusing thing you may not have heard. Every New Year's Eve there is a big fireworks display at the Space Needle; actually, on the Space Needle. The Child was very excited to actually attend this event with The Boy. The Spouse and I were, as always, perfectly content to watch it on TV from the warmth of our family room.

Prior to the show a news guy was talking to the designer of the fireworks show, who was going on and on about how this year was going to be bigger and better than ever. As the countdown began, fireworks started shooting out from the base of the Needle and all the way to the top, with a big display due to bust out on the stroke of midnight. 4-3-2-1....nothing. Nothing for like, at least a minute. Then some fireworks shot off, but they weren't as impressive as we'd been led to believe. And then, more nothing for a sustained period of time. Then they started again but it was really obvious that something was wrong because they seemed sort of random and not at all balanced. Fireworks would shoot off from one side of the Needle, then others would spurt from the opposite side, further up the structure. Really weird.

Turns out there was a computer malfunction so they had to be set off manually. But one can only assume that since they were relying on computers, the crew was too small to cover the 605 foot building, hence the randomness of the display. It was pretty funny. Not, I'm sure, to the people running the show, but to me.

And despite it all, The Child had a fab time and came home smelling like gunpowder.

Meanwhile, The Spouse and I enjoyed our little repast:


The Dog looked fetching in my tiara but he was not amused.

Party, Party, Party

Friday was the school Halloween carnival.

I was a goth witch.

I had a minion.

The party was fun, especially the Hall of Horrors, wherein I was the Swamp Witch and made kids cry. But my favorite part of the evening was when I went outside to yell at all the kids who were too cool to be inside at the carnival. I adore yelling at other people's kids. I really do.

Saturday was all about The Spouse's 50th birthday party, which was a Rat Pack theme. The food was plates full of retro yumminess like Chex mix, relish tray (huzzah for baby gherkins), mixed nuts (which could also apply to the guests), and the things I took pictures of:

Cheese Ball with Triscuits

Stuffed Mushrooms

Devilled Ham Pinwheels (the Neighbor made these).

Pigs in a BlanketRumaki (the kind with water chestnuts because I'm not a fan of the chicken liver unless someone else has reduced it to a nice little pate with good mouth feel). Credit where credit is due, this was The Child's contribution.We had apple pie because The Spouse is not a huge fan of the cake and he does love him some apple pie.I made 3 pies. What a shame. There was 1 1/2 left over. Shame, shame. Or as I like to call it, "breakfast".

Because it was a Rat Pack-y theme, The Neighbor and I wore lacquered do's:

Sometimes I think we are just the cutest things on God's green earth.

Also, as history has long borne out, an upswept do is the perfect perch for a tiara.

There were gifts. Mostly single malt scotch, because when in doubt with The Spouse, that's the way to go. The key exception to this gift-giving theme came from The Boys, who are now The Spouse's favorite people in the world EVER. They gave him an iPod nano. He almost cried.

You know what stinks? Aside from the fact that he is now using possession of same to torture The Child? The stinkiest part of the stench is that I had been desperately casting about from some grand gesture, like the one he'd pulled off for my birthday, and I couldn't come up with anything. So when The Boys asked me if he'd like an iPod I should have said, "Oh, darn, I'm already giving him one. Get him some scotch" and stolen the idea but I am apparently not that devious as I only figured this out last night. Dammit.

I gave him scotch.

Anyway, a pleasant time was had by all. There was the requisite blowing out of candles

and midnight toasting

and now I'm just very thankful that we don't have to have 2 big back-to-back blow out celebrations for another 10 years.

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 Exhausted.

Ever have one of those times when you get to the other side of a big event that went really well (except for the one arse who asked 15 minutes into the event, "Is this all we're doing?" and one side of your brain had to remind the other side that you were a Christian so that you didn't say what you wanted to the arse) but then you were so tired that you could barely sleep plus every time you rolled over you ached because you realized too late that doing the Bunny Hop in 4 inch heels wasn't actually the most intelligent thing you could do and then after a restless night you had to get up early to go back to school to finish cleaning up the event and marvel at how much recycling one little party can generate? Then, to top it all off, you have to clean your house and pick up your kid's math tutor and make beautiful food for the annual Carnevale feast which is a really important and precious time in the life of your little community but all you really want to do is take a nap?

Yeah. Like that.

It is a gorgeous springish day, with all manner of birds singing and crocuses popping up and anemones on special at the co-op. The Child, who is supposed to be cleaning her room, is wearing my tiara from last night and putting pictures of Corbin Blue (or as she likes to call him, "my husband") all over her wall. The Spouse is hauling $412 worth of exotic (and not so) groceries into the house. The Dixie Chicks are blaring and The Dog is running around stealing Mardi Gras masks. ("Odd birds," he's thinking, "must destroy").

Just another Saturday around the casa.

I need to soak my feet.

Chez Fabulovna

There were some comments on yesterday's bistro post referring to my opening a restaurant called "Fabulovna". Which made me laugh.

Then last night, during a production meeting about Here's the 80s (and how we're going to start a Viacom boycott because they suck) JP asked, "Did you ever go to culinary school?"

I laughed.

"So where did you learn all that stuff about cooking?" he asked.

"Watching TV," I said. Which isn't the whole truth of course but it's part of it. I learned from Dame Judi, I took home ec classes in high school, I watched Graham Kerr and Julia Child. But mostly I just learned by doing. I like good food, so I learned how to make it. Pretty simple really. Add to that the fact that I live in a city full of good restaurants, that I had some spectacular meals in France and I was fortunate enough to marry someone who likes good food, cooks well himself and enjoys entertaining as much as I do and there you go.

But JP wasn't done. He'd been thinking about this. "Did you ever think about going to culinary school? Like in a few years when The Child is out of the house and you've got the time? Because you're half way there...it would be the easiest educational experience ever".

And I thought that was adorable. The man hasn't even eaten anything I've cooked. (Though he been promised fried okra with tomato marmalade someday). And here he was, based on a few pictures, telling me I should go to school, become a chef and open my own restaurant.

So I told him what I'm now going to tell you. Not. I've been in the restaurant business. It's grueling. A restaurant kitchen is the most stressful place on the planet. And I don't cook to get stressed out. I expect all the fun would be sucked out of it inside of a week.

This is not to say that The Spouse and I haven't occasionally talked about it. He was in the restaurant biz for 20 years. We understand what we'd be getting into. Which is why the conversations never go very far. Forget about the astronomically high rate at which new restaurants fail. It's hard work. Hard work on evenings and weekends. We'd never entertain again. And we like entertaining. And so we quickly shelve ideas of prix fixe menus and return to planning parties.

There is a circumstance under which I'd open a restaurant. This involves falling into a bucket of money, so that we wouldn't actually have to make anything off the restaurant. And it also involves having a restaurant somewhere other than America. Because my idea of a perfect restaurant is like some of those I've read about in Peter Mayle's Provence books: an out of the way old house, run by a husband and wife...she cooks, he waits tables and pours wine. Or the other way around. And people go there for the food, they eat whatever the chef feels like making that day and they wait to be served. And they go away happy. The notion of cranking out 100 dinners a night for a bunch of people who are on their way to the theater, not so much.

But JP seemed stuck on the idea. "Well, what if you moved to Stars Hallow and the Dragonfly Inn was being sold and Sookie St. James didn't want to cook anymore because she had, like, a bazillion kids? Because then it could be exactly the sort of restaurant you want and you could cook all this beautiful food and buy excellent produce from um, from your husband who would start growing produce..."

"Because Jackson had to quit farming because he had, like, a bazillion kids".

"Exactly," he continued. "And so then I could move to Stars Hallow, too, and I could, um, play 80s videos and Sling could be the bartender (do you think he really was a bartender? Because some of those drink specials he comes up with are really exact. I mean, I've spent a lot of time in bars and all I know is "Bud Light") but anyway, we could all live in Stars Hallow and war with Taylor all the time and it would be totally great".

And I told him that yes, if the Dragonfly Inn was suddenly available and Stars Hallow was a real place and we suddenly found ourselves living in the midst of "Gilmore girls" then sure, I'd have a restaurant.

And, by the way, should that ever happen tiaras will be mandatory at Chez Fabulovna.

Things I Wish

I would like to be Benevolent Dictator of the World. I would take on this job for a small stipend and a superfantastic tiara*. That's all. Countries could still even have their own leaders, provided those leaders were able to play nicely with others. If they couldn't, they would get a time out. I am tired of stupid leaders, tribal atrocities and global warming. Someone has to do something. I think I'd do a good job. Plus everyone would have all the applesauce cake and 80s music they wanted.

I wish that whenever The Child asked for the 412th time for some stupid thing that I'd already told her she couldn't have my head would convert into a large blue neon "NO" that would blink on and off until she stopped begging. (I am now convinced that she will become a lawyer and go to work for a big lobbying firm. This does not please me, but she is obviously gifted).

It would be nice to have a force field around the stovetop so that The Cat would bounce off of it whenever she tried to jump up to eat something that is thawing up there. (Getting rid of the cat is not an option, Charlie).

There should be new episodes of "Gilmore girls" and "Battlestar Galactica" every week, in perpetuity, until I grow weary of them. (There is a new episode of "BSG" on Sunday. I. Can't. Wait.)

I would like my neighborhood to stay exactly as it is except that it would look like a French village and there would be a fabulous boulangerie next door. A girl should be able to get pain au chocolat whenever she wants.

I want a pigmy goat. Also chickens.

I think that's everything.


* By the way, Neighbor. You know that superfantastic birthday party you're planning for later this year? Yeah. I really want a tiara. Totally serious.

My Big Promotion

My volunteer duties at the Cantwell campaign are pretty ordinary, usually stuffing envelopes or making copies, although once I got to shred some fundraising notebooks. I absolutely don't mind this sorts of duties... anything not to make phone calls. But when I arrived today there was a note written especially to moi from one of the staffers with an assignment to create two spreadsheets for names of people who want to be removed from the mailing list or who have removed themselves by virtue of dying. (These are names from rented lists who don't appear in our main database. Little detail).

So I'm typing away and remembering how much I like using a number pad and how annoying it is that my laptop doesn't have one when another staffer comes to give me more background on why I'm doing what I'm doing and then mentions that they want me to be the "point person" on this project. I assume that means that whenever there are names to add, I'll be the one typing them. But I mentioned that I would need a tiara and apparently there is one floating around the office so, yeah me. I am a fan of the tiara.

And here's a little scoop...there's some big vote in the Senate on Friday. Senator Clinton was coming here for a benefit lunch with Maria but now they have to be in DC. Assumption around the office was that it has to do with the Patriot Act but apparently the Republican leadership are being all hush-hushy about whatever is afoot. Ooh, drama. This does not, however, mean that I'll be glued to CSPAN on Friday. I'll be out on an annual Christmas shopping/lunch expedition with friends. I was going to miss it because of the luncheon but thanks to Bill Frist I get to go after all. Me saying something nice about Dr. Frist? Must be Christmastime.