The Redhead Gourmet.

2010-11-24T12:02:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Memories

Thanksgiving. A day of gratitude. The day that signals the official start of the holiday season. A holiday marked by traditio and symbolism. For many of us, it’s a chance to spend time with our families and be thankful for each other and for the bounty that is laid before us at our dining room tables.

And for most of us, this holiday has become very much about food. Food and lots of it. And that, as Martha Stewart would say, is “a good thing.” Nowhere are family food traditions more evident than at our collective Thanksgiving celebrations. Perhaps for this reason, Thanksgiving always makes me nostalgic; I fondly recall large gatherings with family members who have long since passed, in homes that are no longer standing or at least, no longer occupied by the familiar and the familial.

As a child, our Thanksgivings were almost always spent in the heart of the Pennsylvania Dutch country, in a little slate-mining town nestled in the hills of central Pennsylvania. Slating ton (aptly named) is, even today, pure small-town America.

The drive to Slatington from our home in Philadelphia always seemed interminable. The stretch of the Pennsylvania turnpike that goes north out of Philadelphia hadn't been built yet, and most of the trip was on four-lane roads with trafficnlights everynfew miles As we got closer to Slatington, the four lanes became two, then twisting country roads through small hamlets of modest homes, a fire house, a single grocer and a gas station. A fine old brick church and its ancient graveyard marked the point at which we knew we were only minutes away from our destination.

My aunt and uncle lived in a big (or so it seemed to me as a small child) old stone home on Main Street. (No, I’m not making that up.) The Kern homestead sat at the corner of Main and Kern Street (I’m not making this up, either) and is forever seared in my memory. It was a deep, narrow, two-story affair, originally built with an outhouse. The outhouse became a tool-shed when the home was eventually modernized to include a single bathroom on the second floor, above the kitchen at the rear of the house. With a single staircase at the front of the house, a trip from the kitchen to the loo entailed climbing a long, wooden staircase and a trek down a long, narrow upstairs hallway paved with well-worn rag rugs over ancient wood flooring…and no small measure of planning ahead. As a little girl, I am sure there were several occasions on which I barely made it.

On the ground floor, one had to walk through the dining room and the living room to get from the kitchen to the staircase, which was off the “parlor”, a formal living room that faced the street and opened onto a lovely, covered porch. There was a sofa in that room. They called it a “davenport.”

The kitchen was just large enough to eat in, but clearly not laid out with cooking in mind. Lovely, thick quarter-sawn oak cabinets, darkened with the patina of age, went nearly to the 14 foot ceilings, making cooking a bit of a physical challenge for my petite aunt Pauline. The sink was “all of a piece,” as the Pennsylvania Dutch would say, a one-piece sink/counter/backsplash carved from a solid slab of slate.

Pauline eased her cooking woes by fueling herself with my uncle Stummy’s infamous whiskey sours while preparing Thanksgiving dinner. The Dutch have a curious habit of giving everyone nicknames, especially the men. Stummy’s real name was Stuart, and he actually had a friend whose nickname was “Johnny Chicken Shit”. As for the whisky sours, I suspect they contained more whisky than sour. (For true Dutch-country authenticity, pronounce it “whiskeysahrs.” Imagine the movie “Fargo,” and sing the last syllable as three distinct notes. “Whisky sah ah ars”, accent on the second “ah”. Perfect.)

There was a porch on the side of the house, as well, with doors to both the dining room and the kitchen. I loved that porch. Unlike the front porch, which was covered and shady, the side porch was open and warmed by the pale autumn sun in the afternoon. The back yard hosted a clothes line and a big patch of rhubarb. There was a narrow alley and then a huge, tree-covered mountain. (In hindsight it was more of a hill, and we were young adolescents before we gathered the nerve to climb it. By then it didn’t seem nearly as big.) My sister and I would spend hours on the porches and in the yard, enjoying the smell of leaves burning somewhere nearby and the crisp, fall air, while we waited an eternity (and worked up huge appetites) for the mid-afternoon meal.

Pennsylvania Dutch meals are always a celebration of plenty (read: gluttony). My mother always said that her great uncles ate until they were full, pushdc their chairs away from the table, loosendc their belts a notch, and bellied up to the table again for another round. It’s not hard to imagine that a Pennsylvania Dutch Thanksgiving is a veritable feast of traditional, regional food.

A favorite side dish in the Dutch country is the locally produced and naturally sweet “Cope’s Corn”. Made for over 100 years by the John Cope company, Cope’s Corn is dried, roasted sweet corn. (www.copefoods.com) Reconstituted, it has a caramel color and flavor that is unlike anything else. Served either stewed, creamed or in a corn pudding, it was a staple at all of our Thanksgiving meals. Shortly after my husband and I started dating, I brought it to one of his family Thanksgiving celebrations and now his family asks for it, as well.

There were all the usual Thanksgiving trimmings: several kinds stuffing, which the Dutch call “dressing”, including my late grandmother’s chestnut stuffing which my husband now requests each November; sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and the like. And there were cranberries and molded Jell-o salads.

But one dish that was unique to our feast was my aunt’s “hot lettuce” salad. The lettuce isn’t actually hot; it’s simply iceberg lettuce dressed with a warm, sweet and sour dressing made of sweetened, condensed milk and vinegar, liberally accented with soft—not crisp—cooked bacon. It’s better than it sounds, trust me!

Pauline and my grandmother were also known for their creamed pearl onions. This was long before these little gems were available pre-peeled in your grocer’s freezer, so it was no small feat bringing them to the table. It took an hour or more to peel enough onions for a crowd and prepare them for braising and a healthy dose of heavy cream. And on more than one occasion, perhaps because there were too many dishes to serve—or too many whiskey “sahrs” consumed--Pauline made the onions and forgot to serve them. “Oh, goodness, Stummy,” she’d laugh, “I forgot the pearl onions!” It was a testament to her good nature (or good whiskey) that she found this oversight amusing despite all the effort she had put into them.

Dessert is a specialty of the Pennsylvania Dutch. The German settlers in this part of the country have been credited with inventing the two-crust fruit pie as we now know it. (I know this is true because Alton Brown said so.) And while “Shoofly” pie is a tradition among the Amish, it is less popular among the secular inhabitants of the region. However, mincemeat pie is a favorite and was something I always looked forward to at Thanksgiving. My grandmother always made the mince pies—her crusts were legendary—and Pauline did the pumpkin pie. My mother often made mincemeat cake; three layers, a mile high and slathered with cream cheese frosting. I wish I still had the recipe.

My cousin Jeff was in the Slatington High School marching band, and there was always a football game on Thanksgiving day. I remember Jeff coming in an hour before dinner was served, dressed in has band uniform and his cheeks rosy from the crisp fall air. After dinner, my cousin Jane and my father would play the piano while the women cleaned up the dishes (by hand) and the men fell asleep in front of a football game. The Kerns had cable TV back when it was cooler to have an antenna.

Pauline always sent home a care package of leftover turkey and my grandmother’s yeasty dinner rolls. There was no better sandwich than leftover turkey and real mayonnaise on an “Edna roll.”

It would be dark by the time we headed home, mom at the wheel. Bundled up in a blanket in the back seat of our station wagon, my sister and I were usually asleep by the time we reached the old brick church on the outskirts of town…with visions of turkey sandwiches dancing in our heads.

This Blog

2010-09-16T10:02:00.000-07:00

If you're new here, I hope you'll be so kind as to follow my blog. I've been remiss in posting of late, but I promise that will change.

Autumn is always a time of change, and in keeping with that, there are lots of changes in my life, new recipes in my kitchen, new events to train for...and always plenty of sarcasm to go around.

Be sure to scroll down and check out the archive for lots of earlier articles about my favorite topics: food and fitness.

Hope you'll read...and comment.

Sara

I used to be a Superhero

2010-07-13T18:55:00.000-07:00

For the better part of my adult life, I was "that woman"...the one who earned a pretty nice salary while juggling a demanding career, a marriage, a house and two kids.

It's hard to remember how I managed that. Sure, I have an abundance of energy, I always have. My sister and I were instilled with a strong work ethic by our hard-working, successful parents, particularly our mother. And I am fortunate enough to have a husband who was always willing to chip in with cooking, cleaning and kid duty, particularly when my job called me out of town--which was often.

In addition to my full-time job, I also taught fitness classes a few days a week, and with my daily commute to/from home/work/gym, my schedule was pretty packed. It was sort of a point of pride for me...the ability to juggle all this stuff. It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Supermom! Watch me bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan...then throw a Martha Stewart-worthy dinner party for 10 friends on the weekend with not so much as a hair out of place. I sewed my daughter's first holiday outfit because the ones in the store weren't elegant enough, and my kids rooms had curtains and dust ruffles that I made myself.

I remember my mother-in-law calling me Supermom. I'm pretty sure she didn't intend it to be a compliment, but I chose to take it that way. It would have been a compliment coming from my own mother.

Some days I felt like I should don a cape over my trendy "I'm a cool advertising chick" clothes before I climbed into my car for my morning commute to my kick-ass office. I'd imagine it flapping behind me as I strode confidently into my office, heels clicking. Other days I'd come home, exhausted from a long day of dealing with clients and deadlines, and wonder who was going to make dinner if I couldn't muster the strength. My house was always a mess and I was usually weeks behind on laundry. But I put those short-comings in the "don't sweat the small stuff" category and focused on being as good a mom as I could manage and always feeding my family home-cooked meals.

And although I loved my cape, I secretly envied my friends who had managed to migrate to "work at home" or part-time careers so they could have more time for themselves and their families. And I looked down my nose at the moms who stayed home every day; the trim MILFs who stood at the bus stop in their tennis dresses or gym togs, then spent the rest of the day at the health club, shopping and lunching with their friends. I could never be "one of those women". Indeed, I reveled in the challenges of my demanding life and took great pride in my juggling skills. It made me a Superhero. Those other women were mere mortals in cute yoga pants with their husband's gold cards.

But now I'm almost an empty nester; one is off at college and the other is a 16 year old who probably still needs his mommy but does a really good job of acting the independent teenaged chick magnet. The kids are still demanding, but now they're depleting the dollars in the bank account not the hours in the day.

I'm struggling to start my own business after a heart-breaking layoff last year from a job I loved. So I now have that "flexible schedule" I always wanted when the kids were young...and more time on my hands than I know what to do with. My crazy schedule and lack of free time had forced me to abandon a lot of my hobbies out of necessity, and so I find my "free time" is spent...well, I'm not really sure what I do with it, other than spend too much of it on Facebook.

And my house is really clean.

When I imagined this stage of my life, I always hoped I'd be doing exactly what I'm doing right now; running my own qualitative research consultancy. When business is good, I travel a lot; not something I could do when the kids were little. But I always assumed I'd ease into it; have time to build my client base before being forced to try to get the business off the ground because I had lost my primary income. In a perfect world, I would have planned for this with a little more operating cash to whether the inevitable dry spells that all small businesses experience.

I took over our fourth bedroom and turned it into a beautiful home office. The allure of "working from home" can be powerful. But the reality is I have lost the stimulation of an uber-cool office with pool tables, impromptu Friday afternoon happy hours in Cubeville and daily interaction with 1,000 interesting, young, creative people every day, and replaced it with the quiet companionship of a furry feline and 750 Facebook friends who think I'm swell. That wasn't something I anticipated, and I don't feel all that "super" sitting in my home office in a pair of flats.

My business is going to take off...I can feel it. I'm good at what I do and more importantly, I love what I do. But there's nothing more ego-crushing than a job loss, even when you know it was a purely economic decision. A year later, I'm (mostly) over that part.

But I miss my cool clothes. I miss my heels. I miss all those ridiculously young, painfully cool people I worked with.

Most of all, I miss my cape.

Mixed Food Metaphors

2010-05-22T17:49:00.000-07:00

Mixed metaphors drive me crazy. "She can't hold a torch to you." and "It's not rocket surgery" are two of my favorites. "She's not the brightest bulb in the shed." You get the idea.

The only thing that makes me crazier is mixed food metaphors, a.k.a. Fusion Cuisine. I'm talking Kimchi Weiner-schnitzel and Tex-Mex Curry and other culinary crimes committed against the American public.

While I applaud that our collective palate has grown adventurous enough to warrant this sort of experimentation on the part of some pretty talented chefs, most of the time it's more "miss" than "hit" when multiple cuisines are mixed, particulary at the hands of an amateur.

So color-me-skeptical at the idea of "edamame hummus."

Edamame is the staple of sushi bars, and is, in fact, the lowly the soy bean. Boiled in salted water, dusted with sea salt and eaten from the shell like peanuts (to which they are a close relative) at sushi bars all over the world. They are the essence of the flavor element "umame" and are healthy litttle green gems, loaded with protein. And they are darn tasty with a saketini. (Then again, isn't everything?)

Hummus is now so ubiquitous it's almost become an American food. Middle-Eastern in origin, hummus is traditionally made with chick peas. A luscious puree of chick peas, tahini (sesame paste), olive oil and lots of fresh lemon juice, hummus graces menus and kitchen tables all over America. And although many liberties are taken with the word "hummus", you can't just puree a bunch of beans and call it hummus. Hummus means chick peas. Anything else is just bean puree.

So I more than a little curious last evening when confronted with a bowl of green puree and a few pita chips as part of an appetizer we ordered at a local "Asian fusion" lounge owned by a prominent group of Chaldean (Catholic Iraqis) restaurateurs.

After scooping up some of this mystery puree on the chips, I eventually abandoned the chips and just went at it with my chopsticks. It was rich and creamy...I knew right away it was some sort of edamame puree. I passed it to my husband. "Edamame," he said. Yup. It was. It was also sublime.

"Oh my God," I said to the waitress, "this stuff is addictive!"

"Oh, I know! The edamame hummus, it's insane, isn't it??"

Ah, edamame hummus. But of course, it made perfect sense. A Japanese fusion restaurant owned by Chaldeans. Well, if anyone could pull that off, I guess they could!

"Does it have chick peas and edamame?" I asked. No, the waitress informed me, just edamame and olive oil and lemon. Hmmm. As I scooped up the last bits from the bowl with my chopsticks and momentarily contemplated licking the bowl, I decided not to argue the semantics of calling it "hummus".

Instead, I immediately googled some recipes and planned my dinner around some of that lovely green puree.

(Recipe to come.)

Ambition in a Cup

2009-06-18T08:52:00.000-07:00

Repost
Originally posted August, 2007

Life can be pretty hectic. Like many of us, I rely on a daily dose (or two) of caffeine to keep me going. As a culture, we are incredibly reliant on legal drugs; alcohol, nicotine, caffeine. That's not intended as crticism, for I have, at one time or another, used all of those drugs myself. In fact, at the moment I am sipping one...a hot espresso served in a teeny lusterware cup I bought at an antique shop.

I have an espresso maker; it's not one of those gorgeous brushed metal units I lust for at Starbucks and Williams-Sonoma each time I go in. But it is a pump-driven Krups unit that I bought when I was pregnant with my son; when I gave up the other two legal drugs but was allowed by my doctor to keep coffee on my short list of uncontrollable substances. I figured being able to make myself cappucino would be a nice treat and make me feel less deprived; a "fancy" coffee after dinner was hardly a worthy substitute for wine with dinner, but at least it felt like a little indugence.

It's been years since I've used the machine; it's been sitting on a high shelf in my laundry room, with my deep fryer. That's where I keep the appliances are rarely used but don't warrant a trip to the graveyard (a large metal shelving unit in my basement that holds 3 or 4 difference ice cream makers, a fondue pot, an old toaster oven and some "Made in Taiwan" chopping device that never really worked properly.) Items retired to the graveyard only resurface when the Purple Heart calls with their monthly request for donations.

But necessity is the mother of resurrection, and I was out of coffee filters.

So down it came. I ground some of my usual coffee to a powder and packed the little tray in the machine. It took a long time for the machine to heat up and even longer for it to produce steam. For a few minutes, I thought it was broken, but now I think perhaps it was on strike. I think I might consider a labor disruption of some sort had I been made to spend 5 years in the laundry room.

Eventually I heard that satisfying hissing sound and the first few drops of deep brown richness began to drip into my cup. It smelled fantastic.

A reasonable substitute for my usual morning drip? Absolutely. Great espresso? Not by a long shot (sorry, no pun intended). Sadly, it was a little thin and my regular-roast coffee didn't give it that great "bite" that is the hallmark of really good espresso.

I became a woman on a mission. Off to the store I went for some real Italian roast beans, regular and decaf. I spent the better part of Saturday morning figuring out the perfect grind, the right amount of "packing" of the grinds into the basket and the proper length of time for each pull. My daughter's friends, the teenage caffeine junkies, were more than happy to help me critique each shot, and when I finally nailed it; a perfectly black shot of coffee essence topped with a beautiful tan coating of gorgeous "crema", we pronounced our experiment a success.

I have since purchased a box of coffee filters, but I haven't even turned on the coffee pot. My husband's morning drip coffee has been replaced by "cafe Americano"; espresso diluted with hot boiling water. My evening wine is now a decaf with a twist of orange. I found the long-lost foaming attachment at the back of the "junk drawer" (every kitchen has at least one of those) and made making perfect foam my next project.

My espresso maker now occupies a place of honor on the counter next to my coffee pot; they are both black and silver and I like how natural they look together. I can't help but wonder, though...how long before the coffee maker ends up in the laundry room?

The espresso maker is winking its "ready" light. It could be my imagination, but I swear it is smiling. Make it a doppio.

Jewish Penicillin

2008-12-29T08:59:00.001-08:00

It is quite possible that there is no other food more authentic to the American Jewish experience than matzoh ball soup. Merely saying the words conjures images of “bubbe” (the Yiddish term for grandmother) standing over a simmering pot of chicken broth.

I often meet non-Jews who have heard of matzoh ball soup but never experienced it. Indeed, they confess, they are puzzled by how a cracker can be made into a ball, and why in G-d’s name it would be served in soup. Those of us who grew up with it never really thought much about the incongruity of this notion because we understand the role of matzoh in our collective Jewish history and culture.

Matzoh is most closely linked to Passover, one of the most important holidays on the Hebrew calendar. The holiday comes from the story of Exodus, wherein the bible says that God inflicted ten plagues upon the Egyptians before Pharaoh would release the Israelites, who he had been holding in slavery. The tenth plague was the killing of firstborn sons, however, the Israelites were instructed to mark their homes with the blood of a spring lamb, and upon seeing this, the spirit of the Lord “passed over” these homes and their sons were spared.

So how does Matzoh fit in here? The story goes that when Pharaoh freed the Israelites they left in such a hurry that they could not wait for bread to rise. As they traveled through the dessert with the unleavened dough in their knapsacks, the desert sun baked the dough into hard, flat bread now called matzoh.

In observance of the Jew’s suffering in the desert* and their exodus from slavery in Egypt, no leavened bread is eaten during Passover, and Matzoh is the primary symbol of the holiday.

Jews are nothing if not resourceful, however, and modern Jewish cooks have found a thousand ways to make Passover’s lack of baked goods tolerable, including making matzoh into cakes and other goodies that pretty closely resemble leavened products.

This usually requires lots of eggs, even more egg whites and a whole lot of luck. As any cook knows, soufflé-type baked goods are notoriously challenging and unpredictable. To complicate matters further, no flour can be used; only matzoh meal (ground matzoh) or matzoh cake meal (finely ground matzoh).

Which brings us back to matzoh balls. Since noodles are out of the question during Passover (as are dumplings), Eastern European Jews needed something to put in chicken soup. Hence, the mixture of matzoh meal, melted shortening (usually margarine, but more authentically, chicken fat) and eggs, formed into balls, poached in water, then cooked in chicken stock.

I’m sure you are wondering why I’m bringing up matzoh ball soup during the “Festival of Lights” (Hanukkah) instead of Passover. I actually made the soup about 10 days ago, at the behest of my son. Like most good Jewish boys, he has his mamma wrapped around his little finger, and when he came down with a nasty cold just a few days before his birthday, I asked him what he wanted to eat.

“Matzoh ball soup,” he said, without hesitation.

Generations of Jewish mothers have prescribed chicken soup (Jewish penicillin) for colds, a home remedy that has been passed from mother to daughter over centuries. Turns out they were right; scientists have identified an enzyme in chicken broth that has been proven to relieve congestion. Lesson here? “You should listen to your muthah!!”

I could have gone to the deli and picked up an order of soup in a cardboard container, and it would have been tasty. After all, making it is time consuming. But my maternal instincts kicked in, and off to the store I went for the basic ingredients.

The soup is always best made with home-made chicken stock, but with a sick boy at home, I didn’t have time to stew a chicken or two (or better yet, the bones of a roasted chicken) so I used organic chicken broth instead.

The ingredients for the matzoh balls. Matzoh meal, eggs, rendered chicken fat, chicken broth/stock.

The recipe calls for seasoning the matzoh meal with just salt and pepper, but I always add parsley flakes, some shallot salt (from Penzey’s, it’s fantastic), a pinch or two each of marjoram, thyme, and rubbed sage and lots of freshly ground black and white pepper. Matzoh balls shouldn’t be spicy – Jewish food seldom is, and this is comfort food, after all – but I’ve eaten enough flavorless matzoh balls to know that some herbs and spices can make a big difference.

This is the chicken fat (also known as “schmaltz” but that’s covered in another blog) in its solid state at room temp...

and melted and ready to be mixed with the eggs and matzoh meal....

Mixing the eggs, water, maztoh meal, chicken fat and seasonings.

The mixture then rests in the refrigerator.

There is great debate (but of course) among Jewish cooks as to whether the matzoh balls should be firm and chewy, or soft and fluffy. My family was always of the “soft and fluffy” school of matzoh balls, so although the recipe calls for resting the dough for 30 minutes, I give it a full hour, often more. This is really what determines the texture; how much time the matzoh meal has to absorb the liquid in the mixture.

After the allotted time, use wet hands to shape the dough into 1” balls. I make mine a little bigger than that since the dough is a little fluffier after resting for over an hour.

The shaped balls are then carefully dropped into gently boiling water, making sure they don’t stick to the bottom of the pan before they float to the top.

They simmer, covered, for about 30 minutes, until they are fluffy and have increased in size by about 1/3 or more.

A bowl of finished matzo balls (foreground),

and more waiting for their turn in the stockpot (background).

While the matzoh balls are cooking, I cut up some carrots and celery and put it in a large saucepan with the chicken broth. By the time the matzoh balls were finished, the celery and carrots were tender and had given the packaged broth a sweet, freshly-made flavor.

Comfort…

…and joy.

(Oy! That hair!)

A Shiksa's Guide to Making Latkes

2008-11-30T22:25:00.000-08:00

A Shiksa’s Guide to Latkes

Hanukkah--the holiday with as many spellings as Liz Taylor has last names--is late this year, falling right on top of that other holiday (you know, the one with the guy in the red suit).

Although this holiday has less religious significance than many other Jewish holidays it is, arguably, the most fun. We have spinning dreydels, chocolate coins wrapped in silver and gold, candles to light, gifts to open and, most importantly, pounds and pounds of potatoes and onions to shred and fry. And who doesn’t love a holiday that entails spending hours over skillets of hot canola?

So in order to prepare us all for this festive occasion, I thought I would share the proper technique for making latkes, with special instructions for the novice latke maker and any shiksas* among us who might find themselves in the unfortunate position of hosting this year’s festivities.

--------------------

Latkes: Preparation, Recipe and Serving Method

Here is a recipe for real Jewish Latkes; the kind that stink up your house for weeks (especially if you make 90 of them for your family Hanukkah party and leave the next day for two weeks in Boca).

Just ten easy steps.

Preparation:

1) Argue for months (beginning around Rosh Hashana) over who is making the latkes this year. When you are chosen, casually mention under your breath that yours are better, anyway.

2) Phone all of the other people involved (namely those who weren't chosen to make latkes and a few of your unsuspecting shiksa girlfriends) and whine until they agree to come over to help you. (Your shiksa friends will only fall for this once, so choose wisely.)

3) Cover your stove and other work surfaces to protect them from hot oil (foil works well). In fact, draping your entire kitchen in Reynolds Wrap and having a Hazmat team at the ready would not be overkill. (Those guys that cleaned up after the BP spill in the gulf would be perfect.)

4) Put on your oldest "schmatta" (an old rag of an outfit) because the smell will never leave your clothing. Never. Ever. Trust me. Please.

5) Prepare, Prepare, Prepare: Open all the windows in the kitchen and turn on the exhaust fan. Close all bedroom doors and put rolled towels underneath. Turn off the furnace so the smell isn't circulated through the house. Buy an extra furnace filter to install after the holiday. Find the fire extinguisher and place it within easy reach, even though you have no idea how to use it.

6) Fill several skillets with about 1/2 inch of oil, tisk-tisking as to "oy, so much fat!" the entire time and loudly debating the merits of sunflower/corn/canola oil with your latke-making partners and insisting that your choice of oil (whichever it is) is best, even if you used something different last year.

7) Call your mother or grandmother 6 times while you are mixing the batter to make sure you have the proportions right and then cry until she comes over to help you. (Special note for shiksas: under NO circumstances call your Jewish mother-in-law for advice; this would be admitting weakness and it’s all down hill from there.)

8) Loudly yell "oy!" each time a tiny splatter of grease touches your skin and complain that your back hurts after the 3rd batch. (If you'd stand up straight like I told you, you wouldn't have this problem.) Take a motrin. At this point, those of us with shiksa blood begin drinking heavily. I find sparkling wine goes nicely with latke making, although grain alcohol straight from the bottle will do in a pinch. And surely it's no coincidence that "vodka" is probably the only word the rhymes with "latke".

9) Repeat until all potatoes are fried and your kitchen, clothing, hair and the family dog smell like a White Castle restaurant at 2 am. (Only a shiksa would know from that smell.)

I'm pretty sure every single latke cook learned to make these crispy delights as a result of having been suckered into helping someone else make them and that no real recipe for them exists.

Now, pay attention because I'm only telling you this once.

10) This is really just one step...be sure to read it all the way through; I wouldn't want you to be the subject of gossip in the locker room at the JCC next week.

RECIPE:

Large russet potatoes (many pounds)
medium yellow onions (about a 1 to 5 ratio to potatoes)
eggs (a dozen or more)
matzo meal or flour (many handfuls)
salt (pinches per batch)
pepper (smidgens per batch)
oil (more than you can imagine)

a) shred or grate potatoes and put in a bowl of cold water until all potatoes are shredded

b) grate onions and put in a separate bowl (a gas mask is helpful here)

c) beat a bunch of eggs and season them with salt and pepper

Then, using a separate large bowl

d) pull about four or five big handfuls of shredded potatoes from the water and squeeze the moisture back into the bowl of potatoes and water until they are pretty dry (alternately you can squeeze in cheesecloth) and dump into in the separate bowl

e) add a handful of or so of onion to the bowl

f) add a small handful of flour or matzo meal until the potatoes are lightly coated, mixing with your hands

g) add enough egg to well moisten the potatoes; the mixture should be wet but not soupy

h) at this point experienced latke makers will take some of the potato starch that has settled to the bottom of the bowl of potatoes and water and stir this into the mixture, as well

i) fill your palm with some of the potato mixture and pat it to compress it onto a large spoon or spatula; slide it gently into a skill containing about 1/2 inch of hot (375) oil...cook until browned on one side; turn over and brown on the other side.

j) drain on paper towels, transfer to baking sheets lined with brown paper (from grocery bags works great) and set aside. Reheat in a hot oven when ready to serve. Once they are cooled you can freeze them and use a paper bag lined cookie sheets to reheat. They reheat really well.

Serving Method:

9) Fill two platters with hot latkes; repeat as needed. It is best for the latke chef to plan to remain standing for the duration of the meal.

10) Serve with sugar free apple sauce and low fat sour cream and act puzzled when your gentile guests find the incongruity of this amusing.

Happy Hannukah...Chanukah...whatever.

* unsuspecting Gentile woman

This material is the sole property of the writer and may not be copied or republished without permission.

Salad Days

2008-09-29T21:13:00.000-07:00

Nicoise Salad on a summer evening.

A crisp white rhone was the perfect pairing.

Craig did a GREAT job grilling the tuna!

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If you grew up in the sixties or seventies the term “salad,” more often than not, meant a bowl of soggy iceberg lettuce garnished with some pink tomatoes, swimming in some creamy pink or acidic “Italian” bottled dressing.

Even today, many restaurants still serve a version of this as a “side salad” with a few stale croutons on top. Luckily our salad horizons have been broadened.

There are two basic types of salad: simple and composed.

Simple salads include anything where the ingredients are tossed together. Greek salads with beets, olives and tangy feta; fattoush salad, the middle-eastern mixture of cucumbers, onions, parsley, tomatoes and toasted pita in a tart, minty dressing; spicy Thai salads of chicken, cashews and apples, and the new classic “Michigan salad” of baby greens, apples, walnuts and blue cheese. And of course, the ubiquitous (but usually poorly prepared) Caesar. The possibilities are endless.

The composed salad—a“salade composée--is a salad in which an assortment of ingredients are arranged artfully on a plate and drizzled with dressing, usually a vinaigrette. Quite often these salads are intended to be the main course, rather than a side dish or first course.

The Cobb Salad, a ridiculously fattening combination of blue cheese, chicken, bacon, avocado and egg (oh, sure, there’s lettuce underneath, but what’s the point, really?), became popular in the eighties and is a modern version of a composed salad.

But by far the most famous and classical composed salad is “salade niçoise”, a specialty of Nice, France that made all over the world today. Traditional ingredients should include crisp haricot verts, hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, potatoes and tuna, but to say that chefs have taken some license with the ingredients would be an understatement.

A well-composed salad should have a balance of colors, flavors and textures, and even temperatures (cool veggies and warm meats). Your imagination is the only limit.
Call me “old school”, but I love a classic nicoise a la Julia Child, the doyenne of French cooking. Her recipe is complicated but simple, and a timeless classic, like the lady herself.
I do deviate from Julia’s classic in one way, though; by using seared ahi tuna instead of canned. But it’s tasty either way.

Presentation is everything with this salad. Think of the plate as an artists palate when you arrange the various colors and textures.

Hubby (“The Grillmaster”) did a great job searing the tuna this time. We ate “al fresco” on a beautiful summer evening with a crisp white Cotes du Rhone.
Don’t let the instructions deter you from making this salad. It’s a perfect summer dinner or patio lunch and worth the time and effort when summer’s bounty of tomatoes, green beans and lettuce make this salad really sing.

Ingredients
• 6 very fresh eggs
• 6 to 8 red-skinned or yukon gold potatoes, of a uniform, medium size (2-inch diameter)
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 pound very fresh, crisp, young, string-less green beans
• 2 tablespoons salt
• 1 tablespoon finely minced shallots or scallions
• 1/3 cup dry white wine
• 1/3 cup cold water
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 3 to 4 tablespoons excellent olive oil
• 1 large head Boston lettuce
• Oil and Lemon Dressing , recipe follows
• 3 to 4 ripe red tomatoes quartered through the stem or 12 to 16 ripe full-flavored cherry tomatoes halved through the stem
• 1 (2-ounce) can or bottle anchovy fillets packed in olive oil
• 1 (8-ounce) can oil-packed chunk white tuna, drained
• Fresh lemon juice
• 1 cup good mayonnaise
• 2 tablespoons capers (fine fat ones if possible)
• 1/2 cup small Italian or French black olives, pits in, and packed in brine
• Fresh parsley sprigs
Directions
With a push pin, pierce the large ends of eggs to release the air bubble, which otherwise can expand during cooking, cracking the egg shell. Into a 3-quart sauce pan place the eggs. Pour in 2 1/2 quarts of cold water. Bring just to the rolling boil, remove from heat, cover the pan closely, and set the timer for 17 minutes.
Transfer the eggs to a bowl of ice cubes and water, and let cool for 2 minutes (to shrink the egg body from the shell) while you bring the egg water back to the boil. Then transfer the eggs back into the boiling water and let boil for exactly 10 seconds (to expand the shell from the egg body).
At once, and 1 by 1, tap an egg gently all over on a hard surface to crack the shell and starting at the large end, peel under a thin stream of cold water. Return it to the iced water, and continue with the rest. Let them chill a good 20 minutes in the iced water?rapid cooling helps prevent the dark line between yolk and white.
Always store hard-boiled eggs in the refrigerator, submerged in ice water in an uncovered container, where they will keep perfectly 3 to 4 days.
Scrub the potatoes under running water with a vegetable brush, and place in a steamer basket over a saucepan containing 2 inches of water. Bring to the boil, lower heat to moderate, cover closely, and steam about 20 minutes or until cooked through?be sure they are really cooked through, cut one in half and taste carefully. Peel while still hot, halve them, cut into slices 1/4-inch thick.
In a 2-quart bowl, combine salt, shallots, wine, and water. Lift the potatoes gently into a the 2-quart bowl. Using a bulb baster, so as not to break the slices, baste the potatoes with the liquid. Taste for seasoning adding more salt, if needed, grinds of pepper, and several spoonfuls of the olive oil. Baste several times as the potatoes cool.
In a large kettle, set over moderately high heat, bring 6 quarts of water to the boil. Wash and drain the green beans, then snap off both ends. Add 2 tablespoons of salt to the boiling water and drop the beans into the kettle. Cover the kettle for a moment, just until it boils again. Uncover at once and boil slowly (moderate bubbles) for 3 to 4 minutes. The beans are done when just cooked through?taste one to be sure?just tender with the slightest crunch. Drain immediately. At once return the beans to the kettle and run cold water into it to cool the beans rapidly, adding a tray or two of ice cubes if you have them. When chilled, in 5 minutes or so, drain again, dry in a clean towel, and refrigerate in a covered bowl until ready to assemble salad.
Separate the lettuce leaves, wash, and spin dry. Shortly before serving so that all elements will remain at their freshest, toss the lettuce leaves in a large bowl with just enough dressing to coat them. Taste the potatoes, adding a little more seasoning if necessary. Halve the eggs. Toss the green beans with a spoonful of the dressing. Lightly salt the cut surfaces of the tomatoes and dribble over a little dressing. Open and drain the anchovies, separating them with a form. Drain the canned tuna, flake gently, and season with lemon juice and pepper. Arrange the largest lettuce leaves nicely around the sides of the serving bowl or platter, and make a bed of the remaining leaves in the center, where you will pile the potatoes. Place the egg yolks against the lower part of the potatoes, spoon a dollop of mayonnaise over each yolk, and decorate with crossed strips of anchovies and a sprinkling of capers. Divide the beans, tomatoes, and tuna into 6 portions, and place at strategic intervals around the potatoes.
Survey the platter, scattering black olives and tucking parsley springs wherever needed. Serve as soon as possible.
Oil and Lemon Dressing:
• 1/2 lemon, zested and juiced (at least 1 tablespoon)
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• Freshly ground black pepper
• 1/2 tablespoon Dijon mustard
• 1/2 tablespoon finely minced shallots or scallions
• 1/2 cup excellent olive oil
Grate the lemon peel into a screw-top jar, add the salt, several grinds of pepper, mustard, minced shallots, and 1 tablespoon lemon juice. Shake well to blend, then pour in the oil and shake vigorously again. Taste for seasoning, adding more lemon, salt and pepper if needed.
Yield: about 2/3 cup

Memories in Liquid Form

2008-09-29T19:24:00.000-07:00

Memories in Liquid Form
Category: Food and Restaurants

Over the past few weeks, on a local "wine and spirits" discussion board, the group's resident, self-appointed mixology expert posted an eloquent missive in praise of one of America's first cocktails, the Sazerac.

A sazerac is one of the oldest known cocktails and a classic New Orleans creation, with a base of rye whiskey, flavored with a drop of Pernod (in place of the original absynthe) and Peychaud bitters, a type of cocktail bitters that originated in New Orleans. The sharpness of these flavors is cut with a dash of simple syrup and the entire thing is shaken and served straight up, icy cold.

I drank my first Sazerac with my first husband , in New Orleans, and hadn't had one in at least 15 years. So this past weekend, I amassed the ingredients needed for a sazerac and had one the other evening. My favorite liquor store(s) were out of Pernod so I used anisette and it was just fine like that. The bitters are what really flavors the drink anyway; the Pernod is just for scent.

One sip of that lovely elixer and I was back at a white-clothed table enjoying my first taste of New Orleans, at Galatoire's in the French Quarter.

It was the 1980, before the world discovered "blackened" everything and no one had heard of a chef who used the term "BAM!" while cooking.

New Orleans then was less "sanitized for your tourism pleasure". And this was a good thing.

Bourbon street had more strip clubs and fewer storefronts dispensing artificially-colored "daquiri" slushes. You were warned not to step one foot off the Rue Royale or Bourbon. The genteel antique shops on Royal Street were a stark contrast to the debauchery and drunken excess of Bourbon. What New Orelans was in the recent years before Katrina, it was ten-fold 20 years ago.

The cuisine in most places in New Orleans was Creole, not "Cajun". In order to find Cajun food, one had to venture along the River Road and eat at little mom & pop places with grease-stained table cloths. Boiled crawfish and jamabalaya were washed down with Dixie beer and were offered mostly out in peasant country; Creole reigned in New Orleans at Commander's and Brennan's and Galatoires. And Galatoire's, to this day, is the spot where old, wealthy New Orleans families gather on Friday nights to relax after a long week and catch up on the local gossip.

I vividly remember my first creole meal, at a table for two in the middle of Galatoire's brightly-lit bustle. A first course of shrimp remoulade, a dish I quickly learned to cook at home, and ethereal Oysters Rockefeller, a delicacy I knew but had never experienced. Although it was invented up the street at Antoine's, Galatoire's version was as authentic as the original; plump gulf oysters baked with their famous spinach and herbsaint (another absynthe substitute, this made in New Orelans) topping.

I also experienced my first raw oyster on this trip; I grew up eating clams on the half shell, but until this trip, oysters were a bit outside my gastronimical reach. Until I polished off two dozen in one sitting at Felix's oyster house down the street from Galatoires. But I digress.

As we ordered our main course and I sipped my first sazerac (of many on that trip) my ex pointed out the "Yankees" at the next table.

"How do you know they're Yankees?" I asked.

"Only a yankee," he said, "would order coffee before dinner at Galatoire's."

Poisson Meuniére Amandine followed, a crisp piece of the freshest trout in browned butter and almonds. Served with crunchy young green beans and Brabant Potatoes (what we yankees would probably call home fries) seasoned, cubed and fried, sprinkled with parsley.

We had a liquid dessert; Café Brulot; coffee spiced with orange and lemon peel, cloves, brandy and Orange Curacao.

The Yankees, he pointed out, were still drinking plain old coffee.

* * * * * * * *

Summer Evening with Friends

2008-09-29T17:50:00.001-07:00

We have a family friend whom I'll call Joe*. Joe is one of my favorite people, but he has a gift for marrying women who are just a little—how to put this politely—high maintenance. We won't go into his previous wife here, but he and his current wife (who I like a lot) have never been to a dinner party at our house. Why? Because "Diane* doesn't eat at people's houses."

Maybe because she herself doesn't cook and fears that she can't reciprocate? Joe says it's because "if she's going to pay a sitter, she'd rather go out." Not like they're impoverished.

Um. Ok. Her loss.

What could be nicer than enjoying dinner and wine with friends in the comfort of someone's home? Most of the time, I'd rather cook and eat at home than be disappointed after dropping $100 or more on dinner (before wine, tax and tip).

So this past weekend, when friends proposed getting together for dinner, I offered to cook dinner for them here. They all offered to bring appetizers, and dessert and, of course, wine.

And it turned out to be a beautiful evening, even though cold and rain were predicted.

Since all of us like eating healthier food, I decided on a menu that would be fresh and light and relatively healthy, with a little "South of the Equator" theme to welcome the warmer weather that's finally arrived.

We started with appetizers and cocktails. Ok, so my appetizer was fried. Not so healthy…but…yummmmm.

Fried plantains waiting for their second dip in hot oil.

These are SO easy; slice them about ¾ inch thick, fry at 350 until brown. Remove and drain on paper towels, then whack with a mallet or skillet to flatten them, and return to the hot oil right before serving. I seasoned these with curry powder and kosher salt, and made a sauce out of lowfat Greek yogurt sweetened with honey and flavored with lime juice and lime zest. It was a great balance for the curry powder.

After the second frying, seasoned and ready to eat. Betcha can't eat just one.

Our friends Michael and Elaine brought a platter of marinated, grilled tenderloin, with home-made guacamole, home-made BBQ sauce and lovely bread. Michael is the chef in their household (and he's an amazing cook) and also sells prime meat and seafood to restaurants. (Everyone should have a friend in the meat business!)

We drank "Pisco Sours" made with a Chilean brandy called "Pisco", lemon and lime juice, simple syrup, egg whites (to make them foamy) with a drop or two of bitters on top. They were great with the appetizers.

Cherie and Gerry (the world's cutest couple) enjoying appetizers and Pisco sours.

Elaine and me. I love my new apron. I bought it in Chicago last month with Elizabeth and Pat. It says, "Nice nose, good legs, great body." You know I had to buy it!

Craig, Elaine, Michael, Cherie and Gerry enjoying appetizers and Pisco sours in the living room.

Our first course; scallop ceviche with avocado. Ceviche is so easy; just super-fresh raw seafood, "cooked" in lime juice, with peppers and onions and scallions. So cool, fresh and delicious!

Our first course is served.

The white wine with dinner was a Torrontes from Argentina. Torrontes has wonderful fruit on the tongue and floral aromas on the nose. We had so many sweet and spicy flavors with this meal, it was really a good choice. Cherie brought a couple interesting zins which were also delicious with the meal.

Next up; jicama and orange salad on baby greens, dressed with citrus juice, vinegar and chive oil (made with chives from my garden). Somehow I forgot to photograph the salad!

Our main course was Jerk shrimp with home-made Jerk sauce and mango/papaya salsa. I've never made Jerk from scratch and have always opted, instead, for the jarred version. This was SO easy, but it's not cheap to make. It took a full quarter cup of ground allspice. But it was really delicious. I only used half a habanero; I think I should have used the whole thing. It was flavorful but not spicy enough for me.

The ingredients for Jerk sauce.

The salsa, before adding the cilantro. I like to add cilantro at the last minute, right before serving.

Skewered shrimp, already marinated in Jerk seasoning, ready for the grill.

Jerk shrimp, mashed white yams with coconut milk, green beans with bacon and caramelized onions.

After dinner we headed to the living room for a few rounds of "Apples to Apples". Love this game.

And then…dessert. Cherie made a stellar key lime pie; tart and sweet and so creamy. A perfect ending for this meal and my husband's favorite dessert. She used the recipe from Joe's Stone Crab and it was outstanding. Sadly, after too much wine, I forgot to take a photo. It was gorgeous!

Too bad Joe and Diane missed out.

* Not, obviously, their real names.

"Comfort Food"

2008-09-29T09:56:00.000-07:00

Rainy Evening Comfort Food

"Comfort food".

We foodies like tossing around that descriptor. But what, exactly, IS comfort food? Surely if you asked twenty people, you'd get as many answers.

Most of us grow up with family favorites that became comfort food after we left the nest; simple dishes with silly names and everyday ingredients. There is nothing innately special about macaroni and cheese (home-made or otherwise), or grilled cheese and tomato soup, or that mish-mash casserole that mom made by browning some hamburger and opening about 7 cans wrapped with red and white labels.

My friend Michael's mother is famous for her "Yummy-Yummy Casserole." She makes this for him when they travel to St. Louis for holidays. She doesn't need to be asked; it's just assumed that at some point during their visit, "Yummy-Yummy" will take its place at the dinner table.

Michael got the recipe from his mother and gave it to me but I will probably never make it. Why? Not because it has, if my estimations are correct, about 17,000 calories per serving. And not because it's not delicious; I'm sure it's "yummy-yummy" as promised. But no matter how delicious it is, it probably won't be comfort food to me because it's not MINE. Devoid of the positive association of mom and dad, the home in which we were raised, or family holidays, comfort food is in the end, just food.

My mom's pork roast, sauerkraut and mashed potatoes, on the other hand? I'd give anything to have her cook that meal for me just one more time. I'm not sure what I liked best about that meal--the dinner itself or the promise of Pennsylvania Dutch "potato donuts" made with the leftover mashed potatoes. My sister and I would take only tiny helpings of mashed potatoes with dinner to make sure there was enough left for the donuts.

Peggy's Potato Donuts
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 cup butter, softened
1 cup cold mashed potatoes
2 eggs, beaten
2/3 cup milk
4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
oil for deep-fat frying

Combine first 4 ingredients in a mixing bowl.
Add potatoes; mix well.
Add eggs and milk; mix well.
Stir in the flour and baking powder, mix well, and then chill the dough for an hour or more.
Flour a pastry board and roll out the dough about ½ inch thick.,
Cut using a donut cutter or two different sized ring cutters. (I like making them small; they fry quicker and are less oily that way.)
Fry at 375*; fry doughnuts until golden on both sides, turning halfway through fying.
Drain on paper towels.
Toss in cinnamon sugar or powdered sugar. I like them just plain.

How I loved my father's "barbeque"! Dad froze leftover meat and ground it up later for stuffed grape leaves or to make his "barbeque". It was not really barbeque in any true sense of the word, because it wasn't grilled or smoked. It was more like a sloppy Joe made with leftover meat and a sweet sauce that he mixed up with on-hand ingredients. I don't remember ever eating "sloppy Joes" as a kid; certainly never the kind from a can. When I was eventually faced with sloppy Joe's on a hamburger bun at a friend's dinner table, they looked at me strangely when I said, "Mmmmm, barbeque."

I also remember begging my grandmother for "schnitz und knepp", a stew of ham, dumplings and dried apples that's probably never eaten outside of central Pennsylvania, the heart of the "Dutch country". I've never made it because it's more effort than I would undertake for something that only I would appreciate, and because I know in my heart it would never taste like hers.

Our versions of comfort food are not always tied to our ethnic backgrounds, but one thing is certain; comfort food and childhood are tightly interwoven.

When I was growing up in Philadelphia, my parents both worked full time so mom had a housekeeper five days a week, who cleaned and did the laundry and took care of my sister and me while my parents were at work or while they were away on conventions.

We had a succession of them over the years. They were all called "aunt". Aunt Marge, Aunt Lelah, Aunt Mildred and Aunt Betty. I remember them all, but I remember Betty and Marge most vividly and I remember them mostly for their cooking.

Marge was the first; she was the one that took care of me when I was a toddler. I was so young that I really don't remember any of her cooking. But my mom, newly married and an amateur cook, learned a lot from Marge. Mom's delicious cole slaw was from Marge's recipe and my sister and I still make it that way to this day. In fact, many of Marge's recipes graced our dinner table throughout my lifetime.

Betty worked for us in our later elementary school years and then into middle school. Betty was the queen of comfort food and in our elementary years we walked 8 city blocks home for lunch each day. What could have been better than a home-cooked meal after a brisk walk on a cold winter day?

One of my favorite fall lunches was one of Betty's best dishes. Fried apples and corn bread. Chunks of apple sautéed and caramelized in sweet cream butter, finished with a touch of cinnamon, and served with a wedge of hot-from-the-oven corn bread and a big, cold glass of milk. We could usually smell the apples and cinnamon from the base of the cement steps that led up to our kitchen door.

This afternoon, as I was cleaning the kitchen, I realized I had an abundance of apples that weren't going to keep forever, and the cool fall weather made me think of fried apples. So I cut two of them into chunks and tossed them in a skillet with some butter. As they cararmelized, I heard my son's footsteps on the stairs and wondered what on earth pulled him away from "World of Warcraft."

"Mom!! What is that SMELL????" he asked.

"Fried apples," I replied.

"Are they as good as they smell?" he wanted to know.

So I shared my small portion with him, and told him about Betty and the cornbread and walking home for lunch and the white German Shepherd on the corner named "Cherry" who I would pet every day on my way home. We chatted about my asphalt schoolyard and our spinster principal while we ate the warm, sweet apples. The rain dripped from the blossomless honeysuckle outside the kitchen window.

I promised him I would make apples and cornbread for dinner.

And so I did. I even made a version of dad's "barbeque" to go with it. I hope he remembers it and that it becomes his comfort food, too.

"fried" apples

Cornbread "not from a box"

"Barbeque" and cornbread

Melting Pots and Ice Cream

2008-09-27T19:52:00.000-07:00

June 21, 2007

Melting Pots and Ice Cream
One of the things I love most about the community in which we live is the ethnic diversity. Because we have a large Jewish population, we have diaspora from Israel, Russia...Jews from all over Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

But unlike many Jewish communities, we also have something really unique; a huge Arabic and non-Jewish Middle Eastern population. Some are Catholics from Iraq (Chaldeans), Lebanese, Saudi, Palestinians of both Christian and Muslim faiths. In fact, it's not unusual in these parts to attend a bar or bat mitzvah and see a girl wearing a full Muslim headcovering in the synagogue. I find this remarkable.

It also amazes me that our local Jewish Community Center, where I teach classes, is so welcoming to the ENTIRE community. In any given class my students are a mix of Chaldeans, Jews, Gentiles, blacks, whites, Indians, Asians.

What got me thinking about this, ironically, is ice cream. I seldom eat ice cream. Don't get me wrong, I love the stuff. It just doesn't love me. I almost always suffer for having eaten it, so if I'm going to take the risk, the reward had best be worth it. No low-fat, Splenda sweetened stuff (so popular in West Bloomfield among the wanna-be-anorexic set) for me.

There is a little middle-eastern pastry shop in West Bloomfield named, appropriately, "Pistachios". It's really more of a "dessert" place than a pastry shop. They sell ice cream, heaveny filo pastries, like the rolled "fingers" filled with ground cashews and those honey soaked pistachio "nests". And wonderful Lavazza coffee, available "Turkish" style, and when you order a coffee or pastry "for here", even if it's to take outside to enjoy at one of 40 or so outdoor tables, it's served on real china. No paper cups or plastic spoons for the ice cream, either. Real glass dishes and real flatware. A small thing, really, but such a nice touch.

But the big draw for me here is the ice cream; it's so good it's actually worth the intestinal risk...intensely flavored, full-fat, European style ice cream, with exotic flavors like mango, pistachio, apricot (studded with bits of fresh and dried apricot) and lemon, to name a few. The pistachio ice cream here is essentially a "nut delivery system"; so loaded with chopped pistachios...so redolent with the smell and flavor of the freshest nut meats. It is simply indescribable and despite the other wonderful flavors they offer, I can't pass up the pistachio.

Fortunately, your $3 gets you a "split scoop" and you can have two flavors in your glass bowl, so I added my other favorite, "Kashta". Kashta is simply a sweet cream base flavored with rosewater. It is the single most exotic, sexy ice cream I have ever eaten. It's like cream colored 800 thread count sheets sprinkled with freshly picked rose petals in the palest of pink; delicate and decadent at the same time. I imagine feeding it to a lover in bed.

We decided to enjoy our treats at their outside cafe tables. All around us old Arab men were drinking coffee and smoking. Some were playing chess or backgammon on boards the shop has available for rent. Behind us, a group of attractive couples were chatting in Portugese. The women next to us were speaking Hebrew and the people to our other side were having an animated discussion in Russian.

We ran into a friend from the gym; she and her husband were enjoying coffee, ice cream and pastries. I was glad they weren't at the "other" nearby ice cream place, eating no-fat, non-dairy, maltitol laced "frozen dessert".

At 11:30, the parking lot was so packed we had to wait for a spot. The air was warm and still. I ate my ice cream slowly, relishing the tantalizing flavors and the exotic sound of lively conversation in a cacaphony of languages, accompanied by the clicking backgammon tiles and the tinkling of spoons against espresso cups and icecream dishes.

I could have had my ice-cream to go. They even sell it in one-pint containers to take home. But it wouldn't have been the same.

Autumn In My Kitchen

2008-09-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

Previously published October, 2006

Autumn in the Kitchen
This is my favorite time of year.

The departure of the hummingbirds from my garden is the portent of crisp mornings, azure skies, warm afternoons and the first fire in the fireplace. Crunchy leaves and soft sweaters and blue jeans and boots of burnished leather. Summer dresses hung away in moth balls, replaced with tweeds and cashmere.

But nowhere is fall more apparent than in my kitchen. The big vase of gladiolus in my kitchen turns into a pumpkin filled with mums. The peaches and plums in my fruit basket make way for pears and apples and figs.

I love the veritable cornucopia of fall vegetables in the market right now. Snowy cauliflowers the size of basketballs; squash both mammoth and miniscule, in green and yellow and orange and white and blue.

There's an unwritten rule in my kitchen. Even if the squash show up in the market in August, I don't buy or cook them until October. Doing so any sooner than that would acknowledge that summer has gasped its last humid breath and winter is right around the corner. But by October, I'm ready.

This weekend I halved a large acorn squash and scooped out the seeds. Those I tossed with olive oil and kosher salt and toasted them to snack on later. The squash, though, needed stuffing. Not that all squash isn't lovely with just some good butter, salt and pepper, but I was in the mood for something different.

So I chopped some onion and apple and turkey bacon, and sauteed it all in a little butter...a little cardamom and coriander, because those sweet spices love squash and squash loves them back. I filled the cavity of the squash with the mixture, covered with a little jacket of aluminum foil and baked them until the squash was soft and creamy. They were delicious.

The next morning, I left for work in boots and a sweater, the leftover squash in my little lunchbag. It was even better the next day.

A young woman at the office offered me $5 for my squash as it came out of the microwave, and told me she liked my boots.

I love fall.

Chicken Fat Rules

2008-09-27T06:24:00.000-07:00

Originally written April, 2005, Published in Strut Magazine (a Detroit women's magazine that will sadly be publishing its last issue in September 2008)

Oy...Schmaltz!!!!
Chicken Fat Rules!

With all due respect to Mr. Legasse, pork fat may rule in the world of Creole cooking, but among aficionados of traditional Jewish home cooking, pork fat does NOT rule. But chicken fat does!

Rendered, seasoned chicken fat, known in Yiddish as “schmaltz” was a delicacy in eastern Europe. Sometimes goose-fat would be used, but as Ashkenazic (eastern European) Jews emigrated to America, chicken fat became the far more common choice.

So, why schmaltz, you ask? First of all, it keeps longer than butter, and chicken fat was often discarded, making it an economical alternative to more expensive dairy fat. Most importantly, it is an acceptable (and surprisingly delicious) substitute for butter in Kosher households, where meat and dairy cannot be combined in the same meal. Before margarine was readily available, chicken fat used for cooking and even as a dressing for noodles or a spread for warm bread. In many Jewish kitchens today, chopped liver and matzo balls just aren’t the same without it.

As a young girl, I remember my father giving my sister and me $10 and sending us to the deli on Sunday mornings. We walked 10 city blocks for lox, smoked sable and bagels. Yes, in the late 1960s it was still safe for two young girls to walk to the store unaccompanied, and $10 could, indeed, buy plenty of lox, bagels and smoked fish. And we usually had enough change left over for something sweet at the bakery next door. Ah, the good old days!

The deli always smelled of warm rye bread, hot corned beef and barrels of new dills, a smell that, to this day, transports me back to northwest Philadelphia. On the way home, I carried the bag that contained the fish and cream cheese. Carrying the warm, fragrant bag of bagels was 10 blocks of sheer torture that I delegated to my sister. I was, after all, older.

My first experience with schmaltz came on one such Sunday morning. I must have been about 10 and our table had been set with the usual trappings of a Jewish brunch. Lox, smoked fish, cream cheese, bagels, onions, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. And set among this colorful spread was a small dish of what appeared to be…well…fat. My Jewish father took a small amount of this glossy, creamy stuff and spread it on a slice of cucumber and sprinkled it with salt, as my sister and I (and my gentile mother) watched in a combination of disbelief and disgust.

Dad, in his typical fashion, said nothing, knowing our gastronomical curiosity would soon get the best of us…and he was right. Since we are all adventurous eaters, we immediately followed suit, taking a slice of cucumber, applying a light slick of the “schmaltz”, as he told us it was called, a sprinkle of salt…delicious.

Several weeks later, dad showed us how to render the chicken fat; slowly (and with a little chopped onion for flavor and a little water to allow the onions to cook without browning) over low to medium heat until the fat was liquefied and a few solid, crispy-browned pieces remained in the pan. He called these “cracklin’s” but I later learned that the Yiddish term for them was grebenes, and if the schmaltz is a delicacy, then these are manna from heaven. Drained on a paper towel and sprinkled with salt, they're the Kosher version of pork rinds…only way better, and far more precious--because a full pound of un-rendered chicken fat may only yield a few tablespoons of grebenes.

It was a rare treat when dad made "schmaltz and grebenes". I'm not sure which I enjoyed more. The cracklin's or the aroma --the very essence of chicken--that filled the kitchen.

What made me think of chicken fat today, ironically, was the gumbo a planned for dinner this evening. The recipe calls for 1 cup of lard to start the roux. Since my husband doesn’t eat pork or any other red meat, I’m using shrimp and andouille sausage made from turkey for my gumbo, but wanted to replace the lard with something more flavorful than vegetable oil. I immediately thought of schmaltz. A bit of a twist, I thought, putting something so traditionally Jewish in a dish that calls for pork sausage AND shellfish, two foods that are decidedly NOT kosher!!!

So I’m off to the store. The Hiller’s markets in the West Bloomfield area sell little tubs of schmaltz in their Kosher poultry section. And it’s fine, it really is.

But I’m going to ask the butcher for some chicken fat, and I'm going to render it myself. Why? Because it's Sunday. Because it reminds me of my father. And because I can already smell the sweet onions caramelizing and taste those crackly little grebenes!!! If my kids clean their rooms, I just might even let them have a few.

And if there’s any schmaltz left over after I make my roux, I’ll smear it on a slice of cucumber and make a little toast to dad.

Tasting Notes: Sparkling....Sake?

2008-09-27T06:17:00.000-07:00

Written in 2007

June 26
Tasting Notes: Sparkling (no, I'm not kidding) Sake

I just HAD to try this; I love sake and I love sparkling wine, so what could be bad?

Blue bottle; pretty, about the size of a split of champagne. Thought the top came off like a beer cap, but then I noticed a little pull-tab under the plastic wrapper at the neck...and promptly pierced the tip of my finger with a knife trying to remove the plastic.

Band-aid applied. Bottle opened with a little less hiss than a beer. The label is cute, with a rather cartoon-ish illustration of a Japanese girl, but the choice of font makes it look a bit cheap.

The label says it's imported by Banzai Beverage Corp. for TJ's and bottled by Ume No Yado brewery in Japan. It also says I shouldn't drink it if I'm pregnant (I'm not) or operate machinery after drinking it. Does a computer constitute machinery?

Unfortunately the label does NOT say what sort of glassware is appropriate for sparkling sake. This is anyone's guess, really. A hot sake cup seems wrong, but so does a champagne flute. I'm going for a small wine glass.

Hmmmm. Color is more straw-like than one associates with sake, but very, very pale. Certainly not as deep as a sparkling wine, but definitely not colorless. The bubbles are rather large, in fact, there is a very small amount of foam on the surface of the liquid.

As I'm getting nearer the bottom of the bottle, it is getting decidely cloudy. The nose is...well...starchy. Like the smell of Gold Medal flour. Or uncooked sushi rice.

The flavor is nothing like the nose, although it's hard to separate yourself from the nose as you bring the glass to your lips. The starchiness is pretty prevalent. But the flavor...well, it's really clean;. Oddly it's dry but not dry. It's so clean it feels dry but there is virtually no acid, which is what you're expecting if you're thinking about sparkling wine while you drink this. So don't.

What's really interesting is the finish. It is at first almonds and then toasted rice, with a little lingering sweetness that you don't get at first and then finally, the hit of starch again. Some characteristic sparkling wine flavors here, but no minerals at all.

This is really interesting. Definitely worth trying. Don't remember how much this was. Maybe $9 for the split? Adventure in a glass. Would be nice with sashimi, but not sushi. I think the starchy flavor would be a nice foil for fish, but hold the rice.

Since both sake and champagne give me a crazy buzz (I'm vaguely recalling singing something from Porgy and Bess in a karaoke bar one evening) I wonder, how many I could drink before I start dancing on the sushi bar?

Food, Family and Tradition

2008-09-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

This is a piece I wrote that was published in a local women's magazine a few years ago. Enjoy!
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The holiday season is when we bring our family traditions to the table. With my mother’s Pennsylvania Dutch background and my father’s Eastern European, Jewish heritage, there were no limitations to what might be served at our holiday table. To say our seasonal celebrations were “eclectic” would truly be an understatement.

On Christmas Eve, while our friends and neighbors were at church (and our Jewish neighbors were eating Chinese food) we listened to Christmas music and helped my father make blintzes to be served at Christmas breakfast..

While many Jewish families purchased blintzes pre-made at the deli – or frozen in a box – dad always made them from scratch, a labor intensive process that involved the entire family and took the better part of Christmas Eve. Dad sang Christmas carols off key, butchering the lyrics nearly as badly as the melody while my sister and I begged him to please, stop singing. One of his favorites, I remember, was “Deck the Halls with Lox and Bagels.”

Dad made the crepes, flipping them onto our cloth-covered dining room table for my sister and me to fill with a sweet cottage cheese mixture that mom mixed in a big, stainless steel bowl. I remember clumsily rolling my first blintz at the age of 7 or 8. They weren’t very pretty, but they sure tasted good.

As we got older we continued the tradition, later adding Champagne or cocktails as my sister and I became of age (actually, I believe it was a few years before). The tradition died when dad passed away – it just wasn't the same without him standing at the stove, three perfectly seasoned cast iron skillets on the burners, turning out crepes faster than we could fill and roll them. We continue to honor his Jewish heritage at our Christmas breakfast, however, by substituting lox and bagels for the blintzes.

Our “blended” food traditions transcended holiday meals. On the weekends – when breakfast was an event, not just a meal eaten to start the day – my sister and I were as apt to request "matzo brei" (an egg and matzo dish that resembles French toast, and is sometimes called "fried matzo") as we were to request cornmeal mush – the Pennsylvania Dutch version of polenta; sliced, griddle-fried crispy and golden yellow, and served with real maple syrup.

Mom was raised with simple comfort foods, and her Pennsylvania Dutch roots were apparent in many of her family's meals. My grandmother was known for her pecan cinnamon rolls, which she called "sticky buns," and a dish called "schnitz und knepp" (the “k” is pronounced and the dish is a stew of dumplings, ham and dried apples).

But she was most famous for her pies. I recently learned that the Pennsylvania Dutch are credited with having invented the two-crust fruit pie as we now know it. Edna's crust was homemade, with lard. Flaky and tender, it had no equal.

Another favorite meal in our house was a classic Pennsylvania Dutch combination; pork roast, sauerkraut, mashed potatoes and applesauce. True comfort food. And while the meal itself was a treat, we knew this particular dinner often promised an even greater treat: fashnachts – homemade donuts made with mashed potato in the dough.

The trick, we quickly learned, was to begin lobbying for them about halfway through dinner…and mom almost always gave in. Rolling the dough, cutting the little circles and watching them turn golden brown in the frying pan is one of my fondest childhood memories. Sometimes we sprinkled them with powdered sugar or sugar and cinnamon, but I liked them best plain, still warm, dunked in a glass of cold milk.

Dad's been gone for 20 years now, and we lost mom two summers ago. I still mourn her loss and the many family traditions she continued or created. Some of which I can carry on, and many others that were lost with her.

This year, as I helped my sister plan the menu her first Thanksgiving dinner, I realized that the holidays are the perfect time to think about the legacy we leave. Memories of families gathered at table. Our legacies are of love, of food, and of recipes scribbled on yellowed index cards. In the end, these are the things that will be remembered long after we're gone. They are the glue that holds families together.

2008-08-06T12:57:00.000-07:00

Monday Moanin'

1) I'm naming last week "olfactory offense" week. On Wednesday evening, I met a friend for a glass of wine at one of our favorite wine bar/restaurants. We were halfway through a bottle of stellar rose when a group of diners (two older couples) arrived. They were standing in the vestibule about 30 feet from our table and, I swear, the scent of whatever cheap, drugstore aftershave or perfume one of them was sporting was overpowering us all the way over in the bar.

Really, perfume/cologne is not a substitute for good hygiene, and whatever that scent was, if you inherited it from Aunt Edna, it's probably dated at best or rancid, at worst. Either way, I'm guessing the rest of your party was olfactorily challenged because I can't imagine how they made it through dinner enveloped as they were in "Tabu" or some other circa-1960 perfume.

Same restaurant, next evening:

Chef's tasting menu: $75
Paired wine package: $38
Dude at the next table demonstrating (in between the cheese and the dessert course) the new "Axe" spray he's marketing: Nauseating.

2) On Saturday mornings, beautiful Hines Drive is closed to vehicular traffic, to the delight of road cyclists, inline skaters and other actives folks. This is a wonderful thing. This past Saturday we rode 30 miles, with a detour out of the park into downtown Dearborn for a Starbucks at the halfway mark.

a) Hey, you there. Barrista girl. I thought they hired you people for your personalities? Yeah? Well, maybe you should get one. Hey, I didn't want to get up this morning, either, and I'm sorry you're pulling shots of espresso, not out riding your bike, but it isn't my fault and I'm sorry I annoyed you by ordering this iced coffee. It won't happen again.

b) Hey, you there! Yeah, you, dad, dude with no helmet. Out for a Saturday bike ride on Hines with your wife (with no helmet) and two kids with training wheels. I can't yell "ON YOUR LEFT!!!" if the four of you are taking up BOTH LANES of the road and weaving all over the place. So don't sue me if I take out little Johnny 'cuz he suddenly decides to take a hard right in front of me while I'm doing 22. There's a BIKE PATH you guys should be riding if you can't ride in a straight line or at speeds of over 3 miles per hour.

c) Hey, you there. Yeah, you, the cute teenage girls riding giant unicycles on Saturday morning instead of going to the mall. Do you have any idea how fucking cool you are????
d) Hey, you there. Yeah, you. Very overweight woman out on your bike on a beautiful Saturday. I participate in a lot of fitness and weight loss discussion groups, and every day some woman talks about how she's "too big to run" or "too heavy to bike" or "too embarrassed to go to the gym." How sad. So yeah, girl on the bike? YOU GO, GIRL!!!

4. My friend Elizabeth reminded me of something hilarious that happened when she and my sister Pat and I were in Chincoteague together with our hubbies a few years ago, and she pointed out that I really needed to blog that story. (Ironically, I had just been laughing about it with my sister earlier that evening and with my husband the day before. Some strange telepathic connection caused by smoking too much weed together in high school, I suspect.) At any rate, she also unwittingly inflicted in me a bit of guilt that I hadn't blogged about the one place in the world that is so special to me and my family and holds so many precious memories for all of us. Thanks, Elizabeth. I've been remiss. I will blog it, and it will be titled "the first blog I should have written." Stay tuned.

5. "If you think health care is expensive now, wait until you see what it costs when it's free!" -P.J. O'Rourke

6. The battle of the bulge continues. I'm holding my own about 5 pounds from my goal weight. Ironically, the more I exercise the harder it is to lose those last 5 pounds. Running and biking and swimming require fuel, so it's hard to restrict calories while training. I guess I need to decide which goal is more important; the one on the scale or the one that running 13.2 miles on a Sunday morning in October. I think you all know the answer.

7. I really like Shia Labouf. Judging by his first starring role in the wonderful family film "Holes" (if you haven't seen it, put it in your Netflix que) to his recent performances in "Transformers" and most recent Indiana Jones movie, this young actor shows great talent and great potential, and seemed like a good role model for young people. So I'm really disappointed by his arrest a few weeks for DUI after rolling his truck in the wee hours of the morning. I guess it's really hard to be young and famous in Hollywood these days, but that doesn't excuse drug abuse or wife-beating or drunk driving or any of the host of bad behaviors we've seen come from Hollywood's young and restless of late. Get a grip, people.

8. "Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys." -P.J. O'Rourke, Civil Libertarian

9. Running pet peeves:
a) If you pass me on the pavement, at least nod. I know it's really hard to smile when you're in pain, but even just making eye contact would be nice.

b) I know you love walking or running with music and so do I. But not only is having those earbuds crammed into your cranium with the volume up full blast a BAD idea for your hearing, it also means you don't hear me when I come trotting up along side. Turn the volume down so you don't jump into my path when you suddenly detect my presence.

c) Hey, you there. Yeah, you. Girl on a bike on the sidewalk while I'm running. If you yell "on your left!" when you come up behind me on your bike, please don't pass me on the RIGHT. Hello?

10. I got my hair cut. It was really fried form too much sun, sweat, chlorine, blow-drying and general abuse. It's the shortest it's been in years, but I kinda like it.

Things I just don't get: Vol. 4.2 (or something)

2008-08-06T12:47:00.000-07:00

Things I just don’t get...Volume 4.2 (or something)

1. Tandem bikes.

Really, if I wanted to stare at my husband's ass for hours, I'd just...well, stare at his ass for hours. I can only imagine allowing him to handle the controls and me only there for support. Um. Yeah, THAT would work.

2. Not wearing a seatbelt.

It was seatbelt enforcement day in my community yesterday. That means the cops basically stand next to their squad cars in the center turn lane of a 4 lane highway and just POINT to pull you over to cite you for not wearing your belt. Several drivers had already been directed into various parking lots and were receiving citations.

I mean, c'mon people. It takes two seconds to put on your seatbelt and it has been PROVEN it could save your life in an accident AND the cops are sitting there just WAITING to pick you off and you STILL didn't buckle up? That's just a Darwinian brand of stupidity.

3. Not flossing your teeth.

It takes 2 minutes (kind of like fastening your seatbelt) and it's been proven to prevent gum disease and tooth decay and, most importantly, stinky bad breath. Gum disease has been linked with heart disease. Dental floss costs pennies a day. Someone once told me they didn't floss because it made their gums bleed. Um, ok, maybe your gums bleed BECAUSE YOU DON'T FLOSS??? My dentist told me I don't need to floss all my teeth...just the ones I want to keep. Maybe we need the "floss police" to stake out the bathrooms of America.

4. Not wearing a helmet

I know, not THAT again. Well, sorry, I feel really strongly about this. A few weeks ago we were chatting with a friend of a friend, who informed us that he never wears a helmet when he rides his bike and that if there weren't a helmet law in Michigan, he wouldn't wear one on a motorcycle, either. This kind of flagrant disregard for one's personal safety (especially when one has a family to support) just goes so completely against my grain I had to walk away. But not before asking him if he wore a seatbelt. I think you know the answer. Darwinian? You decide.

5. Guilt Parenting (or guilt non-parenting)

Not surprisingly, this same guy informed us that he had just caught his son smoking weed in the basement. He's 14. He didn't feel like he could punish his son because he, himself, had smoked a doobie earlier that night. Sadly, being stupid doesn't preclude having the ability to procreate.

Carry on.

Training Blog, week of 8/4/08

2008-08-06T11:50:00.000-07:00

Well....here we go. Down to the wire for the Detroit Free Press Marathon/Half Marathon on October . Two months and 13 days until the starting gun goes off on my first half marathon!
Since many of my friends are athletes, I thought I would keep a training blog of both training runs, cross training and nutrition as I go through this process. Some of you are already snoring (really, you should get that looked at) but fear not!!!! I promise to also write about food and cooking from time to time, as well as my occasional snarky rant, sarcastic missive and Monday Moanin'.

This blog will be updated daily and a new one will be posted weekly.( I promise to swear like a sailor from time-to-time because you have all come to expect it.)

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I'm following as closely as possible a Hal Higdon training plan to build up to a half marathon. I'm beginning the program in week six since I have already done the distances called for by this week's program.

This week calls for: a 4 mile run, a 2 mile run or cross training, another 4 mile run and a 6 mile run. There is one day for stretch/strengthening (probably tonight I will swim and do weights), one day for rest and another rest day where I also have the option of an easy run. I would probably use this day to Spin or ride instead. Friday is scheduled as a rest day as of right now, but I'm taking the day off so I might swim.
I always do my longest run on Saturday or Sunday when I have the most time/flexibility in my schedule. Since I'm teaching Spinning this Sunday (which counts as cross training) I'll probably run on Saturday.

TRAINING BLOG:

Monday, August 4th;
Exercise:
Run; distance: 4.19 miles
Time: 52 minutes (slow and steady)
Weather: Hot but mostly overcast; very humid. Light headwind on the outbound section...that I sorely missed on the return because I felt like the temp rose 10 degrees when it wasn't blowing in my face anymore.

Nutrition:
B: Oatmeal (the real stuff)
L: Grilled salmon patty on whole wheat toast with light mayo; salad of spinach, red peppers and tomatoes, fresh watermelon
S1: Handful of Skittles and 2 strawberry twizzlers (what? I can't count those as a serving of fruit? Shit. You people have no sense of humor.)
S2: 2 apricots (have you seen those "black apricots" with the dark purple skin? OMG, sweeter than the Skittles!)
D: 5 oz. boneless skinless chix breast, grilled eggplant, steamed green beans, baby bok choy, corn on the cob (no butter), blueberries/watermelon for dessert
S3: Couple handfuls of blueberries

Comments: Nothing like having to publish what you're eating to help keep you honest. (And I stand by the "Skittles as Fruit" theory.)

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Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Exercise: 25 minutes swimming laps.

I really don't enjoy swimming. I even bought a SwiMP3 player. Doesn't really help. I suck at it. I mean, I look ok in the water, I just have no endurance.

B: Oatmeal (the real stuff) cooked with fresh blueberries...YUM
L: Leftover eggplant, green beans, 4 oz boneless, skinless chicken, black bean/corn salad, watermelon
S1: Mini-box of cheerios, 3 twizzlers, coffee at 3:30 pm
D: 6 oz water packed tuna with 1.5 tbs light mayo and tbs sweet relish on a low-carb spinach tortilla; apricot, handful of blueberries, iced coffee with lowfat milk
S2: This was really more like a second dinner; 2 bowls of Uncle Sam cereal with blueberries and lowfat milk. (I usually drink skim but I'm out of it at the moment.)' 8 cashews

Comments: Note to self: Confucious say: She who eat high fiber cereal at bedtime spend morningtime on crapper.

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Exercise: 7 am 2 mile run (in just under 20 minutes, not bad!)

Breakfast: 1 scrambled egg, 1 serving oatmeal with blueberries and a little maple syrup.
That high fiber cereal last night is not sitting well in my stomach. Oh wait, must have been the milk...I was out of lactaid.

L: Late lunch at 2 pm of 4 oz boarshead honeymaple turkey (yum) on a low-carb flax roll-up (not-so-yum...I think I may have accidentally eaten a Fedex box) bread with honey mustard and baby greens; grilled asparagus and roasted red pepper salad with a light vinaigrette, an overly salty roasted vegetable soup (half of which got poured down the sink); sliced fresh peaches and blackberries with fat free greek yogurt.

Comments: Don't get me started on oversalting food, especially soup! This soup was from a high-end market with a great prepared foods section. I think sometimes restaurants use prepared soup base for their stock (and these are already usually rather salty) and then they go at it with the salt shaker anyway. Ugh.

Going away party tonight for a client; there will be booze and plenty of bar food. I'm going to have to really watch myself! Figured eating a late lunch and snacking on fruit and veggies this afternoon will help me resist potato skins and buffalo wings (neither of which I really like anyway).

Food, Fitness and Sarcasm

2008-08-06T05:56:00.000-07:00

What more do you really need in life?

Oh, yeah. Shoes.