Ok. Who Surreptitiously Installed This Faucet In My FACE?

So, remember a few years ago when I got married?  Good times.

You might also remember that, when we got married, Rob and I made a deal regarding holidays. 

His family lives in Florida, my family is out on Long Island and we live in beautiful East Harlem; not exactly a "we'll have appetizers at your parents' house, dinner at my mom's and desserts at home" kind of situation.  I'm aware this isn't unusual but it doesn't make it any less irritating to deal with, and so we decided to deal with it thusly:

Year 1: Christmas in Florida: Land of Sweat!
Year 2: Christmas on Long Island: A Little Dab Will Do You!

and finally, the year we were both looking forward to:

Year 3: Christmas in Manhattan: Land of Christmas!  Where we will host solstice celebrations in our own home, with our own tree, and cook a scrumptious feast to the wonderment of family and friends!

Instead it turned out to be:

Year 3: Christmas in Manhattan: Drowning in Tissues (The Saint Tigerlily Seriously Considers Finding the Person Who Gave Her This Cold and Punching Them Until Her Knuckles Bleed Story).

I would like to, first, give a shout out to all the assholes who came into my office the last few weeks despite the fact that they were dribbling, sneezing, floating wreckage.  Thanks guys!  Your work ethic is totally stunning!  Let me personally direct you to some helpful organizations, such as: witness protection.

Seriously.  I will get you.  Somehow.

Secondly, I would like to say: OH HOLY NIGHT.  I don't remember ever having a cold like this.  It is one tenacious bastard and it has given me: 12 million dirty tissues, 11 empty boxes of tea, 10 instances of accidentally sneezing goo all over my hand, 9 times Rob gave me the look that said: dear god woman, I can only take so much bossing around from a couch, 8 very weird google searches, 7 batches of unmade cookies, 6 saddened houseguests, 5 UNDRUNK BOTTLES!, 4 sleepless nights, 3 missed parties, 2 chapped lips, AND A NOSE WITH DISFIGURING RED SORES!

Tis the season of giving after all.

Luckily I've got my love to keep me warm, and the fact that odds are I will eventually get better, though right now I would put hot money on the possibility that I will feel this way (achy, raw, tired, snotty and horrible) every day for the rest of my life.

Seriously though, and despite all of this, it was a good Christmas...maybe even a great one.  Maybe even the greatest one ever? 

Being sick saved me from myself a bit, made me step back and not be my usual over-the-top-over-do-it-if-at-all-possible, Type A self.  We had a simple dinner of roast beast, leek bread pudding and salad, pretty much all thanks to The Boss and his tremendous efforts in a household one man down.  My mother, who shares a birthday with JESUS, brought a carrot cake from Tate's bakery out in Southhampton (for all you non-easterners, that's in the Hamptons!  ie: where they cook rich people during the summer!), and Rob made super cinnamony arborio rice pudding.  We watched It's a Wonderful Life, played Apples to Apples, and generally lazed around - stuff I might not have allowed myself to enjoy thoroughly if I hadn't been half incapacitated by the John Philip Sousa of head colds.

And perhaps the perfect way to end a simple, happy day with family and friends?  What else?  Caramels.

Happily, Duckie brought some over last week along with other Christmas tidings on behalf of herself and her husband, the wonderful Mr. Bill.  Many years ago Jenny, in her efforts to obtain a real, live card catalogue, finally picked up that wondrous piece of furniture (the final and lasting resting place of the fabulous Dewey Decimal., who, in my imagination, always appears played by that guy with the question mark suit from TV) and found that it was still full of cards.  Since then, she has used these cards now and again, for arts and craftery.  She has mostly made notecards as gifts for friends (as Krysta already knows) but this time she re-purposed a chocolate box, like so:

See?  Adorable.

Inside this sweet little box were some homemade candies, studded with soft walnuts, that we dipped in kosher salt before devouring whole.

The following is Mr. Bill's email with the recipe.  I can't recommend it highly enough.

I think I actually have it memorized at this point, let's see:
2 cups walnuts
2 cups sugar
2 cups heavy cream
3/4 cup lite corn syrup
1/4 cup honey
1/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 Tbsp vanilla extract
3 tbsp butter

Line a 9in pan with foil and grease;
heat cream and keep warm;
in a pot add sugar, salt, corn syrup and honey and heat to 305 degrees stirring occasionally;
add butter in a few pieces;
add cream (it will splatter and rise, so don't add all at once)
heat back up to 250 degrees or 248 for softer caramels;
pull off heat and add vanilla

Spread the walnuts around the pan and pour the mixture over it; cool at least 5 hours, or overnight. 

The temps are very specific and important.  Sugar goes through physical changes at certain temps and won't work if you don't hit them.  Let me know how it works out.  I going to make some more with chestnut honey and chestnuts.  We'll save some for you.



Thanks Mr. B, thanks Jenny.  I'll hold you to that.

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Friends With Food

Ok hi. 

What with the holiday parties and the houseguests and the general running around like a crazy person I have been remiss with my blogging duties, something I plan to remedy in full this week. 

Oh, and did I mention the Giant Fucking Snowstorm?  Not that this prevented me from writing (though it could have!  I could have been frozen in a snowbank!), but still, if you're from other parts you might have heard that we got a snow dump this weekend that was causing the elders to invoke days of yore, as in: "I haven't seen this kind of snow since I was a whippernsapper!" and other grand statements.

Having lived in these parts myself for some time, and having seen a storm not only just as bad as this, but actually quite a bit worse in 2002 (complete with cross country skiers on second avenue) I feel it is my duty to point out that the elders are, as I have often suspected: full of it.

If, like me, you are gearing up for the holidays, splicing in meet-ups with friends and relations along with the occasional last minute shopping trip into your already tight-to-bursting schedule, you will appreciate what happened to us last night.  If, like Rob and I, you cook on a regular basis and tend to have the house that becomes home base for engagements, birthdays and holidays, you will appreciate it even more.

To wit:  If you cook well, no one is going to stop you.

To expound: Sometimes, when you cook a lot and stuff, people don't really want to cook for you.

Chefs will know well what I'm talking about, amateur cooks will too.  Rob and I, for all our escapades in hospitality, for all our cooking for the masses, very rarely (if ever) get invited over to someone else's house for dinner.  Out to drinks, yes.  Over for parties, naturally.  On theater evenings out, of course.  But, dinner?

No.  This rarely if ever happens. 

I'll allow that this could have many causes.  This could be because Rob secretly steals from medicine cabinets when we are at dinner parties and it could also be that I have some disgusting table manners of which I am unaware, but I suspect it is because most of our friends either a. can't cook, b. won't cook, or c. can't find their kitchens - none of which I judge them for, but the circumstances of which make our friendship with Abz and dcc even more delightful than it already is.

There is something after a long weekend of cooking and entertaining that puts one in the mood to eat other people's food, in someone else's house and then leave with only minimal cleaning up - all the while having the kind of comfortable conversation only possible when you are truly relaxed.

This is the kind of meal you have with your plates on your laps, when it is ok for everyone to cluster around the kitchen counter and eat with their hands, which we did last night when the dcc passed off pieces of steaming hot duck to Rob and I as he carved. 

The duck was excellent, but also notable was the impromptu chopped liver dcc threw together when we arrived with deliciously fatty duck liver, sauteed onions and cognac.

We finished the evening with still hot gingerbread cookies and ricotta-olive oil gelato from Agata.

 
As delicious as the whole meal was (and it was), my favorite was Abz' version of Smitten Kitchen's Feta Salsa.  I'll be honest, I'm not typically a giant fan of feta cheese.  I find it very strong, almost overbearing and usually in an overly "greek" flavor profile including kalamata olives and sun dried tomatoes and dill and people shouting "Oompah!" and throwing plates. 

Um...yeah.

These are pretty much exactly the items in Feta Salsa, including some scallions, parsley and olive oil, and yet somehow they combine to make something totally new, and totally delicious.

This recipe would be a valuable addition to your holiday appetizers; it is tasty, infallibly easy, and, hello?  Red, white and green!  Couldn't BE more festive!

Feta Salsa
Thanks to Abz
From: Smitten Kitchen

Ingredients:
1/2 pound feta (crumbled)
1/2 cup kalamata olived (pitted and chopped)
2/3 cup sun-dried tomatoes in oil (drained and chopped)
2 tablespoons fresh dill (chopped)
3 tablespoons flat leaf parsley (chopped)
2 scallions (chopped)
1/4 cup olive oil

Directions:
Combine gently. Eat. Marvel.

On another note, since this is turning out to be a post not only about food but also about dcc and Abz, I would like to put forth a question.

What does friendship mean?

One of many answers:

That despite the fact that your supposedly foodie friend likes what can only be described as the most vile of food sprinklings from one of the more "fast" of the fast food giants, you will still march your similarly foodie behinds into said chain, gather together enough of the offending condiment to fill a salt shaker and present it to the aforementioned friend as a lovely holiday gift.

I am speaking, of course, of the Popeye's garnish "Cajun Sparkle".

And, yes, that girl is ME.  And YES AGAIN, those are the stained, shameful packets of Cajun Sparkle I keep hidden in my otherwise pedigreed spice rack which I will now be able to pour into my lovely new Shame Shaker (tm?) to mask, Jekyll and Hyde-like, my foul desires.

Just don't look at me.  I AM A MONSTER.

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The Bunny Is Dead. Long Live The Bunny.

Butchering has become very hot here in New York City.  

There have been numerous articles touting the relative coolness/hotness of butchers and, evidently, local butchers have been inundated with requests for apprenticeship positions, which, you know, great news for butchers, but embarrassing for hipsters because omg guys, have you ever met a bandwagon you didn't like?

Seriously.

I find this trend particularly annoying because, well, for once I was ahead of it. (Like that time in high-school when I was TOTALLY listening to 311 and then EVERYBODY was listening to 311 and I was all: "Pfft. 311 = SO yesterday.")

(Don't judge music tastes of the high-school persuasion LEST YOU BE JUDGED.)

Except I didn't want to abandon ship this time. I really do have an interest in learning to butcher. After reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, (despite the fact that I found some of the final scenes, you know the ones, the ones with the boar, particularly difficult) and even well before that, I've maintained an interest in getting a bit closer to where my food is from.

At the risk of sounding like "that guy", I like to think that if I can't stomach cutting it up, I shouldn't be able to stomach eating it. An old trope, I know, but no less real or important because it is overused. (That said, I don't think I'd ever be able to dispatch an animal...so maybe my whole point is, like, a cow's opinion.)

That said.
Reasons I wanted to learn to butcher:

1. The aforementioned bit. So, basically, manning up and getting closer to my food.

2. Vague money saving intentions. Like I'm going to go and buy a whole pig and break it down and put it in my voluminous meat freezer in my imaginary garage that is semi-attached to my invisible house (currently located on the corner of Figment Drive and In Your Dreams, Sister Circle.)

3. Bragging rights. Obviously. Because, hipsters be damned, there is something very cool about being able to cut up and portion your own meat.

So it was that Shai Kessler (proprietor of the 202 Supper Club) offered to help. The deal was simple, he would pick up the bodies, one for each of us, we would butcher and then cook together the spoils.

And so we were off!

We started with chicken. Easy. Chicken is something I had done before just not, as I discovered, properly.

So yes. Chicken. Check.  Piece of cake.  CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!

Our next lesson. The lesson we completed this weekend...was rabbit.

The rest of this post is after the (Saint Tigerlily's first!!!) jump...pictures are raw, brutal and sometimes gross.  I toyed with skipping this post altogether, not posting any pictures at all and forgetting the whole thing ever happened, but that felt like lying, so I didn't.

This is your fair warning.

Read more »

This Mountain Is So Soft And Orange...What Is That Rumbling Sound?

*notice the left paw curled coyly back...schmawww*




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(Little) Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves

Some of you, an unlucky few, might think from the title that today's post is about BioShock. This will be if you are either: a. a gamer and player of said video game or b. the significant other/parent/other relation of said gamer in which case you have endured hours of nightmare-causing play and now have a very bad relationship with the song "Jesus Loves Me" as BioShock has done for the otherwise harmless hymn what Clockwork Orange so kindly did for "Singing in the Rain".

So, yeah, I'm not talking about those little sisters. (For those of you who have no idea what these first two paragraphs are about let me assure you that ignorance is bliss. BLISS I TELL YOU.)

What I was thinking about is the irony of the Big Brother fears as written about in books like 1984 and Brave New World. These books, among other things, manifest human fears that government, or some omnipotent "Big Brother" would be watching (and controlling) our every move (forgive me if you've read these books and I'm striking you as condescending - I don't mean to be). Isn't it funny then, that we are doing all the work? Detailing our activities on blogs, uploading our videos to youtube and generally providing a level of detailed information about our daily lives that would make George Orwell choke on his pancakes. I'm just saying.

Now on to our daily dose of over sharing!

Speaking of sisters (and choking on pancakes), I'd like to begin this week with a shout out to oldest little sister, who, for our purposes, we'll refer to as "Ash". Ash is 18 now, and half way through her first year of art school. I've been trying to send her a lot of mail, mostly because I remember how awesome it felt to get mail at school and also because: OMG AN EXCUSE TO SEND MAIL! THE LETTER WRITER IN ME JUST PEED WITH JOY!

As some of you may remember, I wrote a recent post about my own prowess with thank-you notes and how I had deviously responded to one of Ash's sweet thank you's with my own thank you card, shown here:



I thought I was very clever, naturally, and waxed on about my superior thank-you noting and the sweet taste of victory, etc., as I am wont to do.

Turns out pride does come before the fall. Just LOOK at what I got in the mail this weekend:



The student becomes the teacher.

I know enough to know when I should admit defeat. Uncle, my dear. White flags galore. I surrender now to a worthy foe.

Now, your prize just might be a tub of this amazing popcorn.

No thank you note necessary.



Caramel Corn with Salted Peanuts
Adapted from DamGoodSweet, by David Guas and Raquel Pelzel
Found on: Where else?? The wonderful Orangette.

1 (3½-ounce) package plain (unbuttered natural flavor) microwave popcorn
(I have a popcorn maker, so I used a 1/4 cup of kernels.)
1 cup packed light brown sugar
¼ cup light corn syrup
6 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
¼ tsp. salt
½ tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 cup lightly salted peanuts, roughly chopped

Preheat the oven to 250°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

Pop the popcorn according to the package instructions. Coat a large mixing bowl with nonstick cooking spray, and transfer the popcorn from the bag to the bowl, taking care to pick out and discard any unpopped kernels.

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the brown sugar, corn syrup, butter, salt, and 2 tablespoons of water. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Continue to simmer, whisking often, until the mixture reads 250°F on a candy thermometer, about 3 to 4 minutes. Immediately remove the pan from the heat, and whisk in the baking soda and vanilla. Quickly pour the hot caramel over the popcorn. Use a rubber spatula to gently fold the caramel into the popcorn, taking care to distribute it as evenly as you can. Stir in the peanuts, and transfer the mixture to the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 1 hour, stirring and turning the popcorn with a spatula every 20 minutes. Remove from the oven, and place on a cooling rack for 20 minutes. Gently break up the popcorn, and serve.

Store in an airtight container for up to 5 days (or thereabouts).

Yield: about 10 cups

To. Die. For.






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Anonymity, Illusionists And Waffle Fries

This post has nothing to do with illusionists or waffle fries by the way.

They were merely the shameless bait to my terrible switch.

If you knew that this was going to be a post entirely about anonymous blogging, and how I feel about being an anonymous blogger, and Me Me Me Me, and Also ME, you may not have read this far. By now, hopefully, you are thinking "Well, I've already read up to here, I guess I may as well keep going. Finishing what I've started. Yessir, that's me. I FOLLOW THROUGH." to which I say "Mwahaha, and *rubs hands together craftily* and: my evil plan, she worked!"

I know that a good many of you know who I am. Some of you are face to face friends while others are friends made through the wonders of the internet. I didn't take the decision to post on Facebook lightly and knew full well that in addition to bringing over friends and family who might not have known about the blog, it would also put certain restrictions on who I could connect with on the old FB; not exactly a hardship but then not exactly without its irritations either. In a perfect world, I would be able to have my name openly and proudly attached to this blog. As it is, because my name is openly and proudly attached to a public company as a sort of communications liaison, it is not to be.

I've been thinking a lot about anonymity lately, both the power that can be associated with it, and how disconnected from yourself it can make you feel.

My recent fixation is born, somewhat from my current reading material. At the suggestion of my mom, one of many people with whom I joyfully swap favorite books, I've been reading the biography of Alice Sheldon. I really love biographies, and whenever I read one I invariably find myself wondering why I don't read them more often (unless they are biographies of Winston Churchill lent to me by a certain someone (Rob) during which I found myself wondering quite different things, like: "Anyone who's letter writing skills are that advanced at age 8 is part alien" and "Is it possible to give oneself a lethal paper cut? Because I am WILLING TO TRY.".)

Alice Sheldon's biography James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon details Alli Sheldon's life as a child explorer, socialite, eloping bride, soldier, CIA agent, student and later, her double and then triple lives as Alice B. Sheldon, James Tiptree, Jr., and Racoona Sheldon before (SPOILER ALERT!) taking her husband's life and then her own at the age of 71. She was, I think obviously, a seriously fascinating woman, with seriously fascinating problems.

Her anonymous foray into the world of science fiction, first as "Tip" and later as Racoona, supplied her with a sustaining vent for creativity; a whole world that opened up and loved her not because she was the child of famous parents or the wife of a powerful man, but because of her own thoughts, opinions and theories. Her anonymous personas allowed her to be daring, to try on different hats, and, in the case of Tip, to finally have her famously feminist ideals taken seriously since they were coming from the pen of a "man". Her biography details how the anonymity was both a boon and a curse. Evidently she longed to reach out to her "friends" in the science fiction community, just as they longed to meet the person behind her increasingly masterful short fiction...but she was never able to reclaim her writing on her own, and was only outed in 1976 when she slipped, mentioned one too many a traceable detail, and was tracked down by her fans and friends.

Just so we're clear: I'm not comparing myself to Alice Sheldon. Though I have to say her emergence as a writer in 1967, at 52 years old, undeniably fills me with hope that I might someday do more towards some long held, never acted upon, dreams.

It's just: anonymity is a funny thing.

At its worst it can take the form of irresponsible and cruel comments online or in letters, and at its best...I don't know...I guess it can give people the same sort of courage but manifest itself in something good.

I wonder.

What do you think?




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Christmas List: Coward, Chocolate, Carols and Chaos

If you've been surfing around lately you have probably noticed that many prominent blogs are offering up their recommended holiday gift picks so that lucky readers like you and I can take the guesswork out of getting that perfect gift for our cousin/husband/terrier/favorite multiple.

This is not one of those lists.

I actually can't write that list, mostly because if I did I would be giving away the bulk of my Christmas gifts. I have enough trouble keeping secrets like that as it is, and as such, straight up giving them away is not a priority for me. (Which probably means I will have a Christmas follow-up post to helpfully suggest all the things you could purchase if, perchance, you have mastered time travel. Imminently helpful, I am.)

All of that said, there are a couple of things, some yuletide driven and others that are truly gifts for all seasons, that I can tout without reservation or worry of surprise ruining. So think of this not so much as a list but as one entry into an ongoing, multiple post manifestation of Saint Tigerlily's Favorite Things. Note for you Oprah/Ellen viewers: there is not now, nor will there be, anything under your seat. (I think we can both admit that it would be creepy beyond all telling if there were.)

Let's begin!



Several evenings ago, Gillain and I attended a dramatic reading of the correspondence of Sir Noël Peirce Coward. The reading was at St. Ann's Warehouse in DUMBO, my (to use a phrase I hate) "old stomping grounds." I totally stomped there. All the time. On the ground and stuff. In times of old!

Anyway, I am a huge Noël Coward fan (even if Blogger won't let me make those two little dots over the "e" in his first name which I should probably know the name of and I have to instead continually cut and paste them. He's worth it.) Barry Day, the brilliant (and stylish) authority on all things Coward and our host for the evening, quoted Lord Mountbatten thusly:

"There are probably greater painters than Noël, greater novelists than Noël, greater librettists, greater composers of music, greater singers, greater dancers, greater comedians, greater tragedians, greater stage producers, greater film directors, greater cabaret artists, greater TV stars. If there are, they are fourteen different people. Only one man combined all fourteen different labels – The Master."

I know I always speak this way but this evening was indescribably wonderful. There is a reason I'm always going on and on about things I loved, and that's because I choose not to write about the things I don't care for, or feel luke warm about. I can't encourage you to see the same reading I did, it was a one time event, but I can encourage you to (if you are in the New York area) grab yourself some tickets to see the run of Coward's Brief Encounters at St. Ann's for which the reading was an introduction and precursor of sorts, and I can encourage you to purchase and read The Letters of Noël Coward

Buy and enjoy, if for nothing else, because there is a lovelorn letter to Noël from Marlene Dietrich, detailing her thwarted attempts to capture the attention of a man (referred to by Noël as "Curly") who is later revealed to be Yul Brynner, or, perhaps for his first night theater wishes to his friend Gert (Gertrude Lawrence): "I hope you have a warm hand on your opening."

Ahem.

I think you can see why he stole my heart.




Of course, I can't visit DUMBO, or at least I try not to, without stopping by my favorite chocolate shop and grabbing a cup of hot chocolate. I am speaking of Mr. Chocolate, Jacques Torres. The $18 price tag on his hot chocolate is admittedly high, but a little bit of it goes a very long way, and any chocolate lover in your life will be dumbfounded by the tastiness of his "Wicked" hot cocoa featuring: allspice, cinnamon, ground, sweet ancho chili peppers, and smoked, ground chipotle chili peppers. I promise it will be the thickest and most delicious hot cocoa you will ever have, short of going to the shop itself.



Ah Carols. I don't know about you, but Pandora is already pissing me off with its lack of Christmas song variety. As is probably obvious from my last post, I love Christmas Carols. I have favorite old albums (Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis, and Peanuts, duh - even though Rob thinks it sounds like a bunch of depressed children singing...which, ok, he may have a point. But still. Depressed children singing is like classic Christmas. And my therapist sings: doo duh doo duh doo duh doo doo doo) but I also have some cd's on my internal carol Christmas list.

If you haven't heard, Bob Dylan came out with a Christmas album. I KNOW! It's called Christmas in the Heart and though some of it is strange (very strange....like Christmas brought to you by the creators of Twin Peaks), his Little Drummer Boy is kind of unarguably amazing and has given me chills twice today, ALONE.

Similarly not-for-everyone, Tori Amos, also, has released what I'll call a "Winter" album called Midwinter Graces. Not everything on it is a home run, once again, but I love her version of Emmanuel, a song I have very positive memories of singing myself in high school choir some dozen years ago.

Finally, The Roches. Oh my god. I never thought I would have a good association with that word again after our "experience" back in the summer, regardless of spelling, but I first heard their song "Runs in the Family" at that wonderful evening with Maude Maggart and I haven't looked back. I adore them. Their Christmas album is, for me, going up next to my Bing and my Johnny and my bipolar little Peanuts as an album I Can't Go Through Christmas without. (Note: This would be a hint, Santa. I wanted to be subtle so I just put in on the Internets. K, thnx.) Go see their album We Three Kings and listen to their Star of Wonder or Adeste Fideles (which, incidentally, ALWAYS reminds me of Beaches and makes me want to be a 40 year old pretending to a 20 year old and living with my best friend in a New York apartment with no heat....which...if you average the ages and add "spotty hot water" and "idiot cats" to the mix...I sort of am!!! OMG guys! It's a Christmas Miracle!)



Last but not least: Chaos.

I've talked about Jennifer Ferguson before in this space. I've discussed how we met, (her studio was next to the studio space where Duckie and I once worked and we used to escape into her calm, lovely space when our own pressures threatened to reduce us to little puddles of violent stress), how much I love her work (a lot) and the fact that she keeps fancy rats for pets (on my most recent visit I met her newest addition LuLu who gave me millions of little ratty kisses and tried to stow-away in my purse.) What I have yet to tell you, as I didn't yet know myself, is that in addition to being able to view Jen's wonderful stuff on her website Art in Chaos, you can now also buy her beautiful work on Etsy as well as getting your day to day dose of her art at her blog and current advent calendar.

Someday I hope to be the proud owner and protector of a giant beautiful bridge painting by Jen, until that day I'll have to be content with the the nearly half-dozen small pieces and prints I own and the occasional kiss from LuLu.





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