Saint Tigerlily

Charcutepalooza Month 12: Procrastipalooza

2011-12-06T20:38:00.000-05:00

Well, we did it. Twelve months of Charcuterie.

I would love to say that I have some great words of wisdom to impart, huge lessons learned, tales of mystery and meat, but I took away something pretty basic from this last year.

Cured meat isn't so scary after all.

I've hung duck breasts over my baby's crib, started fires in my apartment (on purpose! Helloooo All State!), and had one or two tremendously gross failures (I'm looking at you mortadella, get your meat stench out of my house!), but all in all this was very good fun.

One thing I knew about Charcuterie already, that it was a sort of magical alchemy taking the humble to the sublime - is nowhere more evident than in this, my last post. I did manage to hit up the market on my way home, opting to check out Agata & Valentina on the way to daycare. They had the chicken livers I needed but when I asked the guy at the counter for pork shoulder he demurred, "It's too fatty for our regular customers, it doesn't sell." He then tried to sell me rib chops. I told him I was making sausage. He said, "Well, we have the pork already ground, why not take that?" (Would I ever have been having this conversation 13 months ago? Probably not.)

So, I did the sensible thing. I left the fancy grocery store and headed up home to Spanish Harlem, baby in tow. My local market, a truly humble place, had everything I required. Chicken livers for $1.69/pound. A lovely bone-in pork shoulder for just under $8. Garlic for $3.99.

What I thought would take hours took Rob and me about an hour all told. We prepped the garlic and set it to a slow simmer in a veritable lake of olive oil. Sweated an onion in some butter and added liver, thyme, cognac and seasoning. I de-boned my final pork shoulder of Charcutepalooza (of 4) and diced it, grinding it together with garlic, bunches of sage, ginger, pepper and salt to make a half recipe of bulk sausage which yielded three lovely rolls of sausage for the freezer and a patty for now. What could have seemed daunting one year ago was easy. It was comfortable. It eased me into my evening.

So, thank you to Kim and Cathy for this inspiring idea. It's been quite a journey. I've conquered my fear of the botch. We've cured our own bacon, made chorizo, duck prosciutto and corned beef. We smoked a pork loin using a wok, some tin foil and a grate (it's like Breaking Bad! with pig products!). I'm so grateful to them for giving so many of us the push we needed to take a step we wanted.

What's next ladies? Brewstock? Cheesefest? Burning Can?

I'll fire up the van and grab my love beads. I'd follow you two girls anywhere.

Hilarious And So Very Me

2011-12-06T14:29:00.000-05:00

One of the themes of our Charcutepalooza experience has almost certainly been the last minuteness of it all.

Every month Rob gently but firmly reminds me that next month I have to plan ahead, make a list, sit down and formulate my attack. He tells me he is sick of running around at the last minute trying to find bung caps or fat back. I meekly agree that, yes, even though I am an almost obnoxious over-planner in every single other thing I attempt, I have some sort of mental block when it comes to Charcuterie - a discipline that practically requires long term organization.

Which is why the irony of today is especially piquant.

I thought that the final challenge was due on December 15th. The normal, mid month due date. A quick (and chance - I was searching for another post) look at Kim Foster's blog has now informed me that the final challenge is due...tonight. By midnight. As in...less than 10 hours from now.

I have three more hours of work.

Then I have a doctor's appointment.

Then I have to pick up Nico and get home.

Rob has to work late - he won't be home until seven.

By my calculations that leaves me with exactly five hours to shop, cure/brine/smoke or otherwise Charcoot 3-4 items, photograph them, write about it and get it up and online by midnight.

I have to do at least three things from the following list:

•Smoke, cure, or brine a whole cut of meat, poultry or fish (for instance, ham, duck proscuitto, roulades, pastrami, smoked salmon)
•Dried, cured sausage (for instance, soppresata, saucisson sec, salami, landjager, chorizo)
•Pork belly, any preparation (for instance, bacon, pancetta, ventreche, red cooked, braised)
•Sausage (for instance, bulk, in casings, smoked, emulsified)
•Pate, terrine, or mousseline, en croute, if you wish
•Rillettes or confit

Then I have to send the following to Kim and Cathy:

•your name, blog URL and email address
•a profile photo (jpg format)
•50 words describing your Charcutepalooza experience
•links to the 12 Charcutepalooza monthly challenge posts on your blog
•links to no more than two of your Charcutepalooza blog posts that you wish to nominate for the grand prize competition

I'm under no illusions that I'm going to win this thing. I'd be lying if I said I'd been doing anything but phoning it in these last few months. But maybe there is a reason to all this rhyme. I work really well under pressure, (hell, I wrote my senior thesis in three weeks - all 120 pages of it), and maybe there is some value in proving that Charcuterie doesn't have to be a difficult or long process - but that it is in fact something you can do in five hours time....four....I have to go shopping.

Fucccckkkkkkkkkk.

Ahem.

Ok.

This is totally do-able.

Luuuuuuuucy!

Charcutepalooza Month 11: Curing Or Something...I Forget

2011-12-01T19:07:00.000-05:00

When I signed onto Blogger just now for the first time in over a month, I was met with the promise of three unmoderated comments. Two were lovely messages from readers on my last post, and I'm glad to say they are published now after much delay. One was a comment from an Anonymous (of course!) commenter who felt the need to go back into my archives to my Christmas Eve post of last year and state, simply:

Your an ass

All of it, the spelling, the sad fact that some people feel a need to send a nasty gram for no other apparent reason than just to be trollish, all of it...I was just filled with this flood of relief that I don't blog on a regular basis anymore. I think blogging can sometimes be like having manic depressive disorder. The highs are high - connecting with people who you both know and don't, forming friendships and having a voice, but the lows are pretty far down there. I miss you guys, but I'm glad to be away from those lows. (I published the comment of course. Not my job to censor. Maybe Anass is "awesome" in some foreign language and the commenter is creative with their space bar. Maybe they don't have apostrophes where that commenter lives. Or periods. Or manners.

Many sighs.

I have to be very honest with you - I am suffering from writer's fatigue over here.

Rob and I just finished participating in NaNoWriMo and I am happy to announce that we both "won", ie: finished writing a 50,000 word story that could pass for a short novel within the month of November. It was thrilling! We laughed! We cried! But boy are my arms tired. (badum ching!)

Believe it or not we are still plugging away at this Charcutepalooza thing and I just pulled a lovely piece of cured pork belly out of our wine fridge. It's been chilling in there for about a month. Or something. I honestly don't remember. There were herbs on it at one point? And there was cheesecloth involved? I think I had writing blindness. I was dead at the time!

Anyway, we did it, and here it is on the extended Charcutepalooza due date: December 1.

Our final post is due on December 15th. It is going to be a chance to show off everything we've learned in the past year. Rob and I have a set of pretty low impact charcuterie projects planned, and I'm not using the Ruhlman book for these so I will happily post recipes. Most of our ideas are gift worthy, so definitely check back in on the 15th if you need some last minute goodies to take home for the holidays, or wherever you may roam.

Charcutepalooza October Challenge: Rillettes

2011-10-15T15:15:00.002-04:00

A big part of my (parenting) job these days is managing my persona at the day care. I don't want to be That Parent. I know they already kind of think I am. I refuse to bring them Desitin. I'm always sitting on the floor and goofing around with the kids instead of getting my ass in gear and to work. And I'm fairly certain he is the only kid there scarfing down langoustine and roasted eggplant. (This isn't a humble brag - sometimes I would love to be cool with him eating what the other kids eat. As I'll go on to explain.)

Nico recently moved "up" to the toddler room at his daycare. He mastered the requisite skills (walking, feeding himself, taking a single 2-hour nap in the afternoon) and, quite frankly, if I were the parent of one of the newborns in his old classroom I would be forced to inquire as to why they were letting a boy Godzilla march around near my preshus baybee. (The other day Nico and I were playing peek-a-boo on the bus and he, getting frustrated with how long I was taking to get to the "boo" portion of the proceedings, tore the handkerchief we were playing with right in half. Baby hulk MAD. BABY HULK SMASH!!!) This is not a kid who belongs in the baby room. He is a full on, full steam ahead, full frontal toddler.

Anyway, giant baby monsters notwithstanding, I found out that in addition to housing awesome mini-Dirt Devils and slides and Lego tables, the toddler room is also blessed with a plethora of snacks. Another parent told me she had seen waffles around; animal crackers, Nilla wafers, pretzels and...Cheez-its were also spotted. Then she told me that on Tuesdays you don't even have to pack lunch because they get...(hold me)...Papa Johns. I was kindly informed that if I didn't want him to eat these things he could eat his snack/lunch apart from the rest of the kids.

Now I don't know how much you know, gentle reader, about 1 year-olds. But they don't take kindly to being taken away from the group, particularly when that group is eating pizza as, like, a GROUP. But, we haven't even given Nico pizza at home yet, and this is our pizza made with homemade dough and sauce, cooked in our oven with veggies and real cheese. Papa Johns? No. Just no.

All of this places me in the dubious position of being That Parent. Being That Parent is a slippery slope, and one that is best negotiated with care. First you are lobbying for better day care snacks and before you know it you are barging up to people's homes doubting their commitment to Sparkle Motion.

So I guess my question is...when do you decide to be that guy? Is good food the hill I want to die on? Am I being unreasonable to expect that, even if the day care doesn't get some of my choices, they wouldn't, on their own, make the decision to offer Nico all manner of food I would never give him at home?

And, leading into this month's challenge, how can I reasonably take such a stance on healthy vs. non-healthy foods when Rob and I spent last night slow cooking pork shoulder and then mixing it with its own fat to make what is essentially a meat spread?

Charcutepalooza is almost over- I can't believe it has been nearly a year. I've been so busy, in fact, that I didn't see until today that the powers-that-be named me in the top ten notable posts for last month's challenge. (Thank you Kim and Cathy!) I discovered this when I forced Rob to look at the winners to prove to him that we hadn't a chance of even being mentioned, let alone of winning the grand prize. And then he was all: "Well, that's you right there." and I was all "Huh? NO!" at which point many patronizing head pats ensued.

Condescending head pats aside, I wouldn't be keeping up with my Charcutiere responsibilities if it weren't for Rob, who has not only continued to encourage me but has leant much more than a helping hand every month. He's kind of awesome, in case that hasn't come across in the last 4 years.

If you've been following along at home, you should know that this month, "Packing", presented an approachable challenge with generous results. If you've been thinking of joining in, this is the challenge for you. Meat is cubed, slow cooked with vegetables, herbs and spices, then blending with the cooking fat and put in containers to set. We used some Ball jars and a ramekin.

The final result is rich and creamy shredded pork, spreadable on bread or crackers. It's a fatty dish, best cut with the tang of cornichon and a crisp white wine. Not a bad idea actually...I might ring up some friends.

Charcutepalooza Month 9: The Titus Andronicus

2011-09-15T10:09:00.000-04:00

When Charcutepalooza first began, Rob, in a fit of inspiration, blew through the book and made many of the recipes he wanted to make - without respect for the Charcutepalooza process of making one, pre-ordained recipe per month.

I kept pictures of them all, hoping at some point one of the recipes we had made would come up in a monthly challenge thus saving me the last minute stress of keeping up with this year-long challenge, which, if I'm being honest, has turned into a bit of a burden when I'm:

a. embarking on this new job

b. chasing after a small person who has evidently determined to re imagine Supermarket Sweep as a new game show wherein he bolts around the house trying to find different ways to maim himself

c. not really so much with the blogging at the moment

The challenge this month was a "packing" challenge - so, basically, some variation on paté.

Paté en Croute, which sounds like it should be eaten with twee silver forks and pinkies raised skyward, is, really, just a fancy way to say "meat pie". We have been pretty well obsessed with meat pies since we returned from our trip to London in April. As you might recall, we saw piles of delicious pies under glass at Borough Market. Rob got all swoonie and I had to catch him in my arms and give him smelling salts and, later, slap him really hard and yell "SNAP OUT OF IT MAN! THEY'RE JUST PIES!"

I've dubbed this pie The Titus Andronicus because of the very strong associations I have between meat pies and that play. This pie had all of that overindulgent meatiness evident when Anthony Hopkins cuts through the cannibalistic pies in Julie Taymor outrageously wonderful 1999 film. You can almost FEEL the squish.

When did meat pies become sinister, I wonder? And when, oh when, did they fall out of fashion? My friend W. I. Kipedia (historian, passionate lover, avid collector of facts) tells me that meat pies date back to the Neolithic period (that's 9500 BC for those of you not up on your various periods, *sniff*, what DO they teach in schools these days? ). I imagine the form of food was attractive and remained so for quite a while due to several factors.

First and foremost mixing stuff with other stuff and then covering it with pastry is a really terrific way to hide that maybe some of that stuff isn't so tasty. This is the general strategy of one: Claude Maximillian Overton Transpire Dibbler and lunch ladies the world over. Furthermore, meat pies travel well and come with their own carrying case, like a free gift at Clinique (but with fewer lipsticks you'll never use.) Finally, they are cheap and tasty (in theory, unless they are the worst pies in London) and, things being what they are, for many people those are the two most important attributes a dinner can have.

The great part about this recipe is that it will feed an army and do so for about a week. This is seriously big, seriously dense, seriously delicious foodstuff. We don't typically publish recipes from Ruhlman's book, and our textbook, Charcuterie, but in this case I'm making an exception because he published it in O Magazine so it's already "out there".

English Pork PieRecipe courtesy of Michael Ruhlman

Servings: Serves 6–8
Ingredients
24 Tbsp. (3 sticks) cold unsalted butter
3 cups all-purpose flour , plus more for rolling
1 large egg
4 to 6 Tbsp. ice water
1 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1/2 cup finely diced onion (about 1 small onion)
1 Tbsp. minced garlic (about 2 cloves)
1 1/2 pounds ground pork
1 cup diced smoked ham
1 Tbsp. coarse salt
1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 tsp. fresh thyme leaves
1/2 cup chicken stock or canned broth , plus 1 cup for aspic (optional), chilled
2 tsp. gelatin for aspic (optional)
1 large egg
1 large egg yolk
1 Tbsp. whole milk
Directions
To make dough: Dice butter. In a mixing bowl, combine flour and butter. With your fingers, press butter into flour until the mixture looks mealy. Crack egg into a dish; add 4 tablespoons ice water. Beat just to combine. Add to flour mixture and mix just until a paste forms (if dough isn't coming together, add remaining ice water as needed). Alternatively, put flour and butter in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a knife blade, and process until mixture resembles coarse meal. With machine running, add egg and water through feed tube until mixture just comes together. Shape 1/3 of the dough into a disk and wrap with plastic; repeat with remaining 2/3 dough. Refrigerate at least 1 hour or up to 1 day before using.

To make meat filling: In a medium sauté pan over medium-high heat, melt butter. Add onion and garlic and sauté, stirring often, until soft but not at all browned, about 4 minutes. Set aside to cool; refrigerate until chilled.

Put pork, ham, salt, pepper, thyme, and onion-garlic mixture in a bowl. Using a spatula (or your hands), mix well. Slowly add chicken stock, a few tablespoons at a time, until incorporated. Cover and refrigerate until cold, about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 425°. On a floured work surface, roll larger piece of dough into a 12-inch circle about 1/8 inch thick. Brush off excess flour and place on a baking sheet. Shape meat mixture into a 5" x 2 1/2" disk and place in the center of the dough. Carefully lift edges of dough and wrap around meat so that it partially covers top of meat. Roll out remaining dough until it's 1/8 inch thick; cut a 6-inch circle from it. Cut a 3/4-inch hole in the center of the circle; set aside.

To make egg wash: In a small bowl, whisk egg, egg yolk, and milk until uniformly blended. Using a pastry brush, paint the edges of the dough encasing the meat, then paint one side of the 6-inch circle of dough. Lift the circle and place egg-wash-side down on meat. Crimp edges of dough together with bottom crust to seal. Brush entire top with egg wash.

Bake pie 20 to 25 minutes, or until crust begins to brown. Reduce oven temperature to 350°, and bake until pie reaches an internal temperature of 150°, about 50 minutes longer. Remove pie from oven and let sit 15 minutes. Serve warm, at room temperature, or chilled (see below).

To serve chilled, make aspic: In a measuring cup, combine chicken stock with gelatin. Microwave until hot and gelatin is dissolved. Slowly pour through steam vent in top of cooked pie. Let cool; refrigerate until firm, about 3 hours.

Only three more challenges to go and I'll have officially made it through an entire year of Charcuterie.

Next month's challenge is "stretching" and that means confit and rillettes - two things I love to eat and make and two of the more accessible forms of charcuterie in my humble opinion. The containers of duck fat wasting away on the top shelf in my fridge will finally get top billing. I can't wait.

The Years Of Magical Thinking

2011-09-12T10:53:00.000-04:00

As I'm sure is often the case when people become parents, and particularly at that stage when their babies begin to really and truly interact with the world, I've been giving a lot of thought lately to Christopher Columbus.

(Keeping you guessing, me.)

I wasn't as horrified as some when I found out that (SPOILER ALERT!) Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny et al were less than real, but I do remember being cripplingly disillusioned, even floored, when I found out that Christopher Columbus was not the brave, heroic sailor that my primary school teachers had led me to believe. I don't know what this says about me, but there it is.

When I found out that Columbus was (gasp!) just a man, and a greedy one at that - a religious zealot who lied about his achievements...maybe a little bit crazy too - I was crushed. "Whither the ocean blue???!" queried my young heart, "I will never be able to face The Nina, The Pinta and The Santa Maria again."

Mejor.

I've been thinking a lot about childhood lately, and mooning over this book on Amazon, which I should just get over myself and buy instead of being weird and waiting for the electronic version which probably isn't coming...really showing how far into Kindle Madness I have fallen. ("A book? With pages? That you have to, like, HOLD AND TURN? That sounds so haaaaaaaaard.")

I've been wondering if part of the sadness we feel as adults, part of what makes fantasy such an attraction (admittedly for some and not all), is this idea that magic does exist for children (really exists, even though they never see it) until enough not seeing it or enough growing up reveals the truth. Is it more crushing to live in a world where magic is always pretend or to believe for a short while in fairies only to find out some little girl in a pinafore cut them out of paper and pioneered Photoshop?

I don't know the answer to this question, but I'm struggling with it somewhat in my parenting. Nico is delighted by everything at the moment. This morning he favored me with an exultant, ravishing smile because I blew on his eggs. "Oh mother! The wonder of life!"...he seemed to say.

If this kind of thing can enchant him (a whistle, the sound of the coffee bean grinder, any and all things paper, four legged creatures the world over) why sweeten the deal with dragons and unicorns if I will only have to break his heart later when I tell him the truth? Particularly when there is so much real magic floating around.

And by real magic, I mean: tomatoes.

This is the second time I've blogged about this recipe. I first saw it on Orangette a couple of years after the original posting. This is a great way to preserve your tomatoes for a short while, and makes an amazing snack. Nico had his first piece standing over the stove, and then another and another and another and then, to his father's astonished pride, moved on to the roasted garlic. He looks at us with surprised happiness when he tastes a new food that he likes. He is like someone who has just seen a trick, or a prince under a spell. After all, what could be more magical than turning supermarket grape tomatoes into tiny little juice-filled boats? Tangy and sweet and salty all at once with just the barest perfume of garlic and thyme. As usual, these barely made it into the fridge, but we have a few leftover for snacking or layering onto a pizza or tossing with fresh pasta.

Very simply, you set your oven low, to 200 degrees or so, then cut your tomatoes in half and place them, cut side up, on parchment or a Silpat. (Don't have a Silpat yet? Pick one up, they are 100% worth it.) Sprinkle with sea salt, litter with crushed but unpeeled garlic cloves and toss some fresh herbs on there; rosemary, thyme, even basil. Now stick it in the oven for about 4-6 hours, until the tomatoes shrivel up a bit and begin to resemble little jewel-colored prunes. (Sometimes they look like sea shells to me, if sea shells celebrated Mardi Gras.)

After those many hours have passed (set a timer...I always forget they are in there) just settle in and get ready for magic.

Wands optional.

Charcutepalooza Month 8: Meat Jelly Mousse

2011-08-15T14:44:00.000-04:00

(Two-Part Challenge: Make the Live Mousse, then get over how weird it looks so you can eat it.)

Believe me when I say I had every intention of stopping in before now and saying something about Nico's birthday party, or the weather we've been having, or that time I accidentally went off my meds for two days and quickly devolved into a nauseated, dizzy, hallucinating (I saw pictures moving in frames! Just like in Harry Potter!) mess (thus begging the all the obvious questions.)

Instead I've been busting my butt WORKING.

Working at WORK.

I know. Crazytown.

Just in case ~~my boss~~ ~~the IT department~~ HR anyone reads that and thinks I wasn't working before, or was slacking in some way LET ME ASSURE YOU: my job was always one of peaks and valleys. Very busy some weeks and eerily quiet during others. My new responsibilities have elevated the very busy times to breakneck and the eerily quiet to very busy, thus negating any time formerly filled by writing, browsing Open Table and wondering what to have for lunch.

(Today? Leftover meeting food consumed while reading for work. Work! At WORK even!)

I'd be lying if I suggest this change of events is anything but thrilling for me. Being useful, finally, on a 9-5 basis, is what I've always longed for. I don't miss blogging. I don't miss thinking about lunch. Sometimes I miss going to the bathroom as needed but I always get there eventually and sacrifices must be made!

One thing I am unwilling to sacrifice is my eligibility to finish off Charcutepalooza with pride. I don't think I can win or even get an honorable mention at this point (I'm pulling out exactly no stops to get the challenges done - merely trying to complete them) but I want to make it all the way through to the end with my head held high. Finishing what you start is the thing...in this case.

This month was the binding challenge and we decided to make a chicken liver mousse studded with balsamic shallot jam. We served it at Nico's 1st birthday party where those who could get past the somewhat odd appearance (I thought it looks a little like that giant turtle creature in Neverending Story) were pleasantly surprised by the lovely, smooth and creamy texture punctuated by the zing of the jam. Rob did the bulk of the work, but this whole Year of Meat has been a bit of a joint venture from the start, and I was busy quilting and cooking and sewing and generally running around like a crazy in preparation for the party so I don't feel too guilty about it. We're getting to this really lovely place in our partnership where cooking together, doing anything together really, feels like a dance we both know well.

I'm happy to share this project with him. And all projects. Last year's turned out pretty great, anyway.

Giving Us Pause

2011-07-29T15:40:00.000-04:00

Remember when I had a massive breakdown back in April after returning from London and the electric got shut off in our entire building and our landlord went all ~~mafia~~ ~~ape~~ ~~fraudish~~ mental on us and then we had to look at one million apartments none of which were suitable for various infuriating reasons and then my health went downhill and I realized that I was 31 and had no professional future?

Good times!

Then of course you'll recall that we decided to come to terms with our apartment and make a plan of escape and figured out how to handle the landlord and get me healthy with the clever use of sleep and Zoloft. What you won't recall (because I never told you) was how I reached out to friends and friends-of-friends to gather information on a career change - and these friends and friends-of-friends came through for me, in a word: spectacularly. That whole situation has been gathering steam and things are finally starting to happen and this is all a really long winded way of saying that you are may not see a lot of me in this space for a little while.

I started this blog in 2007 to help me deal with the sometimes crippling boredom of doing a job I enjoyed but was probably more than slightly overqualified to do. I'm not even sure where my current path will take me, but I know that I will (finally, finally, finally) have enough on my plate to keep me otherwise occupied during the day, and slipping online to tell you a story about pork chops or Nico's latest talent (crawling while carrying a kitchen timer in his mouth...my wee genius) will not be in the cards.

This is a boon for me, while it is also a sadness. This blog has sustained me, kept me sane, helped me express myself, brought me through hard situations, allowed me to share joyful ones. I have met readers from around the world who have become my friends, and I am so grateful that you like me (you really like me!) enough to spend a couple of days a week reading about my silliness when you doubtless have silliness of your own to attend to.

Doubtless my recognition of these changes will bring them all to a screeching halt and all kinds of karmic retribution down on my finally healing head and you'll find me back here tomorrow discussing Sylvia's favorite Shakespeare play (Titus Andronicus, weirdly) or my latest food discovery (homemade dehydrated ranch dressing! no really!) but just in case let's not say goodbye, but, as the French say: au revoir.

Sniffle

2011-07-25T14:28:00.000-04:00

In the interest of furthering my grand plans to sew something that might pass as a quilt for Nico in under 17 days, this weekend I took it upon myself to reduce the chosen clothing articles, those very special pieces that could only ever be Nico's and Nico's alone, to 5 inch by 5 inch swatches for the quilt.

I then arranged them on our dining room table. Then I re-arranged them for a bit, wondering at the sheer number of monkeys.

I welled up a couple of times for all the obvious reasons.

I started to sew...

...annnnd my bobbin popped out. Fixed the bobbin (with the help of my pit crew) and then the bobbin thread refused to come up. Promptly declared that I would NEVER be able to finish the quilt and that I'd cut up our babies clothes for NOTHING. Rob then reminded me that we are not The Divine Sarah and needn't rent our clothes or bathe in ashes over a problem easily fixed by tooling around on Google for a few minutes.

Then I pouted for a while. Stupid sense-making husband with the SENSE and the MAKING.

Then we had dinner.

This is going to be so. much. fun!!

First Birthday Baby Quilt

2011-07-20T11:02:00.001-04:00

I tend to hoard a bit, certain things and for specific reasons.

I keep champagne corks and write on them the names of the people who shared the bottle. I have a little dish with every spare button that ever came with a shirt or dress along with the loops of thread that often come with cashmere. I save rubber bands and milk bottles and have an entire cabinet in our small New York apartment devoted to gift bags. (PS: I never EVER use gift bags - I'm a wrapper. I just hate the idea of throwing them away.)

As you can imagine, when it came time to take Nico's first outgrown onesies from his shelves every fiber in my being balked. I squirreled them away in a bag. When they grew too many for the bag I bought one of those large plastic storage bins. When the storage bin could no longer contain them I folded the overflow into a large re-usable shopping bag and moved it from one place to another in the house avoiding the inevitable.

Nico is still outgrowing clothes almost as fast as we can buy them, but I've grown less attached to his newer outfits than I was to the old. I'm sure it is because he was a little baby in them, but I can't bear the idea of throwing them out - even though some of them are too stained to be fit for good will or hand-me-downs to a friend's or future baby. (As if I could give them up to the latter...some things, like those precious whales, are just too NICO to be anyone else's.)

Nope. Can't bear it.

So I decided some months ago that I would make something for Nico out of his old clothing. Something for his wall or bed. I went through a heavy hippie wannabe phase in college when I made myself several patchwork skirts (under the careful if a bit bemused guidance of my Phish-following and bonified hippie friend Carrie) - so I wondered if I could maybe pull out my dusty sewing machine and make him a patchwork blanket or quilt.

A quick Google search revealed that I was far from the first person to have this idea. In fact, several websites offer this service to parents (my favorite is Jelly Bean Quilts). Their quilts, however lovely, start at $375 and vault up to $825 for a Queen sized bed spread with a turn around time of about 12 weeks. If you are hopeless with a sewing machine and have cash to burn this is probably a great option for you. I got it in my head that I could do this myself, save the money, and make something very special for Nico in celebration of his first birthday. This is in spite of the fact that my craftiest friend, Duckie, made a quilt for Nico before he was born and swore it would be her first and last time quilting. Duckie is a crafting queen, so this does not bode well for me.

I have17 days to turn the 21 precious outfits Rob and I separated from the pack last night into a 30"x 35" baby quilt. I'm going to use a video series from Instructables.com as a loose guide (the first video is below.)

Project!!

Snip! Snap! Dragon!

2011-07-19T10:53:00.001-04:00

I have to begin by saying that even though this is very much a post about parenting related issues, I would be remiss not to mention Masterpiece Classic's role in the thoughts that follow.

As you might recall, I was smitten with Masterpiece Classic's presentation of BBC's Downton Abbey this past winter and my smit ran so deep I resolved to DVR the rest of Masterpiece Classic's season offerings. I remember this program as being quite stuffy in my youth (when it wasn't parodied on Sesame Street - Cookie Monster doesn't pull off stuffy well...) but I think it has changed or I have grown into it.

Maybe a little bit of each.

Rob and I both now look forward to our evenings with English period dramas or a mystery with Poirot or Marple. Good clean fun, and the opportunity to refer to oneself in the third person with a French accent for the rest of the night.

In a recent episode based on Agatha Christie's Poirot crime novel Hallowe'en Party, children dressed for the holiday play a game of Snapdragon where, it appeared, they were being encouraged to play with fire. Intrigued, I wondered...what is Snapdragon? (This sounds like a job for The Vegetable Detective!)

Snapdragon. A parlour game, evidently. A real one where children and adults alike were encouraged to pluck raisins from a flaming bowl of brandy. The lights were turned down low and the blue flames were meant to make your fellow players look like demons. Children would often burn their hands and mouths during the game which may have contributed to it falling out of practice in the 20th century. (Gee, ya think?)

Snapdragon got me thinking about being protective, and how the meaning of that has changed as the world has. I can't imagine anyone suggesting a game of Snapdragon at a childrens party nowadays any more than I could imagine putting my kid to work in a field. I hope it is true that people have always loved their children, but I know it is true that the meaning of being a child alters constantly, and, along with it, what it means to love and protect.

(Winston Churchill's letter to his mother from boarding school, 7 years old)

I wonder sometimes about the things we do to infantalize our children, and still more when we seem to ask them to grow up in ways that are too soon or unfair. I feel as though I see both of these things all the time. It is a balance, of course, and one I don't have any idea how to approach let alone discuss. I wonder all the time, now particularly as Nico is starting to really move around the house and is so close to walking; how much hovering is good parenting? How little is neglectful? I don't want him to feel abandoned but I don't want him to feel smothered either. Where is the middle ground and how do I keep from the temptation to err on the side of over protection? I mean, have you seen how quickly this kid can go from sitting quietly to denting his head on something? (Answer: so very quickly. My baby loves denting my baby.)(Stop denting my baby, baby!)

So I guess I'm asking the parents out there and anyone else who has an opinion on the subject. How do I let him walk, without letting him walk into things?

And also: um...we can play Snapdragon with adult supervision...right?

GO, Vegetable Detective!

2011-07-18T10:01:00.000-04:00

Has anyone else noticed the sudden appearance of bright golden yellow zucchini at the farmer's markets this year? At first I took it in stride but then I thought "Hang on a minute...where did they crazy zucchini come from?"

Rob and I discussed it for a bit before I dashed off to the computer to discover the history of this sunshine-colored zucchini, causing Rob to call out an encouraging: "Go, Vegetable Detective!" Turns out that Golden Zucchini was developed by Burpee seed company in 1975. I can't tell whether I'm freaked out by this or not. It all feels sort of frankesteiny...like we are eating Labradoodles.

Regardless of their origins, they are delicious and very pretty. Why they are showing up in markets now is beyond me but I'm hoping it's because there is a growing sense of ease with produce that doesn't look like business as usual.

Last night we diced our golden zucchini up and tossed it, butter sauteed, into a risotto with squash blossoms and saffron.

Three cheers for innovation. (It's alive! Aliiiiiiiive!)

Charcutepalooza Month 7: Everything Is Fun And Games Until Someone Loses Their Lunch

2011-07-15T11:55:00.000-04:00

When I made a personal commitment to a year of Charcuterie seven months ago I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for. I was sure I would learn a lot (I have), I was sure I would eat lots of amazing meat (check and double check) and I was sure there would be failures along the way (and how).

Honestly, how could there not be?

My cooking style is more line-cook than baker; I've always lacked the precision and patience necessary for baking. I can follow a recipe and produce cookies or a cake, but that isn't the same thing. I don't have the confidence with precision cooking that I do with the kind of cooking that allows you to rifle around in the fridge and substitute one thing for another. I'm fine with that, but it doesn't lend itself naturally to success in charcuterie. Charcuterie is precise. I am not.

This month's challenge was emulsified sausages. The hot dog is probably the most commonly eaten emulsified sausage in America, but this style of sausage exists everywhere in the world in one form or another. I decided to make Mortadella, both as a nod to my Italian-by-marriage roots and because I not-so-secretly love mortadella. (It's great for when you're craving baloney but want to also be a fancy lady.)

Our emulsified sausage journey was fraught with mishaps, and this should have been my first hint that the road to mortadella would be a bumpy one. First, we discovered that we'd lost the knife for the grinder. The Borrowers must have taken it to make a teeny tiny windmill because it isn't anywhere; not in the sink, not on the floor, not in the drawers - a mystery that will haunt us for the rest of our days. I had to order the part online after failed attempts to buy one at Williams Sonoma, Bed, Bath & Beyond, and from KitchenAid directly. (The latter had the piece but wanted to charge me more for it with shipping than Amazon.com)

Next I had to track down a bung cap, which, oh guys. A bung cap. I ended up with a beef middle. Which is like the skinny open-ended version of a bung cap, while still maintaining all those elements that make a bung cap completely disgusting.

An emulsified sausage requires you to grind meat and fat separately and then basically puree it together with spices - all the while keeping it extra super cold. When the mixture of the pureed meat and fat reaches a certain temperature it is stuffed into the casing, poached and cooled.

Um...so honestly? I would never make this again. The beef middle was revolting. Remember those little balloons filled with water and then tied in on themselves they used to sell in toy shops? And they would slide in and out of your hands in this endless eel-like wriggle? Imagine that but 12 feet long and not a balloon but an intestine. Even after a thorough (scarring) washing, the inside and my hands still smelled like...like...like whatever it would smell like if poop died, came back to life, and then burped in your face, a smell that subtly permeated our house as the stuffed middle poached. The water afterwards was grey and filmy, like a greasy puddle. I am...not a fan of this challenge.

I have cooked pig's head. I have butchered rabbits. I have helped de-fat and knuckle an entire bag of pig's feet. I draw the line at beef middle or bung cap, neither of which will touch my hands ever again for the rest of my life.

So I guess this was a failure, in the sense that I spent about $30 and 4 hours making something I could never bring myself to eat or even keep in my house. But it was a success too, because now I know this about myself - and a little self-knowledge never hurt anyone.

Tastes Like A (Lucky) Peach

2011-07-13T12:35:00.000-04:00

If you've been reading here for a while you probably know about my mild obsession with all things Momofuku. I'm not sure if David Chang is a genius or if I just really like high end stoner food, either way I visit his restaurants (usually Ssam Bar or Ma Peche) about twice a month. My last visit to Ma Peche ended, as it usually does, at the Milk Bar outpost upstairs on the way out the door. I always have to get a few cookies for Rob who harbors a special fondness for the Compost and Cornflake varieties.

I'd heard or read somewhere that David Chang and McSweeney's were teaming up to publish a food magazine and promptly forgot. (I have stuff on my mind! Stuff like imagining what it would be like to sleep for 9 hours straight or how to respond when Rob suggests "Emu!" in the middle of a frenzied rendition of Old MacDonald Had A Farm. Like I know what sound an emu makes. Old MacDonald is Nico's favorite song at the moment, (though he made his daddy giddy when he started bopping to Kick Start My Heart this past Sunday) and I've had to populate the farm with an increasingly bizarre assortment of animals in order to keep him interested. Old MacDonald has gone Jurassic with dinosaurs. He also has ghosts.)

ANYWAY. I was reminded of the Chang/McSweeney's publishing/app venture when I saw the (gorgeous) magazine in the flesh (page?) stacked up next to the cookies at Milk Bar Midtown. Then I saw that the first issue was devoted to ramen, at which point my chances of walking out without it went from possible to non-existent. (As you know, ramen is my secret boyfriend.) Lucky Peach is part cookbook, part yearbook, part travel magazine and part comic book. It is what The New Yorker would be if it was about food and written by your snarkiest friends from high school. I honestly can't remember the last time I picked up a magazine and was interested in every single page. (Never?) This is, of course, not to say that it is flawless. There are moments where they land on the obnoxious side of pretentious and end up sounding like snobs - but I like snobs...particularly funny, self-aware, food snobs - so who am I to judge. Also? The recipes are fantastic. Ramen noodles. Bacon dashi(!). Gnocchi made with packaged ramen. One recipe in particular, in haiku form, caught my eye after I returned from the Union Square farmer's market with a bag full of corn.

A word about corn before we continue.
Whenever I get my hands on the first corn of summer I think about my grandpa. Supposedly, he used to pick up corn out at one of the (now mostly defunct) farms on the North Shore of Long Island and call my grandmother from a gas station to tell her to get a pot on the stove. He was sure (and I'm sure he's probably right) that corn tastes best when cooked immediately after it's picked. In fact, I don't think I ate corn any other time but the summer or any other way but boiled until I was in my late twenties. The corn I got this weekend was so sweet and delicious Rob and I shared an ear of it, raw, as we walked out of the market. It took every ounce of will power I had not to immediately dunk it into salty boiling water and slather it with butter. Instead I obeyed this poetic recipe. There might be better ways to eat corn but this is certainly in my top three. (I'm still forever partial to the simple "boil and butter" combination, and Thomas Keller's creamed corn is a bit of a miracle.) It is one of many great recipes in a fun, beautifully constructed magazine. You can still subscribe for volume 2, and buy volume 1 here. Take my word for it - you want this on your shelf.

Corn with Miso Butter and Bacon
A recipe in Haikus by Peter Meehan

I.
Render the bacon,
Add the corn. Jump and sizzle
As gold turns to brown.

II.
Miso and butter
Join'd in equal proportions
Plop! Into the pan.

III.
Splash stock, then toss. Glaze.
Crack slow-poached egg to crown like
Hokkaido sunset.

Grown-Up Friendly Spinach Pancakes

2011-07-12T09:37:00.002-04:00

As you know, I devote a great deal of thought to how I feed Nico.

There are a lot of unhealthy foods floating around his daycare; sugary cereals, cheap frozen waffles, and please tell me what child under one needs to be eating baked Doritos? I struggle to strike a balance between sending him there with a variety of foods that are healthy, not too hard to feed him and that he will really like. I'm basically trying to feed my kid the way I want to while not becoming Enemy Parent #1.

It isn't always easy, but it's important to me so I make it work. There are stand-by go-to items of course - he would never turn down an omelete, and ate one the other day stuffed with blue cheese and prosciutto - but I'm always on the lookout for new things I can cook (and ideally freeze) to have on hand.

I found this recipe through The New York Times and tweaked it a bit to make it more baby/mom friendly. The original calls for blanched spinach, but I prefer to add it raw for both the color and the nutrients that treatment retains - it also means you don't have to dirty another pot. In fact, I've dispensed with bowls altogether and suggest you make this entirely in your blender. Nico isn't yet one, and so technically can't have cow's milk in a non-cultured form. I subbed in Almond milk and dialed down the nutmeg to keep the sweetness in balance. I also use either spelt or whole wheat flour which adds a nutty flavor and ups the nutrition once again.

All in all these are a perfect treat. They are loaded with leafy greens, portable, freezable and creme fraiche spreadable. The recipe makes about 40 mini pancakes - taking into account that about 20 of them will go mysteriously missing. Hey, I said they were grown-up friendly, right?

Spinach Pancakes
Adapted from Mark Bittman

Ingredients
10 ounces baby spinach
2 cups spelt or whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
a few grates of nutmeg
1 tablespoon raw sugar
1 1/2 to 2 cups almond milk
2 eggs
2 tablespoons melted and cooled butter, plus unmelted butter for cooking

In the bowl of a blender, beat eggs and melted butter. Then add the almond milk and give it a couple more pulses to combine. Add the spinach and pulse until chopped. Add the dry ingredients and blend until combined, pausing to push excess flour down the sides of the bowl. Place a teaspoon or two of butter in pan. When butter foam subsides, ladle batter onto skillet, making silver dollar sized pancakes. Adjust heat as necessary; first batch will require higher heat than subsequent batches. Add more butter to pan as necessary.

Blessed Are The Cheesemakers

2011-07-11T11:28:00.000-04:00

We recently discovered that Nico loves cottage cheese. This is a boon for several reasons (cost, nutritional value, versatility - as it can be sweet or savory or plain or herbed or whatever you make of it) but most of all because I happen to adore cottage cheese and it is one of those things I often forget about for years at a time before remembering: Oh my goodness! cottage cheese is DELICIOUS! And you can buy it in STORES!? THANKS BE!

So I remembered it, and happily so. But then I thought...what if I could make it?

I've honestly never had luck with cheese making. I read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and, like so many others, toddled over to that cheese lady's site and bought the starter kit for mozzarella only to have it fail so many times and over the course of so many gallons of increasingly pricey milk that I lost all heart and gave up my hopes of cheese mongering. I sucked at making cheese you guys. Sucked. My plans for a cheese cave ended in sorrow and the lingering smell of soured milk.

Cheese making, I decided, is something best left to the cheese makers. I convinced myself that some crafts take years to perfect and are best left to professionals who have devoted their lives to honing their skills, like millinery for instance, or undertaking. Good plan I think.

Cottage cheese however (or farmer's cheese, or paneer, or queso blanco, or pot cheese, or hoop cheese) is a different beast. You don't need rennet or any fanciness of that kind just something that can make your warm milk curdle (rawr!); usually vinegar or lemon juice. Since my mozzarella always ended up looking like cottage cheese anyway, (and bolstered by my recent successes with yogurt), I figured this might be a cheese just at my skill level.

I was happily and deliciously correct. To make cottage cheese you need only heat a gallon of milk to about 120 degrees (just so you see little bubbles around the side of the pot and a slight skin forms on top), then remove from the heat source, stir in about 3/4 cup of mild vinegar or lemon juice and wait for half an hour. Pour the resultant curdled mess into a cheese-cloth lined colander (perhaps saving the whey for bread making), season with a bit of salt and voila! you have cottage cheese!

Don't take my word for it. Try it yourself. The proof is in the (white, lumpy) pudding.

(Notice Rob's fancy raised pointer finger. Fancy, fancy man.)

The Tiny Bubbles Bandwagon

2011-07-08T11:16:00.002-04:00

First let me point out that Rob and I are big sparkling water folks. Sparkling water, mind you, with its sweet little tinkly bubbles, not its oafy cousin, seltzer, with its ham-fisted carbonation. Water snobs? You better believe it. Either that or I just like being able to say "sparkling" a lot in the course of every day conversation.

With a Costco just a few blocks away from our apartment in East Harlem, the temptation to bring home a case of Pellegrino in our granny cart was often too much to bear and too easily justifiable - Pellegrino is $2 a bottle at our local market and only just over a dollar each by the case. Unfortunately, Rob and I can tear through a case of Pellegrino in a week. We don't drink soda at home, and very rarely have juice or even tea anymore. (If I'm going to drink something with calories and sugar involved I'd prefer it to be wine.) We are water drinkers mainly, but water can be boring after a while. Add some sparkle though?! Now that's exciting!

I'm not sure why we waited so long to get a SodaStream. Our former neighbors bought the SodaStream several years ago and made the case for it then. $200 seemed like a lot, and I remember wondering about whether or not it would be too much of a pain to use. Additionally, we have a lot of appliances already and have to keep many of them in storage in order to keep our counters free-ish. A stand mixer, a toaster oven, a coffee maker, a mini food processor, an ice cream maker, a blender, a slow cooker, a hand mixer, an emulsifier...all these things are great if you live in a house with a kitchen and maybe a pantry and warrens of cabinets - our tiny apartment kitchen is overwhelmed with The Stuff. The Stuff may or may not be trying to edge us out of the space itself. But then, very recently Silver Man and Nac came over and Nac noticed our piles of Pellegrino detritis and was like: Hey, if you don't buy yourself a soda maker, I am going to, because you are basically their demographic and OH MY GOD THE BOTTLES. Good point Nac. And well taken.

So, the SodaStream.

We have had ours for about two weeks now. I bought it from Williams Sonoma but the prices online at Amazon (you can see my affiliate links above and throughout this post) are identical. We bought "one up" from the base model and the price, with tax, came to about $145. The kit comes with the soda stream machine itself, two BPA free re-usable bottles and a single cartridge of what I'm referring to as "sparkle magic". That cartridge, incidentally, can be returned to WS and swapped for a fresh one for $15. The charger itself lasts through 40-60 bottles depending on the amount of sparkle magic you use. The machine is "powered" by the pressure in the cartridge, so it doesn't have to be plugged in. It is slim and unimposing, taking up about the same counter space as an oatmeal container.

If our fizzy water habit was costing us about $15/week (not counting the intangible costs of schlepping the full bottles in and the empty bottles out plus the environmental impact of those empty bottles) we've already saved money. I reckon we've made at least 30 bottles so far (we slam through at least two a day during the week, and more on the weekends or if we have company). If we keep going at that rate one canister of sparkle should last us through about a month, bringing the cost of upkeep to $15/month (already an improvement). We should work off the cost of the actual appliance (using our former $15/week habit as a gauge) in about 9 weeks, after which, at $15/month for the cartridge, the SodaStream costs us fifty cents a day.

I plan to get creative soon and buy a book on home syrup making to jazz up the fizz a bit. I already know how to make herbal syrups (basil soda anyone?) and can't wait to see what this does for our cocktail making. (Ginger soda? Lime? It's going to be a sticky summer!) SodaStream sells syrups (say that five times fast!) but I'm not as interested in making traditional soda as I am in making concoctions. This should come as no surprise to anyone.

I'm not being reimbursed by SodaStream by the way, but even if I were (I'm not, really - though I would get a kick back through Amazon affiliates if one of you ends up clicking through and buying one of these - in the interest of full disclosure) I can't imagine writing a more glowing review of the product. I'm actually slightly horrified at the sheer number of seltzer and sparkling water bottles we've used and dismissed over the years (veritable piles) and how much more cleanly we could have been drinking. Also! It is so much fun to make and you feel like a sorcerer. BEHOLD! YOU TAKETH THE WATER AND MAKETH IT BUBBLY! (You should definitely feel free to buy yourself a wand or a hat with stars on it.)

So, cheers to you out there. May your magic be sparkly and may you have a wonderful weekend, wherever you are.

Blanketed

2011-07-06T15:22:00.000-04:00

I don't know why, but lately I've been thinking about this blanket my dad used to have. Starting when I was 8 and leading very nearly into my teens I was fixated on this one large comforter that used to belong to my mom and dad when they were married. This was before I was two. Before they divorced. In this magical alternate universe where two people who can't stand in a room together shared a bed.

It was cotton, and had that quality older well-made comforters have where the insides are perfectly tamped down and the outsides have been washed and worn and snuggled to a lovely smoothness. The bottom of the comforter was a dark woody brown and the top was covered with a flower pattern over a navy blue background. The flower design looked like the field in The Unicorn in Captivity. I know this now because I knew it then. I spent most of my young adulthood obsessed with the unicorn tapestries and my mother even had a framed print of one in our house.

The blanket was special to me because of that, but also special to me because its original use lived in my parent's marriage - a time I don't remember. I found any objects "from their marriage" of almost reverential significance. I own some pieces of their life together still, and to this day they hold a special kind of power for me. Not because I wish my parents had stayed married, not at all, the thought of them together is enough to give me hives - they are intense enough each on their own. No. More because I find the idea of them being together so...freaky, I guess.

Later on, when I went off to boarding school, my dad ended up using the blanket to cover his car in the garage. I wanted to take it back in the house the first summer I was home but it had that horrible garage smell, like oil and spiders, so I left it. Still, throughout the summer I would go into the garage by the side door to get this or that and I'd always end up touching the blanket. Ok, not touching. I'd pet the blanket. How dumb is that?

Sometimes I'll see a man with a tie that randomly has the same pattern as that blanket. This really happens. Usually in an elevator for some reason. It never fails to make me feel kindly towards the man in question, who is usually my dad's age. I wonder if that pattern is even available anymore. I'm thinking of taking up quilting (to make Nico a blanket put together from my favorite oufits of his first year) so maybe if I find another one of those men and snip off the bottom of his tie and run to the garment district some kindly woman in a sari will find the pattern for me and I can stitch one up new.

Random thought for the day.

Also, today I ate a Thomas Keller Oreo (or TKO) at Bouchon bakery at the Time Warner Center and just. about. died.

You can go now.

The Chair

2011-07-05T13:07:00.000-04:00

Remember ages ago when I was going through a quite typical melodrama regarding Nico's high chair? Let's call it the Baby High Chair Crisis of 2011, hereafter: BHCC11.

BHCC11 began when Nico first started to eat solid food and didn't seem to fit quite right in his Fisher Price Space Saver chair, lovingly registered for by us and lovingly given by our dear friend High Five Heather, hereafter: H5H.

It wasn't H5H's fault. We were the ones who thought we wanted the chair, and we were just as disappointed as Nico was to discover that for some reason he couldn't quite sit up properly in it. We had trouble with it seeming to lean back too far or incline too far forward, with no seeming middle ground upon which Nico could sit exactly straight up and down and enjoy some tender morsels of avocado, hereafter: abogados.

H5H couldn't have known then, unless she was reading this blog, that I began to hunger and thirst and even lust after the idea of owning a Stokke Tripp Trapp chair. This is despite the fact that I tend to be pretty even keel about the trippings and trappings of parental consumerism (consumomism?) and once laughed knowingly and heartily when Rob referred to the store Giggle (a very high-end emporium of NYC parental must-haves) as "Giggle: Because They Giggle When They Think About How Much You Just Spent." Despite that, here I was smack in the middle of BHCC11 seriously considering trading in H5H's chair for a super fancy Tripp Trapp (hereafter: TT) so that Nico would have a lofty new perch from which to savor his abogados. I mean, what's next? Roughhousing lessons? Who AM I at this point?

The problems with acquiring the TT were about a million-fold. First I had to track one down on Craigslist, finally finding one up in CT. Then I had to beg Fast Alice and BD to go pick it up for me and spot me the money until they brought it down to NYC. Then there was the matter of dealing with the fact that the family in question had (inadvertently? Or did they giggle?) sold me an older version of the TT - a sad truth we discovered when we tried to install the newly purchased baby set we had schlepped to Union Square to buy only to find it didn't fit. This prompted the purchase of an old fashioned baby rail on eBay (complete with a last-minute, heart-pounding bidding war) and a set of cushions that were super adorable but also made of cloth and seemingly invented by People Who Had Never Seen A Baby Before In Their Lives, hereafter known as PWHNSABBITLs.

After much wrestling and money spending and general fuss we made the sad discovery that the TT and cushions and baby rail designed by PWHNSABBITLs was not only absurdly expensive to buy and accessorize it was also incredibly difficult to use. It was hard to get Nico in and out (a common complaint on the Amazon review page - one I studiously ignored) and Nico could use the top step for leverage and stand when we were feeding him. Not to mention that the TT allowed him to weave side to side resulting in abogados getting not only all over his face and in his ears but onto the (cloth! white! oh so adorable!) cushions as well. PWHNSABBITLs!!!!! *shakes fist at Sweden*

I eventually ended up putting the TT back on Craigslist, PWHNSABBITLs be damned. I felt a little bit like I was selling a lemon, like I should warn potential buyers that it was horrible, but Rob kept reminding me that maybe it was just horrible for us and other people were willing to try getting abogados out of (white! cloth!) cushions for the pleasure of owning such a snazzy piece of engineering. We sold it. The whole debacle ended up costing me about $20. $20 plus hours of customer service conversations and trips to baby superstores and eBay wars. And the fretting. BHCC11 was full to the brim with fret.

Now? Now we use the Fisher Price Space Saver, lovingly restored to perfect cleanliness with the mere wipe of a wash cloth. Nico loves it. It barely takes up any space. It converts to a booster seat after he no longer needs it as a high chair.

Crisis solved.

Peek-A-Boo Mother-F*ckers!

2011-06-30T09:49:00.000-04:00

Greetings from The Country!

I know, I know. Where have I been?? Amiright? I WILL TELL YOU. I moved to the country to a giant new pad. I have a new mommy now. Her name is Fast Alice and she lets me climb on things and make sweet amour to her robe. (I like it because it is red chenille and doesn't fight back. Rawr!)

I missed you other tall people at first but holy crap - have you seen my new digs? Delicioso. If I was a cliche kind of cat I might even call them purrfect. (I am not that kind of kitty and, also, as has been previously established, I'm probably too stupid to come up with puns. In fact, this whole blog post is a ridiculous fabrication as it is a well known truth that the only thing going through my head is the theme from The Benny Hill show and film of people slipping on banana peels. On a loop.)

A couple of months after I arrived at my new palacial abode my better tall people got another cat. He is slobbery and smells awful, but that's mostly because he developed a passing fondness for snacking out of my litter box. CLOSED SYSTEM BITCHEZ! I eat, I void, he eats, he takes it outside. Whose the idiot now? Stupid big cat.

At first I wasn't so sure about my new friend but now I think I'm getting used to having him around. We share a love of squirrel watching and napping in the sun. If I get tired of sharing floorspace I need only hop up onto a ledge and pretend I am a majestic mountain lion, surveying my kingdom. This place is huge. I'm finally living the life I dreamed about while shackled within the four walls of that ridiculousness you city people call a "home". I don't even have to poop in plants or break those shiny things that hold the liquid anymore. I am finally at peace. Also, Fast Alice is much more impressed than you ever were by my preening good looks. Barbarian.
OH. And there is outside all around this place. Trees and ground and BIRDS BIRDS BIRDS. More beautiful birds than one cat could kill and leave in your bed. It is FABULOUS.

So anyway, I'm having a great time living up here. Please don't ever ever pick me up. And tell Sylvia she can suck it.

Kissy noises,
Ozzie the Cat

The Lie Of Parents

2011-06-29T10:11:00.001-04:00

I love a good magazine.

When I was small I liked Highlights. They had them at the dentist's office with all the puzzles drawn in - most half-abandoned. (When, in my early twenties, I had my first and only interview in publishing, I realized that the publishing house in question was responsible for Highlights and was nearly toppled by a wave of nostalgia. The nostalgia smelled like Dr. Dan's minty breath and sounded like a drill. I still remember walking down that hallway in the Flatiron building in 2002, seeing the stacks of magazines and having this uncontrollable gut reaction to reach out and solve a maze or two.)*

*(I just googled to figure out what this publishing house might have been (Macmillan? Maybe?) and discovered that Highlights is actually published in Ohio. So I may have hallucinated this whole experience. Damn you pre-interview LSD!)

When I was older, 12 or so, I loved Seventeen. (You would be hard pressed, I think, to find anyone who reads Seventeen who is even close to that age.) I remember the year they had both Niki and Krissy Taylor on the cover on my birthday month. For some reason this made it extra shocking for me when Krissy Taylor passed away at 17. I remember this happening. I remember how sad I was. I'm pretty sure it freaked me out so badly I stopped reading the magazine. Maybe being 17 didn't seem quite as enticing after all of that.

Since then I haven't exactly been brand loyal. I had a brief and embarrassing dalliance with US Weekly and People in my early 20's but I don't read those magazines too much anymore. If I'm at the airport I'll buy Vogue or Vanity Fair. I read New York Magazine online. I dabble and dip, but rarely stick to one publication. I did, however, upon becoming a parent, sign up for some outrageous mail-in deal with Parents magazine. A three year subscription for something crazy like $21. I've been receiving these magazines for several months now and am sad to make the following observation.

Let's not even consider the fact that Parents is an average magazine that basically writes the same articles again and again and again. Parents isn't the only magazine that does this, obviously. I don't even know why they bother making some of the lady mags each month. They should just re-issue them with a new cover girl an the use of a thesaurus. American Baby, also, is basically a vehicle to sell product and peddle common sense and dramatic assertions of the obvious. I remember reading a cover once, some teaser line like: "The Biggest Post Baby Secret: We Actually Talk About It!" and I thought to myself, "OMG! They are actually going to talk about it!" and then it turned out to be post partum depression. That's the big secret. You know, the one that is constantly in the news and has major celebrities like Brooke Shields and Gwyneth Paltrow speaking frankly about their own experiences. THAT big secret. Shhhhhhh. Don't tell that uncontacted tribe in Brazil. (Note: that is not the big post partum secret that nobody talks about. This is: having sex after giving birth is mind blowingly painful. Like making sweet sweet love to broken glass. Why does no one tell you this? My obgyn told me to "take it slow" when she gave us the go-ahead at 6-weeks post partum. That might just have been The Advice Understatement Of The Year, 2010.)

Anyway, back to Parents.

Parents, to be blunt, is a lie.

Parents shouldn't be called "Parents", they should call themselves "Mommies" and be a little more honest about the demographic they write to and represent.

I mean, I get it. I watch TV. I know that All Men are overweight slobs who aren't much better than the kids. They like electronics and sports and they shirk their duties around the house (duties that are never depicted as their equal share but obligations passed down by their tyranical spouses). They are weirdly proud of their grills. They drink beer. They ogle women. They worry about their daughters driving (but not their sons?). They don't like their wives.

And moms! Moms are overworked! Moms have strange relationships with plug-in air fresheners! They are harping shrews who demand you keep your rolled over minutes. They want to watch their figures by eating desserts (individually packaged and called things like Temptations or Decadencations or whatever nonsense will convince them they are eating cake in a spa instead of chocolate pudding in their living room). Their overarching desire is to geld the men in their lives (the lazy, slightly paunchy dudes tracking mud on the floor and claiming their frozen pizza is delivery) by scheduling their every waking moment with chores and witholding sex.

Does any one's life actually look like this? Why on earth would we encourage this behavior if it did? Why are we so thrilled to give our money to advertisers who perpetuate this streamlined, unflattering lie? I don't know a single man who fits this paradigm. Not one. I find it offensive beyond belief.

There are no articles in Parents for dads. Don't get me wrong, a careful dad can find articles (very clearly written for women) about basic parental concerns; how to protect your child from sun damage, for instance. There is even the occasional male writer! Kind of like how lady mags have the one editorial by a dude giving the man perspective on What He Really Likes In Bed: Really! For the most part however, if articles mention the dad at all they seem to refer back to the advertising rhetoric so willingly gobbled up by the companies trying to sell you surface cleaner. The articles help you figure out how to get dad more involved or how to gauge what kind of dad he will be - the same way Seventeen or Cosmo might unflinchingly guide their teen and pre-teen readers on how to follow absurd innuendo and signs never meant to be signs to figure out if their crushes can kiss. They are the sideshow. The ever-suffering mother's extra burden. That Darn Dad.

I'm ashamed of women when I read Parents. I'm ashamed of the publisher. I'm ashamed of reading it at all, and plan to stop very soon.

What about Rob? What about a man who wakes up with his baby day after day so I can sleep? A man whose tenderness and patience for our son not only outlasts mine but kicks in sooner. This is a man who is my partner in our life. Who shares the chores without being asked. Who cooks dinner with equal frequency to me and with twice the skill. Where is his magazine? Who represents him? Or does he just have to read over and over again these outmoded cliches about the man Parents and advertisers assume he is. How much patience do you think this wonderful, kind and intelligent man has for that?

And maybe he is unique! I'll give you that for sure! But how can we expect men, women, or anyone else to rise to the challenge of modern partnership if we so readily express and accept the old, worn-out stereotypes currently on view. How do we tolerate beer commercials with female bartenders mocking men for their choice of drink (or bag)? How is this a valuable message? And how does a magazine called Parents cater so obviously to one half of what that means. As more gay men and women marry and have children together will they be represented at all? Or quite simply shown as another "token" parent like a dad who actually does the work of being a parent?

The truth is that these omissions perpetuate something else much darker and more damaging then TV's silly dad or the "novelty" of gay parents. They perpetuate the idea that the burden of parenting sits squarely on the mother's shoulders. There is no one for whom this is more damaging than the mother herself. I'm sure the magazine has some twisted notion that they are speaking to the reality of modern parenthood but theirs is a language of alienation. They insult the parents who work so hard and love their kids so much but don't fit into what they consider to be the single possible parental type, and they further burden and pressure their supposed "core demographic" by reminding them in language and picture and topic that they are alone in their struggles.

Parents: do better. We certainly are.

(I would like to dedicate this post to Rob, Liam, David, John and all the other dads and future dads who are loving, equal partners in parenting. You guys deserve better. Please know the people in your life appreciate you, even if the world at large doesn't appear to know you exist.)

What Did You DID?

2011-06-28T11:03:00.000-04:00

First, a confession: I am not a girl drink drunk. I like my alcohol to taste like alcohol. Which isn't to say I never engaged in girly drinking behavior. There was some serious Apple Puckers consumption in my college years, and I do, even now, like an occasional pina colada. Mostly though, I like my drinks like I like my women - bitter and tough. Guinness. Negronis. Heady reds with loads of character. Any kind of single malt. Sure, the first time I drank Scotch I thought it tasted like burnt band aids, but we pushed through that unpleasantness and got to a really nice place.

Sweet, overly cloying drinks irk me and, quite frankly, you may as well just hit yourself over the head with a hammer and add some pounds to your scale - you'll save yourself some money and get roughly the same next day results.

This is all why I was a bit baffled when my mom dropped off a bottle of chocolate vodka after cleaning out a friends liquor cabinet and being instructed to get rid of the extras. We used to have friends who worked at a bar and had a liquor cabinet made up entirely of weird liqueurs and other bar leavings like this one. Very good for making horrifying concoctions at four in the morning (resulting in blistering hangovers) but good for little else.

Then I remembered my beloved egg cream. Remember when I was in my second trimester last year and would arrive home daily and make myself an egg cream in a pint glass - replete with the cream-on-top of my Ronnybrook whole milk? All the time completely grossed out by the whole-milkiness of it all even though I would sometimes make myself a SECOND??! Those were the ~~disgusting~~ days!

You see where I'm going with this, right?

What better way to celebrate my pregnancy drink in a non-pregnant summer? I give you, without further ado, the Grown Up's Chocolate Egg Cream. Not too sweet (really!) and not too milky. All the subtle flavor of the original with an added kick. Chocolaty. Fizzy. Hold the cloy.

The Chocolate Egg Cream: All Growed Up

1.5 oz Chocolate Vodka
Whole Milk
Pellegrino or Seltzer Water
Chocolate Syrup
Ice

Fill a pint with ice and pour the vodka over it. Squirt the sides of the glass with your favorite chocolate syrup, to taste, then add equal parts milk and seltzer. Stir and enjoy.

Zombieland

2011-06-27T10:04:00.000-04:00

I wonder sometimes how long it takes to get the hang of certain small aspects of this parenting thing. Like, for instance, how every time Nico is teething he is unnaturally fussy, can't sit still and has trouble sleeping and yet, when Nico gets unnaturally fussy, can't sit still and has trouble sleeping we never remember that these are his teething signs and sit around wringing our hands and shaking our fists at the ceiling and getting all kinds of "WHY GOD WHY?!" until we see the inevitable new tooth the following morning and are all: "Oh. OHHHHHHHHHHH."

Then we discuss briefly how we really ought to remember for next time that when our otherwise sweet natured child starts acting like the Tasmanian Devil it is probably teething and not that he is turning into a slobbering, lunatic animal of destruction with no off button.

Which we promptly forget.

In other words: The only thing standing between us and sleep last night was a neglected tube of Natural Orajel (Naturally Numblicious!) and neither of us in our sleep deprived states thought to use it. I did half heartedly offer Nico a frozen washcloth to chew on but I think I was sleep walking at the time, so it hardly counts.

This is called a learning curve. Or, in our case, a learned straightaway.

Nap please.

For Love or Money

2011-06-24T12:12:00.001-04:00

I read somewhere recently that your purse is supposed to reflect who you are. Not the outside of your purse (in that case, right now, I'd be bright green and leak color on things), but the inside.

My bag is both enormous and over-populated. (It's like traffic in that way - you think things would improve if you add more lanes to the road but actually the opposite is true.) Rob mocks me constantly for its weight. A friend (now a stranger) once commented on its size and wondered why so many women in NY had such large purses to which I replied: "Your purse is HUGE. It's big and has four wheels and you drive around with it. It is called a CAR." Those of us using public transportation who also have the misfortune of being ~~pack rats~~ well prepared tend to have to carry our essentials with us, like turtles or hermit crabs carry their shells. (Remember hermit crabs?? Aw. Good times.)

My shell is lined with tissues (clean ones that have somehow escaped the pack and become grimy), empty gum wrappers and bus receipts. Pennies and paper clips and weird purse sand litter the bottom creases and pile up in the corners. My wallet. My business card holder. My blackberry (work), my phone (personal). Chap stick (Burt's Bees). Keys. That check I need to cash. My camera and charger. Envirosax for trips to the market so we don't drown in plastic bags that shout "THANK YOU". A datebook. A baby spoon, burp cloth and pacifier case. Nico's empty vaccination record that I will remember to give to the doctor this next time if it kills me. I WILL. REMEMBER. Gum (Trident original). A silver iPod nano and ear buds. Zoloft. Lip gloss. Honey Ricola. A tube of pear flavored Kiehl's lip balm with no lid and gross black fuzz all over the top.

I look through everything about once every three weeks or so. Rob says: "You must be able to get rid of some of that stuff." I take everything out and pile it on the dining table. I throw out the bus receipts and gum wrappers and tissues. I put the spare change in the change bowl and the paper clips in the desk drawer. I shake out the weird purse sand into the kitchen trashcan. I try my best, but somehow it all ends up back inside and I cart it around on my left side while holding Nico on my right.

Is it like my life?

Maybe. I'm not sure.

I certainly tend to accumulate and even hoard my experiences and memories. I try to fit too much in and in doing so lose the caps of friendships and end up only experiencing the wrapper of things...losing the content. Things start out new and get grimy somehow. I try to hold onto too much for too long, unable to let things go for fear I might need them someday or because the idea of being without the familiar is just too frightening. I have the lingering worry of being caught out. The question "What if I happen to be in Union Square and want to buy a sippy cup and have NO MONEY!?!" that keeps me carrying around my little zipped packet of various gift certificate cards and discount vouchers isn't so different from the worry that not remembering a particular aspect of personal perfection will someday find me wanting and RUIN EVERYTHING. It's like this pathological need to cast as wide a net as possible, to juggle as many friendships and acquaintanceships and battleships as I can, or....something ominous will happen and destroy us all? What? What am I so afraid of anyway?

I once watched a lecture by Elizabeth Gilbert where she read aloud from her book Eat, Pray, Love - particularly the passage where she wonders how on earth the world could keep on spinning without her hand on top pushing it around [sic! J/K. I am totally paraphrasing]. This could easily be dismissed as deeply arrogant when I think it is somewhere on the other end of emotion. I too used to wonder about what would happen if I stopped spinning everything, or dropped the balls I had in the air, but I think it was and is more fear-based than ego-based.

Either way I should really get rid of that Kiehl's.

The MTA Strikes Back?

2011-06-21T11:48:00.001-04:00

Some of you might remember my run in several months ago with a delightful bus driver who demanded I sit with Nico in his carrier/harness on the bus and, when I refused, treated me to weeks of fun: singling me out, threatening to kick me off the bus, driving five miles an hour in the right hand lane while cars whizzed by and my fellow passengers drew straws about who they hated more: him or me.

It was fun! It was exactly what I needed on the last leg of my commute! Nothing ends the work day like a power struggle with a grumpy city employee! Add a grumpy baby into the mix and you have the commuting equivalent of the rack.

Ah, good times. Distant memories.

...

Well, it seems they won't have to be distant memories anymore.

Hooray! I so need something else to have anxiety about! Thanks MTA!

As of last night, yet another bus driver has jumped on the bandwagon of abusing and otherwise discriminating against me for wearing a baby carrier. I use the term discrimination haltingly. It doesn't feel good on my fingers. However, the fact is that Rob has worn Nico to day care and around town for the last 10 months too and has never had a word spoken to him...the fact is that I saw a dude on my same bus line giving his toddler a SHOULDER RIDE last week...and yet I am singled out loudly, pointed out to the other passengers and admonished for standing on the bus. This seems to point to one thing, ie: my lady parts.

Am I being overly sensitive? Inflammatory? Whiny?

Is this a Champagne Problem if ever there was one?

Maybe. Maybe a Prosecco Problem. But still.

But still! I am stick of getting picked on for the perfectly safe way I choose to get my baby from point A to point B. When I was pregnant and carrying 20 lbs more weight than I carry with Nico every day, no one insisted I sit down - and believe me, there were days when I wished they would. This isn't a safety issue. This may not even be a sexual discrimination issue. It is what my mom would call a "petty tyrant" issue. This is about people with no real power bullying those they can because they can. This is about the fact that I declined to sit and pissed one guy off and now he and his buddies are going to make my life uncomfortable.

Last night's bus driver informed me that "[they] know about me". Quite a comforting thing to hear from a disgruntled someone who knows your schedule and where you live.

So, MTA. As far as I can tell we have:

1. Sexual discrimination
2. Vague threats

and

3. Human rights issues

Why don't you tell the jerks who drive your buses to knock it off.

As for me, I'm going to keep on standing up to it.

Baby's First Proper Grass

2011-06-20T14:34:00.000-04:00

He got to give it a spin in Central Park but this was Nico's first real attempt at actual grass play. The patch in the park was slanted and a bit rocky and pathetically sprouted - unlike this verdant batch of cushiony loveliness brought to you by my father and his secret weapon: chicken poo.

I like this picture because it looks like he measuring something with invisible string. The beauty of the day? His father's love? The song in his heart?

We may never know.

They Only LOOK Good Enough To Eat

2011-06-16T13:34:00.000-04:00

Last night I had Nico all to myself.

As I cuddled him to sleep and gave him his bottle we had our usual sing along snuggle and long story short I accidentally bit him.

It was a fast paced song! I was singing with gusto! Sometimes his desire to stick his fingers into my mouth and yank my lower jaw off displays itself in a burst of sneaky energy! He has ninja hands! And also...nope, I'm just the worst.

(Nico is fine, by the way. I didn't bite him so very hard. I think he was shocked more than anything else that his usual finger foray into my mouth didn't end with him making little furrows with his fingernails on my gums* followed by my gentle prying and pleading to get him to stop. I didn't break the skin or anything. If I had I wouldn't be typing this as I would have launched myself into the East River.)

(*I originally typed "my gums" as "my guys" which is what I will now need to call my gums I think (but also with a Goodfella accent). "Hey doc, how my guys look, eh? Red? Puffy? How dey doin'?")

Sooooo anyway.

When Rob came home I had to explain to him that I had accidentally bitten our baby, and that he had cried and looked to me for comfort, and that is was pretty much the most horrible thing ever in life. (And he was all: "Wait, wait, go back. Go back to the 'accidentally' part please.")

I feel like every parent has a story like this. My dad still shudders when he talks about giving me a shoulder ride around the back yard and inadvertently walking into a too-low branch. Rob himself was on duty when Nico had a tiny tumble off a low lying futon. (In his defense Nico was in the very beginning stages of rolling, ie: he had never rolled, and decided to display his new power when Rob's back was turned for a split second.)

I vaguely remember this Jon Stewart clip where he sarcastically discussed the joys of parenting and "ruining someone from scratch". (Pause to Google.) It was on Conan, incidentally, and Stewart went on:

When you disappoint an adult, he explains, you know that they’ll get over it; they’ve been slighted or let down before. But when you disappoint your kid, you get a look that says, “I will never forget this as long as I live.”

And that was it right there. That look. The indignant: "MOMMY! Whyyyyyy!" that came over Nico's furious, beet-red face, that pretty much made me want to crumble into a pile of dust on the floor and have some pencil skirted docent hang a little plaque above that pile simply stating: Worst Parent Ever, 2011.

I bit the baby.

I mean, seriously.

Crap.

Charcutepalooza Month 6: In Which I Obey The Letter Of The Law

2011-06-15T10:38:00.000-04:00

I can't believe we're already 6 months in to Charcutepalooza!

Crazy, right?

For those of you not tapped into the exciting world of meat news, Charcutepalooza is the carnivorous brain-child (terrifying visual!) of Cathy (Mrs. Wheelbarrow) and Kim (The Yummy Mummy), two fabulous ladies who will always hold a special place in my heart for bringing me so much closer to the animal bits I've always eaten but never really understood.

The six month challenge: making sausage, would have been more exciting if Rob hadn't jumped into that aspect of Charcuterie our first month owning the official Charcutepalooza textbook. He made chorizo; link after link of bright, red, fat sausage that we cooked into paella, sauteed up for breakfast and ended up giving away to friends because you guys? Sausage making is a go big or go home type undertaking. You don't make a pound of sausage, you make five pounds, and this results in piles of the stuff.

Luckily we love a sausage party.

This month's challenge specified that we should make italian sausage or chicken sausage and this made me pouty. I had been desperate to make breakfast sausage (in Ruhlman's words: "breakfast sausage, AKA: Da Bomb" ever since, well, ever since I heard it referred to as "Da Bomb". I happen to adore breakfast sausage (and breakfast meat in general) and didn't want to waste my five pounds of freezer space on anything else. I live in New York City! Freezer space is at a premium! I already have stock taking up most of the room in there! Where will we put the ice cream??!

So, Rob and I were tricky. Our breakfast sausage has chicken in it (2.5 lbs of thighs to be exact), but it is also made up of delicious pork shoulder, sage, ginger and garlic. The result? A light and mildly porky breakfast sausage that is nothing short of Da Bomb.

Tasting The World

2011-06-14T15:47:00.000-04:00

Nico was 10 months old last week, and like every parent before me in the history of time, I have searched high and low and cannot find where the time has gone. It seems like 10 minutes. It seems like 10 years. (Sometimes, when our wake up call comes at 4:30 AM, it seems like a 100 years.)

When he was very small I would see other babies; giant six month olds, monstrous 11 month olds, towering toddlers, and I would wonder aloud that they could possibly be the same species as my little wrinkled monkey child. Now I'm amazed when I see a newborn that he could ever have been so small.

I still insist he never was.

In the grand tradition of newly mobile children everywhere he harbors little interest in his soft play mat and the educational!, brightly colored!, sparkly! toys thereupon. It is a starting block. He wants instead to climb, to crash, (to create, to destroy). To eat remote controls and smash the bottles from the recycling bin. To take things out. To put things in. To get elbow deep in some nice pebbly cat litter with a few turds thrown in for good measure. Perhaps if we lived in a house we could move these dangerous objects into another room or to another floor but, as it is, he lives in our space too. We have to learn to share it.

Instead of eliminating everything and banishing it to upper levels we are opting instead to walk and crawl beside him, teach him to be tender with things that need gentle treatment and what is his and isn't. If we absolutely have no time for this I'll stick him in his carrier while I cook or garden or clean. This is a constant game of compromise that would be impossible with two children, but I've decided that people with two children are mythical anyway.

The recycling makes a fine toy as long as it is plastic.

The tops of shoes make good eating, the bottoms not so much...so shoes are pretty much out.

Standing up to cruise along the wood and marble coffee table is acceptable with a parental hand hovering behind.

My eyeglasses are off limits.

"Please to not throw DVDs out the window." - the Mgmt.

(Related: DVDs are delicious.)

Playing cards are delicious. The bit of apple under the desk is delicious. Cat food is probably delicious but has somehow avoided being placed on the tasting menu otherwise known as: Our Apartment. (Despite best efforts!)

Lotion bottles? Mommy's arm? Daddy's face? The floor? The blocks? The side of the bookshelf? The tub? The ratty carpet next to the sink? Chair legs? Napkins? Tissues? DELICIOUS!

Wires in the hand, but never in the mouth.

Cell phone? What cell phone? Was there a cell phone here? No, I'm not holding a cell phone behind my back, why would you think that?? *slips phone into pocket with unsent text reading: "Baby just tried to eat me. Stop. Pls send help. Stop. Need backup. Stop."*

Buttons. Buttons with lights and buttons made of rubber and buttons on coats and buttons on the couch. Buttons buttons buttons! BUTTTTTOOOOONS!

And then the cat, ie: The Best Thing/Creature/Entity Ever Created. He will not pay attention to his food if she is in the room. If I'm holding him and she is winding back and forth across my legs as cats are wont to do he whips his head to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left, and will follow her progress for minutes at a time. (That's hours in adult time.) Poor Sylvia endured a fair amount of tail pulling and ear grabbing (oddly always coming back for more) while I repeated the lesson of: "Gentle. Gentle. Gentle...gentle. Gentle please. Gentlegentlegentle." but now, when I say it, he stops tugging and runs the flat of his hand along her fur, smiling at me and at her and at life in general because IT IS GRAND in case you didn't notice.

(Related: the cat is delicious.)

We have surrendered the remotes, which, for some reason, hold the allure of the Hope Diamond.

But mostly the standing and climbing and crawling - usually up and over the prone exhausted forms of two deeply smitten parents. The pure delight sitting on daddy's shoulders and running from one side of the living room to the other. The sounds of sirens and the cat's meow and the terror of sneezes and the happy staccato of Mommy chopping garlic.

Watching him watch the world with his mouth wide open. Shocked with joy.

Being Alive

2011-06-13T10:56:00.001-04:00

When I wrote last week about the issues I've been having I was purposely vague about the "measures" I was taking to try to feel better. Anyone with the slightest ear for context could probably have guessed what some of you already know: "measures" is Vague Saint Speak for "medication" - and I've been on a very teeny tiny dose (1/2 of the smallest pill available) for somewhere in the vicinity of three weeks.

I was reluctant to share this outright for some reason, but now, I have to say, I'm feeling so extraordinarily better, so relaxed and happy, that it seems...irresponsible almost...not to share what happened as honestly as I can.

I've been an avid therapy patient for many years now. I firmly believe someday not going to therapy will be viewed the same way not exercising is now - or, in other words - at some point the stigma associated with seeking help for your mental health will reverse and the same stigma will exist if you don't make a modicum of effort to keep your emotional health robust.

As of mid-April I was falling into and remained in one of the nastiest, deepest and saddest pits of depression I've ever experienced. I kept on waiting for the skies to clear and they didn't. I kept on actively seeking happiness; taking it easy on myself, treating myself to happy movies and good food, focusing with all of my might on the good things so apparent in my very lucky, happy life - but it was all for nothing. I was mired. I wouldn't go out. I wouldn't see friends. Anyone who knew me well was well and truly worried and they expressed it to me, to Rob, to each other. I was officially freaking people out.

Finally Gillain pulled a one-on-one intervention with Rob's help. When she finally got me to leave the house (for something other than work or food shopping) I had dropped about 7 pounds, I was boomeranging between not sleeping at all and oversleeping, and I had what felt like a golf ball sized lump in my throat that would wake me up several times a night with a pressure I was sure meant my windpipe was closing, causing me to shoot up in bed in a panic and gasp for air. It felt like some ominous invisible thumb was pushing on the center of the throat - this actual, physical manifestation of hopelessness. (I've since learned that this "lump" is very common in depression sufferers and even has a name: globus pharyngis, which, ironically, is also the name of my band. Weird, that.)

Gillain treated me to reflexology and I treated her to lunch, over which I poured my heart out and she answered me back with some of the most well-reasoned, kind and firm advice I'd received in ages, chiefly: get thee to your therapist. (Because, yeah, I'd been avoiding therapy too. *smacks head*)

My therapist, Lesley, pointed out that medication was something we had discussed in the past but had put off for various reason, largely due to my pregnancy and the subsequent breast-feeding, and now it was time to revisit that idea. To that end she wrote down the name and number of a psychiatrist in midtown who I visited in late May and who, pretty much immediately after our initial one hour talk, prescribed that aforementioned itsy bitsy dose of Zoloft, confirmed that I definitely had a least a minor chemical imbalance and that I'd feel better very soon.

The shame I felt at having to take that first half-pill is evidence that the stigma against mental illness in this country and others is pervasive, sad and dangerous. The fact that even I, a dyed in the wool believer in the power of therapy, felt that I had somehow failed or was weak because I had to take a pill says to me that our understanding, our empathetic understanding, towards mental health has a long slog ahead.

The fact is: I do feel better. It didn't happen immediately and there was a hump of time to get over there at the beginning where I got very quiet, all but silent, and Rob was worried all over again. While I was adjusting to the medication the very first thing I noticed was the dramatic and sudden lack of anxiety. It was like I had heard noise in the background my whole life and had just grown accustomed to shouting over it and all of a sudden, poof, it was gone. My head felt cavernous and peaceful, and the peace and quiet was, at first, terrifyingly strange. This was accompanied by horrible (and comically textbook) anxiety dreams; I would show up at work without important documents, leave the house without something I desperately needed, try to cook and find I was always missing a key ingredient that I thought I had just seen.

But then everything turned a corner. I started to feel calmer. The quiet became more like peace and less like an eerie silence. I began to feel happy, at first for just moments at a time, but I'd become so unaccustomed to the feeling that it spilled over out of my heart and filled my whole chest with joy and my eyes with tears. There was light. Finally a little bit of light.

When I went in for my two week follow up last Monday I had two complaints only in what was otherwise, to me, a pretty miraculous experience. My first concern was that I was sleeping WAY too much. The doctor (does everyone else automatically read that with a British accent and picture David Tennant?) questioned me about what usually got me up in the morning. I pointed out that I usually (and by usually we're talking every day for the past however many years back I can remember) wake a little in the morning and then blast myself fully awake with concerns, lists of things to do, worries about time constraints and pressure, fully supplied by yours truly and no one else, and a near maniacal insistence of little voices to get up and Get Things Done.

"So you're telling me you aren't waking up in an anxious panic?", she asked.

"Duh", I said. "Oh my god. DUH."

When I went on to voice my "other" concern I realized before I even opened my mouth that my second complaint, that I couldn't focus, maybe wasn't quite what I thought it was either.

"What do you mean you can't focus?", she queried.

"Well, for instance, if something happens that would normally require me to think a lot about it, or be upset about it, I can't quite get upset about it because I can't quite remember why I should be upset about it at all."

"So, you aren't obsessing and getting upset over unimportant things then?"

"Um. Yeah."

"OK, well I think that is probably a good thing."

Gee, you think? This is why she went to fancy doctor school and I studied the Romantics.

****************************

So, why am I sharing this now? Let me first point out that I am not a fan of rampant pill taking. I think that restless leg syndrome is probably a made up thing. I worry about the sheer number of children diagnosed with ADD and other attention disorders. I believe, firmly, that there are many many ailments out there that could be better served by improvements in nutrition, activity, meditation, hypnotherapy, acupuncture, acupressure and other non-traditional methods. I sought out and was lucky enough to have a natural birth and I make all of Nico's food from scratch with real ingredients. I point all this out for no other reason than to re-state and re-affirm my commitment to exploring other treatment options before rushing to a prescription pad.

THAT SAID: sometimes you are sick. Sometimes we are damn lucky that so-called Western medicine has advanced as far as it has. Sometimes that emergency C-section saves your life and the life of your baby. Sometimes your child has a sensory disorder and therapy just isn't cutting it and drugs have to be introduced. Sometimes it's OK to admit that the sadness doesn't make you a tortured artist, it isn't just natural or normal or "you", it is a sickness that requires treatment. You don't win any awards for not getting the help you need. You just miss out on time you could be feeling better. You scare and burden your friends and family. You see the world a little more dark and different than it has to be.

Please remember that.

In The Mouths Of Babes

2011-06-09T15:15:00.000-04:00

We had an episode at day care this week. A blip, I'm sure, to them - but it sent me into a tailspin of worry. How to talk to them about it? Am I being crazy? Am I being sane? At what point do I have to let go? At what point am I making too big of a deal?

And it all started with a Lender's bagel.

After walking in with Nico and unwrapping him from his (increasingly toasty) carrier, I placed him on the carpet and proceeded to my usual banter with his unfathomably loving caretakers. (I love these women because they love my baby. It is domino love.) As we chatted I watched Nico, casual as anything, wiggle-crawl over to another baby's eating tray and grab a big hunk of her bagel. I gently took it away and put it back. He took it again. I pulled it away and replaced it. He grabbed it and threw himself onto the floor on top of it nomming with all the enthusiasm of a starving man. (Nico: 1, Carbs: 0)

When I pointed it out to Nikki, she laughed and said "Oh he does that all the time" quickly correcting herself to assure me "they all do it. All of them. Always taking each other's food. It's whole wheat. It's healthy!" and I just nodded but inside my head I was screaming: "WHEEEEEEAT! MY PRESHUS BABY IS EATING WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAT!" because at some point I got it in my head that he shouldn't and I'm not even totally sure where that came from but now it has become "a thing" - hence the head screaming. This should be no big deal. It was a whole wheat bagel which is better I guess than the baked Doritos I've seen some of the other kids eat. But if they all take each other's food couldn't he end up with a mouth full of Dorito too? Or the Nilla wafers they give to the kids as snacks? Shouldn't I be the one to decide when and how he has his first cookie? Get to see the look on his face as he discovers Nacho cheese? I don't delude myself that I'll be able to shield him from low nutrition foods forever, but still, there I was after leaving the daycare silently seething over this one bite of bread.

I fully intend to one day introduce Nico to all matter of horrible stuff. Oreo cookies. Hot dogs. Cheetos. Gin. But as his parent I think it is my decision (along with Rob) when and how those introductions take place. (All expect for the gin, no one can control everything - not even me.)

Now, I want Nico to share too. One of the reasons I was so pro-day care over other kinds of childcare was that the exposure to other kids is an undeniable help in getting children to socialize. I am also, as you may have noticed, pretty pro-monitoring what Nico eats. Right now at day care Nico has mini turkey meatloaves, homemade yogurt and rhubarb compote, veggie-cakes (so delicious Rob and I ate almost half of them before they made it down to school), baked sweet potato slices and a lamb chop - this representing several hours of time Rob and I spent shopping, chopping and heating so that our little boy could live on something other than pasta shapes and Gerber puffs.

See why I might get a little bit fussy over a mouthful of bagel?

Still, I understand that I might be a bit over the edge. What we are doing is unusual in general, and certainly weird within the world of the parents at our day care. The caretakers there praise me for our unorthodox approach to feeding our kid ("Ay, a chicken leg! This boy loves to eat, thank God!"), but I can tell they think I'm a little bit crazy too.

(I think they're crazy for calling formula "milk", so we're even.)

And even so, with no bagels in the picture, I've still got a baby who smiles over broccoli.

With his giant hands. The better to crush you with. Christ, look at those MITTS!

Surprised By Booze

2011-06-07T09:57:00.000-04:00

Gillain and I were recently lounging in the park with Nico when we were struck by some serious hunger. Using her smart phone and Foursquare we were able to quickly target and venture to El Paso Taqueria on 103rd street for some much needed refreshment. It was here that Gillain introduced me to the wonders of the Michelada.

A Michelada is a Mexican beer/cocktail made with beer (we had Pacifico), Clamato juice (yes, tomato juice with essence of clam), lime juice, salt and hot sauce. The rim was coated with a mixture of salt, citrus and cayenne and this fizzy, refreshing, layered spicy drink was the star of brunch.

As with all concoctions always, this cocktail recipe is twice as nice because I can easily buy all the necessary ingredients at my local market. In fact, my local is especially designed for optimum Michelado assembly - our selection of Mexican beers is daunting. Dare I say it might give the Bloody Mary, my hallowed of all sweet and adored Sunday drinks a run for its spicy money? I DARE. The Michelado has none of the heavy texture of a Mary but all the restorative benefits, making it an ideal "Hair of the Dog" drink.

I never thought I'd be the one buying Clamato juice, but here we are.

Thankfully - we sometimes surprise ourselves.

When Life Gives You Sour Grapes: Make Whine

2011-06-05T12:13:00.000-04:00

It's been a truly stunning weekend here in New York City. Sunny, cool and a breeze so fresh I'm pretty sure it's trying to seduce me. Cheeky!

It will come as no surprise to those of you who read regularly (and thank you for that, I feel like there is a bit of magic string attaching me to each and every one of you) that there was relative radio silence last week. It was just like: "Egg salad!" and then...nada. Quiet. No posting on the Saint Tigerlily front.

It will also come as no surprise to you that (though I've alluded to it these past six weeks I haven't really come out and said it) I've been going through another bout of depression. A bad one. A really really bad one. Remember that field of mud in Neverending Story (Q: Do I date myself? A: Frequently! And with vigor!) where Artreyu is walking across with his horse and he's all "Don't get too sad horse." and then the horse (Ajax? Atax? I could Google I suppose but then it would feel like a lie.) is all "I don't know man, this place is really bumming me out." and before you know it the horse is sinking and Artreyu is going batshit and the horse is making that horrible horse face where they show all their teeth and then all there is left is mud bubbles. It is all: Blorp! and then no more Arjinxt. And then I think Artreyu sees that giant turtle. Maybe. I don't know. It's been a while and I worry the film won't age well with a contemporary me.

At any rate. I was the horse. I am the horse. But I am (mostly) not making that awful horse face.

Measures are being taken but I feel weirdly shy about discussing it.

You'll notice that comments are shut down for now - and that is intentional. It isn't that I'm not interested in what you have to say....only....I sometimes hate the feeling that I'm pity fishing with posts like this (which I am absolutely not) and I figure the best way to avoid feeling that way is to make this particular conversation one sided.

The other option is to give in to this shyness. Stop writing. Erase the blog entirely. Surrender to my self-defensive desire to hide and not share at all. That kind of thinking leads to "what's the point of blogging anyway if you aren't Deb or Heather or that woman on the ranch?" questions that I don't know the answer to anyway and a general feeling of fear and despair at having already put so much out there. Myself. My son. My life. It becomes difficult to tell what is real and isn't, which feelings I should trust and which ones I should power through. So I guess I write this and allow myself the luxury of knowing I can take it back if I want. That there is a delete button for almost everything. But, you know, the whole thing still makes me feel a bit as if I'm outside with no pants on. It makes me feel needy in a way that leaves me cold.

I guess that's all for now.

(Quick! Post it! Before you lose your nerve!)

What's Up, Tigerlily?

2011-05-27T13:46:00.000-04:00

I won't say much, or even post the recipe, since you can find it on the amazing and wonderful blog: Orangette in her May 10th post titled "Pile It On".

Please just know that I am a huge egg salad fan and this egg salad was beyond outrageous...maybe even the world's best?

Bring it to a cookout this weekend and think of me.

Happy Memorial Day!

Still Here. Still Workin It!

2011-05-26T15:32:00.000-04:00

When I get off the bus in the morning I often find myself walking with Nico across 88th street - directly next to the very lovely Church of the Holy Trinity.

I admire the looks of this church. To me it is everything a church *should* be, with a beautiful building and a stately gate and a lovely little well-kept courtyard. (A quick Internet search also concludes that this particular church hosts a pride parade, is all inclusive in welcoming all people, and even has an open door policy for animals! Best church ever?)

This particular block of 88th street between 2nd and 1st avenues is shaded almost decadently right now with a lush overhang of very bright and lovely Spring leaves - and the whole block smells cool and fresh. It never fails to put me in a good mood and I usually exit the block onto 1st smiling like a fool.

Also making me smile?

Letting It All Go

2011-05-25T16:34:00.001-04:00

It is finally Springtime in New York. Spring took her sweet ass time this year but I barely noticed. I've been going through...things.

Let's call it my Blue Phase. Just a whole lot of sadness and overwhelm.

Measures are being taken, but one thing solidly on my list (that is not a list! Just a swirly suggestion of maybe things! Because lists are possibly part of my problem!) is to be less structured. Care less. Try to actually keep my 2011 New Year's Resolution: to give less of a $#@&. (<-------Censorship! AHHHHH!)

Specifically I am trying to care less about the things that don't matter, like perfection, and punctuality and behavior and impressions (but mostly perfection) and even caring a little less about the things that matter a lot. Less on. More off. Or at least more idle. I can't let it bother me that I haven't blogged for two days (largely owing to weird anxiety dreams about Internet sharing and partially owing to that whole not caring thing I'm working on.) And I can't let it bother me that the strawberries I'm about to share with you aren't local, or organic, or anything special (or that this sentence starts with the word "and". They are big, farmed, nearly flavorless things - despite their pretty fragrance. Happily this recipe is so fantastic, it won't really matter. If anyone is feeling ambitious there are a multitude of recipes online for strawberries with black pepper ice-cream and balsamic glaze. You want it? Go to it. I'll take mine tossed gently in a bowl and served with whipped cream. All five minutes worth of work. And I didn't even have to make a list.

Strawberries with Black Pepper and Balsamic
Cover sliced strawberries with a liberal grinding of black pepper, a generous pinch or two of raw sugar and a few glugs of balsamic vinegar. Toss to combine and set aside. In the time it takes for the sugar to melt and the strawberries to create a bit of syrup, you can whip some cream up with a dash of vanilla. Serve together in the bowl you made them in; two forks if you want to share.

A Chicken Named Bryan

2011-05-23T10:55:00.001-04:00

Rob doesn't like chicken.

I know. What a weirdo.

In all the time we've been together, my many attempts to woo him to the friendly side of fowl* have been in vain.

(*Technically "poultry" but this made for prettier alliteration.)

Be it roast chicken or cornflake, Vermont style or even fried - all chicken dishes were met with the same luke-warm reception and the caveat that he wasn't really a big chicken fan anyway.

BUT.

Sometimes he would follow up with an amendment having to do with a particular dish at Carrabbas Italian Grill (of all places) that was The Best Chicken Dish Ever. He would then go into a detailed explanation of said dish while I stared at him over the uneaten leftovers of my most recent (and probably GENIUS) chicken creation all: "Really? REALLY??"

SO.

This is how I found myself shopping at Target for the ingredients to make Carrabba's-style Chicken Bryan one night last week secretly wondering if I still lived in Manhattan at all. I googled words from his description and found the recipe with ludicrous speed. The plan was to make it as a surprise for my wonderful husband - to prove that even if I couldn't top them with my own creations, maybe I could out-Carrabbas Carrabbas.

AND YOU GUYS.

It was seriously, like, The Best Chicken Dish Ever.

The shame I feel is equal only to how much I want it again.

(SO BADLY.)

What follows is an exact rendering of the recipe as it appears on Food.com. They sourced it from someones local paper. It seems that the lemon juice is a bit off - I don't know if you can wrestle a half cup of juice from a single lemon, but if so you are welcome to work my lemonade stand any time. (#notaeuphemism)

I had to make some adjustments as East Harlem once again disappointed me in the food availability department - despite the fact that I was able to source a lot of stuff from Target. Am I being a total snot that I was shocked the people working at Target had no clue what sun dried tomatoes are - or even whether or not they had them? One person brought me to the raisins, another suggested I get grape tomatoes. They didn't know what I was asking for. It was just strange. I don't know, but I feel like if they are serving it at Carrabbas it should be a general knowledge thing. Am I betraying some East coast liberal elitism? "Let them eat sun dried tomatoes!" Perhaps.

Anyway, I used sun dried tomato tapenade that I found in the scary small "gourmet and health food section" of the Fine Fare. (The irony that I found organic tapenade and not the actual sun dried tomatoes in a jar or container is not lost on me.) The jar is probably older than I am but it did the trick. I also doubled the onions and garlic because I really like onions and garlic. Finally, I sauteed the chicken instead of grilling. I can see how the smokiness of the grilled meat would add yet another dimension of flavor to the dish - so I'll certainly try it again when the weather gets nice and we can use the grill. Until then I'm going to try this flavor combination every which way I can. Creamy and tangy from the goat cheese and tomatoes, fresh and herby from the basil, rich and comforting and fragrant all wrapped up in that lemon-butter-white wine sauce. Surely we can think of more ways to put all this together in a dish. You'll see. I have PLANS.

Original Carrabba's Chicken BryanSource: Food.com

Ingredients
2 boneless skinless chicken breasts
kosher salt, to taste
fresh ground pepper, to taste
olive oil
4 ounces goat cheese
6 sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
2 -4 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped
4 teaspoons onions, minced
4 teaspoons garlic, minced
8 tablespoons butter, divided
6 tablespoons white wine
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice ( about 1 large lemon's worth)

Directions:
Brush chicken on both sides with olive oil, season to taste with Kosher salt and cracked pepper. Grill chicken until done (internal temp of 165F) - prepare lemon butter sauce while chicken is grilling. Sautee onion and garlic in 2 Tbs butter until soft and fragrant. Add white wine and lemon juice, reduce heat to medium-low and simmer 10 minutes to reduce. Add remaining 6 Tbsp butter, a little at a time, until it melts and mixture is emulsified. Add chopped sun-dried tomatoes and basil, heat until hot (but do not overheat or sauce may break). Top nearly-done chicken breasts with 2 oz each of the goat cheese until cheese warms and softens. To serve, spoon lemon butter sauce over chicken breasts

Holy Adorable, Batman!

2011-05-19T10:56:00.001-04:00

He crawls now. Like some sort of turbo-charged pudge machine; all chubby knees and thumping hands and purpose.

He approaches life with eyes wide and mouth open (the latter is never the best idea in New York City, but he'll learn that lesson over time.) His two little teeth gnaw on everything, when he isn't administering artful raspberries to any inch of exposed skin. Mastering his consonants now, each new one is a sound to be tasted. He recently discovered "f". He tilts his head back, half closes his eyes and says very slowly and deliberately: "Ffffffffffuh." and then looks at me as if to say: "How was that? Was a that a good "fuh"? How long have you known about this? It's terrific!"

He lifts himself up on anything and everything; the walker, the coffee table, the couch. We are not parents sometimes, we are spotters. He hurtles to the edges of things, sometimes almost out of our arms he does it with such force. The force of absolute confidence that he can't get hurt. Terrifying. But beautiful too. (What did trust like that feel like? Can you even remember?)

Everything is edible. His newest food is tofu rolled in cereal crumbs. Bananas and avocados, those old standbys, are still favorites. He has sampled sweet potatoes, broccoli, zucchini, mini turkey meatloaf, salmon with sour cream and dill, calf's liver and apples, prunes, roast chicken, bean soup, spinach, artichokes, fresh pasta, farro, risotto, capers, onions, wheat biscuits, strawberries, eggs, yogurt, peas, butternut squash, carrots, beef and all kinds of cheese. He eats with abandon. We are so pleased we can barely talk about it. I am saving up all these adventurous food moments to savor should he someday become picky.

Bath time is a delight for everyone involved. Blue duck is a favorite but he loves when we squeeze the water squirter toys into his mouth. He gets very still, and half-smiles and squints his eyes happily. He would really like it if we would consider letting him bash his head on the drain release. So far we have managed to decline his repeated requests to do this.

After bath, when we sit and share a bottle, I sing to him a bit. "Songbird", "Heart of the Matter", "Smile" and a variety of musical numbers that would delight and terrify the crew at Marie's Crisis and my husband respectively. His eyes get heavy and close (a testament to my boring delivery?) and he is my baby again, instead of the endlessly moving, reaching, grabbing, slamming, swinging, "da-da-da"-ing almost-toddler he is all day. When I put him down in the crib he rolls immediately onto his stomach, throw his arms around his stuffed giraffe, and smiles into sleep. This slays me. Every time.

OK. What's next?

Crispy Baby Artichokes, Capers and Pasta

2011-05-18T10:27:00.000-04:00

I love an artichoke.

If you've been reading this blog for anything resembling a length of time you have heard just about enough about me and artichokes and our grand love affair. You are all: Seriously, get a room. Some of you though (Brenda, I'm looking at you), share my deep and abiding affection for this ancient thistle and, like me, could talk about them and talk about eating them and just plain eat them every day.

As you know, artichokes were in season when we were in Italy. They were everywhere; in the market, on the menus and on my Aunt-in-law's counter being cleaned and pared and sliced faster than we could watch.

The reason I adore the artichoke, beyond its flavor, is that you have to work a bit to get that flavor to the surface. For some this is a turn off, maybe even the turn off about artichokes, but I am a pleasure delayer. I'm a save the best for laster. A hoarder of Halloween candy. A don't look until it's doner. I like food that plays hard to get.

This recipe required a lot of artichoke cleaning. I had two big containers of artichokes, one purple and one green, and it took me about 20 minutes to clean them and toss them into the lemon water. For those of you who want to attempt this but don't know how it is pretty simple:

First cut the end off the stem and peel the sides of it with your knife. Start ripping off leaves and don't stop until they are pale green and pliant - a good rule of thumb is to rip off several more than you think you should when you first start wondering if you've ripped off enough. Then cut off about an inch of the tip, clean up around the base if you like it neat (I don't) and toss into the lemon water so the artichokes don't oxidize and turn brown.

There is a lot of waste and the whole operation feels a bit like you are defacing flowers, but the results are pretty lovely as well.

This recipe is a bit time consuming but the flavor and textures are incredible. As you fry the artichokes in batches be sure to sample regularly to quality test...just don't sample so much that you end up an ingredient short.

Crispy Baby Artichokes, Capers and Pasta
Adapted very slightly from The New York Times, 2008

Ingredients
2 pounds baby artichokes
1/4 cup capers, drained
4 garlic cloves, peeled, finely chopped
1 red onion, peeled, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 pound fresh papardelle
2 cups pasta water
1 tablespoon sweet butter
Sea salt and pepper
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, freshly grated

1. Have a bowl of water with the juice of half a lemon standing by. Pull off the darker leaves from each artichoke, leaving only the inner, light green ones. Cut off the sharp tips and trim the stringy parts from the bottoms. Drop the trimmed artichokes (still whole) into the acidified water so they don’t discolor.

2. In a large frying pan, heat the olive oil and sauté the garlic, onion and capers until lightly browned. Season with sea salt and pepper. Remove and set aside, leaving the seasoned oil in the pan.

3. Using a sharp chefs\' or Japanese vegetable knife, slice the artichokes into 1/4-inch longitudinal cross-sections. On a medium-low flame sauté until crispy brown on both sides. Work in batches, removing the finished slices to a paper towel to drain. Drizzle the pan with more olive oil as needed.

4. Cook the spaghetti in salted water. When you drain the pasta, reserve 2 cups of the pasta water. Deglaze the pan with butter and 1 cup of the pasta water. Put the capers-garlic-shallots sauté back in the pan. Mix well and reduce the volume of the liquid by half. Add the spaghetti and toss to coat. If the sauce needs more liquid, add a little more pasta water. Season with sea salt and pepper to taste.
5. Serve the pasta topped with the crispy baby artichoke slices and Parmesan.

In Which We Are Pixar Villains

2011-05-17T11:05:00.000-04:00

At some point you have been reading a story or watching a movie and there has been a Fuzzy Bunny.

Maybe the bunny isn't a bunny and maybe it isn't fuzzy but it's small and defenseless and charming. Sometimes it is an orphan, or smaller than the other Fuzzy Bunnies or "different" in some way that seems at first like a handicap and later reveals itself to be a grand boon of some kind. The Fuzzy Bunny is curious and courageous and terribly forthright. The Fuzzy Bunny usually has a hapless friend. Mostly, the Bunny is just very, VERY FUZZZZZZZZZZZY.

In this same story there is usually an Evil Farmer. The Evil Farmer can be of either sex and is usually old. The Evil Farmer is deluded by his/her own selfishness. Most importantly for the sake of the story, The Evil Farmer hates and wants to chase off, maim or even murder our hero: The Fuzziest Fuzzy Bunny. We hate the Evil Farmer. Even after he/she learns his/her lesson, we still hate him/her a little bit.
As some of you may have noticed we are in the middle of some kind of half-assed monsoon. A monsoon because of the ludicrous amounts of rain we have had and will continue to have this week and half-assed because it doesn't even have the decency to properly rain; one of those big lovely downpours of which my friend Wendy is so fond. It just drizzles along with occasional hard rain replaced by drizzle, and so on. Very bad for the commute. Very bad for shoes. Very bad if you want to take your baby outdoors.

Excellent, however, for gardeners.

"They" say that insanity is doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results. I'm now on year five of attempting to grow beautiful food in my outdoor space and, not counting the first year, all endeavors have ended in failure. The crucial difference between the last four pathetic years and the first successful one is that in year one I grew most of the plants from seed. I was determined, this year, to resist the siren song of sprouted seedlings at the farmer's market and Home Depot and other nefarious gardening centers and to sow my seeds outside after first frost. This sowing would had to be followed by lots and lots of watering - making this weekend past an ideal time to start the garden as the watering this week will be very low impact for yours truly due to the aforementioned rain.

WHICH BRINGS US TO OUR TALE!

Rob agreed to help me turn over all the soil on Saturday in preparation for the sure to be fabulous and hardy seeds I would sow on Sunday WITH GREAT SUCCESS! We went out first with Nico and were almost immediately greeted with a single squirrel, sitting on one of the sides of the deck and looking at us. Before we could say "SQUIRREL!" the squirrel began to chatter in a very demonstrative and, I'd say, aggressive manner before ADVANCING ON US.

Naturally we peaced the hell out and looked at the squirrel nervously through the blinds for a while. Soon it was naptime for Nico, and Rob and I decided to have a memory lapse, agreed the squirrel couldn't possibly have been that menacing, and went outside to finish the garden prep.

Almost immediately the squirrel was upon us! Chattering and doing this thing with its shoulders that was all: "You want a piece of me? DO YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME??" What followed was a series of attempts to garden: first with both of us working a bit and then running inside, next with Rob standing guard while I worked (I believe I made a remark about how "this is what living with war must be like" and Rob was all "Oh really. Do tell." and I was all, "Because you just have to go about your business and you never know -", "-if a squirrel will pop up?", etc. with generous mocking.)

Eventually we just gave up because guys? That squirrel was scary. Really scary. It was like Cujo, but more agile and tiny and able to (in theory) climb up your legs and bite your face off while using its little scritchy claws to tear out your eyes. All while roaring. *shiver*

So I called my mom. Because it was only after about a half-hour of this that I realized what you guys already figured out, I'm sure. The squirrel was a LADY squirrel, and had some babies on or near or under our deck area.

My mom advised that we should go out every few hours and make a fuss and she would probably move her babies, if that's what we wanted, once it got dark out. Now please understand what I did next, Internet, because I did and do feel like a gigantic jerk. Please understand that I have a baby too, and was planning to take him out there at some point this summer to smell the flowers and work with the plants and as lovely as squirrels are (and they are! SO lovely! not at all like fluffy rats! More like Fuzzy Bunnies!) I just couldn't be out there with Nico knowing that Rambo Mamma Squirrel might leap out at some point and ask us to say hello to her little friend (which sounds much more like something that would happen to you in Hell's Kitchen during a Plushies convention.) Couldn't have it.

So, good friends, I Googled. Google told me that predator urine would be the surefire thing to make the squirrels move. After several failed attempts to make Sylvia go outside (not at all intending that she harm the squirrel but more that she should...pee? I guess? I didn't think it out, obviously), I did the next best thing, scooped a tiny nugget of poop from her litter box, slipped it down the side of the deck and resolved to hope for the best. Rob went to pick up our laundry, I went to sit by the window and stand vigil where I saw, almost immediately after he left the house, the squirrel yank her baby up from under the deck and practically frog march him onto the fire escape causing me to text Rob, and I quote: "Come home now. She is moving her babies. We are horrible people."

Honestly? Despite all the evidence to support it, I don't think I really thought there were babies down there. I think I still thought that there were maybe babies in some vague sense but probably the squirrel was just being an asshole. What proceeded was possibly the worst thing I have ever seen (all weekend). The mother and baby squirrel made their way over the fire escape and towards a neighboring rooftop where they stopped because the mamma squirrel couldn't teach the baby squirrel how to go up a ladder. (Cue: ME DYING.) (And for any of you thinking now that it serves me right, might I say I whole-heartedly agree.)

Anyway, for a little while we all just stood very still: the momma at the top of the ladder and the baby at the bottom, just to the left of the heating vent thingie, and me, on the deck, watching and feeling like the most evil of all Evil Farmers. The momma cursing herself for listening to her husband when he suggested they move to East Harlem, the baby, chest heaving, thinking "omg omg omg omg omg" and crying "Mommmmmmaaaaaaa! MOMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" and me, totally projecting onto the whole thing (in case that wasn't already clear) that it was me at the top of the ladder and Nico at the bottom just to the left of the heating vent thingie and trying very very hard to keep my heart from bursting out of my chest and going to live someplace less cold and frosty, OH CRUEL WORLD!, etc., etc.

But then they climbed into a really nice tree and it was pretty much fine.

Still.

Squirrels, eh?

Charcutepalooza, Month Five: Grinding

2011-05-15T08:37:00.001-04:00

I exhort you: buy yourself a grinder.

I know what you're thinking; regular people don't grind their own meat. They buy it in mounds wrapped inside plastic and Styrofoam. Who am I, some foodie homesteader? Thunderdell? Mrs. Lovett?

I know, I get it, meat grinding seems like one of those things best left to the professionals, but hear me out.

Rob and I actually started grinding our own meat prior to Charcutepalooza. I forget now why we first bought the grinding attachment for our KitchenAid, but it was for one specific recipe or another and the difference in our meat was at once so astonishing, and so simply achieved, I think we both had a moment of: "Wait, so that's it?...really?"

We bought the attachment (about $50) but you can buy a free-standing meat grinder on Amazon.com for as little as $25. That's a small price to pay for all the varied things you will be able to do.

What, you might wonder, are the benefits of grinding your own meat?

1. It is extremely badass, for starters. Fee Fi Fo Fum is RIGHT.

2. YOU control what goes into your meat, and therefore into your body. (See Mrs. Wheelbarrow's post on the topic of grinding where she says, and I quote: "A small-scale meat cutter said to me, as she confronted a huge pile of ground beef on the table in front of her: “They say that corporate meatpackers can’t tell you how many cows go into a pound of ground beef – hundreds, thousands, perhaps. I know how many cows went into this ground beef (gesturing) — one.”

3. You can save money! This is particularly true if you can find a way to buy in bulk and then section off and freeze your handiwork. I learned how to de-bone the pork shoulder at my local market (an ordeal, for sure, and it takes about 15 minutes, for me anyway) but I can make these gorgeous, fluff piles of perfectly pink ground pork flecked with fat. An image only a meat-lover could find appealing, I guess, but there we are.

Three is good right? I think we'll stop at three reasons. It's very traditional.

I don't typically enjoy merguez, or chorizo for that matter, so when I saw that this month's Charcutepalooza challenge was merguez or chorizo I was a little put out. The apprentice challenge was breakfast sausage! I adore breakfast sausage! Michael Ruhlman, and I don't even have to look in my Charcuterie textbook to double check this, refers to it, unabashedly, as "the bomb". I wanted to make breakfast sausage! I wanted to make "the bomb"!

Sadly, and in point of fact, this was not possible. In order to stay in the running for Charcutepalooza's grand prize we Charcutepaloozers need to make the "main" challenge, not the apprentice challenge.

...

Actually, this isn't true. I think I just made that up in my head. I WILL DO THE MAIN CHALLENGE AND NOT THE SECONDARY CHALLENGE. I DON'T CARE IF I AM ALSO TAKING CARE OF A BABY AND WORKING FULL TIME! AM I ALSO PAINTING ON THE SIDE? YES!! WHY DO YOU ASK??!! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! etc.

SO anyway, we bought and ground some lamb to make my least hated of the two meats and...you guys...turns out? I love merguez. I super, hard-core, crazy love it. I just needed to make it on my own to find that out because NUMBER FOUR?

4. Homemade ground meat tastes so many millions of leagues better than ground meat from the store I almost can't talk to you about it.

Almost.

Merguez Meatballs and Spring Risotto with Paprika Yogurt Sauce
Saint Tigerlily (with a risotto-assist from Rob.)

For the meatballs and sauce:

1 Tbs olive oil
1 lb merguez meatballs (about 16 mini meatballs)
1 Tbs butter
1 small onion, diced
1 clove garlic minced
1 Tbs flour
Tbs paprika
1 cup yogurt
2 cups stock
salt and pepper to taste

For the risotto:

About 1 1/2 to 2 cups of arborio rice (you can do more or less)
4-5 cups of broth
Half an onion (small dice)
1/4 cup white wine (try to use a decent wine)

1/4 cup diced pancetta (or bacon)
One container of mushrooms sliced (with stems)
About 10 ramps (Cut in 1/8" slices from base to top of leaf)
Grated parmesean (about a handful)
1/4 chopped parsely

Some olive oil
2 tbsp unsalted butter
Some salt
Some pepper

Start by making the "ingredienti." In a single pan, heat one tablespoon butter with about 1 tablespoon of oil over medium high heat. Once hot, add the pancetta over and cook until done, but do not brown. (General rule of risotto - don't brown anything.) Once pancetta is cooked, add mushrooms and ramps and cook until it looks done - mushrooms should be soft.

For the rice. Heat broth to medium-low heat in a separate smaller pot (don't simmer because you don't want it to reduce). Add about 2 tablespoons oil and one tablespoon butter in a medium to large sized pot. When butter begins to foam, add onion. Cook until translucent and add rice. "Toast" the rice for about 2-3 minutes or so. Once rice is toasted, add white wine and cook until wine is absorbed. Now comes the broth. The key is to add the broth one ladel at a time to the rice and stir (almost constantly) until you can scrape the bottom and the liquid takes moment to cover the trail. It should take about 18-20 minutes to incorporate all the liquid. If you think it's done, do a taste test. (Risotto should have a bit of bite to it, but not be hard or chalky. If it looks like you may run out of broth, add water to your broth pot. It's important to always add heated broth/water so you don't drop the temperature of the rice.)

Once you are convinced the rice is done (make sure not to overcook), add the parmesean a pinch of salt and some pepper, stir to incorporate. Now, add the pancetta, mcushrooms and ramp mixture from before, along with the parsley, and stir. Be a good chef and taste; adjust for seasoning if necessary.
Good job.

For the meatballs: Heat the oil in a saucepan until shimmering and add your meatballs in one layer - do this in batches if you can't get them all in without touching. Brown well on each side. Remove the meatballs to a plate. Add the butter, deglaze and scrape up some of the crispy bits with the butter as it melts. Add the onions and garlic and cook until just translucent. Add the flour and paprika and mix into a roux, browning well. When the roux is browned (about five minutes over medium heat), add the yogurt. Mix to combine, then add the first cup of stock. Stir until thickened, still heating and add the final cup of stock. At this point return the meatballs to the pan, turn to coat, and simmer for a couple of minutes until the sauce reaches your preferred thickness and the meatballs are heated through.

Serve over risotto.

You Make Bath Time Lots Of Fun

2011-05-13T15:04:00.001-04:00

Because of my involvement in Charcutepalooza (May's post to come this Sunday! Sunday posting! When Rob is at work and I have my hands full with a cuddly yet frighteningly mobile 9 month old! Weeeeeeeeeeee!) I started reading Michael Ruhlman's blog, something I probably should have been doing all along because it is 1. Awesome, 2. Full of truly useful guidance on a varied and impressive array of cooking-related topics, 3. Usually coated in delicious recipes with an ample topping of self-deprecation - which is pretty much my recipe for a tasty read.

Anyway, I was reading over there several months ago I think when he shared the fact that he isn't too into pictures of kids on blogs, largely because he remembers his parents once shared a picture of him in the tub and it was emotionally painful for him and made him feel bad for a long time - maybe even contributing to his drive to become a famous cookbook author and food god? (Italic musing mine.)

And so, really, I'm helping Nico by showing you these:

Bathtime is my favorite time of the day now too.

(*Some of you may have noticed that yesterday's snazzy and delicious Shabby Apple post has been taken down. This is due to some massive disruption over at Google. I'm going to re-post, next week, with some fun pictures. In the mean-time the discount is still available over at Shabby Apple. Just use code: sttigerlilly10off for 10% off a new dress!)

Let's Play Dress Up

2011-05-12T09:24:00.000-04:00

So remember how I just went over to London and partied like I was 22 with my friend Sala and then the next day we both had moments of "Oh my god! We are no longer 22!! And now we have to take care of small children with brain shattering hangovers! We are not 22 and NOT VERY SMART!!!"?

Well, on one of the evenings we sat in her back garden after walking around London all day guzzling wine and listening to the various neighborhood foxes scream (#notaeuphemism) we got to talking about a shared delusion, a temporary mind-bend best described as The Pretend Self Phenomenon.

This is how it is for me:

I see a hat in a magazine, something sort of cloche-like, very 1920's and lovely. In the ensuing fantasy (this is a like a crazy, fashion obsessed version of biting into a York peppermint patty) I am walking briskly down the street in New York City or standing wistfully at the end of the dock out in Oyster Bay - all Daisy Buchanan-like. My body, which in reality would never be described is waif-like, is waif-like and wispy. I'm me, but I'm pretend 1920's me. I'm a me that doesn't exist. (It turns out Sala does the exact same thing, and described to me a particular version of her that can rock a pixie cut and hang out on the beach in France. Are we weird? Do you do this too?)

I'm guessing, actually, that this idealist, fantasy projection is exactly the way magazines and fashion brands sell their product. "Cool people with rumpled hair and smudged mascara look great in these jeans!", "Edgy sophisticates use this purse!", "People who dance randomly with handsome men and run down the streets wearing giant ballgowns use this perfume!" when, in reality, all of these things aren't actually done by anyone, and the people representing these fantasies (ie: models) are prepped for hours and so different in body type from you as to be comical. (One of the best things that ever happened to me what meeting my friend Emma - who happens to be a model. Not only is she one of the sweetest, smartest and coolest people I know, I also now can use her as a barometer when I'm flipping through J.Crew. Every time I think something might look fabulous on me I remind myself that the women standing there rocking mini-khaki shorts and half boots with a misbuttoned shirt is not my size. She is Emma's size. Usually it just makes me laugh.

When I got the email from Shabby Apple a couple of month ago, wondering if I'd like to extend a discount to my readers and perhaps test run a dress for them, I spent about an hour poring over their website and getting increasingly excited. No one piece of clothing figures as prominently in my me-fantasies as The Dress. A good dress makes getting up and getting ready effortless. Gillain, in an effort to simplify her life, got rid of all her separates about a year ago and wears exclusively dresses now. This is extreme of course, but you have to hand it to her: you put on a good dress and, basically, you're done!

I am happy to report that Shabby Apple did send me a (lovely) dress to review and I bought a couple on my own. True to their claims these dresses are designed and built to make the wearer feel amazing. Many of my dresses sit forlorn, alone and unloved in my closet for a whole litany of reasons but mostly because they all have some wearing caveat or another: can't wear this one without a safety pin just there, this one makes me look way to busty for work, that one is only for when I'm feeling really svelte, etc., and on like that forever. Dresses from Shabby Apple, (and I am now the proud owner of three), just fit. They actually look on the way I imagine they are going to look when I see them online. Now about that dock...

Shabby Apple has hundreds of dresses to choose from and they even have a little rewards program going where you can get a dress for free after you have bought ten. Most of their dresses are reasonably priced at just around $80, so this actually isn't so outrageous, not to mention that part of the proceeds to go help the plight of women world-over.

Oh? What's that? The discount?

Don't mind if I do: sttigerlilly10off. Go! Find your dock! Skip down the street in Rome! Sit crisply on the side of a sailboat! Smile while wearing red lipstick and walking a Great Dane! Do it with a dress on!

Never Work With Children Or Animals

2011-05-10T10:08:00.001-04:00

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum.

I honestly don't know how people have babies without pets. If I could someday provide the level of entertainment that Sylvia provides for Nico, just by virtue of her existence, I would EGOT.

(No, everything is fine! Don't send help! No honestly! I do not have panick in my eyes!)

For Sylvia's part she is pretty interested in this little guy. For one thing, he always has a hand out. If she maneuvers properly she can simulate getting her head scratched by diving into his hand so it runs across her face and then sort of veering away before he can get the tail. She's making lemonade, is what I'm saying.

For Nico's part, he Loves her. Capital L. With a heart for the "O" surrounded by stars and rainbows. His love manifests itself in various ways. Sometimes he will see her and begin waving his hands wildly. Unfortunately he often has something in his hands (a wooden hammer, a block, an oatmeal container with red hots inside that has inexplicably become his favorite toy). This excitement + waving usually = Sylvia narrowly dodging a thrown hammer/block/toy monkey. If Nico is on all fours, worse fates lie in wait. He approaches her this way with open mouth instead of open hand. This can mean Sylvia standing patiently by, looking disgusted, as Nico adoringly mouths her ear and part of her eye.

For our part, it means paying extra special attention now that Nico can crawl. Sometimes, when wandering open mouthed toward the cat, he doesn't always go for the face. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Turkey And Celery Dumplings!

2011-05-09T10:25:00.001-04:00

I was giggling over Krysta's recent post about "White People Chinese Food" (known hereafter as "WPCF") because it is, embarrassingly, my very favorite kind. Even though I have access to all manner of "real" Chinese food, living as I do in a city that prides itself on its eclecticism (made-up words FTW!) and could probably sample all manner of styles and types of traditional, authentic Chinese food...I still crave Szechuan Garden.

Szechuan Garden is a little Chinese restaurant in Port Jefferson Station on Long Island. It is beautifully situated on a dirty corner next to a highway across the street from a Jiffy Lube. (Ambiance! Glamour!) The tables are sticky and it was typically decorated in a style I like to think of as "Cartoon Cats Dressed Up To Be Chinese-Seeming With Lots Of Red Fan-Like Objects And Gold Stuff". This is very traditional for Chinese restaurants on Long Island. VERY authentic.

I am 100% certain that Szechuan Garden, probably without exception, served WPCF. We would start with the "Szechuan Soup" - their house soup that came "for two" only and was full of cabbage and snow peas and skinny pieces of chicken and pork, with the occasional flourish of baby shrimp. It is, in my memory, the most fantastic tasting soup that has ever been created by man. Shun Lee Palace, here in the East 50's has a close approximation with their Shanghai style wonton soup - very close - but not quite Szechuan Garden level. Sorry Shun Lee Palace, but your 24 rating in Zagat is being shown up by a place with three parking spots and a perpetually broken sign. (Not really, I should point out, both because Shun Lee Palace is amazingly delicious, and because my friend's father works there and I don't want to upset anyone. You can't compete with Memory Soup people. Memory Soup is all kinds of untouchable).

After the soup we would have potstickers and "Chinese" spare ribs. That was our meal. Soup and appetizers. Would I trade all my fancy big city eatin' for one shot at that meal one more time? To be eight-years old and just picked up from school in the middle of the day for soup and potstickers and ribs with my dad? Blue Hill be damned, I would trade all of it for one afternoon of sticky table-tops and reading fortunes out loud.

There is something about these turkey and celery dumplings that remind me of Szechuan Garden. They are completely vanilla in many ways. Filled with celery and ground turkey, they ARE pretty vanilla. But, fry them up and you have that perfect crunchy outside and a great vehicle for the salty dipping sauce - which, really, isn't that all that dumpling filling is anyway? A way to get dipping sauce into your face? Kind of like how snails are just the choo-choo train for garlic, butter and parsley in escargot?

I'm inclined to keep a package of wonton wrappers in the house at all times now, and, in honor of Szechuan Garden and WPCF lovers everywhere, I'm not even going to attempt to make them from scratch.

~~Chicken~~ Turkey and Celery Pot Stickers
Gourmet, November 2010
Andrea Albin

Yield: Makes 20 dumplings

1 1/2 medium celery ribs, leaves reserved
2 garlic cloves
1/4 pound ground turkey
3 1/2 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce, divided
1/4 teaspoon Asian sesame oil
20 wonton or gyoza wrappers
1 tablespoon rice vinegar (not seasoned)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/2 cup water

Make filling: Cut celery into 2-inch pieces. With food processor running, drop in celery and garlic and finely chop. Stop motor and add chicken, 1/2 tablespoon soy sauce, sesame oil, and 1/8 teaspoon each of salt and pepper. Pulse until just combined.

Form dumplings: Put 2 wrappers on a dry surface, keeping remaining wrappers in package, and lightly brush edges with water. Mound a rounded teaspoon filling in center of each wrapper. Fold in half, into triangles or half-moons, and pinch edges tightly to seal. Make 18 more dumplings in same manner.

Make dipping sauce: Chop enough celery leaves to measure 1 1/2 tablespoons and stir together with remaining 3 tablespoons soy sauce and vinegar.

Fry dumplings: Heat vegetable oil in a 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium-high heat until hot, then arrange dumplings, slightly overlapping, in a spiral pattern and fry until bottoms are pale golden, 2 to 3 minutes. Add water, tilting skillet to distribute, then cover tightly with lid and cook until liquid has evaporated and bottoms of dumplings are crisp and golden, 6 to 7 minutes. (Use a spatula to loosen and lift edges to check bottoms; replace lid and continue cooking if necessary, checking after 1 to 2 minutes.) Remove lid and invert a large plate with a rim over skillet. Holding plate and skillet tightly together, invert dumplings onto plate. Serve immediately, with dipping sauce.

evangelizing: ur doing it wrong

2011-05-06T11:09:00.000-04:00

Marsupial

2011-05-05T11:17:00.000-04:00

In accordance with Mommy Blogger rules (sec: 8, par: 3) I need to log at least one mommy post a week to keep my life insurance and hat.

This week, that post is this one and it is about getting your baby from here to there in a city.

We have two strollers: one of those Graco infant car seat and rolling cart dealies and a very nice Maclaren that we only just started using because until very recently Nico was still a baby and now he has become this giant baby monster. I mean that, of course, in the best possible way. I love my giant baby monster something fierce. I just wish I could keep him in overalls for more than a week. Of course, truthfully, we don't really use either of these strollers on a daily basis as we are still using a carrier for our daily baby transportation needs. The strollers come out on the weekends, with the gin.

I like carriers for lots of reasons both personal and practical. Practically, we take the bus to and from work and in order to get on the bus with a stroller you have to go through all manner of rigmarole. To ride the bus you must remove your baby and fold the stroller up and carry the whole kit and caboodle on. This would mean carrying the stroller down three flights of stairs, putting Nico into it, walking to the bus, waiting for the bus, pulling Nico out of the stroller and folding the stroller up and somehow keeping Nico, stroller, bags and self safe and stationary for a 20 minute ride. (This is of course assuming the bus comes a convenient amount of time after we have arrived at the bus stop and obtained our bus ticket. If the bus is, say, RIGHT THERE, when we roll up we would be shit out of luck.) So twenty minutes later we'd be off the bus again, unfolding the stroller, getting Nico back into the stroller, walking over to the daycare, taking him out, folding it up, etc etc and repeat in the evening. I just got hives writing that. Stroller shaped hives. That can't be healthy.

Personally, I love having Nico so close to me. Maybe it's because I carried him for nine months or because I am fated to be That Kind of Mom (the kind of mom who crawls across the floor of her grown son's apartment like in the book Love You Forever. This is a popular children's book, but the activities of the people in it are objectively terrifying. Seriously. Read it. Tell me if you aren't disturbed). I love that he can reach up and ~~smack~~ touch my face and that I can see him and wipe his nose if I need to as he wildly whips his head from side to side because we do not like to get our noses wiped. We do. Not. Like it. I love that he can snuggle down and fall asleep if he wants. I love watching him see the world and react to the sky and the trees and the wind. If we could afford one of those fancy rear facing strollers I could probably duplicate a lot of these things, though, sadly, we cannot. Rich people are the only ones allowed to look at their babies while strolling. Probably while they eat caviar out of a bucket and laugh at the homeless. (If you are thinking that maybe I could have pooled all the money we spent on strollers and carriers and purchased one of those fancy strollers I would like to point out that no one asked you. And also that you should probably speak up sooner next time. God.)

We have two carriers: an Ergo and a Mei Tai. I am deeply in love with both of them. If you are in the market for a carrier I can recommend both heartily. If you are lucky enough to live in a place with a great baby carrier focused store, like New York City's Metro Minis, get yourself over there and enjoy a demo. Carriers are wonderful, but they can be frustrating, even impossible, if you don't know how to use them. I've used a Moby wrap, a Baby Bjorn, a Ring Sling and the aforementioned Ergo and Mei Tai. Sometimes it helps to be in a place where you can try a lot of different carriers and get a feel for what you like. Or, like me, you can buy all of them, and qualify for Hoarders.

So anyway, the story has become that while Rob and I used to share pick up/drop off duties with Nico, I've now taken on both legs of the trip because of my stubborn and sometimes petulant refusal to give up the carrier and use the stroller. Rob, understandably, has to look nice when he goes to work. That means a pressed shirt and pants free of vomit. This is hard as it is in NYC in the summer, but as things get warmer, donning the carrier will cease to be an option for him. My clothes are a bit more forgiving, and I am the one who is opposed to strolling so the carrying falls to me. Truthfully? I couldn't be happier.

I get to drop Nico off and then have a whole blissful 40 minutes to myself as I walk to work. I put on earphones, the big dopey kind that go over your ears. I listen to my iPod - a Nano from a million years ago that only carries 4 GB. Did you know they have iPods now as big as your fingernail that fit 3 Terabytes and do your laundry AND windows? (This is not true - but it feels true.)

I get to see all the people walking to work, and the men who stand outside of the fancy buildings and spray the sidewalks. Some day soon I am going to build up the courage to ask them how hard it is to not spray the fancy people as they walk by. I'm betting: very.

I get to see this awesome guy in a suit race down Park on a skateboard. Remember my other secret boyfriend who rode a segway with a suit on? I think there is a very real possibility that I have a fetish involving men who wear dress clothes and take alternative transportation to work. "Ooh baby, is that tie from Thomas Pink? A unicycle eh? You know what mamma likes. Rrrrrrrrrrrawr." Is it hot in here?

I get to have footraces with random women holding Lululemon bags who give me dirty looks because I stopped to take a picture of the skateboarding man on the same sidewalk as them. In New York, this is how people say "Hello, I'm better than you. Idiot." She gave me no choice but to footrace her all the way to 56th street where I had to let her win because that is where my office is and I had to go to work. She smirked at me. I totally should have skipped work and just walked faster than her all the way to wherever she was going. (This is the sort of thing that happens in New York - it is a New York Behavioral Truism - and people in California reading this are probably all: "whaaaaa?". I'm reading Bossypants by Tina Fey right now (hilarious) and she points out that "The more New Yorkers like something, the more disgusted they are. "The kitchen was all Sub-Zero: I want to kill myself. The building has a playroom that makes you want to break your own jaw with a golf club. I can't take it." This is a New York Truism also, and made me love the book even more than I already did, but another New York Truism is definitely that if someone gives you the stink eye on the street you are in a foot race to the death. Well, at least it is a New York Truism for me. I mean, you can't just let a stink-eye hang out there. Especially if that blonde bitch is carrying a Lululemon bag with her lunch inside. TO THE PAIN LADY. I WILL END YOU.)

I'm finding the morning walk very relaxing. I think it is really good for my mental space. Don't you?

Taralli

2011-05-04T11:33:00.002-04:00

Our first afternoon in Italy we rested briefly before heading over to Rob's family's house for lunch. When we arrived, Rob's cousin Fabio tossed a couple of ring shaped crackers in the center of the table and proceeded to munch on one as we waited for our (amazing) meal. (This is one of those things where if someone put crackers on a table cloth in the States I would wonder if they had ever heard of a plate but Fabio does it and all of a sudden it is sweet and artful and oozing with casual class. I suspect I may be a travel snob.)

These little crackers turned out to be Taralli, a popular snack food in Italy that most resembles a bread stick pulled in on itself - but without a bread stick's brittleness. Some people compare them to pretzels because they are boiled and then baked, but that isn't quite right either. Taralli are just...taralli. Addictive little crunchy packages of subtle flavor - and the perfect vehicle for a slice of melt-in-your-mouth prosciutto di Parma. Most of the taralli we had in Cremona were flavored with fennel seed but other popular versions are spicy, or black pepper flavored or even sweet - traditionally served around Easter.

I liked them fine, Rob liked them as well, but one family member couldn't get enough and I knew I'd have to at least try to make them when we got home. I am, of course, talking about our newest chartered member, the little signore himself, weighing in at 20 lbs and hailing from parts unknown (but mostly from my uterus), Niccolo Bowie:

This kid LOVED the taralli. They were the perfect size for his little hands with a handy ring in the center for grabbing. Until this trip, Nico hadn't tried any solid food. When Sala urged me to give it a shot ("Food is flavor AND texture," she gently reminded me, even though I know full well that texture means chunks and chunks means choking and choking means Nico looking at me and turning red as I faint dead on the floor and he hacks up a piece of somethingorother almost casually and then continues to chew away as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened while I have multiple panic attacks and fear strokes. I will not have it. I cannot. I am only human and this will not stand.) I gave him a couple of crumbly baby biscuits we bought in London, begrudgingly, and tried to keep the fear strokes to a dull roar. He loved them and I learned to loosen up a bit and not reach into his throat every time he showed even the barest sign of struggling. The biscuits were good training ground for the taralli and a good thing too...I think Nico is pretty passionate about this traditional Italian cracker. What can I say? He knows where it's at.

After looking through lots of recipes I finally found one that sounded right on Serious Eats. I have to report that, for me, it wasn't a great success.

To be fair I tried to make the dough using my dough hook and mixer rather than the suggested food processor (I don't have one large enough) so I think I may have overworked it a bit, resulting in dense if tasty taralli with chew rather than crunch. I only link to the recipe here at all because Rob, who is usually a stickler for this sort of thing when it comes to Italian food, LOVES the chewy taralli. He thinks they are even better than the original. So maybe try the recipe? I'll certainly be giving it another shot when I get a large food processor full of diamonds for Mother's Day that pulls up to my house drawn by four white horses wearing cute equine versions of her Duchessness's wedding dress. (But honestly, I'd settle for dinner out.)

I still prefer the crunchy version and now I had it on the brain, so I did what any resourceful New Yorker would do: hit up Agata & Valentina after dropping Nico at day care and grabbed some handmade black pepper taralli for my breakfast (and lunch) with a nice, lovely and pink quarter pound of prosciutto.

I'm sure there are better things in the world than walking to work with a bag full of prosciutto, taralli and fresh fruit for breakfast with Debussy on my headphones, the rain just barely audible on the top of my umbrella and nothing but spring flowers busting up and out all over Park Avenue...but I'll happily live in ignorant bliss of those things for now.

Let Me See Your Aperol

2011-05-03T10:00:00.000-04:00

Italian Lesson Number One: Aperitif's are a necessary evil when working up the appetite for dinner.

Remember the square where Fabio, Rob and I wiled away the hours? Well, when we were there we were usually drinking an electric orange aperitif known in Italy as a "Spritz". These low alcohol cocktails are perfect for sitting in the sun, crunching some taralli, and considering a pure blue Italian sky. (I considered it for some time. Conclusion: affirmative - very blue and very beautiful.)

The Spritz itself is heavily marketed in Italy right now as a young person's party drink - a sort of classier version of Smirnoff Ice. Unlike a high schooler's malt beverage however (of which I drank a fair amount when I was an undergrad student at St. Andrews...remember those days at the Union guys?), the Spritz is an actual (and delicious) cocktail in the old-school-style.

If you like Campari, and a little bitter in your drinks, opt for a drier prosecco. If you like your drinks on the sweeter side, a sweeter sparkling wine will change the entire dynamic of your Spritz. Either way, this cocktail will add some interest to your next dinner party or a little bit of exotic something-something to your own after work aperitif.

You need it, after all, to work up an appetite for dinner. I mean, it's practically a requirement. Right? Right...

The Spritz

2 oz. prosecco
1 oz. Aperol
Splash soda water
Slice of orange garnish

Directions: Mix ingredients in an ice-filled wine or water goblet. Enjoy, fabulously, preferably with sunglasses under a blue sky. Perhaps there is a light breeze? And plans for a small pasta course followed by some very thin, pounded veal sauteed and then drizzled with a bit of Gorgonzola cream. Fresh baby artichokes expertly butchered, sliced thin and dressed simply with some lemon and sea salt? Strawberries that are red all the way through to their centers tossed in sugar and more fresh lemon juice. Gelato from the gelateria in every color, scooped straight from the container and into a bowl next to a plate of lemon cake. Then a walk home through cooled streets that smell like the trees above you before a long sleep in a big bed.

Hey. It could happen.

Caro Diario

2011-05-02T11:06:00.003-04:00

Rob's paternal family comes from Northern Italy; a small town called Cremona located about an hour southeast of Milan - or "Milano" if you are Italian...or douchy. I've been to Cremona twice now - the first time so Rob could surreptitiously get me vetted as a possible bride (sneaky), and this last time to return with the newest family addition: a red-haired, blue-eyed perpetually grinning baby who seriously couldn't look more Irish but was enfolded into his loving, warm and outrageously affectionate Italian family anyway because as Rob's Nonna pointed out to me on my first visit (presciently - I now realize):

The Nonna: "(Something in Italian I didn't understand)"

Rob's cousin Fabio: "She asks what you are - what your background is."

Me: "Oh I'm a bit of everything; Dutch, German, Irish, Ojibwa Indian - a regular American mutt."

The Nonna: "(Something in Italian I didn't understand but that nonetheless sounds very final.)"

Rob's cousin Fabio: "She says - 'But your children will be Italian'."

And that, my friends, is that.

Snarkily? It's like Rob is some sort of genetic alchemist. Truthfully? I think it is charming beyond belief.

Cremona feels like a small town, despite its 72,000 person population. Maybe all mid-sized Italian cities feel this way, or maybe it's just because we are treated so royally when we are there. We do a lot of walking. A lot of eating. A lot of moderate drinking.

When you sit down in Cremona's Piazza della Pace (which is where we sit for afternoon drinks - just as we did the first time - just as Fabio does every week) you can grab some beers in the afternoon (or a Spritz - which I will get to later.) Beers come in sizes "Small" or "Medium".

I joked to Fabio, as the servers brought over little plates and bowls of munchies (de rigeur in Cremona - and on the house too) that in America if there were only two sizes they would be "Large" and "Extra-Large". He laughed. Or scoffed maybe. This is a 30 year-old man who thinks it is ludicrous that someone wouldn't know how to make their own pasta, uses a handkerchief, carries a baby like he's been doing it for years and actually likes it and admonishes me to savor my cocktails, all while carefully and lovingly correcting my Italian and practicing his beautifully honed English. "Large" and "Extra-Large"? Why? When "Small" and "Medium" are plenty? Why indeed? I'll say the same thing I did when I witnessed Italian women climbing trails in the Cinque Terre whilst holding a baby, smoking and carrying on a conversation with the people behind them ALL IN HEELS. Italians just know something we don't. I'm hoping since I'll be logging some serious time in this family they will let me in on the secret someday.

The weekly market (threading its way through various piazzas and alleys in town) sharpened my already piercing pangs of jealousy.

When you have this cheese available - why wouldn't you always have fabulous, fragrant cheese for grating in your own home?

As a nod to scale - check out Rob's uncle's hand in the background. He's like the Crocodile Dundee of cheese. He sees inside your fridge at home, that little wedge of grating pecorino you bought at Path Mark or wherever. "That's not cheese", he seems to say, "THIS is cheese."

And the coffee. Oh god. THE COFFEE. I've learned my lesson in that I never EVER drink cappuccino at home in the months after returning from Italy. It's just too painful. When I'm there I like to pour one package of raw sugar on top of the foam and wait the lovely languid million years it takes to slowly sink and then dive into the perfectly brewed espresso and steamed milk beneath.

And sometimes they put a heart in it. Because they are Italian and dammit they are going to make everything worth doing.

Including creating the most polite graffiti I've ever seen.

I even got to go to a real Italian pizzeria on our last evening - a final flourish by our in-laws on a trip they made special, as they always do, by their kindness, hospitality and over-the-top generosity. The damaged kid in me, the one who thinks that kindness is suspect and that all gifts come with hidden ropes and pulleys attached, struggles mightily with their simple expressions of love and giving. Rob's aunt cooks for us: meals upon meals of amazing homemade food. Five or six courses at LUNCH. When she finds out that I love something, like artichokes, they find their way into every meal. If we even hint at lifting a finger they jump on us en masse. Never. Not possible.

In fact - that idea - that it is not possible...is sort of a theme. When they want to buy us yet another gift, or bend over backwards again for our comfort our bewildered resistance means nothing to them - not because they wouldn't love to accommodate our weird aversion to their perfectly lovely hospitality - they would! It's just "not possible"...as if it isn't even up to them. Could we pay for dinner? Not possible. Oh no, please don't re-arrange your entire living room so we can put Nico down for a nap. Niente. Non e possibile. They bought me a beautiful set of earrings and a bracelet, the latter of which unfortunately did not fit. We went to the store to exchange them and I thought it was my chance to limit their gift, make myself feel a little less beholden. I asked the lady behind the counter if I might just get the earrings and not get another bracelet. "Non e possibile!" she said with a sweet and simple shake of her head. Alright already. I get it. Thank you. Thank you so much. For everything.

And this kid?

My gracious. He couldn't have been more adored. It is such a different experience to be in a place where people actually love children. No offence New York but, for the most part, you treat kids as a virus to be expunged or an aid to competitive parenting. There was something incredible about walking around in Cremona and having people make a fuss over Nico just because he was. Everyone was with their kids: out at the bars, in the restaurants, just walking around town. Dads and Moms together. And they all seemed to be genuinely enjoying each other's company. "Che BELLO!" they beamed when they were still five meters away and closing. Women were shouting out of windows, offended when Nico didn't look in their direction. "Is it because I'm so old!?" one of them asked in Italian. "No! It's because he doesn't understand you!" our Zia explained. (PS: It was totally because she was old. Nico is ageist. We are working on it but he prefers people very young and baby-sized. It is our secret shame. We tried, internets, to raise him to love all people equally. So far it is a big fat fail.)

So...thank you Italy. And a thank you to Rob's amazing, loving and giving family. I'm sorry you were overshadowed by our slowly imploding lives these past few weeks - but just looking at these pictures reminds me how much we have to be grateful for.

Like, for instance, the pasta, cocktail and appetizer recipes I'm going to be hitting you guys with this week. Oh people. I bought two pasta cookbooks. IN ITALIANO. It is ON.

Food on a FOOD BLOG! What in the WHAT?

Crabbie

2011-04-29T10:31:00.001-04:00

It seems only appropriate that I wrap up this blog's "London Week" on a day when many sets of eyes are gazing longingly in that general direction. What is it about royalty anyway?

We actually did a bit of walking along the now spent wedding route during our visit, and had a stunning day on which to do it. The weather, unusually, was gorgeous during our stay. It was the first time I've been wandering around London jacketless in April, believe me.

I love the buildings in London. I love walking around and thinking about how old everything is, how so many people I consider to be my heroes walked around those streets and parks and that I might, just maybe, be covering their footsteps. We walked around the back of The Globe theater and I thought, as I often do - not counting this pesky detail of a few hundred years, William Shakespeare and I could be walking side by side right now. I, nerdily, find that kind of continuity - sharing the same view of the Thames or hearing the same birdcalls as someone from the past I admire - thrilling, to say the least.

Last time we visited we did the whole Tower of London thing which is great fun if you ever have the opportunity. We saw the rooms where prisoners were kept, checked out their graffiti, and even took the crown jewels tour. The highlight was undoubtedly standing near the spot where most of the beheadings took place, a bit macabre perhaps (and there is a sort of cheesy monument there with a glass pillow) but I loved it. For me it is less about the royal bit and more about the realness of it all; how inescapable it is that these people really existed and ate and laughed and walked in these places. It floors me every time.

But before we go off on a starry eyed tangent, let's get real and remember why we really love the United Kingdom, namely: Fish and Booze.

My husband didn't wait 24 hours before he was out to a local Chippy to pick up his beloved fish and chips, doused in vinegar and wrapped in paper - as is proper and right. There are multiple places to choose from in Sala's neighborhood, as well as multiple kebab shops that serve pretty much the most kick-ass fresh and amazing late night food you can imagine. When your grossest drunkie food involves meat with a fresh salad and yogurt sauce you are doing something right, in my humble opinion.

As for me, I couldn't wait to get into a pub. There is something about the bars in that part of the world that is just so satisfying. Maybe they've been doing it longer than we have (not maybe - they have been), but they are just...exactly right. Comfortable chairs, low lighting, actual beers on tap (Budweiser is not a beer. Neither is Coors. Sorry Miller and my apologies to Michelob. I drink real beer. These are poor facsimiles of beer. Beer shadows. Beer soft drinks.), crisps for sale behind the bar for the inevitable need to snack on something salty, and a pretty standard menu of delicious food that show up our typical line-up of mozzarella sticks and potato skins as the food-shams they really are.

Bangers and Mash. Fish and Chips. Ploughman's Sandwiches. Fried Shrimp. Welsh Rarebit. THIS IS BAR FOOD. Not some bullshit in a bag from Cisco. Demand more from your local bar! They will probably laugh at you, but still! Grumble. It's so unfair.

I was also thrilled to discover a brand new drink, one (of course!) not yet available in the states but something that we should probably demand into existence while we are doing some fruitless demanding: Alcoholic Ginger Beer!

Crabbies Ginger Beer is new in the U.K. and is the new drink paramount in the invisible drink list I keep in my head.

Do you know how many gin and tonics I'm going to have to drink to forget this saucy minx? A lot. Eleventy million. It is going to be good for Hendrick's and bad for my liver.

The only thing for it is to write and tell Crabbies how we feel. Let's never take no for an answer. WE NEED ALCOHOLIC GINGER BEER IN THE STATES.

Guess who else loves a pub?

Yessir, that's my baby.

The Plane! The Plane!

2011-04-28T12:33:00.000-04:00

Everyone said we were crazy. (And this is news!)

Everyone said we should wait.

Everyone laughed in our faces.

Everyone can be very helpful sometimes with their doomsdaying.

We also got a lot of advice, chiefly (and with disturbing regularity): drug your kid with Robitussinn and get on with it.

Guys - you know me by now. Until this trip I made every ounce of Nico's food by hand...was drugging him ever an option?

Flying with a kid is a bit like labor: you can only prepare for it to a certain degree but once you're in the thick of it, anything can happen. Sometimes it is smooth and perfect and effortless, other times it is a face meltingly awful nightmare. Much like life!
The way over was, by far, the hardest of the three plane trips we took over the course of our 8 day journey, which is ironic, because I thought it would be the easiest. British Air was incredibly accommodating, guaranteeing us a bulk-head seat as well as a bassinet that sort of hooked onto the wall in front of us. This was all for a fee + tax and came out to a grand total of something like $150. Not bad considering other airlines make no allowances for children or, in the case of Delta, offer you $9 off a full fare adult seat. (NINE DOLLARS! Oh Delta. You are such a ~~cunt~~ card!)

The bulkhead seating was great, as we are both tall people, and we even ended up getting an extra seat between us as the very lovely hipster who sat next to us ("You did not win plane lotto", I said to him) moved over with these other hipster guys in the center three seats and they spent the flight discussing skinny jeans and, like, bands with accordions in them and t-shirts from Woot.

This left us with lots of room AND the bassinet thing AND bedtime swiftly approaching. No problem, right? RIGHT GUYS? WHAT COULD GO WRONG??

The bassinet thingie would have been beeskneeseriffic if Nico had wanted anything to do with it, which he didn't. He was much happier when he was being held and bounced by his father while grabbing at my dinner roll as I hastily slammed back two bottles of mini-wine and had elaborate fantasies wherein I leapt from the plane carrying only my breast-feeding forbidden bottle of Xanax with one of those sad half-sized airline blankets tied around my neck like a cape.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!" I would say as I plummeted to my doom because it would be SO much more fun than taking care of an unhappy baby at our one in the morning when we would shortly arrive in someone else's six in the morning surrounded by people who wanted to kill us. And also the lady behind us was throwing up. And also the people in Business Class were visible from our seats and were watching The King's Speech and eating ice cream sundaes and to describe us as bitter would be fine if it had, like seven more r's. Bitterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

But then, when dawn broke, and when the plane landed, turns out we weren't quite as loathed as we thought we were. My mom told me once that one minute of your baby's crying to other people sounds like an hour to you, and I think she might be right about this (too). People actually congratulated us as they walked off the plane, some even expressing surprise that there was a baby! on the plane! Throwing Up Lady said she felt so bad puking for 6 hours behind my head because our baby was "being so good" and I considered using this opening to query whether or not she had air sickness or a virus so I would know whether or not to bite on the cyanide pill I had stashed in my cheek.
Leg one of trip accomplished! No casualties! Older but wiser!

(The East Coast of England. Surprising, no? Looks like we should be getting drinks with umbrellas and sticking our feet in some sand.)

The flight from London to Milan was bliss. Nico did this, the whole time:

Oh the joy that is a sleeping baby on a plane.

We even stuck him on the tray table briefly (strapped in of course) mostly to see if we could. (We could and he was super comfortable, but I had to take him back and cuddle him because he is rarely docile and still these days and he is just too delicious to pass up a non-wiggly snuggle.)

Then this happened.

I'm always startled by the mountains you see when approaching Italy. You can see little tiny villages in the crevices...valleys I suppose...and I always wonder: where do they go when they need to get things that aren't right there? What are their lives like? How bitching must their skiing be???

We'll hit Italy next week and I'll walk you through all the food, the recipes and the sights of our trip. One day more of London-week to go but until then, some words of advice from someone who traveled back from Italy with an 8 month old and was stuck on the tarmac for two hours before the 9 hour flight during which said 8 month old wanted only to be held and played with every single moment. (That's 39,600 moments, if you are following along at home.)

1. You cannot prepare, really, to travel with a baby.

2. Though you can't prepare, you must, and that means two things: food and toys. We used Nico's swaddling cloth on the plane, his bottle (both for formula and for water), changes of clothes, pacifiers, teething toys, 9 zillion tissues, 10 million burp cloths, baby spoons, excellent packaged baby purees like Ella's Kitchen,  discovered on this trip and now fully beloved by yours truly. (I wish they offered their baby biscuits in the states - as teething biscuits like Zwieback have all but vanished.) Nico's favorite toy of the trip ended up being his tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste, so I milked that for all it was worth.  "Ohhhhh Nico! Would you like....this....loooootion?" as I pulled it dramatically from my purse. Worked every time. He also likes Aveeno hand cream. Kid is INTO moisture.

3. Know that you, or, if you're lucky, you and your partner have to be "on" the whole time. Plan on being awake. Plan on parenting. Understand going in that this will be unlike plane rides you have had in the past. It will be work - and not just the work of trying to find a comfortable way to sit so you can catch some z's. You will not be comfortable. Accept it and go with it.   You are a parent now: discomfort in pursuit of higher purpose is kind of your thing. Own the discomfort. Really revel in it. Get all Buddhist on its ass.

4. You will get through it! As a VERY nervous flier myself I actually find flying with Nico pleasingly distracting from my normal neuroses about every bump and jiggle of the plane. Now instead of gripping Rob's arm and saying psychotic things like "NOT LIKE THIS! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" I am able to enjoy how the turbulence makes Nico bounce a bit and how much happier he is. The plane is a horsey! YAY ~~giant metal container hurtling through the sky over an expanse of ocean~~ HORSEY!

5. Don't worry so much about the other passengers. I know how that sounds, but it's really true. Aside from one girl on the flight home who went into the bathroom to do her make-up before we landed (I remember doing this in my 20's, my preshus preshus 20's) who gave me a nasty sideways stink-eye, everyone, and I mean everyone was wildly supportive and gracious; making silly faces at Nico, praising how well we kept him happy and occupied for Herculean stretches of time, and telling us stories about other flights and other kids who were now all grown up and living here or there and how much they miss the very days we are living now.

And that's kind of the point isn't it? This whole phase, and everything really, LIFE even - it's temporary. Finding a way to get through and enjoy the shitty parts is what makes us better, stronger human beings. And you know what that means what with this new sunny outlook and an end to the whining blogging voice of the last few weeks:

Pollyanna is back, bitches.   SAINT POLLYANA IS BACK.

St. John, London: Totally Offal

2011-04-27T11:05:00.000-04:00

When Shai first loaned me his copy of Fergus Henderson's The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating, I had only just had my first experience cooking proper offal, and I was newly and purely in love. Cooking trotters, for me, was an exciting act of food rebellion. I enjoyed making people cringe with the very idea of it, even as I was sort of terrified myself. I enjoyed it even more when I discovered that my initial bravado had paid off and that my experience cooking pig's feet yielded truly outrageous results: absolutely delicious food. So much of cooking feels like magic to me, but cooking with offal is wizardry: making the unwanted into something tempting. I've always been a sucker for a good make-over, and offal is the ultimate project.

As Sala and I shot excited email after excited email back and forth across the pond in preparation for our trip, I pleaded in one missive to visit St. John, Henderson's offal-centric restaurant in St. John Street - right in the old meat district in London. She shot me down, initially (not an offal fan) but the idea was saved by her husband who had evidently been dying to try it for years and Sala agreed to try to find something on the daily changing menu that suited her tastes. (Sweet friend, right? Offaly nice, am I right? Oh I am not done with the offal puns yet! Not by a lung shot! OK. Now I am done.)

This was a night to remember for many reasons, not least of which because it marked the very first time Rob and I left Nico with a stranger - a very capable babysitter of Sala's, who I, despite background checks and references and the fact that she appeared to be a very nice person, suspected was probably a child killing axe murderer. Turns out she was much worse...a VEGETARIAN. (My child in the hands of a non-meat eater! Scandalo! No wonder he cried all night!)

What follows are some of my hastily snapped pictures of our meal, lovingly taken by me, for you, even though you know how I feel about taking pictures of my food in restaurants. It embarrasses the hell out of me but I did it anyway. I love you that much.

Native Oysters

These were prepared a little differently than I am used to. Not sure if it is an English thing but they weren't entirely separated from their shell as we normally have them in the states. Surely this is just another example of my spoiled, American relationship with food. But at least we pronounce lieutenant properly. Do you see an "f" in that word? DO YOU?

The famous St. John Roast Bone Marrow & Parsley Salad., I have to say, was everything it is cracked up to be. I am a major bone marrow lover already (by far the best thing about Thomas Keller's Pot au Feu was the fried bone marrow - oh my gracious that was great). It's a shame that bone marrow is so expensive now in New York City - so en vogue. This perfect little salad: the creamy marrow, the crusty bread, the fresh parsley and capers, the grey sea salt....let's just say I made short work of it.

Rob got braised squid with red onion for his starter, but, as is so often the case with anything red and braised, the picture resembles a crime scene more readily than food...so we'll just skip that one, shall we?

Walk with me to Sala's non-offal entree: Roast Middlewhite, Chard and Mustard. The Middle White is a special breed of pig, distinctive for its squished up nose, the shape of which makes it an ideal grazing pig. This basically means it packs on the pounds efficiently, making it good eating long before its longer snouted brethren.

The star of the night (aside from the obvious win that was the bone marrow salad) was Rob's Deviled Kidneys on Toast. I would make these for supper in a heartbeat. They were spicy and tender and everything a good meal should be. Not to mention, super traditional. I like thinking that when we make this at home we will be sharing a meal with many Victorian-era manly men. Look for a recipe here soon.

Above is my entree: Suckling Kid Faggots and Fennel. I maybe ordered it because of what it was called. Maybe. Can you blame me really? I couldn't help myself. A faggot is a kind of meatball. Made of heart, liver and fatty belly meat it was certainly tasty but didn't, for me, inspire a home re-do like the kidneys. They are wrapped in caul fat, which you can see from the photo, and look for all the world like giant grey testicles. This is firmly in the: "glad I ate it, won't be eating it again" category.

The slab of love pictured above is none other than traditional Welsh Rarebit. If the Bone Marrow and Kidneys were the evening's winners, this was the evening's revelation. This is fondue on toast my friends. FONDUE ON TOAST. If you think you won't be seeing a recipe for this soon here at Saint Tigerlily then perhaps you need to rethink how well you know me.

Rob's bread pudding disappeared while Sala and I were outside on the phone with the sitter and Sala's rhubarb tart, though lovely, still couldn't compare to my dessert, the fabulous, the stunning: Queen of Puddings. Various versions of this pudding can be found going all the way back to the 17th century and Sala said that it reminded her of something that would be served at school. Basically it is a fruit crumble topped with meringue and then (see the little spouted pot in the top corner?) you pour thick cream into the midst of it once the top is broken. Basically I want to marry this pudding. Surely that is legal somewhere.
To top off an already extraordinary evening, we exited the restaurant just as a giant truck of pigs was backing up to be offloaded into a building across the street. I couldn't get my camera out fast enough (blame the wine, and my royal dessert for making me slow), but you can sort of get the idea from the picture below.

And there I was, standing on the street in London, my last evening in town, full of offal and wine and across the street from a veritable trailer of pork. If I told you that I looked up at the sky, sighed, and with no irony at all said: "I love you, here." would you believe me?

My Therapist, My Blog

2011-04-26T22:08:00.000-04:00

So right now I'm super flattered and honored because someone sneaky and fantastic nominated me to be one of Babble's Top 100 Food Mom Bloggers (one of the DP's? Mayhaps?). I'm not sure what happens if I get into the top one hundred (confetti? free shoelaces? singing telegrams every day for a year?) but it is flattering just to be mentioned...and maybe only slightly gross if I ask you to go to this link and "like" me? Is this unwise if I don't know what happens if I rise on the list? Maybe I win a punch in the face? I should probably research this first.

Anyway, I've been trying my best these past two days to keep the river of shit that is our current apartment situation from sullying the crystalline waters of my food-mommy-blogginess. Especially because of this Babble thing. Can you imagine if new people come here expecting cute baby photos and a recipe for organic, edible baby wipes and instead get a crazy meandering rant about New York real estate and how hopelessly poor my coping mechanisms have been over the past three weeks? It would be the cruelest bait and switch.

So basically, something happened in my brain when they shut off our electric after the trip. Something bad. Something that slipped into my head and back into the past and opened a scary Pandora's box of insecurities. My childhood was characterised largely by a sense of upheaval. Changing custodial hands, changing houses, moving schools. Pretty much my whole life I yearned for something solid and now, against all odds, I have lived in this apartment in East Harlem longer than I've ever lived in any one place in my life. Is it mental super crazy to hang my hopes and feelings of security on a rental with psychotic landlords in one of the most expensive cities in the world? Oh yes. Please tell that to my inner child who is obviously batshit nuts.

As far as I can figure it, our short electrical outage, with all the accompanying sketchy weirdness (and which I am not at liberty to discuss) put me into some kind of tailspin. It threatened me on some deep unreachable level and threw me wildly off balance. Since then, and I mean every hour since then, I've been fighting to regain that balance. I know how it sounds, but there it is.

We've been looking for another place now every day for the last two weeks. This kind of apartment search here in NY is stressful at any time, but in this one, where the pressure is on to move, where we have the added pressure of finding a new day care for Nico in a city that is, I'm finding, uniformly family unfriendly, and that all of this needs to happen in tandem and as close to the first of the month as possible so we can give the appropriate notices to current day care providers and insane landlords all while planning for movers and going to work and caring for a baby and generally losing my shit - it takes the normal apartment hunting stress up a notch from Hair Tearing Level to Hyperventilating Madness. I'm not doing it justice. Guys, it's been awful.

Here are just some of things that have happened.

-We have come absurdly close, several times, to finding the whole package (the day care, the apartment with enough space for our things not in a five floor walk-up that also allows a cat and doesn't have an astronomical fee or the wrong move-in date) only to have everything fall through.

-We almost sprang for this insanely expensive place that was going to stretch our resources to their limits because it was this super spacious, crazy gorgeous two bedroom/two bathroom in a doorman elevator building two blocks from the park in Central Harlem, but then the broker told us at the last minute that there was a salary cap and we were all "salary cap? We probably make it between the two of us, no problem!" and he was all "Um, no, like you can't be above it or you can't even apply for the apartment?" to which we were all "So let us get this straight - we can barely afford this place and will have to spin our own cloth to make clothes and use half our savings just to manage it and we make too much to even apply? By $30k?" Sometimes NY real estate makes me feel like killing everyone.

-I got pink eye, from god knows where, then I got a horrendous virus that prompted my doctor to (eventually) load me up with a Z-pac, Motrin, Sudafed AND cough syrup with Codeine. I gave pink eye to Nico. He had to be pulled out of day care. We had to take off work. He got over the pink eye, but then I got it again. His day care was closed for "staff development" so we had to take an additional two days off, directly after our vacation, making us wildly popular with bosses and coworkers alike.

-I had no Internet at the office due to this massive virus there and then when it finally came back we had an Internet and cable outage at home that couldn't be fixed for five days because Time Warner inexplicably put the thing they needed to get to in order to fix the cable inside a public school? And it was closed for Easter vacation? And so they couldn't get in? And then they credited our account $24? But can you really put a price on my crazy Internet addiction being denied in one way or another over the course of 10 days? (You can: they just haven't invented that many zeroes yet.)

-So basically now, today, it all fell through again. We had the apartment. We had the board package well on its way, complete with three (three!) personal letters of reference each (each!) and a letter from our landlord
(he won't give us heat, but he'll write us a letter?) and two months back financial statements for all of our bank accounts and 401k's and various other nonsense. We had the day care visit lined up. All it had to be was OK. There didn't need to be miniature ponies or a butterfly garden. It just needed to be clean and staffed by smiling people and stocked with happy babies. But guys. It wasn't. It just wasn't. The caretakers didn't smile. When the woman giving us the tour opened the door to each room, the babies rushed it with their arms up, every last one of them trying to escape and maybe grab some attention into the bargain. It felt wrong. It felt wrong and it was our only option. They wanted a $1400 deposit just to accept our application.

Needless to say, we've withdrawn our apartment application. It is back to the drawing board. Again. And I am beginning to hate the inside of our apartment as much as I hate the outside.

And here's the thing: no one knows all of this. I mean. You know now. But until now, no one knew. For some reason, through all of this, I've just retreated further and further away from the people I usually turn to for support. I can't explain it but me, ME, the big talker, the big sharer...as soon as I even consider discussing this my throat closes up, I feel so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. The idea of sharing this burden seems ludicrously impossible.

And as I'm writing all this, I'm seeing how small it all is, how petty and manageable it seems now that it is all down in writing and, honestly, that makes the level of discomfort and hopelessness I've been feeling even scarier.

I have lots of fun stuff lined up for this week. But I had to exorcise this first. I'm just so mad at myself and at Rob and even at New York City itself for making our desires to live in a decently sized apartment in a safe neighborhood so laughably impossible. More than that though, Nico deserves a mommy who won't fall apart over something like this. Rob deserves a partner who won't abandon him over something this small. It's my job to get to the bottom of why this happened and thankfully I know where to start, but I'm a little scared of what I'm going to find.

OK, that's it. I'm done now.

Drunken Hung Shao Pork With Steamed Greens And Fragrant Rice

2011-04-26T11:38:00.000-04:00

I don't know how it is with you and your friends, but when we meet up with our friends, especially in a different country and particularly if we haven't seen them in a while, we make a point of eating and drinking to excess. Well, I do anyway. Mostly Rob just rolls his eyes at me or says things like "SIX BOTTLES? HOW can two people drink SIX BOTTLES?" - to which I say "MAGIC, my good sir. Magic, sheer determination, and scary genetic histories combined!"

Sala, Peter and I go way back. Not decades, but it feels that way. We met at a certain University where a certain someone met a certain somebody else and they are going to get all wedded up on Friday, if you are picking up what I'm putting down. Our invitations, tragically, were lost in the mail. Sala and I were both big fans of long blond hair, high heels and red coats back in our college days. Pete supported this glamorous behavior, added to it a profound love of sunglasses indoors and also shared our tendency towards copious, debaucherous, sometimes horrifying drinking. We've all chilled out considerably now, and Sala and I are also both moms to young boys, but we kicked it old school during my visit, which mostly means we acted irresponsibly and then had to care for small babies with brain shattering hangovers. (Lucky Pete turned in early.) So, clearly we have learned nothing. An exciting testament to our personal development.

Sala and I had big plans to cook together too, along with all that eating and drinking. Dinner came out late both nights (due to all the aforementioned tippling), but if you can't serve your husbands and best Pete food at 9 PM...who can you serve dinner...that late...to? (That sentence got out of hand, but you get what I mean.)

I've been after Sala to send me the recipe she used, (which you can find in it's original, unadrunkulated form here), but when she finally did send it to me along with her copious amendments and alterations, I couldn't very well post the original. And so, without further ado:

Drunken Hung Shao Pork With Steamed Greens and Fried Rice
Adapted (in a leisurely fashion and with plenty of wine) from Delia Smith's Winter Collection

"OK the actual recipe is here - http://www.deliaonline.com/recipes/cuisine/asian/chinese/hung-shao-pork-waitrose.html

We had fried rice instead and different greens, with the pork I changed quantities and cooking method.

I cooked the pork belly whole and marinated it for about 8hours first. (This was only so I could focus on drinking rather than cooking.)

I halved the soy sauce and doubled the water (some reviews said it was too salty with that much soy) and I used the cinnamon sticks whole as some reviews said they were too gritty broken up. I also dusted with chinese five spice very liberally and with sichuan peppercorns whole as well as whole star anise, double what the recipe asks for. Plus I used way more ginger to really cover up the pork. This all sat in a Tupperware in the fridge til supper time.

I did cook it skin side down for 45mins at 180 and didn't stir as the recipe suggests but just let it simmer covered.

After 45mins, I removed the skin to make crackling in a hot oven and I cut the pork into chunks mixed in the wine and sugar and really scraped the bottom of the pan to make sure all the flavour got into the sauce. Then kept it cooking at 180 but with the lid off stirring; scraping occasionally to make the sticky sauce.

Again, I used the oven rather than the stove top as it needed less attention and there was important drinking/chatting to be done."

This is a woman with her priorities firmly in order.

Home Again Home Again Jiggity-Jig

2011-04-25T12:33:00.001-04:00

I think we swanned back from our trip dramatically enough, don't you? We've thrown open the doors accompanied by a crack of thunder while wearing a voluminous red cape and one emphatically arched eyebrow. Housing drama! Career confusion! Illness! Actual thunder! Pink eye! Pink eye again! Internet disasters at home and abroad! NEW YORK! WE ARE RETURNED! LOOK ON YOUR PRODIGAL RESIDENTS AND DESPAIR!

I'd hate for all this life-noise to obscure our trip, which was fantastic, or the many foodstuffs and adventures we had while visiting London and Cremona, which I'm dying to share with you. I'm just all kinds of fuzzy from this cold, which is making it difficult to concentrate on writing. (Man, I wish I was still high on DayQuil like I was the other day. That was fun. Nothing like taking cold medicine for the first time in a year and a half to make you feel like a special guest at Studio 54. I'm fairly certain I flew to work. And then I picked up a car and threw it at the Met Life Building. Don't worry, I missed. My laser vision is a bit off.)
Anyway, London was amazing. I get the same feeling every time I land there: that I'm finally where I'm supposed to be. Everything makes sense to me there; I can find the right aisle in the market EVERY TIME. Everything smells right, even familiar, in a way it never has for me anywhere else. I prefer tea to coffee. I know this sounds crazy, and it may be residual goofiness from the cold medicine talking, but it is, I think, my real home, and someday I'll get there, and drag my little family along with me.

So let's start with London then.

One of my favorite parts about visiting friends who live in other cities is that they aren't afraid of a good walk. New Yorkers are walkers by trade, even if they do something else to earn their paychecks, and we often find that out of town guests are shocked at an amount of walking we take for granted. London is a terrific town for walking, particularly if you happen to be in the south east part of town, where you might get to wander through Borough Market.

Forget your farmer's markets people. REPENT. Borough Market makes the Union Square Farmer's Market look like a sad and paltry bodega. If I could, I would take up residence in the rafters. They would call me the Fantom Foodie, and blame the stupid spelling on the fact that I'm American.

Take a gander at The Borough Market's wikipedia page, you'll see that mentions of the market go back to 1276. If that isn't sufficiently impressive, check out some of the (highly illegal!) pictures I took while there.

I quizzed my friend Sala about food in England while we wandered around with our little boys, about the English interest in what she called "provenance". Turns out they are just as invested in knowing the origins of the food they eat - down to the breed of pig.

The United Kingdom gets a bad rap for food internationally, but I can say without reservation that I've eaten some of the best food of my life in England (and in Scotland for that matter), and Sala's local market (the less high end of two) has a pate section that would make both Dean and Deluca blush.

Everything was just so...beautiful. So lovingly crafted. So available. So reasonably priced.

The truth is I am painfully jealous of this market and the people who have proximity to it. I spent a lot of time on the trip wondering, as I often do when out of this country, when we got so complacent about our food. Who said it was OK to fill our grocery stores with garbage? Who made the new rules whereby only the wealthy can afford food that is seasonal and free of pesticides? At what point did the person saying "I don't care if this tomato tastes like shit, as long as I can get a tomato in the dead of winter." become the loudest voice? There is just something so staggeringly unfair about it all. Our produce, our choices...they are a disgrace. Yogurt in a tube. Woody, stiff broccoli. Characterless, identical baby spinach leaves plastered against the side of plastic bags. Snack packs of tasteless pudding. Electric yellow chickens. Mushy, flavorless grapes. Hard, tart berries. No wonder we're in the state we're in as far as obesity rates go - the only food that tastes good is the stuff that's been manufactured to do so in a lab. And even then it is never enough. We have to eat more and more of it just to recreate the satisfying pleasure of a single, perfect, ripe bite of real food.

Am I being a little dramatic? Of course. I wouldn't be me if I weren't. Does this really just come down, in part, to my rampant Anglophilia? Obviously. But I can't help but wonder why good food in America is just so damned expensive, so classist in a way. It just seems to me that we stack the deck against health and enjoyment and flavor when that happens. Who does it serve? And how? And how can we turn it all around?

And where can I get me some lunchtime duck confit for $7, because I will meet you there and the mulled wine is on me.

Roughing It: Yogurt Style

2011-04-18T19:40:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was hard, no doubt, but today is another day. Let's make like suppressed people and pretend that everything is ok while misery and unrest seethes underneath, mkay?

(Not to mention I had a total "Where are my sunglasses?" moment yesterday when reader, Susan, pointed out: "On your head, idiot.", or rather more sweetly put:

"also - not in any way to minimise your really crappy and stressful situation but when my milk dried up I had some pretty crazy hormonal dips in my moods so some of the bleak depression may be connected to that xx"

You mean my crazy totally out-of-character crying jags could be based on something obvious and classifiable like my milk drying up? Which probably should have occurred to me and would have made me feel SO much better pretty much immediately?

*Smacks head.* *Repeatedly.* *Until there is a divot.*)

It was this realization as well as a couple of well timed conversations and kind wishes that pulled my bleak mood up to merely "sad" yesterday. That's called progress. Thank you.

That and another event, also the gift of a friend in a way - helped refocus me too. That event was really more of a recommendation, specifically regarding this book: The Wilder Life: My Adventures in the Lost World of Little House on the Prairie.

I wrote a bit about my obsession with Laura Ingall's Wilder in my Charcutepalooza post last week, specifically about my once rich tween fantasy life wherein I would "show her around"* - my exact words. Well, it turns out I am not alone.

Wendy McClure writes:

"For a while I had a close imaginary relationship with the Laura of On the Banks of Plum Creek, who felt closest to my age in those books. I was eight or nine; I had knowingly conjured her up to talk with her in my head. I daydreamed that she'd shown up in the twentieth century and I had to be her guide.

I've discovered from talking to friends that this was a common desire. My friend Amy, for instance, wanted to "show her around"* (that was the exact phrase she says she remembers using: show her around). Surely a fantasy this specific must mean something."

(*Oh. Wow.)

Besides the fact that there are a bunch of late twenty to thirty-something year old women out there who have a bizarre shared fantasy life involving bringing a frontier child, a specific frontier child to McDonalds? (Which, evidently, is exactly what McClure's friend, Amy, wanted to do - and one of the many places I remember wanting to bring Laura once she arrived in 1987.)

Anyway, it got me thinking, as these sorts of things often do, and I started to wonder if this early obsession with the Little House books was at all contributing to my current situation. I mean, I do have a tendency to value situations in which I need to "make do". Maybe that's why I love the city so much - all the struggle of the prairie, but with, like, dry cleaners. It may also contribute to my blind hatred of the suburbs. I've often said that if I didn't live in the city I'd want to live in the country, with a barn and chickens and some land. That way Pa Rob and I could strike out on the prairie with our little ones in tow and carve a mark into the world (all probably still conveniently close to a dry cleaner.) The suburbs, by contrast, turn all that lean into fat. Stretches of highway couched by furniture stores and Targets. I mean: Cheesecake Factories. Is there anything more decadent than a restaurant with super sized portions whose name evokes a conveyor belt of massive cheesecakes? (In my imagination the factory walls have cellulite and the whole place smells like what it would stink of if cheese had B.O.)

But I'm getting away from myself.

This Prairie Thang may also explain, at least in part, my love of cooking, and my obsession with making things "from scratch". I find recipes for staple items like bread, butter, pasta...stuff like that...fascinating. You aren't just making a recipe. You are making a THING.

I was dubious when I first read about making yogurt over on Rebecca's blog, but when I read that Kristin was doing it too? That made me think.

Kristin may live on a farm, but she does not write a cooking blog. I know this because I used to have her in my "food" blog roll and she called me out on it. She knows more about growing and storing food than anyone I know - an enviable amount, but she has expressed her dislike of complicated recipes on more than one occasion. We are both Capricorns and have a borderline obsessive love of potatoes. We both have brand new little boys. She is sort of my upstate sister from another mister. If she was rocking yogurt skills...maybe I could too?

Making yogurt wasn't easy at first. I used the recipes referenced by both the ladies above and ended up with batch after batch of...not yogurt. White slop? Goopy half fermented milk? These were not my finest moments of cooking.

The recipe that finally worked for me is a sort of combination of many things I found online, and, with it, I can make pitch perfect yogurt every time. I've learned that yogurt making, like bread making I imagine, has a lot to do with where you are. How much humidity hangs out around your yogurt making space. What kind of flora and fauna are flying around in your air. Where your coziest corners lie.

For me, this is what worked best.

STL's East Harlem Culture

1 quart whole milk
1 pot of your favorite yogurt - a little one

START OUT WITH A CLEAN SINK
1 pot that fits a quart of milk
Two trays of ice cubes on the ready
2 or 3 containers for your yogurt, be they tupperware or glass - with tight fitting lids
A large pot or cooler or otherwise coverable container that fits your yogurt receptacles in a single layer

Pour your quart of milk into a pot that fits it and heat over medium high heat, stirring every so often, until it hits about 180 degrees. This first step is to ensure that you kill off any nasty bacteria that might be living in the milk.

While you are heating the milk, plug your sink and fill it with cold water - dump in the ice. We lost that thingie that makes the sink plug, so I put down a washcloth and then one of the plastic cutting boards that always clogs the sink up when it shifts down underneath dishes. (WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, CUTTING BOARD!?)

When the milk reaches 180, immediate move the pot to the iced water. Stir the milk and continue to measure until it reaches 120. Don't forget to keep stirring, the ice bath can create pockets of cool and warm. If you leave it and don't stir it you might find upon stirring that you weren't getting an accurate reading.

As this is happening (there is a lot of this in this recipe. Lots of simultaneously activity, for all of your one million hands.) heat a large quantity of water to 120 degrees. Hold it there while your milk cools.

Once the milk is at 120, remove the pot from the ice bath, add in your container of yogurt, and stir vigorously.

Pour immediately into the waiting yogurt containers, cover, place in a single layer in your large pot/cooler/whatever and then pour in your 120 degree water up to the bottom lip of the lids. This may take some fiddling, as you don't want too much or too little water.

Once your water is in, cover the pot, stick it in a place with no draft (I even put a clean dish towel in between the top of the pot and the lid to seal it up nice) and wait about 6 hours. You can go do other stuff. Go on. Seriously, it's fine.

After 6 hours, stick your jars/containers of (now) yogurt in the fridge overnight.

In the morning you will spoon lovely yogurt into your bowl.

As an added delicious step you can drain the yogurt in a cheesecloth for a few hours to get a thicker, Greek-style yogurt (my preference and totally worth the extra step.)

Ma would be so proud.

There's No Crying In Real Estate

2011-04-17T11:55:00.000-04:00

The blogging world is a strange one.

At some point, I'm not even quite sure when, I made the choice to write a blog not totally about food, not totally about restaurants and not totally about New York, but totally about me.

My story of Me.

The choice of subject matter comes with benefits and drawbacks - as is the case with almost everything. On the one hand I can rock this subject a bit because I know me, quite well. Me and I, you could say were are very close.

I know where me lives. I know me's favorite topics and favorite color (and secret favorite color). I can comfortably claim to be a "Me" expert. A Me-xpert, perhaps. (But then again, perhaps not.)

The considerable downside is that sometimes, when things aren't so hot, I find myself pulling back a bit, unable and unwilling to share too much because I don't want to be needy or whiny or boring. Because I don't want to admit to how foolish and pointless and fruitless my life can feel sometimes. Because I hate the idea of fishing for pity comments, but hate the idea even more of only receiving two or three.

You know what I mean, right?

This week has been, in a word, terrible. Trying. Frustrating. Sad. Fucking lengthy.

No one died (for which I am grateful) and my city wasn't subject to a catastrophic event (about which we are all, I'm sure, both grateful and pleased).

Nope. Instead I have a camera full of pictures of Italy to share with you (omg pooor meeee, my golden cowboy boots are sooooo shineeeeee), not to mention some very exciting recipes and food stories, but all I can think or write about is our stupid living situation. And how stupid it is. And how stupid I feel.

Basically we've been apartment hunting in NYC for the past week which is, for those of you who haven't experienced it, the worst thing you can do with your time. I thought it was pretty awful when I first moved to the city in 2002, and Gillain and I were dashing around Chinatown with seedy weirdos who would pressure us to sign on 500 square foot 4th floor walk-ups *competitively priced!* at $1350/month - the sketchiness only matched by the pervasive stench of the food rotting on the street below.

If you had asked me then if I thought it would be just as hard, harder even, at 31, I would have scoffed. Way too horrifying a prospect and very unlikely to a 22-year old; that their impossibly old and grown-up future self would have anything but a fabulously successful life. That's just what happens to you when you get older, right? That's the compensation for no longer having an effortlessly fantastic ass. You get to have polished clothing and nice apartments and some vague dream-like job wherein you gaze out office windows and help your underlings with a firm and gentle mentoring hand while they look at you with unmitigated respect and adoration.

Ask me now, why don't you, what I see in the future. Right now? I see a whole lot of settling. A great deal of struggle. Slowly dawning realizations of time gone by and chances spent and opportunities lost. A body I don't recognize. A job that makes me feel bad about myself on a daily basis. An apartment where my electric can get shut off at the whim of a mad landlord whose best interests couldn't be further from my own.

I see this because we can't move. That much is obvious from this past week of looking. (And the previous 6 months or so too - it isn't like we give up after a week.) We are probably stuck here. In this horrible neighborhood. In this bad situation. There are a few more options and avenues still to pursue, but it isn't looking good. It isn't even looking possible. It just looks bleak.

The good news is I can be a bit of a drama queen, and like Nico when he is choking on a bit of cookie (he makes this horrible hacking noise and looks at me like he is dying and then resumes chewing as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened - great fun), I can recover very quickly given the right change of the wind.

I'd be lying though, if I said this past week, and my relative silence, is to do with anything other than a bit of depression over here.

My goal today is to stop crying. To try to have some fun with Nico. To forgive myself and understand that a week like I've had would make any nursing mother's milk dry up entirely, so it's ok that mine did. Maybe try to figure out how to make Zwieback toasts without sugar so the little guy has something new to half-choke and half-chew on. Mostly I want to try to find some angle, any angle, where life looks pretty again. Perhaps looking through my blessings (the fact that I have a job, that I have my health, that I have such a beautiful little boy and incredible, supportive husband who puts up with a cuckoo crying wife) will distort everything back to where it needs to be. I keep waiting for the up-swing.

Smells like depression, doesn't it. The unmistakable, horrible, smothering stink of it.

Yuck.

Charcutepalooza: Smoker's Pork

2011-04-15T10:09:00.000-04:00

The section on smoking in our Charcuterie textbook has a passing reference to Little House on the Prairie. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Droskowski, read Little House to our class in the school garden over the course of the year and I remember the feeling of sitting there, in full mouth-breathing fascination, soaking in every moment of this little girl's life. I became pretty obsessed with the books, which for me, means I lived and breathed them. I do extremes very, very well.

I've mentioned this bit of weirdness here before, but this introduction to chapter book reading spawned a weird day-dream type fantasy that I carried into my tweens. Basically, Laura Ingalls (not Wilder yet) would somehow show up in our time and place and it would be my responsibility to show her around and take care of her. I would day-dream about introducing her to supermarkets and cars, planes and department stores - all the things that would render her wood-chopping, bear-hunting, calico-buying lifestyle a quaint, if a bit silly, folly. She would look around in wonder. She would think I was a magician. I would be her GOD. Weird, yes. But when you consider that tweens now are giving each other bj's and doing the meth, a pretty harmless bit of weirdness at that.

I never imagined then that Laura could show me a thing or two when it came to meat preservation, and I certainly didn't think that smoking meat would be so easy to do in my Manhattan apartment, or that it would yield such tremendously surprising and delicious results.

Rather than braving the elements, (sorry, Pa), we rigged up a smoker inside our home using a wok and some wood we bought on Amazon. You can read more about that method here. Luckily, our great chef friend Shai was literally "in the house" and he gave us the guidance and encouragement we needed to stick to the smoking, even when it started to look scary. "If it isn't scary, it isn't working", he said...and I paraphrase, but only slightly.

I mean, basically? You are, like, lighting a fire in your house? Like...there is wood on fire on your stove? There was surprisingly little smoke, but the smoke that did escape smelled distinctly of danger. I was freaked out. I had no idea what was going to happen when, forty minutes after starting - only forty minutes! - we peeled back the foil to see what all the danger had wrought.

I was shocked then and am still shocked now to report a perfectly cooked pork loin, absurdly smokey and with its spicy coating, a grand and complimentary accompaniment to our slow cooked red cabbage. A little wood, a little wok, a little foil and a little knowledge, combined to make easily the most succulent and juicy and perfectly cooked pork loin I've ever had.

If only Laura could see me now.

Before We Return To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

2011-04-14T06:36:00.000-04:00

This will be a rant and a rave so if you aren't in the mood to hear someone with veritable piles of blessings bitch that her golden cowboy boots are too shiny, this would be a good time for a nap.

(Oh god. What I wouldn't do for a nap.)

I'm sitting here, ~~starving~~ very hungry, without a working stove. I would call my landlord, but I don't have his number, and he (both of them) have made it pretty clear in the past that they aren't very interested so much in lording over the land as in me shutting the fuck up. Sometimes they will lord a little bit in order to attain the latter state.

We had big plans for Tuesday - big plans that it is likely only the parents among you will understand. We were going to spend the day together. The whole day. Not just dinner while Nico was with a Grandmother or friend. The DAY. Nico would go to daycare and we would spend the morning wandering around after breakfast and then going home engaging in luxurious, unspeakable behaviors, like "napping" and "showering for more than 5 minutes" and "starting a task and then completing it." We're wild I tell you. WILD.

But, instead of that, we came home from our (admittedly) awesome NYC diner breakfast to find that our electricity was out - not only in our apartment but in the entire building. Welcome Home Jerks!

I could tell you the whole story. It is long winded and full of intrigue, lies and criminal behavior, but just settle for knowing that it was another chapter in my now 5 year long history workingly titled: Get Me The Fuck Out Of This Building And Away From My Seedy Landlords. Suffice it to say we ended up spending the morning in a Starbucks on 96th and Lexington while Rob feverishly searched for a new apartment and I barely held back tears. Why so dramatic, you ask? Well, this isn't just about the apartment. It's about the fact that right now life turned out really different than I thought it would. My personal life is peachy keen, but my fiscal existence is sort of pathetic, mostly because we make the outrageously foolish choice to live in New York City - the ultimate object of my grand love hate relationship (one sided, naturally). I feel trapped. We can move out of New York and into a bigger place but that feels like a trap. We can move into a smaller place in a better neighborhood and get rid of half our stuff if we also want to pay another 50% on top of a rent that would so traumatize any non-New Yorkers in the readership I will not name numbers here - and that feels like a trap too...and an expensive one.

We can't leave the northern part of Manhattan because of Rob's work so that limits us to living in expensive places or dangerous places, with very little middle ground. And right now, with the way that I feel about NY (on the downside of the aforementioned love/hate situation), finding that there aren't any apartments right for us is sort of like being rejected by someone you weren't even interested in. (That is one fine passive sentence, no?)

I'm confused. I'm terrified that we'll make the wrong decision. I just know I don't want to go through this again in two month's time, or one month's time, or whenever they next decide to throw some sort of crazy wrench into our living arrangements.

Without Nico it might be different. We might be able to shrug it off as an annoyance and order Chinese food (if there was anyplace nice that delivered in East Harlem, which there isn't). But with him it's a different story.

So I'm sitting here, after a third nearly sleepless night with a jet lagged baby screaming in protest over our flagrant misuse of time zones (our bad), a minor back injury due to some rage stomping over a poorly timed episode of Our Downstairs Neighbor Makes Outrageously Loud Sexy Noises (um...my bad), and I have nothing to eat. They know about the stove being broken, they just don't care.

To repeat: Our landlords know we have no way to cook things on our stove-top.

They just. Don't. Care.

The piles of recipes I had for you this week (all stove-top)! Light sautes and pasta sauces inspired by Italy, mostly, but I was going to be prolific!

Oh the things that would've been.

Hold me? Tell me everything is going to be OK? Who does that for the mommy and daddy when that's the mommy and daddy's job?

Rob Is About To Have The Bestest Vacation EVER

2011-04-03T09:46:00.000-04:00

Well, it's really happening.

We are really taking an 8 month old on a flight to London, a flight to Milan and then a 9 HOUR FLIGHT back to New York. We aren't dosing him with Robitussin, as so many friends and strangers have so sweetly suggested, and I'm not dosing me with Xanax. We will be very sober, all of us, and thusly very aware of any and all havoc we wreak on the travel experiences of other passengers and the fact that we are traveling in a metal bucket 40,000 feet in the air - a realization that led me merrily into a full-on panic attack back in 2002 negating years of good traveling experiencing and rendering me a sniveling mess on a plane unless medicated by anti-anxiety pills and at least two glasses of wine.

So. This should be interesting.

Maybe don't look for posts in this space for the next week or so - though I may surprise you. The web is world wide after all.

Stay well, and say hi to Spring for me if she shows up. Tell her I waited as long as I could and that tardiness, for future reference, is unacceptable.

Arrivederci!

Blaising Isabellas: Top Chef Finale Part The Second

2011-03-30T15:52:00.002-04:00

A Song of Ice and Quickfire

2011-03-30T11:31:00.000-04:00

OH HI!

I have two things to discuss with you in lieu of speaking about what is really going on which is a full on panic attack over a certain MTA bus driver who is continuing to harass me despite my best efforts to remain unharassed. The MTA's awesome advice? "Take a different bus."

No. Really.

It is basically the administrative equivalent of "If it hurts when you do that, DON'T DO IT."

*slow clap for the MTA*

Let's move away from this topic before I have ~~another~~ rage stroke, shall we? WALK WITH ME!

I've been thinking a lot lately about the awesomeness that is A Game of Thrones. Mostly I've been thinking about it because of the Beatles-like-hysteria-inducing trailers and teasers and still shots HBO keeps depositing throughout the Internet like so much mental frosting. (With sprinkles! And those little silver things that look like metal but taste like shitty candy! But better and with more swords!)

I wrote a post about A Song of Ice and Fire (the overarching title for the series that begins with A Game of Thrones ) but now I can't find it because Google is broken. Suffice it to say it was a rave, a rave I stand by, as this is by far the most entertaining book series I have ever read (and yes, I say that acknowledging Harry Potter with a gentle nod - they are that good.)

George R. R. Martin (the author) and I weren't getting along for a while because it took him something like 7 years to write the follow up to the 4th book, but now that this book (A Dance with Dragons ) has an actual release date (July 11) we are friends again. Maybe more than friends. Maybe friends with benefits. (The benefits being that if he continues to be a good little genius and write these books I will not have to get the Wagoneer warmed up and air out my cabin in Maine, if you know what I'm saying.) (That's creepy, and I don't mean it really. Though I would totally whisk G.R.R.M. up to a cabin in Maine if only to ply him with some nice wine and make him tell me secrets about the series that only he knows.) (Still creepy? Oh well. I just love these books is all.) I am nerding out over the prospect of the television show to a shocking degree. What is the all growed up version of "Squee"? Is it more genteel and mature if I say it with a pipe or something? "Squee with pipe." There. LOVE THIS SERIES AND I'M SO EXCITED!

And speaking of love, don't we all love a good Top Chef finale? We live blogged the first part last week with the help of some good Internet friends and we plan to log on again tonight for some fun Mikey bashing. I'm tentatively nicknaming tonight's episode: Blais of Glory, though I'm toying with The Art of the Blais or possibly Dangerous Blaisons. So looking forward to it! I'll see you there, right?

Serious Baby Eats

2011-03-29T11:56:00.003-04:00

Just yesterday I was writing to a friend about the foods Nico has eaten since, just a few short months ago, we started his journey into good eats. Even I, who have been there every step of the way, was shocked at all this kid has ingested. So, I thought I'd compile a little presentation!

(God I love charts and presentations! CHARTS AND LISTS! Color coded! Alphabetized! Stacks of things, even on the sides and all the same color, like polo shirts at Brooks Brothers! This is why I can't even go to Uniqlo because I'm afraid I'll want to move there. I eat my Skittles in color order but only after laying them out and counting all of them! Don't worry guys, I have this OCD thing WAY under control! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!)

You know we started with avocado, but here's where we went:

That's a lot of food for such a little guy!

As we get ready to head out on our trip I am once again faced with the fact that buying some baby food would make the trip infinitely easier. I'm so proud of what we've accomplished so far, (even though it has been dead easy, and I feel silly being proud of something that took so little effort) and it feels bad to have to give up another streak.

Rob and I spend approximately one hour a week preparing food for Nico, and much of that is waiting for something to steam or cook - and so could hardly be considered active preperation time. Once we've steamed, cooked or mashed, we usually set some of whatever we've made aside to use immediately and then freeze the rest using these (excellent) Beaba Food Storage Trays. These trays are awesome, make the perfect size for Nico for a single meal, and are easy to use. (We started out using ice cube trays but it was too hard to get the food out once it froze and we ended up wrecking a bunch of trays and wounding ourselves on plastic ice-tray shards before we learned our lesson.) Beaba. Not so much for the food maker, but I do love their storage trays.

(This is mango in the mango colored Beaba. Where does it end and where does it begin!? It is like one of those paintings with the hands drawing themselves or that staircase picture or something.)

Anyway, I'm thinking of buying some ready-made baby food for the upcoming trip and have no idea what to get! This article has a lot of helpful information, but I'm nervous about bringing frozen baby food on the plane - and - quite frankly, if I'm bringing frozen baby food I may as well bring my own. Chances are that Nico will only need to eat once on the actual plane, if at all. I'd love to have something for him to snack on, but he doesn't really snack yet what with the no teeth thing, and, as you can see above, I haven't given him grains yet, so the dreaded Puffs would be out anyway.

So, good readerly readers - I defer to you. How would you handle this one?

Inquiring eaters want to know.

("Hi all! Here I am lounging in my posture squisher! The Stokke is over by the window, preening and sunning and looking at itself in a little high-chair mirror and writing autobiographical love poetry. Guess I'll just ask someone to clean up my face and take a nap.")

Red Rooster, NYC

2011-03-28T13:09:00.001-04:00

I don't really write reviews anymore - mostly because I don't like playing critic. Life is too short. I'm too hungry. Picking people apart makes me grumpy.

Mostly, my years and years working in restaurants (remember, I grew up above my parents place and was put to work as soon as I could walk) and experiences as a cook have made me at once deeply compassionate to certain slip-ups that might really bother people and overly prickly about other things that a regular person, a person without restaurants in their blood, might not even notice. As a result I have odd biases.

The former bus-girl in me loathes a dirty dish left on the table, but understands an empty water glass. The former hostess bemoans an empty front desk, but understands when people get flustered with a back-up at the door. The former waitress applauds an open kitchen with a controlled chef calmly requesting "Service", but has no patience for a server who doesn't check back once the food is dropped. The once bartender gets itchy at a drink order that takes more than ten minutes but will pretty much forgive anything else because "YAY!!! BOOOOZE!!!". So much of whether a restaurant is good or bad depends upon the person judging it,is my point. It just turned into too big and unwieldy a responsibility for me, the whole review thing, which is why I stopped writing them here a long time ago.

But. But. And.

I am particularly biased when it comes to restaurants in Harlem. Maybe it is because I've lived there for ten years (this October - I can't believe it) and I'm so desperate for a great neighborhood place I am at once too willing to overlook imperfections and then, later, too quick to throw my hands up in despair over how lightning fast most of the places in our neighborhood devolve into food pandering and absentee service and other odd practices. How the food slips. How the hours become irregular. And then, eventually, without fail, how they close.

This can be, of course, the plight of a restaurant anywhere, but Harlem seems particularly fraught when it comes to these pitfalls - and I can't think of a neighborhood in NYC that could benefit more from a truly great restaurant. Something new. Something that represents "becoming" instead of "was".
I'm not going to be all messianic about Red Rooster, because, I guess, time will tell. What I will say: it FELT optimistic. It FELT undefeated. It felt and looked like a place that was just being itself, and being great. Integrating a sense of the chef with affectionate nods to the neighborhood, but without the messiness of being a "Harlem" restaurant.

Sure, there was fried chicken (billed yard bird - a nice nod to the past) and some really excellent collards (with ginger and garlic!), but there were also (adorable) corn tacos and tostadas with a ceviche of yellowtail. Prosciutto wrapped figs and marcona almonds with a blue cheese cream, sprinkled with a chiffonade of basil and mint. The food was elevated, but my sense of it was one of playful inclusion. Let's eat all the good stuff. Some of that and some of this and that stuff too.

The menu was a lot like our communal table. Where David Chang might have squeezed a good ten people (one of the reasons I usually loathe sitting like this) we were seated with four others. We had elbow room. We weren't living in each other's conversations. The wood table was stylish but casual, the leather place mats luxurious but also inescapably earthy. I didn't feel weird picking up a piece of my "yard bird" to get at a particularly delicious bit of fatty, crunchy crust, but it all still felt refined...special. The design of the place, reminiscent, for me, of DBGB Kitchen & Bar for some reason, included new art, clever re-imaginings of old art, and chalkboard walls painted with recipes and directions, some of which are recreations of Samuelson's grandmother's recipe notes. The bathroom was littered with old photos, or new photos made to look old, taped up and curling at the edges - completing the feel of the whole place, hard to nail down but best described as friendly. We aren't too cool, we aren't putting on airs, we're all just happy to be here - so let's eat.

At the end of the day, I'm just so glad this restaurant exists - where and when it does. I'm rooting for them. My fingers are crossed and my hopes are high. If they keep on going as they did last night, my encouragement shouldn't be necessary.

And now, for pictures. Which I still feel like a total doof taking, but hey, I do it for you.

(I want to cuddle these tiny tacos.)

Can you see the crust on this crab cake? It was Crunchy, capital C. It made my night.

The only misstep...the meatballs were intensely black-peppery, and, for us, not in a good way.

Can we just talk about how a great restaurant finally opened up walking distance from our apartment and we are, for the most part, not at leisure to run off to it on a whim? Is this irony? Or just new parenthood? Hoping we can bring ourselves there for brunch with Nico and try it out for baby-friendliness. Honestly? I feel like if we'd be welcome anywhere, it would be here.

Beefed Corn

2011-03-26T17:19:00.000-04:00

A little late this month with my personal painting portion of Charcutepalooza, but I've been busy, ok?

This weekend we made ramen and scones, baked cookies, filmed a cooking video, turned my regular homemade yogurt into greek yogurt, made baby food for the coming week, did laundry, made bread for the first time, took almost two hours of Italian lessons, made chicken stock, made lobster stock, hit Target, Costco and Old Navy for some pantry items, some baby items and some gift items (respectively) and we are getting ready to smoke a pork loin for dinner all the while showing Nico a rocking good time. When asked he said: "Best weekend ever, man. I wish I could do it all over again, and it's only 5:17 PM on Saturday! Woooooooooooooo!".

THERE ARE 24 USABLE HOURS IN EVERY DAY YOU KNOW.

Whatever. We had the last 30 years to relax.

Not As Stokked As I Wanted To Be

2011-03-25T12:22:00.001-04:00

I hate writing bummer posts. And I hate writing bummer posts on Fridays.

The sun is shining! The birds do chirp! And yet...

I have high chair drama and I feel compelled to share.

(Those of you who have zero interest in high chairs, drama, or customer service/mail order situations should probably take this time to re-organize their spice racks or perhaps to have a margarita. Mmmmmm. That sounds GOOD.)

Like many new parents out there, the one thing I knew I wasn't looking forward to when it came to our new addition was the veritable mountains of bright plastic nightmare furniture I knew were click-clacking their way into our lives. I recognize that plastic has many important uses in our modern world but it is, for the most part, an eyesore. I played with wooden blocks as a baby, had a wooden highchair, tore around the house dragging a wooden duck. I was determined that Nico would have as few plastic items as possible. But, as Kim Foster of The Yummy Mummy put it in the comments section last week:

"Parenting is all about saying you would never, never, never do something...and finding yourself not only doing it but realizing how completely naive, stupid and judgmental you were to even think about saying "never". This is going to happen constantly for the next 17 and a half years. Get used to it."
She is both beautiful and wise, no?

In some cases we caved in early and often. For instance, we quickly realized that the dirty looks the day care ladies were giving us were due to Nico's cloth bibs (in contrast with the wipe-cleanable plastic counterparts used by his peers.) We dutifully delivered some plastic bibs to his day care and even tried to use them at home before reverting to the imminently more comfortable and easily as convenient method of tying a bandana around his neck. (My little culinary cowboy.)

We were able to borrow the various swings and gyms that even I recognize are vital parents' helpers in the first few months of baby's life, particularly when mom is at home alone and needs to perform tasks like "going to the bathroom" and "staying hydrated" - but because they were loaners we were able to happily pass them back to the original owners when their use ran out. (Thanks X!) This is a terrific way to recycle, save money, and keep crap out of your house. I recommend it enthusiastically.

The high chair though, was going to be tricky. I couldn't bring myself to register for the ultra-expensive and chic Stokke or Svan chairs, so instead I opted for the far less expensive (and far less chic) Fischer Price Space Saver. It worked well, for about a month, but it soon became clear that Nico, future linebacker (and culinary cowboy) was too broad or too tall or too...something for the FPSS's cushy plastic mold. He just...didn't...fit...quite...right. He was always slouched over and sort of scrunched and just seemed deeply uncomfortable. This resulted in him getting fussy after some time in the chair, which often made mealtime difficult and resulted in tears. If I have any parenting goals I hold dear one is certainly to help Nico love meal-time as much as we do, so this was just not going to fly.

I resolved to buy the Stokke myself, not new (I quickly realized that most baby stuff can be purchased near new for an easy 50% price cut on Craigslist and eBay) but via Craigslist, understanding that to do so would come with headaches but to pay full price for the chair (over $300) would give me a different sort of headache.
After much back and forth I finally connected with a woman on Craigslist who had a green Stokke chair she was willing to part with for $100. I prevailed upon our dear friends Fast Alice and BD to drive to this woman's home, in Connecticut, and pick up the chair. They then brought said chair in to us in the city.

Now, Stokke has changed its design in the past few years, as far as I can tell, two times: once in 2006 and once in 2008. This may very well be wrong. I am very confused at this point. Anyway, chairs made before a certain date are appropriate for kids 18 months and up unless they are used in tandem with an insert. This insert changes depending upon the year the chair is made. Chairs made before a certain point use an insert called a "baby rail" (almost impossible to find online except for eBay) and chairs made after a certain point require a "baby set", available everywhere and in every color for about $60-$70.

We first bought the "baby set" (so, let's review so far: Chair $100 + Baby Set $70 = $170) from Babys-r-Us down near Union Square and happily brought it home only to find it didn't fit. A couple of calls and emails to Stokke confirmed that our chair was The Dreaded Pre-Baby-Set Design and that we would have to buy a baby rail instead. I bought the baby rail and returned the baby set with all the requisite bidding on eBay and running back and forth from downtown (respectively). I even bought a set of cushions on eBay to go with my new fancy chair (Chair $100 + (Baby Set $70 - Baby Set $70) + Baby Rail $49 + Cusions $30 = $179).

We got the baby rail in the mail. The baby rail didn't fit. Visions of having to put the baby rail back online and/or of throwing the chair and its various accoutrements into traffic on First Avenue danced through my head.

More calls and emails to Stokke and we concluded that the seat itself needed to be reset to factory standards so Rob got out the tool box and fooled around with it for a bit and we finally got the baby rail to fit. Whew.

Except not whew, because, and this is likely why the chair had its redesign and the introduction of the baby set - this chair is terrible at what it's designed to do, ie: keep a child in one place whilst he is being fed.

Nico is free to wiggle around to the point that he hit his head on the side of the chair last night. To be very clear, we aren't across the room when this is happening, we are right there with him. But, I mean, I have the old chair, right? So maybe it's an old chair situation and new chair is covered in rainbows and unicorn spit.

Uh-huh. Except, the newer iteration of the Stokke seems to have problems as well. Many reviews on Amazon cite difficulty getting their babies in and our of the chairs without lots of screaming and tears. Other reviewers counter that if the chair is "used properly" and you press this button or the other the baby set lifts and baby slides out easily, but I guess it depends on how willing you are to add extra steps to make something work that is supposed to be adding ease to your life. ("Press the right buttons! Don't upset Chair! Someone get Chair an Evian, 60 degrees F and 5,000 brown M&M's!")

The Stokke, I should point out, is beautiful. It is wooden, it is sleek. It fits into our dining room beautifully. It just doesn't work. It is like the Ozzie Cat of chairs - lovely to look at, fabulous in theory, a total pain-in-the-ass in practice.)

One very important note: The customer service team at Stokke (particularly Vince) is everything their chair is not. They do exactly what they say they will, they are available and useful and helpful. They create ease - even for someone who bought the chair used and probably annoyed the hell out of them for several weeks.

I admit that this whole problem may have been avoided had I purchased the newest version of the chair at the full price (aside from the aforementioned problems in Amazon reviews). The chairs retail for about $230, and baby sets for about $60 (prices from Amazon.com). I have free shipping so I could have been out only $290 and, provided I didn't experience the same problems other parents had with ease of use and even tipping (!!), I might be very happy right now. As it was (and assuming my time is worth about $5/hr, which is pretty low if you ask me) I ended up spending $179 + (5 hrs * $5) for a grand total of $204 - for a chair that now sits off to the side in deference to the plastic, cushy, ugly, FUNCTIONAL high chair we had to pull back out of the closet.

Would I spend the $290 to see if my mind could be changed by the updated design? Or have I learned my lesson?

I think I'm not sure yet, as crazy as that sounds. I'm still not willing, through sheer stubborn will-it-to-workness, to give up on the Stokke . It's so preeeeettttttyyyyy.

And that, my friends, is a testament to Stokke's beautiful design, and how I can't seem to seperate the Chair Idea they sell from the Actual Chair that sits, unused, in the corner of our crowded apartment.

THAT is called good marketing on their part.

THAT is (possibly) called stupidity on mine.

Throwback Grapefruit

2011-03-24T09:38:00.001-04:00

J'adore grapefruit. Massively. Always have.

When I was little my mom would prepare it for me: sliced in half and then sectioned, once more with the knife around the outside and then a liberal sprinkling of otherwise verboten white sugar. I loved working my way around the wheel of fruit, pulling out each sour/sweet morsel, and then squeezing the rest into a glass.

I always was one for hard fought foods. Artichokes, pomegranates, peel and eat shrimp. Even as a kid I liked the sense of process involved, the very clear system of work and reward. Sometimes Rob works his way around the outside of an artichoke and doesn't eat the heart. I think this should be criminalized. (I may actually perform a citizens arrest next time - fair warning dear.)

Things worth having, I think, are worth some blood, sweat and tears. But, as Duckie, says, I'm a "pleasure delayer", and I recognize that not everyone shares this approach.

I took my inspiration for this recipe from Anne Stesney over at Good American Wife, specifically this post, which had the added bonus of being a very sweet homage to her husband. I've seen grapefruit prepared like this before, but until I saw her post it had honestly never occurred to me to fix it this way. There is something very Mad Men about it. Very old fashioned. And possibly, I thought, one of those things best left in the past.

A hot grapefruit. It sounds more like a gross sex-act than a tasty treat.

However, I had one of those giant bags of grapefruit from Costco I was trying to get through and a pile of people coming for brunch and the ardent desire to find more things I could spend a minimal amount of time on for the maximum amount of wow-factor, and this fit the bill nicely. I altered the recipe, as Anne's is one for dessert and I wanted something slightly less sweet and slightly more spicy, but it was still a delicious hit, and though we didn't, I imagine this juice squeezed into a glass would rock anyone's world.

Betty's Grapefruit with Fancy-Pants Cherries

OK, let's pantry raid for a second before we proceed. I always thought cinnamon was cinnamon was cinnamon until I was given really good, high quality cinnamon as a gift. This is something worth investing in. It will make your ginger snaps spicier and your mouth happy. The same goes for good quality maraschino cherries. I loved the balloon-red kind back in the day too, they couldn't put enough of those bad boys into my Shirley Temple (Ew. Not a euphemism...), but now I like the darker, deeper and more delicious (in my opinion) liquor-soaked cherries. They are amazing in Manhattans and would probably make a pretty terrific grown-up Shirley Temple too. I can't find the brand I have online, but these should do the trick.

2 grapefruit, split and sectioned
2 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons vanilla extract
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
1 teaspoon good ground cinnamon
4 high quality maraschino cherries

Mix the honey, vanilla, cardamom and cinnamon in a small bowl and smear over the top of each grapefruit. Stick them under a hot broiler for several minutes, maybe even ten, until the glaze melts into the fruit and the tops begin to brown. Place a single cherry in the middle and serve, proudly, possibly while wearing your best crinoline.

Live Blogging The Top Chef Finale

2011-03-23T15:42:00.002-04:00

Top Chef Finale!

Party In The MTA

2011-03-23T11:49:00.001-04:00

For out-of-towners, some explanation is likely required.

New Yorkers have a complicated relationship with the MTA, the ruling body of New York's complicated and drama fraught transportation network. It occurs to me that there is probably a local organization that elicits this particular brand of zealous exasperation in all towns both large and small but the MTA, like all things NYC, does it bigger, better and brighter. They hike prices with gleeful abandon, shamelessly, and almost every year. When the unlimited ride pass turned out to be too good of a deal at $86/month, they raised it up to $104 and suggested that they might put a limit on how many rides the unlimited pass could buy in the near future - making life for anyone who takes the subway more than twice a day...more complicated, to say the least. Many of you might remember the transit strike in 2004, when they shut down EVERYTHING (buses and trains) right before Christmas forcing people to walk to work in the freezing cold - and poor Rob to walk home over the Queensboro Bridge. They are like a poltergeist, or that part in the video game that randomly puts you back to the beginning of play. They are the embodiment of the thrown wrench.

I should say that all things considered we have very reliable public transportation in this city (see: Italy). Not to mention that, all things considered, the overall price is relatively low (see: the Oyster card in London). But I also happen to use the subway line that is consistently voted the most reliable and functional of the lot - so I may be speaking from my charmed mountaintop - which, quite frankly, is exactly how I like it.

Anyway, I'm on the bus Friday, like usual, but unlike usual I hear a voice come over the loudspeaker that says: "Ma'am. Sit down with your baby." Now, I've got Nico strapped to me in the Baby Bjorn and I'm so shocked (and so used to listening to authority figures without question) I re-arrange my many bag and wedge myself into one of the two or three available seats. We were all scrunched up. It made the rest of the ride really uncomfortable. And as I sat there, first surprised, and then fuming, a fellow passenger leaned over to me and said "Yeah. That was weird." That was all the prompting I needed to write down the bus number and store it away.

By yesterday, I had forgotten all about it, until I got back on the same bus and the same driver said "Ma'am. Sit DOWN with your baby." Except this time I didn't sit down. I declined to sit down. And he, in turn declined to move the bus. He took it so far as to tell me that if I didn't sit down I would have to disembark.

Now, by way of clarification, NYC buses don't swerve around the road. They don't buck and jump. There aren't seat belts. People stand all the time. There are times when I wish it were the rule to sit down if you are holding a baby or pregnant, because your fellow riders rarely think that is the case, and I spent many a bus trip standing on tired legs weighted down with a baby - but I did it, and I did it safely. There is also no rule in the MTA guidelines requiring mothers holding children to sit on the bus. If you have a stroller, in fact, you are required to remove your baby from the stroller and fold it up for the duration of the ride. Often this happens when there are no seats available, and this is actually fundamental in our choice to transport Nico in a carrier rather than a stroller or buggy. The only issue with the carrier is that it does make it difficult to sit - Nico is often much happier when we can stand and he takes full advantage of the swaying rumble of the bus to knock off to dreamland.

So anyway, I'm getting bullied by the crazy bus driver and then my favorite NY thing happened. As this guy is insisting on making me sit, the passengers of the bus, rather than getting irritated at me for the hold up, start to turn on the bus driver. They start to mutter at him and then yell and then demand he mind his business and drive. My lovely fellow passengers bullied this guy into getting a move on, and for that I am forever grateful. He even got off at 96th street to try to get some back up from an MTA official who, happily, told him to get back in his bus and drive.

I had to call the MTA today to lodge a complaint (which was as much fun as it sounds) and I was gratified by the equally horrified response of their complaint line rep. They are going to call the guy in for questioning, which I guess I should have realized would happen, but now I'm all guilty and stomach achy about giving him such a hard time, even though he was the one giving me a hard time and I'm being ridiculous and over thinking it, as usual.

It's just hard enough raising a baby in this city without people sit shaming you, you know?