Hey, Jeet Yet?

Spinning a New Yarn

2009-06-11T22:04:00.015-04:00

Dear Friends,

I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for your frequent visits.
Your loyalty as readers has encouraged me to continue and improve my skills as a hobby writer.
I am pleased to announce that I am setting off on a new adventure to explore another passion of mine; knitting.
I hope you will join me as I navigate the complex yet fundamental language known to knitters as "directions." As a novice knitter, I have decided to chart my progress online, while sharing my revelations on life, love, and the pursuit of perfect gauge.

Waxing nostalgic about this, my first blog, I took some time to peruse the archives. After reading every one of my former posts, I can say with confidence that this has been a great learning experience for me. Though the topic was usually food, the sub-topics were really the meat and potatoes of my writing. You have allowed me to share with you my view of life as it appears from my home and kitchen. Some posts offered deeper perspective and a bit less humor, while others allowed me the freedom to just be silly. All however, were written with honesty and respect for the subject matter and you, the reader. My two personal favorites are Don't Count Your Dickens Before They Hatch, and Fignificance. Both were inspired by true experiences and were essentially my heartfelt reactions to the behavior of others. They continue to strike an emotional chord with me, even today.
Isn't that the beauty of being able to write about how we feel?
Whatever may or may not be gleaned from my prose is subjective, but I encourage you to take advantage of the recipes and cookbook reviews nestled within the archive pages. Both stand on their own merits and are worth a gander.
Whether you return often, or visit only once--I thank you.

The status of Hey, Jeet Yet? will remain active, but I will be challenged to find time to pen entries for both sites, so I beg your patience and understanding.
Rest assured, my love of all things FOOD, remains unwavering. My experiences in the kitchen will continue to provide fodder for future posts.
In the interest of time management however, I must give my full attention and effort to the technical challenges that often plague inexperienced knitters (like how to knit while holding a cupcake).

My new site (currently under construction) can be found at
http://showmeyourknits.wordpress.com/ and
www.showmeyourknits.com.
I expect to have the site running soon and I hope you'll visit often.
You may also read me at
www.mytruth-ingest.blogspot.com
(this blog is a bit more carefree and allows for unlimited rants on any given topic).
Feel free to leave a comment below the posts and let me know you stopped by.

So, join me, as I spin a new yarn and contemplate life to the rhythmic clacking of needles, won't you?
It just wouldn't be the same without you.

Until next time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

And again, thank you--from the bottom of my heart.

RAW IS HELL

2009-02-18T12:56:00.012-05:00

Unemployment is the new black.
Really, everyone is wearing it.
Okay, maybe not everyone, but there are many of us.
There are obvious disadvantages to not having a paycheck, but being unemployed has its benefits; like having the time to recognize what really constitutes a priority.
I have always known that having two new cars in the driveway was of little importance (precisely why hubby and I can't seem to let go of a beloved vehicle with "vintage" roll-down windows). But I must admit, until recently, I gave little priority to the subject of health. I think I somehow took for granted that I would always feel well (save for the common ailments), and always feel like, well... me.
But as my forties approached, I hardly recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror.
For almost an entire year, I have been battling some unexplained dizziness (having nothing to do with my semi-processed blonde hair). Countless physicians have turned me away with few answers and loads of advice (enough to make anyone who isn't already dizzy, dizzy). In fact, my most recent trip to a well respected ENT had me understanding why so many of us turn to the ePages of the web to embark on that tricky, and often dangerous path of self-diagnosis. My visit was short and after explaining my symptoms, the ENT scheduled me for a two-hour exam and handed me a mountain of paperwork to read through when I returned home. In a nutshell it explained that I was required to fast before the exam, refrain from drinking alcohol or using any type of stimulants, anti-depressants or pain medication. The test would require the doctor to squirt warm and cold liquids in both of my ears, at which point, I would be strapped to a motion table and rotated in several positions--including upside down--to determine possible causes for dizziness.
Need I say more?

And so, I decided to embark on a more practical path of self-evaluation and search the web for remedies that if not helpful, would not be harmful to my health.
One thing you should know about me is that I am a voracious reader, to a fault. When a topic interests me, I saturate my brain (and ultimately only my short-term memory because I suffer from CRS) with as much information as it will hold on said subject.
As a black-belt food lover and seasoned dieter, if I have learned anything of importance over the years, it's that what we put in our bodies plays a major role in how we feel.
Simple concept, right?
To some perhaps, but not to this whitebreadrefinedsugarloving mama. And don't get me wrong, I love good, healthy food-the kind that once had roots-- but let's call a spade a spade here. Most of what I was eating never required the use of a spade, or any other gardening tool to get it to my plate. So my first order of business was to find a good, safe eating plan to detoxify my body from my most recent gastronomic transgressions. I wasn't sure if it would have any effect on my current state of unwellness but I was willing to give it a try.

Each time I googled terms associated with detoxification, I was immediately directed to wellness programs recommended by
raw foodists (my own term because I'm not sure what to call them).
I spent an entire weekend reading and reviewing countless articles about the nutritional and health benefits of a raw food lifestyle. Admittedly, I was intrigued.
I zeroed in on the articles that specifically detailed the foods that would encourage ones body to maintain a proper Ph level--not too acidic or too alkaline. This was a subject repeatedly presented to me by one of my doctors who detected (from extensive blood work) that I was running on the high side of acidic. As it turned out, most of what I put in my body was on the list of high-acid foods. To my surprise, most of what I thought belonged on the "acidic" list (and thus, avoided), was actually part of the alkaline family of foods. Who knew?

After much deliberation, I decided to try a raw food plan for one week. I would determine at the end of the week if there was a significant change in my overall feeling of well being.
I dragged the juicer up from the basement and compiled a lengthy shopping list. On the upside, I wouldn't be using my oven much and would likely save a few bucks on my utility bill. On the downside, I had danced with organics before and found them totally unaffordable. What I didn't anticipate however, was the sheer inability to locate merchants who carried more than half of what was on my list. My first (and very unsuccessful) trip had me walking the non-produce aisles of a supermarket thinking to myself "what do these people eat?" Save for the fruits and veggies already in my cart, there was quite literally nothing to eat--well, at least nothing that appeared on my computer generated shopping list.
Disappointed, I returned home and placed an online order for several raw items, the likes of which included familiar nuts, seeds, and dried fruits, and an assortment of foreign items like Himalayan sea salt, raw hemp seed powder, and chia seeds (I have no idea if these are related to the famed Chia Pet, but I seriously considered eating a Chia-Pig right out of the box during a particularly hungry trip to Wal Mart). That handful of items cost me one weeks grocery money and none of it required the use of a fork.
I was worried.

Several articles warned about the side effects of detoxing too quickly. For this reason, I opted to stay close to home on days one and two. This is advisable only for someone who isn't constantly thinking about food, and isn't surrounded by foodie magazines, kitchen gadgetry, and a pantry full of teen-friendly snacks. Clearly, I had my work cut out for me. I passed the time by reading raw food cookbooks (I kick myself every time I have to repeat that ridiculous term), and testimonials from the rich, the famous, and the ordinary, about the life changing effects of a raw food diet.
As it turned out, sticking close to home was a good idea since days one and two consisted solely of clear liquids and small portions of raw, organic produce. Use your imagination.

I wish to spare you the sordid details, so let me offer you a summarization of my week on the wild side, beginning with day three:

Many who subscribe to the raw food lifestyle generally do not eat meat, or dairy, or poultry. Some however, allow their diets to include the raw, unpasteurized versions of the aforementioned including raw milk, raw-milk cheeses, and organic, fertile eggs. I challenge you to find these products locally, wherever you live. I can tell you with some surety, they are not hanging around my neck of the woods. So, breakfast on day three immediately presented a challenge for me. I settled on a slice of sprouted bread with a schmear of raw honey (oh come on, just because I can't have a bagel, doesn't mean I can't use the lingo) with a handful of raw pumpkin seeds, raw sunflower seeds and dried fruit--all washed down with a home-juicer concoction of carrots, apples and pears.
I missed my cereal. I missed my yogurt. And I was already jonesing for a baconeggandcheese on a roll (that's how we say it around these parts) in anticipation of the misery to come.

A raw food diet is not complicated, although some of the ingredients are (I never gave a moments consideration to sprouting my own nuts, beans and seeds for bread or making my own nut milk from raw nuts, but, to each his own. I simply do not have the time or inclination to do so).

I entertained the thought of a simple raw nut-butter and jelly sandwich on sprouted bread for lunch, but the jelly part turned (an otherwise simple American staple) into an intensely complex production requiring a blender, a dehydrator, teflex sheets and a food processor. Making raw preserves takes forty-eight hours and surely by then I would have been dead from starvation (keep in mind here that although I've been known to put up a few jars of homemade preserves, I always believed squeezable jelly was a groundbreaking invention). So, PB & J was out.
For lack of any better ideas, I settled on steamed kale, quinoa and raw pine nuts for lunch
(minimal cooking at temps lower than one hundred fifteen degrees is permitted on a raw food diet).
It was uneventful, less than memorable, but I was full.

When I had a hankering for a midday snack, I turned to the dried fruits and raw cacao nibs I purchased online. Throughout the day, I munched on raw veggies, drank plenty of water and made a few cups of herbal tea from organic tea leaves (no bag, no string, higher price).
By this time on day three, the sense of deprivation I felt was overwhelming, but I won't lie to you; I was surprised to discover that I wasn't experiencing what I call the "witching hour," usually around late afternoon, I am ready for a nap. Just three days in, I found that I was able to skip my usual cup of joe to ward off that drowsy feeling.

Dinnertime frustrated me. I couldn't seem to find a protein I liked that was acceptable on the raw food plan. I tried to have an open mind and purchased a package of cold-smoked salmon, hoping to replicate a weekend brunch I had many times at my childhood friend Ellen Bernstein's house. Only this time, there would be no toasted everything bagel and no mountain of cream cheese. I sliced extra onion to layer atop the (sprouted) bread and salmon sandwich upon which I spread mashed avocado. I ate it -and hated it. I dreamed about that avocado nestled between sour cream and queso fresco on a crispy taco. I got through it in anticipation of the smoothie ahead of me.

The smoothie is one of my great success stories on this plan. I discovered that rice milk is nearly undetectable when combined with an assortment of fresh and frozen organic fruits. It fulfills the need for a small amount of liquid to blend otherwise chunky ingredients to a smooth consistency. I already had a jug of raw agave nectar in my arsenal (months prior I had been experimenting with different sugars in my attempt to battle chronic fatigue and the crash commonly associated with the consumption of refined sugars) and it served me well as an added sweetener when necessary. The rest of my family had steered clear of my alien menu until the smoothies invaded my kitchen. They were on board for every fruit (and often veggie) concoction I whipped up, with rave reviews.

With a full day of raw food under my belt, I retired to bed and slept soundly until my alarm rang the next morning. I managed to get through another twenty four hours on the plan (eating variations of the same foods), with a noticeable rise in my energy level.
On day five however, I called it quits.
My reasons are simple.
I don't suppose it would be fair for me to assess whether or not the plan was working because clearly, I didn't give it enough time. What I can tell you is that there was improvement not only in my energy level, but my body in general, seemed to be operating with more regularity. While the dizziness remained unchanged, I slept more soundly than I had in months and as a frequent sufferer of headaches, I am pleased to report that I was headache free for my short time on the plan.
Coincidence? Perhaps.
So why did I quit?
Well for starters, I knew I was in trouble when I found myself clutching my sheet pans and asking out loud "how would salami taste in a cookie?"
But truth be told, the real catalyst was the arrival of my beloved cooking magazines. One article in particular struck a chord with me and there was no turning back. It featured recipes for healthier versions of comfort foods and the accompanying pages depicted families sharing homestyle meals around a well-worn dinette.
There was no choice involved in my surrender. Those families in the photos might as well have been my family and that sauce-spattered tablecloth, my own.
Times like these, when our nation is on the cusp of something, and jobs are hard to come by, we all need something to depend on. I can't think of a more solid foundation than my old dining table and my rickety ladderback chairs to comfort us during a period of such uncertainty. Somehow, the notion of a raw meal spread upon inherited table linens doesn't bode well with me.
On a more personal note, I know that over the past decade, many things about me have changed. I have joined the ranks of the over-forty set, my memory isn't what it used to be and I no longer recognize the names of the IT celebrities--but to those who know me and love me, I'll always be the cook. That's right, the cook, not the salad maker, or the juicer or the sprouted-bread maker--THE COOK.
As my nest gets emptier, I am comforted by the notion that wherever my children are, they might look forward to returning home for a favorite meal. They will remember my simple advice that in social situations, the ice can always be broken with a discussion about food--the universal equalizer. They will remember my mantra that nothing in life can't be improved with a little melted Mozzarella. And maybe, just maybe, they will remember what joy homemade food has brought to our household and they will carry on the tradition with their own children someday.
I rest my case.

Were my efforts for naught?
I dare say they weren't.
As I am typing this post, I am munching on a mix of raw seeds and raw cacao nibs, a surprising and tasty addition to our snack pantry.
My blender remains on my kitchen counter as a permanent addition to my most-used kitchen appliances. Since the beginning, we haven't missed a day of homemade smoothies.
Kale has become one of our produce staples. After all of the fuss and experimenting, it turns out we like it best raw and slapped on a sandwich.
Agave nectar has replaced the addition of sugar in our beverages and wherever possible.
I spend more time in the produce aisle and the perimeter aisles of the grocery store than anywhere else.
I have a newfound respect for the role protein plays in ones diet. My hat goes off to those who maintain a raw lifestyle and manage to creatively prepare a very limited selection of raw proteins.
You don't know what you have until you can't find it.

Quite honestly, I was surprised at how many of the raw food items I enjoyed ( I stand firm however, in my protest against outrageous prices--one small loaf of sprouted bread costs five bucks). Perhaps as more of us rethink that term consumption, focusing primarily on consuming more of what comes from the earth, and less on our role as consumers who depend so heavily on chemically engineered foods, we will have more available to us-- at more affordable prices.

That is not to say however, that I will ever permanently give up the all-American hot dog at a family picnic, or pass up the opportunity for a diner breakfast at midnight with a dear friend. But I am committed to making more conscious choices for the sake of my health.

In retrospect, I wish I could have been one of those raw diet success stories.
But alas, it was not meant to be.
Tomorrow morning I will once again browse the want ads, quite possibly with coffee and donut in hand, content to accept the fact that my goose, quite literally, is cooked.

Until next time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

OAT TO SELF: Use Your Grain

2009-01-16T22:03:00.030-05:00

Mares and Does might have appreciated oats as a viable food source long before the rest of us, but it wasn't until recently that I added them to my own diet.
It wasn't for lack of trying that my own mother couldn't get me to eat oatmeal as a child, and she finally laid the matter to rest (dumbfounded) when I failed to appreciate that childhood favorite, the oatmeal cookie.

What's not to like about oats?
It's a question I've heard many times but haven't been able to answer until recently. As an adult, I recognize the importance of whole grains as part of a balanced diet, and more specifically for the health benefits associated with regular consumption of oats. After trying several varieties, it was a pot of perfectly cooked, steel-cut oats that finally convinced me my issue is more with texture than it is with flavor.
I put oats on the back burner for a while and concentrated my efforts on using more whole grain flours in my baked goods.
That is, until now.

Like many, in an attempt to make resolutions for 2009 that would encourage me rather than discourage me, I set out to make small changes to my diet and lifestyle--changes that would require little effort, yet allow for significant improvement.
And so, once again oats were back on the table.

As with any task, I needed proper motivation. Who better to
turn to for a nutritional pep-talk than my favorite power-food
author, Jonny Bowden?
I dug out my well-worn copy of his book The 150 Healthiest Foods on Earth and turned to the chapter on Grains. Much of the information I read was familiar to me, like the fact that oats are heart-healthy and can help lower bad cholesterol and triglycerides. What I hadn't realized however, is that oats have the highest protein content of any cereal (in addition to its 5g of fiber content). Where carbs are concerned, oats pack a very low glycemic load.
For a carb-lover like me, that's a win-win.
It's no wonder why Jonny Bowden calls oatmeal the
"Muhammad Ali of foods."

But what's a carb-loving, oatmeal-hating woman to do?
The same thing she always does; take a not-so-favorite, healthy ingredient and hide it in a cookie.
The hiding part however, proved to be more complicated than expected. After much ado, I discovered that my plan to use ground oats as the sole replacement for flour wasn't fool proof. The first few batches served as lessons in what not to do. While I love a loaded cookie as much as the next gal, the addition of fruit and nuts did little to mask the texture of a mostly-oat cookie. My first batch was grainy but had good flavor. By substituting some of the oats with only whole grain flour, I arrived at a slightly smoother cookie whose flavor (unfortunately) seemed a cry for regularity.
In the end perseverance paid off and I finally arrived at a deliciously healthy cookie whose nutritional value far exceeded my expectations. My basic recipe below includes a combination of oats, ground oat flour, whole grain flour, AP flour and ground nuts which, when combined properly, allow for a moist, chewy cookie.

So encouraged by my success, I decided to take a chance and add ground oats to recipes which seemed to offer good "hiding places" for this prize-fighting grain.
To date, I have added ground oats to the likes of meatballs, meatloaf, quick breads, and even pizza dough with excellent results. I also discovered that with patience and a few additional ingredients, homemade granola far exceeds the supermarket variety.
Surprisingly, I enjoy a mostly-oat granola when it is slow-roasted to a perfect crunch.

I suppose Mom was right.
Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to the grazing fauna
of my sing-songy youth.

What do you think Mom and Jonny Bowden might say about the
nutritional benefits of ivy?

Until next time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

I'm happy to share with you my basic recipe for a great, healthy cookie.
You can use any variety of dried fruit and nuts you choose. I prefer to use almonds or walnuts with dried blueberries or cranberries for their nutritional benefits, but make this one your own to satisfy your taste buds.
To make oat flour or nut flour, simply grind the nuts and oats separately in a food processor until it resembles fine meal.
This recipe yields about 40 cookies (depending on the size of your cookie scoop).
Store cookies in an airtight container for up to three days or freeze (completely cooled) cookies in a double layer of zipper freezer bags.

INGREDIENTS:

3/4 Cup whole oats (not quick cooking oats) separated
3/4 Cup finely ground nuts
1 Cup white whole wheat flour (or regular whole wheat flour)
1 Cup all purpose, unbleached flour
1 tsp Baking Soda
1/2 tsp Salt
1/2 Cup (1 stick) unsalted butter softened
1/2 Cup Canola oil
1/2 Cup light brown sugar
1/4 Cup granulated sugar
2 Large eggs
1 tsp. Pure vanilla extract
1 Cup dried fruit (larger fruit pieces chopped in small dice)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Line baking sheets with parchment paper

DIRECTIONS:

Grind 1/2 cup oats in food processor until it resembles a coarse flour, combine with remaining 1/4 cup of whole oats (alternatively, for a smoother cookie, grind entire 3/4 cup oats). Place oats in large mixing bowl. Grind nuts in food processor until mixture resembles coarse meal (do not grind to wet, buttery stage). Add nuts to oats in bowl. Add flours, baking soda and salt to bowl. In another bowl, beat butter until fluffy. Add oil, sugars, eggs and vanilla. Beat until smooth and creamy. Add butter mixture to flour mixture and blend until combined. Add dried fruit and fold in by hand until well incorporated. Drop dough by spoonful onto parchment lined sheets, spacing at least one inch apart (I use a small cookie scoop and then I depress cookies slightly with the bottom end of a drinking glass which yields a flatter, more uniform cookie). Bake cookies for 12 to 14 minutes on top-middle rack in oven. Watch carefully so bottoms don't burn. If necessary, move rack to top position if bottoms darken quickly. Remove cookies when edges are slightly golden and centers appear set. For chewy cookies, allow cookies to cool completely on baking sheet set on wire rack. If you prefer a crisper cookie, remove cookies from baking sheet after five minutes and allow to cool completely on wire rack.
Enjoy!

**An added note:
Do yourself a favor and get your hands on a copy of Jonny Bowden's book
The 150 Healthiest Foods on Earth
It might be the best thing you do for yourself in 2009.
You'll learn the straight facts about what you should eat and why.
It remains my go-to food bible, and a constant source of inspiration when I'm stuck in that familiar rut of eating the same things over and over again.

Baci Il Cuoco

2008-12-31T18:52:00.020-05:00

Much to my family's chagrin, I often remind them to thank the cook. They scoff, not because they are inconvenienced, but because they believe that the simple act of devouring a meal is indication enough that they enjoyed it. I disagree.
In this case, words just might speak louder than actions.

Several years ago, I stumbled upon a three-foot sign that reads
"Baci Il Cuoco." It means "kiss the cook" in Italian. I had to have the sign, not only because I believe in its message but because my beloved grandmother's maiden name was Cuoco, and any connection I have to her or my Italian roots is a good one. And so, the sign hangs high in my kitchen, not far from the one that reads "Mangia e statti zitto!" (loosely translated: "shut up and eat!"). For those of you who haven't already figured it out--I am an Italian-Italian wannabe. I am an Italian-American waiting for the genie to emerge from his lamp, so he can grant my first wish; the one that has my parents living in Italy, birthing and raising their brood of five above a pizzeria in Naples.
But alas, that is fodder for another post.

So let me get back to the subject of thanking the cook...
Surely, I need not remind you that cooking is as much an act of love as it is one of obligation.
I think we all need to take time out to thank not only the cook who prepares the meal, but also the one who found time to shop for groceries in between daily commitments and chaos. And while we're at it, shouldn't we thank everyone involved in getting our meals to the table?
We mustn't forget that from the farmer who rises early to pick our produce at its peak, to the cashier who works the late shift and carefully bags last-minute rotisserie chickens for harried, hungry, commuters, each plays a significant role.
The fact that we have any meal at all to share in these trying economic times is a blessing worthy of pause and gratitude.

I spent a significant amount of time this past week reflecting upon all that I have to be thankful for, specifically the blessings I have been afforded in 2008. Although it seems I was foolishly short-sighted in my own annual resolutions, so many others rose to the occasion and made me proud to call them my friends or relatives (or both).
I didn't follow through on Oprah's advice to start my own gratitude journal, and perhaps that will be something to consider for 2009. Instead, I made it my mission to thank a few special people on their birthdays and remind them (in many, many words) of their qualities and contributions for which I am so grateful. These are the people who remain oblivious to the fact that they consistently teach me valuable life lessons because they teach by example (and for the record, they remain oblivious because they are too busy helping others to notice). They provide me with a higher education of sorts; one that exceeds the parameters of professional development--they are the ones who simply make me want to be a better person.

And where education is concerned, I am no longer afraid to admit that I am still learning how to learn. At forty-something, I struggle with a not-so-reliable memory and I've had to face the cold hard truth that whatever education I seek will likely be limited to short-term retention. I am an avid reader and most of what I choose to read is culinary in nature. My failing memory has turned out to be a blessing at times because there are many kitchen experiments I'd rather forget. Sadly, the same condition has not befallen those who dine with me regularly, and perhaps this is the true reason they occasionally neglect to thank the cook. Nonetheless, I remain mindful of the basic tenets of good cookery; using the freshest ingredients and the best tools available.

Recently I was reminded of the value of great cookware. I was hosting a holiday gathering with friends when a curious neighbor inquired about my pantry cabinet and why I chose to store cookware inside, instead of the obvious non-perishables. I responded with a wordy complaint about the cookware's heft and size and my need to have it in close proximity to my stove. Our dialogue prompted me to demonstrate and lift the largest enamel-over-cast iron dutch oven I owned onto the stove, where it sat for two days until I was inspired to put on a pot of hearty soup. Quite honestly, making gallons of
pasta e fagioli seemed easier to me than the prospect of wrestling with the pot to return it to its rightful place. The soup was a huge success but the thought of storing leftovers and washing that pot was daunting at best. I used every last Tupperware within my arsenal to freeze the leftovers and filled the dutch oven with warm soapy water to soak, dreading the task of scrubbing the pot clean.
A short time later, much to my amazement, that pot cleaned up like a dream, with no elbow grease involved.
For a moment, I stood alone in my kitchen, embarrassed. When did I become a middle-aged, kitchen wimp with a failing memory?
Really, I can't answer that because I can't remember. Had I recalled why I shelled out top dollar for these pots in the first place (superior heat conduction, low maintenance, easy to clean), I might have been more motivated to use them. But there is a greater lesson to be learned here. I soon realized that on more than one occasion in my life, I have avoided tasks that, while rewarding at their completion, are difficult in their execution.
Simply stated and as shameful as it is for me to admit it, I dislike hard work. But who doesn't?

Reality dictates however, that most of us are strangers to what hard work really is. The majority of us will complain about the day job, the rush-hour traffic that follows and the self-inflicted, organized chaos we impose upon our children for fear of 'downtime'. There will never be enough paid vacation or sick days to appease us and the minor catastrophes we classify as "crisis" pale in comparison to what others endure. It shames me to think that I complained about lifting a
too-heavy pot in the comfort of my own kitchen, blessed to have more than enough ingredients to feed a not-too-hungry family, because this has been a painful year for so many, both financially and emotionally.
I have to believe that things will get better, but until they do, I can't think of a better time for us to practice being better people and put words into action.

In addition to the ones that hang on plaques in my kitchen, I am reminded of adages I heard throughout my childhood but didn't fully understand until not so long ago.
Perhaps these will serve as guideposts as I navigate through a new year of hope and possibility.
I invite you to join me and make any or all of these your own:

Many Hands Make Light Work

If You Won't Help, Don't Hinder

A Simple Life is its Own Greatest Reward

Dirty Hands = Clean Money

If we all gathered, formed a circle, and placed our problems in the center, when asked to pick one out of the center to keep, each of us would likely take back our own.

Kiss the Cook

Shut Up and Eat

Until next time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

-Michelle

Food Forethought

2008-12-21T19:27:00.027-05:00

My long hiatus from blogging has officially ended.
While it was imperative that I focus my attention on health and family, the subject of great food was never far from my mind.

Presently, while the visions in my head aren't necessarily of sugarplums, I find myself distracted from my annual holiday
bake-a-thon (one contestant, no spectators, and A LOT of butter), as I contemplate a menu for Christmas Eve.

For years, I have wanted to recreate the traditional Christmas Eve
Feast of the Seven Fishes.
It is quite possible that I totally made up the name of that feast. There might have been more or less than seven fishes and if my memory serves me correctly, it's more of a seafood fiasco than a feast. Nonetheless, I want it, whatever it's called, and no matter how many crustaceans have to be sacrificed--I WANT IT.

There is a foggy childhood memory that haunts me to this day; one Christmas Eve, my mother presented me with an early gift. It was a rabbit fur coat with a matching hand muff, to be worn over my Sunday best. I knew we were going someplace special because an early gift was a rare occurrence.
We left holiday mass and headed for an unfamiliar address. When we arrived at the crowded house, we were ushered to a finished basement crammed with plastic-covered banquet tables, at which were seated more blue haired relatives than I had met in my lifetime. Most spoke Italian (quickly), while few spoke the same broken English as my live-in grandmothers. I was immediately taken by the smell of the basement. It was intoxicating. It was spicy and familiar and it made me hungry. As I looked around however, I was terrified of what stared back at me from huge silver bowls placed at the center of each table. Creatures I thought I recognized from encyclopedia photographs sat rigid and lifeless in pools of red velvet sauce. A feeling of panic set in and I prayed hard and fast for a slice of pizza that never materialized. I am haunted by this vivid memory, not for the sake of dead sea life, but instead because I was too young and too foolish to let such gastronomic pleasure pass me by. If only I could time-travel backward to that feted night, I would refuse the compensatory bowl of spaghetti and instead indulge, elbow to elbow, with the blue haired and the bibbed, savoring every morsel of such briny fare. But alas, it must remain only as a distant memory, rife with missed opportunities.
I long to mimic that night and play hostess to a bevy of tentacled treats.
Sadly however, I seem to be the only one in my family excited by this prospect and would likely be left to face the cracking of crustaceans alone. Each year I propose we make this tradition our own, and each year the Christmas Committee (a.k.a. my own Italian American fish-phobic family) rejects my proposal.
Had I been more diligent in my search to find a true-to-tradition Italian family, willing to adopt me for Christmas Eve, I wouldn't be faced with the daunting task of whipping up an impressive meal on the Eve of the year's most gastro-spectacular holiday.
Oy, the pressure.

While others might be content to compromise, my stubborn,
all-or-none mentality, won't allow me to.
I want the whole Italian shebang. If I can't have it all, then I don't
want ANY of it.

And so, I have decided upon a prime rib roast for dinner.
No shrimp cocktail.
No lobster tail with bland, American butter sauce.
Not even baked clams on the half shell.
No surf. Just turf.

Let them eat steak.

Until Next Time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Wait, Watch Her

2008-09-10T15:51:00.017-04:00

It's a delicious September day here on Long Island and in my estimation, a perfect day to get back to blogging. I've missed the opportunity to share my daily rants with you, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that my time off was a welcome hiatus from my ordinary life.

I want to get back to what's important (our never-ending discussion about food, of course) but I owe you at least a few details of how my summer was spent.
Let's just say I've been around the block a few times. Literally.

I left you in June with the notion that I would inevitably succumb to the pressures of dieting and join countless others in an organized
(read: conformist) attempt to shed unwanted pounds.
And so I did.
I forked over the hard earned cash and joined the club no one wants to belong to. The most difficult task however, was the prospect of owning my number on the scale. I much prefer the don't ask, don't tell policy when it comes to weighing in, but unfortunately, this wasn't an option.
Thankfully, the institution I joined is like Vegas, what happens there, stays there.

I won't bore you with the minute details of my struggle with points and portion control, so, in a nutshell, here's what happened:
I followed the plan.
I complained a lot.
I ate less and exercised more.
I lost fourteen pounds (with fourteen more to go)
And then I quit.

Yep, that's right, I quit.
I probably would have earned useless (albeit pretty) key fobs and incentive charms had I stuck around long enough to meet specific benchmarks (and ultimately my goal weight), but I had an epiphany somewhere along the way and decided that thirty bucks a month would likely have greater impact on my life being put to more entertaining use at a casino.
I should probably also mention that my first trip to a Connecticut casino yielded this beginner two thousand clams from a shiny slot machine. Needless to say, I'm more than willing to consider replacing my food addiction with gambling.
But seriously, after months of following the plan, I became resentful of some of the information presented to members by "meeting leaders." Some days, I felt like a test subject for a pilot program that might have been called "Dieting for Dummies." Most of the question and answer sessions were interrupted by plugs for brand products conveniently sold at meeting locations.

And interestingly enough, the leader and the receptionist who couldn't even remember my first name, and rarely took the time to provide detailed answers to multi-faceted questions (well, how can a ten-ounce cupcake add two pounds of fat to ones hips???) suddenly found the time to hand write postcards telling me they missed me and wanted me back ,after I quit.

And so, although the plan works and it's basically fool proof--if you follow the rules--I credit my slowly shrinking waistline to more than just a commercial diet plan. The fact is, I received more motivation and willpower from my walking buddy than any meeting leader might have afforded me.
I mentioned earlier that I had been around the block a few times and this is the real story of my gradual (and ongoing) success;
On a pleasant night some time in late June, I spied my neighbor walking her dog. We were previously acquainted through neighborhood gatherings and high school theatre events in which both of our teenage daughters were active participants. I always thought she was a peach of a gal but life's hectic pace and our over-scheduled kids never left much opportunity for socializing.
On a whim, I decided to throw on my sneakers and offer to join her (if I had it to do all over again, I would have remembered the socks. At least now the permanent scars from subsequent blisters have some sentimental value). What transpired in the weeks that followed was better than anything I could have outlined in my commercially manufactured "Activity Journal."
My neighbor and I established an almost-daily walking routine that strengthened our resolve as much as it did our legs.
Instead of dreading the three-quarter mile trip around our circular neighborhood as I had before, time flew by, as did the miles, while we chatted about our lives--past, present, and future. We commiserated over snack-attacks, chore-challenged husbands, and our need to manage the chaos of everyday life. We rewarded ourselves from time to time (okay, a little more frequently than that) with impromptu trips to our local Crackbucks for macchiatos and lattes (you're smart enough to figure out which venue I'm referring to. Their beverages are so addictive, we're sure they're laced with something--hence the name).
And for every pound I shed, I gained new insight into the successful management of dieting and friendship and how they aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, I probably owe my walking buddy at least half the credit for keeping me on track, literally and figuratively.
That is not to say that we don't fall off the proverbial wagon and succumb to the occasional slab of lemon pound cake. But we get back up, dust ourselves off and acknowledge that life offers little joy without the occasional indulgence in great food (and I assure you, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, that comes pre-packaged and stamped with the commercial diet plan seal of approval qualifies as great food).

With summer winding down and two successful months under our belts, I was blindsided by a nasty summer illness whose presence still lingers today. I was benched from walking for a while and it was during this recuperation that I gave some deep thought to the prospect of quitting the club.
Undoubtedly, I was enjoying life as a smaller version of me and I was eager to reach that seemingly attainable target number on the scale. But smaller jeans weren't providing me with the euphoria I expected. I was missing something and my futile attempts at suppressing the truth of the matter were waring me thin but unhappy.
You may recall that I decided to hang up my apron in June. I took off the oven mitts and intended to live life as one of the others (the ones who don't cook or bake, and don't care to). But I was fooling no one--least of all myself. This leopard couldn't change her spots any more than she could exchange her pots for pre-packaged meals. I needed to come to terms with the fact that I missed my kitchen and my gadgets. And more importantly, I missed the experience of sharing great food with the people who love me no matter what size my jeans are.

And so I made the decision to quit.
But not in the sense that I gave up dieting, weight management or portion control.
I tried to explain to my meeting leader (and a nosy receptionist) that I would continue the plan on my own and on my own terms. They scoffed. They regurgitated statistics about success rate (or lack thereof) without the support of fellow members and moderators.
I explained that I had a strong support system (with no prepayment necessary) and that I was eager to experiment with a more realistic approach to weight management. One that allows a food-centric woman to indulge in the occasional cupcake without the need for calculation or confession.
They wished me well but told me in no uncertain terms that I would likely return; and they would embrace me with open arms (after I paid for registration, stepped onto the scale, and slapped on a name tag).
I left the diet center with a bit of apprehension.
While motivated, I was still unsure of how to balance my love of food with my need to maintain a healthy weight and lifestyle. I didn't want to prove them right and return to the center pounds heavier than the weight at which I joined. And so, where does that leave me?

I am fueled by the knowledge that healthful eating is only as complicated as I make it.
I have heard tell from seasoned chefs that the quality of a meal is only as good as the tools and ingredients used to make it. I believe the same can be said for lifestyle as it pertains to good health and weight management. Like those obscure kitchen gadgets rarely used, but tucked safely away in my kitchen drawer should a need arise, I possess the essential tools to maintain a more slender, healthier me. I realize now that I have always had these tools at my disposal but failed to call upon them in the past for fear that life would be flavorless.
I understand now that I can have it all; I can have my cake and eat it too.
The slice may be a bit smaller but I'd rather have a small slice of real cake than a perfectly portioned low-fat popsicle any day. And if reality dictates that my pasta portion must be downsized, then so be it. A petite plate of pasta beats the pants off a platter of soba noodles any day.

And when all else fails, and I become deaf to the voice of reason, hearing only the sweet song of sinful indulgence, I will turn to my greatest defense--the support of a friend who understands and acknowledges the joys and struggles a food-centric life affords.

I take comfort in knowing that I am not alone.
Like me, there are so many who fight the daily battle between good health and happiness (and let's face it, they're not called Happy Meals for nothing).
If more of us took the approach that whatever food vices or demons we battle, the simple (but sometimes difficult) act of moderation makes a healthier weight more manageable.

Perhaps I am a bit misguided as that meeting leader suggested.
Maybe I am prime candidate for relapse and reconciliation.
But I'm betting on my success.
Visualization worked for me in an effort to improve my chances at the casino. I imagined a windfall sizeable enough to afford the purchase of a laptop. And today, as I type away at my new MAC Notebook, I imagine a happier, healthier me, preparing great food and savoring the flavors of a food-centric and fulfilling life.

For those meeting leaders and members who watched this hopeful woman make her exit, I would implore them to reserve judgement and avoid the urge to assume that her failure is inevitable.

Just wait, watch her.

Until next time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

Driving Without a Map

2008-06-02T07:48:00.021-04:00

Well, after much deliberation, I have decided to give myself the summer off from writing and baking. I'm not sure which one I will miss more.
It seems that I have lost something, but I haven't yet been able to identify what that something is. Perhaps it is my mojo after all.

Recently, I took some time to read through my older posts in an attempt to discern in what direction (if any) I am headed.
As it turns out, in writing (as in life), I am better able to find my way by following intuition rather than by following a map.

During a late night out with girlfriends and a lengthy debate over the long-term effectiveness of commercial (read: expensive) diet plans (requiring the purchase and consumption of diet-brand
pre-packaged meals), I reached the unfortunate conclusion that my skinny alter-ego wants her moment in the sun (sans baggy t-shirt). Encouraged by a friends recent weight loss (seventeen pounds in what seems like twenty minutes--Kudos to you, girlfriend--you look marvelous), I am struggling to find my own solution. I am strongly opposed to commercial diet plans for a long list of reasons which I won't bore you with (not the least of which is that I cannot justify spending the same amount weekly for my own meals that I would spend to feed a family of four-and don't get me started on health concerns over foreign ingredients and microwave dependency).

At this juncture, I only know a few things:
I know that I cannot afford to replace my pesticide-laden produce with organics.
I know that I cannot cut it as a farmer or a farmer's wife (and speaking of which, has anyone seen that show Farmer Wants a Wife? Although I hate to admit it, I'm addicted to the show--and not just for the sake of taking a gander at Farmer's six-pack--have you seen those quilts?).
So getting back to organics, growing my own produce is out of the question.
I know that I hate to exercise but love to dance.
I know that I wish laughing was a competitive sport because I'd be quite a contender.
I know that wine doesn't really cut it as a TV snack, even if you pretend to chew it.
I know that tankinis are made for one body type only, and apparently, I don't have that body type.
I know that buying a skirted bathing suit means you should probably just wear shorts.
I know that swim shorts were invented for women who avoid wearing skirted bathing suits and ultimately, everyone knows why you bought the shorts.
I know that I wish those flattering swim cover-ups were water-proof.
I know that having darker, tanner skin doesn't necessarily make you look smaller (I guess that rule only applies to black pants).
I know that a great straw hat can draw attention away from too-wide hips (but one should avoid wearing said straw hat into a rough ocean).
I know that when I stand in front of a mirror, wondering why the bathing suit I loved last year only looks good this year when accompanied by a straw hat, a flattering cover up and high-heeled wedge sandals, it has nothing to do with the bathing suit (seriously, how does one swim in heels anyway?).

And finally, I know that a diet plan which allows for cupcakes
and foot-long hot dogs probably requires purging, and so,
I'm still looking for a diet plan.

That's it.
That's all I've got.

I'd like to add however, that my search isn't only about weight loss.
I suppose I'm as good a candidate as any for a perimenopausal
forty-something crisis (if that's what this is then someone should warn my loved ones).
As the parent of one college student (who enjoys living away from home more than I ever expected she would) and one teenager (in desperate need of drum lessons and concert tickets), I find myself with a bit more time to focus on my own needs. My inability to define those needs outside the realm of edibles, is what terrifies me.
For far too long I have depended on the confines of my kitchen to serve as a safety net and welcome distraction from life's little catastrophes. And although there is no greater confidante than homemade bread dough (active, responsive, resilient and attentive-all the qualities of a good friend with no baggage), I am eager to untie my apron strings and experience a life without oven mitts.

I can't change the fact (nor do I wish to) that I am a hard-wired food lover. I still rise and rest to thoughts of gastronomic pleasure.
But I need more.
I recall a friend's grandmother saying "Sometimes, it's good to be hungry."
I'm not sure I'll ever know exactly what she meant by that. I have a feeling however, that for me, personally, a little hunger might do me a world of good.

And so, my search begins without a plan, a map, or a recipe to follow.
Yesterday, this would have been a daunting prospect.
But today, intuition is on my side.

And come to think of it, I'm a little bit hungry.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

Have a delicious summer!
See you in the fall.

When Life Isn't Fare

2008-05-05T11:00:00.034-04:00

In general, mankind, since the improvement of cookery,
eats twice as much as nature requires.
~Benjamin Franklin

I spent the better part of this past week weighing the pros and cons of joining a gym (I’ll pretty much weigh anything to avoid putting myself on the scale). I’m just not sure I have the right personality for a gym-goer. I’m not a fan of routine and I prefer the kind of exercise that happens by accident (not to mention that our local gym is in the same parking lot as a really good bagel place and with gas prices being what they are, I can’t justify NOT picking up a dozen for the weekend).
I’m also concerned that I might not be any good at working out. For the past decade I’ve worked hard to perfect my skills as a power-walker and I fear that cross-training might confuse muscle memory (and since I already suffer from CRS, this could be dangerous).
By weeks end, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that in order to meet my weight loss goal, I basically have two choices:
(1) I can become one of those people who eats to live, rather than one who lives to eat.
Or
(2) I can hire a local bakery to drive their truck at a moderate speed consistently just yards ahead of me, around and around my circular neighborhood for a daily five-mile chase, and then speed off before my eager palms meet buttery brioche.

Again, gas prices being what they are make the latter totally impractical, and so I am left to face the harsh reality of being someone who is genetically predisposed to the enjoyment of food and the distaste for exercise.

I wanted to believe that it was just a myth that some people eat only to live because the very thought of such a lifestyle saddens me.
The person who eats only to live likely doesn’t spend much time thinking or learning about food. Without understanding the finer nuances of food, it seems impossible that one could enjoy the flavors and the sensory experience it has to offer. But over time, I have been forced to finally acknowledge that such alien creatures exist, as they have infiltrated my family and my friendships.
Black-belt dieters will tell you such a lifestyle is about choice, commitment and willpower and has little to do with nature.
While this may apply to some (and I will be first to applaud their determination), I would argue that the greater population represents a dichotomy as simple as the question boxers or briefs?
Most of us fall into one of two categories; either you love food,
or you don’t.
It’s no secret that ones relationship with food is paramount to the body’s well-being. In this case, there is good love and there is
bad love. We all know that emotional eating can be the catalyst for a myriad of physical and mental complications, but the love I am referring to is more about the appreciation for the sensory experience food has to offer, and not for a void it is expected to fill.
Explaining this isn’t as easy as it may seem, but allow me to try.

A few years ago I discovered my unfortunate inability to understand or appreciate wine. Glass for glass my own pedestrian assessment of “dry” or “sweet” paled in comparison to my husband’s descriptive interpretations and his ability to detect flora and flavor unfamiliar to my oeno-phobic palate.
To this day, he cannot wrap his head around my affinity for cheap wine (and even the occasional wine cooler), and I just don’t get what the big deal is about wine in general. If it tastes good, I’ll drink it (truth be told, I’d rather have a Sam Adams).
I may never understand how one glass of wine can be interpreted so differently by two people, but I completely appreciate the passion with which my husband approaches his first sip. The complexities of wine elude me but the passion for such a flavor-driven experience is an old familiar friend.

I would argue that those who eat to live are not passionate about food. They understand and accept the need to satiate hunger but will never know what it means to mourn the loss of good food. This is precisely why they rise above the rest of us as successful dieters (I would imagine these are the same folks who suggest that it is inadvisable to shop for groceries when one is hungry.
Who pray tell, shops for groceries when the pantry and fridge are full? Chances are if I’m at the grocery store, it’s because the cupboards are bare and I’m starving—not withstanding the fact that I’m always hungry).

I wish I could eat just for the sake of squelching hunger, and drink for the sake of quenching thirst. But we, who live to eat, approach food with all of our senses—and perhaps more.
We spend much of our waking hours thinking about food—all food; the good, the bad, and the ugly. For us, the simple act of feeding others can be euphoric. We read about food. We talk about food.
We talk about reading about food. Cookbooks are our novels and the kitchen is our playground. We plan meals. We make meals. We share meals. When free time allows, we watch food on TV. We visit online communities and e-chat with like minded individuals worldwide about food. We ask questions about food and we share our knowledge of food. We live vicariously through the global gastronomic experiences of others. Some of us bake for sport, and feel true joy when others indulge in our efforts. When night falls, we rest well thinking about tomorrow’s first cup of coffee and another day filled with gastronomic possibility (and somehow we manage to squeeze in those mundane tasks like daily household chores and shopping for the basics. When we go to the market for food, staple items are often secondary—seemingly inconsequential. I’ve been known to get lost in the produce department as I ponder the beauty and succulence of seasonal fruit, and then proudly return home with a cache of nature’s perfectly ripened specimens, only to realize that we are still out of toilet paper and milk).

Living to eat is joyful.
The experience of a fine meal can be so much more than a physical one. Breaking bread is spiritual beyond religious parameters.
A meal shared is flavorful medicine for the soul.
But as with any medicine, there are side effects. Not the least of which is the potential for a forty-something, rapidly-expanding waistline.
Apparently, I’ve got a lot of potential.

And so presently, the scale and I are in a bit of a tangle.
If I could rewind the clock twenty-five years, the solution
would be simple. I would call upon the wisdom of adolescent
meal-management and go back to eating dinner in my bikini.
But alas, there are now adolescents of my own to consider.
I must spare their appetites the atrocities of my midsection and
find another solution.
Thankfully however, with middle-age comes middle-wisdom. I am acutely aware of my ever-morphing middle and experience has taught me what meals and measures are necessary to motivate my metabolism. I need to focus once again on whole foods; fruits, grains, lean proteins, and anything leafy and green.
I need to put down the pie and pick up the pace. I need to drink like a fish and pee like a race horse and…well, you get the idea.
Knowledge is indeed power, but dieting is still a pain in the ass.

As I consider the challenges of calorie counts and portion control, I am painfully reminded of what seems like a lifetime of schizophrenic eating.
I have been many versions of me— from mini-me to maxi-me, and everything in between. Comparatively speaking, there is more of me today than there was just a few years ago. This applies not only to my physical being however, but to my emotional and spiritual being as well.
The irony here is that by all (non-physical) measurements, I like me in my present form better than all the others. My mind, body and heart are all more substantial than they were in my twenties or my thirties.
So how do I shrink the outside without shrinking the inside?
If I remove food (as I know it) from the equation, basically it would change the whole equation.
I suppose I might find a new hobby, but how does one knit while holding a cupcake?

Clearly, it’s time for me to make a few changes—but I don’t have to like it.
For years I was able to get away with the no pain, no gain philosophy of eating. I would avoid any exercise that pained me, eat whatever I wanted (in moderation) and gain little or no additional weight.
Today however, I wear a slice of pizza much differently than I did in my twenties.

Perhaps it’s time to reassess what a moderate ice cream sundae looks like. Better yet, I might have to skip the ice cream sundae altogether and find something a bit more figure friendly.
This is not a happy time.

Back in my successful dieting days (before I discovered the joys of panna-cotta, and crème brulee), Jell-O was the panacea of choice for my need to be desserted. Today however, I think I would rather chase that bakery truck for ten miles and indulge in an occasional crème brulee than resort to such vivid, synthetic sweets.

And so I am left to solve a dilemma that is perhaps unsolvable.
I might just take another crack at my husband’s copy of
Wine for Dummies. Instead of reaching for a vanilla cone with sprinkles, perhaps I’ll do my heart and hips a favor and choose a glass of Cabernet instead (although I’m not sure how to get
the ice cream man to comply).

In the meantime, I haven’t ruled out that gym membership.
A friend of mine tells me she knows a great personal trainer
who will whip me into shape in time for bathing suit season.
I wonder if he likes cheesecake?

Because from where I sit,
Life is fare.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

Michelle

I can’t resist the urge to share with you some (okay, more than some) funny quotes about eating and dieting.
We’ve all been there at one time or another and it’s nice to be reminded that we are not alone in our daily struggle.
If hunger strikes while you're reading (and unless you're a speed reader, it will), allow me to recommend my new favorite candy bar; actually, it's not a candy bar at all but instead a fruit and nut,
flavor-packed bar with no funky ingredients. It's called a LARA BAR and it fills the need when hunger strikes. I hesitate to call this a
meal-replacement bar because for me, it doesn't cut it. When I'm at work however, it solves the dilemma of 5(+)hours with no break. Instead of reaching for the usual, portable fat-laden snacks, I grab a Lara Bar. To date, my favorites include Cashew Cookie, Key Lime Pie, Pecan Pie and Cherry Pie. These are gluten-free, dairy-free and preservative free. The bars never contain more than six ingredients and I believe they qualify as raw food (if you're into that kind of thing). They can be pricey but if you shop around (read:Amazon), you can usually find a coupon code for a quantity discount and free shipping.
Whoever this Lara is, I love her.

Now, chew on these (delicious enjoyment, zero calories):

The cardiologist's diet: If it tastes good, spit it out.
~Author Unknown

One should eat to live, not live to eat.
~Cicero, Rhetoricorum LV

Inside some of us is a thin person struggling to get out, but they can usually be sedated with a few pieces of chocolate cake. ~Author Unknown

I feel about airplanes the way I feel about diets. It seems to me that they are wonderful things for other people to go on.
~Jean Kerr, "Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall," ~ The Snake Has All the Lines, 1958

I've decided that perhaps I'm bulimic and just keep forgetting to purge. ~Paula Poundstone

In the Middle Ages, they had guillotines, stretch racks, whips and cahins. Nowadays, we have a much more effective torture device called the bathroom scale.
~Stephen Phillips

People are so worried about what they eat between Christmas and the New Year, but they really should be worried about what they eat between the New Year and Christmas.
~Author Unknown

Albert Einstein, who discovered that a tiny amount of mass is equal to a huge amount of energy, which explains why, as Einstein himself so eloquently put it in a famous 1939 speech to the Physics Department at Princeton, "You have to exercise for a week to work off the thigh fat from a single Snickers." ~Dave Barry, Dave Barry Turns 50

I've been on a diet for two weeks and all I've lost is fourteen days. ~Totie Fields

Rich, fatty foods are like destiny: they too, shape our ends.
~Author Unknown

The biggest seller is cookbooks and the second is diet books - how not to eat what you've just learned how to cook. ~Andy Rooney

Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.
~Peter De Vries

If hunger is not the problem, then eating is not the solution.
~Author Unknown

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. ~Author Unknown

If I had been around when Rubens was painting, I would have been revered as a fabulous model. Kate Moss? Well, she would have been the paintbrush.
~Dawn French

No diet will remove all the fat from your body because the brain is entirely fat. Without a brain, you might look good, but all you could do is run for public office.
~George Bernard Shaw

The first thing you lose on a diet is your sense of humor.
~Author Unknown

Food is like sex: when you abstain, even the worst stuff begins to look good.
~Beth McCollister

I go up and down the scale so often that if they ever perform an autopsy on me they'll find me like a strip of bacon - a streak of lean and a streak of fat. ~Texas Guinan

Life itself is the proper binge.
~Julia Child

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst, for they are sticking to their diets. ~Author Unknown

I recently had my annual physical examination, which I get once every seven years, and when the nurse weighed me, I was shocked to discover how much stronger the Earth's gravitational pull has become since 1990. ~Dave Barry

Food has replaced sex in my life; now, I can't even get into my own pants. ~Author Unknown

To lengthen your life, shorten your meals.
~Proverb

You can't lose weight by talking about it. You have to keep your mouth shut. ~Author Unknown

I think I just ate my willpower.
~Author Unknown

If you really want to be depressed, weigh yourself in grams.
~Jason Love

Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever.
~Author Unknown

I am a nutritional overachiever.
~Author Unknown

The second day of a diet is always easier than the first. By the second day, you're off it. ~Jackie Gleason

If food is your best friend, it's also your worst enemy.
~Edward "Grandpa" Jones, 1978

I have a great diet. You're allowed to eat anything you want, but you must eat it with naked fat people. ~Ed Bluestone

A diet is a plan, generally hopeless, for reducing your weight, which tests your will power but does little for your waistline. ~Herbert B. Prochnow

I'm not overweight. I'm just nine inches too short.
~Shelley Winters

People say that losing weight is no walk in the park. When I hear that I think, yeah, that's the problem. ~Chris Adams

As for food, half of my friends have dug their graves with their teeth. ~Chauncey M. Depew

To promise not to do a thing is the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing. ~Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, 1876

I'm on a 90-day wonder diet. Thus far, I've lost 45 days.
~Author Unknown

The commonest form of malnutrition in the western world is obesity. ~Mervyn Deitel

I've been on a constant diet for the last two decades. I've lost a total of 789 pounds. By all accounts, I should be hanging from a charm bracelet.
~Erma Bombeck

My advice if you insist on slimming: Eat as much as you like - just don't swallow it. ~Harry Secombe

I am not a glutton - I am an explorer of food.
~Erma Bombeck

Forget about calories - everything makes thin people thinner, and fat people fatter. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

When I buy cookies I eat just four and throw the rest away. But first I spray them with Raid so I won't dig them out of the garbage later. Be careful, though, because that Raid really doesn't taste that bad.
~Janette Barber

It would be far easier to lose weight permanently if replacement parts weren't so handy in the refrigerator. ~Hugh Allen

A waist is a terrible thing to mind. ~Tom Wilson

If you have formed the habit of checking on every new diet that comes along, you will find that, mercifully, they all blur together, leaving you with only one definite piece of information: french-fried potatoes are out.
~Jean Kerr

All people are made alike -
of bones and flesh and dinner -
Only the dinners are different.
~Gertrude Louise Cheney

My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people. ~Orson Welles

Fat is not a moral problem. It's an oral problem.
~Jane Thomas Noland

Never eat more than you can lift.
~Miss Piggy

If you wish to grow thinner, diminish your dinner.
~H.S. Leigh

Obesity is a mental state, a disease brought on by boredom and disappointment.
~Cyril Connolly, The Unquiet Grave

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable. ~Mark Twain

Probably nothing in the world arouses more false hopes than the first four hours of a diet. ~Dan Bennett

I bought a talking refrigerator that said "Oink" every time I opened the door. It made me hungry for pork chops.
~Marie Mott

And my personal favorite:

When we lose twenty pounds... we may be losing the twenty best pounds we have! We may be losing the pounds that contain our genius, our humanity, our love and honesty.
~Woody Allen

No Parm, No Fowl

2008-04-21T10:23:00.046-04:00

“We were not satisfied with the qualities which nature gave to poultry; art stepped in and, under the pretext of improving fowls, has made martyrs of them.”
~Jean-Antheleme Brillat-Savarin

Well, I’ve been honest with you thus far, so I’ll just put it out there and hope that I’m forgiven; Chicken is my least favorite protein.
There, I said it.
That is not to say that I don’t eat it, order it, or prepare it, but if I had my druthers, chicken would be exiled to the “occasional” list of consumables where veal and corned beef happily reside.

For those of you chicken-prophets out there, let me say that I fully appreciate its value as a lean, low-fat protein worthy of its acclaim where diets, live-its, and weight-reduction meal plans are concerned.
The fact is however, I have never succeeded at baking, roasting or broiling a whole chicken—or a least not one resembling those succulent specimens which regularly make their appearance
on the glossy pages of foodie mags.
I find chicken, in its purest, unadulterated form, to be flavorless. The dangers associated with under cooking the bird cause many of us to grill, roast or bake it until it resembles the play-kitchen fare of our Fisher-Price youth—inedibly bland (yet impressively indestructible).
My appreciation for chicken is really limited to what’s in it, on it,
or around it. Who doesn’t love a breaded, fried cutlet or a
Cordon-Bleued bird breast? In fact, if you could find a way to successfully parmigian sweetbreads, I’d probably eat those too
(well, maybe not).

On a good day, I can please a hungry crowd with a quick
Chicken Marsala or Chicken Francaise. Both of these dishes rely on the use of quality chicken paillards, not for their flavor, but for their service as conduits (solely) responsible for delivering savory sauces to eager palates. They are messengers if you will, shot for the sake of delivering information to the taste buds. As a customer service employee, I sympathize with their plight, but that makes them no more appealing to my appetite.
And for that matter, I’d much rather direct my efforts towards saucing up a few (nutritionally superior) vegetables than
pan-handling a few pathetic poultry parts.
But I live with a man (among others) who can’t seem to grasp the concept of vegetables as an entrée. And although I have never read the book, my experience tells me that the fundamental difference between men and women is more about meat and vegetables
than it is about Mars and Venus.

Around our home, chicken often falls into the meat category when beef isn’t on the menu (because, according to the fowl-friendly fellows around here, it sure beats the hell out of a vegetable gratin). And so, I continue to search for easy and delicious (read: moist and flavorful) chicken dishes that don’t require the use of a crock-pot
(my arch nemesis) or Lipitor.

I pay close attention to media food trends, hoping for fresh ideas that might be translated into kitchen-friendly experiments.
Lately, restaurant vogue dictates a drift towards the deconstruction of entrees. Clever chefs take apart perfectly good recipes and serve the complex ingredients on a slender, oblong plate in prison-line-up fashion. The entrée is served in pieces rather than as a whole dish (hence the term deconstructed). While this type of phonetic dining doesn’t really appeal to me, some folks enjoy the (now ubiquitous) interpretation of ingredients.
What I have noticed however, is that chicken dishes are rarely,
if ever deconstructed.
I dare say if they were, no one would actually enjoy the chicken.

As a seasoned home-cook, I know my limitations.
I now regard whole chickens the same way I regard bunk beds;
as evil temptations for gullible shoppers. Most of us will be
fooled into buying them at least once, only to realize that these two items simply cannot be made successfully at home.
(Glossy ads be damned).

And so my quest continues.
Until the Chicken Fairy casts her spell on my Le Creuset, I will continue to disguise fowl fare with more palatable ingredients.
It is with great pleasure that I relinquish the whole bird to loving Jewish grandmothers, who seem to have a genetic penchant
for such an enigmatic entrée.
And unless its parmed or pan-fried, I’ll avoid poultry altogether when dining out.

A bit of motherly wisdom I penned in my daughter’s senior yearbook stated: “Remember, almost anything in life can be improved with a little melted mozzarella.”
Where chicken and I are concerned, my theory still holds true today, and I remain steadfast in my resolve:
No parm, no fowl.

And if anyone’s interested,
I have a great set of bunk beds for sale.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

“What's the two things they tell you are healthiest to eat?
Chicken and fish. You know what you should do?
Combine them, eat a penguin. “
~Dave Attell – Comedian

I’m happy to share with you a fool-proof chicken recipe
that actually tastes good.
While I am not a fan of chicken soup (in fact, I like everything about it, except the chicken), this recipe for Chicken-Tortilla Soup is delightful; it's a virtual fiesta for your tastebuds. The chicken has a supporting role while the rest of the ingredients take center stage.
My own version is a multi-cultural hodge-podge of ingredients.
If you prefer to use a store-bought rotisserie chicken
(and why wouldn’t you?), you can skip the steps for marinating and grilling the chicken. Personally, I think the sweet addition of the marinade balances the spicy flavor of the soup.
Do what makes your mouth sing, and make this one your own.
(And in case your wondering; yes, I usually eat the soup and pick out the chicken pieces and toss them into Hubby’s bowl).

The original recipe comes from the Cooking Light website.
While my version is probably not as light, I strongly encourage you to finish the soup with a dollop of sour cream, some diced avocado, shredded Jack cheese, and a sprinkling of sliced olives and chopped scallions. If you want your soup to have more heat, add a finely minced chipotle from a can of chipotle in adobo (see recipe).
***You must fight the urge to substitute the corn tortillas with something else. They are necessary for the soups creamy texture (they will virtually dissolve into the soup) and their flavor component is paramount to this recipe.

CHICKEN TORTILLA SOUP

For Grilled Chicken:

1.5 lbs. Chicken Tenderloins
4 TBS Good quality Balsamic Vinegar
2 TBS Honey
1 TBS Dijon mustard
½ Cup Canola Oil

Mix last four ingredients together with wire whisk until combined. Place chicken into large Ziploc bag. Pour marinade over chicken. Seal bag securely. Gently shake bag to incorporate. Place bag in bowl or on tray in fridge and marinate for at least two hours (not more than four hours).
Remove from fridge fifteen minutes before grilling.

Heat grill to medium high.
Remove chicken from marinade (discard leftover marinade) and grill for two minutes on each side. Promptly remove from grill to plate and immediately cover with foil. Allow chicken to cool for at least 20 minutes and then slice into chunks. Set aside and follow soup recipe. Add chicken according to recipe.

***Or substitute the grilled chicken with a store-bought rotisserie chicken (shredded or cut into chunks).

For Tortilla Soup:

6 TBS Canola Oil
8 Corn Tortillas, chopped ***(find these in the refrigerated case at your supermarket—usually in the dairy aisle—DO NOT SUBSTITUTE WITH FLOUR TORTILLAS).

6 Garlic cloves, minced
½ Cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 Medium Onion Chopped
1 Can (28 oz.) Diced Tomatoes, undrained
**I prefer the Pomi brand of chopped tomatoes which are sold in a box on the same aisle as the canned tomatoes. I also add one small can of FIRE ROASTED tomatoes from Muir Glen brand—but any brand will do.

2 TBS Ground cumin
1 TBS Chili powder
3 Bay leaves
6 Cups chicken stock
1 tsp kosher salt
½ tsp. Cayenne pepper
**Optional: for added heat, add one, finely chopped chipotle from a can of chipotle in adobo.

Grilled Chicken, chunked

For Garnish:

Shredded Monterey Jack cheese
Sour Cream
Diced avocado
Scallions
Olives
Tortilla strips

Heat oil in large stock pot over medium heat. Add tortillas, garlic, cilantro, and onion. Saute 2 to 3 minutes. Stir in tomatoes. Bring to a boil and add cumin, chili powder, bay leaves and chicken stock (and minced chipotle, if using). Return to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer. Add salt and cayenne. Simmer for 30 minutes. Remove bay leaves. At this point if you prefer a more homogeneous soup, use an immersion blender or food processor to puree some of the soup, before adding the chicken. Add grilled chicken to soup and heat through.
Cover pot and allow it to sit for about 15 minutes.
Serve soup with a dollop of sour cream, diced avocado and garnish with shredded Monterey Jack cheese, chopped scallions, sliced olives and tortilla strips.

Enjoy!

Incorrectly Identifying a Wild Mushroom Can Be Costly

2008-04-10T10:31:00.073-04:00

"Nature alone is antique and the oldest art a mushroom."
Thomas Carlyle

With the arrival of each new spring comes the opportunity for me to morph into a woman who actually enjoys spring cleaning.
Such is never the case, but it’s nice to know that the opportunity will present itself again next year.

Instead however, my ambitions are directed toward lighter palettes for home and fashion, and lighter fare for the dinner table.
As is often the case, although my spirit is willing, my checkbook balance is weak, and so I table the plans for redecorating and wardrobe makeover until a time when money-trees might sprout from the earth in my backyard.
A moment of self-pity lasts long enough for me to fashion winter’s jeans into spring’s cropped denims, allowing me time enough to forage for last year’s flip-flops and be on my merry way in search of local, seasonal produce. The very thought of turning orbs and oblongs freshly dug from the earth, into healthy, savory fare brings me back to those rare, but joyful days of my childhood when seed-packet gardening was the next best thing to actually living on a farm.
Our meager square of carefully planted rows in a suburban
backyard garden produced countless squash and beans, and a few small, but no less magical, watermelons.
As I matured, so did my taste for produce and these days I pay careful attention to both heirloom and international varieties, hoping someday to hob-nob with the higher echelon of early birds who catch the coveted organic worm (in the seemingly unattainable form of a local CSA membership). Until I'm bumped from wait-list to official member, I continue to forage for affordable organics at my local supermarkets and await the spring opening of local produce stands.

At present, the promise of a New York spring seems suspect.
As the sun teases us with mid-day cameo appearances, unseasonably cool temperatures follow its departure in hot-pursuit. I fear it will be one of those years when winter turns directly to summer with little consideration for spring’s healthy rains and early blooms. I wait impatiently for jacket-less days and pass the time by daydreaming about tender, fresh vegetables and al-fresco dining.

On a dreary day not so long ago, I spent some time thinking about living room throw pillows and the intricacies of artichokes.
One thought led to another and I decided that I needed to prepare a dish of sautéed baby artichokes with garlic and lemon-- but not until I found the perfect artichoke specimen from which I would fashion a paper model to serve as a pattern for a giant artichoke pillow.
A stuffed artichoke, if you will.
It might not surprise you to discover that much of my home décor is dedicated to food. Recently however, I realized that my living room unfairly idolizes fruit while overlooking the simple elegance of vegetables. My first thought was to create a standard, square throw pillow from lovely vegetable-themed cotton chintz.
But why have a pillow depicting vegetables when you can have a pillow that is a complete vegetable-- stem, choke, and all?

A not-so-short trip to the fabric store yielded enough fabric and fluff for a bigger-than-a-basketball artichoke with a few extras for project number two.
A lovely sales clerk was so impressed by my appreciation for orphaned cuts of fabric unfairly sentenced to clearance-table shame, that she donated large corrugated tubes to serve as center-structure for my soon-to-be, larger than life, standing asparagus (seriously, when a fabric screams out “asparagus” to you, don’t you just have to buy it?).
As I exited the store, negotiating bags of fabric and fluff, awkwardly balancing the tubes under my left arm, I wondered just what I had gotten myself into. My ambition seemed to be writing a Veggie Tale of its own, but I dare suggest this one might be lacking moral values and suitability for an audience of minors.

I spent the better part of a Saturday afternoon dusting off and tuning my trusty Singer Slant Needle 404 sewing machine. The 1958 Singer manual which depicted a Stepford-esque woman wearing gabardine slacks and a flip hairdo, suggested I adjust the tension until the "tension feels right." Surely this woman was a better one than I;
a product of a generation who vacuumed in heels, willingly laundered husband's soiled, cloth handkerchiefs, and apparently, even embraced tension.
Too much to ask of a twenty-first century woman if you ask me,
so I found a stitch length that looked familiar and called it a day.

For the next two weeks, I stole time when I could and traced, cut and stitched artichoke leaves to white cotton batting. When I got to the step requiring insertion of pliable wire into stuffed leaves, all production came to a screeching halt as the wire tangled itself in the batting and made for a leaf completely unfamiliar to any artichoke I have ever met (and I have met more than a few). With each failed solution, I resorted to public polling (never a good idea). One piece of advice however, seemed logical and worthy of my attempt, so I sewed a separate channel into which the wire would be threaded to provide stability and pliability for each leaf. A reasonable solution, albeit one requiring a bit of extra time and patience. Now halfway through my project and totally burnt out, I decided to step away from the sewing table to regroup, re-energize and rehabilitate my cramped right hand, now riddled with pin-pricks from late night sewing, sans eyeglasses.

One night, as I drifted off to sleep, I could hear my left brain telling me there had to be an easier way for one to acquire a giant stuffed artichoke.
My right brain however, always louder and more optimistic, suggested a day off and some retail therapy.
I went with the right brain; often fallible but never dull.

The following morning I awoke early and gathered coupons, shopping lists, dry-cleaner drop-offs and a bag of returns which sat on my dining room chair for weeks in complacent denial of the fact that the boy-sized clothing I purchased for my son needed to be replaced with items from the young men’s department.
I expected that my shopping trip would be a short one
(my first mistake), since my funds were limited and a recent promise to my significantly-stressed other wouldn’t allow for frivolous spending.
I completed the more pedestrian tasks first and then enthusiastically, headed to my favorite haunt, TJ Maxx. As I stood on line with my returns bag in hand, I heard two women talking about the new
Home Goods store across the street. Apparently, it was grand opening week for the store and crowds were flocking to this haven of home décor, for a chance to win prizes and troll for bargains to bedeck their boudoirs. I had in my possession, one Home Goods entry form tucked neatly away in my purse. I took the time to fill it out one Sunday while I perused the weekend paper, never anticipating I would actually drop it into the entry box (as my purse-bottom is so often the burial ground for well-intended coupons, rebates and to-do lists).
Today however, the temptation was too great. I made quick work of my returns and took a quick spin around the gourmet aisles at
TJ Maxx in search of my favorite jam (Maury Island Farm’s Blackberry-Raspberry Jam—to die for) and hubby’s favorite steak sauce (Smith & Wollensky—a tasty little bargain at $3.99 a bottle). Although my search came up empty-handed, I was hopeful that Home Goods (owned by the same geniuses as TJ Maxx and Marshall’s) might allow me to obtain one or both of these delicacies.

With a spring in my step, I exited the store and made the quick trek across the highway to the new store obscurely nestled between a Staples and an auto supply store. Parking presented a small challenge and was my first indication that shopping cart procurement would be reduced to wishful thinking.
As I entered the bustling emporium of home interiors, the scene was almost surreal. Colorfully-clad women pushed shopping carts piled high with all manners of bedding coordinates, Moroccan-esque
nick-nackery, bejeweled lampshades, and plate-ware in every
polka-dotted color scheme imaginable.
It all seemed so Seussical--until I too, got sucked into the vacuum
we so foolishly refer to as retail.

I navigated my way around shopping carts and warehouse-weary toddlers in search of the entry box in which to place my completed form. I made my way to the gourmet department and happily snatched the last bottle of steak sauce from a shelf filled with
dry-rubs and cook-books created with the man-griller in mind.
These are likely the same masterminds behind a twenty-year long campaign against charcoal and in support of monster gas grills and useless grill gadgetry—who now manufacture “retro” versions of the charcoal hibachis of our childhood, promoting what most of us already knew—that its flavor is unmatched—not to mention that a bag of charcoal briquettes is much easier on the wallet and the biceps than its gas counterpart (and let’s not forget the amusement it provided neighborhood pyromaniacs who delighted in that
not-so-fool-proof combination of lighter fluid, newspaper and charcoal).

A friendly sales clerk directed me to the back of the store where a giant, festively wrapped box stood, bulging at the seams, stuffed with what seemed to be thousands of entry forms. I forced my arm through the opening and halfway into the box and wedged my own form between countless others, painfully aware that mine was likely a dull needle left to drown in a haystack of improbability.
I weaved my way between frenzied shoppers and thought it best to make a quick exit and return weeks later when the store would be yesterday’s news and much less crowded.
As I neared the exit, I passed through a department which contained all sorts of folk-art inspired Americana. A primitive, patriotic rooster caught my eye, but its tall, wooden form was ill-balanced, causing passers-by to prop the cock-eyed gent against a giant pewter pig for stability (I’m no farmer but somehow, I just know this is wrong).

As I turned a corner piled high with art-deco boxes, I spied a shelf with a quirky assortment of wall décor including a giant pair of black, wooden scissors. I was amused by their size and realism but my temptation gave way to the fact that I could not rationalize spending so much for utilitarian form with no function (at least when it had nothing at all to do with food).

I had almost made my escape when I spotted an oddly shaped form lying sideways wedged between two broad, low-hung shelves.
I ducked to get a better view and there, before my very eyes was a giant mushroom of handsome heft and honest hue, petitioning me for rescue. I set down the bottle of steak sauce and lifted the mushroom to the light and gasped aloud when I read its price tag. I promptly returned the fungi to its rightful place and headed towards the door. This was a true test of my constitution. In my frivolous past I would have purchased this specimen in a heartbeat.
I paused at a table set with clip-boards to lure credit-worthy shoppers to their financial demise, and as I fished for my keys, I remembered the bottle of steak sauce I left on the shelf above the mushroom. I hurried back to the same location and thankfully, the bottle was still there. A thought occurred to me in a split second of indecisiveness; it isn’t every day that one encounters a giant mushroom for sale. What about “Carpe diem?” Shouldn’t one seize a mushroom opportunity of such proportions, when and if it actually arises?
My right brain encouraged me to buy it, while my left brain reminded me that I had an unfinished artichoke at home and two giant asparagus on deck, and zero funds to justify purchasing a sixty dollar resin mushroom. Besides, my left brain couldn’t even identify the mushroom—and quite honestly, my left brain is pretty good with gastronomical recognition and terminology.
The fact remained however, that although it was no Shiitake, Porcini or Chanterelle, it was a mushroom nonetheless. And who wouldn’t welcome a giant mushroom into their home?
But this time, practicality took over and I sided with my left brain.
I decided to purchase only the steak sauce, yet not until I had one last chance to touch and hold the fabulous fungi. I lifted the mushroom into my arms and ran my hand around its smooth surface. The oddly textured bumps on its cap teased my memory but I became quickly distracted by an attractive, tall woman with silver hair who seemed to be approaching me. She had a Burberry scarf tied loosely around her neck and she had a Coach leather satchel slung over her winter-white cashmered shoulder.
Her eyes quickly darted between me and the mushroom and
as she got closer, I felt ill at ease.
She pointed to the mushroom and politely asked where I found it.
I motioned to the large, empty shelf below me and furtively grasped the bottle of steak sauce from the shelf above it.
And then the sixty-dollar question dropped like a penny from a
high-rise window; “Are you buying it?”
"Well, yes.”
(Now) "I am."

With obvious disapproval, she shuffled her persnickety frown and her crimson suede loafers over to a shelf filled with cloisonné letter openers (a useless gift intended I suppose, for her few (Bridge club) friends who likely had already discovered the conveniences of email while she was out trying to rob seasoned shoppers of their fortuitous fungi).

I made a beeline for the registers, checked out, and with steak sauce and giant mushroom safely installed in my trunk, I headed for home. For the entire ride my right brain negotiated with my left brain suggesting that the acquisition of rare fungus might only enhance the introduction of vegetables into a fruit-dominated domicile. My left brain wasn’t buying it and suggested that my frivolous friend (right brain) and I figure out what we would tell hubby as he tripped over our sixty dollar specimen. Seconds shy of a full-on panic attack, I pulled into my driveway. I took only my returns and the steak sauce from the car and left the mushroom until I could properly introduce it to my husband who I feared wouldn’t be so fungi-friendly.

As I approached my doorstep, I was greeted by my husband to whom I immediately presented the steak sauce followed by
rapid-fire hyperbole and detailed explanation for frivolous spending. I offered that I was in a weakened state of retail competition driven by an appreciation for rare fungus and a genuine dislike for
silver-haired snakes in goat’s clothing.
Apparently, I had him at the steak sauce, and all was forgiven.

After dinner and the evening’s activities, I retrieved my sizable purchase from the trunk. Once I brought the mushroom in however, hubby and I had a small dispute over its location and position. We finally agreed on a location but did not see eye to eye on aesthetics.
I wanted to place the mushroom on its side for the sake of art and quirky-ness. He wanted it upright for the sake of stubborn man-ness.
Upright, it looked like a stupid lamp. That was my elementary argument and after exhausting his litany of left-brain logics for vertical display (and the desire to get back to a televised ball game), he gave in.

For a long while, I stared at the specimen admiring its form as it sat propped on its side next to a long wooden bench in our living room. A feeling that something was missing, gnawed at the back of my brain, but I foolishly chose to ignore it.
I headed to bed with visions of my completed artichoke and asparagus making the acquaintance of our newest addition. As I drifted off to sleep, my subconscious tried to wake me from my mushroom-induced stupor. Again, I sensed a nagging thought attempting to permeate my consciousness but fatigue won out
and it waited impatiently until morning—when, at precisely
five-fifty-two A.M., it rattled me from my slumber to rear its ugly head and declare that I identify what variety, if any, my new mushroom represented.

At first, I thought it didn’t really matter. But when I paused to consider its contribution to conversations of gastronomy, I thought it might be in my best interest to know exactly what variety of mushroom found itself lying prostrate on my living room carpet.
I believe now that my subconscious actually knew the truth all along, but wanted the gratification of seeing my reaction to such a discovery.

Still half-asleep, I poured my first cup of coffee, grabbed my checkbook from the counter and hoisted the mushroom under one arm and headed to my computer desk. No stranger to multi-tasking, I figured I’d do some online bill paying while I googled my fungi. I fished a bunch of receipts from my checkbook pocket and placed them aside. As I waited for my account information to magically appear on the monitor, I was immediately struck by something printed on my Home Goods receipt. To the left of the boldly printed price of $59.99 and just below the line detailing my bargain steak sauce was the word “Garden.”
At that moment, it all became painfully clear. I could almost hear my subconscious laughing. I knew for certain that I had not found my fungi in the garden department of Home Goods. Perhaps it was placed on the only shelf large enough to accommodate its heft—which happened to be with wall décor. But it was in fact, a garden element after all. I stared at its spotted cap with complete disdain. I turned it upside down and finally realized that it was missing the obvious; dark, threadlike gills, a common characteristic of any kitchen-worthy mushroom.
Obviously, this mushroom and I had both become victims of mistaken identity. It was time I faced the cold, hard truth.
I could barely make out the Google icon through the tears welling up in my eyes, but I needed to call upon my eSage of word wisdom, just to be sure.

First, I Googled mushrooms; hundreds of varieties were listed in rich detail accompanied by photos, but none looked enough like mine for me to rationalize its origin. So, I did the unthinkable, I scrolled to the end of the page where the word “toadstool,” appeared and clicked on it, and in an instant, there before my very eyes was a photo of my falsified fungi followed by this definition:

“A toadstool is an inedible or poisonous fungus with an umbrella shaped fruiting body, often with no gills appearing underneath its cap.”

Be still my aching heart.
For sixty dollars, I had become the not-so-proud owner of a poisonous, inedible mushroom (which in fact, isn't really even a mushroom after all).
Obviously, there was no way I could expose my vulnerable vegetables to such faux fungi. The very thought of subjecting my tender edibles to such poisonous spores turned my stomach.
The toadstool would have to go back.
I carried it over to the dining room chair (my favorite place to exile returnables) and I taped the receipt to the top of its cap. I was tempted to spit on it but I thought of the innocent plastic gnomes it might someday accompany, so I resisted.
Even I wouldn’t stoop that low.

And so, my dejected toadstool awaits its introduction to greener pastures while I wait hopefully for the motivation to see my
produce project through to its completion. While the artichoke quietly anticipates its assembly and those corrugated tubes stand erect awaiting the fervent embrace of green vinyl, I daydream about constructing a pillowy-soft Shiitake, perhaps of white velour, with carefully stitched gills of chocolate thread.

If nothing else, my fortuitous encounter with faux fungi has sparked a creative flame that hasn’t burned for years.
My husband was pleased at the thought of recovering the funds from my frivolous expense but admittedly, I have mixed feelings about its departure.

Because incorrectly identifying a wild mushroom can be costly,
in more ways than one.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Until Next Time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

Some mushroom quotes for you to consider:

“Falling in love is like eating mushrooms, you never know if it’s the real thing until it’s too late.”
~Bill Balance

“If only one could tell true love from false love as one can tell mushrooms from toadstools.”
~Katherine Mansfield

It's best to buy your mushrooms from a reputable grower or grocer instead of hunting them yourself, as there are many poisonous mushrooms. Incorrectly identifying them can lead to symptoms of sweating, cramps, diarrhea, confusion, convulsions, and potentially result in liver damage, or even death.
~Online resource, author unknown

"I confess, that nothing frightens me more than the appearance of mushrooms on the table, especially in a small provincial town."
~Alexandre Dumas, early 19th century

“Life is too short to stuff a mushroom.”
~From Brainy Quotes, author unknown

You Can't Un-Crack an Egg

2008-03-27T12:49:00.047-04:00

“It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.
~ C.S. Lewis

Some of us are chronic worriers by nature.
This is a nasty affliction on its own merits. However, when coupled with a compulsive desire to control everything; the resulting condition is a cross to bear not only for the afflicted, but especially for cohabitants of the affected party.
In this case, I am the chronic-worrier-control-freak and my kids somehow, are managing to grow up, in spite of my condition.

The formal arrival of spring in New York was accompanied by an overnight frost and a pending late-March snowstorm. As I readied my home for an Easter celebration, any expectation for dining
al fresco was squelched by too-cool temperatures and unseasonably high winds. Faced with lamb, a ham, and no particular plan, I set about to prepare a feast for an indefinite number of guests. My daughter’s request to include one or maybe three fellow college freshmen in need of a holiday meal was sprung upon me like an early bloom; a welcome delight notwithstanding the additional attention required.

It was the day before Easter and in my usual frenzy of too much to do in too little time; I contemplated how my eldest and most educated might contribute. While I refused to relinquish control over
ham-glazing, plastic-egg stuffing, cheesecake baking, basil-tearing (never knife-cutting for any true Italian), mozzarella-slicing,
yogurt-mint-processing (for the purpose of lamb-marinating),
or garlic-chopping, I could only force myself to release my grip (temporarily) from the Windex bottle. And so, with blue bottle in hand, she dexterously cleaned the front and back doors and promptly returned to the Guitar Hero competition already in progress in our TV room (where son and husband furtively retreated to escape the wrath of one seemingly peri-menopausal woman expecting company).

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I escaped to my closet hideaway-turned-egg hunt-headquarters to pack plastic eggs full of pastel pleasantries and provisions for children of all ages (including
college man-boys and brooding teenagers). As I sorted Hot Wheels and hot sauces, I thought about the very first egg hunt I hosted almost fifteen years ago. It was a time when my kitchen was a whole lot messier, and holidays were a whole lot easier. It was a time when I welcomed chubby, little fingers to join mine while mixing and shaping meatballs or chocolate chip cookies, with little concern for perfect platter presentation.
If someone had told me then, that years later I would discourage my daughter from cooking her own eggs for fear she would blow up the gas stove or heaven forbid, leave a mess, I would have thought
them insane. But alas, sometimes we fail as parents to execute our own best laid plans.
And so often the worrier in me chose the easier path, the one promising a safer, less eventful arrival than the better path.
Good parents guide and support their children in choosing a path which offers experience; an opportunity to learn and to grow and perhaps even to fail. As I have learned from my own failures,
so too should they.
But all too often I felt compelled to spare them difficulty and disappointment simply by doing it for them.
How foolish of me to consider this a viable method.
While parenting is not rocket science, it challenges the very core of our beings. If we allow fear to take the wheel, our children may never enjoy the scenery along the road less traveled.

As I crammed the last, sample-size bottle of “Ass Kickin’ Hot Sauce” into a snap-tight pastel egg, I considered the sheer irony of the task. You see, it was my daughter who first introduced me to the delightful combination of eggs and hot sauce.
On a steamy, sticky Sunday last summer, at a local bagel shop where we were both employed, I watched in amazement as she doused a perfectly prepared omelet with hot sauce. My amazement came not from her use of the condiment, but from the realization that this daughter of mine, the one I was so reluctant to share my kitchen with, was managing a grill for countless hungry customers, turning out perfectly cooked eggs with nary a twitch of her brow.
Weekend mornings routinely found me clinging to the bagel counter like a cream cheese schmear to a pumpernickel, while she willingly and adroitly manned the grill, juggling orders for scrambles,
over-easies, sunny-sides up, and four-egg he-man specials.
She was a natural at feeding people and unfortunately, I had
little to do with it.

Our Easter celebration turned out to be a great success (with the exception of a too-small dining room and too few chairs, and a
short-lived marital dispute over grill-master husbands who believe that black char is a welcome flavor element on a lamb chop).
But nonetheless, a fun time was had by all.
Thanks to the kindness of relatives headed in the same direction as my daughter’s campus, my eldest and her guest(s) had a free ride back to college in a brand new mini-van. With room to spare, my daughter requested as many leftovers as I was willing to part with
for the sake of hungry, travel-weary undergrads.

A late-night phone call revealed that a second feast was shared in my daughter’s dorm room and for those unable to attend, engrossed in late semester projects, plates were prepared and delivered.
She made sure that the few remaining cannolis were saved for the unfortunate few who had never heard tell of such a delightful indulgence (a fact neither of us could wrap our cannoli-loving
heads around).

And so the fact remains that while we can’t turn back the clock or grant ourselves a “do-over” in this challenging game of parenting,
we lucky few are rewarded by life’s little surprises which so often outweigh the burden of our regrets.
Like daughters who grow up to be beautiful young women
who occasionally do their own laundry, make their own beds
and always invite friends to share a meal.

Because even though you can’t un-crack an egg,
they figure out what to do with it anyway.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

I’m pleased to share with you a fool proof recipe for a delicious cake that is delightfully moist, flavorful, and so easy to prepare.

Since Easter came right on the heels of St. Patrick’s Day, I decided to repeat a favorite dessert—Bailey’s Bundt Cake. The recipe is a modification of one I found on the internet years ago, which called for copious amounts of dark rum. I replaced most of the rum with Bailey’s Irish Cream and added a few of my own ingredients for flavor. You can exchange your favorite liqueur for the Bailey’s and make it your own.

But first, be a good egg and take a moment to read a few quotes about one of nature’s most perfect foods, the egg…

“I have had, in my time, memorable meals of scrambled eggs with fresh truffles, scrambled eggs with caviar and other glamorous things, but to me, there are few things as magnificent as scrambled eggs, pure and simple, perfectly cooked and perfectly seasoned.”
James Beard, 'On Food' (1974)

"Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken."
M.F.K. Fisher (1908-1992)

“An egg of one hour old, bread of one day, a goat of one month, wine of six months, flesh of a year, fish of ten years and a wife of twenty years, a friend among a hundred, are the best of all number.”
~John Wodroephe, English commentator
'Spared Hours,' 1623

The world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities.
~ George Eliot

Faith is putting all your eggs in God’s basket, then counting your blessings before they hatch.
~Ramona C. Carroll

When you feel neglected, think of the female salmon, who lays 3,000,000 eggs but no one remembers her on Mother’s Day.
~Sam Ewing

I do not like green eggs and ham I do not like them Sam I am.
~Dr. Seuss

It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.
~Dorothy Parker

“The difference between 'involvement' and 'commitment' is like an eggs-and-ham breakfast: the chicken was 'involved' - the pig was 'committed'
~Author Unknown

BAILEY'S BUNDT CAKE

** I suppose you could use any cake pan with good results, but I strongly recommend you dig out your favorite bundt pan and be sure to grease and flour it well. The shape of a bundt cake lends itself well to the decadent glaze topping.

CAKE:
1 Cup chopped toasted nuts (I used a combination of pecans and almonds)
1 Box (approx. 18.5 oz) White Cake Mix
2 Boxes (3/4 oz. ea) Instant Vanilla Pudding
4 to 5 eggs (I prefer to use 5 large eggs. If yours are extra large, use only 4)
1/2 Cup plus 2 TBS. Cold Milk
1/2 Cup plus 1 TBS. Vegetable Oil (I prefer Canola oil)
1/2 Cup Bailey's Irish Cream Liqueur
2 TBS Dark rum
1 Cup Toffee Chips (Skor toffee bits or Heath toffee bits *NOT chocolate-coated toffee bits)

GLAZE:

1 Stick Butter
1/4 Cup Water
1 Cup Sugar
1/2 Cup Bailey's Irish Cream
2 TBS. Dark Rum

Cake:
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Grease and flour a 12-cup Bundt pan. Sprinkle toasted nuts on bottom of pan. Combine all cake ingredients (except toffee bits). Beat for two minutes on high with electric mixer. Add toffee bits to batter, incorporate by hand with spatula or wooden spoon.
Pour into prepared pan. Bake for one hour. Cool in pan on wire rack. Invert cake onto serving plate when cool. Prick top of cake with toothpick or fork. Drizzle glaze (recipe follows) over top of cake. Use pastry brush to re-glaze drippings over cake. ** I add extra glaze once the first layer of glaze has dried. This step is optional.

Glaze:
Melt butter in saucepan. Stir in water and sugar. Boil for five minutes over medium-high heat STIRRING CONSTANTLY to avoid burning. Remove from heat and CAREFULLY add rum and Bailey's (it will steam and sputter). Mix well and glaze cake as recipe suggests. Extra glaze can be stored in glass container, covered.

Enjoy!

You Say Tomato, I Say Connecticut

2008-03-17T18:03:00.046-04:00

“Home grown tomatoes, home grown tomatoes
What would life be like without homegrown tomatoes
Only two things that money can't buy
That's true love and home grown tomatoes.”
~John Denver, 'Home Grown Tomatoes'
(from a song written by Guy Clark)

If you are fortunate to share dialogue with my mother and you happen to mention the word microwave, she will abruptly and momentarily stray off-topic to inform you that said microwave
does in fact “cook from the inside out.”
This is likely a factoid she picked up in the late ‘70s, committed to memory, and now spontaneously recalls, as she suffers from an involuntary stimulus-response condition I like to call ‘momism.’

For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed hearing, deconstructing and mocking these mom-isms.
One would think I repeat them for the sheer sake of folly at Mother’s unfortunate expense. But the fact of the matter is, while I listen and laugh, I also learn.

Over time I have come to realize that certain trigger-words encourage these colorful, if not always logical descriptions.
Where most of us depend on basic adjectives, my mother adds a bit more flavor to the pot. Old becomes “As old as Methuzula.”
More than will become “More than you can shake a stick at” or
(my personal favorite), “More than Carter has little liver pills.”

While I have never met Methuzula (but I would imagine she is still alive), my stick-shaking days were over before they started, and Carter sounds like a good candidate for rehab, I cannot deny my appreciation for my mother’s involuntary response to any discussion about the tomato…

Years ago, for my mother’s birthday, I purchased a Wusthof
tomato knife. As I presented her with the gift, I expected and hoped she would re-tell the story of her summertime youth spent visiting relatives in Waterbury, Connecticut.
She was both pleased and panicked by my gift. While she appreciated the form and function of the knife, she feared the backlash of inherited Italian superstition which dictates that the recipient of any sharp, pointed object must immediately compensate the donor with a penny to ward off any opportunity for malfeasance or conflict.
Impatiently, I yielded to a momentary delay as she rifled through her purse in search of a penny for the sake of peace. I knew better than to deny superstitious reciprocity, and so I pocketed the penny as her tomato story unfolded…

She, an only child, traveled with parents and elders from
Brooklyn to Waterbury during the dog days of summer.
The seemingly endless trip met with steep, hilly roads before
finally approaching the old storied house with the coveted
front-porch entry. Upon arrival, barely able to contain her excitement, she bounded barefoot into the backyard and made a beeline for the garden where her eager palms would be baptized with the sweet, pulpy nectar of homegrown tomatoes. Heat-fatigued and ravenous, there was little time or energy for ceremonious slicing or sandwiching. She plucked and ate the scarlet orbs as if they were apples, one after another, allowing their green caps to fall
back to the earth.
Sun-kissed and satiated, she retreated indoors to absorb the annual enchantments of her visit; doting relatives, a prized piano that mysteriously played itself, a sleepy sun room, and cool breezes invited by a favorite front-porch swing.
Those were good times.

I never grow tired of hearing that story. The older and wiser I get however, I realize that like any good story, this one evolves over time. With each re-telling, the trip gets longer, the hills get steeper and the summer gets hotter. But nevertheless, the tomato experience remains the same, and each time I am left with a nagging thought;
I want that tomato.

My own personal experience with fresh tomatoes is bland, at best.
I seem to have a knack for choosing the most flavorless,
mealy-fleshed specimens at the market.
Where gardening is concerned, I have been shamefully remiss in cultivating and caring for such prolific perennials. I guess that
leaves me at the mercy of commercial growers who harvest green, under-ripe tomatoes (for the sake of shelf-stability and transport), which then undergo a chemically-induced coloring to attract unsuspecting shoppers.
While those of us vulnerable to commercialism (and too lazy
to kick up a fuss) see red and reach for tasteless tomatoes,
those well-informed, proactive consumers see red, and magnanimously call for change.

The fact is a good tomato, like a good story, should be allowed to ripen naturally. Most would agree that the best tomatoes are indeed homegrown.
Some would argue that only heirloom varieties come close to those prized tomatoes of yesteryear.
And likewise, where mom-isms are concerned, their intrinsic value is rooted in a lifetime of noteworthy events and ideas whose constant recollection and usage become a natural part of ones permanent landscape.
A dialogue shared with my mother free of mom-isms, would offer the same experience as sharing an under-ripe, chemically modified tomato; flavorless and forgettable.

And so, as I browse seed catalogs and await the arrival of summer’s bounty in search of sandwich-worthy specimens, I will be mindful of that Connecticut tomato and how lucky I am to have shared a colorful memory, ripe with hyperbole and flavor.

I don’t expect I will soon forget the collection of family stories
I have been privy to over the years. My mother has more of them than you can shake a stick at and I’ll bet you a dollar-to-a-donut that there are still more untold. I expect that I will share my own stories, as well as hers, with my own children until I am
as old as Methuzula or until I’ve forgotten.
And perhaps on a day when it’s raining to beat the band, I will cozy up with a hot mug of something from the microwave (which incidentally, cooks from the inside out) and write them down
so they might live on long after I’m gone.

Because what would life be like without true love and
homegrown tomatoes?
Two things money can’t buy, that only get sweeter with time.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

A few noteworthy tomato quotes:

“It’s difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.”
~Lewis Grizzard

“Sonny, true love is the greatest thing, in the world—except for a nice MLT—mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is lean and the tomato is ripe.”
~William Goldman

“A number of rare or newly experienced foods have been claimed to be aphrodisiacs. At one time this quality was even ascribed to the tomato. Reflect on that when you are next preparing the family salad.”
~Jane Grigson

“High-tech tomatoes. Mysterious milk. Supersquash. Are we supposed to eat this stuff? Or is it going to eat us?”
~Annita Manning

And by the way,
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

I’ll leave you with one of my favorite mom-isms:

While we Irish folk (on my father’s side) were content with
“Erin Go Bragh” to express our appreciation for
‘Ireland the Beautiful,’ my mother and grandmother were more comfortable (literally and figuratively speaking) with this one:

“Erin Go Bra-less”

I heard it once a year for at least twenty years and I don’t doubt it passed her lips at least once today.

Fignificance

2008-03-10T12:28:00.025-04:00

“No greater thing is created suddenly, any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen.”
~From The Works of the Greek philosopher Epictetus

The fig is a man-whore.
Well, not all figs, actually. There are some figs (like some men), capable of productive, fruitful relationships.
The ‘Caprifig’ however, is not one of them. Its claim to fame is that it is the only type of fig to have flowers which possess male parts and therefore produce pollen. This pollen is critical to the fertilization of more than one type of fig. Caprifigs are often described as “small, hard, inedible and unappealing” (no big surprise there).
Commercial growers purchase Caprifigs and the orchard-worthy specimens are pimped out to pollinate other types of figs.
So basically, the Caprifig lives for sex.
The whole process is referred to as ‘caprification’ and depends exclusively on a ‘fig-wasp’ which inhabits the Caprifig, and is responsible for transferring pollen and laying eggs.

There are other, more common varieties of figs like the Mission fig, which develop without pollination. Introduced to California by Franciscan missionaries, these are popular with home growers and consumers for their dependability and flavor.
None however, can match the flavor or girth of the coveted Smyrna fig, said to have larger, more flavorful seeds as a direct result of pollination (apparently, the rewards are even greater for a ficus completely dependent on Capri’s man-fig, living the life of a
sex addict making frequent, if not meaningful, fruity-calls).

Allow me to free myself from the accusal of man-bashing.
Quite honestly, I can think of a married woman or two
who flirtatiously express interest in peeking under someone else’s
fig leaf, when they need not look beyond their own backyard for a perfectly good Ficus.
But as is often the case, nature presents us with what seems to be a cruel injustice. “Wham, bam, thank you M’am” is as much of a reality to the plant kingdom as it is to the animal kingdom.
It is what it is.

The fact remains however, for all its flaws and infidelities, I love the fig nonetheless. I can’t think of a more succulent, satisfying orb worthy of prosciutto’s salty embrace. And although fresh is first choice, there are few fruits to compete with the nutrition, portability and flavor of a dried fig.

My relationship with figs is not a complicated one.
Where propagation is concerned, at first I didn’t succeed
and so, I never tried again.
When my significant-other planted our first and only fig tree, we knew not of caprification or the need for a fig wasp and so,
our poor little tree likely met its demise well before it was
burlapped for the winter.

I suppose it was a blessing of sorts because years later, I heard tell of an elderly relative who, with little time left, waited for her promising backyard-harvest to ripen. To her delight, an early sunrise revealed a fig tree bursting with ripened fruit. By midday however, backyard birds had rendered her beloved ficus devoid of even one single, edible fruit.

Fellow fig-lovers have reported that occasionally, even when all criteria are met (good drainage, plenty of sunlight, protection from the elements), their once-abundant fig trees will mysteriously remain fruitless for a season or two and then begin bearing fruit years later, as though production had never halted.

These seemingly cruel acts of nature have been experienced countless times by fig fans across the globe, and one would wonder if there is a greater lesson to be learned here.

As I pause to consider the significance of such a fickle fruit, I am drawn to writers and philosophers of the (recent and not-so-recent) past, who so eloquently made reference to the fig.
As art so often reflects life, it is evident that the fig metaphorically describes life’s fleeting opportunities for love.
Where the fig-grower is concerned, care and cultivation are secondary only to good timing.
Where romance is concerned, be it new romance or old, I would suggest that care, cultivation, and good timing hold equal billing in a successful relationship.
If we fail to recognize life’s abundance, leaving the fruits of our labor vulnerable to waiting wings, we may find ourselves faced with insatiable hunger beside a fruitless tree.

Perhaps Sylvia Plath said it best:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, Chapter 7

And although no fig tree stands in my yard these days, my desire
to procure such a delicate, complex fruit is unwavering.
I remain mindful however that the temptation of Smyrna’s succulence and heft will be short lived. As I await the unpredictability of fresh-fig season, I recognize the value and dependability of the more humble, common, dried fig.
Where fresh, young figs offer spontaneity and excitement, it is the more mature, dried variety which offers consistent flavor, unconditional reliability and longevity.

But alas, do not mistake the fig for a fool.
While the commoner patiently lurks behind darkened cupboards
and pantry doors awaiting the opportunity to satisfy,
the foolish sins of neglect are often repaid with spoiled sweetness.

And so, in matters of figs and life it is essential that we acknowledge and celebrate what lies beneath the leaf.
Should we fail to nurture our own fruitful harvest in a timely fashion, we risk a quick descent by waiting wings to make light work
of stolen figs.

*******

And, speaking of stolen figs…
I leave you with a recommendation for a great book and my
most recent read:
Stolen Figs by Mark Rotella.
For those, like me, who pine for Italy and fresh figs with equal measure, this book offers a charming account of Calabria and its people (with a short chapter suggesting a not-so-legal method of procuring figs).

I am also happy to share with you some interesting fig facts
and a favorite fig recipe below.
But perhaps most appropriately, I will make my exit with a
borrowed mom-ism from my mother and friend who taught me
first, to appreciate what stands in my own backyard and
secondly, to appreciate a good play on words (no matter how corny);

I’ve gotta run.

I have a date
With a fig
On Prune Street.

Until next time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

******************************************
In case you give a fig:

Of the three members of the Moraceae family, the fig has spread most widely. It was first recorded in the tablets of Lagash in Sumer (2738-2371) BC and has since appeared in the recorded history from Egypt to Greece, where it was a staple food of both rich and poor. The fig was such a staple food that Egyptian armies are recorded as having cut down the figs and vines of their enemies, and whole baskets of figs have been discovered among the tomb offerings of dynastic kings.

The Egyptians, being preoccupied with their digestion, had a habit of fasting. The fig, having mild laxative properties, appealed to them as food which was delicious as well as good for them. Figs are rich in calcium, iron, phosphorus and potassium. Vitamin C and the B group vitamins are also present in small quantities. They are also high in fibre. Figs have the highest overall mineral content of all common fruits. A 40 gram (1/4 cup) serving provides 244 mg of potassium (7% of the DV), 53 mg of calcium (6% of the DV) and 1.2 mg of iron (6% of the DV). Figs are fat-free, sodium-free and cholesterol-free.

Homer wrote of figs when he described the orchard of Alcinous, visited by Ulysses, which featured figs, olives, pomegranates, apples and pears. The poet Alexis of Thuria in the 4th century celebrated the fare of the average Greek which included "that God-given inheritance of our mother country, darling of my heart, a dried fig."

Cleopatra ended her life with an asp brought to her in a basket of figs.

The fig’s importance in Hellenic culture and economic life is second only that that of the grape and the olive.

In the first half of the sixteenth century, the fig was brought to England by Cardinal Pole, a few years before Cortez introduced the tree to Mexico. Fig trees reached North America in about 1790.
~From The Sensuous Fig by Margaret E.Walker

For centuries, writers have made reference to the fig, noting its connection to fertility.
In Greek and Roman mythology, figs are sometimes associated with Dionysus, god of wine and drunkenness, and with Priapus, a satyr who symbolized sexual desire.

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

Caramelized Figs with Mascarpone Cheese
Fichi Caramellati al Mascarpone
From Kyle Phillips

Late summer is the season for rich, ripe honey-sweet figs, and though you may be tempted to eat them directly off the tree, this is a pleasant, quick way to serve them up when friends come calling. To serve 4:

INGREDIENTS:
• 8 perfect, perfectly ripe figs
• 8 tablespoons cane sugar
• 2/3 pound (300 g) Mascarpone cheese
• 1/2 cup (50 g) powdered sugar
• 8 tablespoons vinsanto or passito wine -- both are sweet dessert wines

PREPARATION:
Select 8 ripe, blemish-free figs. Wash them, pat them dry, and make two perpendicular cuts half way into each fig from the stem end, as if you were going to quarter them. Put them on a cookie sheet covered with oiled paper.

Sprinkle a teaspoon of cane sugar over each fig and run them under a broiler for 2-3 minutes, to lightly caramelize the sugar.
Arrange the figs on 4 plates, and continue the cuts almost all the way down to the base, so the figs open like so many flowers.

Beat 2/3 pound (300 g) mascarpone cheese (a soft, mild-flavored cream cheese will work in its stead if need be) with about 1/2 cup (50 g) powdered sugar and 8 tablespoons vinsanto or passito (both are sweet, white dessert wines). Divvy the cheese among the figs and serve.

When Mojo Needs Mo' Joe

2008-03-05T10:16:00.058-05:00

The morning cup of coffee has an exhilaration about it which the cheering influence of the afternoon or evening cup of tea cannot be expected to reproduce.
~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., "Over the Teacups," 1891

I have never been quite clear on the term “mojo.”
My kids would have me think that it’s a concept beyond my comprehension simply because I am a product of a generation
still struggling with the idea that a flip-flop is no longer referred to
as a thong.
I would argue however, that any term that predates both their generation and mine is fair game. And so, like any self-respecting mother of teenagers, I called upon that omniscient eSage of
word-regurgitation, Google. I was surprised to find that mojo has several definitions (some of which exceed my PG rating and therefore will not be listed here). I decided I would subscribe to the one about “soul or life force,” but still had no idea how to define
my own mojo.
I would suspect however, that it has something to do with food.

When I pause to consider what drives me or makes me tick, two things come to mind; gastronomy and coffee. In fact, both of these things are what I think about before I fall asleep, and both are what I look forward to at the first chime of my alarm clock.

I have often referred to myself as a “foodie” but lately it seems that this term has been manipulated to include only those who are afficionados of gastronomy (not me), while excluding those who share a passion for the preparation and consumption of
good food (me). In my opinion, the most valuable food education comes from research and development driven by the enthusiasm and appreciation for the final goal—the feast.

Some would argue that coffee has its rightful place within gastronomy. But I would urge them to consider its timeless contribution to la dolce vita and the simple joy-factor its consumption offers. My experience as an Italian American forces me to provide well-deserved exclusivity to such a titillating tonic
and so for me, it remains in a class by itself.

My love affair with all things culinary began some time in my adolesence when I found myself with some free time in an empty kitchen full of possibilities. The unexpected success of my first concoction, a humble bagel-burger, gave me the confidence to eventually face the challenges of tempering chocolate and proofing bread dough. I am still intrigued by the processes of cooking and baking, but neither would fulfill me without my passion for
eating and sharing good food.
I would imagine that my need to research, dissect, rewrite and develop recipes for one particular food for months at a time, has its share of OCD tendencies. At the risk of misappropriating diagnostic terminology, I would suggest that the “C” is interchangeable and on any given day could apply to Cake, Cookie, Cheese, Chocolate, or Coffee.
My Obsessive Coffee Disorder is a story that began many years ago…

It began well before my adolesence and will likely continue until my mug and I are planted where the coffee grinds meet the compost.
Coffee and I share a tumultuous love affair plagued by treason and infidelity. Our tale is one of unrequited love and misunderstanding.
I love coffee. It doesn’t always love me back. I have tried to understand its complexities but they elude me.
Yet I am a willing victim nonetheless.

My earliest memory of coffee is one I have tried to recreate, to no avail. It involves one beat-up aluminum espresso pot (the flip-and-drip kind), a can of ground espresso and a small congregation of early risers. For as long as I lived in my childhood home, “black coffee” was a daily morning ritual for my mother and grandmother. As a young child, I acquired a taste for that smoky bitterness only espresso can offer. Years before that (likely even before I had teeth), my great-grandmother would temper it with warm milk and any available (edible) object of dunkability. Once the pot was empty and housed only the compressed cake of exhausted granules, we moved on to “brown coffee,” which was the chaser of choice for a domicile dictated by caffeine and a love-hate relationship with its inevitable effects as a drug and a diuretic.

By the time I moved out and had my own collection of coffee pots,
I was already dependent on the grab-n-go variety of coffee to supplement my own brew. I even developed an affinity for the cardboard cup, much to my mother's shagrin.
None however, could mimic the flavors of my caffeinated youth.
That is not to suggest however, that I am partial to one particular type or brand of coffee. Years ago, I adopted my mother's policy for determining a coffee's drinkability; any brew that tastes too weak is "pish-water" and anything too strong should be avoided for fear it would "grow hair on your chest," but everything in between is fair game.
From my description, one might think I drink an excessive
amount of coffee. I don’t.
Typically, I hover somewhere between two and four cups per day.
On a good day, one of those is a cappuccino. And this is where I break from tradition because I come from a froth-free family. They only drink their espresso straight-up with a bit of sugar. Coffee purists might argue that froth or cream is merely a distraction from the quality, flavor and temperature of the brew, but I want
clouds in my coffee because they taste good, period.
And where taste is concerned, I continue to disgrace coffee connoisseurs worldwide. I have never had a firm grasp on the
whole bean to brew process anyway, and so I make most of my coffee purchases based on what I like and what will fit into my
Keurig brewer. My one experience with an imported, overpriced espresso machine left me pining for a simpler, more flavorful cup from my mother’s dented aluminum pot. So, I sold the monstrosity on eBay and now I depend on Bialetti’s version of the stovetop
moka pot and a three-dollar, battery-operated mini-frother
from Ikea. Together they make a mean cappuccino and
no one had to sell a kidney to support the purchase.

The best cup of coffee in my opinion however, is a free one.
I hold no prejudice when someone else is buying. And quite honestly, the promise of coffee is often the single motivating factor behind many a daunting task. My favorite caffeinated concoction has supported me through countless written reports, early exams,
diner-therapy with friends, self-inflicted yard sales, dialogue with teenagers, taxes, and most recently, part-time employment. In fact, on most days it is exclusively what sees me through a five-hour shift of selling and accommodating big-brand beaurocracy. Some would suggest I quit the job and switch to decaf, but it pays for bills, bad spending habits and (most importantly) baking.
So, I surrender to my own hypocrisy for the sake of survival
here in suburbia.
I owe a debt of gratitude to the unwavering support from one sympathetic co-worker who consistently offers me a piping hot cup of perseverance when I need it most. Unfortunately, I can’t return the favor because he happens to be the only Italian-American I know who doesn’t drink coffee (go figure) and so, I barter baked goods.
And what about decaf? Quite honestly, on the rare occasion that I drink it, I do so primarily for the sake of others. While I consider it the anti-coffee, it has saved many a social evening from my
rapid-fire ranting and excruciating enthusiasm.
Not so much fun, if you ask me.

Perhaps it is foolish for me to place such high expectations on a beverage. But, love is blind and my passion for the percolated is supported by a lifetime of significant events when my cup was literally and figuratively full.

And whether or not I figure out how to define my own life force,
I am certain that my journey will reveal that both gastronomy and coffee are staunch supporters of my own mojo.

At this point in time, I can say with complete surety that
my mojo needs some mo' joe and so, while I go fire up the Bialetti
I will leave you with a recipe for a favorite (easy) coffee dessert
and some of my favorite quotes about coffee.
I have also listed a few definitions for mojo, but this term is one
I strongly encourage you to define for yourself.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

From Everyday Italian by Giada DeLaurentiis

Affogato

This dessert is the Italian version of a hot fudge sundae. Traditionally it's made with vanilla ice cream but you can substitute your favorite flavor.
It will come as no surprise to you that I prefer coffee ice cream for this dessert.

1/3 Cup cold whipping cream
1/2 Cup boiling water
1 TBS instant espresso powder
*(You may substitute hot, freshly brewed espresso for the boiling water and espresso powder)
1 Pint of your favorite gelato or ice cream
(Giada strongly recommends chocolate ice cream)

In a medium bowl, beat the cream with an electric mixer until soft peaks form. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use (can be made up to four hours ahead).
In a 1-cup glass measuring cup, whisk the boiling water with espresso powder until powder is dissolved. Scoop gelato or ice cream into 4 dessert bowls or glasses. Pour 2 tablespoons of hot espresso over each, top with whipped cream and serve immediately.

__________________________________________________

Coffee Quotes:
(A good read, if you ask me)

No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness. ~Sheik Abd-al-Kadir

Coffee is the best thing to douse the sunrise with. ~Drew Sirtors

Over second and third cups flow matters of high finance, high state, common gossip and low comedy. [Coffee] is a social binder, a warmer of tongues, a soberer of minds, a stimulant of wit, a foiler of sleep if you want it so. From roadside mugs to the classic demi-tasse, it is the perfect democrat. ~Author Unknown

No coffee can be good in the mouth that does not first send a sweet offering of odor to the nostrils. ~Henry Ward Beecher

A morning without coffee is like sleep. ~Author Unknown

Conscience keeps more people awake than coffee. ~Author Unknown

I believe humans get a lot done, not because we're smart, but because we have thumbs so we can make coffee. ~Flash Rosenberg

Mothers are those wonderful people who can get up in the morning before the smell of coffee. ~Author Unknown

Way too much coffee. But if it weren't for the coffee, I'd have no identifiable personality whatsoever. ~David Letterman

He was my cream, and I was his coffee -
And when you poured us together, it was something.
~Josephine Baker

In Seattle you haven't had enough coffee until you can thread a sewing machine while it's running. ~Jeff Bezos

The voodoo priest and all his powders were as nothing compared to espresso, cappuccino, and mocha, which are stronger than all the religions of the world combined, and perhaps stronger than the human soul itself. ~Mark Helprin, Memoir from Antproof Case, 1995

Don't laugh at the coffee. Some day you, too, may be old and weak. ~Author Unknown

It is inhumane, in my opinion, to force people who have a genuine medical need for coffee to wait in line behind people who apparently view it as some kind of recreational activity. I bet this kind of thing does not happen to heroin addicts. I bet that when serious heroin addicts go to purchase their heroin, they do not tolerate waiting in line while some dilettante in front of them orders a hazelnut smack-a-cino with cinnamon sprinkles. ~Dave Barry

Actually, this seems to be the basic need of the human heart in nearly every great crisis - a good hot cup of coffee. ~Alexander King

Coffee gives people energy, and cafes bring them together--a potent combination. Voltaire downed as many as 50 cups a day. Beethoven would count 60 beans into a single cup. Balzac walked across Paris to get three kinds of coffee from different shops to make a blend that kept him awake to write from midnight until midday. He explained that when he drank coffee, "...ideas begin to move...the paper is covered in ink."-- From A Passion for Coffee by Hattie Ellis

And my personal favorite…

I bought a decaffeinated coffee table, you can't even see a difference. ~Author Unknown

_________________________________________

Mojo is a term commonly encountered in the African-American folk belief called hoodoo. A mojo is a type of magic charm, often of red flannel cloth and tied with a drawstring, containing botanical, zoological, and/or mineral curios, petition papers, and the like. It is typically worn under clothing.

The word mojo traces its origins to Congo, Africa (from moyo, meaning "soul" or "life-force") and entered the English language during the era of slavery in the USA. It has been widely known from the 19th century and early 20th century to the present.

Jim Morrison of The Doors named himself "Mr. Mojo Risin" — an anagram of "Jim Morrison" — in the song "L.A. Woman." This usage of the word was spoofed by Mike Myers in the 1999 film Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, in which the title character has his mojo stolen, and loses his sexual confidence and prowess.

Yeah, I read it too

2008-02-24T16:46:00.066-05:00

“…A new heaven and a new earth are arising within you at this moment, and if they are not arising at this moment, they are no more than a thought in your head and therefore not arising at all…”

While it’s still fresh in my mind, I thought I would offer my two cents.
Well actually, I was thinking of offering my twenty-five cents worth of opinionated review but in an effort to keep my conscious-self
in check, I’ll stick with pennies.
Perhaps a quarter is a bit egocentric.

I’ve made it no secret that I really like Oprah. I think her heart is in the right place and she has undoubtedly left her humanitarian footprint on American soil as well as abroad. I think she’d make a fine president and an even better dinner guest.
Like many, I responded to Oprah’s call for followers just as soon as she announced her most recent book club pick, A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle (to make it easier—and because it’s befitting, I will refer to him as E.T. for the remainder of this post).
After finishing this book (which was no small feat), I must admit that I am perplexed at how passionately Ms. Winfrey speaks of its contents.

I am a voracious reader. I like to believe that I have a relatively firm grasp on the English language. Any evidence of these two facts flew from my egotistical pain-body as soon as my spectacles met chapter one. When I toted the seemingly wispy paperback home from Borders, I was sure it would be an easy read. I didn’t plan for the frequent re-reading of passages for the sake of clarification.
Even as I read the last chapter, I found myself flipping back to one particular passage that haunted me;
“…In fact, at the heart of the new consciousness lies the transcendence of thought, the newfound ability of rising above thought, of realizing a dimension within yourself that is infinitely more vast than thought. You then no longer derive your identity, your sense of who you are, from the incessant stream of thinking that in the old consciousness you take to be yourself. What a liberation to realize that the “voice in my head” is not who I am. Who am I then? The one who sees that. The awareness that is prior to thought, the space in which the thought—or the emotion or sense perception—happens.”

I was haunted because that “voice in my head” is precisely who I am. That voice is the one I depend on to remind me not to sweat the small stuff. When I begin to take myself too seriously, that voice tells me to stop and smell the roses and live life for the moment whether or not the beds are made or the carpet is clean. That voice reminds me that Sunday is still the Sabbath day whether or not the Cowboys are playing. That voice suggests that another jar of peanut butter added to my grocery list will help our local food pantry more than it will hurt my budget. That voice lets me know that I am still loveable despite the double digits on my jeans tag. That voice reminds me
that even parents need to apologize to their kids once in a while.
That voice is capable of reason on occasions when I have become completely unreasonable.
And now E.T. wants me to detach myself from that voice in an effort to rise above my unconscious self. If nothing else, I am suspicious
(and I don’t doubt that E.T. would suggest that suspiciousness is as serious an infraction as unconsciousness).
You’ll have to forgive me if I seem critical and a bit small-minded. Surprisingly, I actually like this book. I believe it will perpetuate feelings of heightened awareness for its readers and will do more good than harm for the thousands who seek to uncover their life’s purpose.
I can’t argue with a book that promotes purity of self
over our standard issue, egomaniacal persona.
I want a new earth as much as the next gal, but I hold fast to that notion with as much skepticism as I do for a well-deserved reduction in my property taxes.
I want to believe that within each of us there is an honest soul, free from the influences of our corrupt culture of materialism. I have to believe that even before E.T. became a household name, some of us were trying to fight the demons of consumerism and adopt a practice of selflessness over selfishness. But the concept of living through our conscious selves instead of living through our pain-bodies is one that I find difficult to wrap my head around.
And on the subject of ego, I find it interesting that the author felt compelled to travel so far from his own country to finally free himself from his once ego-centric identity. Personally, I can’t think of a better place to lose one’s ego than on his hometown doorstep.
As young children, we had little concept of ego. We enjoyed the everyday pleasure of being and if ever we strayed from the basic tenets of love, fairness and faith, we need look no further than our own kin to set us straight. I would argue that I am never more aware of my true identity than when I see myself reflected in the eyes of my loved ones. I am never more my true self than I am in the presence of my kin. Perhaps this is why traditional methods of soul-searching often involve detailed genealogical research. By connecting with ones history, we are able to identify with another fragment of self.
We are who we are in part because of who we came from.
In fact, I recall watching a PBS documentary that detailed a genealogical investigation into the lives of prominent African Americans. Our very own Oprah sat in silent astonishment as her roots were traced back to an African community she had never considered as part of her ancestry.
An online resource summarizing the documentary states:

"In February 2006, the acclaimed PBS series
African American Lives brought to the forefront of
national consciousness the powerful process of discovering one's family history. A Roots for the 21st century, the series made a deep cultural impact through its riveting use of DNA analysis, genealogical research and family oral tradition to trace the lineages of highly accomplished African Americans down through U.S. history and back to Africa.
One year later, Oprah's Roots further crystallized and propelled America's interest in family tree research through the powerful stories of Oprah Winfrey's ancestors and their accomplishments."

I question what Ms. Winfrey and E.T. would make of the aforementioned term “national consciousness” in light of
their recent awakenings.
By being conscious of our roots and by taking interest in the physical form of our ancestors, are we then succumbing to the influences of our unconscious, ego-centric selves?

The fact is, with or without this book, I am a work in progress.
And to be told that the physical manifestation of self is
insignificant at best, is a bitter pill to swallow.
Not because I am self absorbed, but because I find comfort in identifying with the physical attributes of my ancestors.
I share light eyes and fair complexion with my Irish grandmother, I worry and gesticulate in identical fashion to my Italian grandmother, I share my mother’s smile and my father’s brow. Siblings and I are built differently but share the same gait. Our hair color is as varied as our personalities yet we sound alike.
In my quest to awaken to my life’s purpose, it would seem impossible to dismiss any of these.
Perhaps I am missing the point.
Am I?

I am amused by one particular passage in the book which I consider to be a disclaimer of sorts. It would seem that E.T. allows for his own acquittal should any of his teachings seem disingenuous
(or worst case scenario, should he fail to awaken a dedicated reader
to her life's purpose). I don’t know him personally, and by all accounts he seems to be an incredibly knowledgeable person of reliable ingenuity but, just in case...
He writes:

“Only the first awakening, the first glimpse of consciousness without thought, happens by grace, without any doing on your part. If you find this book incomprehensible or meaningless, it has not happened to you. If something within you responds to it, however, if you somehow recognize the truth in it, it means the process of awakening has begun. Once it has done so, it cannot be reversed, although it can be delayed by the ego. For some people, the reading of this book will initiate the awakening process. For others, the function of this book is to help them recognize that they have already begun to awaken and to intensify and accelerate the process. Another function of this book is to help people recognize the ego within them whenever it tries to regain control and obscure the arising awareness.”

Either way, I suppose he’s glad you gave it a shot
and bought the book (alternatively, you could have purchased
a CD or DVD of his teachings from his website).
Some would suggest his teachings are prophetic.
If such is the case, I would have to ask,
is he a not-for-profit prophet?

And as for Oprah’s commitment to A New Earth and its teachings,
I applaud her ambition. Only Oprah could see the vision of a worldwide classroom through to its reality. I was an early registrant for her progressive online course and I look forward to open dialogue about A New Earth.

If I am permitted to submit a question to Ms. Winfrey through the classroom chat forum, I might ask her if a time will come when she will surrender those chili-pepper soled Louboutins for the sake of
her (obviously) aching feet, and reveal her true self in a pair of sensible, comfortable shoes.
I would have to guess that her ego is responsible for choosing such fashionable (albeit torturous) footwear.

Or perhaps I might question her recent need to transform a neighborhood of “Schlumpadinkas” into fashion-forward soccer moms. Did she find them offensive as they sported their worn but honest track suits to run errands and chauffer children?
Can’t we be our true selves in elastic waist pants and well-worn velour leisure suits, or is there a dress code?

I may have failed miserably in my attempt to keep cynicism at bay.
Perhaps I am simply a poor candidate for a successful awakening.
I’m not sure I’m ready to part with that voice in my head
who, for the better part of forty years has kept me grounded. It tells me that in just a few short months after Oprah’s ten-session lecture on A New Earth, she will be filming her “Favorite Things” episode for 2008 during which she will share ‘must haves’ for a best life.
Most of the items will cost more money than her loyal viewers can afford and we will face the moral dilemma of feeling joy over jealousy for her lucky studio audience. I am curious to know however, if her ratings will be down by then.
If we follow E.T.’s advice for finding and accepting joy, we
will realize that:
“The misperception that joy comes from what you do is normal, and it is also dangerous, because it creates the belief that joy is something that can be derived from something else, such as an activity or a thing…but it cannot do that. This is why many people live in constant frustration. The world is not giving them what they think they need.”
(Or what Oprah tells them they “must have”).

And so this book and I will likely continue our tumultuous relationship. Perhaps I will read it through once again.
Perhaps not.

In the meantime, when I experience those occasional feelings of hopelessness and fragmented identity, I will look to those who know me best, the ones who love me unconditionally, to offer their emotional and physical support.
I am also confident that when my ego takes center stage, that same cast of characters will lead me back to my true self, the one who is working hard to be in a state of awakened doing .

As for this blog post, I suppose it's a bit of food for thought.
I don't expect that most of you who read A New Earth
will agree with me.
But it makes no difference, because that little voice in my head
is my own. And as each of us has our own voice
(whether we acknowledge its presence or not), we are free
to accept our differences, enjoy the dialogue and
face the next book club pick with enthusiasm.
I would expect that even E.T. won't disagree with that.

And if I may offer a bit of advice for the author, who will likely
find himself in a state of shock at an unprecedented number of
books sold (in the millions), and facing the inevitable cruelties of fame and fortune (not the least of which will be the question
prophet or profit?), I would direct him towards the truest,
most genuine reflection of self, where shoulders are available unconditionally, to stand on-- or cry on,
and ego has no place beyond the doorstep;
E.T.,
Phone home.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

I Say Love...It is a Flour

2008-02-21T10:14:00.028-05:00

Cake and Life:
If you love someone enough, any kind of cake they bake for you will be wonderful, as it is.
If you love God, the Universe, enough, the life you are given starts to look better, as it is.
--Laura Teresa Marquez
Source: Early Morning Conversation

Lately I’ve given a lot of thought to cake.
Well, not just cake, I’ve thought about cookies and cupcakes and donuts and danish. Partly because we crave what we can’t have.
So, in my current state of white-food deprivation, it’s pretty much all I can think about. I’m also half-finished with a fascinating book by
Dr. Christiane Northrup called The Wisdom of Menopause which is forcing me to take a mental journey back to my carefree youth.
This isn’t as easy as it sounds for a forty year old who admittedly suffers from CRS (don’t make me explain). There is irony in the fact that I’m reading this book in an effort to be well-prepared for the moment when menopause actually rears its ugly hot-head, because by that time, I will likely forget everything I read, since I can’t remember sh…, stuff.
As it turns out, I am capable of recalling the flavorful events of my past more easily than the factual ones. And apparently, cake was a more significant part of my young life than I had expected.

And while we're on the subject of cake...
In my recent efforts to recreate some of my son’s favorite
store-bought cakes and cookies with healthier ingredients, I have been admonished by a select few who tell me that changing the ingredients and not the actual face of junk food will only complicate the issue. They offer practical solutions for weaning and replacing his current cache of confections. It has been suggested that until I remove all junk food from my home and convince my family that carrots are a viable snack food, I will never solve our nutritional dilemma.
The left side of my brain is in complete agreement with this philosophy. However, the fact that I am right-brain dominant
creates a bit of a mess in my head and my kitchen.

As I force my challenged memory to recall the happiest moments of my youth, it does not surprise me that many of these involve baked goods.
At forty, I’ve seen my share of birthday cakes. Amazingly, most of my celebratory confections were made from scratch by a mother who was busy raising a brood of five. It wasn’t until I discovered Entenmann’s Banana Cake that I begged her to replace her baked variety with a boxed one (what was I thinking?). For my sixteenth birthday she created the largest chocolate chip cookie I had ever laid eyes on and somehow managed to divide it into equal wedges to feed an unruly backyard crowd. I have fond memories of sharing krullers over coffee with my grandmother, and in that same kitchen corner I learned to make Struffoli (Italian Honey Balls) which would later serve their purpose as sling-shot ammo for backyard warfare.
In my own home, my love for the baking process has turned
my own kitchen into a laboratory of sorts, where no experiment
goes un-eaten.
So, is it no wonder that I’m such a glutton for gluten?

These days, I do a lot of experimenting with flour. In an effort to incorporate whole grains into our meals and snacks, I’ve substituted whole grain flours for our standard all purpose variety (AP flour). For each success, I’ve had more than a few failures. In this whole tedious process however, I’ve fallen in love. My current affair is with whole grain pastry flour. In my experience, most whole grain flours, when used as a substiture for a portion of AP flour, will result in a dense, dry baked good. Whole grain pastry flour however, is a flour that affords the benefits of whole grain goodness while still allowing for a moist, tender crumb.
I have yet to discover a formula that is one-size fits all for baked goods but for most of my recipes, I’ve fared well substituting one third to one half whole grain pastry flour for the AP flour (so, if the recipe calls for one cup of AP flour, I will instead measure one half cup of whole grain pastry flour and one half cup of AP flour).
My biggest complaint about whole grain pastry flour is that it isn’t readily available at local supermarkets. Most stores that carry whole foods or health foods carry it, and I have had great success with online resources like Bob’s Red Mill and Hodgson Mills. Believe me, it’s worth the effort to buy in bulk and store a few bags in the freezer. I have used the flour straight from the freezer with good results.
On the few occasions that I’ve found myself without whole grain pastry flour, I have substituted white whole wheat flour instead. Because it is lighter in color than traditional whole wheat flour, it remains undetectable to the white-food loyalists in my house. It slightly compromises the texture of some baked goods but the health benefits certainly outweigh the difference.
I’ve also become quite good at sneaking oats into almost all of my baked goods. While my son is not a fan of anything lumpy, he can hardly detect the ground oats I have added to his cookies. Ground oats don’t offer the rise-ability that flours do, so I have to be careful when adding oats to cakes and cupcakes. To grind the oats I simply place them in my mini food processor and pulse until they resemble coarse flour. I reduce the amount of flour called for in a cookie recipe by the amount of ground oats that I am adding (usually no more than one third of the total flour measurement).

And so for those who accuse me of deceit, I suppose I am guilty as charged. By changing the formula for less-than-healthy snacks to accommodate the likes of whole grains, and by not omitting these snacks completely from our diet, I may be doing a disservice to my family.
But I would argue that love often takes the shape of a cookie or a cake. And for the sake of love, I can handle a bit of criticism.

Not long ago, I was fortunate to join a portion of my sizeable,
cake-loving family for a restaurant dinner in honor of my mother’s seventieth birthday. After a delightful meal at a local steakhouse, my Massachusetts sister and two lovely nieces presented my mother with a home-baked, devilishly chocolate cake for all of us to share. Perched atop the cake-dome was a smaller, more humble layer cake made lovingly by the birthday girl herself, for my nephew who suffers from a seemingly unfair allergy to gluten.
As holidays often present meal challenges for my nephew
(while the rest of us struggle with feelings of guilt and helplessness), my mother works tirelessly to perfect recipes using wheat-free and dairy-free substitutes. For baked goods she depends almost exclusively on the use of sweet rice flour. For those of you who are familiar with the sweet variety of rice flour, you know it can be difficult to find and even more challenging to bake with.
Mother remains undaunted by the possibility of failure however, because as she raised her own brood of five to appreciate all that is homemade, so too will she offer the fruits of her labor to her beloved grandchildren.

And again, I would offer that sometimes love takes the shape of a cookie, or sometimes a cake. And in this particular case,
I say love, it is a flour.

Happy Birthday Mom.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

And Just Remember
With a Mixer
Far Beneath the Batter Bowl
Lies the Wheat (or rice flour)
That with a Mom's Love
In the Oven
Becomes the Loaf
(or the cookie, or the cake, or the cupcake...)

Sorry, I just couldn't resist.

I'm happy to share with you a recipe for a cookie that happened by accident.
In an effort to modify a recipe for Bev's Chocolate Chip Cookies from Eating Well Magazine, I discovered that I was out of chocolate chips. So, I improvised with a bag of dried blueberries (from Target) and the rest is happy history.
Make this recipe your own by adding or substituting your favorite dried fruits, nuts or chips.

Michelle's Oatmeal Blueberry Almond Cookies

3/4 Cup rolled oats ***See note below about oats
3/4 Cup finely ground almonds (I used slivered almonds)
2 Cups white whole wheat flour (or a combination of whole grain and AP flour)
1 tsp. baking soda
1 scant tsp. salt
1/2 Cup (1 stick) Butter, softened
1/2 Cup Canola oil
3/4 Cup granulated sugar
1 Cup Light Brown Sugar
2 Large Eggs
1 tsp. Pure vanilla extract
1 Cup Dried Blueberries

***The original recipe calls for 1 1/2 Cups rolled oats (when original recipe is doubled). Because I wanted to incorporate ground almonds and because I wanted a less-lumpy cookie, I decided to combine three items. So, to reach a total of 1 1/2 Cups, I used a generous 1/2 cup of ground almonds (place slivered almonds in food processor and pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal), 1/2 cup of whole, organic oats (I used Bob's Red Mill brand) and 1/2 Cup of ground oats (I put the whole oats in the food processor and pulsed until finely ground--almost powdery). Hence, my total measurement which included all three ingredients is 1 1/2 cups.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Grind oats and almonds in food processor seperately.
In medium bowl, place oats, ground oats, ground almonds, whole wheat flour, baking soda and salt.
In another bowl, beat butter until fluffy. Add oil, sugars, eggs and vanilla. Beat until smooth and creamy. Add sugar mixture to flour mixture and blend until combined. Add dried blueberries and mix by hand.
On parchment lined baking sheets, drop dough by heaping teaspoon full at least one inch apart (I used a small cookie scoop). Bake for about 14 minutes until lightly golden on edges. Transfer pan to wire rack. Allow cookies to cool on pan for chewy cookies. For a crisper cookie, remove cookies to wire rack and cool completely. Store in airtight container for up to three days.

**My Notes:
This cookie is deliciously sweet. Feel free to reduce the amount of sugar to suit your taste. I was surprised at how much we liked the addition of dried blueberries. Perhaps next time I will add more for a stronger flavor component.

Enjoy!

On War and Peas

2008-02-07T23:56:00.003-05:00

I am an enabler of criminal proportions.
I live with a challenged eater.
I knew early on that my son was headed down a dark, mal-nutritious path but I thought simply by sharing my love of good food, it would all be okay.
And so, for years I negotiated with him (and myself) believing that he would outgrow his distaste for healthful foods and we would all live happily ever after, without the threat of expanding waistlines and high cholesterol.
We are fortunate that currently, he does not have a weight issue. He is physically active and regularly meets and exceeds the demands of organized sports. These two simple facts provided me with a false sense of security and I allowed myself to be consumed by what I believed was only a temporary battle between healthful foods and conveniently packaged crap (pardon my French).
But I was wrong.
And I hate when I’m wrong.

At the tender age of four, I had him believing that yogurt, like ice cream, was a special dessert rewarded by mommies, to be savored by well-behaved little boys.
By age seven, he wanted to trade his yogurt for Doritos and refused to eat anything green (unless it appeared pre-packaged and labeled as “Gushers”).
By age nine, I developed my “eye for an eye” policy and for every snack he requested, he was required to eat something (remotely) healthy. My plan backfired as I so foolishly exhausted his appreciation for yogurt, bananas, broccoli and the occasional
glass of orange juice.
When he expressed distaste for apples (who doesn’t like apples?),
I sprinkled them with cinnamon and sugar. When he sat tight-lipped at the dinner table, refusing to eat the family meal, I forced him to eat it, received most of it back and consequently, prepared him a different meal all together; one I knew wasn’t as nutritionally sound but nonetheless a meal I was sure he would eat.
For years I have prepared daily dinners with a knot in my gut and a backup plan in my brain. More often than not, I am forced to call upon the consolation recipe for the sake of restoring order in the kitchen.
What was once my own dirty little secret has now become my very public battle against weak-minded parents (me) and commercially packaged (albeit tasty) goods that manufacturers are somehow privileged to call convenience foods. These include (but are not limited to) fast food, frozen meals, school cafeteria food, and even the occasional lower-calorie “healthy option” convenience meal from your local supermarket.
And the aforementioned doesn’t even include the snack aisle.

While I am finally ready to face my own demons, and the loveable
yet nutritionally deprived monster I have created, I proceed with caution.
Because now, at the complicated age of thirteen, my tall, brooding, belligerent boy is too strong for me to wrestle, and too clever for me to hide peas in his pot-pie (and for that matter, he would never eat pot-pie—even if I stuffed it with Doritos).
But I am tired of the daily battle.
And I am even more fearful of the long-term, ill-effects his current eating habits may have on his health. I am ashamed to have allowed it to go on for so long, but foolishly, I find myself intimidated by a junk food warship that on most days, seems unsinkable.

Despite what you may be thinking, my son is not my first or my
only child.
I have a daughter (five years his senior) who, like me, loves to eat everything; the good, the bad and the ugly.
As a preschooler, she would have been just as excited had I proclaimed Fridays as falafel Fridays, as she was about
mac-and-cheese Mondays. By age six she had turned her nose up at the idea of a kid’s menu because she couldn’t find crudités or bisque among entrees of child-friendly fare. She is my greatest contender when sushi or shellfish enter my home and her detailed reviews of my freshly concocted recipes hit the mark every time.
During a not-so-long-ago summertime gathering, I was a proud mama when she returned a huge, empty platter devoid of its snap-peas and low-fat buttermilk dip, hankering for seconds. The chip basket was still full and the well-meaning hostess gift of boxed donuts remained unopened (needless to say, dear son didn’t arrive home until much later, at which point both the donuts and chips met their fate). Now a young woman, my daughter continues to make healthy food choices and lives adventurously as I do, when choosing gastronomical fare.
So, imagine my surprise on that feted day in late July, when my baby bundle of all-boy arrived and immediately protested his provisions. It has been a thirteen year, uphill climb to convince him to eat anything that isn’t fried or frosted. And if you think I haven’t tried the hide-the-vegetables method of mealtime deception, think again. I took one tiny step forward and two huge steps back when I subscribed to the just-hide-some-spinach-puree-in-the-brownies-and-he’ll-never-know method of baking. Not only did he know,
he no longer trusted the flavor or appearance of any foods—even the unadulterated ones he was accustomed to eating, for fear that spinach would deceptively lurk beneath a familiar exterior.

In good conscience, it would be unfair for me to place blame on anyone but myself. Yet as I look back and review my long list of mistakes, I am painfully aware of the evil forces that aided and abetted my poor decision making for the sake of convenience.
I would guess that I am not alone in this mess.
Admittedly, I am comforted by the company who shares my misery.

Some time ago, while my son attended elementary school, I was employed as a first grade teacher assistant. My contract required that I fulfill one hour of “lunch duty” each day. I was expected to monitor an overcrowded cafeteria as I meandered through a maze of tables, making sure that lunches were eaten, tables were cleared and mealtime mishaps were kept to a minimum.
Having been no stranger to a crowded dinner table and the occasional antics of bored children, I managed my position efficiently and with little external conflict.
Internally however, I was deeply conflicted. I challenged a school district that offered one “jumbo pretzel” as the main course of a hot school lunch (and no, it wasn’t stuffed with meat, cheese, or fruit. And let me add that the first child I witnessed carrying this entree on her lunch tray, also selected sides of packaged saltines and a slice of white bread. I would guess that she was one of the students who notoriously fell asleep in class after recess, thanks to a
carb-induced crash). Yet I continued to fill my own son’s
lunchbox with the good, the bad and the ugly. I subscribed to the don’t ask, don’t tell method of lunch review and conveniently, never had to know which items he ate and which ones were traded
(or more likely, tossed).
And for those of you, who believe that your children might balance their own meals by eating the fresh fruit first and the snacks last, let me enlighten you. The school cafeteria is like Vegas. What happens there stays there, and even the most honorable, God-fearing children have been known to toss the grapes and eat the Gushers
(and then lie about it).
I have often thought that if our local school district would finally replace their foam lunch trays with a biodegradable version, the entire contents of the cafeteria waste pail could be wheeled directly to the compost heap. Quite frankly, the only things hidden in those standard-issue paper napkins are the fruits, vegetables and bread crusts we all want to believe our children are actually eating.
I learned from spying on my own son that if I provide him with any snacks, inevitably they will be eaten first, leaving little appetite or appreciation for the more sensible contents of his lunch box.
And I use the term “sensible” very loosely. Surely by now you are aware that most kid-friendly products have been compromised to appeal to a young audience—and I’m not only referring to packaging but to the contents as well. If you don’t believe me, take a gander at the nutritional information on those colorful dairy products we so mindlessly reach for each time we shop. Nutritionally, they pale in comparison to the less kid-friendly varieties. The no-trans-fats trend in labeling has momentarily taken the pressure and spotlight off
co-offenders like high fructose corn syrup and that lengthy list of additives most of us can neither pronounce nor define. Alarmingly, these regularly invade the ingredients list of convenience foods and are cause for great concern.
Chances are, if you can’t pronounce it or identify it; your kids probably shouldn’t be eating it.
And as for the supermarket variety of convenience lunch foods, I find it quite amusing that the companies who market these items flaunt the fact that their packaging is recycled, biodegradable and environment-friendly.
I commend their efforts, but I question whether or not our kids would be better served to eat the packaging rather than its chemically processed contents?
So where does that leave parents who have neither the time
nor the inclination to prepare homemade sandwiches crafted from lean, grass-fed, organic proteins, nestled between artisan whole grain breads and accompanied by pro-biotic beverage and pesticide-free fruit?
I would argue that the answer is not one-size-fits-all.
For starters, some of us would have to sell a kidney to afford an
all-organic lifestyle.
It’s sad really, because my elder relatives (and probably yours) were farming organic produce long before it was in vogue. And I’m not talking about Farmer Fred and his hundred acres, I’m talking about Grandpa Pete’s potted vegetable plants on the back deck, into which he threw the likes of coffee grinds, egg shells and carrot peels (and where pesticides were concerned, he and others relied on the use of cheap, natural remedies like vinegar or pantry spices to ward of pesky insects). It’s been a while since I’ve tasted tomatoes as sweet or as flavorful as those of my summertime youth (and I may never again, given the high price of environmentally conscious produce).
And even if cost wasn’t an obstacle, I’m inclined to believe that like my son, most kids would prefer the happier meal over the healthier one.

I believe my son’s obsession with processed provisions is not only fueled by media madness but is also supported by a culture of indifference at work and at play.
My battle had only just begun when I rid my own pantry of its most offensive contents. Had my son not been able to satisfy his crispy/crunchy cravings in his high-school cafeteria, he likely would have found solace in a mall food court or dare I suggest a friend’s kitchen.
I should know, because for the past decade, he has been that friend, and that has been my kitchen.

So where does that leave us?
It would be foolish of me (and completely unfair) to expect my son to live a life without snacks or the occasional grab-n-go meal.
In a culture of chaos we depend heavily on the ease and availability of faster food.
Simply stated, bad food tastes good (add to that the evils of availability and youth-appeal and ironically, we might as well be talking about street drugs).
But I would argue that our current food choices need an extensive evaluation. I have to believe that Betty Crocker herself fashioned a few delightful treats without chemicals, additives or preservatives. Perhaps it is time for manufacturers and parents alike to consider
the body over the bottom dollar.
In my opinion, shelf-stability and profit margin, while both shrewd factors in business, leave the door open for a great many liability issues.
I recall a time when no one believed you could sue a tobacco company and actually win.
As a nation, we are too smart for all of this.
We are fortunate to live in the greatest country on earth but sadly, greatest is now a term equated with the size and girth of our citizens.
Our fight should not be limited to banning trans-fats
(or the culprit-du-jour), but should focus on the reinstitution of
real food in our homes and across our highways.
I would suggest that this is one war actually worth fighting.

As parents, the responsibility falls heavily upon our shoulders
to live by example.
For me, as a food-enthusiast and avid baker, I know the road ahead will be a bumpy one. And for the first time since I started this blog,
I find myself conclusionless.
I wish I could tie this one up in a neat little bow of word play
but I am afraid there is no happy ending to report or predict.

I can only offer my support to those of you who fight the same battle.
And as I experiment with newer, more healthful recipes and I make the effort to engage in positive dialogue with my son about the benefits of proper nutrition, I can only hope that the tide
will turn in my favor, both at home and abroad.
Perhaps it is a pipe dream to wish that a well balanced,
nutritionally packed meal should be as accessible and as affordable as a double-decker heart-wrecker from establishments that should consider spending more time thinking about what’s inside the body, than what’s outside the bun.
But regardless, it is my responsibility to make changes at home.
And so, the battle rages on.
Here on the front lines, I stand armed with cookbooks and
kitchen gadgetry.
As I ration whole grains, lean proteins, and chemical-free produce and distribute them to opposing forces, I long for the day when a white napkin is raised and we might reach an agreement to
end the war and share the peas.

And until then,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Healthy Food

--Michelle

I’m happy to share with you my recommendations for a variety of health-conscious cookbooks. I’ve spent a great deal of time testing recipes and thus far, these are my favorite resources for nutritionally sound recipes.

The King Arthur Whole Grain Baking Book from King Arthur Flour

The Earth Bound Farm Organic Cook Book by Myra Goodman

The Food You Crave by Ellie Krieger

The All New Complete Cooking Light Cookbook
from Cooking Light Magazine

If you’re in the mood for a good read
(and you’re ready for a wake-up call), check out
Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Vegetable Miracle.

For an all-around great food resource book, check out
Jonny Bowden’s The 150 Healthiest Foods on Earth
(you will be amazed and inspired).

A Bit of DIS and DAT

2008-01-26T23:00:00.000-05:00

Eager for Krieger, Big Hair Confessions, and Cool Beans...

Well, after what seemed like years of anxiously awaiting its arrival,
Ellie Krieger’s new cookbook has finally made its appearance. You may recognize her name from Food Network’s long list of celebrities.
I have been a loyal fan of her show Healthy Appetite with Ellie Krieger since it first aired, and a not-so-recent graduate of her first book, Small Changes Big Results (and on that note, if she
allowed me to write the sequel, I would have called it
Small Changes Big Results, Serious Relapse).

Her new book The Food You Crave, offers delicious recipes that promise to make you feel great. As with any healthful recipes, I am always suspicious that they will lack flavor, ease of preparation and most importantly, truth (hey, I’ve seen the Kashi commercials and despite the diligence of their zip-lining world travelers in search of tasty, healthy snacks, I personally find their snack items lacking the necessary deliciousness they so fervently brag about).
But Ellie’s book delivers its promise for easy, healthful recipes and useful tips on ingredients, going organic, and easy ways to change your eating habits for the better.
When I took my first peek into the breakfast category of recipes, I feared the loss of my favorite comfort ingredients like real butter, real eggs, and the occasional slathering of maple syrup.
Ellie however (unlike a few other health-plan gurus), appreciates the use of real ingredients, and successfully modifies once-indulgent recipes by limiting the use of these ingredients (with additional support from healthful, lower-fat substitutes), while maintaining the richness of flavor and texture our spoiled taste buds have come to expect.
The end result is a collection of recipes that taste great, are easy enough to prepare, and won’t leave you feeling guilty and running for the nearest confessional.

And on the topic of confessions, I recently came clean with a cache of coworkers about my serious addiction to hairspray (yes, you read it correctly, I said hairspray).
As one of my close friends struggles to quit smoking (again), I fight my own battle to put down the aerosol can (again), in an attempt to leave a less-conspicuous footprint on our beautiful Mother Earth.
Never having been a habitual smoker however, I had no idea just how powerful the addiction is. I witnessed my own father kick the habit when I was just a middle-schooler and somehow, he managed to quit cold-turkey, simply by replacing cigarettes with a combination of willpower and licorice.
I realize now that his experience is not the norm.
Until recently, I’ve always had the why-don’t-you-just-quit-for-the-sake-of-your-health-and-your-kids attitude.
Thanks to Oprah and Dr. Oz however, I am now aware that cigarette smoking is an addiction as powerful as any drug, and quitting is
hard work at best, and should not be taken lightly.
My spontaneous yet uneducated assumption that cigarettes and hairspray are distant cousins in matters of lung-pollution inspired me to take my commitment more seriously this time around.
So, in support of her campaign against cigarettes, and in the spirit of misery loving company, I decided to really quit hairspray.
At the very least, this notion may seem ridiculous to those of you with free-flowing locks, who so effortlessly sport current trends in wash-and-wear hair.
The concept of a hairstyle Au natural is completely foreign to me for the following reasons:
1) I am a product of the 1980’s
And
2) I grew up in a town renowned for its fast cars and bodacious babes with really big hair (think Grease, the 80's version).

So, like my friend, I too fight what seems to be a hopeless battle.
While my genetic structure knew nothing of bodacious beauty in my adolescence, I became quite proficient in the artful combination of high-heat (from my trusty Conair blow-dryer) and Aqua-Net hairspray.
As I look back on these days of youthful insanity (when no justification was necessary for wearing spiked heels with skinny jeans), I am perplexed at how my colossally-coiffed friends who
were also smokers, did not suffer spontaneous combustion from the obvious dangers of combining aerosol with open flame.
They were just lucky, I guess.

Fast-forward twenty-five years and although my brands have changed and my locks are fewer (and grayer), I am still unable to leave the confines of my home without a (not-so) quick fix. I would sooner give up matching socks (or matching shoes for that matter) than leave the house without a carefully coiffed crown.
I know there must be thousands of others like me but for fear of ridicule, they remain flat of hair because sadly, the benefits of big hair are often underestimated.
Not only will a king-sized coiffure balance a set of too-wide hips,
it allows one to add a few inches to the height specification when applying for a driver’s license. By all accounts, I was five-foot five-inches tall years before I was actually five-foot five-inches tall.
And might I add, for those who worry about osteoporosis and shriveling bones, a reliable can of Sebastian Shaper hairspray will make light work of height-loss, where calcium supplements fall short. Not to mention that it allows for the timely introduction of once-forbidden, practical footwear. If you follow the simple inch-for-inch strategy, no one will be the wiser. For every inch you lose in
heel-height, you must add an inch to the top of your hairdo.
Your feet will thank you and you will maintain your all-important photographic stature. A win-win for about three bucks (if you buy generic).

And so, perhaps now you understand why quitting isn’t quite as easy as it seems.

On a recent workday as I entered my place of employment, a coworker remarked that it must be terribly windy outside.
I soon realized that she reached this conclusion by the state of my
artfully coiffed locks.
From my own vantage point, it was one of my better hair days.
She would not, and could not understand my plight because she is blessed with hair that is (by her standards) too thick and grows too quickly for her own convenience. In this case, the grass (or more appropriately, hair) really is greener (and more abundant) on my coworkers side of the fence. I would guess that if she owned a can of hair spray at all, it would likely last her longer than my bottomless wholesale-club economy-size jar of peanut butter.
So for the most part, I receive no sympathy from my peers
(save for one coworker who casually contemplates giving up what she foolishly considers “occasional” smoking. She quickly and accurately put me in my place when I shared my recent lapse and divulged the sordid details of using only “one small spritz of hair spray on my bangs,” by comparing it to the obvious evils of potentially smoking only one cigarette.
Touché my friend, point taken; you know who you are, now put down the cigarette).

There is one brave customer however, who (unbeknown to her) is a kindred spirit of sorts. She is a peach of a woman who one coworker (secretly and never maliciously) refers to as “Whitesnake.”
For those of you who were products of the original MTV generation as I was, you may recall an 80’s metal-band by the same moniker, whose male lead singer sported a wild mane of buttery blond locks worthy of any woman’s envy. Equally coiffed were the bodacious babes of Whitesnake music videos and I dare say our customer might have legitimately been one of them.
Now admittedly, it is with pangs of jealousy and total hairspray envy that I quietly and politely complete her transactions. I am careful not to stare too long, yet I marvel at the acrobatics of her
vanilla-milkshake locks, and their remarkable ability to defy gravity to such heights. Not surprisingly, she wears three-inch heels—at least.
I would guess her license reads five foot eight when she likely stands under five foot three. Pure genius.

And so, as I battle the unpredictable symptoms of withdrawal from my most recent endeavors, I am painfully aware of what drives my current ambitions; Fear.
While vanity plays some small role, fear is the primary factor in all this madness.
I am inclined to believe that it is fear that drives most of us as we make our New Years resolutions, order new cookbooks with recipes for healthy living, purchase weight loss allies in the form of pills, shakes and bars, sign fitness-club membership contracts, visit our primary care physicians with little protest, and abandon the evils of aerosol accessories we have come to depend on.
Although none of us likes to talk about it, we are all (in one form or another) trying to defeat the inevitability of death.
It looms large like the proverbial elephant in the room, yet no one speaks of it.

Ironically however, our minds are over-saturated with media rhetoric convincing us that we can in fact, cheat our own mortality. And so we fork over cash and commitment with belief in the notion that we might somehow control destiny.
I would offer that living a healthy lifestyle is by far our best defense, but it is equally (if not more) important to remain mindful that our bodies are enormously dependent on mind and spirit.
If we fail to nurture the brain and soul we will have malnourished the very sources of our willpower and hopefulness.

Each year, right around this time I dabble in a bit of this and that to ward off the boredom of subscribing to one particular plan. Multiplicity is also my futile attempt to speed up the whole anti-aging process. I’ve been doing it for so long that I now refer to my antics as a bit of DIS and DAT. I am Driven by my Intent to Survive and as such, I practice what I consider to be Death Avoidance Techniques (including but not limited to: a healthful eating plan, commitment to regular exercise, scheduling appointments for regular screenings and check ups as prescribed by my physician, making sure I get enough sleep, laughter, and fresh air and yes, avoiding those vices which are potentially harmful to Mother Earth and to my own health—like hair spray).

But this year however, I am encouraged by (and rooting for) those of you who struggle to quit smoking.
Not long ago a close relative pointed out that while some of us might never experience the seemingly impossible battle to escape the choke-hold of nicotine, we will be faced with fighting (or ignoring) our own addictions.
For a decade, at least, I have fought a daily battle against trans-fats.
Like Disney’s forbidden apple, our food choices are paramount
to our survival.
But damn those donuts, they taste as good as they are bad.

It would not be fair for me to proclaim that a snack addiction or an addiction to big hair is any better than a smoking addiction.
There is a misconception among non-smokers however, that smokers who quit unsuccessfully (and start smoking again) are hopeless.
I would argue that this is absolutely untrue.
I can only compare this to the number of times in my life that I have lost fifteen pounds. I am a very successful dieter. I’m great at losing weight—and even better at putting it back on.
In the same fashion that combative couples enjoy make-up sex,
I am a huge fan of make-up snacks.
In fact, in my humble opinion, It's the best part of the whole
dieting conflict.
But I refuse to give up hope.
In my attempt to healthfully feed my mind, body and spirit
(and in doing so, making every effort not to harm Mother Earth),
I am hopeful that I will make peace with a permanent lifestyle change; one that satiates both my heart and hunger.
I aim to achieve full-flavored, healthful meals, a less-than full figure, and (by some miracle) fuller hair without the use of aerosol products.
And as I struggle to stay focused on my own personal goals, I will share a spirited sentiment (AKA prayer) for the smokers in my life.
While the battle may seem uphill, it is hardly hopeless.

At some point, in a time that seems so far away, we may come to embrace the realities of thinning hair and sensible shoes.
We’ll have put away the low-fat cookbooks and nicotine patches wishing for those bygone days of insatiable appetites and hands
steady enough to light a match.
But if all goes well, if we have cared properly for mind, body and spirit, we will celebrate the fact that like Mother Earth,
we are still here.

And until then,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

And in the spirit of good-for-you food that’s easy to prepare, I’ve resurrected one of my all time favorites: Three Bean Salad.
According to Ellie, beans are nutritional powerhouses, efficiently packing vitamins, minerals, protein and fiber into one little,
flavorful package.

I love to eat this salad cold, right from the fridge. Traditionally thought of as picnic fare, it goes just as well with a casual entrée of meat or fish. I especially like it alongside a burger or sandwich as a healthful substitute for potato salad or coleslaw.

You can substitute your favorite bean combination. I like to use what is seasonally available and in a pinch I rely on good-quality frozen beans.
My favorite combination thus far includes green beans, yellow wax beans, shelled edamame and red kidney beans.

Cool Beans!

THREE BEAN SALAD

1 15-oz. can cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
1 15-oz. can kidney beans, rinsed and drained
1 15-oz. can garbanzo beans rinsed and drained (chick peas)
2 celery stalks washed, peeled and finely chopped
½ red onion peeled and finely chopped
1 cup fresh, finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 TBS fresh, finely chopped rosemary

1/3 cup apple cider vinegar
1/3 cup granulated sugar
¼ cup olive oil
1 ½ tsp. kosher salt
¼ tsp. black pepper

In a large bowl, mix the beans, celery, onion, parsley and rosemary.
In a separate, small bowl, whisk together the vinegar, sugar, olive oil, salt and pepper. Add the dressing to the beans, toss to coat.
Chill beans in the refrigerator for several hours or overnight to allow flavors to marry. Serve cold or at room temperature.
Serves 4 to 8.

Pulling Brussels from a Béchamel

2008-01-16T10:52:00.000-05:00

Like many, music was a big part of my youth.
That is not to say that I am at all musically inclined. I am not.
I can neither play an instrument nor carry a tune
(although my imaginary shower-audience might disagree).

I learned from an early age that any first-introduction to elder relatives would likely include someone serenading me with an Italianized version of “Michelle Ma Belle” (more like
‘Michella Ma Bella’). I fondly recall my grandmother singing it as I entered a room, occasionally followed by a quick chorus of
“A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.” While I don’t doubt my grandmother found me attractive (as biased grandmothers do), I think she knew I never had, or would have, a melodic bone in my body.
The fact that I am tone deaf is a tragedy of great proportions considering that my maternal great-grandfather was a professional opera singer; one well-loved by native Italians turned New Yorkers who pined for the tastes and sounds of their homeland.
I suppose there is some truth to the fact that hereditary traits often skip an entire generation (with the exception of one’s genetic predisposition to obesity—I’m pretty sure that one clings to
DNA like frosting to a cupcake).

At one point in my misguided adolescence, I pretended I could sing
long enough to audition for a junior-high school musical.
After my passionate performance, one befuddled (and visibly horrified) musical director could only offer this:
“Well, you have a strong voice.”

After three painful years of choral instruction, I faced the proverbial music and threw in the towel. I soon learned to appreciate the
music du jour and like most teens of my generation, gleefully traded in my 8-track player and my 45’s for a state-of-the-art cassette player. It was that magical beat-box that introduced me to a plethora of performers who accompanied the greatest joys and the deepest sorrows of my young adulthood. What my voice lacked in singability,
my ear compensated for with its uncanny (yet useless) ability to recognize pop talent. I recall encouraging my closest friends to check out a little-known, single-named artist (for whom my parents prayed because her name was such a sacrilege), Madonna. So smitten by her unconventional manner, I soon mimicked her wardrobe and hair color, but wisely stopped short at her boycott of particular matters of personal hygiene (AKA shaving), and now, looking back, I thank
my Lucky Star that I kept my hygienic wits about me.

Back then (and still today), I was drawn to all types of music and was fortunate to have experienced the live concert scene when ticket prices were still affordable (so affordable that I actually slept through a couple of Loverboy concerts to which I accompanied
my dearest, band-obsessed friends).
I delighted in George Winston’s piano music blaring from my boom box as much as I enjoyed live performances by the likes of INXS,
Def Leppard, Journey, Billy Idol, Adam Ant, Huey Lewis,
Phil Collins, Bryan Adams, and The GoGo’s (to name a few).
It was by happy accident (and tolerant older siblings) that I was privileged to attend (what turned out to be) a farewell concert by a band called Squeeze.
In an open-air arena with the electrically-charged atmosphere only New York City can offer, I danced along to favorites like
“Black Coffee in Bed,” and “Pulling Mussels from a Shell.”
Those were days of enchantment, when the world was my oyster
(or more appropriately, my mussel), and I truly believed the future was mine to mold.
As it were, I did not marry Glen Tilbrook (or any other lead singers of my generation, for that matter) and sadly, I still can’t carry a tune.
Yet I sing nonetheless.

And although my genetic predisposition to operatic tendencies was lost somewhere in utero, I am blessed to have inherited one genetically-charged, die-hard appreciation for preparing and eating great food.
Coincidentally, that same great-grandfather who crooned Italian operas on the New York stage at night, was by day a confident and able cook. Perhaps it was his loyalty to his home country and his last name “Cuoco” (it means ‘cook’ in Italian), which provided him with inspiration in the kitchen.

In my seemingly desperate attempt to make some connection with the culinary history of my ancestors, I have spent a great deal of time researching the cultural significance of pasta to Italians
(need I explain?).
I discovered, as I bounced from eRecipe sites, to food-fueled
eChat rooms, that like music, food finds itself in and out of fashion. What was trendy in ’07 will not likely show up on the menus of
place-to-be restaurants in ‘08.
Also noted during my quest is a current interest in, and resurrection of old classics. Pot-pies and stews grace the covers of gourmet magazines once more, and readers are being reintroduced to the same reliable recipes upon which they were raised.
Like a favorite but forgotten melody, I have been reacquainted with Béchamel Sauce. Not being one to judge a book by its cover, I learned many years ago that this fancy-pants sounding sauce is nothing more than a simple, roux-based white sauce with infinite flavor possibilities. Most recently, a friend and neighbor recounted her delight in serving what has now become her “famous tortellini with Béchamel sauce.” On a popular cooking site, I read countless versions and methods for preparation in response to a recipe request for an “easy Béchamel.”
The fact is it couldn’t be any easier to prepare. It is one of those recipes I often refer to as low-commitment/high-yield.
It only tastes complicated.

On a recent weekday evening, while preparing a tweaked version of Janet Fletcher’s CORKSCREW PASTA WITH BRUSSELS SPROUTS, SAUSAGE, TOMATOES AND CREAM, I decided to resurrect
Béchamel a la Michelle in my very own kitchen.
In my struggle to offer healthful solutions to a pasta-loving family,
I was being haunted by one pricey bag of imported farro pasta
hiding in my pantry. So, I threw caution to the wind, roasted one
too-expensive, too-tiny container of Brussels sprouts (my favorite way to prepare them), sautéed a bit of spicy sausage with plum tomatoes, and put together an easy and delicious Béchamel.
When the pasta (finally) finished cooking, I married the whole happy lot with the velvety sauce and waited for the troops to arrive.
However, as is typical around here, none responded immediately to my tribal yell signifying a successful hunt (AKA a ready,
home-cooked meal, or in many cases, the arrival of take-out).
While I waited impatiently, I picked at the plump, vibrant sprouts to stave off my I-forgot-to-eat-lunch hunger. The combination of salty, almost-caramelized sprouts with the nutmeg-sweet, creamy sauce was music to my mouth. So moved by its rhythm, I managed to eat every last Brussels sprout before hungry natives even had a chance to spear them.
Fortunately (or not), both son and husband have self-diagnosed allergies to all-things-vegetables and so I ate, free from guilt, and nary a tear was shed for the missing (albeit delicious) sprouts.
The meal was inhaled and received its seal of approval from my regular panel of judges. As I offered my explanation for what they were eating, I realized that I enjoy saying ‘Béchamel’ as much as I enjoy making and eating it. The fact that it rhymes with my name
is a bonus for the sake of folly.
As I cleared the (now empty) kitchen and started on the dishes,
I felt compelled to sing along as I washed them.
What is it about rushing water that triggers the need for song?
I sang along with the humming faucet to my own concocted renditions of “Michelle Ma Béchamel” and “Pulling Brussels from a Béchamel.” And although I was painfully off-key, I enjoyed a moment of amusement at my corny play on words, and a moment of free-ness that so often accompanies spontaneous song.

And I got to thinking about that old Squeeze cassette and those joyous, musical moments of my oblivious youth. And how although I was not gifted with voice, I am content playing to the audience of a hot shower, a kitchen faucet and the occasional rainy sidewalk.
I am convinced that both singing and cooking offer limitless joy to those who embrace them. Each offers the rich rewards of instant gratification and the opportunity for communal participation
and enjoyment.
As I call upon the old classics of both the musical and culinary worlds, I am hopeful that like music, my cooking reflects the passion from which it is conceived. While my techniques and tools may be pedestrian, I am fueled by the mastery of my ancestors and their dedication to creating symphonic dishes with simple, quality ingredients.
J.R.R. Tolkien once said: “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” For as long as I can remember, music and food have provided me with amusement and joy. Like true, old friends they have carried me through good times and bad. So, while I can’t speak for a merrier world, they certainly make for a merrier me.

And while I’m in the habit of lyrics-modification,
were my grandmother here today, I think she might agree that
A merry meal and a merry song orchestrated by a merry girl,
all together are indeed like a melody.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

Once again, I make a strong recommendation for
Janet Fletcher’s book,
Four Seasons Pasta.
I am including the recipe for her simple Béchamel Sauce which is delicious on just about everything. I strongly encourage you to
seek out whole nutmeg (in my supermarket it is available in a small bag hanging near the other spices) instead of its’ already ground cousin. Use your favorite microplane or zester to add a bit to your sauce (a little goes a long way). It imparts a nutty, sweet flavor to the sauce and will have your hungry crowd wondering just what that flavor is. I especially love this sauce atop roasted vegetables, sautéed spinach, and layered between veggie lasagna.
I have made it with everything from lowfat milk to half and half but my favorite recipe uses a combination of whole milk and light cream. Make it your own to suit your own taste/needs.

Béchamel Sauce

4 TBS Unsalted Butter
4 TBS Unbleached All Purpose Flour
3 Cups Whole Milk
1 Small Bay Leaf
1 Clove Garlic, Halved
Salt and Freshly Ground Black Pepper
Freshly Grated Nutmeg

Melt the butter in a saucepan over moderate heat. Add the flour and whisk to blend. Add the milk, whisking CONSTANTLY. Add the bay leaf and garlic. Bring to a simmer, whisking often, then adjust the heat to cook at a BARE SIMMER. Cook for 15 minutes, whisking often, then season with salt, pepper and nutmeg to taste. Remove the bay leaf and garlic before serving.

**My Notes:
Once the flour is added, it is important to whisk aggressively to remove any lumps. Once you add the milk and you start whisking, make sure your heat is at a moderate level to avoid scorching. Continue to whisk until it appears smooth, with no lumps. Once it is smooth, you can be less diligent with whisking but remember to keep the heat at a bare simmer for the majority of the cooking time. You will notice the sauce thickening as it simmers. Do not allow it to boil.

A Green Party Candidate: My Own Presidential Debate

2008-01-07T08:40:00.002-05:00

While most of you are complaining about a too-quick
December holiday season, I’m still trying to figure out where November went.
These days my life seems to be dictated by the non-shaded boxes of our district calendar and the consistent demands of a daytime job and late night laundry.
Lately I’ve been feeling a bit guilty for paying little (or no) attention to political newsbytes which might help clarify the murky waters of our upcoming presidential election.
From the very first day that I turned the tender, yet voteable age
of 18, I have been haunted by the notion that my own little selection at the polls could tip the scales in the wrong direction; hence leaving our country in the hands of one incapable, albeit charming pretender—a tragedy I can almost equate with leaving my own beloved family in the hands of one skinny, inexperienced, unmotivated cook.
This is serious stuff.

Recently, while browsing my favorite wholesale club (in my favorite department which houses all manners of refrigerated noshables),
I happened upon a huge wheel of double-crème brie.
The temptation to make such a spendy purchase was quelled only by the facts that the brand name would haunt me (President), and the size of the wheel would likely last long enough to see our next presidential inauguration.
My greatest fear being that in a side by side comparison,
(my President brie to our new president), my cheese would likely possess more maturity and character (in this case, in the form of mold), than our fearless new leader.
At the risk of making a hasty decision, I headed to the book department where I hoped to brie-tox, and return to my original, sensible plan to follow my efficiently prepared shopping list.

I sorted through a random assortment of cookbooks and took a few moments to savor the delicious photographs in one particular book dedicated to seasonal pasta dishes. As I reluctantly returned the book to its rightful stack, I noticed a brightly colored collection of Dr. Seuss books.
I was surprised that this familiar collection was stacked amongst a collection of books for adult readers, and not placed appropriately with the other children’s books.
Quirky titles like If I Ran the Circus, Hop on Pop, and Horton Hears a Who, were nestled between current titles like Charlie Wilson’s War and YOU—The Owners Manual.
I wondered if this misplacement was mere happenstance or perhaps intentionally and strategically orchestrated by the same genius who not so long ago, reminded us that all we ever really needed to know we had already learned in Kindergarten.
An interesting thought occurred to me:
What if this same principle could be applied to choosing a presidential candidate? What if all I ever really needed to know to successfully perform my patriotic duty was scripted in rhyme by a clever man known to most of us as Dr. Seuss?
Surely this pattern of thought was proof that I had finally lost it.
In a state of guilt-ridden, hunger-induced delirium, it was time to face the cold, hard truth that I was in fact, apathetic.
There, I said it;
Apathy, that dreaded condition best left to describe the ignorant
and indecisive among us.
For there, hidden among harried shoppers in the book department of wholesale heaven, stood one desperate, ill-informed American who was, and always had been reluctant to cast her meager, yet admittedly essential vote (me).
Now that the proverbial cat was finally out of the bag
(or more appropriately, the hat), where was I to go from here?

It was then and there that I decided to put an end to the madness.
If a true climate of change was upon us, and our front-running candidates were willing to stand by their promises for said change
(or not), then surely I could make the commitment to change for the sake of our great country, couldn’t I?
But the dilemma of choice still haunted me.
Like that great wheel of President brie, what I wanted had little to do with what was right or what was practical (truth be told, I really wanted Oprah to be President so her Favorite Things Day could become a national holiday, complete with fringe benefits).
These forces of opposition, want versus need, would continue to
rear their ugly heads as I struggled to choose a leader from our
not-so-stellar lot of candidates.

I pulled the stack of Seuss books closer to me and as I sentimentally flipped through each colorful, rhyming tome, I allowed myself to daydream the possibility of creating my own candidate for presidency.
As I read along to What If I Ran the Circus, I imagined its title to be What if I Ran the Country, and for one fleeting moment, Dr. Seuss himself, seemed like the perfect fit.
But the sad (yet true) fact that he was deceased left one
Theodor Seuss Geisel an unlikely candidate for the
White House in '09.

And speaking of The White House, I don’t doubt that if he had the opportunity to lead our great country, he would have wasted no time in choosing a new, happier color (or several colors) for his drab, albeit tremendous, new home.
I imagine that he would have approached politics in the same simple fashion he approached his notable literary works.
I’d like to think that his sometimes fantastical, yet always accurate view that we living creatures are basically a good-natured bunch, would have moved mountains for the sake of world peace.
Although most adults (especially those who have children or at some point, were children themselves) are familiar with his work, many remain unaware that Dr. Seuss actually wrote for mature readers as well as children.
Many of his books fall under the umbrella of “character education,” as he artfully addresses important individual and societal issues through his usual cast of creatures, both real and imagined
(and I can’t t think of one adult who couldn’t use a little
character education).

For example, The Lorax, although not his most popular, was
decades ahead of its time, as it addresses the issue of environmental corruption due to industrial pollution in a fictitious land of
truffula trees.
To this day, it speaks to the importance of caring for ones planet for the sake of protecting both our present and future environments.

One of my favorite Seuss books called Horton Hears a Who, features Horton, an elephant, who encounters a tiny race of creatures and magnanimously protects them.
The story emphasizes appreciation of cultural differences and the importance of standing up for those who are perhaps, smaller, weaker and less able to stand up for themselves.
The author's lessons are timeless and so brilliantly written that they are easily understood by both young and old.

Additionally, I can only imagine the simplicity with which he might have penned laws, by-laws and amendments.
Had Dr. Seuss really become president, dare I suggest that we few apathetic Americans might have been encouraged to pay closer attention and perhaps even take interest, for the simple fact that we might have actually understood political jargon for a change?
And let’s face it, who doesn’t love a good rhyme?

As I quietly read each whimsical line, enchanted by its silliness and acutely aware of its greater meaning, I decided that one would hardly have to twist my arm to convince me to vote for him if he were in fact, a viable candidate.
Imagine what fun it would be to read or hear his daily briefings from the Oval Office (and I would imagine he might have named his other offices appropriately by shape and/or color, once he was settled in his new digs).

Furthermore, I can only imagine what his campaign slogans might have offered;

Would you vote for a lamb?
Would you vote for a goat?
You must, You MUST
Get out and vote!

It matters how your vote is spent
Especially if you live under a circus tent
Why then, a monkey might make a grand President!

But you live in the U--S--A
And your vote counts on Election Day
So forget the elephant, and forget the donkey
And definitely DO NOT vote for a monkey!

Don’t vote for a duck
Don’t vote for a moose
Be smart and vote for Dr. Seuss!

(Or maybe something like that)

But alas, Dr. Seuss has left our fine planet for grander pastures and that leaves him a not-so viable candidate for office.
Thankfully, we can still benefit from his brilliantly penned, fantastical and fictitious (yet fundamentally sound) tales.

With time seemingly standing still, I finally reached the bottom of the Seussical stack and pulled out a book with a familiar, yet intimidating character. Admittedly, he was one I loved to hate as a child,
The Grinch.
As I turned the pages, I recalled that feeling of fearful anticipation, as the made-for-television production of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas would break for commercials (obviously, before the corruption of TiVo). It was always at a critical juncture in the story’s plot, when the viewer was left to wonder what would become of the gentle residents of Whoville, at the hands of the sinister, greedy Grinch (to this very day, I cannot recall a show whose last five minutes left me with more satisfaction, peacefulness, or pride
than this one).
I grew to love the Grinch, as much for his triumphs as his foibles.
As he made his transformation from an angry societal outcast to a rehabilitated and morally upright (yet green and hairy) creature, I cheered as he realized the importance of forgiveness, kindness and generosity.
(To this day, I don’t doubt that Greenpeace was the brainchild of one impressionable kid who witnessed the climate change in Whoville and made it his own).

As I pondered the impact of this familiar story and the underlying issues of materialism, the importance of good will, and the true meaning of holidays it so cleverly addresses, I realized that we Americans could learn a thing or two from the green guy.
In all his sinister fallibility, he fought the demons of commercialism and the unfairness of childhood prejudice, and emerged a true hero; one who gained the trust and respect of an open-minded community, willing to give his promise for change a legitimate chance.
Not too shabby for a misunderstood, hairy, green bully.

I forced myself away from the book department and headed back to the dairy aisle, rejuvenated by a less-is-more mentality, thanks to CindyLou Who and her neighbors. I refused to purchase that glorious wheel of brie until I could legitimately account for its purpose.
Forcing impulse aside, I filled my cart with only the food items on my list and made my way to the excruciatingly long checkout line.

As I waited on line, I perused magazines and tabloids from the display racks strategically placed to tempt the impulsive, the bored, and the sugar-addicted (in this case, all three applied to me).
A pattern seemed to emerge from each front page cover, leaving little room for the usual reporting on celebrity shenanigans.
It seemed that in clever, timely fashion, each cover highlighted the flaws, foibles and faux-pas of our current presidential candidates. From suspect behaviors to seemingly inarguable infidelities, there didn’t seem to be a squeaky clean duck left in the bunch.

Ironically (or not), that hardcover edition of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas stared at me from atop the twenty-four pack of toilet tissue in my cart. I couldn’t rationalize purchasing the book any more than I could rationalize purchasing that giant wheel of brie.
As I placed it alongside the pathetic yet entertaining assortment of tabloids, I realized that the Grinch himself was looking like the most noble (albeit green) candidate among present company.
In light of the fact that all of our candidates are flawed, I would find it reassuring to know that at least one is truly capable of change.
If only the Grinch were running for president,
I would be off the hook for another four years (at least) and I could concentrate on the importance of local, seasonal produce and its relationship to countless varieties of pasta (obviously, a subject of critical matter).
But such was not the case.
And it’s sad really, because the Grinch would have made
a fine president.
At fifty-three, he already had valuable life lessons under his belt. Although his past was a bit sketchy, one could not deny his successful rehabilitation.
He overcame childhood prejudice and beat the odds against his rare condition (being born with a heart two sizes too small).
He proved that he could be a team player and would act quickly and effectively in a crisis situation (think overloaded sleigh teetering on mountaintop). With Max steadfastly by his side, one wouldn’t have to guess the identity of his running mate (could there be one more loyal or capable than Max?).
The Grinch righted the wrongs of his past and made it his mission to give back (this would likely come in handy for those of us paying
too-high property taxes).
And let us not forget his ability to feed the masses with limited resources (he managed to feed the entire village of Whoville as he
so dexterously carved one single roast beast).
The simple fact remains that this great country of ours needs a guy (or gal) who, when push comes to shove, will ultimately do the right thing; one who acknowledges conscience in a time of conflict.
But alas, our country’s fate rests in the hands of a different, less green species (although I would have to argue that the Grinch seems more human than some people I know).

So, in the spirit of honoring my covenant, I am committed to taking my role as an American voter more seriously.
Change is rarely, if ever without cost, and I don’t expect this will be an easy change to make.
Truth be told, my ignorance really is bliss.
Talk to me about food, and I get it.
Talk politics to me, and well, you might as well be speaking Greek
(of course, if you use words like moussaka and baklava, I’ll totally get it).

I can’t erase the poor choices of my disinterested past, but like the Grinch, I am committed to the promise of a better me; one who is more compassionate, more generous and hopefully, more informed.
In my quest to sort through the propaganda to uncover the best leader for our great country, I will keep in mind the importance of character and the qualities which are essential to great leadership.
Should I fall short in my ability to make a well-informed choice, I will seek assistance from those who are more capable.
Perhaps they will be willing to translate Greek for me over
coffee and some homemade baklava.

It is unfortunate though that the Grinch isn’t an option
for American voters.
We’ve never had a green president.
And often times, change is good.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

P.S. That pasta book with the delicious photographs is called
Four Seasons Pasta by Janet Fletcher and is definitely worth a
look-see by anyone who loves a good noodle.

From Panini to Bikini (or Not)

2008-01-01T17:57:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year

With full hearts and even fuller bellies, many of us will approach 2008 with excitement and anticipation for smaller waistlines,
bigger bank accounts and more organized homes and offices.
As I begin my own annual WWF Smackdown (no, I’m not a fan of
wrestling but the quirky moniker is a perfect fit for my
self-prescribed weight loss regime of more Water, Walking and Fiber), I am also committed to my Christmas promise for self-improvement which ultimately benefits the greater good.

It was an easy decision to make my donation in the form of edibles because food remains a subject for me that is both comforting and motivating.
Food is what I know and it’s one of the few things I’m good at.
Not to mention that I am haunted by the thought of anonymous members of my own community running short of food to feed their families, while I admonish my own family (including myself) for the occasional waste resulting from hungry eyes, too large for sometimes unappreciative, well-fed stomachs.

I did some shopping for the local food pantry and as I reached for predictable non-perishables like canned beans, rice, and soup stock, I thought about a recent movie I had the pleasure of watching with my family.
It tells the story of a rat named Remy who aspires to be a multi-starred chef in Paris. With insurmountable odds against him, he fulfills his dream and acquires his own restaurant, complete with all of the kitchen gadgets any renowned varmint-chef would need.
The repetitive message throughout the movie of “Anyone can cook,” is perhaps overstated in the case of Remy and his widely extended rat family, but pertinent nonetheless to the rest of us.
It is in that spirit that I decided to mix it up a little when preparing the donation bags for the food pantry. In addition to the basic items, I threw in a few unexpected yet inspirational items for good measure, including but not limited to: coconut milk, parmesan tomato-basil oil, sweet chili oil, Thai red curry paste, Vietnamese spring roll wrappers, Nori wrappers for sushi rolls, Arborio rice, pearled barley, mixed Tuscan spices, chipotle chili spice packs for the brave, two bottles of hot sauce, and Buffalo Bills Wild West salsa (which, in conjunction with beans, beef stock, rice and a few spices would make one heck of a meal for a rainy football Sunday afternoon).
I am hopeful that the recipients of my donations will be inspired enough to experiment with the ingredients.
If for only one meal, or even one moment, they could taste
a bit of joy and forget a bit of hardship, it would make my heart glad.

On one pleasant, unseasonably warm day, after dropping off the donation bags, hubby and I headed to our favorite Italian Pastosa to stock up on fixins for the week ahead, which would be spent getting to know our new panini press.
One stop turned into two because we are both blessed and cursed to have two Italian specialty shops within just a few miles of our home. An ideal situation perhaps, if we find ourselves in an emergency situation in need of squid ink; not so ideal if we have a yen for fresh Mozzarella and we shop when we’re hungry (and when, pray tell,
are we NOT hungry?).
Needless to say, I was not only successful in my acquisition of one jar of Calabrian hot peppers, one jar of Recca anchovies packed in olive oil, one bag of fresh bread crumbs, one featherweight bag of outrageously expensive dried Porcini mushrooms, one can of AsDoMar Italian tuna packed in oil ( in my opinion, there is no substitute), one bag of Farro pasta, two cans of San Marzano tomatoes, a pound of Gaeta and Kalamata olives, and a half pound of pignoli nuts, but as I expected, my husband refused to leave either establishment without his favorite four-letter-friend, MEAT.

We arrived home with my own bacchanalia of delicacies and his sinful assortment of sausages and stuffed beef pinwheels.
These substantial meats would have to wait their turn for plated performance however, because the panini press was calling.
An assorted mix of sliced salamis awaited their cue as I prepared breads and accompaniments for the event.
While our DeLonghi Retro Panini Press heated to maximum temperature, I carefully sliced, conservatively layered, cautiously spread, and gently drizzled to my heart’s content.
Throughout the process, I referred time and again to my favorite book on the subject: Simple Italian Sandwiches by Jennifer and Jason Denton. I did my homework on cookbooks dedicated solely to panini, and this one tops my list of favorites. I am also a fan of
Jo McAuley’s book, simply called Panini, but the Denton’s book delves further into the origin of simple sandwich fare and offers great recipes for condiments and accompaniments. Their book offers the reader a brief, yet engaging history of panini and tempts one to visit their critically acclaimed bistro in New York City, lovingly called ‘Ino (which loosely translates into “small precious mouthfuls”).

I knew from premiere panini production that I would be forever hooked on these simple yet symphonic sandwiches.
Truth be told, I have never been a fan of sandwiches in general, save for the occasional (albeit deadly) Reuben.
These however, offered a combination of flavors and textures which recalled favorite Italian fare of my well-fed youth. My love of all things antipasti was brilliantly showcased between slices of artisan bread grilled to crisp yet tender perfection.
My favorite panini to date (and keep in mind that we haven’t even scratched the surface of possibilities) includes soppressata, Fontina cheese and arugula, spread with sun-dried tomato bruschetta and olive oil. All is lovingly nestled between two uniform slices of ciabatta rolls and firmly pressed until golden and crisp.
Pure Panini Heaven.
While educating myself on the finer points of panini consumption, I arrived at the simple, yet unarguable conclusion that Prosecco was invented for the sole purpose of being served with panini.

My secret love affair with panini started well before the press arrived via UPS at my front door. Admittedly, I read the Denton’s book
cover to cover, before I even ordered the press. With each detailed description, I could practically taste the joy and longed to share it.
The morning after I read the last page, I efficiently e-ordered panini presses for every member of my family and for my closest friends and neighbors.
Christmas supply being unable to meet urgency and demand, I was forced to purchase three different brands; all of which fared well from recent reviews.
My first intention was to purchase the highly regarded Cuisinart GR-1 Griddler (this is not to be confused with the larger griddler that has removable plates and is made to accommodate meats and other grillables, but instead is fashioned to be a workhorse for grilling sandwiches). A major inventory faux-pas by Amazon.com left me with a replacement offer for the DeLonghi Retro Panini Press which I now own. I am pleased and satisfied and would recommend this model to any ambitious panini maker. It is both easy to use and very easy to clean—the two requirements that were non-negotiable in my quest for panini press procurement. I was fortunate to be able to attain two more DeLonghi’s to share with friends.
I was intent on providing all of my family members with the same product so my decision was made based on availability of five identical units. They each received the Breadman Panini Press, the most impressive dark horse of my purchases. For around forty bucks each, the units are sturdy, keep consistent temperature and house narrow and closely spaced grill plates which most resemble those of traditional panini presses. I was so impressed with this unit that I tried to reorder a few more to no avail. Both Amazon and Target were devoid of inventory and I was on a wild goose chase for three more panini presses. I finally settled on the Hamilton Beach version and was pleasantly surprised at its comfortable price tag and simple yet reliable construction. Each recipient found a panini cookbook firmly attached to the box containing the press, for added inspiration. Some received Jo McAuley’s book while others received the Denton’s cookbook.
Two presses in festive wrapping are still sitting idly by my fireplace, awaiting belated holiday visits from unsuspecting guests.
Oh the anticipation and joy of giving.

My panini Christmas is one I wish I could have shared with every man or woman who necessarily, but reluctantly makes their way up the old cement steps to an open, objective food pantry door.
But alas, my oddly assorted (yet well intended) donations will have to suffice for now.

And onto that dreaded subject of bikinis, I got to thinking about dinner napkins of all things, and how they played an integral role in my damnation of the bikini.

I recall around the age of junior high school, that my father was displeased with all manners of paper production pertaining to dinner napkins, toilet paper and tissues. He would occasionally mutter seemingly nonsensical negativities about such products while using them (with the exception of toilet paper as I have no knowledge, nor do I wish to continue this line of discussion about his use of this product. I can only attest to the fact that he regularly threatened divorce if our household was ever devoid of said product, however inferior).
I remember that on occasion, usually during mealtime, he would open a paper napkin to its full size, gently unfolding each layer to reveal a transparent, inadequate (albeit large) square. He would remark (to anyone who would listen) that it was wasteful if we didn’t allow our napkins to be used to their fullest potential before reaching for a replacement ( this is a common yet silly practice of fathers-- foolishly believing that their children actually USE dinner napkins), all the while shaking his head in disapproval at the inferiority of our not-so-cheap paper napkins.
He was most disgruntled however by the inadequacy of tissues. I wondered as a young teen if my father had an unusually large nose or if in fact, he suffered from some abnormal sinus condition that failed to halt mucus production. When I questioned my mother about his disdain for Kleenex, she reminded me that he was a recent convert from traditional fabric handkerchiefs and would never be satisfied with their inferior, paper counterpart.
In my true, squeamish girl-form of the era, I was horrified by her admission. I begged forgiveness on my father’s soul for his prehistoric preference and begged blessings for my mother’s dear soul for putting up with the daily laundry of five kids, two grandparents and a husband who added said handkerchiefs to the lot. I also found it both disturbing and amusing that in households across my community, where my friends were regularly admonished for failing to remove their tennis shoes before entering the home, gentleman of the house were welcomed and seemingly encouraged to add their snot to the family hamper.
At least my own mother was consistently fair, and equally welcomed both the sneakered and the hankie-toting into her home and hamper.

Back to the subject of dinner napkins; it was during my less than svelte phase of teen-hood that I devised a dinnertime plan for guaranteed weight loss.
It was a brilliant plan that required no stimulants or hokey-pokey diet tricks, but instead, the open-mindedness of family members,
an appetite, and a bikini.
With my mother’s permission, I showed up for dinner wearing only my black and white striped bikini. I explained (to the few who looked up from their dinner plates long enough to notice) that the unsightliness of my belly-rolls would surely deter me from overeating or making poor choices in regard to portion size and the ratio of proteins to vegetables which adorned my generously sized plate.
Three nights in a row I left the table victorious. I was satiated but not stuffed, and most importantly, I had the confidence of having made good nutritional choices under my invisible shrinking belt.
On the fourth night however, once the chicken cutlets and spinach-laden mashed potatoes hit the table, I soon learned the indispensable value of a dinner napkin unfolded to its full potential.
By golly, my father was on to something.
On diagonal, neatly tucked between bikini top and bikini bottom, it cleverly hid a multitude of sins and allowed for a damn good
(and temporarily guiltless) meal.

So, on the first day of this promising new year, I exist
like so many others, torn between many variables.
I will struggle with battles between what is healthful and what is delicious, between right and wrong, between dedicating myself to a cause or desensitizing myself from said cause, simply because it is easier and less painful; between greed and generosity, between willpower and won’t-exhaustion, between saving and spending, between an organized mess or just a mess, and perhaps most significantly, between myself and I.

The me who wants to be that woman in the great jeans who makes her own soap, is a markedly different me from the one who idolizes her panini press.
She is a me who loves all the flavors life has to offer and wants everyone to have a taste.
She is really the me I most enjoy being.

And should that bikini experiment rear its ugly head again, I have the perfect application for those orphaned fabric handkerchiefs I found long ago in a family closet. It turns out that they are bigger and stronger than the paper dinner napkins which accompany our daily meals.
Perhaps, when placed on point, and tucked neatly between bikini top and bottom, one will hide a multitude of forty year-old sins, while sparing the appetite of dinner companions and allowing for one
damn good meal of perfect panini and prosecco.

I think my father would be proud.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
Michelle

For those of you who haven't yet seen Ratatouille, treat yourself. It's a happy movie that will leave you hungry (but no less repulsed by rats). It is one of my favorite Christmas gifts, second only to my new Nordic Track, which is easy enough to operate while holding a panini and watching Food Network.

I am happy to share with you my favorite recipe for panini from
Simple Italian Sandwiches by Jennifer and Jason Denton.
If I could eat the book, I would.

Soppressata, Fontina, and Arugula Panini

4 Cibatta Rolls
15 thin slices soppressata or other hard salami
1 small bunch arugula, well rinsed and dried
Freshly ground black pepper
8 think slices Italian Fontina Cheese

Preheat Panini Grill.
Slice off the domed tops of the Ciabatta rolls and reserve for another use. The rolls should be about 1 inch thick. Split or slice the rolls in half horizontally.
Distribute the soppressata slices so that the bottom halves of the rolls are covered with a single layer of salami. Top with a few leaves of arugula and some black pepper. Arrange two slices of Fontina on each sandwich and trim edges of cheese to fit the bread. Cover with the top halves of the rolls.
Grill the sandwiches until warmed through completely--about 4 minutes.
Cut in half and serve immediately.

**My Notes:
I always drizzle a scant amount of extra virgin olive oil on the base roll before placing ingredients on top. If the meat is particularly greasy however, I will omit this step. On this particular panini, I added a teaspoon of sundried tomato bruschetta spread onto each side of the sandwich before closing. It is important to use only a small bit so it doesn't seep out during grilling.
This panini is especially good served with marinated artichokes and mixed olives alongside (and don't forget the prosecco).

Don't Count Your Dickens Before They Hatch

2007-12-20T09:58:00.000-05:00

"He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist..."

This is exactly the time of year when I become a philanthropist of mind and spirit. The flesh and wallet however, aren’t always so cooperative.
For those of us who are givers, we realize that nothing feels better than the euphoric high which results from the act of selfless giving.
To give of ones self, ones time, and/or ones means--with no expectation for reciprocal gratuities, is in and of itself, addictive.

In the spirit of Charles Dickens, many of us will channel Ebenezer Scrooge (in his post-spirited, reformed state) to assist us in all manners of holiday handouts.
What we may not realize, however, is that while our December efforts are noble and appreciated, they are fleeting and perhaps indulgent.
Yes, I said indulgent.

As consumers, we are sold the entire holiday experience tied up in a temporary, albeit shiny bow of noncommittal.
While we strive to recreate the wonderful life George Bailey so foolishly ignored, our efforts are as temporary as the icicle lights hanging beneath our gutters.
Ironically, George Bailey and the do-gooders whose paths we silently cross during the other eleven months of the year are the true,
unsung heroes of charitability.
They ambitiously (yet inconspicuously) serve their communities whether or not generosity is fashionably in season.

Recently, my son and I attended a holiday toy-drive sponsored by our local parish. Truth be told, our attendance was due in part, to a requirement set forth by diocesan mandate for religious education curriculum. My son needed to fulfill twelve hours of community service and I tagged along for the feel-good-fringe-benefits of proud motherhood. I anticipated a Christmas-card moment but what I received instead was a more significant (and much needed) awakening.

From my first encounter with an unassuming, fairy-esque
Sister Anne, I knew I would be humbled by my experience
(one that almost didn’t happen due to pending wicked weather and an already crammed December calendar).
Our first order of business was to sort toy donations by age appropriateness and gender. My son, being the only male presence ineligible for social security, was voted the official lifter, carrier, and convent-to-dumpster trash-hauler for the day. My favorite teenage couch potato gave one hundred-ten percent to accomplishing his mission with complete disregard for his nagging head cold and late-night-congestion-induced fatigue.

Under Sister Anne’s careful direction, we un-bagged, unwrapped and sorted toys for all ages. Overwhelmed by the generosity of one small community, I remarked that the volume of donations was both impressive and heartwarming. What I learned however, is that toy donations were down from last year, volunteerism was at an all time shortage, and sadly, some of the consistent donors upon whom the church depended, had fallen on their own hard times and thus halted donations for now, and indefinitely.
I also learned that despite all of this, Sister Anne would turn no one away.
On distribution day many parents would arrive at sunrise to form a line and patiently wait to be assigned a number. Each number would allow it’s bearer to “shop” the makeshift toy department with dignity and careful assistance. With her strong faith and undying optimism, Sister Anne would oversee the allocation of every donation, down to the last Barbie accessory.

I wish I could have attended distribution day, but employment demands beckoned. I lived the day vicariously through detailed reporting from my son and husband who attended.
My son was stationed in a tiny kitchen which served as child-care central, for the occasional, unexpected presence of tag-along children. His duty was to keep them occupied and unaware of secret Christmas happenings.
I’m told that he provided excellent supervision and even led a few rounds of Christmas carols (the same ones he refuses to sing along to- at home).
My husband was commissioned to lift Christmas tree donations from the basement to the empty, eager hatch-backs of waiting recipients. Once the tree-supply was depleted, he became the official coffee maker for fatigued, caffeine-deprived volunteers. Somehow he managed to squelch the threat of rebellion for a too-slow coffee urn and a fifty-five cup supply of ground coffee that turned out to be decaffeinated.
The images of my son and husband in such generous form gave me the warm fuzzies and a smile that lasted throughout the day.
But I was most moved by my son’s account of one woman who cried quiet, joyful tears as she discovered that every single item requested in second-grade penmanship on her crumpled list, was available to her. She gratefully embraced Sister Anne and the volunteers who assisted her, and vowed to never forget their generosity.

On this late, happy day in December, it seems an impossible notion that one would forget such an act of kindness. But sadly, most of us will.
Once the decorations are boxed and the last evidence of ripped-wrapping are discarded, the majority of us will go back to the rat race we call life, with little time or effort spent remembering or assisting those in need.
The giants among us, like my petite friend Sister Anne, will be left to their own hopeful resources to fashion lemonade from a few meager lemons.
If not for those dedicated, anonymous few who donate their precious time and resources consistently, I dare say there wouldn’t even be lemons.

I was humbled by those, both young and old, who offered this novice some tips on sorting toys. Their familiarity with this seasonably charitable event led to discussions about their contributions to ongoing missions and food pantries.
I was embarrassed, in the presence of such habitual do-gooders, by the fact that I considered the ordinary demands of my own hectic life to be so unmanageable.
This experience taught me that my own yearly resolutions for weight loss and home improvement are sorely misguided.
As I struggle to formulate a new resolution for 2008 which will allow for an improvement of self, which ultimately benefits the greater good, I will hold fast to the notion of ordinary miracles being performed by the petite and powerful among us.

It would seem that our vision becomes a bit clearer as we view the world through Santa’s spectacles, but where, pray tell is the red suit for the other eleven months of the year?
I can say with surety, that it resides not only in convent basements but also with those who long not for the short lived Dickensian moment of giving, but for the quiet peace that accompanies an eternally generous spirit.

While Ebenezer’s transformation came late in life, and only as a result of a nightmarish visit from three ghosts, I would offer that it is neither too late, nor too frightening for any of us to answer the call.

As I recognize my own shortcomings of Christmases past, I look to Christmas present and Christmas future to guide me through the rest of the year; when although a red suit may no longer be in fashion, it will likely fit me perfectly.

Merry Christmas

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

I’m currently working on the perfect pound cake recipe, as I expect to share many with friends and loved ones for the holidays. I will post the recipe as soon as my efforts are successful.
In the meantime, I am posting a re-print of a well-known letter written by a child to her local newspaper (The Sun).
It’s a good read for those of us who need a little Christmas nudge.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?
"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Stop Throwing the Book at Me

2007-12-11T22:21:00.000-05:00

I have never left the United States.
But I have been eating, praying and loving for the better part of my whole life.

I caution you, if you are a big fan of Liz Gilbert’s, it’s best that you
X out of this page and return for the next blog post.
It is not my intent to offend anyone, and I have nothing against
Ms. Gilbert; in fact, I think she’s one cool cat.
But seriously, you should go—especially if you’re one of those
EPL prophets.

I enjoy reading.
Cookbooks have always been my first choice material but I love a good love story too. I am also a sucker for all-things-Oprah.
She’s a good egg, that Oprah.
Sometimes, when she tells me to read something, I actually do.
Such is not the case with Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert;
well, at least not the first time around.

The book piqued my interest from first mention of its title.
Any book whose title starts with “Eat” is a book of interest to me (thank you Tyler Florence, for Eat This Book).
Add to that a visual stimulus, like the word “Eat” as it appears on the cover in its delightful edibility, and no one had to twist my arm—so I bought it.
It didn’t take long however, for me to realize that this book and I would have a relationship that remained tumultuous at best.

Truth be told, I lost interest and motivation just a few short chapters into the book. The bathroom floor episode left me feeling a bit guilty; guilty for the pity I felt for a woman (albeit one in a state of emotional distress) who really didn’t have it so bad, guilty for the money I spent on the book, and quite frankly, guilty for the fact that my own bathroom floor wasn’t clean enough to welcome my own late-night breakdown (Liz probably had a visit from her cleaning lady before that collapse).
I won’t bore you with my chapter by chapter assessment of a book that some grown women unabashedly refer to as their Bible
(I already have one of those, thank you very much).
What I will offer however, is that Ms. Gilbert deserves ownership of her experience. And while her readers may gain knowledge and insight as a result of the words bled from a painfully deep, emotionally conflicted wound, it seems criminal that others may wish to copycat another woman’s catharsis.

Admittedly, I am old school, so her entire journey was a bit of a pill for me to swallow. Where other readers suggest spiritual revolution, I see disingenuous genuflections.
But that is the beauty of the written word and the responsibility of a good book.
Eat Pray Love certainly stirs the pot and titillates the taste buds. Let’s just say it’s not my favorite meal.

Getting back to my dear friend Oprah; When I scrolled through TiVo’s Season’s Pass recordings of her show, I realized that she interviewed the author of Eat Pray Love a second time. I almost deleted
(or as I like to say “TiVorced”) the recording, but my curiosity got the best of me, so I watched it in its entirety.

Honestly, I am perplexed by Oprah’s fascination with, and undying praise for this author. For no particular reason, I made the connection early in the episode that Miss Gilbert shares the same initials (L.G.) as the manufacturer of those state-of-the-art refrigerators Oprah gave away during her “Favorite Things” episode—Oprah pointed out that LG stands for Life’s Good, and
I’ll bet it is for both LG and L.G.
(Perhaps there’s a theme here).

During this follow-up episode with Ms. Gilbert, Oprah allowed audience members to ask questions and comment on Eat Pray Love, while Ms. Gilbert sat comfortably, offering shaman-esque advice to smitten readers.
I was most disturbed as I watched and listened in horror to the viewer who detailed her recent journey to the same places
Ms. Gilbert traveled to, with the intent to find the same people, expecting the same experience.
And ultimately, she did it all.
Listen folks, as a New Yorker, I am somewhat desensitized to news headlines about car-jackings and hi-jackings. But dare I say, this is the first time I have personally experienced a sordidly detailed account of a journey-jacking by one blissfully ignorant
(albeit well-intentioned) woman.
Ms. Gilbert seemed visibly uncomfortable at the notion that a perfect stranger essentially hi-jacked her personal guru and enjoyed the same (no longer sacred) experiences of tea time and massage.
I was genuinely surprised that Oprah didn’t challenge her on such atrocities.
I was hopeful that her less-than-personable-guest-turned-
cathartic-consultant, Richard might have chimed-in, but as expected, he sat wallowing in speechless wisdom, appearing as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

The pivotal moment for me was when Liz allowed viewers a glimpse into her now, blissfully balanced life—in New Jersey.
Could irony be any sweeter?

I have nothing personal against New Jersey or its residents.
It seems however, that Bali is a long way to travel to meet a guru who will clarify your very existence (and then ultimately forget who you are and why exactly he predicted you would return), to finally end up in a once-upon-a-church residence in New Jersey.
Not to mention that Jersey has its rightful share of great Italian restaurants, churches and massage parlors.
Liz could have saved a bundle on airfare, and quite possibly uncovered her peaceful spirit while eating, praying and loving
her way across the never ending Jersey Turnpike,
with nary a concern for passports or jet lag.

Despite my cynicism, I am pleased that she found peace and was able to make sense of her own existence (it limits the odds for a sequel).
But I fail to fully understand her inability to acknowledge her original, pre-meditated life as one of validity and purpose.
We humans live our lives in constant flux. Each of us is prone to experiencing days when we feel less like ourselves, and more like the people we find unlikable.
But the cold, hard truth is that sometimes we don’t “fit” into the lives we lead because of our own foolish misinterpretation of what we thought we wanted.
Most of us have experienced disappointment, loneliness, and the painful truth of hurting someone we love, or thought we loved.
But few of us have the means, the moxie, or the ego maniacal sense to expose such sensitivities for personal gain.

I would like to believe that originally, Ms. Gilbert wanted only to tell her story. Perhaps the obsessive fanfare and spiritual dedication to her vacational-incantations, can be attributed to the inevitable Oprahfication of her amusing tale.

I have faith in Ms. Gilbert's ability to spin an interesting yarn, and those who read for leisure and the opportunity to escape an ordinary day will have their fill.
But my heart weighs a bit heavier for those less fortunate who might really be living the truths of a toxic marriage, distorted self image, or broken spirit.
In the absence of family, faith, or financial support, a posh pilgrimage to eat pasta and pray seems an impractical, if not impossible solution.

If I have learned anything from Eat Pray Love, it is that I am not alone in my occasional desire to become someone else
(anyone else) when the going gets tough.
I have also learned that Italy is definitely my gastronomic destination of choice (if I can figure out a wheels-only
way to get there).
And lastly, if it’s true that the devil is in the details,
then I suppose we might expect to find God in simplicity.

Ms. Gilbert’s second meeting with her Guru in Bali offered a simple, prayerful posture with no prerequisite training or travel.
He reduced her labor-intensive spiritual quest to
his dismissive, yet brilliant suggestion that one must only
sit quietly and smile for effective meditation
(something also very doable on the Jersey Turnpike
during rush hour).

While I am not a practitioner of meditation, I find this methodology especially effective on those days when I would rather be living anyone else’s life but my own.
I find that if I sit still with my eyes closed and force myself to recall my blessings, instead of my regrets, it requires little effort on my part to produce the necessary smile.
I might not have it all, and I certainly don’t have it all together,
but if a breakdown is on the horizon, the bathroom floor
is likely the farthest I’ll go.

Because Life’s Good.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

In the spirit of soulful cleansing, I have decided not to post a recipe.
Perhaps some food for thought and a cup of detoxifying tea
are in order.

Faking It

2007-12-08T20:51:00.000-05:00

Did she, or didn't she?

I am in love with a cookbook. Well, two cookbooks actually, but
for the purpose of this torrid tale, I will refer to the one which
is currently my bedside companion.
With the holiday season (and all its chaos) upon us, I haven’t had much time for night reading. When time allows and the spirit is willing, unfortunately, the eyelids grow weak and weary.
The one advantage to such spontaneous slumber is that I often dream about the subject matter appearing on the same page as my drool.
In this case, I am referring to brownies; sinful, chewy, decadent brownies.

I am no stranger to these bodacious bars. Although I prefer not to keep track, I would guess that I have produced as many brownie failures as I have successes. Perhaps it is unfair to call some of them failures because most of my experiments have been eaten with great pleasure—but not the type of gastronomic pleasure I seek; the kind that renders you either totally speechless or screaming for more.

As I battled fatigue and speed-read through
the “shortbread-bars” section of
Rosie’s All-Butter Fresh Cream Sugar Packed No Holds Barred Baking Book, I entered the long-awaited, albeit short chapter on brownies. I felt an immediate connection to the author
(Judy Rosenberg), as I read about her laborious quest to develop a recipe for a “fudgy, yet not too sweet, brownie.”
I thought I had settled on her recipe for “Rosie’s Award Winning Brownies” to serve as my next kitchen conquest, until wearily, I turned the page.
My tired eyes widened as I read the recipe for what she
calls “Chocolate Orgasms.” She proudly refers to these as the most famous dessert at Rosie’s Bakery and she playfully suggests “Okay, Daddy, now you can admit it—you were wrong, this is a great name.”
Perhaps Daddy’s mortification by her mature-subject moniker for such innocent confections should have been my first clue that this recipe, like so many hopeful honeymoons, might just promise an experience it can’t deliver.
But admittedly, my curiosity was aroused and Chocolate O’s
(which I now affectionately call them to preserve my integrity as a mom serving baked goods to minors) were at the top of tomorrow’s to-do list.
Thankfully, I had all of the necessary ingredients on hand, but that little voice in the back of my head (the one I so foolishly try to ignore) told me that I should probably pick up a few more bars of quality dark chocolate.
I ignored the voice and like so many other lessons in my life, this too would remind me that a woman’s intuition is rarely ever wrong.

In my empty house on a cold Wednesday afternoon, I blasted my favorite carols and set out to make two batches of Chocolate O’s. My intent was to make one batch sinful and dark, and another, with my picky son in mind, less bitter and slightly sweeter. The recipe was a two step process, requiring the production of a chocolate glaze to be applied once the brownies cooled completely. I was intrigued by the glaze recipe because it called for evaporated milk, a product I have always considered both mysterious and vague.
When I mixed the first bittersweet batch, I knew immediately the brownie would be richer for the addition of three eggs instead of the usual two. The batter came together easily and a finger-lick test told me it had good flavor. I realize now that my instincts were correct and the addition of a few ingredients would likely have piqued this brownie’s performance, and forced its flavor meter to rise
from good to sublime.
But like the sharp instincts of my pre-marital, dating-young-adulthood, I ignored them, forcing me to suffer the unpalatable consequences of hasty decision making.

I mixed the second batch with a bit more chocolate of the milk-chocolate variety and placed both pans, side by side on the middle rack of my oven.
My timer was set for exactly twenty-five minutes.
My anticipation was nothing short of blind-date anxiety, and I needed to keep myself busy and distracted as the clock painfully ticked in what felt like slow motion.
I set out the tools and ingredients for the glaze and as I searched for my lonely can of evaporated milk, I happened upon a half-eaten bag of chocolate covered espresso beans (another dirty little
secret of mine).
An adulterous idea immediately presented itself but would remain only a fantasy until my relationship with this new recipe had its fair opportunity for success.
As the recipe instructs, I performed the toothpick test at exactly twenty five minutes and removed what appeared to be a soupy, chocolate coating clinging to the frilly-tipped instrument. Clearly, the brownies needed additional baking time and this is precisely the moment during new-recipe-experimentation when beads of perspiration form on my forehead and my right eye begins to twitch. No further instruction was offered for under baked brownies, so I was left to fly solo with little evidence of Utopia on the horizon.
After three grueling timer re-sets in one-to-two minute intervals, I finally decided to remove the pans from the oven and place them on cooling racks.
The tops appeared to have a thin crust as suggested, and the centers were no longer gelatinous. Now it was just a waiting game.
I set the timer for one hour as instructed and cleaned up all evidence of my chocolate tryst.
I was nagged by the recurring thought that my final assessment would require at least twenty-four hours worth of non-existent patience, based on the recipes recommendations that full flavor develops only after such an agonizing wait. I knew I would taste the results before then, but my judicious decision would hang over this passionate crime until the sun rose again.

When the hour was finally up, I mixed the ingredients for the glaze and divided it in half. I reserved one half for my son’s batch of brownies and I carefully administered my own rebellious enhancements to the darker batch.
In my opinion, such clandestine confections deserved a bit
of kitchen foreplay.

I poured the glaze over the un-cut brownies and
set them aside for cooling.
When I could wait no longer, and the glaze appeared to have hardened, I sliced them into meager portions (based on the written guarantee that a little goes a long way). I tasted a cut-end from the darker batch and decided that a little more creativity in the kitchen (and elsewhere) would make for a more memorable experience. I carefully wedged a chocolate covered espresso bean in the center of each dark brownie and placed half of them in my carry-to-work container, sealed it, and set it aside for tomorrow’s much anticipated unveiling.

When tomorrow finally came, I shared a brownie with my husband and not surprisingly, his reaction was anticlimactic at best. He agreed that the brownies were delicious and moist but not the best ones I’ve made to date.
When I divulged the recipe’s title, rather than risk inadequacy,
he took another bite, just in case.
I weighed his first assessment, fully aware of the fact that he is not the every-man when it comes to brownie tasting. His opinion is a bit biased, based on his extensive experience-- simply because he lives with a woman who should likely spend less time in the kitchen testing recipes, and more time in…

Well, anyway, the true test for this brownie would be distributed to coworkers who would purposely be left in the dark about its original title and would be introduced to these as Chocolate O’s
(depending on subsequent reviews, that title could be upgraded to Chocolate O, O, Ohs).

As Thursday’s winds blew, I readied myself for another day of
shoot-the messenger customer-service. I carefully packed the experiment and threw in a bunch of necessary napkins for frosted-finger negotiation. I stopped at a local dairy drive through to purchase a much needed accompaniment-one half gallon of cold milk, and headed to work.
I thought it best to leave the evidence of my chocolate affair in my car until I was sure that no high ranking officers were lurking about.
When I entered the building, I expected my usual, inquisitive greeting from my greatest fan of home baked goodness. But there was no interrogation, as he was seated at his desk, deeply involved in the finances of one leopard-coat-wearing customer.
As I set up my work station, I casually mentioned to the co-workers on either side of me that a secret stash of brownies sat on the passenger seat of my car, ready for the taking.
I made no mention of their naughty name, and not-so-patiently awaited my culinary fate.

When word of my illicit goods reached the lobby, an impromptu trip to Starbucks was organized with foolish disregard for my simple, yet spot-on recommendation that these needed only a cold-milk chaser.
A short while later, when the elected employee made his return from Starbucks I seized the opportunity to exit our stiflingly hot building to retrieve the notorious container from my car.
Brownies are one of those confections that even the most disciplined dieters find impossible to resist. And so, it was only a matter of moments before the lid was off, and brownies were making their way onto napkins (some, half-eaten, found their way into desk drawers until intrusive customers finally made their exits).

As expected, there were no obvious reactions to validate the claim made by the brownie’s torrid title.
However, one caffeine-laced, sugar-high, brownie-induced co-worker, in a state of pure chocolate delirium, reacted at first bite by professing his undying love for me.
A cheap high from illicitly acquired praise allowed me to coast through the remainder of an otherwise monotonous Thursday.
This was clearly enough to put the recipe for these
brownies in the repeat file.

Which finally brings me to the oft-unanswerable, age-old question of whether or not one particular woman could be accused of faking it?

Did Rosie really seduce innocent customers at the hands of this sultry recipe, or were there perhaps, ingredients or procedures omitted from its original version for the sake of publication?
While the brownie is a good one in its own right, it hardly lives up to its promiscuous promise.
Was this tempting treat with the titillating title, merely a fake?
Dare I believe that the creator of these confections, and the author of two beloved cookbooks cheated on her loyal readers for the sake of her own gratification?

Truth be told, I haven’t yet reached my official conclusion on this recipe, simply because it is too early in our relationship.
What I can say with certainty however, is that like most women, this brownie definitely improves with age.
There was a noticeable change in texture and chewy-ness that resulted from a not-so-patient, twenty-four hour wait for the flavor to develop.
And as more time lapsed, the brownies actually tasted better.
It gives me great hope that perhaps with a bit of tweaking and creativity, the sinful possibilities of these seductive brownies are endless.

Oddly enough, I did notice that those who sampled these brownies and most enjoyed them were, by majority, tasters of the male variety.
Perhaps in this case (and others), what’s good for the gander doesn’t necessarily satisfy the goose. And so the goose must find alternatives which allow for a more positive outcome.
In my opinion, the stimulating effects of both espresso and dark chocolate made for a more memorable and more pleasurable brownie experience.
So, the next time this goose is loose in her kitchen, she just might whip up a new, improved brownie that will render her gander speechless, or maybe even screaming for more.

And I would never lie about that.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

After this post, I just might need a cigarette—but I don’t smoke.
So, perhaps I will just go light a brownie.

Here is the recipe for Rosie’s Chocolate Orgasms as they
Appear in
Rosie’s Bakery All-Butter Fresh-Cream Sugar-Packed No-Holds- Barred Baking Book—one of my absolute favorites.
My other favorite by the same talented author, Judy Rosenberg, is called
Rosie’s Bakery Chocolate-Packed Jam-Filled Butter-Rich No-Holds Barred Cookie Book.
If you are lucky enough to get your hands on either of these books, don’t let go. Her recipes are that good.

My notes and recommendations appear after the recipe, but follow your own inner voice to create a brownie that works for you.

Chocolate Orgasms

Brownie:
3 ½ Ounces Unsweetened Chocolate
12 TBS (1 ½ Sticks) Unsalted Butter at room temperature
1 ½ Cups Sugar
¾ tsp. Vanilla Extract
3 Large Eggs at room temperature
¾ Cup plus 2 TBS all-purpose flour
½ Cup plus 2 TBS chopped walnuts (optional)

1) Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease an 8 inch square pan with butter or vegetable oil.
2) Melt the chocolate and butter in the top of a double boiler placed over simmering water. Cool the mixture for 5 minutes.
3) Place the sugar in a medium size mixing bowl and pour in the chocolate mixture. Using an electric mixer on medium speed, mix until blended, about 25 seconds. Scrape the bowl with a rubber spatula.
4) Add the vanilla. With the mixer running on medium low speed, add the eggs one at a time, blending after each addition. Scrape the bowl with a spatula after the last egg and blend until velvety.
5) Add the flour on low speed and mix for 20 seconds. Finish the mixing by hand, being certain to mix in any flour left at the bottom of the bowl. Stir in ½ cup nuts if using.
6) Spread the batter evenly in the prepared pan (if using nuts, sprinkle the remainder atop the batter)
7) Bake the brownies on the center oven rack until a thin crust forms on top and a tester inserted in the center comes out with only a moist crumb, 25 to 30 minutes.
8) Remove the pan from the oven and place it on a rack to cool for 1 hour before cutting the brownies. Serve the next day (it takes a day for the flavor to set).

GLAZE:
1 ½ Ounces unsweetened chocolate
¼ Cup evaporated milk
1/3 Cup sugar

Melt the chocolate in the top of a double boiler placed over simmering water.
Pour the evaporated milk into an electric blender or small food processor and add the sugar and melted chocolate. Blend the glaze on medium low speed until it thickens—about 50 seconds (the sound of the machine will change when this process occurs).
Using a frosting spatula spread the frosting evenly over the surface of the cooled brownies allowing them to sit for at least an hour before cutting. The glaze will harden a bit and will be less shiny when set.

My Notes:
For starters, I am a firm believer that a small pinch of salt in any baked recipe helps the flavor pop. So, the next time around, I will likely add about ¼ tsp of kosher salt.
As I mentioned, I added espresso to the glaze mixture. I believe the brownie itself needs a bit more punch as the flavor is great, but not spectacular. So, I would add about one teaspoon of instant espresso powder to the melted chocolate mixture, before adding it to the rest of the ingredients. I’m inclined to believe that more dark chocolate is always better so, I would add at least another ounce or two of good quality (60% cacao or more) dark chocolate. Adding more than that might alter the density of the batter and thus throw off baking time, so be cautious if you are adventurous.
While I am a fan of nuts, I don’t believe they have their place in such a decadent brownie, so I chose to omit them for this recipe.
I would consider adding a bit of Kahlua or other coffee liqueur to the glaze mixture if these were being served to adults only.
I used my mini food processor for the glaze. The mixture seemed a bit too thin so, I added a bit more sugar and an ounce more of unsweetened, melted chocolate. It set up nicely once it cooled but these brownies would not fare well as individually wrapped snacks. A good, airtight container will allow the flavor to develop while preserving moisture.
The thought occurred to me (because I’m still dreaming about last weeks blondies) that brown sugar might have its place somewhere in this recipe.
Since the vanilla extract did little for this brownie recipe, I might consider splitting the sugar measurement between white sugar and brown sugar for depth of flavor and increased moisture.
Where baking time is concerned, you are on your own. Since ovens differ greatly, I encourage you to pay close attention during the last five or ten minutes of baking time. In my opinion, an under-done brownie is far better than an over-done brownie (under-baked always offers the opportunity for an overnight refrigeration which makes them passable for fudge). You don’t want to take the pans out of the oven when the centers are still soupy but a moist crumb on the tester is essential. They will continue to firm up as they cool.
The addition of chocolate covered espresso beans was a big hit with co-workers. I’m not sure these would fare well if baked into the actual brownie, but placed on top of each brownie just before the glaze set, made for a flavorful addition.
Have fun with these. They are most definitely worth your time and a bit of kitchen experimentation.
Be patient, as they really do improve over time.

Enjoy!

You Can Catch More Flies with Honey...

2007-12-04T10:34:00.000-05:00

And Candy Canes and Cupcakes.

I have always been a firm believer in that saying about catching more flies with honey than vinegar. It not only makes sense but personally, I think rudeness requires more effort than kindness.
And I’m all for reserving what little energy and effort I have left-- for the good stuff.

Recently, on a particularly busy day at work, it seemed as though I was the proverbial messenger at which customers were compelled to take aim.
Having lived through several positions in banking, customer service, and retail, this is a role I am used to playing. But there is always the potential for that one customer, for whom there are no sufficient words, who will find his or her way under my skin and park there until an actual rash erupts.

It was a cold, windy Friday and as I entered the drab building, I was immediately met by one hopeful employee and his inquiry into the whereabouts of my home-baked contraband. I was solely responsible for supplying my junkie-friend with a consistent supply of uppers, in the form of cookies, bars or cupcakes. I was feeling both guilty and a bit under appreciated, realizing that my own baking obsession created the assumption that supply would regularly meet demand.
As I unveiled the coveted Tupperware, I wondered for how long I could, in good conscience, continue enabling such a familiar addiction. I allowed myself to reap the free-coffee rewards with blatant disregard for the consequences.
Any rehabilitation would have to wait for another day however, because my supply, on this chaotic day, would serve as a belated birthday gesture to our friendly boss—complete with lit candle and song.
I left the anticipated container in his care and headed to my workspace with the first evidence of a tornado-force migraine brewing.

I greeted my coworkers and began my ritual set-up and sign on. Customers entered as bitter as the wind, realizing the long line and painfully-drab-musicless-clockless-dateless-decorationless wait ahead of them. As I rushed to ready myself to call my first customer, I noticed that the coworkers on either side of me, both without customers, feigned interest in completed paperwork—an uncommon occurrence for two conscientious employees.
I called the next customer in line, a well dressed man (and I suspect one of means), sporting an expensive, albeit backwards, Kangol cap, and a freshly grown goatee. Fooled by his new façade, as soon as I read the name on his card, I knew immediately that it was him. When I first heard about his belligerent nature, it saddened me that a man with such a pleasant name, reminiscent of my favorite caffeinated beverage, could be so unpleasant. Clearly, the clever antics of my coworkers were both admirable and maddening at the same time.
When I greeted him with a smile and inquired about his well-being, he seemed genuinely surprised. He responded with an offhand comment about employees usually running in another direction whenever he enters the building.
I seized the opportunity to inform him that I was a new employee and I looked forward to a chance at a fresh start with an unfamiliar (albeit infamous) customer. I nervously completed one transaction after another, all the while making small talk. He was neither talkative nor amused and I sensed that, beneath his reluctantly calm exterior, a volcanic eruption threatened, and was awaiting provocation.
If ever I called upon my ojas to guide me, it was at this vulnerable moment.

In the spirit of Murphy’s Law, a computer glitch brought his last transaction to a screeching halt and I was forced to call upon my coworker for assistance. I am thankful to call this woman a friend because at that moment, if looks could kill, I would surely be dead. She sauntered over to my station and with minimal eye contact, greeted him less-than cordially, and manually corrected a poorly timed technical error. Not surprisingly, she immediately exited the building for a much-needed cigarette break.
As I counted out his change, I wished him a nice weekend and to my astonishment, he offered small talk about an upcoming vacation. I took the bait and learned that he would be cruising to an island somewhere near Honduras. It would be his fifteenth cruise to date. He assumed I would be familiar with the island and when I mentioned that I had never been outside the U.S. and would be satisfied to see the coast of Maine, he almost chuckled. As I gathered his final paperwork, I added a shrink-wrapped candy cane for good measure and wished him a lovely vacation. At that moment, he paused and sincerely thanked me for my well wishes. As he exited the building, I performed my (poor excuse for an) end-zone victory dance, and announced that moments ago, out one institutional lobby door, had walked one formerly disgruntled-now almost happy customer, due in part, to the absence of vinegar and the welcome presence of honey (or in this case, candy canes).

For the remainder of my shift, I purposely gave candy canes to the most persnickety, unfriendly customers, some of whom actually refused the gesture.
For the most part however, my inclination to believe in the power of kindness served me well.

Perhaps I was just lucky on this day to have encountered Mr. Angry in his rare, dormant-volcano, form. I’d like to believe however, that I have afforded him the opportunity to change his relationship with our valued employees, who so often bear the burden of being messengers of unfavorable company policies.
A pipe dream? Perhaps.
But I have made a mental note to ask about his vacation (and maybe even request he share photos) upon his return from an island I know nothing about. Undoubtedly, I will ask first about the islands cuisine.
Who doesn’t love to talk about food?

And speaking of islands, the cupcakes hidden inside my coveted container finally made their way to the back counter. Their banana coconut flavor recalls a favorite island-inspired libation.
Available employees were called to join the festivities and a candle was lit in honor of our hard working leader. Coworkers commented on the snowy coconut frosting and its resemblance to the snowball snacks of our youth (only in my opinion, much more delicious—as I have never been a fan of anything about those cakes but the coconut topping).
If only for a moment, a few all-business, furiously focused employees, let their hair down long enough to enjoy a
creamy coconut moustache and some lighthearted banter.
The experience forced me to recall my original intent for sharing baked goods at work.

Although the need no longer existed to acquaint myself with unfamiliar coworkers, I felt compelled to continue a tradition which would allow for a much needed humanitarian break, in a day that was otherwise cold (windy), and technologically dependent.

I am forced to recall that timeless and true saying by John Donne;
“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent…”

The small piece I claim will continue to lure unsuspecting
flies with the temptation of honey,
and yes, even candy canes and cupcakes.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

The recipe I am about to share with you is almost sinful it’s so easy.
I found this years ago during a wishful online search for an easy recipe using almost-rotten bananas. While they shouldn’t be black, the best results will come from using bananas that are soft, sweet and spotty. A white cake mix is the secret ingredient in this recipe, but if you won’t tell, neither will I.

On the subject of coconut, I can’t stress enough the benefit of seeking out the same unsweetened coconut I used. The standard baking coconut will work, but you won’t achieve that powdery, snowy coating and the frosting might just be a bit too sweet. If you use the sweetened variety, I would cut back on the amount of powdered sugar in the frosting.

My recipe is adapted from one which appears on Cooks.com for Moist Banana Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

Snowy Island Cupcakes

3 Small Ripe Bananas
4 Heaping TBS Sour Cream
1 White Cake Mix
3 Large Egg Whites
2 TBS Canola Oil
1 to 1 1/3 Cups Whole Milk
1 tsp. Coconut Flavoring
½ Cup Unsweetened Organic Coconut (shredded and dehydrated)
**I purchased an inexpensive bag at our local health foods store—the flakes are very finely shredded—if you can’t find it like this, I suspect a food processor would easily solve this dilemma—but not for the sticky, sweetened variety.

Frosting
1 8 oz. Pkg. Philly Cream Cheese softened
1 Stick Butter softened
½ tsp. Coconut flavoring
3 to 4 Cups Powdered Confectioners Sugar (depending on the sweetness you prefer)
½ to ¾ Cup Marshmallow Fluff (adjust to the thickness and spreading consistency you prefer)
1 ½ Cups Unsweetened Organic Coconut finely shredded

In large bowl, blend bananas with mixer, adding sour cream until well blended and not lumpy. Add cake mix, egg whites, oil, coconut flavoring and mix. Slowly incorporate milk and add as much needed to produce a thick (and only slightly pourable) batter. You might not need the whole 1 1/3 cups of milk.
Use your judgment as bananas differ in size and moisture content. Fold in half cup of coconut.

Using standard cupcake tins with paper liners, fill to 2/3 full (alternatively, you may use jumbo cupcake/muffin tins and recipe will yield approximately 12). Bake at 350 degrees on center oven rack for about 18 to 20 minutes (check half way through for doneness—you must not over bake—a tester inserted in cupcake should come out with only a few slightly moist crumbs).
Cake will spring back in the center when touched, if done. Remove from oven to wire rack and allow to cool completely before frosting.

To maintain moisture while cooling, gently place a sheet of wax paper over slightly cooled cupcakes (do not press down on top of cupcakes).

Frosting:
Mix cream cheese and butter together with a mixer, add powdered sugar and coconut flavoring. When mixture is smooth, add marshmallow crème and blend to combine—you might not need all of the marshmallow crème. Frosting should be stiff enough to hold peaks but soft enough for spreading.

***Frost cupcakes immediately before serving and place shredded coconut in small round bowl. Dip each frosted top of cupcake into coconut to cover. Make sure entire top surface of cupcake is covered with coconut-snow.

**My Notes:
Sometimes I want these cupcakes before my bananas have completely ripened (let’s face it, I don’t call the spots). As long as the bananas are somewhat ripe and not green or firm, you can cheat a bit by adding two tablespoons of babyfood-jarred bananas or two tablespoons of applesauce. Keep in mind that you must watch milk as you add it to mixture to avoid a soupy batter. The added babyfood or applesauce will replace the texture missing from the not-so-ripe bananas.

**These cupcakes do not refrigerate well because they dry out, but the dilemma is that the cream cheese frosting needs refrigeration. I have added the fluff as a stabilizer (and for great marshmallow flavor) but I still wouldn’t leave this frosting at room temperature for too long. It is best to frost these just before serving.
Truth be told, a few leftover cupcakes sat out over night and they were consumed the next day with no adverse reactions and I’m told they tasted fine. But you’re on your own here.

If you’re not in the mood for an island adventure, this recipe makes for a great basic banana cupcake. Simply replace the coconut flavoring with vanilla, omit the shredded coconut altogether and throw in a few chopped pecans or walnuts for good measure!

**This recipe also makes for a great frosted cake. Instead of using cupcake tins, pour batter into a 9 x 13 cake pan and bake for about 25 minutes. When cooled, slice cake into layers and frost accordingly.

Enjoy!!

Must We Meat Again?

2007-11-30T22:21:00.000-05:00

What is it about a gentleman’s palate that leads his brain to reach the unfortunate conclusion that where there is no meat, there is no meal?

For the better part of two decades I have lovingly prepared meals for a man who qualifies food as a complete meal only if, at some point in time, one or more of its ingredients walked or squawked.
Anything else is simply dismissed as an appetizer and serves the sole purpose of killing time and warding off hunger, until the real meal hits the table.

Admittedly, I am an omnivore, but I appreciate a well-prepared meatless meal as much, if not more, than its carnivore-pleasing counterpart.
There are times, especially when the weather begs for al fresco dining, that I crave nothing more than a medley of grilled vegetables with a crisp side salad. However, my husband would interpret this blatant defamation of Weber workmanship, as an inexcusable
waste of propane gas.

I recall a not-so-long-ago experiment during my short-lived obsession with a new kitchen gadget--a food dehydrator
(which sent me the clear message that our situation was hopeless). My inexpensive, yet impulsive purchase was fueled by my rebellion against overpriced dried fruit--a necessary addition to my favorite granola recipe.
On a not-so-busy Saturday before Father's Day, I decided to make the perfect man gift--beef jerky. I found an enticing recipe for a savory teriyaki version and purchased the necessary ingredients, which included two expensive pounds of custom-cut flank steak. After fourteen hours of beef preparation and monitoring, I presented my husband with what seemed to be a weightless bag of this delightfully tasty snack. Just a few baseball innings later, I realized that a once-hefty slab of flank steak was reduced to my husband's version of a quick, TV-room tidbit. He rationalized consumption by eating it with dried snap peas, claiming it was a healthy choice snack. I managed to confiscate the remaining jerky and spent the following week hiding it and rationing portions, all the while hoping to ward off a sodium-induced heart attack.

I have failed in my countless attempts to balance my husband’s consumption of meat with healthier protein alternatives. When I have least expected it, meat has invaded my bean soup (sausage), my scrambled eggs (steak), my macaroni and cheese (hot dogs), and even my salads have found themselves occasionally seduced by chunked pepperoni.
There are times when I feel so brainwashed by all-that-is-butchered, that I can hear my ojas crying out for a three-bean detox.

On those occasions when I am driven by hunger and the inability to prepare a meal that will satisfy both of us, I call upon my old friends—the take-out menus.
This lifts the burden of protein-preparation from my shoulders, while offering meals that satisfy our opposing palates.

While this may seem like a simple solution, it is not without complication. The fact is, I married a man who is an intimate companion to indecision. His inability to choose a restaurant is as hopeless as the dilemma which soon follows—choosing an entrée.
I have often thought of designing and printing my own menu to ease his burden of choice by limiting his options and translating them into his own carnivorous language; thus allowing me to choose from a myriad of multicultural eateries without the guilt of his displeasure.

The menu might appear something like this:

World Carni-teria
Man Menu

Our entrées from around the globe will please even the most discerning man-palates.

Receive a free side with the purchase of two entrées.

Italian Entrée: Meat in a Ball
Chinese Entrée: Meat on a Stick
German Entrée: Meat in a Tube
Mexican Entrée: Meat in a Crispy Shell
Greek Entrée: Meat in a Pocket
Thai Entrée: Spicy Meat in Clay Pot
American Entrée: Meat Pancake on a Bun

Sides:
Potatoes: Mashed
Potatoes: Fried
Potatoes: Roasted
*Potato Salad
(*Denotes healthy option—It’s salad)

And until the day comes when he can enjoy my roasted vegetable frittata without reaching for the nearest salami, I will call upon reliable resources to support my efforts when my culinary creativity is lacking.

While I don’t believe I would make for a very good vegetarian, I envy the few with whom I am acquainted. I suspect it is their unwavering determination that allows them to endure the foraging so often necessary in our carnivorous culture, to find healthful, delicious, meatless meals.
Perhaps they sleep a bit more soundly than we omnivores, for the two simple facts that they will never contract Mad Cow Disease,
and my husband is off the market.

And speaking of Mad Cow, I am inclined to believe that one
Clara Peller, of 1980’s Wendy’s fame, was indeed affected as she skidded recklessly through town, demanding an answer to
“Where’s the Beef?”
I don’t doubt that her cantankerous husband guilted her into
big-beef acquisition, while he stayed home, cracked open a cold beer and reluctantly, grilled her vegetables.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

I am happy to share with you two of my favorite meatless recipes.
One is for a bean salad whose ingredients change as often as I make it.
When fresh string beans are not available, I turn first to high-quality frozen cut beans, and lastly to canned string beans.
For the smaller canned beans, I use whatever I have on hand (Cannellini, Kidney, Black Beans or Pintos) and I adjust the dressing to my taste for the day. Depending on my entree, some days I prefer a sweeter salad so I will add a bit of sugar to the dressing.
The other is for a quick version of falafel. When I am pressed for time, I simply dress the falafel with a dollop of sour cream and a must-have addition—thinly sliced onions (red being my onion of choice).

Three Bean Salad with Vinaigrette
From Everyday Food—Martha Stewart Living Publication

8 oz. Green Beans, stem ends removed and cut in half diagonally
4 oz. Yellow Wax Beans, stem ends removed and cut in half diagonally
2 TBS Dijon Mustard
2 TBS Red Wine Vinegar
2 TBS Olive Oil
1 Can (15 oz.) Cannellini Beans, rinsed and drained
** I usually add a tablespoon of sugar to my dressing because I am a fan of the traditional jarred-picnic variety of bean salad.

Fill a large bowl with ice water, set aside. Steam green beans in steamer basket (or alternatively, you may use microwave steamer to cook beans until crisp tender). Repeat steaming with wax beans. On stove top beans take about 6 to 8 minutes to cook until crisp tender. With a slotted spoon, transfer beans to ice water to cool. Drain and pat dry. In a medium bowl, whisk together mustard, vinegar, and oil (and sugar if using). Season with salt and pepper. Add green beans and wax beans to mixture. Add cannellini beans. Toss well to coat. Use immediately or cover and refrigerate up to one day. Allow to come to room temperature before serving.

Falafel-Stuffed Pitas
From All New Complete Cooking Light Cookbook

1/4 Cup Dry Breadcrumbs
1/4 Cup Chopped Cilantro or Parsley
1 1/2 tsp. Ground Cumin
1/2 tsp. Salt
1/4 tsp. Ground Red pepper
2 Garlic Cloves Crushed
1 Large Egg
1 15 oz. Can Chick Peas (Garbanzo Beans) rinsed and drained
1 TBS. Olive Oil

Sauce:
1/2 Cup Plain Low Fat Yogurt (Greek Yogurt works well here)
2 TBS Fresh Lemon Juice
2 TBS Tahini (Sesame Seed Paste available in market near Peanut Butter)
1 Garlic Clove minced

4 (6 inch) Whole Wheat Pitas , cut in half and warmed
8 Curly Lettuce Leaves
Thickly Sliced Tomato

To Prepare falafel, place first 8 ingredients in a food processor, process mixture until smooth. Divide mixture into 16 equal portions, and shape each portion into a 1/4 inch thick patty. Heat olive oil in a large non-stick skillet over medium high heat. Add patties and cook 5 minutes on each side until patties are browned.
To prepare sauce: combine yogurt, lemon juice, tahini, and garlic, stirring mixture with a whisk. Spread about 1 1/2 TBS sauce into each warmed pita half. Fill each pita half with 1 lettuce leaf, sliced tomato and 2 falafel patties.
Yields 4 servings.

Enjoy!

BLOND(i)E AMBITION

2007-11-27T08:52:00.000-05:00

The tide is high, but we’re holdin’ on.

I was born a true blonde and remained as such until the trauma of adolescence reared its ugly, mousy brown head.
To look at me, au natural, one would likely not suspect that I was ever a blonde but thankfully, I have the pictures to prove it.
These days, blonde hair is something I equate with quality home improvements; an activity I usually invest time
and money in—right before company arrives.

Recently, my not-so-blonde sister presented my siblings and me with a lovely restored photo of four generations of our family members.
In it, I am about three years old with pale golden locks
and a cheeky smile. It took some coaxing for my own children to believe it was me, and not my other thinner, blonder sister in the photo.
As we reminisced about the hairstyles of that era, the handmade clothing we never fully appreciated, and the ridiculously bushy eyebrows we sported as children (completely oblivious to the wonders of waxing), I got to thinking about my current life as
a not so blonde woman.

I recalled a recent episode of Oprah on which a guest designer remarked that all women should remember the critical importance of gold highlights, and how the simple salon procedure will take years off ones appearance and might literally, change a life.
I can tell you from personal experience that a salon visit for said gold highlights is indeed life changing.
After some cryptic communication about color, my stylist determined that I was leaning more towards a spaghetti blonde than a crème brulee (both of which confused me and made me very hungry).
By the time the two-hour neck-knotting process was complete, my hair was more like fried butterscotch and I was flat broke
(and not nearly blonde enough for it to be profitable).
Life changing indeed.

Admittedly, I am intrigued by my own occasional desire for blondeness.
The unfortunate consequences that accompany aging force us to relinquish so many of our youthful indulgences.
Societal norms demanded long ago that I give up the wardrobe, behavior, and diet of those joyful, restless years spent burning the candle at both ends, with nary a concern for cellulite or
cholesterol levels.

Perhaps a bit of blonde on my forty-something locks would indicate that although my candle burns a bit more efficiently these days, the fire isn’t completely extinguished.
And although I’ve managed to keep my wardrobe and behavior in check, my diet takes its occasional walk on the wild side.

Which brings me back to the subject of youthful indulgence.

I recall in my last days of middle-school blondeness, a cafeteria confection so sweet and chewy, I still sentimentally salivate.
If I was penny-wise enough to save weekend allowance and fortunate enough to lead the lunch line, I would find my favorite shrink-wrapped snack neatly stacked at the end of the long, sliver counter.
There it would sit, a small, rectangular bar of sweet, buttery
bliss, known as a Butterscotch Blondie, awaiting my
impatient grasp.

Over the years I have tried to recreate this indulgence almost as many times as I have argued over its origin. I believed it to be an original product of the Linden’s Company but former fellow classmates, now old and cranky (and some artificially blonde ), disagree.
We do agree however, that it is currently unavailable and sorely missed.

Ironically, that infamous day in the salon really did turn out to be life changing, but with no credit to expensive blonde highlights.

As I sat reading, under a heated dome, with my hair neatly
sectioned and aluminum foiled in classic crown-roast fashion,
I happened upon yet another recipe for blondies promising to
be the best. I was intrigued by the recipe for two reasons;
First, it appeared in a popular culinary publication which most often, features low calorie cuisine. And secondly, my familiarity with blondie recipes told me that this one called for an exceptional amount of brown sugar; Causes for suspicion on both counts.

As the back room radio blared, I hummed along with Deborah Harry to a high-tide hit song from the 80’s, and jotted down the recipe on a left-behind Starbucks napkin.
When my timer finally rang (indicating that my crown
was indeed roasted), I slipped the recipe into my sweatshirt pocket where it remained, forgotten, for weeks.

On one unseasonably warm November day, I found that recipe, mistaking it for my grocery list, while navigating the baking aisle of my local supermarket.
As I reached for a bag of semi-sweet chips, I experienced a
not-so-blonde moment of intuition, and added a bag of
toffee chips to my cart.
With uncertainty of my brown sugar inventory, I tossed a few boxes into the cart and enthusiastically headed for the dairy aisle.
As recipes often do, a new blondie recipe was taking shape beneath my butterscotch locks and I was eager to get home to fulfill my blondie ambition.

That same evening, my husband and son were once again, the unfortunate victims of leftovers, appeased only by the promise of one bombshell dessert.
After a quick kitchen cleanup, I retrieved the pocketed recipe and rewrote my own version with a few substitutions and modifications. And in just moments, my kitchen performance was well under way.

I knew from the moment I inhaled the nutty aroma of browning butter that this recipe was different from the others. A winning combination of simple ingredients produced a blondie as close to my childhood favorite as I have ever achieved.
Like famous blondes throughout history, this sweet number would not soon be forgotten.

Once they were cooled and sliced, I presented them to my favorite TV room rock stars (of Guitar Hero fame). I bowed my
butterscotch crown as they applauded my achievement. In appreciation of my sweet sentiment, they played my favorite song.
As I listened and watched in amusement, a thought occurred to me.

As the tide of responsibility rises for those of us who conform to the demands of adulthood, we hold fast to the comforting notion
that the light of our natural-blonde and rock-starred, restless youth
still flickers.
Yet now, we live vicariously through that notion, armed with the knowledge and life experience that allow us to appreciate the simple joys of sharing a cherished family photo, or a favorite childhood confection.

And I am inclined to believe that perhaps it is the mature,
crown-roasted variety of blondes
who really have more fun.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

Get your blonde on with my new favorite recipe for
Butterscotch Blondies.
This recipe is one I adapted from Cooking Light’s version.
Mine is less light—but more fun.

Butterscotch Blondies

2 Cups All Purpose Flour
2 ½ Cups Firmly Packed Light Brown Sugar
2 tsp. Baking Powder
½ tsp. Salt (I used a generous half teaspoon of Kosher salt)
10 TBS Unsalted Butter
2 XL Eggs plus 1 Large Egg
**(I realize this is an odd combination of eggs but the original recipe called for ¾ cup of egg substitute which I did not have on hand. The combination I listed measured slightly under ¾ cup but offered great results. If you prefer to use egg substitute, I’m sure it will work but might not yield the same rich results).

¾ Cup Toffee Bits such as Skor Brand or Heath Brand (do not use the chocolate variety of toffee bits)
1 TBS Vanilla Bean Paste (or the seeds from one split vanilla bean)
1/2 Cup Chopped Pecans (Optional)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place oven rack in middle position. Lightly grease a 13 x 9 baking pan, or line with parchment.

Lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups, level with a knife.
Combine flour, firmly packed brown sugar, baking powder and salt in a large bowl. Stir with whisk to combine.
Place butter in a small skillet over medium-low heat. Cook for about 6 minutes, stirring often (and watching carefully) until butter is lightly browned with a nutty aroma. Butter burns easily so pay close attention during this process. Pour browned butter into a small bowl and allow it to cool for 10 minutes. Add cooled butter to eggs and whisk to combine. Add vanilla bean paste (or seeds) to egg mixture. Pour butter mixture over flour and mix until just moistened and combined. Fold in toffee chips.
(Add pecans if you are using them).
Spoon batter into prepared pan, smoothing top with spatula.
Bake for about 30 minutes until top is firm and toothpick comes out clean (to be quite honest, I prefer to underbake these slightly. I remove them from the oven when the toothpick still has a few sticky crumbs—to allow for a chewier blondie).
Cool in pan on wire rack. Cut into squares when cool. Wrap individually in plastic wrap and place in airtight container to preserve moisture.

**Makes 24 servings for skinny blondes,
and about 12 servings for the rest of us.

Enjoy!

The Infinity of Pi(e)

2007-11-25T16:37:00.000-05:00

My daughter was home from college for Thanksgiving weekend. Hubby safely transported her back from her freshman dorm with a twenty pound bag of dirty laundry.
When she arrived home, I was already elbow-deep in flour, butter and molasses, preparing assorted cookies for Thursday’s feast at Grandma’s. I offered her a long, sticky-fingered hug and the last surviving bowl of drunken black bean soup, both of which she graciously accepted.
Although my rugelach batter was at the perfect temperature for rolling, I placed it aside to prepare a quick grilled cheese sandwich to play second-spoon.
As she slurped and dunked (the only proper way to eat a bowl of soup around here), I chopped, sprinkled and rolled, and we discussed the events of her first semester away from home.

My home was once again filled with the sounds of
a noisy holiday; the oven timer was buzzing, my collection of traditional (albeit premature) carols was competing with an overconfident Guitar Hero jam session, and as always,
the dog was barking.

Ignoring the chaos, we chatted about student life, missed episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and as she turned pages while I rolled cookie dough, we perused the newest catalog from J. Crew.
In the midst of so many distractions however, I was strangely aware of the ticking coming from the wall clock behind me.
While I negotiated baking pans and cooling racks, my daughter responded to countless text messages and then excused herself from the kitchen to reunite with her old friend TiVo.

As I dissected a circle of dough with my pizza wheel, the ticking seemed to grow louder. I focused more intently on the smudged recipe that sat before me. As I mentally checked off the ingredients, I realized that a miscalculation at the grocery store days earlier would leave me without enough pecans for the pecan pie I had intended to bake.
An overwhelming feeling of panic set in because this was the one and only dessert requested by my daughter for Thanksgiving. I was already committed to three batches of dough currently chilling in our basement refrigerator, not to mention the deconstructed rugelach that had already invaded my counter space.
Clearly, time was at a premium and a shopping trip for pecans was absolutely out of the question.
But how could I not make her pecan pie?
As the ticking grew louder, I called upon my alter-ego,
one apron-wearing kitchen robot, to quickly and efficiently glide through recipes as though their printed index cards were penned in disappearing ink.
By the time I got through two flavors of rugelach and
two dozen flat bottoms and holey tops for linzer tarts,
a crazy-but maybe not so crazy- thought occurred to me;
One winter-coatless daughter in need of a pecan pie was, for the moment, available to her recently daughter-at-home-less mother, who was in need of being needed.
With a bit of trepidation at the thought of stealing time that was simply unavailable, I called upstairs and spontaneously offered to break from my baking chaos for the purpose of winter coat and
pecan pie acquisition.
I should mention that my daughter and I are cut from very different cloth, save for the fact that we both move like cheetahs at the very mention of free food, or an impromptu trip to TJ Maxx.
Although she was comfortably nestled in hubby’s recliner
(a chair we affectionately call “THE CHAIR,” because it possesses hypnotic qualities that renders its seated victims helpless beyond entire TiVoed episodes), this double-bonus opportunity was enough to break its spell.
She quickly pulled on (sock-less) suede boots and a
too-thin-for-November jacket, and off we went.

En route to our favorite haven of haberdashery, we discussed spring semester registration, the politics of roommate relationships and the quality of campus sushi. I was crafty in my attempt to uncover the possibility of an on-campus romance but she ignored the question with the same nonchalance she offered the laundry bag still sitting by our front door.
When we arrived, we made a bee-line for the coat department as though it might run out of coats, had we not presented ourselves on pre-Thanksgiving Wednesday at exactly two fifty-three pm.
We promptly participated in our typical mother-daughter banter as she gravitated towards coats well out of my price range, and I suggested she try on practical jackets I knew she would never wear.
We finally agreed on two lovely coats with opposing purposes
(one for dress up and one for inclement weather), and although time did not allow, we headed for the shoe department anyway.
Time flew as we tried on everything from slippers to stilettos.
I urged her to pick up the pace, knowing full well that I still had a refrigerator full of dough ahead of me.
It wasn’t until she found her sweaty, sock-less left foot
stuck in a too-expensive leather boot that she finally agreed to exit the shoe department.
We laughed as I wrenched the trendy-meets-equestrian
calf-hugger from her reluctant foot.
As she limped towards the cash register, a quick detour of the junior department nullified any prior covenant set to limit price, quantity or necessity.
Two coats, one vest, two sweaters and one pair of jeans later, we headed home in November’s early darkness.

We unanimously agreed that I would be of no use to chilling dough or the kitchen tools committed to my holiday project, without proper sustenance.
We found an empty table at our local loaf-themed eatery and literally broke bread together, all the while discussing the rich new color of her hair, the upcoming Spice Girls concert and the convenience of clutch purses.
It was time unplanned, yet time well spent.

As we headed home in pre-holiday traffic, her cell phone chimed relentlessly. She dexterously replied to incoming texts as I reviewed my mental to-do list, with a bit of uncertainty in my ability to complete the tasks ahead of me.
Irritated by countless promotions for Black Friday sales events, I switched my car radio to its CD function. She was surprised to hear her left-behind copy of one Christina Aguilera CD booming from my front speakers. It had become my go-to music when my commute to work lacked enthusiasm and energy.
As I sang along to my favorite track, she paused mid-cell-phone-dialogue, and almost whacked her forehead into the glove box, as she cackled uncontrollably in total disbelief at the notion that
I ever had, or might actually still have, "that freak in me."

We belly-laughed together for the short remainder of our ride home.
As we negotiated too many packages into the front door, we came to the stunning realization that both of us had completely forgotten about one pecan pie—the very catalyst for our frivolous shopping trip.

After pulling a kitchen all-nighter, my assorted-cookie project was a great success, and as usual, Thanksgiving at Grandma’s turned out to be wonderful—
albeit pecan-pieless.

As I sit, typing this post, she is packing for her return to campus.
The weekend that seemed to take forever to arrive, has so abruptly become just a pleasant memory.

When I look back upon the events of my hectic week, I am reminded of the value of our time spent together.
It seems that on the subjects of life and holidays, things don’t always turn out the way we planned. But sometimes we will find ourselves just lucky enough to reap unexpected rewards from our own
foolish miscalculations.

Time has a way of sneaking past, stealing precious moments and the luxury of togetherness. But, when the clock ticks loudly enough to be heard over the chaos of everyday life, I will rest well, knowing that I have the option to choose what is most important over
what is most obvious.
Because the fact remains that those bonding moments between mothers and daughters which allow opportunity for girl talk and belly laughs, are fleeting, at best.

But there will always be pie.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

Although I have yet to try it, I am told that the recipe for
Pecan Date Pie from Cooking Light's Complete Cookbook is one worth repeating. It remains at the top of my to-do list and will perhaps, find its way to our Christmas table.

I am happy to share with you one of the many tried and true recipes I have found successful for making Linzer Tarts. Although not a favorite cookie for all family members, my daughter and I love these and enjoy them with a cup of strong, hot coffee.
Raspberry jam is our filling of choice and I prefer to make a smaller cookie to avoid the avalanche of powdered sugar that so often occurs with the larger variety. I use a fluted cookie cutter to shape cookie base and top, and I use the large, round end of a metal piping tip to create the peek-a-boo cut out for the purpose of jam identification.
The recipe printed below is from the
International Cookie Cookbook by Nancy Baggett.
She calls these Jam Filled Almond Shorties.

Jam Filled Cookies

1 ½ Cups (3 sticks) Unsalted Butter slightly softened
1 Cup Confectioners Sugar
½ tsp. Salt
½ tsp. Almond Extract
Finely Grated Zest of 1 small lemon
(occasionally, I will omit the lemon zest and replace with the seeds from one split vanilla bean)
1/3 Cup Finely Ground Blanched Almonds
3 Cups Unbleached All Purpose Flour
2/3 Cup Good Quality Raspberry Jam (we like seeds but seedless is fine)

Place the butter in a large mixing bowl, sift in powdered sugar, and beat with an electric mixer on medium speed for 2 minutes or until very light and fluffy. Add salt, almond extract, lemon zest and almonds and beat for about 30 seconds. Using a large wooden spoon, gradually add flour and stir until completely incorporated and the mixture begins to hold together (for the most tender cookies, mix dough just until incorporated—don’t over mix).
Divide dough in half. Lay each half between sheets of waxed paper and roll out into ¼ inch thickness (if you prefer chewier, thicker cookies, roll to scant ½ inch thickness). Place rolled dough, with waxed paper on a baking tray and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes to chill and firm. Meanwhile, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Set rack in middle position in oven.
To make tops, remove one dough portion from refrigerator, remove top waxed paper, and using a fluted round cutter (about 2 ½ inches in diameter) cut out circles (dip cutter in powdered sugar to prevent sticking if necessary). Immediately place rounds on a sheet of parchment or waxed paper. Repeat with second portion of dough. Cut out the same number of rounds and using a piping tip or very small circular cutter, cut out center circle of dough round. Place tops and bottoms on parchment lined baking pans and bake in preheated oven (one sheet at a time) for 10 to 12 minutes, or until edges are just tinged with brown—be careful not to over bake.
Remove baking sheets from oven and place on wire rack to cool for 5 minutes. Transfer cookies to rack to cool completely.
Repeat this process until all dough has been used. You may re-roll scraps once or twice but I caution you that scraps which have been over worked will create tough, unpleasant cookies. I usually re-roll once and then discard the rest—this is why it so important to use as much of original dough as possible when cutting out.
Heat preserves/jam in small sauce pan over low heat until just warm and soft. Allow to cool a bit before filling cookies. If you prefer a snappier cookie, fill just before eating. If you like a softer cookie which absorbs a bit of the jam (as we do), you may fill cookies several hours before serving.
We prefer to dust our cookies with powdered sugar before filling so that we don’t cover the jam-hole with sugar. If you won’t be serving these for a while, it’s best to powder them with sugar just before serving.
To fill cookies, use small spoon or ½ tsp. measure to dollop jam in center of cookie bottom and spread out almost to end of cookie round. Top with peek-a-boo round.
Makes about 20 sandwich cookies.

Enjoy!

In Consideration of Flipping the Bird

2007-11-22T12:58:00.001-05:00

I can’t seem to stop talking about food.
On any given day, clueless victims will fall prey to the innocence of my tactics. A simple comment or perhaps a question will often result in a lengthy conversation about anything, as long as it’s edible.

While at work, on a Tuesday as slow and painful as
biting cement (and just days shy of Thanksgiving), I conducted my own survey of sorts, in an attempt to uncover the most desirable method for preparing turkey. That is not to say that ‘most desirable’ refers to the easiest (or safest) method of preparation, but rather the method which produces the most flavorful results.
My customers were few and far between and covered a wide range of ages (from about seven to seventy-seven). Some shared their distaste for the bird altogether and fixated only on the fixins. Others, so disgruntled by a long wait and our staff's inability to meet their needs, simply refused to engage in turkey-talk, and likely considered sharing a centrally-digited bird of a different feather at me, and not with me.
The majority however, agreed that once a turkey has been fried (and take note of that spelling—not to be confused with ‘fired,’ as in burning down the whole bloody deck as a result of improper use of that chamber of hot-oil-hell, known as a turkey Fry-Daddy), there is simply no alternative from that day forward. I’m told that the taste and texture of fried turkey is sublime, and the experience is nothing short of religious—a pilgrimage for the palate.
And quite frankly, no one is boasting about roasting.
Well, save for one customer who so cleverly recommended that if I liked the skin crispy but suffered fear-of-frying issues, then why didn’t I just flip over the turkey to crisp the bird in its entirety?
I considered this almost-brilliant suggestion for a moment, and had she not made such a quick exit, I would have asked her two questions; first, how she would suggest I flip a hot, thirty pound turkey in a kitchen devoid of forceps and helpful, strong men
(who would likely be grunting from the man-cave, focused on The Cowboys and Thanksgiving guacamole—don’t’ ask; just know that it’s not the life I planned)? And secondly, I would inquire how one keeps the top-crispness of a slow-roasted, breast-up turkey, once it’s flipped over and subsequently sitting in turkey juices?
Thankfully, Columbus didn’t stick with his flat-earth theory any longer than I was buying into the flip-it-don’t-fry-it method of perfect poultry preparation.

And so, as a result of my informal survey, I would add turkey-frying to my Thanksgiving to-do list, along with attending the Macy’s Parade and visiting a local movie theatre with the rest of the population; something I have never done, due in part to my usual tryptophan-induced coma, and my undying loyalty to late-day leftovers.

For now, I am satisfied knowing that the turkey, however crisp-less it may turn out, will be surrounded by much-loved fixins, family and friends.
I hope for all of us that while the meal may be heavy,
our hearts will be light.
I look forward to sitting at our large, family table where food and blessings are abundant, and wine and conversation flow freely.

And if I have anything to do with it, that conversation will ultimately turn to the subject of food.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

How to Enjoy a Broken Leg at a Yard Sale

2007-11-19T19:24:00.000-05:00

Sometimes in all that trash, there really is treasure.

I am not a fan of yard sales. In fact, I dislike yard sales almost as much as I dislike going food shopping on Sundays.
It’s not so much the visiting of yard sales that I loathe, but rather the hosting of such an event that will call upon the mother of all migraines to set up camp behind my eye sockets.

I had my first yard sale many moons ago in the patchy front yard of my first home. It was an experience I vowed never to repeat. The exhausting preparation necessary to execute such a public affair provided fair warning of the nightmare that would follow, which
I so foolishly ignored.
My second-hand-sale-abration lasted forty-eight hours and mysteriously ended with more goods on my front lawn than I had dragged out of my own home. Some of the items were ones I had never owned or borrowed, and to this day, I have no idea how they found their way onto my card-table-turned-household-bric-a-brac-display. That yard sale cost me two hundred seventy-five dollars, the exact fee for the dumpster it required to haul away fifteen years worth of I-can’t-throw-it-out-I-might-use-it-someday items. It was then I decided that a yard sale is really nothing more than
a pre-trash day, open-air, gallery-showing of a lifetime of items we are too embarrassed to use or display inside our homes —
yet for one weekend only folks, the freak show is ON.
Why, pray tell, do we volunteer for such humiliation?

But the experiences of labor, delivery, and yard sales have a funny way of morphing over time into events we might
actually consider repeating.

And so, years later, while living in a different community; one still blind to the bacchanalia of useless items in my basement, I agreed to have a yard sale with my friend and neighbor whose home is directly across the street from mine.
To my surprise, she turned out to be a master at yard sale preparation and execution. Customers actually showed up
and spent money.
Although that yard sale cost me a toenail—and that’s already more information than you need, so I’ll spare you the late August details of nine hours spent sock-less in too-tight, sweaty sneakers—
I actually made a few bucks.

I was most impressed however, at her ability to remain cool and calm throughout the whole process. I watched in awe as she batted nary an eyelash during the most intense price negotiations. Her casual demeanor and I-don’t-care-whether-you-buy-it-or-not attitude is ultimately what sold most of her unwanted merchandise. She was my yard sale hero. Not surprisingly, she is also the neighbor who is always ready for a party and always willing to offer her home as the site for impromptu festivities.
She is clearly not me.

Fully aware of the limitations my own neuroses afford me, I finally and officially declared my yard sale tubes tied, and graciously declined her offer to participate in her most recent,
late November sale.
I did however, offer to provide warm, spicy libation to ward off a bone-chilling November day that would be spent haggling with hoarders who might possibly need her wooden, block-a-day
wall-calendar less than she did.

The recipe for this spicy apple concoction came from my days as a ski shop employee. I was introduced to this drink, known as a “Broken Leg” by a seasoned skier turned lodge-rat.
Its name was likely the result of an unfortunate day on the slopes and the need to soothe chilly and bruised bones (and ego).
I had originally intended for this drink to be my Halloween tradition of sorts, but New York Octobers being unexpectedly warm, and my children being unexpectedly old, I had to find a new excuse to mix this elixir.

I awoke Sunday morning with the intent to do a weeks worth of grocery shopping, during which time I would purchase cinnamon sticks-- a must-have item for said libation (and which were mysteriously missing from my pantry).
Did I mention how much I hate going food shopping on Sundays?

I practiced all of the avoidance techniques in my Sunday arsenal, whipped up a batch of jumbo oatmeal muffins (which would likely be disguised as our Sunday dinner since the cupboards were bare—save for two cans of black beans) and decided that my shopping trip could wait one more day.
My only dilemma was the necessary acquisition of cinnamon sticks to get that broken leg moving.
I headed over to the neatly organized, driveway gallery of
make-me-an-offer items and intently focused on my basket of donation muffins, hoping to return with a bag of borrowed cinnamon sticks.
I forced myself to look away from the temptations of nick-nackery, when one sister of the yard sale hostess arrived by truck to deposit a furniture item so ridiculously interesting that I immediately felt vulnerable to the evils of better-buy-it-before-it-gets-away brainwashing. It was an oddly triangular, marbled-mica coffee table in swirly shades of tan. And it had a drawer—which immediately classifies it as functional furniture in my opinion. I’m told it belongs to the Modern/Contemporary (1970's) family
of furniture but I quickly recognized it as George-Jetson-Utilitarian.
As the husband-of-yard-sale-hostess efficiently installed the drawer which had been removed for transport, the voices in my head convinced me that I could somehow incorporate
this alien lifeless form into my traditional
don’t-bother-to-take-your-shoes-off-sit-down-and-have-a-cookie home.
Clearly, I needed this coffee table.

I hurried home with borrowed cinnamon sticks in hand and was immediately greeted by my understandably worried husband.
I forced him to peer through our plantation shutters to observe the coffee table that would transform our predictable home into a showplace of contemporary amusement.
A coffee table worthy of parties thrown in its honor.
I announced to him, in my most self-assured tone, that purchasing this coffee table would change our lives for the better.

Needless to say, he wasn’t buying my story any more than we were buying that table. My fifteen minute love triangle was reduced to nothing more than a what-could-have-been memory.
The timing couldn’t have been more perfect for a cup of self-soothing spiked cider.

I gathered the necessary spices, cut cheesecloth squares for my bouquet garni (or in this case, bouquet spicy), and wandered aimlessly about the house in search of one opened bottle of
Laird’s Blended Apple Jack. As I did so, I came across a bottle of Cream Sherry and immediately recalled my mothers delightfully intoxicating version of Black Bean Soup. My dinner crisis was solved, thanks to those two lonely cans in my pantry.

I snapped cinnamon sticks, counted allspice berries and cloves and prepared a mixture of spices that smelled like all of my favorite holidays tied up into one lumpy, cheesecloth pillow.
In a matter of minutes, my magical mixture was brewing and it would soon be time to toast a new holiday season and the exciting possibilities a new year would offer. The enticing aroma of apples and cinnamon permeated every nook and cranny of my home.
Once I added the Apple Jack, the intriguing fragrance
of naughty meets nice was enough to wrench my husband from his Sunday football recliner to investigate the source.

I filled a metal pitcher with the mahogany liquid and together, with cups, whipped cream, cinnamon-sugar and piping hot libation in hand, we headed over to a once bustling, now vacant driveway.
We shared a cup of cheer with good neighbors and raised glasses to health and prosperity.

As our friends cleared their driveway, and as we headed home, I felt a warm, fuzzy feeling inside that was due, in part, to my spicy concoction.
But as we passed the unsold coffee table, I was surprised by my own admission that I really didn’t need it.
We would return home with empty hands, but full hearts.

And I decided that yard sales weren’t so bad after all.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

I am posting the recipes for both
Broken Leg and Drunken Black Bean Soup.
The recipe for Broken Leg is my own variation which omits the traditional use of citrus. If you prefer, you may add orange or lemon slices to cider mixture (I prefer mine to taste like hot apple pie in a glass—without the flavor of uninvited citrus).
The soup recipe is one committed to memory that seems to have more sherry added each time I make it. If you will be serving children, use considerably less sherry. Make it to suit your own taste. Personally, I no longer purchase commercially made black bean soup because I miss the distinct flavor of sherry.
These are best saved for a chilly night when the fire is crackling and the car keys will remain on the key hook until morning.

BROKEN LEG

1 Half-Gallon Natural Apple Cider
(the murky kind, not the clear variety)

Cheesecloth or Food-grade spice sack (alternatively you may place all of the spices into the cider but you will have to strain hot mixture before drinking)

8 Whole Allspice Berries
10 Whole Cloves
6 Cinnamon Sticks broken in half
½ tsp. Ground Ginger
1 tsp. Ground Cinnamon
½ tsp. (food grade) Cinnamon Oil
½ tsp. Maple Flavoring
3 TBS Pure Maple Syrup
1 TBS Honey
3 TBS Lyle’s Golden Syrup (if you don’t have this on hand, you can omit and substitute with additional maple syrup)

1 Cup 80 proof Laird’s Blended Apple Jack (available where most wine and spirits are sold).

Whipped Cream and Cinnamon Sugar for Garnish

Take several layers of cheesecloth and cut into approximately 10 inch square. Place spices, berries, cloves and cinnamon sticks into center of squares. Gather opposite ends and tie closed. Repeat with opposing ends. You should have a “hobo sack” of spices (don’t worry if a bit of the cinnamon and ginger fall through the cheesecloth). Set aside.

In a 4 quart saucepan, pour entire contents of natural apple cider. Heat cider over medium heat until warm and almost simmering. Add cinnamon oil and maple flavoring and stir to combine. Add maple syrup, honey and Lyle's Golden Syrup and stir until syrup is totally dissolved. Do not allow mixture to boil rapidly. Adjust heat so it simmers slowly. Add spice sack to cider mixture and allow it to simmer on low for about ten minutes, making sure spice sack is immersed and intact. Stir occasionally.
Remove spice sack after ten minutes and pour in one cup of Laird’s Apple Jack. Stir well and continue to simmer on low for one minute.
(At this point, you should taste mixture. If you prefer it stronger, add more Apple Jack to suit your taste—but I caution you—this is one of those drinks whose effects come late to the party).
Ladle hot cider into cups and garnish with a dollop of whipped cream and sprinkle cinnamon sugar over top.
Cheers!

DRUNKEN BLACK BEAN SOUP

3 Cans Black Beans rinsed and drained
6 Cups Beef Stock
1 Can Vegetable Stock
1 large Onion diced
3 Stalks Celery washed, peeled and chopped
4 Cloves Garlic crushed
3 Large Carrots washed, peeled and chopped
1 pkg. (approx 1 lb.) Sweet Italian Sausage
2 TBS Olive Oil
Salt and Pepper to taste
1 Cup Sweet Cream Sherry divided.

In a large soup pot or dutch oven (with heavy bottom), heat olive oil over medium heat. Brown sausages on all sides and transfer sausages to oven safe plate. Cover plate with foil and bake in 375 degree oven for 20-25 minutes, until no longer pink in center. Set aside to cool.

Drain all but 2 TBS. of oil from pot, leaving any bits from sausage in pot.
Add chopped onions to oil and sauté over medium heat for about 5 minutes, until soft. Add celery and carrots and sauté for additional 6 minutes or so, until tender. Add garlic and sauté for 2 more minutes.
Add rinsed black beans to pot and sauté until warmed through, about two minutes. Add one half cup of sherry and using a wooden spoon, scrape up any bits from bottom to deglaze pan. Allow to heat through for about 2 minutes. Slowly add beef stock and vegetable stock. Raise heat and bring up to a boil. Immediately lower heat to simmer and simmer partially covered for 30 minutes (check frequently to avoid boiling). Add a pinch of salt and pepper, stir to combine and taste for seasoning. Once soup has simmered for at least 30 minutes, cover pot, turn off heat and allow to sit for 15 minutes.
Uncover and using an immersion blender, blend soup to desired thickness (I prefer a creamier soup so I blend until only a few whole beans remain. If you prefer more broth, you may blend to suit your preference). Alternatively, soup may be blended using a standard blender. Be careful when blending hot liquids. Always blend in smaller batches and keep a cloth over cover to avoid hot splashes.
Once soup has been blended (return to pot if using blender) add remaining half cup of sherry. Turn heat on again to low and allow soup to warm through while stirring to combine sherry. Slice sausages into rings and then half rings. Add to soup pot.
Serve warm with crusty bread.
Enjoy!

**Truth be told, I used more than a cup of sherry in my last pot of this soup. I would recommend starting with one cup total and add more only if you think it lacks enough flavor.

On Visions and Sugarplums

2007-11-17T22:51:00.000-05:00

Martha, Martha, Martha.

Every year, right around this time, I am haunted by a vision.

The scene is set: A large mantle is adorned with cascading boughs of pine and holly. Hand-embroidered stockings are neatly hung beneath the snow-capped greenery. The pleasant aroma of wood smoke wafts as the fire snaps crackles and pops along with carefully chosen carols (delivered by an inconspicuous sound system). Nearby, under a lavishly decorated tree are color-coordinated gift packages embellished with handmade satin bows and monogrammed, handwritten gift tags. A table is set with fine china, silver candlesticks and hand-penned, holiday-themed place cards. Happy family members, donning their Christmas best, are patiently awaiting a showcase meal prepared by one stress-free, well coiffed hostess
(with a very narrow waistline—it’s my vision so I call the shots).
I invite you to share this vision with me. A vision not of
Christmas Past or Christmas Present, but a vision
I have come to know as my
Christmas Ain’t Never Gonna Happen.

For years I have fallen prey to the commercial ideals of holiday entertaining.
Each year as the dark days of January roll in, I am left to sort through a pile of bills and the entanglements of holiday lights, decorations and emergency gifts I never used or needed in the first place. This cycle is ridiculous, if not obscene, and last year, as the 2007
ball of lights descended upon Times Square, I promised myself
(and a glass of very sassy eggnog), that I would stop the madness.

So, here I sit, just days shy of ‘Black Friday’ wondering how I might satisfy the call to all things Christmas without being Bob-Cratchited by reckless holiday spending and an over-committed schedule.

The fact is Christmas, from its very first Christian celebration, was made famous because of modesty and not in spite of it.
Sadly, one would sooner find reindeer on the roof than one would find modesty and humility in our current holiday trends.
When I look back and consider the holiday stories and songs of my youth, I am curious to know how the sleigh got so far off course.

Surely, if the children of yesteryear could be satisfied with sugarplums, it seems only fair that my own children would find joy in such small, uncomplicated delights (and on the subject of sugarplums; my online resources agree that these are simply
small, sweet confections).
But the blame of overindulgence mustn’t be unfairly placed on those most vulnerable to the infamous Big Book whose punctual arrival signals shorter days and longer wish lists.
Surely, we adults are as much to blame.
If Mama in her kerchief was enough for Papa in his cap (and vice versa), then when, pray tell, did the need for holiday bling arise?

Instead of playing keep up with the Cratchits (a family who
really did have it all), we choose instead to compete with
the Joneses (who likely share more bills and fewer meals).
We get a warm fuzzy feeling at the notion of modest brown paper packages tied with simple string-- just as long as they’re under
the Von Trapp’s tree and not ours.

I am fortunate that my children are now old enough to realize that Santa has bills to pay. But that only solves half of my
decadence-be-damned dilemma.
In my attempt to build new holiday traditions with less naughty and more nice, I must be willing to compromise some of the vision.
The new vision includes a me who isn’t quite so hung up on the details.
In the spirit of giving, I’m taking back some precious time;
time to spend with people who matter, whether or not the beds are made.

And speaking of unmade beds; So many moons and one bright star ago, a happy couple on a rather long journey during the pre-holiday season, found that they were short on time and in need of accommodations. They envisioned a comfortable room with a warm bed and perhaps, a fine meal. An overcrowded inn forced them to compromise that vision, thus landing them in less than adequate surroundings. There were no lavishly decorated trees or hand-embroidered stockings, nor were there silver candlesticks or fine china.
Their meal wasn't gourmet by today's standards,
and was meager at best.
They graciously accepted the modest offerings presented by their kind hosts. And although the details of their day were not as they had originally planned, they celebrated the joy of togetherness.
And gratefully reciprocated by presenting their humbled hosts
with the perfect Gift.

There's a lesson in there, somewhere.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
-Michelle

And in the spirit of saving time, I call upon an
old friend—The Muffin Man.
Or in this case, the Muffin Lady, also known as Esther Brody.
Her book 500 Best Muffin Recipes is my go-to book for a quick, easy treat when I feel the need for cozy food.
Muffins are one of those low-commitment/high yield indulgences that I love—especially during a busy holiday season. You can make these in under an hour from start to finish.
The recipe (as posted below) is a variation
of her Favorite Raspberry Muffins.
I have tweaked some of the ingredients to suit my own taste.
Make this one your own by substituting your favorite berry or flavoring.

Almond Oatmeal Raspberry Muffins

1 ½ Cup All Purpose Flour
½ Cup Oats ( I use Bobs Red Mill thick cut oats and I process these in my mini food processor until they resemble small flakes—not quite oat flour)

¾ Cup Packed Light Brown Sugar
½ tsp. Kosher Salt
2 tsp. Baking Powder
1 tsp. Baking Soda
1 Cup Frozen Raspberries NOT THAWED
2 Large Eggs
½ tsp. Pure Almond Extract
½ Cup Buttermilk
5 TBS Melted Butter (unsalted)
3 TBS Almond Oil (or flavorless oil like Canola if you don’t have almond oil)

For Topping:
¼ Cup Softened Unsalted Butter
¼ Cup Light Brown Sugar
¼ Cup Oats (I pulse these in the food processor just a bit to reduce size)
¼ Cup All Purpose Flour
2 oz. Almond Paste (about ¼ cup—it doesn’t have to be exact), crumbled into small pieces

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place rack in middle of oven.
Lightly grease a 12-muffin tin or use paper liners.

In a small bowl, place topping ingredients and use a pastry blender or two forks to break up and mix until it forms a crumbly mixture (like crumbs on the top of crumb cake. Do not over mix. Set aside.

In a bowl, combine flour, oats, brown sugar, salt, baking powder and baking soda. Add frozen raspberries and toss to coat with flour mixture.
In another bowl, whisk together eggs, buttermilk, melted butter, almond oil and almond extract. Mixture will look curdled—that’s okay.

Add egg mixture to flour mixture (not topping mixture) and combine until all of the flour is moistened, being careful not to over mix but making sure all flour is incorporated. This should take just a few turns with a large fork or spatula. It’s really important not to over mix.

Using a large ice cream scoop or ladle, scoop batter into prepared muffin tin, filling two thirds full. Sprinkle topping mixture evenly over each muffin. Use your clean hand to press down on topping slightly so it adheres to batter.
Bake in preheated oven for 15-20 minutes, checking after 10 minutes to avoid burning muffin bottoms. Move to top rack if necessary for last few minutes of baking.

Remove from oven and let cool on wire rack. Once cooled completely, wrap muffins individually in plastic wrap and store in airtight container. They may be frozen, individually wrapped and then placed in freezer safe Ziploc bags.

***My Notes:
If you are not a fan of almonds, you can omit almond paste, almond extract and substitute almond oil with Canola oil. If you do this, I recommend you add vanilla extract in place of almond extract and when you prepare topping ingredients, add one teaspoon of cinnamon to flavor topping.

You may be wondering why I bother to put the oats through my food processor. Well, this is for two reasons. For starters, I want all of the health benefits oats have to offer but I am not a fan of lumpy, “oaty” baked goods. I have found that if I grind the oats, it allows them to cook more quickly and also allows for a smoother muffin or cookie. Secondly, I don’t see the need to buy several different kinds of oats, so I buy the good stuff—Bob’s Red Mill, Organic, Thick Cut Rolled Oats—and then I grind to suit my taste and for whatever baking application is required.

Blueberries are a great substitute for raspberries.

I have made this recipe several times with great success. If I have slivered almonds on hand, I will add about ¼ cup of those to the dry mixture and then add crushed slivered almonds to topping mixture (we like our nuts around here).

For my oven, I always have to watch muffins during the last minutes of baking because the bottoms darken too quickly. While experts might not recommend this, I often drop the temp to 375 once the muffins have puffed up and seem to need only a few more minutes of baking time. If you lower the temp too early in the baking cycle, your muffins will deflate, so I caution you, should you decide to try my unorthodox method.

A Shiksa and Her Mixer

2007-11-14T14:45:00.000-05:00

What's in a name, really?

I am unable to answer a question so often asked when I am in the company of like-minded, kitchen-educated bakers;
“What is your favorite cookie?”
It is not for the sake of diplomacy that I do not respond, but simply because I cannot pronounce the name of my favorite cookie
(if I dare call it a cookie at all). When pressured to answer by a brazen few, I have retorted with the names of second and third favorites. At times, I am overwhelmed by the guilt of my betrayal, forced to recall the very incident that rendered me silent in the presence of one delightful, little pastry.

Not so long ago I was employed by a pleasant bagel shop owner who was also a formidable home baker. Often, while fastening my spotted blue apron, in preparation for a days worth of schmearing butter and cream cheese, I would engage in idle chit-chat with her. We would discuss topics such as current weather patterns, the New York Mets, the knee pain so often inflicted by elliptical training equipment, and not surprisingly, baking.
Fully aware of conversational boundaries between boss and employee, I resisted the urge to request the recipe for her famous Black and Whites (also known as “half-moon” cookies). Hers were the size of luncheon plates and could almost hold a candle to the ones from Brooklyn, N.Y, I so fondly remember.
From time to time, I would transport my own baked goods from home to the bagel shop to share with fellow employees.

On one chilly Friday during a pre-holiday-shopping rush (it seems the whole world wants a hot buttered bagel to cushion the impending shock of retail prices), I hurriedly placed a red tin with a silver bow on the back counter where she kept her payroll books, time cards, and a bagel slicer. With no time to affix a card or label, I quickly headed to the front counter and called my first customer.
Hours later, when the last customer had gone and the bagel baskets contained only two pathetic, hole-less cinnamon raisins, she called me aside, thanked me for the tin and inquired about its contents.
“They’re Rugelach,” I told her.
She looked first at the tin and then at me. There was an awkward pause.
“Oh, how lovely.”
She smiled a genuine smile, but I knew there was more.
She hesitated.
“What did you call them?” She asked.
“Rooogle-ock,” I responded.
She laughed.
It was probably no more than a chuckle but what I heard (over and over again in my mind for the entire winter and until the first crocus bloomed) was a laugh not unlike Cruella DeVille’s.
She caught herself mid-chuckle and said
“I think you mean, Ruggle-ah.”
“Oh.”
I processed this exchange for a moment.
I had given great consideration to the pronunciation of this name, based on my own limited knowledge of Rugelach, and the strange pronunciation my mother offered in an attempt to Italianize it
(which as a result came out sounding like my favorite bitter
green vegetable known to Americans as Broccoli Rabe,
or to my mother as “Roook-a-lee-Rob.”
Hence, my mother’s pronunciation for this pastry: “Roo-kaa-Laa.”).

My boss tried to ease my self-inflicted discomfort by explaining that she grew up eating this delightful pastry, and she had never personally tried to bake her own because she thought it impossible to recreate her grandmother’s specialty (ouch).
It was at this point that I proudly, but foolishly divulged my secret ingredient, believing that we—like minded women who enjoy baking but need to maintain a waistline—would be better served by a recipe which substituted whole grain flour for white flour, thus creating a more nutritional, albeit oddly-textured pastry.

“You made whole wheat Rugelach?” She asked in amusement and then laughed.
This time it really was the Cruella De Ville laugh.
I nodded.
In a state of giddy disbelief, she opened the tin and politely tasted one.
“Interesting,” she said (the kiss of death). “They’re good.”

The reality struck me like a cheap plastic guillotine splits a pumpernickel bagel.
I made whole wheat Rugelach for a woman who owns a bagel shop.
Oy. The absurdity.
I forced a smile and went back to work.
In the days that followed, out of total humiliation, I did a bit of my own half-baked research on the topic of Rugelach. I reviewed definitions, recipes and even stories dedicated to this delicious subject of mispronunciation.

One online resource offers this definition:
Rugelach (other spellings: Rugulach, Rugalach, Rogelach, Rugalah, Rugala) is a Jewish pastry of Ashkenazic origin.
It can be made with a cream cheese dough, but the dough is more typically pareve (no dairy ingredients), so that it can be eaten with or after a meat meal. The different fillings can include raisins, walnuts, cinnamon, chocolate, marzipan, or apricot preserves which are rolled up inside.

Judging from the number of spellings associated with the name of this pastry, it’s no wonder that it is often the victim
of moniker-massacre.
What haunts me most about my dialogue on that ill-fated day at the bagel shop, is the feeling of inadequacy I experienced as I presented that infamous red tin.
Putting aside my whole-wheat flour faux-pas, I felt as though any Rugelach I may have presented would have been less than adequate, for the simple fact that I did not share a tradition with this pastry.
I suppose the reaction from my boss to my tin full of rugelach is no different than the reaction she might have received, had she presented my own grandmother with a bowl full of homemade meatballs.
Perhaps, if I hadn’t surrendered my maiden name (so often mispronounced as “Landau”) for the sake of marital bliss, I might have seemed more credible as a baker of Rugelach.

But this Shiksa and her mixer were ready to set the record straight.

After several attempts with only mediocre results, I stumbled upon a recipe that has become my gold-star standard for Rugelach.
It appears in Dorie Greenspan’s book,
Baking from My Home to Yours.
The recipe stands on its own merits but I must also give credit to the methods by which the author creates this light, flaky pastry. Her efficient use of the food processor and one clever tool she refers to as a dough rolling “slipcover,” is pure genius.
My first batch came out as perfectly as my tenth (and yes, I’ve made them that many times with as many filling variations).

Ironically, I never did present the new, improved variety to that bagel shop owner because I left that position to pursue my current one as CEO of Cookies at a rather drab but welcoming establishment.
Someday however, my current coworkers will have the pleasure of noshing on these delightful little pastries.
And when they ask me what they are called, I will simply remain silent and let the Rugleach speak for themselves.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle

Rugelach
From Dorie Greenspan’s
Baking From My Home to Yours

For The Dough:
4 oz. Cold Cream Cheese, cut into 4 pieces
1 Stick Cold Unsalted Butter, cut into 4 pieces
1 Cup All Purpose Flour
¼ tsp. Salt
(please note: I prefer a sweeter dough so I usually add 3 TBS sugar to flour)

For The Filling:
2/3 Cup Raspberry Jam or Apricot Jam or Marmalade
2 TBS Sugar
½ tsp Ground Cinnamon
¼ Cup Chopped Nuts—Pecans Preferred
¼ Cup Moist, Dried Currants (I’ve had success using raisins and dried cherries-chopped)

Optional: 4 oz. Bittersweet Chocolate finely chopped or 2/3 Cup Store-bought mini chocolate chips

For the Glaze:
1 Large Egg
1 tsp. Cold Water
2 TBS Coarse Sugar (Decorating Sugar, Sugar in the Raw)

To make the dough; let the cream cheese and butter rest on the counter for 10 minutes—you want them to be slightly softened but still cool.
Put the flour, salt (and sugar if using) in a food processor, scatter over the chunks of cream cheese and butter and pulse the machine 6 to 10 times. Then process scraping down the sides of the bowl often, just until the dough forms large curds—don’t work it so long that it forms a ball on the blade.
Turn the dough out, gather it into a ball and divide it in half. Shape each half into a disk, wrap the disks in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least two hours or up to one day (wrapped airtight, the dough can be frozen for up to two months).
To make the filling:
Heat the jam in a sauce pan over low heat, or do this in a microwave until it liquefies. Mix the cinnamon and sugar together.
Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

To Shape The Cookies:
Pull one packet of dough from the refrigerator. If it is too firm to roll easily, leave it on the counter for 10 minutes. If using dough slipcover, place unwrapped disk into slipcover and zip shut and roll as follows; Or, alternatively, on a lightly floured surface roll dough into an 11 inch circle (approximately). Brush a thin layer of jam over the surface of the dough and sprinkle over half of the cinnamon sugar. Scatter over half of the nuts and currants (or other dried fruit). If you are using chocolate, sprinkle half of chopped chocolate, or chips over dough. Cover the filling with a piece of wax paper and gently press the filling into the dough and then remove the wax paper. With a pizza wheel or sharp knife, cut the dough into 16 wedges or slices (as if you were cutting a pizza). The easiest way to do this is to cut the dough into quarters and then cut each quarter into four triangles. Starting at the base of each triangle, roll the dough up so that each cookie becomes a little crescent. Arrange the roll ups on one baking sheet, making sure the points are tucked under the cookies, and refrigerate. Repeat process with second disk of dough and remaining ingredients for filling. Refrigerate crescents for at least 30 minutes.
Position rack in center of oven and preheat oven to 350 degrees.

For Glaze:
Stir egg and water together. Brush a bit of glaze over each crescent. Sprinkle with coarse sugar.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes until puffed and golden (rotate rack if necessary halfway through baking time). Transfer to cooling rack to cool. Serve just warm or at room temp.
These can be kept covered at room temperature for up to 3 days or wrapped airtight and frozen for up to 2 months.

Enjoy!

***My Notes:
Dorie says you can bake two sheets at once if you rotate racks and watch carefully. Personally, I only bake one sheet at a time.
I prefer to omit the chocolate from my recipe. Dorie swears by this addition, so if you are a chocoholic like many, go for it.
My favorite filling is raspberry jam with a dash of extra cinnamon in the sugar mixture.

For those of you who aren’t purists and welcome an opportunity to make a healthier (and quite edible version), the Bob’s Red Mill Baking Book offers a recipe for Whole Wheat Rugelach.

As for the dough slipcover; I can’t imagine how I ever lived without it. I purchased my first one from an online resource (and paid way too much). I soon discovered that most kitchen stores carry these in their baking departments. They are often listed as “Pie Crust Makers” and look like round, zippered garment bags for pie crust. They come in a few sizes but I have found that the larger ones are always easier to use as they leave more room for rolling. They cost just dollars a piece and I recommend you buy more than one because they will eventually tear, split and lose zippability. Toss a pinch of flour into the slipcover before you place your dough in for rolling.

The Bun Rises in the Yeast

2007-11-13T09:33:00.000-05:00

A tale of rock stars
And pirates
And cowboys
Oh my.

My son is thirteen. If you have teenagers (or if you know any) then in all likelihood, you are familiar with the evils of instant messaging, Guitar Hero and mall food.
Not surprisingly, I am most bothered by the latter.
I can rationalize instant messaging because although more technologically advanced, it is not unlike my own adolescent obsession with one totally cool, purple, push-button phone.
And I am not one to argue with timeless teenage rites of passage, which always include aspirations to achieve rock stardom.
From my own parental perspective, virtual guitar gaming seems harmless compared to alternative game options targeted at today’s teen market.
But, mall food?
This is the fly in my frosting.
In my home, where meals are prepared daily, it pains me to think that if the opportunity came knocking, my son would sooner choose the boxed or bagged variety from the nearest food court, over quality home cooking.
I have tried to recreate some of his commercial favorites using healthier ingredients but this, although an admirable ambition, is as easy a task as nailing Jell-o to a tree.
For those of you who don’t know this, fast food tastes so good because it’s so bad. Through the eyes of my teenager (the hater), poor quality ingredients are what make for a
happy meal (ignore the pun).
On occasion, I will accept defeat, drive to his favorite haunt and deliver a hot box of free-radical-chaos to his snack tray.
If only for a day, I will have achieved rock star status in his eyes.

As each day passes in my challenging role as mother-of-a-teenager, I struggle to grasp the very last ounce of coolness I once thought eternal.
If not for a recent weekend kitchen experiment, I might have prematurely crossed over the threshold to becoming the mom who misuses nouns like crib, hood and thong.

On a cold, cloudy Sunday, not so long ago, I was desperate for distraction from the Jekyll and Hyde performance that was about to begin in my once-welcoming TV room. This was an event that would occur weekly and last for four months of Sundays. Each week, it began right around the time the Dallas Cowboys took the field and ended with a final whistle. What occurred between the beginning and the end was nothing short of classic, late night TV psycho-drama.
A husband and a son, who were once friendly fellows, morphed into
ill-mannered creatures whose language and behavior were nothing short of primitive and barbaric.
Experience has taught me to fear the deafening sounds of defeat.

And so, when the going got tough, I made my escape from
the man-cave and headed for the kitchen.
I sifted through a pile of recipes I affectionately refer to as
my “Try-it, Don’t Buy-it” recipes.
These are recipes which offer bootleg versions of popular commercial products. I hesitate to use the term “pirated,” because unlike the controversy surrounding pirated music, these are not the actual recipes used by fast food chains and commercial bakeries. These are instead, recipes which have been created by
food-science-geeks turned food-detectives (turned rock stars in my eyes), who taste and dissect the product and then create recipes which include hypothetical ingredients with best-guess directions.
I have no factual knowledge to support the claim I am about to make but, based on personal experience, I would guess that at least seventy percent of these recipes are complete failures--when compared to their commercial originals. That is not to say however, that none of these deserve their own index card in the recipe file. Some are simply good recipes but unfortunately, bear little resemblance to their commercial counterparts.

As I leafed through the pile, I happened upon a recipe that had notations in red pen in my own handwriting. It was a recipe for Cinnamon Rolls that I had apparently, intended to make for my son’s birthday (which came and went since the original notations were made). My motivation for choosing this recipe was likely for reasons both selfish and economical. If I could recreate his favorite
food-court dessert, I would not only be his rock-star mom (again), but I would save the six bucks I more-than-occasionally spend on such cinnamony indulgences. It was a win-win opportunity (and judging from the primal sounds coming from the TV room, we needed a win for the home-team).
As I reviewed the recipe in its entirety, it became painfully clear to me why I hadn’t made it sooner; it was a yeast-based recipe. Yeast and I share a rather tumultuous past. Any good bread maker will tell you that a yeast-dough requires the baker to be both attentive and patient.
I am not patient.
To date, my only success worth repeating is a loaf of buttermilk bread that requires few ingredients and only a modicum of patience. The too-flat focaccias and brick-hard boules of my past send me running to the nearest market with nary a complaint about the high price of Ecce Panis.

But here I stood, ready to fight the good fight for the sake of the home team (and the right to trade my apron for a leather jacket, if only for a day).
I followed the recipe to the letter and when I read the sentence directing me to “cover and let rise until doubled,” I could feel beads of perspiration gather upon my forehead.
Surely, I was doomed for failure.
The directions that followed however, allowed me to sympathize with the same dough I once feared.
“Punch down and let rise again.”
What a cruel twist of fate. Was it not enough that this energetic, elastic mass fought once to reach the top of its Pyrex coliseum? Need I be the one to administer the crushing blow that would deflate its rollier-than-thou ego?
Surely, if this dough could rise above defeat, so would I.
I clenched my buttery fist and punched it down.
And I waited.
Together we would rise again.

After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the rolling-out stage of the recipe. This offered a challenge greater than I had expected, simply because dough never seems to take the shape or measurement that a recipe directs it to. Nevertheless, my oddly shaped rectangle, spread with cinnamony, creamy, sweetness, sliced up into what clearly resembled cinnamon rolls.
After a third and final rising, they were baked into pale golden buns, spiraled with cinnamon sugar filling and then crowned with a rich, creamy frosting.
I marveled at their beauty and stood speechless for a moment.

The sound of cheering broke my peaceful silence and two happy Jekylls, tempted by the wafting aroma of spicy sweetness, left the man-cave for a half-time snack break.
They stopped short at the counter where a baking pan filled with frosted golden pillows of cinnamon goodness, was perched upon a not-so-steady cooling rack.
We shared an impromptu moment of silence and my son, as most teenagers do, held back any enthusiasm he might have felt at the sight of a familiar favorite.
It made no difference however, because four cinnamon rolls and a half-gallon of milk later, I knew victory was mine.
Score one for the home team.

With only a few minutes of half-time remaining, I was personally invited by my son to be the sole audience member for a father-son Guitar Hero competition. As I listened and watched, amused by their ambitious (and sometimes even recognizable) renditions of rock classics, a thought occurred to me.
I wouldn't be needing that leather jacket after all.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

-Michelle

I encourage you to try this recipe which was sent via email by a friend of a friend. I do not recall his name and I never did get the opportunity to thank him. Nonetheless, he has earned rock star status around these parts, because the recipe is that good.
It is a bit labor-intensive so, it’s best saved for a weekend when you need a delicious distraction.

Rockin’ Cinnamon Rolls
(makes 16 -20 large rolls)

For Rolls:
½ Cup Warm Water
2 Pkgs. Dry Yeast
2 TBS Sugar
3.5 oz Box Vanilla Pudding Mix-- plus ingredients on box necessary to complete
½ Cup Margarine –melted
2 Large Eggs
1 tsp. Salt
6 Cups All Purpose Unbleached Flour

For Filling:
1 Cup Soft Butter
2 Cups Light Brown Sugar
4 tsp. Cinnamon

For Frosting:
8 oz. Philly Cream Cheese
½ Cup Margarine
1 tsp. Pure Vanilla Extract
3 Cups Confectioners Sugar
1 TBS Milk

In a bowl, combine warm water, yeast and sugar. Stir until dissolved and set aside (after a few minutes, you should notice yeast foaming, which indicates it is active. If yeast does not “bloom” at all, you may need to start again with new yeast).
In large bowl, take pudding mix and prepare according to package directions. Add margarine, eggs and salt. Mix well. Then add yeast mixture to pudding mixture. Blend well.
Gradually add flour to mixture. Mix until flour is incorporated. Knead mixture until smooth (on a very lightly floured surface. It is important not to over-flour the dough, you want a soft, moist dough that is smooth and elastic). Place in a large greased bowl. Cover with plastic wrap or a clean dish towel and let rise until doubled. Punch down dough and let rise again.

Roll dough out onto a lightly floured board to a rectangle approximately
34” x 21” in size. Mix brown sugar and cinnamon together. Spread soft butter over surface of dough evenly, sprinkle with cinnamon sugar mixture. Roll up rectangle starting at the wide end closest to you. Roll away from you and be sure to roll tightly. With a sharp knife, put a small notch every 2 inches. Cut slices with floss or sharp knife (unflavored dental floss works great for this). Place rolls on parchment lined baking sheet about 2 inches apart. With a clean hand, use your palm to press down on each roll to flatten slightly. Cover again and let rise until doubled in size.

Bake at 350 degrees for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from oven when rolls start to turn golden—DO NOT OVER BAKE.

Mix all frosting ingredients together until smooth. Frost warm rolls with Cream Cheese Frosting.

Thank the heavens for clever food scientists turned rock stars.

Enjoy!

The Yen is Mightier Than the Gourd

2007-11-11T16:12:00.000-05:00

When insatiable desire presents itself, sometimes need
trumps the importance of breed.
Get your mind out of the gutter, I’m talking about dessert.

The pumpkin patch is a happy place. It is for this reason that brooding teens are best left in the rear seats of mini-vans, to sulk in their zippered hoodies, ears corked by foam buds
blaring the timeless messages that
(1) they are misunderstood, and
(2) parents are stupid people.
I offer no further explanation for why my front porch is devoid of my favorite, edible representation of fall’s abundant harvest.
We are pumpkin-less.

More than a decade ago, when I first ascended my
culinary-high-horse, I adopted a strict set of policies and procedures by which I intended to create my self-proclaimed masterpieces of gastronomic perfection (and as a side note, I was just as ambitious during the first week of my South Beach Diet days). Some of these self-imposed standards included the following:
(1) The use of only pure vanilla extract and never the imitation variety (I still stand firmly by this rule).
(2) The use of real butter (unsalted) and never margarine or shortening (I waver on this rule). And,
(3) Never substituting fresh fruit or produce with the likes of frozen, dehydrated or dare I say, canned variety (this rule flew out the same proverbial pie that those notorious blackbirds inhabited).

Longer than two decades ago, I was introduced to my first pumpkin pie by the grandmother of a dear friend.
I had never tasted pumpkin pie in my own home because my mother never fed her children anything she personally disliked. Her distaste for all things pumpkin led five children to believe that it was food
fit only for backyard squirrels.
I credit her with sparing me a childhood full of lima beans and I blame her for the missed opportunities to delight in the sweet, iconic symbol of Thanksgiving deliciousness (after all, I have to blame her for something).

I remember that first forkful of pumpkin pie as if it were yesterday. The silky creaminess of spicy pumpkin filling combined with dollops of fresh, whipped cream (sans sugar), nestled upon a flaky, buttery crust was nothing short of a religious experience. It was pure heaven (and truth be told, if I found out that Heaven was in fact, a pumpkin patch, I would be totally okay with that).
In the years that followed, my mother would add a commercially baked pumpkin pie to her Thanksgiving table as a kind gesture to those who were, in her opinion, crazy enough to eat squirrel food.
Not one of those pies however, offered the same taste experience as that very first pie.
My need to recreate that pie haunted me until I surrendered.
After some rotary-dialed, sugar-coated dialogue, I was the proud recipient of Grandma Teresa’s original recipe for Pumpkin Pie.
A short time later, on a not-so-busy Saturday, I set out for the
farm stand (Teresa’s recipe specifically noted that fresh pumpkin be used to make the pie) and then the market, believing I was only a few hours away from pure pumpkin perfection.

I will not burden you with all of the unpleasant details of what transpired in the hours that followed. I will however, share the worst of those details, because misery does in fact, love company.

The experience of hacking my own pumpkin for the purpose of pie and not to illuminate the face of a squash named Jack, was not as rewarding as I had hoped. The task of removing every last morsel of pulpy, orange flesh from a once happy, yet now humpty-dumptied gourd, was daunting if not disturbing.
But the next step of pumpkin-pulp-preparation necessary to recreate Teresa’s award winning pie, forced me to rethink my aforementioned policies and procedures.
Following the instructions which appeared in my own
chicken-scratch on a leafy-patterned dessert napkin, I set out to separate the pumpkin seeds from the pumpkin flesh. The first cluster of seeds was easily dislodged and required little effort. When I reached the slimier, stringier pulp however, I was immediately reminded of an awful day in my long ago past that I thought I had blocked from my challenged, middle-aged memory.
It was a day that that involved one third-grader with an ear ache (me), in an elementary school nurses office, during a mandatory
lice-inspection of two, extremely unhappy, long-haired twin sisters.
I wanted no more to wrestle seeds from pulp with my kitchen-fork, than I would have wanted to take hold of that metal comb and offer assistance to the school nurse.
It was at this moment that I was knocked from my high-horse and sent running with open arms to a pantry shelf full of Libby’s.

I am no quitter however, and I made that pie from
labor-intensive start to somewhat-disappointing finish. It was a success in both appearance and taste but it paled in comparison to that first pie of my formerly pumpkin-pieless youth.
Perhaps that pie is best left to the grandmothers who don’t flinch at the sight of sacrificial squash. I would imagine these might be the same folk who, back in the day, not-so-innocently named their fowl friends before hacking their heads off. Their resilience and bravery in the kitchen rewards them tenfold in the flavor and quality of the meals they prepare.

But I belong to a different generation of culinary
un-professionals. It is with my head held high that I have decided to accept a pie of slightly compromised texture, for the sake of instant gratification and fear-less preparation.
These days, when I have a yen for pumpkin pie (or anything pumpkiny and sweet), I turn to my reliable resource—canned pumpkin. It offers consistent quality and flavor
and requires no power tools or remorse.

And in these chaotic times, when porches are without pumpkins, pantries are without pies, and when misunderstood teens need new opportunities to connect with stupid parents, it seems obvious that the yen is indeed mightier than the gourd.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

-Michelle

It is my pleasure to share with you a favorite family recipe for Pumpkin Cheesecake. This was my mother-in-law, Joan’s Thanksgiving specialty and it never fails to please. I’ve even known the occasional pumpkin-hater to enjoy it (long after she has fed her own pumpkin to the squirrels).

Joan’s Pumpkin Cheesecake

1 Cup Graham Cracker Crumbs
1Cup + 2 TBS Sugar divided
2 8oz. Pkgs. Philly Cream Cheese
6 TBS Unsalted Butter melted
1 16 oz Can Pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)
1 tsp. Cinnamon
¼ tsp. Ginger
¼ tsp. Nutmeg
½ tsp. salt
2 Large Eggs
1 Pint Sour Cream
1 tsp. Pure Vanilla Extract

Mix cracker crumbs with 2 TBS sugar and melted butter, place in buttered spring form pan making sure to cover bottom of pan and slightly up the sides of the pan. Pack down slightly with your fingers. Bake at 350 degrees for about 8 minutes. Remove from oven and set aside.
Beat cream cheese and ¾ cup sugar until smooth. Add canned pumpkin, spices and salt. Add eggs one at a time and beat until well incorporated. Pour mixture into spring form pan over crust and place pan on sturdy baking sheet. Bake at 350 degrees for 50 minutes (don’t worry if top is cracked). Remove from oven and raise oven temperature to 400 degrees. Mix sour cream with vanilla and ¼ cup sugar. Spread sour cream mixture on top of cake. Place back in to oven and bake for 8 to 10 minutes more. Let cool completely on wire rack. When cool, run a knife around spring form and remove from sides of pan (leaving spring form base intact). Chill cake completely before serving.
**For serving—I recommend whipping a pint of cold, heavy cream until soft peaks form and dolloping onto cake just before serving. If you prefer a sweet cream, you may place cool whip or sweetened whipped cream (stiff peaks are necessary for this) into a piping bag and decorate cake accordingly.
Sprinkle cake with chopped or slivered nuts (we like chopped, candied pecans).

**For a delightful, easy pumpkin pie recipe—find your can of Libby’s and have at it (the recipe is on the label).

Remember to Say Cheese and Thank You

2007-11-10T08:59:00.000-05:00

Cheese. My drug of choice.

Just as I am turning the page from October’s over-saturated grid to a November full of time and possibility, I am reminded that I owe the month of November a healthy dose of gratitude.
Like many, I am encouraged to recall my blessings as an American in celebration of Thanksgiving Day.
Unlike most (and no one else I know personally), I am encouraged to recall my blessings as a wife, in celebration of my wedding anniversary. A joyous day full of fuzzy details that occurred almost decades ago on a cold, rainy Friday immediately following one huge turkey dinner.
As I sit in quiet reflection, I offer praise for all the goodness life has shown me thus far. I am reminded of that happy day, the celebration of our union as husband and wife, and I am left with a burning question;
Why wasn’t there cheese at our wedding?

Few things in life (and take note, I said things), make me happier than cheese. It is for this very reason that I am plagued with regret over a missed opportunity so many years ago.

Some brides wish for horse drawn carriages, while others might demand world travel to satisfy honeymoon tradition. I ask only that we turn back the clock and sneak in a cheese course.

Wedding tradition in my almost-long-ago past, did not routinely include the services of a wedding planner. Hubby and I, with the help of our parents, did the “planning.”
Based on my knowledge today, we were ahead of the game for the simple facts that he wore matching socks and I managed to shave both legs in the same day.
But the knowledge of those sometimes painful truths that accompany married life was not available to us on that feted day. Instead, we were jaded by the promise of a perfect life together and blinded by an all-inclusive package-deal that included everything.
Everything, but a cheese course.

I sometimes wonder though if a higher power had a hand in the omission of this course from our menu, knowing full well that I would be forever challenged by my incurable addiction.
It all began so innocently…

I was raised in a home where Mozzarella was a staple item, as familiar to our refrigerator as butter and eggs.
One of my fondest childhood memories recalls a precise orchestration of ingredients including toasted Thomas’ English muffins, mother’s Marinara sauce and glorious, gooey Mozzarella. It was love at first bite and like most addicts-to-be, I wanted too much of a good thing.
At a painful point in my adolescence, my muffin supply was cut off and I was forced to find a replacement (sans nooks and crannies).
I turned to the evils of white bread and soon discovered a device (lurking in my mother's pantry) that, when placed over an open flame, would seal the ingredients forming a pocket of melty deliciousness. Bite after oozy bite would result in unnaturally giddy behavior. This unusual cast-iron contraption was known to my family as a ‘Toas-Tite,’ and it wasn’t until I had experimented with the likes of Swiss, Muenster, Havarti, Gruyere, and even some of the hard stuff like Pecorino, that it was finally removed from my mother’s kitchen, in an effort to stop the madness (rumor has it that it currently resides with a more disciplined sister in North Carolina).

By the time I was in my late teens, I had ignored all of the warning signs and instead headed down a darker path.
On a cold, December day at a ski shop by which I was employed, I passed the point of no return when I agreed to experience Fondue. This was the pinnacle moment when I realized that a life without cheese isn’t a life worth living at all. The symphonic blend of three cheeses and fine wine was pure magic to my palate. I could only hope to master such wizardry.
I would soon come to depend on the cheap conveniences of Sterno and Laughing Cow.

At one of my lowest points (or more likely, my highest), I would suffer from occasional hallucinations. At times I would imagine myself elbow-deep in curds and whey, surrounded by all forms of cheese paraphanalia. Other times I would imagine being in the company of master cheese-makers in some top-secret location, being taught how to smoke a Gouda.

As a young adult, and once I started dating, I mastered the art of deception. I would often cheese-binge on weekdays and come date night, my companions were none the wiser. If I really needed a fix, I might order a low-key Swiss omelet or perhaps a cheeseburger deluxe at the local diner, allowing little cause for suspicion or interrogation (every addict knows that the hard stuff is best left for home consumption).

I would like to say that my addiction came to a crashing halt once I met my husband, but as most enablers do, he married me and my dirty little secret, and we spoke not a word of it.

But as children so often have the uncanny ability to unlock closets we once thought secure, and acquaint themselves with unfriendly skeletons, my secret was exposed on one sunny, Sunday morning.
I awoke rather late, to what seemed like an ambush of questioning. They grew alarmed at my inability to recall key details from my cousin’s wedding the night before. Which, I am told was, for me, a wild night of binging on the likes of rice balls, eggplant rollatini and chicken Cordon Bleu (it turns out that I am most vulnerable to methods which include rolling and heating).

And so, that was the day my out-in-the-open battle began. At first, I was angry. But now I realize that I am a better person for having my addiction. I am a more compassionate person, especially to others who fight this same demon (Chicago Lefty, are you out there?). And because this addiction shows no bias, I have crossed paths with those I might have never met, if not for cheese. We are everywhere, from quiet corners of PTA luncheons, to deserted sample-stations at markets and wholesale clubs, and even behind the mahogany desks of fifth-floor corporations.

Now, almost two decades later, I am faced with the daunting responsibility of scheduling yearly physicals whose results often challenge my daily choices. With the support of my physician I am putting forth the effort to manage my addiction. But I make no promises. For me, cheese is pure joy.
I will deal with the urges one tray at a time.

And getting back to the subject of blessings; personally, there are many for which I owe gratitude. It is only in jest that I suggest we turn back the clock. The fact is, even if the opportunity presented itself, I wouldn’t rewrite my own history or change the details of our happy wedding day.
Life has its potholes (Wait, stop there. Sorry, but, as a result of my addiction, as I type the word “potholes,” I immediately envision a road made of Swiss cheese); so, let’s move away from the pothole metaphor…

Life presents us with the good, the bad and the ugly. It is we who determine what matters most.
For the month of November and especially on Thanksgiving Day, I am determined to recall and reflect upon my blessings. When I am asked for whom I am most thankful, my list will include my loving family, friends and neighbors. But if the opportunity presents itself to recall some thing that has made a significant impact on my life,
I will remember to say Cheese, and Thank You.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

At the risk of enabling others, I have decided not to post a recipe.
I will offer only this advice:
Where scrambled eggs are concerned, I think Swiss is king. It has flavor and meltability bar none.
For a quick, delightful burger, my favorite combination includes a toasted bagel in your flavor of choice—I prefer onion, poppy or everything (and in this case the frozen-in-the-bag market brand works best because there is a balanced bagel-to-beef ratio), with an all beef burger, topped with melted Muenster cheese and grilled onions—if you’re not a fan of onions, a healthy portion of sprouts offers a close second (alfalfa is my choice). Finally, top it off with your favorite condiments (mine include ketchup, a smattering of mayo and those bread ‘n butter pickle slices).
As for the hole in the bagel, not surprisingly it requires melted cheese on both sides to avoid juicy drips.

And there are so many more…but, I’d better stop there.

Don't Judge a Cook by its Mother

2007-11-09T09:38:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, it isn’t so much a shortcut as it is the right path to take.

My mother is a wonderful cook. I’m not sure how she arrived at this post because my loving grandmother, admittedly, disliked all manners of cooking and baking. That is not to say she wasn’t capable (and I’ve had the meatballs to prove it), she just avoided the task whenever possible.

In the decades I have known my mother, I have few recollections if any, of her consulting a cookbook or recipe card. She worked off a cache of tried and true recipes whose ingredients lists and directions were safely imbedded in her brain. This is a gift indeed, but not uncommon to those who have been cooking for the better part of a lifetime.
My mother is gifted however, by the simple fact that she always engages in stress-free cooking. And I mean always. Whether she is hosting an impromptu Saturday breakfast for a hoard of hungry grandchildren, or providing a five course spread for a daughter’s wedding rehearsal dinner, her feathers remain unruffled. And while we’re on the subject of feathers, she is the only woman I know who goes to the market the day before Thanksgiving to purchase everything but Tom Turkey (who is already comfortably defrosting). One would never know that her menu wasn’t planned weeks in advance by the ease and consistent temperature at which it is delivered.

Enter neurotic daughter.
My mother is amused by me. I know this because I have the uncanny ability to interpret her thoughts simply by observing her eyebrows. I’m not kidding.
I think she was most amused during a period of my chocolate madness which involved the exhausting production of truffles. Not just any truffles mind you; the kind of truffles that involve east-end vacationing sisters to lug eleven-pound blocks of Callebaut chocolate to my doorstep. A doorstep obstructed by UPS packaging which contained the likes of one four-hundred-dollar Chocovision tempering machine and four books dedicated to the methods and practices of home candymaking. A period from which I am still recovering, financially, emotionally and spiritually. (Yes, spiritually; if you’ve had the religious experience so commonly associated with the consumption of one of my homemade truffles, you would not question me).
My mother is also a woman of prayer. She has been since I’ve known her. What concerns me however is that she started praying a whole lot harder when I started cooking. I would like to believe this is merely a coincidence, but I have traced the advent of her attendance at daily mass to right around the time I attempted to broil a whole roast.
It was on the very day my new, electric oven was installed. I phoned her for motherly advice and called her several times more, in panic mode, because said roast remained undercooked (and oddly grey), and hubby was headed home from work with visions of a gourmet meal dancing in his head. She walked me back through the paces of roast preparation and once she was out of solutions, determined that my new oven might in fact, be defective.
If only this were true.
I reluctantly referred to my unopened owner’s manual, only to discover that I had in fact, placed a nineteen dollar roast in my oven’s utility drawer. A drawer intended for the likes of pots, pans and the occasional culinary gadget.
It was from this very day forward that my love affair with the written word (in the form of cookbooks and manuals) began.
I live in a different home now and not surprisingly, I own a gas oven whose broiler function resides within the main oven compartment (there is no drawer to speak of).

Getting back to the subject of my mother’s amusement; if I had to sum it up, I would say that she is most entertained (and I would guess, perplexed) by the fact that I often take the longest, most difficult and costly road to arrive at a destination which offers a much simpler path.
I recall in my seemingly-long-ago childhood, that my mother bestowed holiday gifts of homemade confections upon aunts, uncles, friends and neighbors. One of these confections in particular stands out in my mind (like a flashing neon sign) simply because of its ridiculous, if not unfair moniker. It was called Garbage.
It was a delightfully sweet combination of chocolate, nuts, raisins and probably more ingredients I am too old to recall, but reminiscent of a long ago favorite—the Chunky Bar.
It proudly wore its title because the easy concoction offered the kitchen-sink concept of cooking—that is to throw everything but the kitchen sink into the mix hoping it will taste good.

And my friends, this is where the apple does fall far from the apple tree. So much so, that I am determined to believe that I am in fact, an orange and not an apple at all.

Garbage.
Only a confident woman (and by confidence, I am referring not only to culinary ability but to confidence of self as well), would present a gift by this name without so much as furrowing one single brow (and where my mother’s brows are concerned, this single, furrowed expression would suggest that she is unsure of how to interpret the reaction of the recipient).
Clearly I am not this confident woman.
Despite the fact that her garbage was quite tasty (and we all
licked enough fingers to support this claim), if it were I who crafted such confections (and come to think of it, I have), my first orders of business would include (and not necessarily in this order): changing the name to one that offers a visual interpretation free of debris, replacing the pedestrian variety of chocolate called for with an expensive European brand (thus rendering this economical form of gift giving, not so economical after all), and purchasing the holiday-appropriate, color-coordinated, commercially inspired packaging that speaks nothing of home kitchen production, for these newly-named confections (Martha be damned).
And one wonders why the holiday season is so stressful for some of us.

The fact may be that we are just different.
But my mother’s who-cares-what-it’s-called-as-long-as-it-tastes-good philosophy is one I can only aspire to live by.
I long for the day when I will sit with my holiday guests, free of the did-I-buy-the-right-gift-is-my-house-clean-enough-is-the-turkey-too-dry worries.
I know that I won’t be putting away the cookbooks any time soon. This is not only because of my love for and obsession with culinary format, but also because I haven’t yet gained enough of my own kitchen wisdom to call upon in a time of need.

Perhaps my road is indeed, the road less traveled. What I have discovered in my recent past is that there are signs along the way. Signs pointing us in the direction of an easier, more scenic path. One that allows us the luxury of time and the sweet sensation of calm. And one that inevitably points us in the direction of home, where the apple tree stands.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

In the spirit of easy-yet-delicious recipes, my intention was to offer my mother’s recipe for GARBAGE. However, I was unable to reach her by phone to obtain said recipe, because she was at church.

So, I am instead posting a delightful little recipe for the worlds easiest truffles. I sampled these at a holiday cookie swap and I was shocked to find out just how easy they are to prepare. Although I am unsure of the origin of this recipe, these were presented by my friend Lisa, to whom I am also thankful for showing me an easier, less-complicated path.
These are a kid-favorite and just might allow you enough time this holiday season to crack open that bottle of Peppermint Schnapps you've been meaning to get to.

Easy OREO Truffles
Prep Time: 30 minutes
Total Time: 1 hr. 30 minutes
Yields 3 ½ Dozen or 42 servings

1 Pkg. (1lb. 2 oz) OREO Chocolate Sandwich Cookies
1 Pkg. (8 oz.) Philadelphia Brand Cream Cheese, softened
2 Pkg. (8 oz. each) Baker’s Semi-Sweet Baking Chocolate

Directions:
Crush 9 of the cookies to fine crumbs in a food processor; reserve for later use (cookies can also be crushed in a Ziploc bag using a rolling pin). Crush remaining 36 cookies to fine crumbs; place in a medium sized bowl. Add cream cheese, mix until well blended. Roll cookie mixture into 42 balls, about 1 inch in diameter.
Melt Bakers chocolate in a heat proof bowl over a pot of shallow, simmering water (or use the top of a double boiler.—alternatively you may melt the chocolate in the microwave). When chocolate is melted, allow it to sit for about a minute to cool only slightly. Dip balls in chocolate to coat completely; place on a baking sheet covered with waxed paper. Sprinkle dipped confections with reserved crumbs while still warm. Refrigerate until firm—about one hour. Store leftover truffles, covered, in refrigerator (trust me, there won’t be any left over).

***And for those of you who have the time and would like to try your hand at making elegant confections, I can’t say enough good things about my favorite author on the subject of candymaking; Carole Bloom--who wrote a book called Truffles, Candies & Confections in 1992 which in my opinion, offers the standard by which all homemade candy should be made.
Her directions are user-friendly and her methods offer consistent results, time after time. If you are lucky enough to get your hands on a copy of this book, I urge you to try her recipe for Espresso Caramels.