Le Quatre-Heures

Happy 1st Birthday, Sweet Leo!

2011-12-10T22:04:00.000-08:00

Peppermint Meringues

2011-12-09T17:15:00.000-08:00

It never would have occurred to me to make meringues, until Emilia, looking at the cover of this month's Bon Appétit magazine, declared: 'Those look like yummy! Should we make them, mama?' They came out of the oven about an hour and a half ago, and so far I have eaten, I don't know, 104 of them maybe? They are divine. They taste like an incredibly sophisticated candy cane, and they are perfectly sized. Ours are slightly wonky-ish, but I have never piped meringues before. So there is no need to be rude. ('Mama, this one looks like a swan!')

Anyway, we are currently trying to decide what sort of cookies to leave for Santa on Christmas Eve. Not sure if he is the peppermint meringue type, though.

Peppermint Meringues
3 large egg whites, at room temperature
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/8 teaspoon peppermint extract
12 drops red food-coloring

Preheat oven to 200°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Using a heavy-duty mixer with the whisk attachment, beat the egg-whites and salt on medium-high speed until foamy and white, about 1 minute. With the mixer running, add the sugar -- in three increments -- beating for 2 minutes between each addition. Continue to beat until stiff peaks form, about 2 minutes longer. Add the powdered sugar and peppermint extract, beat until nicely blended, 1 minute longer.

Dot the food-coloring over the surface of the meringue. Do not stir, the color will swirl itself while being piped. Spoon meringue into a pastry bag (we used a freezer bag, because they are so much handier, albeit less green) fitted with a 1/2" tip. Pipe rounds onto your sheets, about 1" in size and about 1" apart.

Bake the meringues until dry. This should take about 2-1/2 hours. Let them cool completely, about 1 hour. They will crisp up as they cool. But I must say, they are also quite tasty straight from the oven. The meringues will last 2 days, but store in airtight container layering with wax paper. (Recipe from Bon Appétit Magazine. December 2011.)

On Randy and Ralphie

2011-12-07T23:31:00.000-08:00

This morning Emilia just about shocked the pants off of me by choosing to make her own bed. This is exactly how it looked when she finished with it, and I am not even kidding. I've never seen her attempt such a thing before. In fact, she doesn't ever seem to notice if her bed is even made -- let alone the idea of someone actually doing it for her. But there you go, she did it, and I give all the credit to watching too much telly.

The three-and-a half-year-old has been mildly obsessed with the movie 'A Christmas Story', or as she likes to call it, 'Randy & Ralphie'. And me, being a rather awful parent sometimes, have been putting it on for her to watch. I do cringe throughout, if that is any consolation. And I have vowed to chuck the thing in the trash the moment she calls someone a Smart-Ass. But there is no denying that it is probably the best Christmas movie this side of Charlie Brown.

Anyway, you know that scene toward the beginning when Ralphie marks the page in a magazine with the ad for a Red Rider BB Gun, and then props it, ever so nicely, against his mother's pillow for her to see later? The idea being that she just happens to see the ad, and then thinks what a great Christmas present a Red Rider BB Gun would be for Ralphie.

My sweet little Emilia, not thinking to put her catalog on mama's and dada's bed, has placed it on her own. I love this so much. It just shows that rather than ask mama or dada for all the loot she has been scoping out, she goes to bed dreaming all the magical things that little kids dream.

What warms my heart even more is that when we sat in front of the computer this evening doing some Christmas shopping, she saw the catalog I had set aside. I have had my eye on a piece of Mexican artwork, and because it is rawther expensive, it is not actually on my Christmas list year. But it is beautiful, and one is allowed to stare, no?

And so, my sweet little thing, took the catalog from my hands, and said she would get it for me. She then ran to find a paper to mark the page, à la Ralphie. I found the catalog an hour or so later propped up against my own pillow. And it made my heart glad.

Either the Couch Goes, Or I Do!

2011-12-02T23:13:00.000-08:00

Well, Dear Reader, I am not sure if I have mentioned it as of late, but our house has been driving me bat-shit crazy.  We used to be big believers in the whole stupid notion on 'bigger is not always better', which was all fine and dandy when it was just Michael and me. But now we have doubled -- and our space has shrunk. And I don't care what anyone says -- the smaller the person, the more crap, er... I mean, accoutrements, they seem have. I am tripping all day over plastic broccoli, wooden stacking rings, wicked-loud microphones (that record your voice, enabling for some rather spectacular singing, I must say, for all to hear later), wooden train pieces, and plastic bowls. This would not be so bad if the rest of the house wasn't crammed to the gills. And the room to fare the absolute worst lately has been the living room -- or, as I like to call it, The Gypsy Waggon. I have no idea how we have managed to fit so much junk it it, but we have. And I have been lamenting this fact very loudly, er, I mean very much the past month or so. 'Where in sam hell are we supposed to put a blasted Christmas tree?? Huh, where? And don't even tell me over there, because that clearly will not work! For hell's sake!' Or something like that anyway.

And then tonight... Michael comes home from work. And he tells me he has to work all weekend. No really, all weekend. I say, 'fanfeckingtastic, but we are supposed to be getting a Christmas tree tomorrow. Where shall we put it?' And there you go. The couch that we have had for years and years is gone! Yippee Yahoo! We stripped it of its cover, turned it on its side, and moved it to the garage, where it had better not sit for the next five to seven years. But there you go, it is gone! I have loathed this piece of furniture for years now -- seriously cannot even look at it without grimacing, but could not get rid of it because of the comfy factor.

Yes, if you are wondering, I did call my mom and give her a heads up a few weeks ago. It went something like this:
'Oh, by the way, did I tell you?  We are getting rid of that big old couch in the living room. I am so happy. However, this means we will no longer have anything comfy to sit on. On the bright side, this will be an impetus to buy something else, don't you think? Mom?'
'Oh, honey, I don't blame you one bit. So what else is new over there?' (Pause) 'Wait a minute! Now where am I going to sleep? Oh great! This will not do!'
My mom has this thing over the past several years of liking to sleep while sitting up. This is done with a plastic toothpick in her mouth, a Kindle and reading light in her lap, a cup of lukewarm tea teetering precariously somewhere within the vicinity, and her head bobbing all over the place. This is completely true, and I can assure you that my mom will no longer be speaking to me for three to five days because I have divulged this tidbit. Anyway, when she comes for a visit, this arrangement typically (always) takes place on the comfy couch. So, with this in mind, I swear and promise (and all that jazz), that we will have a new shiny and comfy thing to fit this very purpose in the next couple of months. And, I can assure you, all hell will break loose if we don't. Just ask Emilia if you don't believe me.

The girl was so excited tonight moving the couch out of here. She helped Michael move the car, propped the door open, ran around with the cushions, helped me sweep the garage afterwards, and announced several times what a good helper she was. Seriously, she was exhilarated. Then we came in, closed the door, and I went back to the business of trying to feed Leo and getting dinner together. Emilia stood in the kitchen and began to sob. 'But I don't want to sit on the cold couch now! I just want the other couch! It is warm and snug and cozy!'

To be honest, she does have a point. The little slick leather affair (that now sits where the other did) has always been called The Cold Couch, because it is just that -- freaking cold. And it is not squishy.  And it isn't terribly comfy either. But it looks a lot better, and I happen to be in a fragile state these days with The Gypsy Waggon effect. So the Cold Couch it is -- for now. Besides, we can now fit a Christmas Tree, and this is very good news.

Of Plants and Bad Smells

2011-11-22T11:41:00.000-08:00

I spent ten minutes in the car this morning yelling at poor Governor and calling him a nasty bugger. And you would have too, had you been subjected to the smell that filled it. Gross. But, lo and behold, as I unloaded everyone from the car, the stinky culprit turned out to be Leo. That's right, the tiny smiley pipsqueak in the back seat. And when I asked him if this was, in fact, the case, the little guy simply said 'Uhhhh yeah!' Granted, he says this about everything:
'Leo, is mama beautiful?'
'Uhhh, yeah!'
'Leo, it is time for a nap.'
'Uhhh, yeah!'
'Leo, stop taking Emilia's puzzle pieces and chomping on them.'
'Uhhh, yeah!
The little guy has had a lot to say the past few weeks. So has Emilia, for that matter.

The two of them sat in the tub a little while later, and Emilia announced that 'Leo is not my brother anymore. He is a plant now.' She then sat and watered him until he began to protest rather loudly. 'Emilia, stop pouring water on your brother's head.' 'He is a plant now.' 'Fine, but stop dumping water on him.' 'Plants need water, mama.' And on it went.

The Haps

2011-11-21T17:39:00.000-08:00

* Halloween came and went this year. Emilia was a spider and Leo was Charlie Brown. We went trick-or-treating and poor Emilia was sick, so we basically carried her from door to door. She had about two bites of her candy and then I hid it (tossed it, more like -- she is three, how much candy does she need?). Happily, she forgot all about it anyway.

* Leo was baptized on October 9th. Where does the time go? That already feels like ages ago to me. Anyway, you will be very happy to hear that we have another Papist on our hands.

* Spanish class ended last week and for the first time in a year and a half, I am not running to register the girl for it. I'm in a bit of a quandary about it, really. Miss Anotonia is gone, and the new teacher is Miss Rosa. She is great -- but she speaks A LOT of Spanish. Emilia used to pay attention in class and all that. Now she just lays on her tummy and faces the wall, tuning us all out.  This causes me to continually whisper, as sternly as possible, 'will you PLEASE sit up -- turn around -- and pay attention!' When I finally asked her about this a week or so ago, she said, 'Mama, I like Spanish! But Miss Rosa speaks A LOT of Spanish!' I think what she actually meant to say was, 'I don't know what in sam-hell is going on in class anymore. So now I tune it all out and amuse myself -- well, til I see Roel, that is.' Roel is the cutie pants that Emilia loves. He is Miss Rosa's son and his hair is not too un-like Emilia's. 'Mama, I like Roel.  And he has ringlets just like me!'

Anyway, I feel horrible yanking Leo out of his bed to go. (It is right smack in the middle of naptime, and the poor guy gets pulled out of his bed to go to pre-school as it is.) And it is hard wrestling him during the class.  But I want them both in Spanish, so what to do? What to do?

* Leo now fits in the jogger. This is major news. So while Emilia is at school, Leo and I have been going running. Actually, it goes like this: drop the girl off, drive as fast as we can home, change, give Leo a bottle, get him bundled up, plonk him in the jogger, RUN!, hop in the shower while Leo screams bloody murder at me until the top of his head is red and he can barely see, and then drive like the Dickens to pick the girl up on time. It is not relaxing at all, but there it is. I am at least running, and that means a lot right now. If only I could figure out what to do about the serious offence he seems to take with me showering, then we'd really be on to something.

* Emilia and I have been doing loads and loads of yard work. Well, just raking, really. But since we live in a virtual forest, we could rake day-in-day-out and still not be finished. Three days in a row now I have managed to step in a great big pile of dog shit, too. This is great, because I love standing out in the freezing cold, hosing off my favorite boots in the world, and trying to fend off the three-year-old, who thinks it is great fun, from running under the hose. Anyway, Governor should be pleased as his bathroom is mostly clean now.

* We went to Bainbridge Island yesterday. It was a beautiful ferry ride, although fricking freezing.

* I've just eaten three chocolate chip cookies. Actually, I shared two with Leo. Holy smokes, that kid likes to eat. And Emilia managed to get hers smeared from one side of the kitchen to the other. Fantastic.

* I am growing to hate our house. I know I should just be grateful we have a roof over our heads and all that crap, but seriously -- I want out of here. We outgrew it ages ago, and I am tired of feeling like it looks like one great big gypsy wagon.

* Oh, and if I can't do it on my phone anymore I hardly do it at all. Seriously, I am hardly on the computer anymore -- which is kind-of lame, I know. But the chair is so uncomfortable, and I usually have two kids climbing on me.

You?

Italian Plum Cake

2011-10-04T18:07:00.000-07:00

This cake is perfection. Gorgeous perfection. And I am so glad to have just found the recipe.

Do you remember the scene from Amélie towards the end where Amélie is imagining Nino coming over to her apartment in search of her? She imagines herself standing in the kitchen making her 'famous plum cake', but then starts to cry as she realizes it is all just in her imagination and that he is not really on his way over. But then he actually does appear and they are in love and all that? It's quite a nice scene, really. Anyway, I have always wondered about Amélie's imaginary plum cake, because I'd never had plum cake before. It sounds so very French, and just downright lovely, that I have always wanted to try it. So over the years I looked here and there for a recipe, but everyone seems to call for canned plums and that never sounded quite right. It seems that, by general consensus, the plum cake approach has been something like this: it is the middle of dead winter and I need to make a cake, but all I've got on hand is that can of plums I bought three years ago. Or something like that anyway.

Until...

I was thumbing through the cookbook A Platter of Figs last week and found a recipe for a lovely little plum cake. And I could be wrong, but I am fairly certain that it is exactly the recipe I had been hoping for all these years. Yes, it is called Italian Plum Cake instead of French Plum Cake, but that is more to do with the sort of plums used than anything else. (It calls for Italian plums. Or Stanley plums. I bought the only plums that Whole Foods had -- small, dark, ruby-purple flesh -- perfecto!) The cake is exquisite. In fact, after Leo was in bed and dinner was done, the three of us managed to eat half of it. Emilia loved it, like the classy little lady that she is. And my only regret the next day was that we didn't eat the whole lot the night it came out of the oven. Because let me tell you -- the cake does not last over night. What was once gorgeous perfection is now a bit of soggy depressing mish-mash. Drats! And to think I had been looking forward to it all day. So this is really the only mark against what is otherwise my new favorite cake ever. Well, that and the fact the cookbook is filled with an awful lot of duck recipes. But what really pushed me over the edge was reading the author's bio on the dustjacket -- this is a serious mark against the whole book. It would appear that for six months out of every year, the author (a so called David Tanis) works in his 17th century teeny-tiny squashy kitchen with a shite oven and no counter space. When I read this I yelled, 'I think I am going to hurl! No, really! I mean it this time.' So Michael comes wandering over, mildly amused, and reads the jacket. He then declares that there is nothing about it that he finds particularly annoying. Can the man be serious? Does he not know his wife at all? Everything (everything!) about it was/is, in fact, PARTICULARLY annoying. But, I digress.

Italian Plum Cake
yields one cake of deliciousness

1 cup unblanched almonds
1/2 cup sugar, plus about 1/4 cup for topping
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1/2 cup whole milk
4 tablespoons sweet butter, melted
2 pounds Italian plums, pitted and thickly sliced

Move the rack to the center of the oven and preheat to 350ºF. Butter a 10-inch tart pan (or a springform pan, but it won't be as pretty). Place the almonds and sugar into a food processor (or blender) and process until the nuts are finely ground. Add both the flour and the salt, and pulse once more. Transfer to a bowl.

Beat the eggs and milk together, then stir in the melted butter. Add the egg mixture to the nut mixture and whisk for a minute or so, until the batter is smooth.

Pour the batter into the tart pan and smooth out the top with a rubber spatula. Arrange the plum slices on the top in a pretty circular pattern. (I had the three-year-old helping me with this part, so there was no rhyme or reason to their layout. It still looked pretty though.) Generously sprinkle the plums with the remaining sugar. Bake for 40-45 minutes, until the top is golden and a tester comes out clean.

The cake is best served within a couple of hours, much to my chagrin. (Recipe from: A Platter of Figs by David Tanis. Artisan Publishing, 2008.)

Leo's Adoption is Final!

2011-09-30T16:13:00.000-07:00

Who once was called aunt is now called mama.
Who once was called uncle is now called dada.
Who once was called cousin is now called sister.
And who once was called nephew is now called son.

Little Leo, we love you. We love you so much, and feel so blessed that you are here.

Why We Will Never Be Rich, Part 2

2011-09-27T17:37:00.000-07:00

Well, apparently this is what Lancôme has been sending by the boxful to both Kate and Pippa Middleton. And everyone knows they are gorgeous. So, I suppose one would have to be a complete and utter knobhead not to try the stuff, right? And for fear of that, Lancôme's Visionnaire has been flying off the shelves. In fact, I read that it was selling so well that it was just plain not to be got in the UK when it first hit the market.

Right when I read this on-line last month, I immediately did an internet search for Lancôme's Visionnaire. It appears that there is a big difference with beauty products here in the US versus the UK, because here you can wander into any major department store and easily buy bottle after bottle of it. Well, that is if your Nordstrom credit card will let you, that is. Anyway, it is supposed to be a wonder serum of sorts -- you know, erase the old, tired, haggard look I seem to be rocking these days, and make one (er, me) look, well, like Kate or Pippa. Done, I'll take two, please.

And so, I have been slathering my face with the sacred serum for about two weeks now. Does it work, you ask? Who the hell knows. But it does smell very much like a British beauty product, which is odd because it is Lancôme and supposedly made in France. And every time I put it on, the smell reminds me of the bottom floor of Selfridges. Or, even the aisles of Boots (the Chemists). And maybe even a bit like my old bottle of Burberry Touch perfume. Anyway, I will keep using my wonder serum for now because it doesn't seem to be doing any damage. (Is it a bad thing when this is an actual consideration when buying face products? I think the jury is still out on that one.) Besides, I am the sort that feels out of sorts if I am not applying at least two make-you-gorgeous-by-the-morn serums before I put my face cream on at night. I am nothing if not civilized, you know.

Oh, and as far as the not ever getting rich bit goes, the little blue bottle is not cheap. That being said, it is not, by any means, the most expensive thing one can put on one's face, though, either. However, because I am very happily married and love my husband very dearly, I will not disclose the price of said beauty serum here.

Baked Oatmeal for Breakfast

2011-09-23T17:39:00.000-07:00

I think it is high-time we move Little Leo into his own room. This business of having the noisy bugger sleep roughly one and a half feet away from my head is for the birds. Every night it is the same thing -- he is sound asleep, but then tosses and turns and tosses and turns some more. All the while he is shooting the breeze and having a nice little time, before he eventually conks out again and we are left, briefly, with a little peace and quiet.

This is the reason why I have found myself stumbling in the middle of the night, half asleep, to the couch in the study these days. I love the little boy like nobody's business -- but I need sleep, or I simply cannot function as a pleasant person during the day. Michael generally sleeps through all the racket -- only waking when the boy is screaming and wants a bottle. That is when I totter off to the kitchen to make one, and Michael totters over to his crib to change his little bum. But otherwise, he sleeps through it all. Lucky bastard.

So I am relegated to the couch -- a cold hard leather affair (which I cover with every blanket I can locate in ten seconds flat), and my legs cramped up every which way (in an effort to keep them from touching said freezing couch). But it more or less quiet in this room. Ahhh. I can still hear the little pipsqueak down the hallway, but it isn't right in my ear. I can also hear Miss Emilia open her door and announce to the world in general, 'I have to go potty!'

This morning the girl woke up early. After her trip to the potty, I got her all situated in the big green chair roughly one and a half feet from my head while on the couch -- beamies (two blankets that Grandma knit), a pillow, and a nice stack of books. Then as the girl decided it would be a great time for some conversation, I reluctantly got up off the couch and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast. And that is where the baked oatmeal comes in.

My new favorite thing in the morning is a recipe that takes only a few minutes to put together and then plenty of time in the oven so you can sit back and not be bothered with actually eating it just yet. (Actually, this is when I usually give Leo his breakfast, kick Governor out for his morning constitutional, pour a cup or two of coffee, and sit around being quite grumpy with everyone.) Emilia loves this approach to breakfast, because, normally, it goes something like this: 'Emilia, what do you want for breakfast?' 'I don't know. I'm still thinking about it.' Twenty minutes later, 'Emilia, what do you want for breakfast?' 'I don't know. I'm still thinking about it.' So, this is quite nice, really. Besides, if the girl had her druthers, she would be getting Dutch Baby for breakfast every morning. (Oi.) Or Cheerios. (Double Oi.)

The recipe is from Heidi Swanson's new and very fabulous book. Everything I've made from it we've all loved. For this recipe I use regular sugar and I use Remlinger Farms frozen berries. And I can safely say I am delighted with both. (Not the biggest maple lover that ever was...well, unless it is on top of a pancake -- but that's it.)

Baked Oatmeal
serves 6

2 cups rolled oats
1/2 cup walnut pieces, toasted and chopped
1/3 cup natural cane sugar or maple syrup, plus more for serving
1 teaspoon aluminum-free baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
scant 1/2 teaspoon sea-salt
2 cups milk
1 large egg
3 tablespoons melted butter
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 ripe bananas, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
1 1/2 cups huckleberries, blueberries, or mixed berries

Preheat the oven to 375F. Generously butter an 8-inch baking dish.

In a mixing bowl, combine oats, half the walnuts, sugar (if using), baking powder, cinnamon, and salt. In another bowl, combine all the wet ingredients: syrup (if using), milk, eggs, half the butter, and vanilla extract.

Arrange the bananas in a single layer in the bottom of the baking dish. Sprinkle two-thirds of the berries over the top. Cover the fruit with the oat mixture. Then pour the milk (et al) over the top. Shake the dish gently to make sure the liquids are evenly distributed. Scatter the remaining berries and nuts over the top.

Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, until top is golden and the oats are set. Let cool for a moment and then serve, feeling free to add more sugar or syrup to the top. (Recipe from: Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Every Day. Ten Speed Press, 2011.)

Why We Will Never Be Rich, Part 1

2011-09-19T17:32:00.000-07:00

It drives my dad absolutely out of his mind going to the grocery store with me. Not because I buy a load of garbage, not because I don't read the labels, and not because I buy a lot of superfluous items. Oh no, it drives him crazy because as I stand and have all of the groceries rung up, I don't pay attention to the scanner, or whatever that thing is they use, making sure they aren't ripping me off. Instead I am usually chasing after Emilia, removing slobbery things from Leo's hands, shooting the breeze with the bagger**, and that sort of thing. The cashier then announces the total, I break out into cold sweats feeling I may vomit at any moment, cough up the money, and then yell about it as long as anyone will listen to me. Since my dad doesn't actually live within communal grocery shopping distance, I usually call him after I've just dropped a huge pile of money at the store, and yell about it. He usually says, 'Well, hon, I don't know what to tell you. Go to Walmart.***'

And before you accuse me of being all negligent with our grocery funds, I do actually pay close attention to how much we've spent. But rather than stalk the scanner-machine, I look at the receipt, like a civilized person, once we are home, the groceries mostly put away, and I am waiting for the tea kettle to boil. And there you go, that is when the bonafide coronary happens.

An excerpt from our receipt from our last trip to Whole Foods:
3 Honeycrisp Apples -- $9.42
3 Peaches -- $5.89
6 or 7 Yukon Potatoes -- $7.02
Small Bag of Shelled Walnuts -- $4.41

Holy shit, are they serious? Can they actually be serious? I spent $9.42 on three apples? Being a rational person, I yelled at the kids over this, and then called my sister to yell at her. (I needed to settle down before admitting this one to my dad.) Anyway, my sister being rather wise, suggested I pull out my handy-dandy cooking scale, which I did immediately. The stupid apples cost $2.99 per pound. One apple weighed just over eleven ounces. Another weighed almost thirteen. And the last weighed barely over twelve. I was gobsmacked. Not to mention irate. The bloody scales were rigged! And that was just part of the produce I bought that day. I bought tons and tons of it, on account of the fact that we are wicked healthy eaters.

And so, I am disgusted. And I still have not called to complain about the fact that they are a bunch of dirty bastards. It seems all I do is complain to that store, but usually it is about the customers. The people who shop at Whole Foods in Redmond, Washington are atrocious and completely rude. Believe that if you can.

Emilia was helping me unload the cart onto the conveyor belt a month ago, and a woman plowed her cart right into her little face. And she knew she did it, too. And she chose to do nothing. It's true. Some woman thought we were taking up too much space, apparently, and hit Emilia right below her eye with the corner of her cart. I was trying to unload the cart quickly and looked down at the girl who had been busy busy busy helping me a moment before. She was standing there all quietly and looking down at her feet. 'What's the matter, baby girl? Are you ok?' And she didn't want to tell me. Finally she said, 'A woman hit me in the face with her cart.' 'What! Which woman?! Did she know she did it? Was it an accident?' And she told me, 'Yes, she knew she hit me.' I complained to our checker, to the bagger, to the person who carried our groceries to the car, and to customer service. I know they could do nothing, but even so, I thought they should know their clientele are a bunch of nasty people who shamelessly plow over small children. Her little face was bruised and swollen for days. Makes my blood boil every time I think about it.

Anyway, as I was saying... Apart from the gouging of produce prices, this sort of bill is not all that uncommon for us. (It was $380.45 total, if you are feeling the need to hurl.) And before all the blame gets put on Whole Foods, deservedly so (this time), and whom I plan to call and chew out later, this is the case with all the stores around us -- QFC, Safeway, PCC, Metropolitan Market, all of them. It is all too expensive and we are not eating like Kings. But we do eat as best as I know how to do.

And this is why we will never be rich. Well, this is one of the reasons why we will never be rich.

Quick disclaimer -- I broke down and finally called. It is amazing because they could actually pull up a copy of my receipt in the store. As it turns out, the scales aren't rigged. They just charged me $3.99 per pound as opposed to the $2.99 per pound they were supposed to charge. And because I appear to be a rather nice sort, they refunded my whole apple expenditure. Ka-ching! (And a simulataneaous Hmpf! to boot!)

**Shooting the breeze this past time included shouting, 'PLEASE! I BEG OF YOU! NO MORE KNOTS IN MY PRODUCE BAGS! IF I WANTED THEM IN BLOODY KNOTS, I'D TIE THEM MYSELF! I'm sorry, but I cannot undo them. And I like to re-use them, like the right-proper hippie that I am. Because really, anyone with a head on their shoulders knows that they make excellent bags for walking the dog. Bloody hell.' She then apologized and tried to untie them all, scowling at me all the while. Mission accomplished.

***For the record, there is no Walmart near us. You would have to get on the freeway and drive north, and then keep driving, because seriously, it's not even kind-of close by.

Swaggering to Pre-School (Otherwise Entitled, How To Be Brave)

2011-09-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

Well, we made it through our first week of pre-school. It went something like this:

A month or so ago, 'You know, you start school so soon. And mamas and dadas are not allowed. Only teachers and your new friends. What will we do without you? I guess mama and Leo will just be sitting outside the door saying to ourselves "Where is that Emilia! She sure is taking her sweet time!"' You know, that sort of thing.

And then every day after that, 'How many days til I start school?' 'Mmm, about 26, maybe?' 'How many weeks is that?' Or, 'How many minutes is that?' Like she has any idea what a minute might be. Or a week, or a month, or even an hour, for that matter. Really, the girl has no concept of time at all, as evidenced by trying to get her to do anything fast.

So, Monday morning: swim lessons. I dragged poor little Leo out of his bed, got Emilia all decked out in her blue and white polka-dot bikini, and raced over to the pool. We were only two steps in the front door when I knew all was lost. Felipe was nowhere to be seen. He got a promotion (or some other stupid thing) and he is now at the Redmond pool.  We were left to poor Mackenzie, the guy she wailed and screamed at last time she saw him. And so it started again. 'I will never not ever have a swimming lesson with anyone but Felipe!' And she cried and she cried and she cried. So I apologized and we left. I then sent an email that afternoon quitting lessons indefinitely. I'm sorry, but the girl is three and it is only swim lessons and I'm not going to force her to do it. And so, no swim lessons. (You are welcome Little Leo, who always gets woken from his naps to get tossed in the car to go somewhere, it seems.) And that was Monday.

Tuesday, the first day of school: I let her pick her outfit herself, and Michael stayed home to see her off. After the longest morning ever, and a very early and quick lunch, we hopped in the car to go. We parked about three million blocks away, which worked nicely for Emilia as it gave her more time to swagger along and strut her little self all around. It was hilarious -- she thought she was some seriously hot shit, if you know what I mean. I had never in my life seen a three-year-old strut. It was like she thought she was on a catwalk or something. And you know what, she was marvelous. So happy, so confident, so excited -- until the teacher opened the door. It all happened so fast. She sobbed and sobbed and cried and wailed. Quick hug and the teacher closed the door with her on one side and us on the other. And I could still hear her crying. So we turned to walk back to the car and I cried all the way, thinking, 'Oh, please be nice to our little girl. Oh, Emilia, please be nice!'  Apparently the teachers know this is all going to happen, because as they are ushering your daughter in the door and telling you not to let said door hit you in the ass, they hand you a little gift bag. Inside the bag is a box of tissue, chocolate, a Starbucks coffee card, and such. I took the tissue and chocolate. Michael took the Starbucks.

Two and a half hours later the girl came out of her classroom positively glowing. She loved it.  She more than loved it. And her swagger was in full-effect. It was all I could do not to yell, 'Traitor! You are supposed to be sad and missing your mama! Don't you know which side your bread is buttered on?!' Or however the saying goes. But, I didn't. Instead, we beamed back at her. Well, except for Leo. He screamed because he was beside himself with being in his carseat for what felt an eternity, I'm sure.

And so, as promised, after Emilia's first day we went out to celebrate. We promised her ice cream, gelato, or cupcakes -- whichever she wanted. Being a rather bright girl, she chose cupcakes. In fact, the first thing she said when we saw her after school was, 'I want to go to Trophy Cupcakes!'  She chose Vanilla with Vanilla, mama chose Vanilla with Vanilla, dada got a cappuccino, and Leo was just delighted to be out of his carseat and free to kick his little legs this way and that.

And just to make it an even better day for the girl, as soon as we got home she got to open the present that sat waiting for her since she got up in the morning.  Charlie and Lola dolls. Oh, how she wanted them. And oh, how delighted she has been ever since. (We've had a bit of a Charlie and Lola craze going on over here for quite some time now.) Then the three-year-old and the nine-month-old both went down for naps, and we had Sidecars.

I know this must sound like a bit of ridiculous fanfare over a relatively small thing. I mean really, it is just pre-school. And it is only two days a week... In fact, my sister flat-out made fun of me when I told her all about it yesterday.  But really, since Emilia was born she has always had her mama and her dada with her -- always. We are, by design, apparently one of those sorts of families.  She has been left with a babysitter five times in total. Once was with my sister, once was with my sister's oldest daughter, and three times with my sister's nanny. That isn't much time away from us. And laugh and call us a bunch of grade-A morons if you'd like, but I don't care. We only get these little kids so long, so I'll be damned if I am not going to be with now.  This is not to say that they both don't drive me absolutely crazy sometimes... er, I mean, generally always -- so much so that I've heard Emilia tell Michael when he gets home from work, 'Mama says she wants a babysitter and a nanny!' But I am quite serious. Once school starts, life is never the same -- if for no other reason than the sheer fact that I am not always there anymore.  Our little girl is not just mine anymore -- I have to share her with the world. And we are no longer 100% in charge of what goes into her little head. And as time goes by, school hours will get longer and longer. It will no longer be only two days a week. It will be five. And she will have oodles of friends and gobs of activities, and so on and so forth.

And so, Wednesday: Spanish class started again. Miss Antonia is gone -- devastation on my part this time. Apparently her husband got a blasted job offer somewhere else. But Miss Rosa seems quite nice and is very beautiful, for whatever that is worth. Also, there is a boy in the class called Leo.

Thursday: Pre-school again.  Emilia was so excited and strutting around. This time when Mrs. Cunningham opened the door to start the day, the smile faded and the girl ran -- literally ran in the opposite direction until I called after her. And she cried again. I had to capture her, give her a big hug, tell her I love her -- and to be nice and to be kind -- and go.  Apparently she didn't cry very long though. I asked her after class, 'Did you cry very much?' 'No, not very much. Just a little bit of crying. But Olivia cried a lot. And Cameron took my toys. And Ella said she was not feeling very well. And Gracie is a nice girl. And there is a boy called William.' Did you have fun?' 'Yes. Can we get cupcakes?'

And personally, I think I have been very brave throughout.

On the Tenth Anniversary of September Eleventh

2011-09-11T22:28:00.000-07:00

Make me a channel of your peace:
Where there is hatred, let me bring your love,
Where there is injury, your pardon, Lord,
And where there's doubt true faith in you.

Make me a channel of your peace:
Where there's despair in life, let me bring hope,
Where there is darkness, only light,
And where there's sadness, ever joy.

O Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved, as to love with all my soul!

Make me a channel of your peace:
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
In giving of ourselves that we receive,
And in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Sidecar

2011-08-29T23:38:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, a Sidecar is really quite fantastic. No really, I could probably drink it all day but for the fear of ending 'tits-up' before noon, as one's husband would say. And I am really quite relieved, because I was beginning to assume that it was one of those drinks that is easy to romanticize -- but not actually all that easy to drink, if you know what I mean. Sidecars create all sorts of atmosphere in my mind because they sound/are so 1920s flapper-ish.

We had them yesterday after Michael spent the day (yet another day) sanding and sanding the ceiling in the living room. And then priming (...and then sanding ... and then priming) until I declared I would surely leave him forever if he didn't knock it off already. Seriously, there comes a time when one should simply say, 'Let's leave well enough alone!' The ceiling looks marvelous, though, and it is such a liberating feeling to be officially popcorn-less. To wit, the house looks decidedly less 1970s now, which is always a bonus in my mind.**

Anyway, a gorgeously smooth ceiling aside (which was a labor-intensive couple of months in the doing, I'll have you know), isn't it grand to have a husband who will gladly drop his sandpaper and trowel in order to make a nice drink because it strikes his wife's fancy?

The recipe is as follows, and while it does not call for ice, I find it simply spiffing to add it.

** Now then, what else shall we do before we slap a For Sale sign in front of this jalopy?

Sidecar
(Makes one drink of deliciousness)

1 ounce brandy
1 ounce Cointreau
3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice
Flamed orange peel, for garnish

Shake all ingredients with ice and strain into an iced old-fashioned glass. Garnish with flamed orange peel. (Recipe from: The Craft of the Cocktail, by Dale Degroff. 2002, Clarkson N. Potter Publishers.)

Play Dough

2011-07-19T19:08:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness, this summer has been so incredibly lame. The weather has been cold and grey and rainy, which is why it is so odd to hear that the rest of the country is going through some sort of heat wave. And because it has been so awful, Emilia has not spent much quality time with her whale swimming pool this summer. (Although she was out there a few days ago filling it with dirt and grass and rocks, which nearly made me go ballistic.)

With the whale swimming pool now residing mainly on its side on the deck, we've had to come up with other activities to do inside the house, particularly when it is Leo's naptime and we are both about to start bouncing off the walls.

Rather than bounce off said walls last week (which is never as much fun as one would think), we made play dough.  And not the usual crappy stuff that is easy to whip up in a snap, and then has to get tossed once you're done playing with it five seconds later.  That stuff is not for us. This stuff, on the other hand, is marvelous. And I'm really quite pleased with ourselves for doing it. It was Emilia's idea to begin with, because she was so disgusted with me for throwing out her gazillion little containers. But really, once it ends up in a great big mound -- of the most unappetizing hue -- and then gets smooshed all over the floor and chairs and such, what does she expect? What's more is that our play dough is not made in China (seriously -- it all comes out of China these days); nor it is filled with nasty chemicals and the like. Well, that isn't quite true because you do have to add food coloring -- unless you have beat juice and turmeric on hand. (Turmeric, yes. Beat juice, hell no.)

The recipe I usually use is from Southern Sideboards, which is the cookbook from the Junior League in Jackson, Mississippi. It is easy to make and requires no cooking, but I don't like it in the least. Although, it is quite excellent to bake up your designs when you are finished, particularly if you've made a nice flower or something. Anyway, I suppose I resort to it because it is what I have, and besides I like Jackson (who doesn't?).   But it doesn't feel the play dough is meant to, and it doesn't have much of a shelf life. This is why I was so delighted when I got on Earthenwitch's site and saw her experiments with play dough. (I love her blog. In fact, it is probably my fave when it comes to blogs. There is something so incredibly comfy and cozy and very relatable to it. But someone needs to tell her to abandon all ideas of dreadlocks already.) Anyway, Earthenwitch found a play dough recipe from a German site, or maybe it was The Netherlands, I can't really remember, which is easy-peasy and loads of fun.

So while Leo was sleeping, Emilia stood on a chair in the kitchen and helped me measure and stir and knead until we had four balls of colorful dough. We were both impressed mostly with the green and yellow because the colors were the nicest, but it didn't really matter in the end because Emilia still managed to mash them all up into one great big ball and make 'meatballs for Sweet Pea's dinner.' (Sweet Pea being her baby doll.)  Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to take half of each color and safely tuck it all in the back of the fridge somewhere. That way the next time it rained or was miserable out, we had it on the ready -- which was the next day and the day after.

We were incredibly boring with our dough because apparently you can add scent to it and everything. The lovely lady from whence the recipe comes added lavender to one, honey chamomile scent to another, and fire to another. I'm very curious about the fire one, in particular. All I could find was a nasty old bottle of eucalyptus oil. Who even knows how old that thing is.

Play Dough

1 cup plain white flour
1/2 cup salt
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 cup water
1 tablespoon oil
few drops of essential oils
food coloring

Place all ingredients in a saucepan and stir with a wire whisk to get the lumps out.  Put the pan on the burner and cook, stirring all the while. I used a wood spoon for this, but use whatever you like. Once it all comes together and starts to look like dough, turn it out on the counter, let cool a smidge, and then knead a few times. Store in an airtight container in the fridge. (Recipe from: Guusje's Appeltaart, a rather splendid little site.)

Spaghetti Carbonara and Three Blind Mice

2011-07-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

You know those days when it is almost time for dinner, but you've managed to spend the whole day doing very un-dinnery-planning things? And so, randomly throughout the day, you wander into the kitchen to see if there is, in fact, that one certain ingredient absolutely essential for the great idea you just had for dinner. Then, not finding it, you wander back out again, highly annoyed, and back at square one? This ingredient could be anything from potatoes (tortilla espanola), salmon (salmon), bread crumbs (neapolitan meatballs), lemons (roasting a chicken), or pancetta (spaghetti carbonara). And naturally just the suggestion of loading everyone into the car to quickly pop over to QFC for, I don't know, quinoa and garlic maybe, makes you want to tell everyone to sod off and just leave you alone already?

I know how it is.

But, alas, this was not the case today. Because at roughly 3:30 this afternoon I managed to find a package of pancetta in the back of the freezer. Well, it wasn't quite pancetta. It was bacon. But if you slice it just so and squint while eating it -- there you go -- it's practically the same thing. I settled on Marcella Hazan's Carbonara Sauce recipe, and, of course it calls for white wine. I could have swore that I drank the lot of it two days ago, but I somehow managed to conjure up a quarter cup -- exactly. Yippee!! (I'm not a lush after all. Shall we have a drink to celebrate?)

I have done a number of carbonara recipes over the years, but (oddly) this was the first time I tried Ms. Hazan's. I generally opt for the one in my Saveur Authentic Italian cookbook, or the one in Michelle Scicolone's 1000 Italian Recipes, the latter being my best and favorite when it comes to all things Italian. But this was a nice change of pace, really. And Marcella Hazan's recipe is completely worth the trouble. What I actually mean by trouble is deciding whether or not to toss that last bit of wine into your pan instead of into your glass. Anyway, all of her recipes are simple (well, those that I've done anyway), and so incredibly good. She seems to rely mostly on good ingredients and letting them cook as long as they need. (A perfect example of this is her bolognese sauce. You could start making it, go out and have a bite, come home and still have hours to go.) I do always laugh at the fact though that she seems to think her general audience is a bunch of blockheads. Her writing style, while quite nice, is incredibly condescending and she will mock you for doing anything except the way she tells you to do it. This includes opting for a pasta shape other than the one she suggests. For instance, in tonight's Carbonara Sauce: 'It is difficult to imagine serving carbonara on anything but spaghetti.' It makes me like her all the more, but it also makes me want to disobey and choose penne (or anything else) that would make her turn her Venetian nose high up in the air. Because really, it isn't actually that difficult to imagine. She also orders you to remove the garlic and then toss it out once it has browned and turned mouth-wateringly yummy. I'm sorry, but I simply cannot do this step. It goes against my nature to toss out gorgeous garlic that has been cooked to perfection. And so, because of this, I always leave it in the pan and pretend that I threw it away. 'Oh, whoops! Where did that come from?! Er, how very odd to find it on my plate!'

And so, while Michael and Emilia ran around in the backyard (he still in his suit from work with his natty new green tie, and she with her Mary Poppins umbrella), Leo in his bouncy seat in the kitchen, yelling at me for his nightly airing of grievances, and Governor hovering right underneath my feet hoping a slice of seasoned meat and/or cheese would land on top his little head, this is what I made.

Fast forward about 30-45 minutes later, Leo is in his bed, and Emilia is belting out as loudly as she possibly can, the words for Three Blind Mice. I grew up with this nursery rhyme, which is why I was not surprised in the least to see it in Beatrix Potter's Cecily Parsley's Nursery Rhymes. Michael, on the other hand, was flabbergasted. And as I sat and corrected Emilia with the words, (No, no, no, not putcher knife, it's butcher knife... She cuts of their tails with a butcher knife. See? Although Beatrix Potter actually says carving knife. You can use whichever you want, really.') Michael was mildy surprised. 'Hmmm, well, I guess the reason I have never heard it is because I did not come from a violent family...blah....blah...blah...words...words...words... (insert whichever holier than thou things you'd prefer).' But really, can the man be serious? He has never heard of Three Blind Mice, yet he is totally down with horrifying the crap out of all of us with March of the Wooden Soldiers every Christmas. I'm sorry, but that mouse is freaky and clearly not right. And neither is that stupid Honey Badger which he has also taken a fancy to these days. But I digress...

Spaghetti with Carbonara Sauce

1/2 pound pancetta, cut as a single 1/2-inch-thick slice, or its equivalent in a good slab of bacon
4 garlic cloves
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup dry white wine
2 large eggs
1/4 cup freshly grated romano cheese
1/2 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese
black pepper
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
1 1/4 pounds pasta

Cut the pancetta into strips 1/4-inch wide. Lightly mash the garlic cloves with the back of your knife and remove their papers. Put the garlic and olive oil in small pan and cook over medium-high heat. Saute until the garlic is a nice shade of gold. Remove the garlic and discard (if you are a crazy person...).

Put the pancetta in the pan and cook until they begin to crisp up around the edges. Add the wine and let it all bubble up for a minute or two. Then, off the heat.

Break the 2 eggs into the bowl in which you will be serving your lovely spaghetti. Beat them lightly with a fork, and then add the cheese, a big grinding of pepper, and the parsley. Mix thoroughly.

Meanwhile, cook your pasta. Once cooked, drain and then add it to the serving bowl, tossing rapidly. Quickly reheat the pancetta over high heat, and then pour out the entire contents of the pan into the bowl of pasta. Toss well and serve. Recipe from Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking by Marcella Hazan. Alfred A. Knopf, 2008.)

On Heebie Jeebies, Black Eyes, and Geordie Slappers

2011-07-08T23:58:00.000-07:00

Ever since the girl was big enough to walk, she has followed me in the bathroom each and every morning to put on makeup right alongside her mama. She likes to start with mascara -- smack in the middle of her forehead, if you please. Then she moves on to eyeshadow, just to fill in the spots she inadvertently missed with mascara. She then finishes with her lipstick, staying (oddly) completely within the lines. And as soon as she has finished, and I am zipping up the bag to toss back in the cabinet, I say, 'Maybe we should wipe a bit off.  Otherwise you will end up looking like a Geordie Slapper, and goodness knows that isn't good.'

Several months ago I was on that scourge that is Facebook, perusing the statuses of all those that are dear and not so dear, when I happened upon a particular status of my quite dear friend in Scotland. We'll call her 'Polly Angus' for short. Anyway, she had written something about her daughter inheriting (via hand-me-down) a pair of Bratz faux leather boots.  She went on to say something along the lines of her daughter now looking like a Geordie Slapper. This made me laugh (and laugh) so very much, and I immediately fell in love with the phrase. Seriously, Geordie Slapper?? Just try and tell me that is not phenomenal.  And so, because of this, I have incorporated the name/appellation/term of endearment, or whatever you want to call it, into our everyday vernacular, simply because it is fabulous.

And so, two nights ago when Emilia takes it upon herself to fall out of her bed at about 2:30 in the morning, giving her little self a nice little shiner, I have found myself in great difficulty. For starters, she has a little cut smack on her left eyebrow. (In my defense, this was all that was visible the night of 'the incident', which is why I was nearly going ballistic when the girl was wailing and wailing, and nearly waking Leo in her exertions. 'Be quiet! You will wake the baby!! If you are that hurt, maybe we should just pack up the car and take you to the hospital RIGHT NOW!' You know, that sort of desperate thing...)

But then the next morning she woke up with her entire eyelid swollen and discolored. It looked like a rather spectacular application of eyeshadow just on the one eye. And the poor girl was miserable. And her mama was miserable. And her Leo was miserable. The poor little bloke was already slated for his 6-Month-Well-Child-Appointment with the doctor that morning, which meant he got poked and prodded until the cows nearly came home -- three shots and one oral vaccine.  Not to mention all the other indignities he was forced to undergo... All the while I sat -- and worried -- and fretted -- and worried some more.  The little guy only weighs 14 pounds 13 ounces. That means that he is in the fifth percentile for his weight. My dad said this is alright, because if you add Emilia's 97th percentile to his 5th percentile, you end up just over 100 percent, which makes them both totally average. Anyway, I was petrified that they were going to label him 'Failure to Thrive'.

All the while Emilia was trying to hide her little head because, apparently, come hell or high water, no doctor ain't looking at nothing! She lost that battle, though. The doctor looked and said she would be alright, but maybe a bit cranky. (To say the least...)

The doctor also said poor Leo, while a bit of a Scrawny Ronny, is totally fine and completely healthy. But that he would also be a bit cranky on account of the nasties they injected into his little body. I hate vaccines. And I hate all that business in general. I tend to fall in line with Nancy Mitford's mother with her general philosophy of relying on 'the good body', and letting things work out on their own. However, when it comes down to it, how am I supposed to sleep at night knowing that the little munchkins are exposed to all sorts of heebie jeebies that I cannot control? Hmmmm, I ask you? How am I? So, because of that, they are both loaded to the gills with whatever vaccines they have available, and I am spending the rest of my time worrying about scrawniness and a tendency to look a bit like a Geordie Slapper.

Now, if we could only figure what to do with a girl who has refused to go to bed at night unless mama or dada lays down with her for hour on end, then we'd be in business. She keeps claiming that she is 'having a hard time'. Alas, she is right, poor thing. We are all having a hard time. I suppose this is why I have been spending so much time perusing that damned and blasted early-access-ness of the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale. Stupid Nordstrom. Who else could convince me that while wiping up piles of spit-up and shitty arses, I may actually need that jacket that looks just like something Coco Chanel would have designed herself. (Yes, I have refrained from that so far, but not so much from their running accoutrements, face creams, toddler wellies, Little Giraffe blankets, and so on... I know, I know.) And now Garnet Hill has added themselves to the mix with their ruinous sale. Oi. What is one to do? Strong liquor? Maybe.

In the meantime, the eye, while not looking much better, doesn't seem to bother the girl much (unless she sees it in the mirror), and little Leo got his first jar of peas tonight.  I don't think he is a particular fan, but there is no pleasing everyone. Maybe he will fare better with carrots? Or butternut squash? We'll see.

Happiness

2011-07-05T14:58:00.000-07:00

On Leo Bambino

2011-07-02T17:14:00.000-07:00

I was out for a run this morning, berating myself all the while, about how incredibly lame I have become with my blog. (I know it is true, you don't have to try and make me feel any better about it. It won't work anyway.) And as I started the final stretch, a light switched on inside my head, and I thought, 'Tonya, you idiot! You're on blasted maternity leave! You are not supposed to be doing all of these silly things right now, for pete's sake!' But really, why is it just dawning on me now that I am on maternity leave? I'm usually pretty quick on the uptake.

I guess it was seven weeks ago -- to the day -- that it all started. We got a call out of the blue saying, 'Ummm, HELP! When can you get over here?! I'll have a nervous breakdown if you don't say soon!' And a few hours later, I was pulling back into our driveway, with a little baby pipsqueak in tow. No preparation, no planning, no idea what was about to befall us, no diapers, nothing. Just a smiley drooly little guy that was in need of a lot of love. Shocks the conscience, no?  But there it is, the little bugger had just turned five months and seemed incredibly happy (and dare I say relieved?) to see us. And while it has been quite the adjustment, to say the least (the very least), it has all gone swimmingly.  We have named him Leo, and it seems to suit him rather well. (Although he does still answer to 'Marmite' or 'that little buster', as Emilia seems to prefer.) Actually his name is Leo David, but if you want to make Emilia extremely mad, then simply call him Leo Bambino. 'He's Leo David!' Or, 'He's just Leo David now!'

Emilia has taken to the little guy like a house on fire, and it has been a delight to watch -- not to mention a shock. I had her pegged for one of those kids that wants to knock the block off of any little baby usurpers, but it was not the case. In fact, she took the whole change better than we did. Granted she doesn't get up in the middle of the night to change his scrawny little bum and make bottles, but other than that, she has been quite the little helper. And I am surprised how well she has dealt with all the confusion. I will spare you most of the details, but I will say this: Leo Bambino, while being adopted by us, was already part of the family before. (I'm thinking of trying to sell the rights to Lifetime Telly, as it has really been quite the drama.) However, instead of being called brother, he was called cousin. On top of all that, he is also a twin (identical, no less). His brother has gone to live with my brother (and his wife and son) in the state next door to us. And if you thought Leo was a silly sort of name (I defy anyone who says such a thing!), you should hear the name that the other one got stuck with. I can assure you that my mother is beside herself with the wacky names her children seem to come up with.

But really, the name Leo is marvelous. Michael likes it because a million and seven popes were called Leo. And I like it (which is the reason it ever made it onto the list to begin with) because of the book Adele & Simon. You know, the little boy that Simon does somersaults and tumbling on the grass with? Him. (I've actually written a post on the book before -- all about eclairs and such, but didn't really like the way it turned out, so it has remained in 'draft' form, as blogger likes to do, for some time now... All in due time, I suppose.) And the reason we went with David as his middle? Well, that should be quite evident. If you've been paying any attention at all, you will have heard mention of Bampa David from time to time. And there's that settled.

Anyway, not realizing I've been on maternity leave, I've still been trying to keep up with everything that we normally do. (Except for vacuuming, et al.) That means I've still been cooking like a crazy lady, but I've been too damned tired to get on here and tell you what deliciousness I've been cooking.  I'm guessing that in the next month or so I will have gained the desire to live once again and carry on full-force. Or that is the plan anyway. Until then, I am trying to make naptimes correspond together (seriously the minute one goes down the other is up, and it is driving me bat-shit-crazy), washing loads of onesies and burp-cloths, making bottles, tripping over all the crap we have all over the house, and vowing I will toss every last bit of it in the trash (just see if I don't!), and trying to explain to everyone and their mother why it is that we have a small little Leo with us, and to stop glaring at me because I don't have pregnancy weight to lose, if you please. Believe me, I've got enough problems over here right now.

And so, may I present to you, the latest little drooly addition to the family: Leo Bambino! ('He's just Leo David now!')

**I realize that I am going against my own personal rule of NO PHOTOS OF THE FAM in this post, but what can I say? My goofy face is already on the side of the screen somewhere and little Leo's face will likely look different next week. Although, I may have second thoughts later. We'll see.  Also, the poor guy is wearing Emilia's old clothes in this picture (I told you we had nothing!), causing the girl to look at him and say, 'He looks like a pretty little girl!' Hmpf! The pajamas are unisex and are called 'Wish You Were Here' from Hanna Andersson, and I love them.  And I am quite annoyed that they have discontinued them, if you must know.

I Want To Go To There

2011-06-09T17:39:00.000-07:00

I have spent the past while looking at properties for sale in France. And I've decided that this is the one that I would like, please. Oh, pretty please, with a cherry on top? And even though the kitchen looks awfully small and squashy, I think it will do just fine.

Anyway, the photo was taken from the lovely site of Leggett French Estate Agents. I found them/it wandering around the property section of The Telegraph. But I suppose what I should really be doing right now is laundry. Right-O, back to it then. <sigh>

A Strawberry Cake for Mary and Mothers Day

2011-05-30T22:21:00.000-07:00

Hail Mary, full of grace,

The Lord is with Thee.

Blessed art Thou among women

And Blessed in the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners

Now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

We were sitting in church a few weeks ago, when Father Steve said that May is Mary's month. Isn't that nice? And so, me being me, I immediately thought it an excellent reason to make a nice cake, in honor of Mary. It took a little while to settle on which one in particular, but Emilia was fairly adamant about it being pink. First we tried the little pink cupcakes in Tessa Kiros's Apples for Jam cookbook, but the icing turned out so nasty that I refused, on the spot, to let them have anything to do with Mary. (As a sidenote, I do not recommend using the organic powdered sugar from Trader Joe's -- just stick with the good old fashioned C&H. Also, I suggest you read up on red food coloring in advance. Seriously, how do you achieve a bright pink icing with red food coloring? For some bizarre reason the answer eludes me.)

Then one day I was thumbing through May's Saveur Magazine, and I found it -- Strawberry Cake. That sounded perfect for Mary, not to mention the fact that it was clearly a suitable shade of pink for the girl. And let me just tell you that it was fabulous -- worth every bit of time consumed driving around looking for strawberry extract, texting everyone I know about levels of red food coloring used in food, and all the mess in the kitchen. Everything about this cake is perfect.

And since the day we decided to have a crack at it in the kitchen happened to be Mother's Day, it also turned into a cake for mothers. Personally I can't think of a better way to celebrate mothers than by making a great big beautiful pink cake. Just the sight of it made me happy. And even now, a few weeks later, when everything seems to have turned upside down, I have found myself looking back at this day in the kitchen with my Miss Milia in an almost fleeting sort of way. She gave me a hat for running, which I have used every time I have donned my running shoes and i-pod. I walked into the house one Saturday morning and announced to the world in general that I reallyreallyreally need a hat for running on account of the fact that my honker appears to be getting sunburned and turning an unsightly shade of red. To this, Emilia said, 'But we are getting one for Mothers Day!' She then immediately clamped her hand over her little mouth and hid her face in the couch cushions. And for that I feel grateful, not to mention quite happy.

So now, as we find ourselves in the position of making bottles for a very smiley five-month-old baby boy, changing lots of little diapers, feeling incredibly tired and worn, and going through piles and piles of paperwork, I am once again overwhelmed by the role of motherhood**. I am incredibly grateful for Mary and my own mother, and I have much love for both of my sisters. And I have found myself thinking that this cake, while just a silly cake with gobs of delicious pink frosting, may be just the thing for a heavy heart.

Anyway, we ate the whole thing in four days flat. Every night after dinner we each had a slice. It was hilarious to see the plates afterward: Emilia's with mostly frosting gone, Michael's with cake gone and oodles of frosting left over, and mine eaten pretty evenly throughout. I would be willing to bet you could dissect one's personality based on their plate after a lovely pink layer cake. In fact, I may look into this as a dissertation of sorts one of these days.

**More on this later, I assure you.

Strawberry Cake (from Bertha's Kitchen)
makes one great big layer cake

16 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened, plus more for buttering pans
3 cups flour, plus more for pans
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup milk
1/2 cup seedless strawberry jam
3 tablespoons red food coloring (I used much much much less)
2 cups sugar
1 cup canola oil
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 eggs
8 ounce package cream cheese, at room temperature
1 one-pound box confectioners' sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon strawberry extract

For the cake: Heat the oven to 350. Butter and flour two 9" cake pans. Set aside.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl; set aside. Whisk together milk, jam, 2 tablespoons food coloring (I used 1 teaspoon) in a small bowl; set aside. Beat together the sugar, oil, vanilla, eggs in a heavy-duty mixer on medium-high speed for 2-3 minutes, until smooth and very pale in color. In three additions, alternately add the dry and wet ingredients to the batter, beginning and ending with the dry. Mix until combined. Divide the batter between the pans and smooth out the tops. Bake in the middle of the oven for about 40 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean. Remove from the oven and let cool for 15 minutes before removing from the pans. Cool completely.

For the frosting: Using your heavy-duty mixer, beat the butter and cream cheese together until light and fluffy, roughly 1-2 minutes. Add the remaining food coloring, the powdered sugar, and strawberry extract. Mix until completely smooth and lovely. Place one cake upside down on a cake stand. Spread 1/3 of the frosting over the top. Cover with the second cake, top side up. Spread 1/3 frosting over the top and the remaining frosting over the sides. Refrigerate for one hour before serving. Serve at room temperature. (Recipe from Saveur Magazine, May 2011. Page 89, in a nice little section devoted to Bertha's Kitchen, a restaurant in Charleston, South Carolina.)

My Cheering Squad

2011-05-10T14:36:00.000-07:00

Emilia and I sat in the big green chair a few days ago reading a great big stack of books before her nap. One of the books we read was Olivia Goes to Venice by the marvelous, inimitable Ian Falconer. The book is all about how Olivia and her family go to Venice for spring break, eat loads of gelato, see the sights, and then leave in a dash. Anyway, there we were, reading away, and minding our own business, when we turn the page and see the pictures of Olivia and her family on a gondola. Emilia points at the gondolier, who is huffing, puffing, and sweating profusely, and says, 'He's just like you, mama, pushing me in the jogger!'

We were out one day a while ago for a quick run, and I was huffing and puffing and pushing the jogger up a long hill. At the top of the hill there stood a little old Chinese woman who was pushing her little grandchild in a stroller. She kept taking a few steps and then stopping to rest, taking a few more, resting some more. When she saw us on the move, she stopped and clapped and cheered us on. It was fabulous.

Once we got up there, I said, '..huff...puff...big...hill...huff...puff...gasp...!' She then said something I did not understand, but which I took to be lovely words of encouragement. And we were on our merry way. Repeat the whole scenario about five minutes later -- the nice little lady with baby in stroller going down a hill, stopping for a rest, and us running up said blasted hill, '..huff...puff...big...hill...huff...puff...gasp...!' More clapping and cheering, Emilia chiming in with, 'Are they out for a quick run, too, mama? That baby's a little guy!' and so on.

It was one of my favorite things in a while. Looking like the sweaty ol' gondolier from Olivia, on the other hand, is not. But it still made me laugh, because I suppose the girl did have a point. Now, if I could just do something to keep up with that South African Guinea Hen, who also lives in the neighborhood, and who periodically joins us on our runs, then we'll be in business! And that's all I have to say about that.

On Cabbage, Leprechauns, and Unseemly Behaviour

2011-05-06T16:37:00.000-07:00

'It is not ok to toot at church -- but it is ok to toot at the dinner table!', said the three-year-old.
'No, it's not ok. It's disgusting, so knock it off'!', said her mama.
'But it is ok to toot at the ice-cream table, though.' (As it happened, we were having ice-cream at the dining room table.)
'Stay classy, you nasty bugger. And, no, it's not.'
'But I'm just a nasty cuss! Governor is a nasty bugger!'
Well, I say!

We were sitting on a bench a few days later waiting for Emilia's swim lessons to start, when she nearly caused me to pass out on account of her new-found pride. I was quite annoyed, and I had to decide if we should leave immediately in order to avoid further shame, or just ignore it and act like nothing happened. And yet she just sat there smiling as brightly as she could, saying, 'I stink! I tooted!' Yes, to be sure.

She has also become quite a fan of announcing the state of her gaseous health to all at Whole Foods, 'I stink!' We've talked about it now and I've told her she cannot do such rude things in public, but she fails to understand why on earth not. Apparently she does not find my argument all that compelling.

And so, why am I informing you of the gaseous state of our daughter, you ask? Why, because today's lesson is on cabbage, beans, potatoes, and the like. You know, leprechaun food. Emilia has been operating under the pretence of becoming a leprechaun by morning if she stocks up on lots of cabbage (and other leprechaun foods) at night. When she's feeling dangerous, she'll switch it over to Benjamin Bunny and Peter Rabbit, but since they also eat radishes (which she has decided are unfit for human consumption) this is not as attractive an option. Anyway, she started picking out cabbage from the store a few months ago when I officially banned her from choosing parsnips (they aren't very springy, parsnips). And cabbage, being ridiculously healthy, not to mention a nice cruciferous veg (always high on my list), I've been indulging the girl. And I suppose I must now suffer the consequences.

As luck would have it, Heidi Swanson's new cookbook has the most gorgeous cabbage dish on the cover. (I know what you are thinking, but yes, cabbage can look gorgeous.) And I knew from the first moment I saw this recipe that we would be great friends. Emilia resisted it the first time, but now eats it up on account of the leprechaun factor. In fact, a few nights ago she ate her dinner and then demanded a hat and wellies so she could run around in the backyard in the manner of a leprechaun and 'do what I gotta do.' What she had to do was simply run like a crazed lunatic, yelling 'I'm a leprechaun!' to her little heart's content. 'Twas a marvel to watch.

And so, we've found a winner of a recipe. Alas, I've already made it three times. And alas, as good as it is, I now need to take a bit of a break from it. Because as good as it is, it's rather unseemly having your little three-year-old standing at the swimming pool wearing her little red and white polka dot bikini, and laughing like nobody's business because she 'ripped' (to quote her).

White Beans & Cabbage (Parmesan, Potatoes, Shallots)
serves 4

1 tablespoons olive oil
4 ounces potatoes, unpeeled, scrubbed, and cut into tiny cubes
Fine-grain sea salt
1 large shallot, thinly sliced
2 cups cooked and cooled white beans
3 cups very finely shredded cabbage
A bit of freshly grated parmesan cheese

Pour the olive oil into a large saute pan or skillet. Heat over medium-high. Add the potatoes and some salt. Stir, cover, and cook for 5 to 8 minutes, until the potatoes are cooked through. Be sure to toss them a few times in the pan so they can cook uniformly and get nicely colored on all sides. Stir in the shallot and the beans. Let the mixture cook in a single layer for a few so the beans can brown. Scrape, toss again, and let the beans brown some more and get crispy-ish. Stir in the cabbage and cook for a few more minutes, until the cabbage loses some of its structure. Serve with parmesan. Recipe from Super Natural Cooking Every Day by Heidi Swanson. Ten Speed Press, 2011.

Is that Kate William, Mama?

2011-04-29T21:58:00.000-07:00

Emilia sat on my lap this evening while we watched clip after clip of the Royal Wedding.
'Is that Kate William?', she asked.
'Her name is Kate. Isn't she beautiful? And William is the name of the man she is marrying.'
A few moments later...
'Whose dress do you like best, mama? Kate's or Pippa's?'
We both agreed that Kate's dress was the best, but that Pippa looked beautiful, too. And what's more, is that it is much more fun to say Pippa, no? 'Is that Pippa, mama? Is that Pippa there, too, mama?'

Highlights and clips were the way that I ended up watching the entire wedding. I tried to stay up, even cooked the most British things I could think of to celebrate, but nothing doing. Less than an hour into the local coverage, and I was off to bed (berating myself all the while). But what was one to do? Particularly when one happens to live in the worst time zone in the world to watch the exchanging of vows. Drat -- but not to be helped. And I realized, way too late, that the smartest thing to do would have been to set the alarm for 3am, go to bed like a normal person, get up and watch the vows, and then go back to bed.

But the real kicker is that since we have rebuked this whole idea of cable on the telly, we had no repeated coverage the next morning. There was no re-broadcasting of anything resembling the Royal Wedding whatsoever. And the frustration continues to grow, as I now realize that we will be missing the entire beatification of JP2 -- that would be Pope John Paul II, née Karol Wojtyla, who died less than one week after I was received into the church. Quite sad, one could say. Or just simply, 'Rats!', which seems to be equally effective.

Woe is to me

2011-04-19T23:44:00.000-07:00

Do you know, it has turned into sheer torture sitting in front of this blasted computer. Because, as ridiculous as it sounds, it is windy -- kind of in the manner of a howling gale, only without the howling bit. And it is right smack in my eyes, causing me to squint, or type with my eyes closed, and feeling generally downright miserable.

If you've been paying attention at all, you will know that I am an avid reader -- usually going for a new book every week or two. As I write this, I am on page 302 of The Lacuna (by Barbara Kingsolver)**, and it has taken me weeks and weeks to get there. I can't even read anymore, and to be perfectly frank, it is making me mad and extremely depressed. My eyes are burning burning burning twenty four hours a day. I'm at my wits end over here.

So I went to the doctor. He looked me over (some quick procedure involving a very long cotton swab and a bright light, both of which went right in my eyes), and pronounced that every single duct in my eyes was clogged right up. Well, what do you know? He offered to fix the problem then and there, sitting alongside me and explaining it all in a very kindly manner. I said 'sounds great', and then I immediately passed out. I swear it's true. One moment I am sitting there, minding my own business and freezing my tuchas off; the next I am trying to rip off my sweater as fast as I can, because I am covered with sweat and feeling a bit woozy (to say the least). So I guess this means that I am officially 'one of those'. I realize this is incredibly lame of me, and I have been quite disgusted and rather put out with myself ever since. But there it is.

What's more was that they made me reschedule my cotton swab eyeball compression appointment because I was apparently not in the right state to continue on with it. Right-o. I went back for my second appointment a week later and did just fine -- seven o'clock in the morning, a healthy dose of valerian extract swimming in my system, and there I was. The nasty procedure was done in less than ten minutes. And I felt great for about a day and a half. But wait, there's more.

I called and said I had allergies something awful, 'and could you please prescribe a drop of some sort, pretty pretty please?' And they said 'not a chance, instead we'd like you to rearrange your whole day and come back in'. Fine. Whatever. So with Emilia in tow, I went in one afternoon and left an hour later with plugs. Yes, that's right. Plugs. Some tiny things they squash into your eyes using a very long (and very menacing) silver pokey-thing. I did not pass out this time, thank you very much, but am very glad that I had the presence of mind to have a nice valerian cocktail earlier. (Oh, that stuff is a marvel!) Anyway, Michael called when we were on our way out. 'Whatcha doing?' 'Leaving the eye doctor. I got plugs.' 'What? It sounded like you said plugs.' And then he went from yelling about something or another to laughing at me for getting plugs. Whatever.

In the meantime... I have a small mole on my cheek (that would be facial cheek, thanks) that my sister was looking at in California last month. 'Ewww, you ought to have a doctor look at that thing!' Ordinarily I would be offended by such a suggestion, but the thing was swollen up to nearly the size of my head, so I figured she made a fine point. Long story short, I went in to get my mole looked at by the dermatologist and left with a case of mild rosacea. The mole is not anything to worry about, but I got a fist-full of written prescriptions to take with me. Fanfeckingtastic.

And would you like to hear how much those three prescriptions cost? I thought you would. Around two hundred and fifteen dollars, American -- and that is with insurance. Bloody hell. I nearly threw up on the spot. And if I had any sense at all, I would have told them where they could kindly stick it and then sped out of the drive-thru. But, instead, I coughed it up. Prescriptions in hand, we drove home, me quietly crying all the while because it had already proven to be an insanely expensive week, and I was at my wits end. On the bright side though, crying is quite good for a chronic dry-eye issue. Good thing Emilia was amusing herself in the back seat with the camera, taking pictures of everything she saw, otherwise she would have witnessed her mama nearly going off the deep end. I was good as new though by the time we got home.

So now I have these prescriptions (with something like forty-two refills remaining) and I'm quite put out. They are nasty, smelly, quite cheaply made, and not my cup of tea at all. And what's more is that they appear to be worsening the problem because I can promise you that I look like absolute shite. Sad, no? Because to be perfectly honest, I don't take looking like something the cat dragged in too kindly. The funny thing is that these prescriptions have totally and completely made my eyes worse. Ever since I started using them my eyes have been out of control (so have my lips -- burning like crazy). I've been considering wearing swim goggles around the house, just to cut down on the breeze. The only reason I haven't is because that sounds like crazy and somewhat eccentric behaviour to me.

But there you have it -- and I must say, how very typical of me. Piles of random appointments, piles of prescriptions paid for by piles of money, and piles of 'medical' issues that are causing piles of general upset. The eye doctor, who is really quite nice and looks just like George Will, said the next option is eye drops that cost about two hundred smackers a month. He is opposed to me trying them at all because he does not want to line the pockets of drug companies. I am with him one hundred percent on this, but what's more is that two hundred extra dollars a month would be like trying to squeeze blood from a turnip. It's just not going to happen.

It is aggravating to no end. All this because my eyes are dry and my face looks better when not actually being looked at by anyone. Ugh, I'm so depressed. Now then, if you'll just excuse me, I'm going to look for some goggles and then go to bed. Michael is out of town, which means I am up much later than I ought to be.

(Photo taken by one Miss Milia while we drove home from the pharmacy. Her aim is getting much better, if her subject matter is not. She has expanded from taking pictures solely of Governor's bum and Frosty the Snowman on the telly -- she now likes to take pictures of mama's bum, too. Someone really ought to tell her that this may not be so nice for one's self-esteem at the moment. Seriously, not cool.

**A quick sidenote on The Lacuna -- it's all about Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, or the first half is anyway. Frida Kahlo was so incredibly beautiful, but it mystifies me why she refused to wax that mustache off her face. As a general rule, I belong to team 'wax that shit off!' But I also am the sort that ends up with piles of prescriptions for my face because I can't leave well enough alone. Ahem.

Spelt and Yogurt Biscuits

2011-04-18T21:58:00.000-07:00

Now then, if you happen to wake up one Saturday morning feeling slightly in the manner of a hippie genius, might I suggest whipping up a batch of these beauties? The three of us ate them to our heart's content for breakfast, along with lots of butter, jam, and copious amounts of fresh fruit. We also had cup after cup of coffee (for mama and dada), and a nice glass of milk (for Emilia)**. I then froze the rest of the batch thinking I would pull them out later in the week, but ended up yanking them from the freezer late Saturday night for breakfast on Sunday. (What can I say? Sometimes the idea of cooking breakfast sounds like a royal pain in the arse, particularly when it is late at night and breakfast is not actually that far off.) So we had them Sunday morning as well, then I had the last one for lunch a few hours later, and that was the end of our yummy biscuits. They were incredibly easy to make -- the dough is mixed entirely in the food processor, which makes them even easier than the scone recipe from Baking with Julia (my old stand-by). But more importantly, they were so so good. Julia Child's recipe is hands down the best scone recipe I've come across, but I'm sick to death of it and/or bored to tears by it. So spelt and yogurt biscuits are completely where it's at for the moment -- not to mention being a very welcome diversion.

The recipe is from Heidi Swanson's new cookbook Super Natural Every Day, and after thumbing through it last week (it is hot off the presses, you know), I settled on the recipe for Yogurt Biscuits to try first, and the recipe on the cover to try next. (I am always quite interested to know which recipe one chooses to do first in a brand new cookbook. Odd, but there it is. Could probably do all kinds of psycho-analysis just with that bit of information. Or maybe not. But still interesting, nonetheless.) Anyway, the cookbook looks marvelous and I am so excited about it. Usually I just check out her book called Super Natural Cooking from the library, but there is always such a long wait for it. So a couple of months ago I got on Amazon's site thinking I would just buy my own copy of the damn thing already, when I saw that Miss Swanson had a new cookbook coming out-- rather soon, no less. I immediately did the pre-order for it (oh, how I do love a pre-order!), and then I sat back and waited. And waited and waited.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there. The book came, it looks fabulous, and this is the first recipe I did.

**Getting the girl to drink milk has turned into a nightmare -- she will only drink it if she thinks it is Michael's. Michael, or dada for short, must then act like he is on the verge of having a bonafide tizzy fit because she is drinking all of his milk. And yes, this act has been going on for months now. How long does she expect us to keep it up, I wonder? Until she is eighteen and has moved out of the house? For hell's sake already.

Spelt and Yogurt Biscuits

1 ¼ cups spelt flour or whole what pastry flour
1 ¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons fine-grain sea-salt (I used my regular kosher salt and will happily do it again because the sea-salt was too far in the back of the cupboard to be bothered)
1 tablespoon aluminum-free baking powder

½ cup unsalted butter, chilled and cut into cubes

1 ⅓ cup greek-style plain yogurt

Preheat the oven to 450ºF. Place an ungreased baking sheet in the oven at the same time to preheat along with it.

Combine the flours, salt, and baking powder in the bowl of the food processor. Scatter the butter across the top and pulse about 20 times. The mixture should look nice and sandy with a few lumps here or there. Add the yogurt and pulse again until incorporated. Go easily here because it is very easy to over-mix. Gather the dough into a ball and place on a lightly floured surface. Knead five times until the dough comes together. Press the dough until it is about half an inch thick and a nice square. Cut the dough in half. Place one half on top of the other and press again. Do this two more times -- cut in half, stack, and then press. Add a bit more flour if necessary, just to avoid stickiness. This stacking process will give the biscuits their nice flaky layers once they have baked, and goodness knows that's the whole point of biscuits.

Press (or roll) the dough into a ¾-inch rectangle. (Any higher and the biscuits will bake tilted and wonky.) Cut the dough into twelve equal biscuits.

Take the baking sheet out of the oven, quickly place the biscuits on it, spacing about 2 inches in-between, and then place back in the oven. Bake for 15-18 minutes. Both the tops and bottom will be nicely golden and look divine. (Recipe from Super Natural Every Day by Heidi Swanson. Ten Speed Press, 2011.)

Royal Wedding Tea

2011-04-13T17:19:00.000-07:00

Ooh, lookee! Look what I just got! Er, what I mean to say is, what has become of me? I mean, really -- who buys this crap? (Actually, it would seem that loads of people buy it. Otherwise, why on earth would they sell it?*) The funny thing is that the second I pulled it out of the box yesterday, I immediately plonked it on the counter for all to see. 'All' would be Michael -- the one who I knew full-well would openly make fun of me to his heart's content. And he did not disappoint, I'll tell you that much.

Ordinarily this is just the sort of thing that I would tuck into the back of a closet somewhere and deny owning, or indeed, ever seeing before, all the while feeling quite pleased with myself for making the purchase. You know how it is. But for some reason I couldn't do it with my Royal Wedding Tea. The tea in the fancy tin caddy is by Ahmad's of London, which is totally legit, and it is really quite good. I know because I had some this morning. And what's more, this was not a frivolous purchase. I was actually in dire need of tea. I've been out for a month now, couldn't be bothered driving to Metropolitan Market** for some more, and became an ardent coffee fan in the meantime. And what's more, it only cost a buck or two more than the other teas I ordered. My all-time favorite is actually Brodie's Famous Edinburgh, and I've discovered that I can order it in a mondo-sized-box. After that, I've become a big fan of Bewley's (Irish Afternoon, in particular), also in mondo-size. Yorkshire Gold has fallen way down on the list, on account of the fact that I am bored to tears with the stuff. PG Tips I buy when I'm in a pinch, but the older I get the more bitter it seems to taste. And not to sound too high-falutin, but it clearly is not the best quality.

And so, with that, I suppose I've indulged (and divulged) my inner anglophile-isms a bit too much. But I stand by it. After all, who doesn't like Will and Kate?*** He seems quite nice and she wears lovely boots. And rumor has it that the doll made in her likeness is flying off the shelves. Hmmm, maybe Emilia needs one? Because, to be perfectly honest, there is something very American about the Middletons. They are entirely self-made, which I find rather admirable and so very respectable. They are not the worst role-models I've ever seen, that's for sure. Ah, forget it. I think we'll stick with Madeline and Mary Poppins for now. But just make sure you keep me off the computer late at night, after a really long day and all that. Because goodness knows I am capable of doing a lot of damage. Or, at least as much damage as our already reeling checking account can take, which isn't much. So we're safe for now.

* However, I do draw the line with the Royal Wedding fridge because that's just absurd.

**Metropolitan Market is one of the only shops around that sells strong British tea. Whole Foods and PCC only have odd hippie tea, which is probably quite nice -- really healthy and all that crap, but I'm partial to my British stuff.

***My Chinese brother claims to never have heard of them before. I told him that they were getting married on his birthday and he said, and I quote, 'Who? Are you talking about that show? Will and Grace or something?'

Our Daily Constitutional

2011-03-31T16:29:00.000-07:00

At the table this morning, Emilia and I sat eating our breakfast and staring at the grey drizzly day outside our window, when she said, 'It is almost about to get dark outside, mama! But we're awake!' So you see, all my complaints about grey days are not figments of my imagination. Our own daughter was convinced that at roughly 9:30 this morning (yes, we eat late, alright? -- what of it?) it was almost dark enough outside to be considered night time.

Yet, she still went on to say, 'Maybe we should go for a quick run!' 'But, Emilia, look outside! It's dark and it's raining!' She then countered with, 'But I have my cover, mama!' Fine. She makes a good point. And besides, I told her yesterday (same time, same place) that there was not a chance we were going running in that weather -- cover or no cover. Supposedly we got three inches of rain yesterday, and I'm no nit-wit. I can handle a little rain, but not the bouncing off the roads kind-of rain. It makes for very wet running shoes, don't you know? Or, rather, very muddy running shoes when we make our way up the path by the horses. And we always have to go that way -- it is a nice little hill to nearly knock me flat, with loads of bumps and branches and such (a bit like off-roading, I suppose), and we usually stop for a second at the top so she can get a nice view and we practice our Spanish:
'How do you say horse in Spanish again?'
'I dunno.'
'Yes, you do!'
'I dunno.'
'Caballo! For pete's sake, it's CABALLO! Say hola caballo.'
'Hola caballo. Adios caballo.'
'Now, how do you say horse in Spanish?'
'I dunno.'
And we are off again. To see the chickens and the goat, but we don't stop then unless she really begs, because we ain't out for no nature walk. We are out for a run.

It is fabulous, though, having just discovered the beauty of a cover on the jogger. (It's actually called a Weather Shield for the Bob joggers -- I ordered it on-line while in Oregon with my mom and David before Emilia was even a year old -- and officially just pulled it out of the wrap last week. Ahem, moving on.) Typically I get the girl bundled up to the high heavens, because it gets cold out there. You know, hat, gloves, coat, sweater, blanket, snack, drink, St. Gerard, Mary Magdalene, garage door opener, and anything else we can possibly squeeze into the thing. We're like an armoire on wheels. But accoutrements aside, I am officially pushing a third of my body weight in the thing. I find this is an excellent way to justify my rather slow pace. Or maybe the slow pace is on account of the fact that I let my husband load up my i-pod with songs he claimed would be great for running. (I've created a play-list for you. It's all ready to go!') Here I am running down the street, all excited to have new songs to add to my list of tiresome songs that really need to be replaced, and what I get is -- er, well, not exactly running songs. I've been referring to them as sex jams, but you can call them what you will. I called him on the carpet for it, all the while doing a demonstration of the ridiculous running one would likely have to do while listening to them, and all he says it, 'I'm no idiot.' So I guess it will be back to Eminem for me. Oh, and Michael is no longer allowed to touch my i-pod.

And so, right when we get home, and the chance that there is nary a raindrop in sight, we quickly take Governor on a walk. (He, rather annoyingly, refuses to take one step outside if it is raining.) The jogger goes back in the garage, along with all its trappings, and we head out. Governor pulling this way and that, and Emilia either running as fast as she can in front of me saying, 'Now I'm going for a quick run, too!'; or, trailing after Governor and lifting her leg in a very rude manner, pretending to be said dog, laughing so hard she nearly falls over. But there it is, the daily constitutional. And if not daily, I suppose it should be.

Fanouropita Cake for Lost Things (Otherwise Entitled, 'Do You Miss Your Brudder, Mama?')

2011-03-29T17:19:00.000-07:00

We dropped my brother Danny off at the airport a few days ago. Seattle was the last leg of his long journey back to the states, and he was returning to China, the place he has called home now for six going on seven years. And oh, Dear Reader, I was sorry to see him go. I suppose it went a bit like this: I stood on the curb at the departures area, while Danny reached in the backseat of the car to give his little niece a great big hug goodbye. I tried really hard not to cry -- honest, I did, but nothing doing, I cried anyway. This, in turn, made Danny yell that his street cred was evaporating before his eyes. Yes, well.

Back in the car a few moments later, and trying not to look at Emilia too much (on account of the copious tears that were streaming down my face), I sat quietly trying to pull myself back together. And then Emilia says, 'What? Are you sad because you miss your brudder, mama?' 'Yes, baby, I'm very sad.' I miss Danny so much. We all do.

Our plan that day was that we (that would be Danny, Kari, Emilia, and I) would wander around coffeeshops, bookstores, and wherever else we felt like, before Emilia and I had to drive him to the airport. Apparently my sister had to say goodbye as fast as she could and then dash, because she couldn't stand it and didn't want to cry. Meanwhile, she didn't tell me this was her plan until we were talking on the phone two days later. This is why I spent twenty minutes wandering around Gap, getting highly annoyed, buying Emilia a shirt, and getting ready to accuse her of turning into our mother (who has a serious issue with disappearing the moment you walk through the front doors of a shop -- any shop -- causing you to wander around for the next three hours looking for her...).

Anyway, I will stop rambling on about it, but not until I say this: I wish my brother lived closer. I wish we were part of eachother's everyday lives. I wish this wasn't the first time he met Emilia. I wish we could go and visit him in China. I wish that our plan to visit him in his city next summer (not this summer coming up, but the one after that) was not so far off. I wish he could come over for dinner more often, and I promise not to cook up rather dry looking salmon again. (It's Lent and it was all QFC had!) And I promise to throw a fit if he ever tries to give me more of that nasty ol' raisin salad he got from Whole Foods on his way out of town. 'Oh Tonya, it'll be way too annoying carrying it through the airport. You take it...' Yuck. And above all, I hope he is alright. I hope so much that he is happy in the little Chinese life that he is carving for himself. He is my little brother, after all. *sniff sniff*

Alright, upward and onward.

And so, I was thumbing through Tessa Kiros's new-ish cookbook on Greek cooking a week or so ago, and I found a whole section on 'fasting' foods. It's magnificent. And then there is a whole section on Easter foods to follow. This is exactly the sort of things cookbooks are missing these days. I love the sort of cooking that is defined by the saints; or Feast Days; or Holy Days; or whatever else you want to add to the list.  I suppose that this cooking goes on regularly throughout the world, but it is extremely difficult to come across where we live. Seattle is one of the least religious areas of the country, don't you know. This is why Michael resorts to yelling in the car Sunday mornings when it is really sunny outside and we are trying to get to church. Everyone digs out their rollerblades, running shoes, bikes, unicycles, 45 tiny dogs on leashes, and spandex. 'Heathens! Pagans! Leftist Pinko-Commies! Hippies! Go home and cut your skullet -- and get out of the road, we're late!' Or something like that anyway. (Funny though, he never seems to mind when the twits in bikinis saunter down the sidewalk stumbling in their high-heels and spilling their 40s of beer all over the place. Apparently those dames are A-OK in his book. Yes, well, I digress.)

Ahem.

It was in this Greek cookbook of Tessa Kiros where I found the recipe for a Fanouropita cake. The name of it caught my interest immediately, so did the fact that it was a cake for a feast day -- albeit a saint I've never heard of. It is meant to be served on St. Fanourios's Feast Day (which is August 25th, I believe), but the lovely Miss (actually Mrs.) Kiros says it can be made anytime when something has been lost -- 'a ring, or a lover, or even when a mind is in search of an answer.'  Ding ding ding, went the alarm bells in my mind, because not only have I lost my brother to China once again, but I've also felt for some time now that I am losing my marbles. (This was actually the original reason I decided to make the cake. I've been feeling such a sense of loss lately and I don't even really know why -- just know the pesky feeling is there and it doesn't seem to be too bothered about leaving. So, for some reason, the very idea of this cake made me feel better.) She also says that it is ideal during periods of fasting because their are no eggs or butter in it. I've never given up eggs or butter during Lent, as it sounds like hell on earth, or worse.

The cake takes no time to make, and is actually quite good. It smells of oranges and olive oil and is excellent served with strawberries. Emilia willingly ate it, and I was incredibly surprised as there was no frosting, jam, pastry cream, et al, in sight. Granted, she was very disappointed when I told her that it wasn't the kind of cake that gets a yummy pink frosting on top.  So I suppose in that sense, she was a little bummed about having lost something too. How very appropriate.

Fanouropita Cake for Lost Things

360g plain flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
160g sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
185ml light olive oil
185ml fresh orange juice
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 375F. Brush a spring-form pan with oil and then flour it, tapping out the excess.

In a bowl, add the flour, baking powder, sugar, and cinnamon. Stir. Add the olive oil, orange juice, and vanilla, and mix with electric beaters until combined. Don't go bananas here and over mix it. The batter will be very thick. Using a rubber spatula, scrape the batter into your pan, and bake it for about 40 minutes. Your cake tester should come out clean. Let cool on a wire rack before slicing. Should keep well for 5 or 6 days in an airtight container. (Recipe from Food From Many Greek Kitchens by Tessa Kiros. Murdoch Books Pty Ltd, 2010.)

Victoria Tea Cake

2011-03-15T16:43:00.000-07:00

Alright, alright, I know it is Lent and we aren't supposed to be gorging ourselves on all manner of sweet things, but I am making an exception for this lovely cake because there is no frosting on it. Goodness knows that no frosting on a cake automatically throws it into the realm of austere (and therefore penitential) and rather boring, no? But let me just tell you -- this is probably the first cake I've ever made that Emilia devoured. Even Michael noticed, 'Wow, she's actually going to eat the whole thing.' (The 'whole thing' would be her slice -- and not actually the whole cake.) But it is true, the girl loved her 'Torian Sandwich' and has already been asking to make it again. I'm shocked.

The recipe comes from My Kitchen Table: Mary Berry's 100 Cakes and Bakes, but this is not actually where I found it. I found it on that scourge that is Facebook. When Michael goes out of town, I seem to spend a lot of time on-line, very late at night, doing nothing in particular, when I really just ought to be in bed. And last month when he was in St. Louis, I sat up one night looking at who knows what, and ended up with a fat-wad of 'likes' on my Facebook page. Anyway, one of those 'likes' (and probably the only one worth a damn) is Boden (you're shocked, I know), and they are the ones from whence I got the recipe for 'The Perfect Victoria Sandwich'.

The cake is a breeze to make as it is essentially a pound cake. You know: one pound butter, one pound eggs, one pound sugar, one pound flour, all mixed up. You just need to make sure that all ingredients are at room temperature. I suppose that you could easily swap out the raspberry jam for whatever floats your boat -- lemon curd, for example, but I have currently gone anti-yellow. Every picture I take in our kitchen these days looks yellow and it makes me want to hurl. One of Emilia's favorite things to do is to take pictures with the camera, and I'm fairly convinced that she 'fixed' it somehow so that all the pictures look nasty. Governor has turned into one of her favorite subjects, and we now have nearly a hundred yellow photos of his hairy ol' can to look at. Seriously, she thought it was hilarious. 'Look! I take a picture of Governor's bum! hehehaha!' Or, it could be that Michael put two extra tubes of nasty ol' fluorescent lighting in the kitchen, as per my request, and since then the kitchen makes me nauseous and grumpy. Everything I cook now seems to look revolting. Every time I ask him to please please take them out, he rolls his eyes and calls me an eejit. 'But you asked me to put them in!' Yes, well, I digress.

We had the cake after dinner (which is my least favorite time to have cake, particularly of this varietal), but Michael and Emilia seemed to be happy as clams, so who am I to complain? But really, I prefer mine in the afternoon with a big cup of tea that is so hot I inevitably burn my mouth and can't taste the cake anyway.

The Perfect Victoria Sandwich

225g (8oz) unsalted butter, at room temperature
225g (8oz) caster sugar
4 large eggs, at room temperature
225g (8oz) self-raising flour
2 level teaspoons baking powder
about 4 tablespoons strawberry or raspberry jam
a little confectioners' sugar to dust on the top

Heat the oven to 350F. Butter and line 2 cake pans. Set aside.

Using your heavy-duty mixer, combine butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and baking soda. Mix until nicely blended, but do not over mix. Divide the batter between the 2 cake pans, and plonk in the oven for about 25 minutes. They should rise nicely and look a lovely shade of gold on the tops. Let the cakes cool in the pans for at least 10 minutes. (I took mine out after about 5 and was a bit sorry for it.) Once they are completely cool, sandwich the layers with your jam (or what have you), and dust your sugar on the top. Then stand back and marvel. Serve when you feel like it -- using your best British accent all the while, if you please.

Hope is a thing with feathers

2011-03-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

--Emily Dickinson

(The chicken's name is Louise, and she is from the book Louise, The Adventures of a Chicken, by Kate DiCamillo.)

Rewind!

2011-02-26T18:03:00.000-08:00

We went to the Space Needle yesterday. That's right, after living here for for nearly nine years, I've finally gone to the Space Needle. We took the monorail and everything. It went like this: we met Michael's Aunt Marie and his cousin Janet, who happen to be in town from Brooklyn and Idaho, respectively, downtown for lunch. We all had fish tacos/fish and chips and such, and Aunt Marie asked if we wanted to go to the Space Needle with them. Michael, sadly, declined because he had to get back to work, but Emilia and I both yelled, 'Yes, please!' It was a New Year's resolution this year, after all -- not to mention the fact that Emilia periodically begs to go, 'Maybe we should go to the Space Needle sometime, Mama!' But what really sold me was that it was a sunny sunny sunshiny day (albeit fricking freezing). And so we went. And now I can cross it off of our list of things to do.

Anyway, I appear to have teetered toward that dangerous realm of not blogging at all anymore ever again so long as I live, and what can I say for myself? Not much. We've been so busy doing this and that and some more of this, that it makes it quite difficult to sit still sometimes. (Yet when I do sit still, I can't manage to actually BE STILL ALREADY! I've been driving myself bat-shit crazy, which is never very pleasant, for the record.) I've had so many great ideas for posts, and I've let them all slip away, including some rather fantastic dinners, books, sundry fascinating tidbits, and who knows what else. But before I let this month go for good, I will give you a brief list of how we (I) have been keeping ourselves (myself) busy. Hmmm, where shall we start?

Watched Downton Abbey on PBS and will happily proclaim that it is the best thing we've seen on the telly in ages. That Julian Fellowes is marvelous, is he not? * Finally finished reading David Copperfield. Holy shit that book is long. And Emilia, whom I gave updates to throughout, thinks the dog Jip in the book is simply spiffing. She loves that he was placed on the dinner table at night and would walk around eating what he'd like from David and Dora's plates. In fact, she has started asking me to tell her the story of Jip during breakfast. * My fancy-pants of a husband was quoted in Los Angeles magazine this month and his article was published in the Gonzaga Law Review. I've not known whether to be ridiculously proud or to trip him next time he walks down the hallway. Currently leaning toward the latter. * My beloved Grandma Aileen, who gave me my middle name, died. She was 84. She used to call me Peanuts when I was small, and it was her house that had the beautiful lemon trees that will stay in my mind for as long as I live. And I can never see a jar of Pacquins lotion without thinking of her. My grandparents are all gone, and it makes me feel so sad. And my tactic of 'I can't think about that now, I'll think about it tomorrow' à la Scarlet O'Hara (which I usually rely upon), is not working with this. I flew to California with my sister for her funeral last week. My dad met us at the airport, and the three of us were inseparable until we got back on the plane to go home. (Which, by the way, I flew home first class. Well, la-di-da. I suppose that is one bonus of using 62,500 frequent flyier miles for a last minute ticket to California.) Grandma was buried next to Grandpa Lloyd and my little brother David. It nearly broke my heart in half when we got to the cemetery and saw that David's grave was covered up with a great mound of dirt. I haven't seen his grave is over twenty years. And because I was upset, my dad drove back the next day and took a picture of his grave, all cleaned up and pretty, and sent it to me. He also sent a picture of the old house we used to live in on Union Street. * My mom went in for horrific back surgery and has worried the daylights out of all of us, which in turn has made us worry about David. Worrying about parents is for the birds, I say. But there it is. * I bought a pair of Uggs. Er, I mean I bought another pair of Uggs. Seriously, I loathe those shoes. They are a scourge to footwear, beyond hideous, and anyone wearing them ought to be ashamed of themselves. I own three pairs.

* Michael was in St. Louis for Valentine's Day. So Emilia and I spent the day getting her hair cut, going to Trophy Cupcakes, and having a power outage. That evening we sat on the couch with our flashlights and perusing the Boden/MiniBoden catalogs ('Oh, that would be so pretty for you, Mama!' and 'Would I look like a beauty in this dress, Mama?'), and having South African vegetable soup for dinner. * I read the book Brooklyn by Colm Toibin. It was magnificent. I loved it and was sad when it was over. * Cooked a Vietnamese noodle soup by Rocco Dispirito in this month's Food & Wine magazine. Divine. * Made a chunky tomato soup (from the same issue) that is also divine. Potato 'croutons' go on the top of the soup and I could probably eat them all day. * Have finally mastered éclairs. Straight up. * Emilia has taken to trying to floss with her spaghetti during dinner. * Read a ridiculous article in the British tabloids about 'Skinny Gwynnie' and how she has gone all skeletal-chic. The male author said that being skinny and in shape (like Gwyneth Paltrow) makes you look like a control freak and failing in sensuality. I am taking this to heart as I've not gone running in nearly a month, and have eaten a gazillion éclairs (which are so good that it is completely worth it, by the way.) Meanwhile, I would not cry too much if I looked like Skinny Gwynnie. * Emilia got a box of the most gorgeous clothes in the mail, courtesy Grandma and Grandpa, including a beret. The girl will not be parted from it. (Thank goodness she looks smashing in it, is all I have to say.) As for the rest, I keep trying to tuck it away for next season, but she keeps telling me that her tummy is reallyreally cold and she needs to wear a beautiful sweater to warm it up. Twerp. * Yesterday Emilia locked Governor in her room. Two screw-drivers, a straight pin, much muttered profanity, texted pictures of a pulled-apart-lock to Michael, and forty minutes later, he was freed. Then an hour later flames shot out the back of my hair dryer. I threw the thing and it left burn marks on the bathroom counter. According to Emilia mama yelled, 'Aaaah!' and then 'Just great!' * It's been snowing and I hate it. * Just started reading The Hangman's Daughter. It's quite fantastic and I am thoroughly enjoying it. But I am hating the fact that everytime I sit down to read I am so incredibly tired and can't seem to settle down. *

As for the rest of the month, Monday is Emilia's third birthday. She has requested a Ghost Pleasing Chocolate Cake and pasta with Neapolitan meatballs for dinner. Talk about a girl after my own heart.

Gorgeous and Glorious Marmalade

2011-02-10T17:40:00.000-08:00

Now then, where was I? Oh, yes, that's right, marmalade -- gorgeous and glorious marmalade.

It would seem that part of my morning ritual has become, as I sit clicking away at the major news sites on-line and waiting for the little-one to wake up, The Telegraph newspaper. They do afterall have quite a bit of world news, and (my most favorite) a lovely 'Property' section, showing, from time to time, gorgeous photos of brick farmhouse manors (of which I will never know the like) throughout the Cotwalds and other such places. And their food section is supposed to be quite fantastic. (Doesn't Yotam Ottolenghi do a column for them? Or maybe it is Nigella. I might have my wires crossed).

And so, last week as I sat one morning sipping my enormous cup of tea, I saw an article about marmalade. It was all about the tradition of marmalade in England -- or, more appropriately, what they dubbed as a dying tradition. It would seem that the younger generations have zero taste and prefer chocolate spreads (such as Nutella and the like) on their toast in the morning, instead of the gorgeous and glorious marmalade of the erstwhile past. Apparently it is only old grannies (and grandpas) who eat the golden-hued sticky stuff*.

Naturally, after this article came out, all the grannies in the country wrote angry missives to the paper demanding to be counted -- lest they forget those who laboriously make their own, refusing to buy the loathsome (apparently) stuff at the grocery store. And they were really put-out by the whole thing. One grannie, in particular, has been using the same recipe that she got from The Telegraph in the 1950s, year in year out ever since.

Quite impressive, wouldn't you say?

So, after reading the article I got on the horn and started making calls to stores in the area. No one in the whole of the United States, it would seem, carries Seville oranges. (Meanwhile I distinctly remember all the orange trees while wandering around in Sevilla a few years ago. Little did I know that I should have been loading up my suitcase with them.) I sent my sister a text asking where I could buy them, and the wise-ass, I mean, lovely lady, wrote back 'Seville?' I even called the British Pantry and they all but laughed at me. That's why when Michael came home from work that night, I said, as casually as I could muster, 'Hey, how would you feel about going to the market tomorrow to get me some Seville oranges? The weather is supposed to be nice. (Oh please, oh please, oh pretty please!)' The Market being Pike's Farmers Market in Seattle, which carries just about everything one can imagine.

And, Dear Reader, my loveliest of the lovelies husband went and got me 3 pounds of Seville oranges, which they had just gotten in that day. (I really ought to read recipes better sometimes. It clearly says 3 kilograms and I saw pounds. This would have been all fine and dandy if I happened to also be a mathematician, which I am not. So the loveliest of the lovelies husband also had to get out a calculator and do a few conversions for me. Also, the loveliest of the lovelies rigged up a fancy contraption so that my marmalade mixture could be suspended throughout the night over a very large pot. (Don't look at me, that is what the directions said to do.)

But there it is, gorgeous and glorious coarse-cut marmalade. Emilia was so excited to help with it, but once she saw what I was doing with the oranges, has refused to have anything to do with it. She thinks it looks quite suspicious and is, therefore, not to be trusted. Although, she did not neglect grabbing her Paddington books to show us a picture of him with a big ol' pot of the stuff, store-bought, I'm sure. (Insert your own noises here and try to look quite smug while doing so.)

And just to be exceedingly annoying, we've been eating it every morning with a nice fat loaf of home-made Musician's Bread, because that's the way I roll. Well, except for Emilia. She much prefers the strawberry stuff we made last summer.  Or better yet, the raspberry stuff that Grandma and Grandpa sent for Christmas. (Seriously, when is this girl going to learn who butters her bread? Oh, right, she already has.)

This is the recipe from The Telegraph for the perfect marmalade. It is quite easy to make and I love the fact that it calls for no pectin. Apparently the seeds act as a natural pectin in the boiling process. Fascinating, no?

Diana's recipe for Seville Orange Marmalade
3kg Seville oranges
3 lemons
4.5 pints of water
3kg of sugar
Makes approximately 14 pots.
Day one
Scrub and rinse all the fruit. Diana makes her marmalade in three batches. So, for one batch, take 1kg Seville oranges and one lemon, and put them in a pressure cooker with 1.5pints of water and cook at 10lbs of pressure for 15 minutes. If you don’t have a pressure cooker, then boil in a saucepan for 'over an hour, until the fruit is cooked through,’ says Diana. Fish the fruit out of the saucepan with a slotted spoon. When it’s cool enough to handle, cut them in half. Scrape out the flesh, pith and pips and put it all in a saucepan with the original boiling water. Set the peel to one side. Boil the panful of fruit matter for five minutes and then pour into a muslin bag suspended over a jam kettle or other large pan. Add some of the sugar to the liquid in the jam kettle and stir to dissolve. Repeat twice more until all the fruit has been prepared. Cut the peel into fine shreds and add to the jam kettle. Leave to strain overnight.
Day two
Add the remainder of the sugar to the jam kettle. Put over a low heat and stir until dissolved. Bring to the boil until setting point is reached. If you are using a jam thermometer, you need to boil for about half an hour after the correct temperature is reached. Either way, the marmalade is ready when it passes the wrinkle test: drop a small amount of marmalade in a saucer and pop it in the fridge for five minutes. If the surface wrinkles when you push it with your finger, it’s ready. Pour into hot dry jars and cover at once with discs of greaseproof paper soaked in wine vinegar and screw the top on the jar immediately.

And here is the article from whence it came: Mastering the Art of Marmalade by Diana Henry.

*Have you heard about the problem of serious obesity going on all over the place. Maybe gobs of 'chocolate spread' on your Wonder bread is not the solution. And maybe the old scrawny marmalade-eating grannies should not be bawked at. I mean, really, I like chocolate just as much as the next person (if not more), but if you're going to eat chocolate --then bloody well eat some chocolate. And not some blasphemous spread on your toast in the morning, already! However, if it happens to be placed on a crêpe with banana slices, then I deny ever having said any of this. Because those are divine and everyone knows it.

Broccoli and Bow-Tie Pasta

2011-01-26T15:34:00.000-08:00

According to Emilia, 'the people' came over to our house. And broccoli with bow-ties was one of the things that we cooked up for them, which was really quite a hit.  Impressive, really, as half of 'the people' consisted of small children. You never can tell what a child will do with broccoli, but since the recipe comes from the children's section of my cookbook, and as most of the kids come from parents who are of a particularly-hippie-disposition, shall we say (and everyone knows that hippie-kids eat their green veggies, right?), I figured we'd be on the safe side. And we were, and I was right, and that's all I have to say about that.

Sadly, some of our friends have just packed up a U-Haul and are heading to Northern California. (Jealous!) And so because of that, a pile of us decided to get together and see them off. Emilia had a grand ol' time. She spent her time divided between two things: holding Torin's hand and running him around the house; and then chasing after him, exclaiming, 'But I just want to give you a hug goodbye!'  It was marvelous to watch, particularly since Torin loved to play with the girl, but wanted absolutely nothing to do with her little affectionate ways. (Ah! To be so young and to scorn the love of such a beauty!)

Anyway, we've made this pasta a few times now, and I am happy to report that it is officially part of the ever-rotating repertoire. It is incredibly fast and easy to make, very good for you, and so good you have to force yourself to stop eating it.  Oh, and as a quick side-note on the recipe -- the actual recipe calls for only half a pound of pasta. That seems insane since it calls for eight cups of broccoli. Don't get me wrong, I am a believer when it comes to broccoli and I never need convincing to have it. But, do be reasonable. So, instead, I have been using a whole pound, which it is much more manageable, I say.

Broccoli & Bow-Tie Pasta
serves 6-8

salt
8 cups broccoli florets (4 heads)
1 pound farfalle pasta
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon minced garlic
zest of 1 lemon

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
¼ cup toasted pine nuts (pignoli)
freshly grated parmesan cheese, optional

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook the broccoli for 3 minutes and then remove with a slotted spoon. Place in a large bowl and set aside.

In the same water, cook the pasta according to the package's instructions, usually around 11-12 minutes. Drain well and then add the pasta to the broccoli.

While the pasta is cooking, heat the butter and oil in a small pan. Cook the garlic and lemon zest over medium-heat for a minute. Turn off the heat and add 2 teaspoon salt, the pepper, and lemon juice. Pour over the pasta-broccoli mixture. Toss well. Season to taste and then top with the toasted pine nuts and cheese, if using. Serve. (Recipe from: Barefoot Contessa Family Style by Ina Garten. Clarkson and Potter Publishing, 2002.)

Lavender Butter Cookies

2011-01-19T16:22:00.000-08:00

It would appear that Miss Milia has turned into quite the sophisticate. Yesterday when we were out and about, we decided to pop over to PinkaBella Cupcakes for a cupcake or two. We each got to choose one. I chose the vanilla cupcake with pink frosting and sprinkles on top (because that is their best one, don't you know), while Nearly-Three-Year-Old-Miss-Fancy-Pants opted for the salted caramel. You know, dark chocolate cupcake with salted caramel buttercream? That one.

She has also taken to asking for a cup of coffee with her breakfast. 'Can I have a cup of coffee, please?' And she seems to find this quite hilarious.

And on top of that, the girl seems to think that she needs a beret. I ordered a few things from the Olive Juice catalog late one night, and they finally came in the mail a few days ago. Since then she has been pouring (or poring) over the catalog, claiming that she really really really likes that hat. 'Maybe we should order it, mama! Because I reallyreally like it.' And, alas, maybe we should. Who am I to say? At least it isn't glitter and all that diva crap that so many little girls seem to love. (All in due time, I'm sure. But then I'll really have to draw the line.  And/or stick a fork in my eye. Oh, how I loathe that garbage.)

But there it is, sophisticated cupcakes and little frenchy-french hats on request. I'm beginning to get upset by how quickly she is growing up. Last night we went to the open house for the pre-school we are planning to send her to next fall. We went on a nice little tour and everything -- and it was all I could do not to throw myself on the ground and revolt. She, being one of the only kids who showed up for the event (as most others were home and getting ready for bed by likely better parents than we are, who have a tendency to drag the girl wherever we happen to be going, and never leave her with a baby-sitter -- ever), stood and played with a monkey-banana game for quite a while. She seemed to be having a great time, too. Once we said our goodbyes and thank-yous, and started walking back to the car, Michael said to her, 'Are you so excited to go to school? You're such a big girl!'  To which she responded, 'Maybe I should wait til I get a little bit bigger.' To which mama replied, 'Here, here!' (Incidentally she also said that she thinks she likes going to the park better. But she says that every week after Spanish class, too. I don't believe her on that count, though. How could she prefer the park to La Vaca Lola, I ask you?  And that is the reason why I keep signing her up for Spanish.)

It is so funny how much I have worried about getting her around lots of other kids to play with, and getting her involved.  Granted, this has simply remained a worry for me rather than something I've been ardently pursuing. I know that once she starts pre-school our little worlds will change.  She will make all kinds of friends and have all sorts of things going on all the time. That is why I can justify my time with her now. I don't actually get her that long before she flies off into the world, you know. And so, because of that, I am with her all day, every day. My sister even called me a week or so ago trying to convince me that four hour pre-school is better than two and a half hour pre-school. But, I'm sorry, it's not going to happen. She's my little tomato and I'm not letting her go without a fight.

You know that because I'm saying this I will be the one having major separation anxiety when the time comes to drop her off at school that first time. I will be the one trying not to cry -- not her. She'll probably just call over her shoulder not to let the door hit me on the ass on my way out. But I doubt it. The two of us are pretty tight. And I'm glad it is that way.

And so, keeping with the theme of a sophisticated toddler, we've made lavender butter cookies today. It is actually my favorite recipe for snickerdoodles, but I've been wanting to try my hand at a lavender butter cookie for awhile. (Ever since we got one at Blackbird Bakery on Bainbridge Island a long time ago.) So I simply omitted the cinnamon (but still kept the sugar for rolling them in) and added a tablespoon of dried lavender flowers to the dough. And there you go, a rather high-falutin, yet absolutely delectable, sugar cookie.  They are much better than the salted caramel cupcake (I actually love salted caramels, just not in the form of a cupcake), and I think (although reluctantly) that Emilia might agree. In fact, she polished off her cookies in no time. Whereas the cupcake, being covered in a pound and a half of frosting, did not fare as well. Nearly half if it went (rather painfully, as they are three bucks a pop) in the trash. But I cannot, in good conscience, let her eat that much sugar (and everything else that goes in it).

Anyway, we've been coming to blows a few times over the lavender cookies, as she keeps sneaking into the kitchen with her stool and grabbing one when she thinks I am not looking. She may fancy herself a bit of a sophisticate, but she certainly isn't as slick as her mama.  It went something in the manner of this: 'I am, in fact, the boss of you -- and I said NO MORE!'

Lavender Butter Cookies
makes a whole lot, 3 dozen, maybe

3 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 teaspoon table salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 cups plus 3 tablespoons sugar
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon dried lavender flowers, preferably organic

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment, or give it a nice slackering of butter.

In a bowl, combine the flour, soda, cream of tartar, and salt. Set aside.

In your heavy-duty mixer with the paddle attachment (or, if you must, using your hand-held) cream the butter and 2 cups of sugar. Scrape the bowl down with a rubber spatula, as necessary. In a small bowl, combine the eggs, milk, and vanilla. With the mixer running, slowing pour in the wet ingredients. Add the dry ingredients to the mixture and beat on low speed until combined. Scrape with the rubber spatula, as needed. Before the flour is completely combined, add the lavender.

Put the remaining 3 tablespoons of sugar on a small plate.  Form the dough into small balls, roll each ball in the sugar, and place on the baking sheet. Bake for 9-12 minutes.

This dough does very well wrapped in saran wrap in the fridge overnight. Just let it warm up a bit before forming them into cookies. (Recipe from Pure Flavor by Kurt Beecher Dammeier. Crown Publishing, 2007.)

Lemon Capri Torte and Meyer Lemon Curd

2011-01-15T16:46:00.000-08:00

Egads, I can't stand January. It is the dreariest and most dismal month that ever was. And the longer it seems to drone on, and the greyer it seems to get outside, my longing for something (anything) citrus seems to mirror it*. There is, after all, something very cheery and alive about a clementine or satsuma, is there not? And Emilia loves to sit at the table and peel one in the morning. She slowly removes every bit of peel and then breaks the orange in half. She hands half of it to me, and then sits back, tucking into her own half, and chatting all the while. ('Do you like pith, mama?' The answer is no. 'Grandma Jo likes to eat the peel. That's crazy! I don't like to eat the peel. Do you like to eat the peel, mama?' The answer to this is not unless it comes from Fran's and is covered in chocolate. Then I find it tolerable.) See what I mean? Cheery.

But my favorite citrus in all the world is the Meyer Lemon. I still remember the first time I saw one. It was in my favoritest** grocery store that ever was -- Zagara's, in Marlton, New Jersey. And when we lived in Haddonfield, we would go there all the time. (This is despite the fact that my mother-in-law claimed it was quite elitist of us, and that after Michael finished law school he was going to have to get two of those jobs, in order to pay for his wife's habit of fancy food things. I still say that isn't the worst idea I've ever heard***.) Anyway, no matter what time of day it was, Michael and I would go and get an enormous cup of Viennese Cinnamon coffee, some rugelach, and whatever else happened to be on our list that day. In the winter months I gravitated to oranges and lemons, along with sundry other items. (For example, these nasty raviolis filled with tofu. Seriously, doesn't that sound revolting? Oddly, they weren't half bad.)

And so, we would load up on Meyer Lemons and, when they had them, these Sicilian blood oranges. They were actually from Sicily, mind you, and half of them came wrapped up in papers with a picture of some Italian mamasita right across the front. The flesh was the color of a raspberry and they were exquisite.

Cutting into a Meyer Lemon is one of the loveliest fragrances in the world. It smells of lemon, with a just little bit of orange -- the scent is unmistakable and oh so wonderful. It reminds me of my Grandma Aileen's backyard in California when I was a kid. She had lemon trees scattered all around and we would ride our tricycles all around them, feeling pretty slick, no doubt. Anyway, I digress.

So after a very long and particularly dreary week, Emilia and I decided to make a lemon cake. Nothing terribly fancy or ornate, just simple and yummy, if you please. The one I had been looking at for some time comes from Sophie Dahl's cookbook, and I'm very glad we made it. The recipe is pretty simple, and for once, I didn't tweak it. For some reason or another, I've found that the majority of Sophie Dahl's recipes require tweaking, but they are otherwise very good recipes. At any rate, there was way too much chaos going on in the kitchen at the time. So frankly, the idea was to hurry up and get the cake in the oven and get on with it. (Remind me to tell you about it later, it's quite a story -- something to do with enemas and Mickey Mouse on YouTube. Aaaah, good times.)

Anyway, the only tweaking that I think this recipe needs is that it is not sweet enough -- in the least. We served it with barely sweetened whipped cream, and I quietly wished for a great big dollop of lemon curd to go on top. And that is why Emilia and I whipped some up this afternoon before her nap. Michael sat tapping away on his laptop, blasting Oscar Peterson Trio for all to hear, and we made lemon curd. I love the stuff, and apparently, so does Emilia. Once it was all said and done and I was cleaning up the mess, she ran for her stool, propped it up right next to the counter, grabbed a spoon and happily dug into one of the jars that were left cooling on the counter. Seriously, where does she get her manners! It's downright unseemly, I say.

After the cake is gone, I fully plan to smear a bit of this on my toast in the morning. Or, if I'm feeling inspired, I'll make scones or something. It's nice, though, because lemon curd will keep in the fridge for quite awhile -- and from the looks of it, January is going to be looooong, so we'll be needing a bit of cheer.

*I harbor a love for citrus in the winter months, while my sister starts obsessing over Mexican food. I suppose it all comes to the same thing, though. You know, livening up the senses a bit.
**Yes, I know this is not a word. And yes, I chose to use it anyway.
***We actually spend gobs more at the grocery store now. It is a complete mystery to me, and one that depresses the dickens out of me, if you must know.

Lemon Capri Torte

1 ½ sticks of butter, at room temperature, plus extra for greasing
1 cup super-fine sugar (I used regular because I always forget to buy the super-fine sort)
6 eggs, separated
Zest and juice of 4 lemons (I obviously used the Meyer Lemon sort)
2 cups blanched almonds, toasted, and then ground
1 cup potato flour, plus extra for flouring the pan

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Butter and flour a 9-inch cake pan. Miss Dahl suggest using a spring form. This seemed too much of a bother to me, so I used my usual cake pan, to great success.

Using a heavy duty mixer, or a hand-held sort, cream the butter and sugar. Add the egg yolks, all in one go, and the zest and juice. Mix until well combined.

In a separate bowl, whip the egg whites to form soft peaks. Fold into the mixture. Lastly, fold in both the almonds and the potato flour. Pour the batter into your cake pan, plonk it in the oven, and bake for 10 minutes. After 10 minutes, turn the oven down to 300°F and bake for another 40 minutes or so. Cool and then invert onto a wire rack to cool completely.

Also, Miss Dahl suggest frosting it with a mix of creme fraiche and lemon curd. If you skip this part out, you'll be very sad, because I'm quite serious when I say you'll want it a bit sweeter. (Recipe from: Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights by Sophie Dahl. William Morrow Publishing, 2009.)

Meyer Lemon Curd
makes about 2 cups

4 lemons, at room temperature
1 ½ cups sugar
¼ pound unsalted butter, at room temperature
4 extra-large eggs, at room temperature (I used regular size)
1/8 teaspoon salt

Remove the zest from the lemons. Juice the lemons to make ½ cup. Set aside.

Put the zest and the sugar in a food processor and process until the zest is very finely minced. In your heavy-duty mixer, cream the butter with the sugar and zest. Add the eggs, one at a time, and then the lemon juice and salt. Mix until combined.

Pour the mixture into a saucepan and heat over low heat. Stirring constantly, cook for about 10 minutes, until nicely thickened. It should be 175°F when ready, or just below a simmer. Remove from heat and hide from your daughter. (Recipe from: The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook by Ina Garten. Clarkson N. Potter Publishing, 1999.)

'My Tummy Hurt!'

2011-01-11T18:04:00.000-08:00

It went like this:
After a long day of worrying about the car nearly breaking in half, the checking account virtually exploding, and family woes out the wazzoo, it turns out I've also got a sick little girl on top of it. This morning when Emilia woke up, she kept telling me that her tummy hurt. 'My tummy hurt, mama!' But apart from that, she appeared to be normal. And as we sat down to breakfast (just plain toast with butter), I should have known. When Emilia starts recounting all of the locations where she has thrown-up, it typically means that she is getting ready to do it again. ('I throw up in New Jersey! I throw up in Oregon!' 'Yes, and you've also thrown up in Maine, Washington DC, Las Vegas, California, Utah, and the whole of Washington State!') She had one little bite of toast -- and thar she blows, as they say. But after that, she seemed to feel great.

This is why I thought it would be fine to take her to the library to pick up our books that were on hold. And nearly five minutes from the library, she says, 'my tummy hurt. I don't feel good.' Don't worry, she didn't throw up in the car, or the library, for that matter. Even though I had to run her to the bathroom as fast as I could, because she was threatening to do so. And she didn't throw up when we ran into QFC to get carrots for dinner. And she didn't even throw up when we were home and I was trying to figure out some sort of non-hurling-inducing lunch for her. Instead, she laid on the kitchen floor with her favorite blanket, sipping a grapefruit fizzy drink, and discussing the many merits of both Frosty and Rudolph. Then she declared that pasta with butter and parmesan ought to be alright, and so we had that for lunch.

It was only after lunch, after she got a thermometer in the rear (oh, how I hate that job), and we read books and got her all snug in her bed for a nap. That's when it happened. All was quiet, I had just poured a cup of tea, got my box of See's out, and was heading toward the study when I heard it. The poor girl was violently throwing up in her bed -- all over every scrap of bedding she had, her hair, her ears, and everything. All but her stuffed friends, whom I managed to get out in the nick of time. And so, I stripped her down, plonked her little self in the shower, scrubbed her down, lotioned her up, blew her hair dry, brushed her teeth, tossed her bedding in the washer, scrubbed her wall and carpet, put clean sheets on, convinced her that her other blankets, while not the most desirable, would in fact be just fine for nap-time, gave her a drink, and plonked her back in bed. And apart from crying over her sodden blanket, she was fine.

Why am I recounting this for you? I'm not really sure. But there it is, and now you know.

We Three Kings of Orient Are!

2011-01-06T16:44:00.000-08:00

And so, a new tradition has been born! And I must say that I am beyond pleased with ourselves because of it. Yesterday, being the Eve of Epiphany, Emilia and I knocked ourselves out by making a (so very yummy) Galette des Rois. Or rather, we made the vanilla pastry cream the day before, and then I caused an enormous racket in the kitchen finishing it yesterday, while she was supposed to be taking her nap. (She just laid in her bed belting out Frosty the Snowman as loudly as she could.)

Anyway, I look forward to making a lovely Galette des Rois all year. I love it -- I love this sort of baking, and I love this sort of celebration. Because like it or not, Epiphany belongs to the Church. There is no bastardizing of it, and there is no forcing it to be secular. There is no Santa and there is no Bunny. There are just three rather dusty old men, who finally rolled into Bethlehem so that they might worship Jesus.

In addition to the marvelous Galette des Rois, we also decided to come bearing gifts, much in the manner of the three wise men. And instead of gold, frankincense, and myrrh (these really serve no practical purpose, by today's standards -- well, apart from the gold anyway), we opted for other things. Emilia got toy fruit and vegetables that she can cut and/or peel, which are really quite slick. And I got the book The Bachelors, by the much adored Muriel Spark, and Michael got whisky stones and a jigger. Not bad, not bad at all. We talked about it a few weeks ago, and sort-of settled on the idea of doing small gifts under the categories of: religious, a book, or something to do with drinks. Emilia's gift doesn't really fit any of these categories, but it is stinking cute and more fun than the lame food that came with the kitchen that Santa brought.

So anyway, it went like this:
Michael came home from work, saw the lovely display on the table and immediately started grousing about his gift not being up to par and all that. And then I yelled at him to shut-it because, 'Lookee -- doesn't the table look so pretty with the Three Kings and the cake and all? Yeesh.' So then we all sat down to lovely piping hot bowls of French three-grain soup and a warm loaf of bread. Yum. And then Michael found a piece of chalk and we all walked outside. You are supposed to write the initials of the three wise men above your door, mixing the year into it. So it went like this: 20+G+M+B+11. And then he read a prayer from his new phone. We were supposed to have our priest come over and do the blessing for us, but we didn't think Father Nagel would appreciate getting a call to be to our house pronto, if you please.

Bless, O Lord, Almighty God, this home, that in it there may be health, chastity, strength of victory, humility, goodness, and industry, a fullness of law and the action of graces through God the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost; and that this blessing may remain on this home and on those who frequent it. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Then we went back in the house, popped open a bottle of Prosecco, opened the last presents of the Christmas season, cut huge slices of cake, and were happy as clams, or however the saying goes.

Happy New Year! (and a Sticky Persimmon Pudding)

2011-01-03T16:30:00.000-08:00

And so, for your reading enjoyment, I will now supply you with a list -- a New Year's Resolutions kind of list.

1. Read David Copperfield
2. Sew one thing a month, including that damn dress and new drapes for the study
3. Make Coq au Vin (very well), trying Julia Child's recipe, Anthony Bourdain's recipe, Ginette Mathiot's, Joy of Cooking (if there is one is that book), and maybe Larrouse Gastronomique's, as well
4. Read another country (either China or India) in the way that I read Africa last year
5. While I'm at it, read another book or two on Africa
6. Man-up and go to confession, all proper-like -- no more sit-down sessions with a priest, unless I've got a serious doozy
7. Take Emilia to the Space Needle
8. Go somewhere -- Maine, Napa, London, Sevilla, Roma, Jackson, MS, or wherever, as I'm not really all that particular at this point
9. Go for a visit (i.e. a roadtrip) to Utah, with a brief visit in Salmon, Idaho
10. Less time on the computer screwing around and doing nothing
11. Start mulling over the idea of researching and writing another paper/article
12. Try a Side-Car and an Old-Fashioned
13. Sing in church (for some reason I turn into a mute whenever there is singing in church)

Sorted.

And now, while you settle on your own resolutions, I'll supply you with a recipe for a Sticky Persimmon Pudding. Ideally, you'll be sitting down with a big slice of this, a fat dollop of whipped cream, a steaming mug-ful of chamomile tea, a big clean sheet of paper, and a nice black pen for writing. It's the best way to channel brain power, I've found.

A quick note on the recipe -- I spent a great deal of time mopping boiling water off the top of my pudding as it was steaming away in the pan. It was only after it had been in there for over an hour and a half that it occurred to me that a nice piece of foil on the top would have done wonders. I tell you, sometimes I'm not dealing with a full-deck. Ah well, next time. On the bright side, I've finally used my soufflé dish. You know, the one I bought after taking a French cooking class at Sur La Table a hundred years ago -- vowing I'd make a different soufflé every day of the week? Yes, that one. Hmmm, alright, I suppose that is now officially #14 on my list of resolutions. Make a soufflé.

Steamed Persimmon Pudding
serves 6-8

3 cups flour
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 ½ cups sugar
2 eggs
2 tablespoons maple syrup
2 tablespoons pickled ginger, although I just used fresh
1 cup dried cranberries
1 cup golden raisins
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon mace (I don't have this and don't really know what it is, so I used cloves instead)
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 tablespoon Drambuie
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Using your heavy duty mixer, combine the flour and the butter. Add sugar, eggs, and maple syrup, and beat until mixed.

Cut the persimmons in half and scoop out the flesh. Add them to a separate bowl, along with the ginger, and then take your hand-held blender to them. Alternatively, you could just toss them in the food processor or blender or whatever you've got. I opted for the hand-held as it is less clean-up.

Add the persimmon puree to the batter and mix until thoroughly combined. Fold in the cranberries, raisins, spices, Drambuie, and vanilla. Pour the batter into a buttered 1-quart mold, and steam over boiling water for 2 hours. When it is ready a toothpick will come out clean. Cool for two hours before unmolding. Serve with sweetened whip cream. (Recipe from: Christina's Cookbook: Recipes and Stories from a Northwest Island Kitchen by Christina Orchid. Sasquatch Books, 2004.)

'Til He Appear'd and The Soul Felt Its Worth

2010-12-25T23:20:00.000-08:00

O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
'Til He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

     Fall on your knees! O hear the angels' voices!
     O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
     O night divine, O night, O night Divine.

A Letter From Chateau Marmont

2010-12-20T17:27:00.000-08:00

This, Dear Reader, is the beauty of Lizzie.

Emilia and I were out all day today running last minute errands. Because Christmas is in five short days, Bellevue Square was so crowded. (Emilia has Caelen's name this year, and since he is the one who got me buying the opposite of really-boring-socks [which I, in turn, passed on to Emilia] it seemed rather fitting that she give him a couple of pairs of stripy socks to go with his book.) We then ran to Whole Foods, which was a complete mistake. Seriously, it was more crowded at the grocery store than at the bloody mall. It took us a hundred years to get only a few things, and then we sat and sat in the parking lot, waiting for the blasted traffic jam to let up. ('Mama, go! Go!' countered with 'Do you want me to crash the car? I can't go!') I mean, really, did everyone leave at precisely the same moment?)

Anyway, as we were pulling up to the house my eyes immediately went to the front porch, just to see if we got any packages. Lo and behold, we got two. The first was from Grandma Margaret and Grandpa Eugene (which caused Emilia to run around the house saying 'Should we open it? Should we open it?'), and the second was from Lizzie -- all wrapped up in Charlie Brown paper. Her gifts (as always) are so much cooler than ours are to her. She does have a knack for these things, though. In fact, one of the last things she sent us had cut-outs of Edward on it, which was really quite impressive. Somehow she has remained impervious to the whole vampire affair. (Odd, I know.) While I, on the other hand, once debated getting a life-size cut-out of dreamy Edward to go in the living room. You know, just to cheer up the place and all. And another time she made her own wrapping paper using a picture of Tina Fey, in the manner of Liz Lemon, in the manner of Princess Leah. See what I mean, she's awesome. But really, without even knowing it, the girl makes me smile every single day, and I am consistenly in awe of her.

Anyway, as I tried (in vain) to get the last bites of Emilia's lunch into her little tummy, I opened up Lizzie's package -- and I have been beaming ever since. The presents she sent are all wrapped up, and we're not opening them before Christmas. But that doesn't prevent one from reading the card does it? Heavens, no!

And this is what it says:

December XX, 2010

Darling,

This book is the result of my BRILLIANT smuggling techniques while I was at the book opening at the Chateau Marmont last night for XX XX's new book 'The XX XX.'

You must swear that you will never tell anyone how you got this book, or I will never be invited to one of their fancy parties! (Yes, I have been invited to go to The XX XX's house for New Years! Of course, I have nothing to wear!)

So with Love and Style, I give you 'The XX XX'. To you, who instilled the importance of fashion in my life.

Love, Lizzie

Now, Dear Reader, is this not reason #3012416 to love the girl? She has a certain panache, no? That being said, I'm fairly certain that she will vow never to speak to me again as I've just divulged personal correspondence. But really, it is simply too marvelous not to share. (In the meantime, I do hope that it is noted that I've done my best (rather cleverly, I think) to protect the identity of what exactly was brilliantly smuggled from that ultra glamourous event -- at the Chateau Marmont, no less -- thereby protecting the identity of the ultra-fab and surreptitious sender.)

I love you, Lizzie. You're one of my favorites in the whole wide world.

Popovers For a Birthday (or Two or Three)

2010-12-14T16:02:00.000-08:00

Here's the thing of it, popovers are very easy to make. So, really, apart from burning them, the only real downside is that they take so blasted long in the oven. This is why I found myself trying to quietly whip up a batch Saturday morning -- the birthday of yours truly. I put all the ingredients in the food processor and stepped out onto the deck, making sure to close the door tightly behind me. I then plugged the processor in and loudly whirred to my heart's content. (I also do this when the small girl is still sleeping and I need to grind coffee beans. Works like a charm, too. Now, if only I could come up with a trick of silencing the damned microwave, we'd be in business.)

Anyway, I plonked the popovers in the oven, and then dashed to the computer with my blue-light and large cup of coffee in tow. And I sat and waited. And waited a bit more. When it was getting closer for the timer to go off, I started causing a bit of a racket -- just to wake everyone up. After all, it was going on 9:30 and we had a very busy day ahead of us. Michael needed to yell at the telly for the Army/Navy game (Go Army, Beat Navy!, which clearly did not happen...), and we needed to load ourselves in the car and drive to the hospital. My oldest sister had twin boys the day before -- weighing in at 4lbs 11oz each. They are teeny-tiny little things, born a whole month early, and they remind me exactly of baby birds. Well, apart from their legs, those look more in the manner of little frogs, if you must know.

Anyway, that is how we've spent the past four days -- driving to the hospital, chatting, changing bums, and feeding the little buggers. And all I have to say is, Whoa! My sister certainly has her work cut out for her, and that you can be sure. Oh, and Emilia is absolutely insisting that they are both named Paco. I keep telling her the name is already taken, as she has insisted that Uncle Matt and Aunt Jane use it when their little one is born. But she doesn't seem to be too concerned with its popularity. 'Are we going to visit Paco again today?'

To celebrate my birthday, that evening Michael cooked up a fabulous dinner: rib eye steak on the grill (which had this amazing rub all over), grilled radicchio wrapped in pancetta and pear, sweet potato gratin, and salad. And a lovely lovely bottle of red wine. Yummy. He was quite put-out with me for making breakfast. 'I could have done it, you know!'

The first time I made popovers was several years ago when we lived in Bellevue. It was our anniversary and I got up at the crack of dawn to make them before Michael left for work. I had just pulled them out of the oven when he walked out of the bedroom all groggily and said, 'Mmmm, popovers!' I was shocked, because up until that point I don't think I had ever seen one before.

And so, moving on, one of the hazards I've noticed is that the popovers get too brown for my liking if I don't put foil over the tops midway through the baking process. Popovers are a lovely breakfast, but not when they are burned -- then they're just depressing. And there's no better way to wreck my day than to have a burnt baked good first thing in the morning. So I finally risked opening up the oven (half-way through), throwing a piece of foil on top, and then quickly closing the door again. Thank goodness I like to live dangerously, too, because it worked like a charm.

And as a quick side-note, there is no better way to eat these than straight out of the oven, with tons of butter and homemade strawberry jam all over them. Mmmm. It's totally worth standing on the deck in my pajamas, freezing to death, and with a heavy food-processor balancing precariously on my knees.

The recipe is from Marion Cunningham via Baking with Julia. And I just saw in the Wall Street Journal a few weeks ago that Ms. Cunningham has a splendid cookbook dealing with all things breakfast. It came out in the 1980s, so I hope it is still in print. Anyway, I may have to track it down sometime because her contributions to Baking with Julia are the recipes that I continually go back to, time and time again (Buttermilk Scones, for instance, and Irish Soda Bread, for another instance).

Popovers
makes 9 or 10 (depending on tin/cup size)

1 cup flour
1 cup whole or 2% milk, at room temperature
½ teaspoon salt
3 large eggs, at room temperature
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted (plus extra for brushing your tins/cups)

Position your oven rack to the lowest rung in the oven, and preheat the oven to 425ºF. Butter 9 ¾c glass cups or 10 ½c muffin tins. (I usually do a combination of both.) If using muffin tins, alternate with the holes so you go so you give them plenty of room to grow (pop over) in the oven.

Put all the ingredients in your handy-dandy food processor and blitz until smooth. Then, using a ¼c measuring cup, fill each buttered tin. The tins/cups will look quite sparse as you go, but not to worry. They quadruple in size.

Plonk them in your oven for 25 minutes. Do not open the door at all during this part. After 25 minutes, turn the oven down to 350ºF and bake for another15 to 20 minutes. Our oven must run hot (despite what the oven thermometer tells me) because it is essential that I cut the time down a few minutes and cover them with foil after the initial 25 minutes has past. (Recipe from: Marion Cunningham via Baking with Julia by Dorie Greenspan. William Morrow Publishers, 2006.)

A Lazy Sod's Pipérade

2010-12-09T16:24:00.000-08:00

Well, I've finally done it. I've made our daughter throw-up due to my cooking. Nice, right? It went like this: we got home from church on Sunday and while Michael was talking to his parents on the phone, I was cooking up lunch for Emilia -- and it was something entirely new. We bought these glass noodles from Uwajimaya a month or so, intending to use them for an Ottolenghi recipe. However, that never happened, so I decided to quickly cook some of them up for the girl's lunch. Now, mind you, I've never cooked with glass noodles before, so I had no clue what I was doing. So, I treated them the same way I would regular spaghetti. Big mistake.

Once the noodles were cooked, I drained them, tossed them with a bit of olive oil, fresh tomato, and salt. And let me tell you, revolting does not do it justice. I couldn't even look at them, let alone eat them. I tried, but spit them out. And so, before tossing them in the trash, I asked Emilia (who was standing in the kitchen and at me looking like, 'why are you throwing away my lunch!') if she wanted to try them. To my astonishment, the girl said yes. I gave her a little bite, and she chewed, and she chewed, and then she started to look quite nauseous. Two seconds later she threw up on the kitchen floor. Michael was yelling, all mad-like, 'what did you feed her?!' 'Her lunch!' was all I could say before I started to laugh. Poor thing. I could hardly blame her -- after all, they made me sick just looking at them.

This incident aside, I tend to get quite annoyed when Emilia refuses my cooking. (She would have been smart to refuse it that particular time, though.) Dinner ends up so stressful when I spend the whole of it trying to cram healthy things into her little mouth. So when I decided to cook up Julia Child's recipe for Pipérade (which warrants another check-mark in my cookbook), I also cooked up some chicken for the girl, because otherwise I knew it would be a battle. Any sort of frittata/omelette/quiche/eggy-dish turns into way too much of a headache.

The pipérade was so good, though. The girl didn't know what she was missing -- well, apart from the bacon. She happily ate as much of that as I would put on her plate. It was also so easy to make -- perfect for an evening of putting up the Christmas tree and all that jazz.

Essentially all a pipérade consists of is slowly cooked onions, peppers, tomatoes, and crispy bacon, which then gets poured on top of scrambled eggs. It is served in the same dish that the eggs are cooked in, so Mrs. Child recommends using an 'attractive' flame-proof dish. (I used my lovely Le Creuset saucepan.) She also suggests dealing with the tomatoes in a way I always refuse. You are supposed to blanche the tomatoes, peel them, de-seed and then de-juice them. I have such a major problem with this, and it is not because I'm just a lazy ol' sod**. It's because I can't bring myself to actually toss out all the healthy things that are found in the skin, seeds, and juices. Those bits are loaded with anti-oxidants and vitamins all-sorts. So it just seems wrong to throw it all away. Because of this, I consistently skip this action in all of the fancy and complicated recipes that require it. So, you see? I'm not a lazy sod after all. I'm just an ardent health fanatic. Never mind the fact that the recipe calls for bacon -- call it pancetta and it automatically sounds much healthier.

**I hear that the word 'sod' is quite offensive in the UK. This is quite unfortunate, as I use it all the time. I also use my new favorite every chance I get: 'knobhead'. My friend Polly assures me that this is very bad of me, but isn't it a fabulous word? I mean, really, it's hilarious. She also tells that I should consider limiting my usage of the word 'bugger'. It's not fair -- the Brits always have the best insults. (Oh, and I suppose I should admit that the American equivalents of these words are really quite rude and offensive, so I'd appreciate all of you refraining in my presence. Were you raised in a barn or something?)

Pipérade, à la Julia Child
serves 4 to 6

8-12 strips of bacon (I happily used pancetta)
2 tablespoons olive oil or butter
1/2 cup thinly sliced yellow onions
1/2 cup thinly sliced green or red bell peppers
salt and pepper, to taste
1/2 clove mashed garlic
speck of cayenne pepper
2 or 3 firm, yet ripe, tomatoes (peeled, seeded, juiced, and sliced, if you must)
1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil or butter
8 to 10 eggs, lightly beaten with a quarter teaspoon salt and a pinch of pepper
2 or 3 tablespoons minced parsley or mixed green herbs

Brown the bacon in the oil or butter in a large skillet. Remove and set aside to drain.

In the same oil, slowly cook the onions and peppers, covering the pan and stirring occasionally. Season with salt and pepper to taste. This part should take about 20 minutes or so.

Stir in the garlic and cayenne. Lay the tomatoes over the onion mixture, and sprinkle with salt. Cover and cook for 5 minutes. Remove the lid, raise the heat, and boil the mixture for a few minutes, until much of the moisture is gone. Season again and set aside until needed.

Now on to the eggs. In a large bowl, add the eggs and whisk with a the salt and pepper. Heat the dish or skillet over low-medium heat. When very hot, add the oil or butter, pour in the eggs and stir rapidly until the eggs have set. I think I cook them a bit longer than Mrs. Child would approve, but I absolutely abhor runny and slimy eggs. When done, pour the onion-y mixture over the top, crumble the bacon, and top with fresh herbs. Serve immediately. (Recipe from: Mastering the Art of French Cooking, by Julia Child [and Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle], Alfred Knopf Publishing, 1961.)

A Visit to Santa, a Sewing Genius, and Three Years Ago Today

2010-12-08T17:43:00.000-08:00

Bitter disappointment -- there was absolutely no crying on Santa's lap this year. It's such a shame, too, because a crying/wailing child on Santa's lap makes for the best photos ever. I suppose I should have expected as much. After all, my brother said last year that we'd be lucky if we got one more crying/wailing one out of her. ('You could have a whole series!') I suppose two out of three ain't bad, though.

This year's picture turned out to be quite pretty, really. Emilia is dressed in a beautiful bright red corduroy dress, white tights, and black shoes. Her curly hair is pulled off of her pretty little face, and she looks like a little beauty. (However, I simply must stop doing this with her hair, because it makes her look like a big girl -- and not like my little two-and-a-half-year-old baby. Unacceptable, I say.) And though she has a teeny-tiny smile on her face for the picture, she is not sitting on Santa's lap. In fact, I could have comfortably sat between the two of them. While she sat, she had her hand on the edge of the sleigh trying to pull herself as far away from the man as she could get. It's a very nice picture, but clearly nothing like the others.

After the picture was taken, Santa asked Emilia what she wanted for Christmas. She looked at him and then quietly whispered, 'presents!'

Anyway, we've been trying to get in the spirit of Christmas around here. We got our tree on Saturday, put all of our decorations out, and hung the stockings by the chimney with care. Emilia has been running around the house with her Rudolph, and pretending that all her animals are the cast of characters from the old cartoon Frosty the Snowman. We've made Christmas cookies (not of a very tasty sort, though) and cupcakes. And we've been playing Christmas music throughout all of our waking hours -- well, except during naptime, anyway.

I promised her a few weeks ago that we would go to Target and get some of their really cute Nick & Nora red flannel Christmas pajamas, which we've yet to do. She had the cutest ones last year -- one pair with dogs and another with cats. But I'm kind of hoping that she forgets about them. Because as cute as they are, it is too far to drive and I'm so sick and tired of being in the car. (It's a shame, too, because they are only something like $12.) All is not lost, though, because I made her a pair of Olivia pajamas right before Thanksgiving -- and she loves them. We've been on an every other night basis with them, on account of the fact that they must be washed in between wearing. ('Are my Leevia's clean, mama?') And to be perfectly honest, I'm quite impressed with them. I set sleeves, made a collar, fashioned four buttonholes, and whipped up a pocket. Well, la-ti-da, if I do say so myself.

Emilia used to be obsessed with Olivia (which was when I first found the fabric). There was a time when we were reading Olivia Forms a Band and Olivia Saves the Circus three or four times a day -- day in, day out. She used to call Olivia 'Lee-la', but now she manages 'Leevia'. And it used to make us laugh when she would run around the house saying, in the manner of Olivia's mother, 'Wipe that glop off your face young lady, and get in the car now!' The Olivia books are fabulous.

And now that her pjs are all sewn, I'm gearing up to start another sewing project. Thinking it is time to finally start my MadMen-ish dress. It's been pinned and cut-out for months, but I've chosen to ignore it -- and it has been waiting very patiently. I suppose I should just toss my fear and intimidation aside and snap to, right? Right!

But before that happens, we've got some more Christmasing to do, which includes mass tonight. It is, after all, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. And oddly enough, we met our little Emilia exactly three years ago today.

Leek and Potato Soup, à la Julia Child (To Help One Master the Art of Fitting One's Trousers)

2010-12-04T17:59:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago I had a dream that Emilia and I flew to LA so that we could go to this cupcake shop. The cupcakes were gorgeous -- all covered with exotic flowers and such. So, in my dream, we bought five. And I actually thought to myself, 'How are we going to eat all of these before they go bad?' Anyway, we didn't dwell too much on that because we had to catch a plane back to Seattle before dada got home from work. I was trying to work out in my head how we could get around telling him we went to LA for the day, and that it only cost $123 for our tickets. But, in the manner of dreams, all of a sudden he was in the cab on the way back to the airport anyway, so it didn't really matter.

And then a week or so ago I dreamt about ice cream. We were on a bus and it crashed up on this sidewalk. While everyone was scrambling around, I looked out our window and saw the most beautiful ice cream shop. It was filled with these enormous tubs of ice cream, and the one I reallyreallyreally wanted was the blackberry gelato, with a layer of white chocolate gelato on top, and a layer of dark chocolate gelato on top of that. And then, going again with the theme, there were more of these amazing and gorgeous smelling flowers all over the top of it. Oh, and some coconut shavings, too.

I wonder why I am dreaming so much about desserts. It is not like I have been in deprivation mode. In the least. (Did I mention that I was trying to teach myself to make éclairs a few weeks ago, and managed to eat eight in three days? Meanwhile, I wish so much that we had some of those right now. All we've got are Christmas cut-out cookies -- not very tasty, if you want my opinion. I'm thinking of trying a different recipe next time round.) However, I've noticed that my jeans have been a bit, shall we say, snug these days. And I'm not just saying this because my mom took it upon herself to point it out, either. I'm saying it because, even though I don't exactly look enormous, I much prefer to wriggle freely from my clothes instead of feeling like a seam is going to burst open whenever I move. That feels most unpleasant, I must say.

And so, in an attempt not have to go out a buy the whole of jeans from Nordstrom (which are mostly that ghastly skinny sort anyway), I'm trying to whip myself into a bit of shape again. Nothing drastic, you know. Just little things like, trying to go running more than twice a year, for starters. Drinking more green tea -- really ought to invest in some other stuff because what I bought from Uwajimaya a month or so ago tastes exactly the way cow shit smells, er, I mean, nature smells. It's revolting. And lastly, eating more French food. Because everyone knows that the best way to make your jeans fit better is to eat more French food. (Karl Lagerfeld once said that there is nothing more dangerous in this world than sauces. He was speaking of French food and his own waistline, of course. But he must have been mistaken, right?)

I've been reading Julia Child's My Life in France, and it has made me want to start cooking all of her recipes again. But I found that other book, Julie and Julia, so off-putting that I didn't really know how to get back in the spirit. (The movie was magnificent, though.) Because, to be honest, I do the same thing that awful Julie Powell** does -- I often start at the beginning of a cookbook and check the recipes off as I go. And the first recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cooking is Potato and Leek Soup (Potage Parmentier). So, to quote the inimitable Mrs. Child: 'Balls!' I'm doing it anyway. And I hope to start slowly working my way through the book again.

And so, for dinner last night we had this marvelous soup. I've made it several times over the years and I am always surprised by its non-hearty-ness. It is, in essence, a simple and elegant, cloudy broth. That's why I served it with Dorie Greenspan's Swiss Chard pancakes, and my new favorite vegetable side dish: sautéed greenbeans, garlic, and chantrelle mushrooms. Mmmm. Michael, who always leans toward a heartier meal, kept exclaiming how good it was. Emilia ate all of her soup and green beans, but vowed she would not touch the pancakes or the mushrooms, no matter how much her life may depend upon it. Eh bien, what can you do sometimes?

**I know I sound mean and nasty about her, and I'm sorry to cause any offense. But her recent book Cleaving (of which I only read reviews) sounds so offensive that I can not give her much time.

Leek and Potato Soup, à la Julia Child

3 to 4 cups (or 1 pound) peeled potatoes, diced or sliced
3 cups (or 1 pound) thinly sliced leeks, including the tender green
2 quarts of water
1 tablespoon salt
4to 6 tablespoons heavy cream, or 2 to 3 tablespoons butter (I prefer the butter, myself.)
2 to 3 tablespoons chopped parsley or chives

In a large soup pot, bring the potatoes, leeks, and salt to a simmer. Keep the pot partially covered, and continue to simmer for 40 to 50 minutes. Mash the vegetables with a fork, or pass the soup through a food mill. (I opted to use my handy-dandy immersion blender.) Correct the seasoning. (I added at least another tablespoon of salt.)

Just before serving, stir in the cream or butter. Top each bowl with chopped herbs. Bon Appétit!

Side note: the soup is always better the next day. (Recipe from Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Alfred Knopf Publishing, 1961.)

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda

2010-12-03T16:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Reader, I think I've lost me muse. I'm so tired and I'm feeling quite put out by it. Every morning this week I've been sitting in front of my blue-light, drinking cups of coffee (with two sugar cubes -- egads!), and feeling like everything I need to do/should do/would like to do will just have to happen later. Ugh, right?

Today was actually proving to be different, though. I started out with the blue-light, along with two cups of coffee (that'd be four sugar cubes, if you're counting), and was all raring to go when Emilia finally decided to wake up. We had a quick breakfast, and got ourselves ready for a quick run. She insisted on wearing her 'running pants', which are a pair of bright pink cropped leggings she wore throughout the summer. So, I insisted on putting layer upon layer over her to keep her toasty warm, kind of in the manner of the mother in A Christmas Story. (You know, 'I can't put my arms down!') Anyway, our run was fabulous, and I was in desperate need of it. You know that feeling when your body starts to hurt because it is begging for exercise, please? That has been me for the past week or so. (When I called my lovely husband at work and told him we had gone running, the wise ass, er, I mean the really nice guy said: 'You feeling alright?' Hmpf!

After our run, we took Governor on a walk, got cleaned up, and then ended up at St. Edward's park, where Emilia played on the swings, slide, and we ran and ran around on the grass. (The weather was quite gorgeous today, blue-light notwithstanding.) Then we came home, had lunch, and made Christmas cookies. Hers were covered in sprinkles of every color, while mine were of the green and red variety. We then cleaned the kitchen (again), did some laundry, read books, and the little girl went down for her nap. And now I am beyond tired.

Actually I suppose where it all went down hill was when I sat in front of the computer. Oh, how I hate this contraption. It is sooooo sloooow anymore. As Michael says, you can click on something, go out for a bite, and come back only to wait some more. The whole blogger site is the worst of all. It is so beyond frustrating to work on these days, it is about to bring me to my knees. Now everytime I sit down, I can feel the energy being sapped right out of me. So rather than do any more wailing and gnashing of teeth (think I've had my fill of that for the day), I think I will just go make a cup of tea and retire to the dining room with my book. I'm reading a fabulous, fabulous book right now: Julia Child's My Life in France. Although, truth be told, I think this book holds a great deal of responsibility in regard to my discontent. Can you even imagine a life like that? Not the telly show and the writing of a classic cookbook, but the rest of it? You know, living in Paris and then Marseilles and all, going to cooking school, and most of all, seeing things and doing things. Oh, I'm so jealous! Love her as I may, I'm so so jealous. (And do you know, they did all of this on just over $9,000 a year, well, until The Book was published, anyway. It shocks the conscience.)

On Togetherness and Being Thankful (Otherwise Entitled: When This Candle Burn Out, You Gonna Die!)

2010-11-30T18:13:00.000-08:00

You see what I've had to deal with for the past week? Yes, the in-laws have been to visit, and yes, Michael's dad (that would be Grandpa Eugene) continued throughout the week to try his hand at some 'art'. I would be quite offended about it, if it didn't keep reminding me of this:

And this is quite good, in my opinion. It is called 'As I Am' and 'As I Would Like to Be' by G.K. Chesterton. Anyway, as of yesterday, all of the grandparents have left town. And this means that the house is very quiet, and very dark, and we are all a bit depressed. On the bright side, I guess we've got this lovely artwork to ponder.

Thanksgiving was nice, but very different than any other I've ever had -- namely because I cooked. Can you believe I've made it all these years without roasting a turkey? Actually, if you ask my sister it was a chicken, because it was only 10.5 pounds. (And no, they don't really come any smaller than that -- I asked. But how big is it supposed to be with only four grown-ups and a toddler??) It was very good, though. I brined it and then rubbed about twelve pounds of butter under its skin, and filled him up with onion, apple, fennel, celery, and big wads of fresh sage. In fact, Governor stood in the kitchen and was quite disgusting with all his drool. I've never seen him do anything quite like it. We actually had to mop it up several times so as not to have a slippery (and therefore hazardous) floor to walk on.

Added to it were the rest of the typical Thanksgiving trappings: mashed potatoes, stuffing (which tasted good, but did not resemble stuffing in the least -- I should have added at least two more cups of chicken broth to it), Ottolenghi's green beans with hazelnuts and such, salad, and a nice loaf of brioche. (Yes, I realize we should have done rolls. But what do you want from me?) And afterward was an enormous pumpkin cheesecake. I was quite tired after it was all said and done, and I'm thinking that if I'm cooking next year, it's going to be Mexican. So whoever is coming over, consider yourselves warned.

Other than cooking, we spent a whole week together not doing much. We were snowed it for two days, and by snowed in, I mean that we had about two inches on the ground, which never ceases to shut us all down indefinitely. Seriously, it is so lame. I grew up with a ton of snow, so it always shocks me when people -- quite literally -- abandon their cars in them middle of the road, just because there is a bit of snow. My brother-in-law went to the airport to pick up my dad on the night of the big storm. He left their house at 7pm and assumed he would be to the airport in no more than 45 minutes. Meanwhile, he got there at 2:15 in the morning. I swear. My poor dad sat there and sat there waiting. And poor Dale sat there and sat there in his car, which was mostly turned off on I-5. Oi.

Anyway, in all of our togetherness, we talked. And played with Emilia, and talked some more, and played Scrabble**, and played with Emilia, and argued about politics***. One night after Emilia had gone to bed, and we had opened up another bottle of wine, Eugene told us all about Aunt Marie's father. He was this teeny-tiny little Italian man who lived in Brooklyn with his not so teeny-tiny wife. Apparently, Amedio (I think this was his name) used to love to say to his wife, while sitting at the dinner table in the presence of everyone, 'As soon as this candle burn out, you gonna die!' Now just imagine this New York/Italian accent, and this little man, and his not so little wife. According to Michael's parents, she could have picked him up by the scruff of his neck -- and probably did for all we know. Anyway, his wife (whose name escapes me) would laugh and laugh at him, which is precisely what I've been doing since I heard the story. I've also been trying with all my might to get the accent right as I repeat it. It just doesn't sound the same coming from me -- although it hasn't stopped me from trying, that you can be sure. Suffice it to say that I have (and always have had) serious accent envy. Ah, to be accentless is a hard life. (Although I'll be damned if I'm going to engage in one more argument on the proper pronunciation of Long Island.)

Another favorite was when Emilia sat playing with her chatty phone, or whatever it is called. You know those little 'retro' toy phones we all had growing up? Anyway, Emilia walked up to grandpa one day and said, 'It for you, grandpa!' Grandpa held the receiver up to his ear and said, 'I told you never to call me at this number!' and hung up. Good stuff, no?

Michael's mother on the other hand was a godsend. She played with Emilia so that I could cook, and she danced with her, and she read to her, and all those sorts of things. Emilia kept saying to her, 'You have pretty hair!', which made grandma laugh and laugh. And let me tell you, it honestly broke my heart to see them go. There we were in the living room saying goodbye, Margaret gave Emilia a big hug, put her down, and then turned around to cry. Of course, I was sobbing as well, because that's the way I roll. But really, it is so so hard living so very far away from our families. But that is all I'm going to say about that because, well, just because, that's all. But I will say this, we are so very grateful for our families (those who were here and those who were not). And what better time than Thanksgiving to be together and to give thanks.

**In case you were wondering 'un-fez' is not a word -- but 'neap' is.

***As it turns out, our parents are nutso when it comes to politics. If my dad wasn't squawking about something, then Michael's dad was. What was really funny, though, was to listen to the two of them together. It went something like this: 'Ariana Huffington is a Jihadist!' or 'All you have to do is put a commode on a boat and there's your second home!' And so on. No wonder we had to drink so much.

On Festering Wounds, A Duck, and Getting Ready for Thanksgiving

2010-11-19T18:38:00.000-08:00

I've been wounded! No, really, I've sustained a right-proper injury. And what this means is that I am no longer sewing a thing until I get a nice thimble for my fingers and plenty more antibiotics and ibuprofen into my system.**

So there I was pinning a pattern to fabric, and I stabbed my thumb so blasted hard and so blasted deep, that I spoke only in French for a few minutes. (By French, I actually mean that I used up every profane word in my vocabulary.) And then a little while later I forgot all about it. And then...

A couple of days later I was doing something or other (which I can't seem to remember) when I thought I got a massive splinter in the same thumb. It felt all itchy and nasty, but I looked and looked and could not find a splinter. And then I forgot all about it. And then...

Sunday night, the whole house is asleep, and my thumb starts throbbing like crazy. I hopped out of bed, downed ibuprofen, got an ice pack, and went back to bed, grumbling all the while. I debated waking Michael up to have him put a drill bit in my thumb nail, but seriously, even if the man was wide awake I'm not sure I'd trust him to do that. So instead, I vowed to call the doctor first thing in the morning. And then...

I woke up in the morning, thumb throbbing and looking slightly vile, and said, 'I'm not calling the doctor to tell him that my thumb hurts. I've got my pride, I'll just play through. Besides, it will eventually go away, right?' And that's what I did -- until two days later when I found myself awake until almost four in the morning. I was miserable and incredibly put-out. Seriously, what the hell? And that's when I called the doctor.

Apparently I have a raving infection in my finger. It looks all warbled and discolored and full of nasty stuff. And you should count yourself lucky that I'm not the sort of person who would take a picture and slap it up here for you to see. Instead, I'll show you pictures of the project I was working on that drove me to such a state.

My friend Jane gave me this British book quite awhile ago called Pretty Little Things to Make. I looked wistfully through it a handful of times, and that was that. And then one day Emilia started looking at it. She could not take her eyes off of the picture of the duck laundry bag, 'maybe we make that, mama?' So we hopped in the car, drove to the fabric store, bought all the necessary things, went home, and got to it. I spent over two hours just trying to make the pattern. Seriously, these little patterns in books that you are supposed to blow up to the right size are a pain in the arse. I did it on our home copier, and finally got the measurements right when I blew the original image up 400% and then that image an extra 150%. Then I taped it all together using regular 8x10 paper. Voilà.

She has been loving her little duck, though. It was very easy to make and I hung it on her door so she could see it first thing in the morning. Her little eyes lit up and she said 'you make the duck for me!' She then proceeded to drag her duck throughout the house, filling it with dirty clothes and stuffed animals. She has even been taking naps with her duck. (The first time she did this I insisted she take out the dirty undies and socks that were residing inside said duck.) Yesterday morning I got her out of her crib and she wanted me to sit down and read books to her duck. But Mama wanted to get breakfast and get moving.

Michael's parents will be here tomorrow and we're trying to spiffy up the house a bit. Months ago we had decided that we would have the other bathroom remodeled by the time they came out, but alas, that has not happened. However, we have started on it. But, on the bright side, we have painted shelves, moved furniture, and bought a hefty supply of pretzels and potato chips. So, I suppose all is not lost.

It's going to be a busy week, though, coming up. My dad also comes in town on Monday, and my sister has about twenty people showing up to her house. And because of that, we've decided to do Thanksgiving dinner at our house -- just us, with Michael's parents, and maybe my dad dropping in for a cup of coffee or something. I've never cooked a proper Thanksgiving meal before, which means that I am petrified every time I think about it. I suppose it will be interesting, if nothing else.

In the meantime, Happy Thanksgiving!

**Although, I've just finished sewing the most fabulous little old-man flannel pajamas for Emilia. I'll tell you all about them later -- once I get the button holes and such done, anyway.

Pear & Ginger Muffins for a Wisp of a Breakfast

2010-11-17T16:52:00.000-08:00

Oh, how I have lamented so many times over the years the fact that I am not a morning person. Wouldn't it be great to be the kind of person who springs right out of bed in the morning, five minutes before the alarm clock even goes off, with a great big smile across my face, and singing songs about sunshine and all that crap? It would. But alas, it is not so. I am an outright, grade-A, bonafide grump in the morning -- every morning. It's awful, but there it is.

Anyway, this morning was no exception. I woke up, wandered into the study, sat in front of the computer for about five minutes, and then stammered off back to bed. And as I lay there, I thought about three things:

1. Michael off at work, sitting at his desk and being tired because we went to bed so blasted late last night. (This made me feel rather guilty. It also made me imagine him slightly in the manner of Bob Cratchet -- you know, all cold, hunched over, with holes in his mittens.) 2. What in sam-hell are we going to have for breakfast this morning because I am sick sick sick of everything I've been cooking up. (This made me feel depressed, yet oddly inspired.) 3. If I'm quick, I can probably conjure up a batch of those muffins I've been eyeing before Emilia wakes up. (This thought put a fire under my bum and made me spring back out of bed and rush to the kitchen, not all sunshiny, but out of bed, nonetheless.)

I love homemade muffins, but they do take a long to make in the morning. Well, the mixing them up part doesn't take that long, but the waiting around for twenty or thirty minutes takes forever. Also, they are usually a bit on the sweet side for me first thing in the morning. However, I was thumbing through Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights cook book a few days ago and decided that I could not go on much longer without making her pear and ginger muffins one morning. And there you go, I banged them in the oven, got Emilia out of her bed, we sat around and twiddled our toes for about twenty-two minutes, and then we rushed to the table for a nice little breakfast. The muffins were yummy, not overly sweet and quite wholesome.

As with all the recipes from Miss Dahl's book, I tweaked it a bit, but not too much. Every one of her recipes calls for the oven to be turned up way way way too high. She also usually tells you to keep whatever you are baking in the oven for at least five to ten minutes too long. Now before you start shouting that maybe our oven just runs hot, I'll have you know that I bought a new thermometer a week or so ago. So there. But really, do yourself a favor and turn the blasted thing down. (She always says 375ºF, whereas I seem to have better luck at 350ºF. Unless it is her granola, then turn it down to 300ºF.)

Also, this recipe calls for four egg whites. I swapped it out for two whole eggs. I would have done it as she says, but after making so many éclairs and vanilla pastry cream last week, I'm tired of wasting and/or burning through so many eggs. Anyway, I was quite pleased with the result, and fully intend to do it again.

Sophie Dahl calls these muffins 'a wisp of a breakfast' if eaten on their own, and, I daresay, she is right. This must be why I had four of them. (They're small, ok? Very, very small.) And Emilia had two, with a healthy smear of strawberry jam on top. I may have had one or two for lunch as well, for research purposes, and have determined that they are quite good at room temperature. They taste much more pear-y when not warm from the oven, but I think I may add a bit more ginger next time around. And yes, there are still a few left in the kitchen which I've been saving for Michael to have once he comes home from work, just to assuage the Bob Cratchet-y guilt I had this morning.

Pear and Ginger Muffins
make 12-16 muffins, depending on your tins

sunflower oil, for greasing the tins (I used butter because that's the way I roll)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 ¼ cups spelt flour
1 ½ cups rolled oats
1 cup pear fruit puree
4 eggs whites, lightly beaten (I used 2 whole eggs)
½ cup plain yogurt
¾ cup agave syrup or honey
1 firm pear, peeled, cored, and diced
¾ cup raisins

Preheat your oven to 375º (but I think you're crazy if you don't go with 350º instead). Oil (or butter) your tins.

In a large bowl, combine all the dry ingredients. Make a well in the center and then add all your wet ingredients, the diced pear, and the raisins. Stir gently and only until combined. Scoop the batter into your prepared pan(s). Put it in the oven for 25-30 minutes. Serve with apple butter or marmalade, or nothing, or a dish of yogurt, or scrambled eggs and bacon, or whatever, really. (Recipe from: Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights by Sophie Dahl. Harper Collins, 2009.)

Sophia Loren's Spaghetti with Tomato Sauce

2010-11-15T18:13:00.000-08:00

Cardinal Tarciscio Bertone once said something along the lines of this: 'The Catholic Church stands against human cloning. However, we may be willing to make an exception in the case of Sophia Loren.' And all I have to say is that the man makes a fine point. Seriously. Sophia Loren is gorgeous -- and that is an understatement, to be sure.

I would think that being so gorgeous must be quite exhausting, but not so for Ms. Loren.  Because apart from all the other things that have filled her busy schedule over the years, Sophia Loren likes to cook. So much so, that she has written a couple of cookbooks over the years demonstrating her abilities.   I've got her first book, In the Kitchen with Love, (a first edition, thank you very much) which is devoted to Neapolitan cuisine*.   The book is written in a friendly, chit-chatty sort of way, and filled with pictures of her throwing pizza dough up in the air, feeding chickens, setting the dining room table, etc, all while wearing her signature lined eyes. Oh, how I wish I had the nerve to do my eyes up like that. I love that mid 60s/early 70s eye-liner look that she mastered (Audrey Hepburn also mastered it in the movie How to Steal a Million, by the way). But the truth of the matter is that one looks rather absurd wearing eyes like that on a normal day-to-day basis. Or, at least I would. And what's more, is that eyes like that usually only look lovely in photos or movies and such -- not while you are wandering around the produce section of the grocery store, or trying your hand at sewing a pair of flannel pajamas for your two-year-old, or while making batch after batch of pastry dough for eclairs.  You get the idea.

In fact, there is not much about Sophia Loren, generally speaking, that is attainable.  But that is where her recipes come in to play. So while I may currently be looking, shall we say, slightly less than ravishing, I can still conjure up a batch of her tomato sauce to pile on a bowl-full of spaghetti. I've done it twice now in a week and a half. Emilia loves it because she happens to adore spaghetti all sorts, and Michael adores it because he finds Sophia Loren dreamy, and I adore it because it is easy-peasy. Seriously, all that goes in it olive oil, garlic, canned tomatoes (although we only buy the jarred ones these days on account of all that nasty BPA), basil, salt, and touch of sugar. Why on earth people buy jarred sauce filled with high-fructose corn syrup and all sorts of nasties is beyond me. And making your own sauce is ridiculously simple to do. But hey, that's just me.

And so, I'll leave you with a marvelous quote I've found of Sophia Loren's to ponder while you are cooking up your tomato sauce for dinner tonight. If it doesn't make you smile a bit, then I don't know what will. 'I don't understand Sharon Stone, who talks about sex as if she were talking about a plate of spaghetti or a pizza.' Marvelous, no?

Now then, pardon me while I go and find my eye-liner and those fake-lashes I've got stowed somewhere. Ridiculous, be damned!

*Naples is her hometown. Oh, and while I am at it, another interesting tidbit about Sophia Loren is that she was adopted. Love her even more now? Or is that even possible?

Sophia Loren's Spaghetti with Tomato Sauce

3-4 tablespoons olive oil
2-3 garlic cloves
1 24(ish)-ounce jar or can of your favorite tomatoes
fresh basil (or dried if it is November and that is what you have)
a good pinch of salt
a teaspoon of sugar

1 pound dry spaghetti

In a saucepan heat the oil over moderate heat. Crush the garlic and add it to the pan. Let it cook, turning it over a few times. After a few minutes, add your tomatoes. Add your basil, salt, and sugar. 'These days there is a tendency to forget the sugar, but that is a mistake because it compensates for the acidity of the tomatoes.' (I have not added any sugar to the sauce yet, because with Halloween and such, we're already loaded to the gills with sugar. Maybe once the holidays are over and we are back to normal, I will add it. Because I do think she makes a fine point.) Let the sauce simmer over low heat for 30 minutes, giving it a nice stir occasionally. I always partially cover the pot with a lid, otherwise we've got sauce all over the stove-top, the walls, etc...

While you are waiting, bring a pot of water to boil. Add a tablespoon or so of salt, your spaghetti, and give it a stir.  Cook for about 9 minutes, then drain. Combine the pasta and sauce in a bowl, give it a stir, and then serve with an enormous wedge of parmesan cheese at the table. (Recipe from In the Kitchen with Love, by Sophia Loren. Doubleday Publishers, 1972.)

Ghost-Pleasing Chocolate Cake

2010-11-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

Ever since Halloween, Emilia has been obsessed with witches and ghosts. She has been spending a great deal of time running around the house as a witch, using her wooden duck on a stick as a broom with a tiny plastic cat in tow, declaring, 'I'm a witch, mama!' Alternatively, she has been throwing her beloved blanket on top of her head, and refusing to let us call her Emilia. 'I'm not Emilia! I'm a ghost now!' Sometimes she even insists that she is either a witch or a ghost as she sports her Mary Poppins ensemble, 'I'm a Mary Poppins ghost!' Anyway, you get the idea.

I may have mentioned that when we saw Grandma and Grandpa (that would be my mom and David) in Oregon a few weeks ago, they came bearing gifts. It was hilarious, not to mention slightly awesome, having them randomly pull things out, saying 'Oh, honey, we got this for the girl,' or, 'Have you shown her that yet? Well, what are you waiting for!' Anyway, one of those 'things' happened to be a book. And goodness knows we do like a good book around here. (No, we're not nerds, thank you very much -- just wicked smart intellectuals. Or something like that anyway.) The book is called The Bake Shop Ghost by Jacqueline K. Ogburn and illustrated by Marjorie Priceman, and it's fabulous. We've read it a handful of times now, and each time Emilia points at Miss Cora Lee Merriweather and says either: 'What she is doing?' Or, 'She a gho-o-o-o-o-st! The answer to the her question is that Cora Lee is saying 'Get out of my kitchen!', using your scariest voice, of course. Or that Cora Lee is throwing eggs and making a right-old mess of the place. Although sometimes she just likes to point at the cat.

The story line goes something like this: Cora Lee Merriweather is the best baker in town, probably even the state. Then one day she ups and dies. The shop is sold, and sold again, and sold again, and then sits empty for a few years. The ghost of Cora Lee is haunting the shop, and this is why it keeps getting sold. No baker will stay put and fight with a ghost who keeps scaring the dickens out of them. Then one day Annie Washington buys the shop, scrubs it all over, and sets herself up. Cora Lee tries to run her out, but Annie tells her to stuff it. Cora Lee then makes a genuine nuisance of herself, causing Annie to ask what she can do to get Cora Lee to leave her alone. Cora Lee tells her that she must bake her a cake that will bring tears to her eyes, and make her feel full. And so night after night, Annie tries to do just that. She makes every kind of cake imaginable. Just as she is about ready to throw in the towel, she finally manages to hit the nail on the head. Cora Lee wants a birthday cake. Once Annie gives her this cake, her eyes get all teary and she declares that she is full. However, rather than race off to heaven or wherever Cora Lee was planning to go, Annie invites her to stay and be her co-baker. That's roughly the story, anyway.

On the last page of the book there is a recipe for a ghost pleasing chocolate cake. It is adapted from Cooks' Illustrated magazine, and everyone knows they're fab. So on Saturday, while Michael was off at a speaking engagement of sorts, and it poured buckets of dreary rain outside, Emilia and I decided to pull out the cake pans and get to it. The cake is yummy -- very easy to make, and very easy to eat. Emilia ate way too much frosting, which caused her to zip up and down the hallways like a bat out of hell, but what can you do sometimes? She was beyond excited that we'd managed to make a yummy cake that is completely suitable for a ghost. 'That Cora Lee's cake! She a gho-o-o-o-ost!' Anyway, I believe it is safe to assume that we will all be having more of the ghost-pleasing cake tonight after dinner -- but only after the girl has had enough of her mama-pleasing dinner. (Oh, and incidentally I've also discovered that it is an excellent treat to have once the two-year-old goes down for her nap. But that is not really what we're talking about here, is it?)

Now then, I made a few slight adjustments to the cake. First, we don't have buttermilk powder, but we do have buttermilk. So I swapped them out. But because that added 4 tablespoons of moisture to the cake, I used less water. The recipe calls for 1 cup water -- I used 1 cup of water, less 4 tablespoons. See what I mean? I also tripled the frosting recipe. Well, actually I did the recipe from Magnolia's cookbook, which is essentially the same, just A LOT more frosting. Although, Magnolia's calls for milk instead of water, more butter, less sugar, and no salt -- but it is essentially the same...

Ghost-Pleasing Chocolate Cake

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Butter and line (using parchment) two 8 or 9-inch round cake pans.

In a large mixing bowl, combine:

1 ½ cups sugar

1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour, sifted before measuring

¾ cup unsweetened cocoa

4 tablespoons buttermilk powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

¼ teaspoon salt

In a medium saucepan, melt over very low heat:

1 ½ sticks (12 tablespoons) of butter

8 ounces bittersweet or semi-sweet chocolate

Once melted, remove from the heat and add:

1 cup of water

4 beaten eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

Now, whisk the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, being very careful not to over mix. Pour the batter evenly into the cake pans, set them in the middle of the oven, and bake for 35-40 minutes, or until your cake-tester comes out slightly moist with a crumbs on it. Do not over bake.

Let cool in the pans for 10 minutes or so. Remove from the pans and let cool completely on a rack.

Easy Frosting

3 cups confectioners' sugar

⅓ cup unsalted butter, at room temperature

¼ cup water

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

pinch salt

whatever color of food-coloring you fancy, but just a drop

Combine all the ingredients in your heavy-duty mixer, and beat beat beat (on a lower speed) until it looks nice and fluffy. (Recipe from The Bakeshop Ghost by Jacqueline K. Ogburn. Houghton Mifflin, 2005.)

Happy Guy Fawkes Day!

2010-11-05T18:41:00.000-07:00

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November,
     Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.
I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason
          Should ever be forgot.*

You'll know what I'm talking about, of course. On this day in 1605, Guy Fawkes (and his baker's dozen of men) planned to blow up Parliament.  They intended to wipe out the entire English system of government, along with its lovely buildings, using nothing more than barrel after barrel of gunpowder. And just because Guy Fawkes happened to be out for a leisurely stroll underneath the House of Parliament with the explosive stuff, he (along with Robert Catesby and the bakers' dozen) were captured, tortured, and then put to death. While they were at it, as many other Catholics as could be rounded up were also tortured and put to death, just by association. Aaah, good times, no?

All this just because Guy Fawkes wished to put an end to the virtual Catholic witch-hunt that went on in Britain for well over 150 years. And in doing so, he ended up casting himself as a not very nice sort of fellow. This is why every fifth of November Guy Fawkes is burned in effigy at barbeques, office parties, or wherever one goes to do such a thing. It used to be that the pope was often interchanged with Mr. Fawkes, and burnt in his stead.  However, someone must have decided years ago that this was in extremely poor taste and it isn't done much anymore.  Yet the pope is still burned as part of the celebration in parts of Northern Ireland to this day.

But really, Catholics throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were not exactly highly revered in Britain. Instead, King James I thought it best to seek them out, torture, execute, force them into bankruptcy, make public lessons out of them, toss them into the pokey, er, I mean gael, and so on. In fact, being a priest at that time was basically a death sentence, and not a very nice death at that. If you don't believe me then maybe you should pick up Francis Dolan's copy of Whores of Babylon: Catholicism, Gender, and Seventeenth-Century Print Culture. And yes, the book is literally as fascinating as the title. Another good one to read is Remember Remember the Fifth of November: Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot by James Sharpe.

But before you get to those two insightful books, might I suggest a bit of a celebration taken directly from the pages of The Bad Catholic's Guide to Good Living -- a superb publication, if I do say so myself.

Celebrate: While this day is not part of the Church's liturgical calendar, there's no reason we can't enjoy it -- albeit giving the holiday a bit of a twist. Why not get the baking enthusiasts in your family (i.e., the girls) to make a House of Parliament out of gingerbread? Find pictures of these Gothic buildings on the internet and make the best copy you can, lovingly adding details with icing, perhaps even forming a tiny King James I out of marzipan. Unveil it at the outset of tonight's family dinner -- or at a gathering of friends. As dinner unfolds, tell the story of Guy Fawkes and his friends. Then for desert take the gingerbread parliament outside, stuff it with M-80 fireworks, and blow it to hell.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day!

*Taken from James Sharpe's book, Remember Remember the Fifth of November.
**The second photo was taken while we were wandering around York one day, oh, so long ago. We got a nice long lesson from one of the Tour Guides at a church there. (We also got a promise that we would not be bored while at said church, because they were cutting edge with drums, the rock and roll, and so on during the service. Ummm, no thanks.) Anyway, not the York Minster, but the one right behind it. If I remember correctly, it is the church where Guy Fawkes's father had him baptized as an infant. But he then proceeded to fall in with the wrong crowd while at school. You know how it is. Anyway, please correct me if I'm wrong.

Picasso at SAM

2010-11-04T19:17:00.000-07:00

There is a serious hullabaloo going on right now because Picasso is in Seattle. That's right. The Musée Picasso in Paris has decided to temporarily hand over a great deal of their Picasso pieces for our viewing pleasure. And believe you me, it's a big deal. The Seattle Art Museum was jam-packed today, filled to the gills with people wanting to catch a glimpse of his famous masterpieces.

Emilia and I got their around noon-ish, and then stood in line for ages to get our tickets. Tickets procured, husband/dada procured (Michael walked the couple of blocks from his office to meet us), we went up the escalator and were on our merry way. Well, not to see Picasso yet. We had to wait an hour and then get in another line for that. So instead, we busied ourselves looking at the scary mouse again, the Italian Room, an awesome drawing of Leda and the Swan, the African dancing/war masks, and so on.

Just as Emilia started complaining that it was time to go home and that she needed her lunch, it was time to queue up for the exhibit. Right as we made it past the ticket check-point, some old lady right behind us says, quite loudly, I might add, 'Are we going to be stuck behind all this baby stuff the whole time!' What a grumpy old coot. Then she immediately shuffled past, with her surly friend in tow, making her way to a different section of the exhibit -- you know, basically any part that we were not currently occupying. Give me a break, since when does an umbrella stroller count as annoying baby stuff. Anyway, I told Michael to run up and shout behind the old coot's ear, 'Must we really be trapped behind these hideously old people all day!' He tried, but she must have spotted him and moved quickly on. Sprightly for being so old and grumpy, don't you think?

Anyway, we saw what we came to see: all the paintings in Emilia's book Painting with Picasso. And as we found each one, both Michael and I recited the corresponding rhyme from the book.  Emilia was quite impressed. However, what she really really liked was the electronic-tour-thingy that they let you listen to as you walk around. She kept shouting, 'Look mama, it like a phone!' And she only reluctantly gave it up when it was time to go.

The exhibit does not allow cameras of any kind. I asked if I could take a picture of something, and the security guard said no way. I had assumed it was because of the flash, but he corrected me saying that it was because France had the rights to the pictures, and did not want any uncultured or uncivilized Americans taking pictures of their stuff. And when I said they were a bunch of Fancy French Grinches, he whole-heartedly agreed.  I suppose it is for the best, though, as all the pictures I would have gotten would probably have included some cantankerous old lady, squawking and scowling in the background, because we had the audacity to bring a child and a stroller to put her in.

You do see odd people at the museum, though. Another lady kept exclaiming that she did not understand why the tour was not conducted solely in French. (She, by the way, was clearly not French.  In fact, I'll bet she just finished some silly immersion course, and is now deeming herself a bit of a frenchy-fancy-pants. Her daughter said, 'Everything does not need to be in French now, Mom!'

Anyway, despite the long lines, the cranky old lady and her surly friend, the snooty and elitist French attitude prohibiting my uncivilized self from taking any pictures, and a funny French wannabe, we had a great time. Afterward, Michael walked back to his office to have his lunch, I gave Emilia a quick lunch in the car, and we made it home in lightening speed, singing all the while, 'Angels we have heard on high sweetly singing o'er the plains...Glo-O-o-O-o-O-o-ria...' at the top of our lungs, for naptime.

As we sat in the big green chair reading before her nap, we pulled out her Picasso book. Emilia pointed out all the paintings that we saw today, 'We saw that at the art museum!' She has no idea what it means to see the original artwork at a museum, but she does know that it is a lot of fun doing it.

Boo! (On Halloween, Scary Shrubberies, and a Practically Perfect Costume)

2010-11-01T18:28:00.000-07:00

Happy All Saints' Day! And a belated Happy Halloween, to boot!

We were supposed to go to church today, but since All Saints' fell on a Monday, it is not a Holy Day of Obligation this year. (I find that all rather confusing, to tell you the truth.) Anyway, we would have gladly gone to church today, however, the options for mass were at 6:30am and 9:00am. I hate to say it, but as a general rule, we ain't going nowhere at 6:30/9:00 in the morning. Seriously, it's practically the middle of the night, to quote Auntie Mame. Instead we cleaned the house, went to the grocery store, did laundry, Emilia wowed me by going potty in the toilet -- three times, so far, and so on.

What I've been doing is giving her a small piece of Halloween candy every time she goes potty. You know, either a candy corn or one of those little pumpkins thingys. We've got them in a big apothecary jar in the living room. However, after trick-or-treating last night, she thinks the stakes have risen, and is now reaching for suckers/taffy/candy bars. Not a chance in hell is she going to get one of those every time she goes. Does she think I'm crazy?

Anyway, on to trick-or-treating. Yesterday, after a near throw-down in order to get her down for a nap, we all hopped in the car and went over to Aunt Kari's house. (Well, except Governor. We thought it best to leave the sorry bugger home.) Kari made these scrumptious beef and Stilton pasties, with roasted root vegetables. (Absolutely divine, by the by.) While those were in the oven, Michael went on the new zip-line they've just installed in their backyard. The thing is over twenty feet off the ground and a hundred feet long. Complete lunatics,they are. (Although, I was sorely tempted after Dale offered me ten bucks to do it...) Anyway, Emilia opted for the more civilized trampoline with her cousins, and it was so funny watching her littlest cousin run all willy-nilly across it.

And so, after dinner, everyone ran lightening speed for their costumes -- and off we went. Emilia in her Mary Poppins costume; Gedde as Spock (seriously, even though he is eighteen-months, the resemblance was uncanny); Vigo as a skeleton (with a major wedgy, on account of the fact that his suit was on a bit on the short side); Caelen as some scary thing with glowing red eyes; little Michael as a grim reaper of sorts; Elsa a witch; Connor a KGB person (apparently he won best 'super-hero costume' at some party, because the girls all thought he was dreamy and couldn't help but vote for him); and Ethan as a horrifying shrubbery. Seriously, Aunt Kari yelled at him after Emilia started to cry. I almost cried, too, truth be told. Who knew shrubberies could be so scary? (He was actually supposed to be some sort of army guy. After that he spent the rest of the evening lurking in bushes and jumping out to scare the pants off of random trick-or-treaters. I tried to get a decent picture, however, the camera seemed to be on the fritz.) Oh, and Grace could not be bothered with the likes of any of us, pleading she was 'too old' to go. Lame.

It was great fun, though. We walked through a rather fancy neighborhood -- half the kids were driving golf carts from house to house, chatting on their cell phones, and wearing entirely inappropriate (i.e. trampy) attire. While we, on the other hand, picked out which house we would like to live in for part of the year -- the other half of the year would be in Barbados, naturally. Michael was ready to move into the house that was turned into a horror-house of sorts. It had a big sign saying 'Enter if you Dare' on the outside, while inside it was filled with scary skeletons of a piratical nature. But that isn't why he wanted to change addresses. It was because they had a huge table filled with bottle after bottle of wine, all for the taking. Well, you weren't meant to take a bottle of wine, you were meant to pour a glass and sit a spell, but who has time for that when all the best candy is being doled out to the other vigilant trick-or-treaters? (Michael, the answer to this is: 'Not I!')

Emilia was quite pleased with her loot, though. I carried it part of the way (it got quite heavy, you know), while she either ran alongside Vigo and Gedde, or was being pushed in the stroller by her dad. Intermittently she would raise up her parrot umbrella, just to impress all the bystanders who kept calling her Madeline. Hmpf! I mean, really. Since when does Madeline carry a parrot umbrella and wear a pork pie hat covered with daisies and cherries? Hmmm?... can you answer me that!? Meanwhile, the jacket is actually the spitting image of Madeline -- totally crafted by moi, thank you very much. And so was the skirt, thank you very much. And so was the hat, thank you very much. (Although, I had a great deal of technical support from both my mom and Michael, but that is just nit-picking, if you ask me.) The girl did make one beeeauty-ful Mary Poppins, though, and she looked practically perfect in every way. Michael kept saying to her, 'Mary Poppins, I'd know that sill-you-wet anywhere! (That'd be silhouette, if you can't understand his cockney impersonation.)

All in all, it was a lovely evening. And even though the costume took me a million and a half years to make, I'm glad I did it. Because first of all, now I know I can. And second of all, she has been playing with nothing but that for going on a week now. She is likely going to take one of us out walking around this house with that blasted (yet seriously cute) umbrella. And yes, I am slightly envious of the thing. And yes, I kind-of wish I got my own. Alas, maybe next year. Although next year she will probably be moving on to greater things -- you know, like horrifying shrubberies and what not.**

Oh, and a quick note on the pumpkins ... they are named Slim and Hilda. Quite dashing, wouldn't you say?

**Although, I challenge you to find anyone greater than Mary Poppins. Alright, alright, Mary the Mother of God, Jesus, and all the Saints, maybe. But after that it is Mary Poppins. In fact, wasn't she recently beatified? If not, then she should be. The woman performed miracle after miracle, and totally made George Banks come correct and be a better dad. Sounds downright saintly to me, don't you think?

No Roses for Governor!

2010-10-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

We spent a couple of hours this morning without power. It has been absurdly windy -- which always manages to knock out the power for a bit. It was nicely timed, though, as I had just pulled the scones out of the oven. I hate to say it, but having our scones ruined (i.e. not cooked) could have potentially wrecked my whole day. Maybe even my week. I mean, really.

After our lovely breakfast, and feeling the house begin to grow gradually colder, Emilia and I decided to bundle ourselves up and go out to clean up some of the havoc that the wind caused. Leaves, fir needles, pine cones, and broken branches were everywhere. After we were at it for a bit (and by 'we', I actually mean 'me'), Emilia looked up at the roof and declared she saw something. 'What's that?' she asked, pointing at the steam pouring out from one of the ducts. The power was back on! I quickly ran in to re-start the dishwasher and the dryer before we lost power again, and as I did so, I could hear Governor standing over one of the heat vents crying. Talk about pathetic.

It's always the same with him. The heat comes on and he bolts to his favorite place, and then makes the most pathetic groaning noises until one of us covers him up with his blanket. The little guy likes to be warm. In fact, we typically refer to him as our Miami Terrier because there is no way he could stand Boston. It gets frigging freezing there, after all. I don't know how he can stand it, though -- all that dry heat blasting him in the face. Emilia was just over a year old when she started quoting me, er, I mean, she started saying -- of her own accord, 'I can't breath in this house!,' every time the heat came on. Yes, she would occasionally switch to, 'I can't walk in this house!' (Don't look at me -- I've no idea where she gets it.)

Anyway, as I went to cover the little bugger up on his bed before heading back out into the storm, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the sweater my mom knit for him. She was just doing the finishing touches on it while we were all in Oregon, and all I have to say is that it is perfect. Absolutely perfect. It is a cozy, warm, and very thick wool. And it fits him better than any jacket we've ever found for him. Lucky for him, his new sweater is covered with stripes -- and not roses. And it is absolutely marvelous that his Uncle Sugar has one to match.

Have you ever heard of the book Harry the Dirty Dog? It came out in the 1950s and is quite fabulous. It is one of our favorite gifts to give, and Emilia could probably recite it from beginning to end. Anyway, on our last trip to the library, we managed to locate the two follow up books: Harry by the Sea and No Roses for Harry!, respectively. I suspect that after I re-new them the maximum time allowed, I will be adding them to my Amazon shopping cart. (You know, the shopping cart that will forever runneth o'er...)

And so, No Roses for Harry! is all about the sweater that Grandma knits for Harry. Because the sweater has roses all over it, thereby causing all the people to laugh at him and all the dogs to bark at him, Harry tries to lose it. Failing this, he sits in the backyard and pouts. A bird then flies up, bites on to a loose thread, and flies off, taking the sweater (in a very long strand) with her. Harry is elated. The bird then turns the sweater into a nest and can be spotted in one of the trees in the park. Grandma knits up a replacement for Harry, and instead of the ghastly flowers, it is covered in spots. Nice book, right?

Now whenever we can't find anything around the house, we've decided that the bird from Harry must have taken it and put it in her nest/sweater. So far we've decided that she has made off with a dress for Emilia's doll, SweatPea, Mama's eyedrops (which I find annoying on account of all this blasted heat in the house drying out my eyes), and all of Emilia's pacifiers. (This is ingenious, if you ask me, because the girl has now been off pacifiers for a few weeks...)

The book Harry by the Sea is just as funny. The family all goes to the beach, and Harry is is hot because he can't find any shade. One of the parts that makes mama and dada laugh so much is when Harry tries to stand 'in the shade that a fat lady made.' Emilia has no idea why this is funny, but she knows that page makes us laugh. As we drove home from the coast a week or so ago, she was conked out in the backseat of the car for the first two hours of the trip. (The doctor, being a genius, recommended a small dose of children's Benadryl to stave off carsickness -- quite helpful when driving through the windy roads of a national park, mind you. It is also a miracle worker, as the girl was already so tired she could hardly see straight.) Anyway, she woke up two times during this nap -- and said both times -- all bleary-eyed, 'fat lady made!' Then she fell immediately back to sleep. It was quite funny, once we figured out what she was saying. (Michael: 'What is she talking about? Fat lady made?? Oh, yeah ... right ...' chuckle chuckle.)

But there you go, two quite funny (and quite applicable) books that have stood the test of time. Not just the fifty plus years that they have been in print, but also the fact that they are highly revered around our household. Despite the fact that the mother is wearing a dress with an apron, and holding a mop in her hand throughout the first book. While the father is wearing a tie and reading the paper. Seriously, thank goodness times have changed, right? I could never wear a dress while mopping. I much prefer my Juicy sweatpants.

Anyway, getting back to Governor, his sweater, and his Grandma. Mom, he misses you terribly. No one else will sit on the couch and snuggle him with a stack of cozy blankets. (He does make an excellent lumbar suport, no?) And no one will give him snacks into the wee hours of the morning. It's quite sad, really. On the bright side, he will stay nice and warm this winter in his natty new sweater. But the first dog that barks at him while wearing it is going to get it! That's all I have to say.

On Wet Feet and Brilliant Sunshine

2010-10-20T17:10:00.000-07:00

Rock, stone, pebble, sand
Body, shoulder, arm, hand
A moat to dig,
A shell to keep
All the world is wide and deep*

Rule #1 -- If you happen to find yourself wandering around the coast of Oregon, and then quickly pause to have a family picture taken, might I suggest not turning your back on the water as you do so? Otherwise, you may find yourself with water up to your tush, and then proceed to spend the next couple of days jamming your mother's hairdryer into everyone's boots.

What is it about the ocean, though? It is one of those places that always, without fail, settles me down. And I believe that it is fairly safe to say that I could stay there for hour upon hour and be alright. Well, so long as we have snacks and all the other accoutrements, that is. Because, let's face it. There is also something about the ocean that always, without fail, makes me hungry.

Rule #2 -- If your two-year-old daughter (who is used to sleeping in a crib) is quite excited about the prospect of sleeping in her very own big-girl-bed (inflatable mattress on the floor), might I also suggest bringing along some duct tape? Otherwise, you may want to brush up on your wrestling moves before you get there. (I do actually feel bad about threatening to throw her chocolate mouse in the garbage if she did not 'stop all this racket and go to sleep now!' But I was really quite desperate and beside myself.)

Rule #3 -- If one's spouse buys a cute pair of pajama bottoms from the little artsy shop in town, and chooses to sport them one evening, do not (I repeat, do not) say: 'Good heavens, woman! Which clown did you steal those from?!', and expect not to suffer repercussions. (My mom was the one is clown pants. David was the one with the commentary. And Michael and I were the ones trying (really hard, I might add) to stifle our laughter. (I thought they were quite cute, personally. I also think that David is hilarious.) Oh, and while I am at it, one should not (I repeat NOT) tell one's daughter that her jeans are looking remarkably tight.  It is the current fashion trend, Mom! Hmpf!

And so, we've just passed a wonderful week on the coast of Oregon. Every night we were snug as bugs, sleeping about fifty yards away from the ocean. Yes, it managed to rain buckets the first day we were there; so much rain, in fact, that my heart began to sink as I wondered if we were ever going to see the sunshine again. (Have I told you how very frightened I am by thoughts of this upcoming winter? And that I am already spending a great deal of time working on my tan in front of my blue-light?) Anyway, even as the rain came down in sheets, and my mom and I both declared that we needed to crawl into the dryer once we got back to the house, everything became much sunnier once we walked into the Grateful Bread Bakery. We ordered up cups of tea and an enormous slice of red velvet layer cake. Yes, it was my brilliant idea to share a piece among the three of us. (That would be my mom, Emilia, and me. Michael and David were back at the house watching football and dabbling in sundry medicinal tonics.)

Don't worry, though, because it was remedied the very next afternoon when we went back to the bakery. My mom, being the wise lady that she is, delicately suggested that maybe we each get our own.  (It was carrot cake this time.) But really, I kept telling her that if she wanted any red velvet, to get eating, because Emilia and I don't mess around. To boot, the next day Emilia got her own pot of chamomile tea (with lots of ice-cubes), and thought she was the cat's pajamas because of it. (Otherwise she would have drunk all the creamers again. You know the little individually wrapped cuppy-things they have? Those.**)

The sun did eventually shine, though. And when it did, it was brilliant. And we proceeded to have a ball together. We've driven to the Oregon Coast to meet my mom and David (and Sugar, too!) for a couple of years now in the early fall, and it seems there is no better time to go. We typically spend the week staring at the ocean, drinking ourselves silly, chit-chatting about everything under the sun, eating everything in sight, sometimes doing a bit of shopping***, and just generally being together.

We also drove to Newport and went to the aquarium. Emilia touched a starfish, kissed an alligator (through the glass), and declared that the nasty ol' snakes 'make mama the willies!' (Very true, I loathe snakes and don't think they have any business being at an aquarium. Or anywhere else, for that matter.) The sea lions were nice, though, and made Emilia laugh and laugh. 'Look at that guy!' Afterward we went across the street to Rogue Brewery for lunch, where Emilia pressed her nose into my shoulder as tightly as she could while we walked through the brewery to get to the restaurant. I don't blame her, the smell of beer making is not for the faint of heart, and is really quite smelly. The beer itself is fantastic though. Michael got the Shakespeare Stout and I got a Brutal Bitter IPA.

But now we are all home again, and longing for the sounds of the ocean, a big bowl-ful of soup, and watching mom knit row after row of sweaters and socks. Thank you so much Mom and David. We miss you guys already.

*Taken from All the World, by Liz Garten Scanlon
**What? Fat is good for brain development. If you don't believe me, then look it up. That's all I have to say.
***You should be proud, though, because I managed to skip the shopping this year. My mom thought it was so pathetic she couldn't help but to buy things for us. 'Will you please pick out a book already! My goodness!', and that is just the beginning. (Meanwhile, I'm quite excited about my new reads...)

In the Red

2010-10-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

Every morning it's the same thing. I stand in the bathroom pulling my makeup bag out of the cabinet, and Emilia comes rushing in behind me. She whizzes right past, bends down to grab her stool, scoots up to the mirror, declaring all the while, 'I need some makeup on, too!'

While I stand there putting a nice shellac on my face, Emilia digs into my bag and pulls out eyeshadow, eyelash curler, and mascara. She knows not to touch my concealer, because no matter how many times she tells me that she has dark circles under her eyes, I don't believe her. And she is also not supposed to be touching my mascara, but she is convinced that the tube that came with Lancôme's free gift a few weeks ago belongs to none other than herself. Ordinarily she likes to apply it right to the middle of her forehead, along with whatever eyeshadow or pencil she can get ahold of before I yank it all away.

The last thing we do, though, as I am putting it all away, is apply our lipstick. She stands there with a tube of Chanel Glossimer, and whips the wand out like it's nobody's business. While I, on the other hand, resort to my treasure trove that is well out of her reach. I may be missing many products in my beauty regiment, but lipstick is certainly not one of them. I do love me some fancy lipstick.

That being said, I was on Nigella's blasted website several months ago looking at her lists of things that she loves. (It's kind-of in the manner of Oprah's list, I guess, but not nearly as annoying.) Anyway, after staring at this list for only a few seconds, one begins to realize that one will not be able to sleep at night unless one immediately procures some of the items that she is raving about. On her list are things like: a gorgeous wooden little kitchen, which is featured prominently on the first page of her newest cookbook (major piece of garbage, by the by.  Ours not only came in the mail broken, it is also now comprised of mostly super-glue. Cute, but not meant to be played with -- at all...); Estée Lauder's Advanced Night Repair, which I also immediately purchased, and have no idea if it actually does a lick of good. Since it is quite expensive, I think I may just stick with my trusty Argan Oil (Shea Terra Organics makes a fabulous one, and it lasts for ages...); Bendick's Bittermints, which I have looked for to no end and cannot seem to find. I may just have to resort to ordering them straight from the UK; and, lastly, Revlon lipstick.

When I read the bit about the lipstick I was really quite intrigued. I think I had just finished watching that biography on PBS about Elizabeth Arden and Helena Rubenstein. Anyway, they were the queens of beauty and lipstick until Revlon rolled out their own wares. Naturally I ran to Bartells the next day and bought myself a tube of it. I think the one Nigella raves about is actually called Really Red, but I opted for the one next to it -- In the Red. When I called Lizzie on the phone to tell her all about it, she ran to the drugstore and bought it as well. Only she bought them both, on account of the fact that it was buy one get one. Why don't I ever run into these sales?

It has taken quite a bit of time, but I think my Revlon is finally beginning to grow on me. That is because every time I see a picture of Little Lizzie, she is wearing the most beautiful shade of red lipstick. Of course I always demand to know what it is, and she always says the same thing, 'In the Red, silly! What else?' The biggest drawback to this lipstick, though, is that it dries the daylights out of my lips. Seriously. I end up searching for tubes of chapstick twenty minutes after I put it on.  I have finally learned to apply a nice layer of shea butter (or even that Maman & Bebe Balm from L'Occitane) before the lipstick, and there you go. It is not the fanciest stuff in the world (it cannot hold a candle to my beloved Vendôme by Chanel or Flamenco by Nars), but it is one of the prettiest shades of red I've seen. (In my mind, Flamenco is the best red on the market right now. It's gorgeous, which is why I've got two, but it still isn't as nice as Chanel. Chanel actually smells like fresh roses. And not artificial, by the way, but like you've actually just plonked your nose in the middle of a rosebush.)

However, as Emilia and I stood putting on our makeup this morning, I couldn't help but exclaim, 'Hey! Why are you putting on Chanel and I'm putting on Revlon?! It's a world gone mad.' To which Emilia laughs and  says, 'Do it again!' Which means I must repeat what I've just said to her, while she laughs in delight all the while. But it actually does bare repeating. Why on earth is she wearing Chanel and I'm sporting Revlon?! Hmpf!, if I do say so myself. My mother is right, I am creating a monster. And I hate to say it, but I am truly enjoying every minute of it.

On Lampshades, Vintage Patterns, and Buttonholes

2010-10-06T16:26:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, all that fabric I bought a few years ago, thinking I was going to redecorate the entire house with homemade lampshades, was not the silliest thing I've ever done. Because even though I've still not managed one shade (you try it, then tell me it isn't tricky!), I have made one rather splendid little dress for Miss Emilia. The look on her face was quite something when I showed it to her, too. 'Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!' It's like she thinks I am her own personal Coco Chanel. ('She makes pretty dresses!') And she has taken to calling it a Mary Poppins dress, despite the fact that I'm quite certain Mary Poppins would not be caught dead in it**. However, we are currently in the throws of making a Mary Poppins costume for Halloween for the girl, so she has decided that it is practically the same as what Mary wears during 'Step in Time'. (It's not even a little bit similar. But who am I to judge?)

Anyway, we are after the Nanny costume -- not the Jolly Holiday one. And we are making quite a bit of progress, too. I've made the skirt already and I am planning to make the jacket with my mom while we're all on the Oregon Coast next week. After that, we'll just need a hat (no luck with that as of yet -- although I have determined it to be in the style of the pork pie), an umbrella with a parrot on the end, a white shirt with a red ribbon/tie, and a carpet bag. Simple enough. However, something tells me that I am way above my skill level with this jacket.

I have recently discovered Etsy, and the great big world of vintage patterns. I found a pattern from 1962 for a child's jacket that is sort of in the manner of Mary Poppins. And while I was at it, I found a lovely dress pattern from 1952 for a cocktail dress -- for me. I'm determined to teach myself to sew, and I've already got the fabric for the dress, too. So, we'll see. (I suppose that I ought to disclose that the pattern used for Emilia's little dress is not vintage, and it isn't from Etsy. It is Oliver + S, and I ordered it straight from their site. They have the most gorgeous childrens' patterns I've ever seen. Just looking at them will make anyone want to start sewing.)

However, before I start thinking about cocktail dresses, I'd better get this jacket done. I've looked at the directions for the pattern, and they don't exactly look self-explanatory. I've noticed that much of my sewing skills seem to be based on instinct (namely because most patterns seem to think one already has an inkling of what one is doing while in front of a sewing machine -- ha!). Just before I sat down to wing-it with buttonholes this afternoon, I had to sit and look at the Rock & Republics I was currently sporting, to see if I could figure it out. I did! Not much to it, really. Skinny zig-zags in a stenciled loop. And I did it twice for good measure. Hopefully the thing doesn't come to pieces in the wash, but if so, I won't cry too much. After all, the fabric was actually meant to be a lampshade. Once upon a time.

**I'm fairly certain that Coco Chanel would not be caught dead in it either. How very rude, don't you think? Especially considering how much she is adored around this household.

Do Not Fear the Marmite! (Otherwise Entitled: Spaghetti with Marmite)

2010-10-04T17:48:00.000-07:00

Marmite has fascinated me for years. What can I say? I'm obviously not British, so I did not grow up eating the stuff. But I am someone who has a tendency to pay attention to all things British. That is why when I heard ages ago that there is a spread ... that comes in a jar ... that is a yeast extract ... filled with B vitamins ... and considered so wholesome that children of all ages should be eating it up ... I paid attention. But really. Yeast extract? Pardon me while I gag.

I remember I even sent an email to my Scottish friend, Polly, asking her all about it. 'What is this Marmite and Vegemite stuff I keep hearing about?' To which she responded, 'It's nasty and I don't think you'd like it.' Well, alright then, enough said.

But then it started appearing in all the grocery stores in the area: Whole Foods, QFC, Metropolitan Market, and the like. And as I walked through one of those stores with Emilia a month or so ago, I couldn't help but be drawn in -- that jar is quite attractive. It just looks so marvelously British that I can't help but like it. So, naturally, we bought a jar. And then I put it in the pantry and proceeded to stare it down -- every time I opened the door. Hmmm, what is one to do with the stuff anyway? Because I'll tell you right now -- smearing it on a piece of toast in the morning does not sound appetizing. At all. Not even a little bit.

Lo and behold Nigella's new cookbook came in the mail a week or so ago (I reallyreallyreally must stop doing the pre-order on new cookbooks before our checking account explodes), and as I sat thumbing through the pages, I saw it: Spaghetti with Marmite. The recipe comes complete with pictures of children eating it up and everything. And, according to Nigella (who is so gorgeous it makes me downright irritable), she has never met a child who does not like it. Sold!

It's now a week or so later and I've already made it twice. The first time was when Michael was out of town and I wanted to test it out on Emilia. Do you know, I cooked this up and served it alongside roasted cauliflower and sauteed kale (because that is what we had in the fridge)? Emilia ate every bite. (Gasp!) And then she asked for more. So did I. And when I pulled the jar out a few days ago to make it again, Emilia saw it on the counter and said, 'Mama cooking Marmite! Yummy!'

I'm not sure if this means that the girl is a fellow Anglophile, or if she just has a taste for Marmite. Either way, I'm content.

Spaghetti with Marmite
serves 4-6, depending on age and appetite

375g dried spaghetti
50g unsalted butter
1 teaspoon Marmite, or more to taste
freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add a tablespoon of salt, and then cook the pasta according to the directions on the package.

Just before the pasta has finished cooking, melt the butter in a small saucepan. Add the Marmite and a tablespoon of the pasta water. Stir it thoroughly to dissolve. Reserve about half a cup of the pasta water, and then drain the pasta. Pour the Marmite mixture over the top, adding a bit of the water if it seems dry. (You will want it a bit on the slippery side.) Dish up, and serve with plenty of grated Parmesan. It also doesn't hurt if you serve it alongside any vegetables that your child may not traditionally be inclined to gobble up. (Recipe from: Kitchen by Nigella Lawson. Chatto & Windus, 2010.)

Sticky Teff-Kissed Spice Loaves

2010-09-28T17:09:00.000-07:00

I can honestly say that never in my entire life have I pulled out the beaters and whipped up some cream, simply so that I might have a healthy dollop of the delicious stuff -- all by myself, in the middle of the afternoon. But that officially changed as of roughly five minutes ago, because I decided to have a slice of the gingerbread I made, and was certainly not going to do it without some cream on top. I'm so glad I did, too. Because this is my favorite time of day to sit down with tea and something quite yummy to go with it.

We actually had this gingerbread a few nights ago after dinner. And, to be perfectly honest, I liked it, but I immediately began to worry about what I was going to do with two loaves of the stuff. (In case you were wondering, as per usual, I froze one.) However, to be fair, it seems I've turned into a no-dessert-after-dinner sort of person. On second thought, I am more of a if-I'm-going-to-eat-dessert-after-dinner-it-sure-as-hell-shouldn't-be-even-remotely-good-for-me sort of person. But even then, I only like it sparingly. (I can just see my mother right now. If she knew this, there would certainly be a look given, probably even a few short words said. But I can't help it. I prefer my sweet in the middle of the afternoon.)

Anyway, that is neither here nor there. What I am actually supposed to be talking about right now is this recipe for gingerbread. It is from Heidi Swanson's cookbook, which is filled with whole foods -- not the grocery store chain, mind you, but actual whole foods. You know, grains, vegetables, beans, butter. That sort of thing.

The Sticky Teff-Kissed Spice Loaves is the first recipe from her book that I've done, namely because never having heard of teff flour before, I was intrigued. And I can safely say that I am now officially fascinated by the stuff. Teff is a very small Ethiopian grain that is apparently filled with iron and other such wonderments. I can't tell you what those other wonderments are at the moment, because the cookbook is currently in the dining room, and Emilia is down for her nap. So I'll be damned if I'm going to go traipsing down the hallway for it right now. As it stands, I'm still in awe with myself for daring to whip cream while she is asleep.

The other flour used is whole-wheat pastry flour. Can I just tell you that the difference between this and regular wheat flour is vast? I'm talking leaps and bounds. Regular wheat flour is so heavy, whereas this stuff is quite airy-fairy. I'm thinking that I will not buy the regular stuff ever again, so long as I live. Well, until I go to buy it again, because, seriously, this stuff is expensive. Although, it pales in comparison to teff flour. That stuff was seven dollars for a teeny little bag. It is odd how expensive hippie food can be sometimes. My sister claims that this is an oxymoron, because everyone knows that hippies are tight-wads. No offense by this, obviously. I come from a long line (on my father's side) of serious tight-wads. Thank goodness my mom's genes squashed that out of us.

Anyway, this recipe is perfect for the fall. Incidentally, it is also perfect for the middle of the afternoon with a hot cup of Brodies Famous Edinburgh right next to you. And because the cake keeps so well, I may be doing this every afternoon for the rest of the week. (By the way, if you also decide to do this, Miss Swanson says to store the cake in the fridge. And, like a lady right after my own heart, she also recommends freezing them.)

Sticky Teff-Kissed Spice Loaves
Makes 2 loaves

2 cups whole-wheat pastry flour
1 cup brown teff flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking soda
½ teaspoon sea salt
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground allspice
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
1 cup unsalted butter (2 sticks)
½ cup water
¾ cup blackstrap molasses
¾ cup honey
1 cup natural cane sugar (I used regular C&H, because that is what I had)
3 large eggs, at room temperature
½ cup milk
1-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and grated
Freshly whipped cream, for topping

Preheat the oven to 325°F, and place your racks in the center of the oven. Butter and flour 2 loaf pans (8-inch by 4-inch), tapping out any excess flour.

In a large bowl, combine the flours, baking soda, salt, and all the spices. Stir to combine.

In a medium size saucepan, combine the butter, water, molasses, honey, and sugar. Cook over medium heat, stirring until the butter is completely melted. Off the heat and set the pan aside to cool a bit. Once cool enough to dip your finger in without shrieking, whisk in the milk and then eggs, one at a time. Using a rubber spatula, fold in the dry ingredients, in 3 increments. Do not over mix -- just ignore the little lumps you still see. Fold in the ginger.

Pour the batter into the 2 prepared pans. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until the center is just set. If the cake is over baked, much of the stickiness will be lost. Let the cakes cool in the pan. Serve sliced with a healthy dollop of whipped cream. (Recipe from: Super Natural Cooking by Heidi Swanson. Ten Speed Press, 2007.)

Hey, That's My Brioche!

2010-09-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

Whenever Emilia and I go to the library, which is a lot these days, we often walk across the street and go to The French Bakery before heading home. We both love it in there. It is small and cheery, and a great way to avoid eating lunch at home. Emilia usually opts for a ham and cheese croissant and perrier, while her mama is usually content with the best cappuccino that $2.50 can buy.

Anyway, a month or so ago I broke down and decided to try one of their brioches. It was so pretty to look at -- all golden and puffed up. But right after we got to the table, Emilia decided that it looked quite yummy and nearly ate the whole thing. And then she sat, laughing and laughing, as I told her, 'Hey! That's my brioche!' Every now and then she would proudly (or was it menacingly, I can't recall) chime in with, 'I ate it! I ate mama's brioche!'

And so now, every time we go in to The French Bakery, Emilia thinks that mama should get a brioche for her to eat. However, while the brioche that they sell is quite good -- pardon me while I toot my own horn here -- mine is better. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that brioche is really best when eaten warm -- with a nice schmear of butter, and an even bigger schmear of homemade strawberry jam.

Usually I make two loaves of brioche, and, once they've cooled, I freeze one for later. I love this because I dream about it every day -- and then I finally pull it out of the freezer to have with roast chicken for dinner. Besides that, brioche is a bit of a pain to make. Actually, that's not true. It's quite easy, but it does take time -- two days to be exact. However, this time I used our brioche tins (because Emilia has been carrying them around the house and reminding me of their existence). The only difference was that I baked them for about ten minutes less than I would do for a loaf. And voilà -- perfect. Not to mention, an excellent way to make one's husband wish that he was home instead of in a motel somewhere near the Detroit airport. Don't feel too sorry for him, though. He is currently in a lovely hotel in Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia. Why doesn't my job have those kinds of perks, I wonder?

(I've written about the many wonders of brioche before, so I am not including the recipe here. Instead, the recipe, et al, can be found here.)

Big-Girl-Underwear Are in Effect! (And Really Rather Wet)

2010-09-17T16:55:00.000-07:00

'Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! You got Big-Girl-Underwear! Should we put them on? Should we put them on!' Emilia nearly shouted this at me yesterday as I opened up the Mini Boden package that had just come in the mail. She was so excited, she looked like she was going to burst.

Emilia has been eyeing the underwear in the Mini Boden catalog for quite some time now. 'As soon as you go potty in the toilet you get those!', she would say over and over again. And, lo and behold, last week she did just that -- the girl went potty in the toilet. Mama and dada were shocked. (If you don't believe me, just ask Emilia, she'll tell you, 'Mama and dada were shocked!') So, being true to my word, we ordered a set of Big-Girl-Underwear right up. And wouldn't you know, she has not had any interest in returning to the potty ever since. Well, until yesterday that is.

Once those little floral beauties graced her backside, we couldn't get her off the pot.  She tried to go four times in ten minutes -- but nothing doing. I suppose that when you don't have to go, you don't have to go. So instead she ran around the house in a tee-shirt, her new undies, and her wellies, feeling pretty slick. And she did not think it was funny when I suggested that maybe we put her skirt back on -- on account of the fact that then we would no longer be able to see her cute little undies with her cute little bum in them.

Michael and I both reminded her several times that she was wearing Big-Girl-Underwear, and that one is not meant to whiz in them. However, in all of the excitement, she did just that. As I was about to get our bowls of French onion soup on the table, Emilia ran in the kitchen and began wailing, 'You need a diaper back on! You need a diaper back on!'  Too late.

Even so, she got to wear them again today, with Mama reminding her all the while, 'You've got to tell me when you've got to go.' But again -- too late. She wailed and wailed and cried and cried as she stood there, wet legs, wet Big-Girl-Underwear, and a wet pool going all the way from her bedroom down to the kitchen.  As I stripped her down and cleaned her off, she said she 'wanted to be a good listener.' How does one explain that being a good listener is a different thing than being two-and-a-half with not much bladder control? After all, she was being a good listener.  She told me when she had to go -- it just happened to be as she was going.

And so, with the girl all cleaned up and back in a diaper for nap-time, Mama on her hands on knees cleaning up a trail of wee, Emilia stood next to me and said, in her sweet sweet little voice, 'thank you for cleaning up the whiz, mama. Sorry about that.'

And because of that, I will clean up wee-laden Big-Girl-Underwear as long as she needs me to do it. But -- let's just hope it isn't that long.