Miss Dahl's Flourless Chocolate Cake

Hmmmm, well ... not really sure what to say about this one exactly.  It is a rare thing to come across a chocolate cake that I actually dislike.  Particularly one of the flourless sort that is made with nice quality chocolate.  However, this one ... well.  Maybe you should try it and get back to me.

Emilia and I made it last week, after we stocked up on Green & Black's chocolate from the store (Sophie refers to this chocolate elsewhere in the book, so I figured we may as well try it here.)  And after dinner that night I pulled it out of the fridge, whipped some cream, rinsed some raspberries, and served it up.  (She suggests crème fraiche, but I opted for sweetened cream).  Anyway, Emilia ate the raspberries and cream, Michael (being the dear that he is) ate his whole slice, while managing to agree that it was clearly not one of the best attempts at a chocolate cake.  And then he went on to say that maybe I should write a letter to Sophie voicing my complaints.  He suggested writing something like this:

'Dear Hot Dame (his words, not mine), Maybe your wee-one liked this cake...' 

By 'wee-one' he is actually referring to Jamie Cullum, which is rather funny, really, as the two of them are probably the same height.  Oh, and as a side-note, my wee-one (and Emilia) just got us tickets (for Mother's Day, wasn't that nice?) to go see Sophie's wee-one in concert this summer at Chateau Ste. Michelle.  I'm most excited as he is rather fabulous, is he not?

Anyway, I'm not giving up on this cookbook yet, despite the fact that literally every single recipe I've done has required tweaking of sorts.  The recipes do still look good.  In the meantime, I tossed the rest of the cake out yesterday (which was painful) but I simply could not bring myself to have any more.  And then Emilia and I pulled out her beautiful new apron and made cupcakes, which you will hear all about later, I'm sure.

The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag

I know I've said it before, but I absolutely adore Flavia de Luce.  And despite the morbidity of Alan Bradley's latest installment, I also adored The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.  I suppose 'morbid' may not be the best word, but it does describe it accurately -- well, maybe just a bit, anyway.

When I read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie a few months ago, I was smitten.  I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of that book, and have not been afraid to let everyone know.  So naturally expectations were rather high for this latest in Bradley's series.  Did it disappoint, you ask?  Not at all.  However, I don't think it was as good as the first.  But let me explain.  My dad still claims that the best Harry Potter book was the first one.  Period.  End of story.  (I totally disagree, I think the best was the fifth -- and that the seventh was complete rubbish, but that's just me.)  Anyway, he claims that this is because everything was so new and exciting when he sat down to read it the first time, and I guess I can appreciate that.  This must be what I am suffering from with The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.   But I shouldn't be, because the book is marvelous, really.  And truthfully it is every bit as good as the first.

The story goes like this:  Porson's Puppets (a popular kids show on the BBC) rolls, quite literally as their van has broken down, into the village of Bishop's Lacey (somewhere outside of London) sometime during the summer of 1950.  They ultimately decide to set up shop for a few days, while hoping to get their van fixed.  On the night of their final performance, however, Rupert Porson dies in the middle of the show.  The question quickly becomes whether or not Rupert was murdered, and why on earth anybody would want to do such a ghastly thing to a virtual celebrity.

Lily's Stir-Fry with Tofu

It would seem that we are in a terrible rut when it comes to dinner these days.  Every night I appear to be doing some sort of variation on European peasant food.  Spain and Italy (and even France, every now and then) grace our dinner table, in one form or another, nearly every night of the week.

I am told that American peasant food would be a hamburger from McDonald's.  (Or, Burger Burger Burger, if you've seen that old episode of Frasier.)  And there is nothing wrong with that.  (As a sidenote, I highly recommend the book The Omnivore's Dilemma, because I'm actually lying when I say that.  There is something wrong with fast-food for dinner.)  Anyway, most of us eat what we can afford, and unfortunately healthy foods tend to cost a lot.    

Enter Euro-peasant-food.  I do (on a fearfully regular basis) Tortilla Espanola, Garbonzos con Espinacas, pasta (and then more pasta), roast chicken, quiche, frittatas, and soup after soup after soup.  And to be perfectly honest I'm bored to tears by it all.  Me thinks I need to expand the repertoire a bit.

I used to cook with tofu a lot back in the day.  However, I was told to stay away from the stuff during my erstwhile days as a fertility patient.  Not to mention the fact that, in large quantities, soy has been known to turn men gay (or so I hear).  Both my sister and I called our father (who happens to eat tons of the stuff) to tell him about this study after it came out, but he didn't care.  Instead we periodically ask him if he's 'gone gay', as it were.  And for some reason he never seems to think this is as funny as we do.  Anyway, I personally don't have a particular love for tofu, but I also don't loathe it.  I suppose I'm simply indifferent.  (See what I mean, I'm in a rut.  It is very odd for me to be indifferent about anything food related.)

This recipe for Lily's stir-fry with tofu comes from Sophie Dahl's new cookbook.  I made it for dinner last night and Michael and I polished it off in no time (thank goodness I doubled the recipe).  Emilia, on the other hand, put one bite of tofu in her mouth, promptly spit it out, and then declared, 'Don't like it!'  And that was that.  I tried to sneak a bite of the different veggies into her mouth when she wasn't looking, but I got the same results, 'Mia don't like it!'  She can really be a twerp sometimes.

Rossini, A Venetian Cocktail

I drink champagne when I'm happy and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I'm not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it -- unless I'm thirsty. (Madame Lilly Bollinger)

This is a perfect drink for springtime.  Gorgeous to look at, and if you're not careful, you will have downed the whole bottle in no time.  Bliss.

Rossini (Cheers!)
1/2 cup ripe organic strawberries
1 flat teaspoon sugar (or more, depending on your strawberries)
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 cup very cold prosecco

Hull and then quarter the strawberries.  Sprinkle with sugar and lemon juice.  Puree until absolutely smooth.  (Michael used the marvelous hand-held blender and a Pyrex for this.)  Pour into 2 glasses, divide the prosecco, give it a good mix, let is settle, and serve immediately.  (Recipe from Venezia: Food and Dreams by Tessa Kiros.  Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2008.)

On Naptime, Mini-Feminism, & Theo Chocolates

Every afternoon when Emilia is going down for her nap I put the house into, what I call, Lock-Down.  That means I un-plug the phone and desperately try to make the house quiet-as-the-tombs, as they say.  It can be very hard at times because our house is rather small and particularly noisy.  And once summer really starts up, I will officially be having nervous breakdowns on account of the damned neighbors being so damned loud.

I happened to learn very early on that I need Emilia to have a nap just as much as she needs to have one.  That way everyone ends up much happier by the end of the day.  Yes, I feel like a complete lightweight making such a claim, especially when my sister is running around like a crazed lunatic chasing after seven kids all day, and also managing to write an enormous book at the same time.  But what can I say?  I need downtime.

And so today, moments after Emilia had been read to, plonked in her bed, given a drink of water, and so on, I ran to the sofa in the living room and sat -- in dead-silence and waited.  Seriously, if I so much as put on the tea-kettle, I will hear her saying, 'Mama making tea!'  And then she will quickly change from her commentary on tea to singing her favorites from Mary Poppins.  'Mia love Cast off the Shackles!'  That would be Sister Suffragette, in case you were wondering, which is hilarious to hear her sing.  And she will emphatically do this for you upon request.  I still remember her running around saying, 'cut off shackles, mama!'.  I would in turn ask Michael, 'What did she say?  It sounds like she is asking to cut off the shackles!  What an odd little child...'  And then one day it hit me, 'Of course!  You're asking for Mary Poppins!'  Knowing Miss Milia, she probably then said, 'A-doy, Mama!'

She knows every single word and never misses one -- albeit, her words are slightly off as she doesn't exactly know what she is singing.  Over the past couple of months she has gone from singing 'Yemen's Goats' to 'Women's Dotes' to, finally, 'Women's Votes.'  We've a little feminist in the making, I suppose. 

31 Rue Cambon

Coco Chanel once said, 'A woman who doesn't wear perfume has no future.'  (Well, isn't that just great.  As if I wasn't stressed out enough as it is.)  Anyway, I find it rather interesting that the woman who once said such a thing was the very same woman who was also peddling the world's most popular perfume.  Chanel No. 5, ever since it was introduced in 1921, remains the world's most popular selling fragrance.  In fact, during WWII when Coco essentially shut down her couturier business, she still made piles of money on this little bottle of perfume.  Everybody wanted it, and when their bottles ran dry, they wanted more.  So it should come as no surprise that, being the very astute business woman that she was, she would say something so absolutely daft as that.  I mean, really.

That being said, maybe the lady had a point.  Clearly, it is a very serious claim to make, and one that has probably made many a fine woman squirm (myself included).  Even though any reasonable person would/should simply balk at such a claim and then continue on their merry (but is it also successful?) way.

I happen to have my fair share of perfume bottles cluttering up our bedroom, and I used to actually wear them quite a bit.  Then one day I got a job pushing rather high-end lingerie and virtually stopped wearing fragrance entirely.  I cannot stand when a woman's perfume announces her presence in a room 20 minutes before she even arrives; I find it very rude, very loud, and even very cheap (having nothing to do with the monetary value of said obnoxious scent) -- not to mention the fact that it is terribly un-ladylike.  And I also dislike when I give someone a hug and then end up wearing their perfume for the rest of the day.  (Ah, come on, tell us how you really feel.)

Despite this, I do actually like perfume.  I like it on the skin, because this is where perfume is the least overpowering.  (If you really want to smell a perfume then put it on fabric.)  I only want someone to notice my perfume if they happen to get close enough to me.  Picking out a perfume though is a very tricky business, and it is something I've been immersed in for the past few weeks.  (Even though I know better, Coco's words have been haunting me.  If I happen to be a failure in life, I'd rather it be of my own doing, instead of sheer negligence in the area of feminine fragrance.)

The Gospel According to Coco Chanel

I really don't know what's gotten into me lately.  For some reason or another I seem to have developed a mild obsession with Coco Chanel.  It's inexplicable, really.  My closet is far from overflowing with her dresses.  I've never been a real fan of Chanel No. 5 (way too heavy and old-lady, if you want my two cents), despite the fact that Marilyn Monroe once claimed that was all she wore to bed.  I could never afford an original 2.55 handbag, sigh.  But I do like the makeup.  Although really, was Coco even still alive when the makeup line hit the department stores?  I suspect the answer is non!

I am, on the other hand, an enormous fan of Audrey Tatou, and I would watch any movie that she happened to be in.  (Although I did draw the line with The Da Vinci Code.  It's a bit of a toss-up as to what was most offensive: the reprehensible and wildly anti-Catholic nature of the book (which I did read)/movie, or Tom Hanks's hair.  Tough call.)  Anyway, I do adore her.  So the instant I heard about Coco Before Chanel , I began to anxiously await its release on dvd.  (I don't think we've actually gone to see a movie in the theater since Emilia was born.)  Anyway, I know I've said it before, but the movie is marvelous.  Beautiful from beginning to end.  Although, if you have a preference for more of the action-flicks, it may not be your cup of tea. 

Immediately on the heels of the movie, my nearest and dearest Lizzie sent me an email saying something along the lines of this: 'I've taken the liberty of choosing our new selection for book club.  When shall we plan our champagne-filled discussion?'  Considering the fact that neither of us belong to any sort of book club, I found this rather funny.  And so, me being me, I knew I would be very grumpy and rather stressed if I did not procure a copy of the book immediately.  And there you go, after a quick ride in the car with Miss Milia, I had my own shiny new copy of The Gospel According to Coco Chanel, which I placed on our coffee table to patiently await Emilia's naptime.

A Smattering of Napa, Part 4 (Branches Honey)

And now, for the grand finale ... honey!  (I think there is supposed to be a drum-roll of sorts imagined there.)  Believe it or not, this was the only thing I really, really wanted to cram into my suitcase as we were leaving town.  I bought it last year as we were wandering around Whole Foods (leave it to me to wander around a WF every where we go), and I bought it again immediately upon our return. 

Branches Honey, by Katz and Company, is a local product.  (Yes, I realize we are supposed to be eating honey from our own neck of the woods, as it were, in order to fend off allergies, but what if I also happen to get allergies in California?  Huh?  What then?)  Anyway, last year our little family polished off our jar of Range Wildflower Honey in no time, and I immediately regretted not having more.  So this year, I did the reasonable thing and bought more.  I had to convince myself not to simply buy two of the wildflower jars, and instead got one Range Wildflower and one Citrus Blossom.  (They had a few more to choose from, including a sage-something-or-other that looks very lovely.)

Incidentally, my perfect breakfast consists of: toast (Old Mill Honey White, if you please), loads of salty Irish butter melted and smeared all over it, and then a nice little dollop of honey on top.  Oh, and my ever-present cup of very strong black tea to kick me in the pants.  Mmmm, bliss.  Now, if I could only get Emilia to stop requesting pancakes for breakfast, then (to quote my handsome husband) 'my problems would be solved, mate!'

On account of the fact that the stuff is fancy, and also that honey bees are apparently kicking the can right and left, the jars are not exactly cheap.  (Really, what is going on with the honey bees?  It's fascinating -- not to mention absolutely terrible.)  Anyway, a jar is $10 at Whole Foods and $12 at St. Helena Olive Oil Company.  (The rent for the the SHOOC is most likely sky-high for their little shop, so I'm sure they could use the extra revenue.  And besides, charging a few bucks more makes it look even fancier.  Meanwhile, I'm glad I found mine down the road...)     

As a side note, I've just discovered (via the Katz and Co website) that this honey was featured on Oprah's list of stuff everyone should run out and buy.  How annoying.  How very, very annoying.

A Smattering of Napa, Part 3 (St. Helena Olive Oil Company & Woodhouse Chocolates)

It is always the simplest things that make me the happiest. But please don't misconstrue my meaning of the word simple. I do not, by any means, wish to imply infantile, silly, or a simpleton. (I'm clearly none of those things.) Rather, I mean unfettered*, whole, uncomplicated -- even luxurious, if that makes any sense. Coco Chanel summed it up best when she said '...luxury lies not in richness and ornateness but in the absence of vulgarity.' Poetry, sheer poetry, is it not? It makes you want to exhale.

Anyway, this idea of simple luxury is perfection in itself. However, in the material goods sector it can be very difficult to achieve. (Something to do with quality and, therefore, a prickly price, I daresay.) This is why when you see it done well, you must stop and notice. And try not to load your suitcase up too much in the process. (Stinking airlines and their suitcase weight restrictions! Not to mention personal checking account restrictions.  It's nearly enough to ruin your day!)

Every year we've been to Napa,  St. Helena Olive Oil Company is a place I seek out. And they just so happen to be purveyors of simple luxury. The shop itself is beautiful -- stone floors, high tin ceiling, beautiful tiles strewn about, you get the point. (We've only been to the one downtown St. Helena. I believe their 'flagship' is in Rutherford -- looks lovely from the outside, but inconvenient if you happen to be on your way to breakfast at Gillwood's.)

They have goodness knows how many varietals of oils. I don't happen to know the first thing about olive oil, to be perfectly honest. Although I do know a little bit about pressings and such. I also know that I would never cook with any of their oils. And by cook, I simply mean the application of heat. Rather, I use them 'raw' -- you know, as dressings or as a nice drizzle on top of your soup or something. (Sorry, but they are way too expensive for me to go frying up an eggplant parmesan or Neapolitan meatballs. Besides, they aren't really intended for that kind of cooking anyway.) You can sample as many as you'd like while walking around the shop, including their many infusions. I believe their basil one is wildly popular, however, I've not actually sampled it. Although we have given it as a gift. (Never inquired as to whether they liked it or not. Michael said it would be rude to ask, so there you go. Now we'll never know.) They also have a lovely selection of vinegars. I'm currently longing for the fig one, in particular.

One of my favorite reasons to visit this shop is their lavender. Something I've returned to time and time again is their lavender spray. They've just changed the name to Hydrasol spray -- much in the manner of Pelindaba Lavender's, and they've also changed the packaging.  (I don't think they've changed the product.)  I'm a big fan of their old pretty blue glass bottle, but I'm sure the new one will serve its purpose just fine. They recommend spraying it on just about anything, which is marvelous -- including your spazzy dog, if need be, (although Governor didn't seem to appreciate it).  However, Miss Milia and I like it in the morning when we've just gotten out of the shower. She will stand with her enormous white towel saying 'labder spay!' and I will give her little face a spritz or two. She also seems to think that all of my other products are fair game as well -- you know, eye cream and all.

A Smattering of Napa, Part 2 (Taylor's Refresher/Gott's Roadside)

Apparently everyone is already in the know about this place. So how I managed to miss it for so long is beyond me. Although, I will readily admit that the whole concept is not typically something on my radar. I think it might have something to do with the fact that it is all outdoors -- you know, picnic benches and such.

Anyway, it was brought to my attention while sitting in the restaurant The Market (which I happen to adore -- the wood bar is gorgeous and strangely reminds me of our bed) in St. Helena a few years ago. Along with my ABLT (that would be the heavenly concoction of avocado, bacon, lettuce, and fried green tomatoes, fyi) both Michael and I ordered a glass of Joel Gott Zinfandel (2006, I think). I can't even tell you how much we both loved that wine. (In fact, it was one of the wines we served at Emilia's christening a handful of months later. And I was so glad when I rather sneakily took one of the bottles from said stash for later. It is sadly, [oh, so sadly] long gone now.)

A little while later Michael pointed out Taylor's Refresher to me as we drove down 29, informing me that it is both owned and operated by Joel Gott and his wife. He also told me that David (that would be the one and only Bampa David) had just seen it on the Food Network and was rather intrigued. Rightly so, I say.

Taylor's Refresher, now called Gott's Roadside (I much prefer the retro-sounding original) is always crowded. Driving past the line always seems to go on forever. That is why, as the rainstorm began to roll in over the weekend, we found ourselves huddled up on tall bar-stools by the heat-lamps digging into enormous hamburgers and french fries. (Despite the weather, the line was still amazingly long -- but nothing like when the sun is out.) Emilia sat, perched on my lap, cramming as many french fries in her mouth as she deemed possible. (She only gets french fries when we travel, so the girl has learned to work fast.) Every now and then I was able to get a bite of her 'meatball', as she called her hamburger, into her little mouth. Once she'd had her fill, I ended up handing the rest of my Wisconsin Sourdough (so good) over to Michael and polishing off her hamburger (also so good).

Right as the rain started to come down, we made our way back to the car -- all three content, all three ready for a nap, and all three weighing a bit more than we did before we got there. All in all it was a successful lunch, I must say. However, Emilia's mama and dada sorely missed Bampa David throughout. It is totally his kind of place. And if it wasn't so freaking cold last Saturday, it is also my mom's kind of place. Maybe next time.  (Also my mom's kind of place: Kara's Cupcakes, see below.)