Italian Plum Cake

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.

Leo's Adoption is Final!

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

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

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.)

Why We Will Never Be Rich, Part 1

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.

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

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.

On the Tenth Anniversary of September Eleventh

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

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

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

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.)