Ode to Cold Tomato Sauce Out of the Jar

I was too sick today to make the tomato sauce I had planned on making, so instead I ate Paul Newmans Tomato sauce from the jar with a spoon (number 1 on my six weird food things about me) and tried my hand at translating one of my favorite Pablo Neruda Poems.

Ode to the Tomato
By: Pablo Neruda

The streets
overflow with Tomatoes
noon,
summer,
light breaks in two
tomato halves,
the streets
running
with juice.
In December
the tomato
unleashes itself,
invades kitchens,
occupies lunches,
at rest,
perches
on sideboards,
between glasses,
butter dishes,
and blue salt shakers.
It has
its own brilliance,
a cordial majesty.
A shame that we must assassinate:
sink
the knife
into its living pulp,
it is a red
viscera,
a sun,
fresh,
deep,
and inexhaustible,
fills the salads
of Chile,
happily married
with the pale onion,
and to celebrate
let the oil,
essential offspring
of the olive tree,
fall over its yawning hemispheres
the pimento
adding its fragrance,
and salt, its magnetism:
it is the wedding of the day
the parsley
hoists
its little flags
the potatoe
boil boisterously,
and the roast
beats down doors
with its aroma:
its time!
Lets go!
and on the table
in the belt of summer
the tomato,
star of earth,
stars
replete
and copious,
show us
their convolution,
their canals,
the distinguished plenitude
and abundance
boneless,
without husk,
without scales nor thorns
offer us
the gift
of fervent color
and the totality of freshness


Ode al Tomate
De: Pablo Neruda

La calle
se llenó de tomates,
mediodia,
verano,
la luz
se parte
en dos
mitades
de tomate,
corre
por las calles
el jugo.
En diciembre
se desata
el tomate,
invade
las cocinas,
entra por los almuerzos,
se sienta
reposado
en los aparadores,
entre los vasos,
las matequilleras,
los saleros azules.
Tiene
luz propia,
majestad benigna.
Debemos, por desgracia,
asesinarlo:
se hunde
el cuchillo
en su pulpa viviente,
es una roja
viscera,
un sol
fresco,
profundo,
inagotable,
llena las ensaladas
de Chile,
se casa alegremente
con la clara cebolla,
y para celebrarlo
se deja
caer
aceite,
hijo
esencial del olivo,
sobre sus hemisferios entreabiertos,
agrega
la pimienta
su fragancia,
la sal su magnetismo:
son las bodas
del día
el perejil
levanta
banderines,
las papas
hierven vigorosamente,
el asado
golpea
con su aroma
en la puerta,
es hora!
vamos!
y sobre
la mesa, en la cintura
del verano,
el tomate,
aastro de tierra,
estrella
repetida
y fecunda,
nos muestra
sus circunvoluciones,
sus canales,
la insigne plenitud
y la abundancia
sin hueso,
sin coraza,
sin escamas ni espinas,
nos entrega
el regalo
de su color fogoso
y la totalidad de su frescura.

Six Weird Things...

I was tagged by Marce of Pip in The City a few days ago with this meme of six weird food things about myself. I has taken me a while to complete it, because for days I thought long and hard, and was unable to not come up with a single thing that I thought was weird. I realized last night, after re-reading Marce's entry, that no one believes that any of their habits are strange, when the truth of the matter is, all habits are at least a tad bit strange.


Six weird food things about me

1.) I love tomato sauce which, I know, is not all together that strange, if it were not for the fact that I like to eat it cold, out of the jar, with a spoon.

2.) I don’t like sushi. I realize this is not that strange; there are plenty of people who don’t like sushi. Still, it bothers me severely that I don’t like it. Sushi lovers are fanatical and whenever people are fanatical about something I don’t appreciate, I want to experience for myself the pleasure that is the source of their dogmatic ardor. I’ve tried many times to be a sushi fanatic, but I always come up short, merely appreciating it but never becoming entirely consumed by it. I have not given up, however, and will continue trying.

3.) I love soup so much that I could probably live on it and it alone

4.) I like saltine crackers. I think that alone is fairly strange.

5.) I have a cupcake abuse problem (reference my last few entries and you'll agree.)

6.) I like eating my food with oddly sized utensils, ice cream with an espresso spoon, lentil salad with a mussels fork, and oatmeal with a serving spoon. It delighted me as a child and continues to delight me to this day. I also like eating out of oddly shaped and sized bowls, tiny ones being my favorite.

Dismal Den of Misery Focaccia with Mango and Parmesan

It is day three of my cup cake-detox and already I feel as though it has been three months. Every morning I wake up with a wonderful idea for a cup cake then remember, it will have to go unrealized due to my ‘problem.’ My cup cake pans lay discarded on the kitchen shelves, calling to me sorrowfully to put them to good use. My measuring cups hang on the wall dejected and mournful of a once serviceable existence. Unaware of my struggle, my bittersweet Verona, Scharffenberger, and Droste tragically wait in the cloistered darkness of the pantry awaiting release. My hiatus from cup cake making has turned my once cheerful kitchen into a dismal den of misery and grief.



This is how I console myself:

Focaccia with Tomato, Mango, Caramelized Onion, Parmesan, and Lemon Zest

(1 large or 2 small)

The Bread:
1 envelope yeast
1 tsp - sugar
1 tsp - salt
1/2 cup - warm water
1/2 cup - tepid water
1/2 cup - olive oil
2 cups - flour

1.) Preheat oven to 450 degrees F. Mix sugar with warm water and sprinkle with envelope of yeast. Wait 10min.
2.) When the yeast is proofing (fizzing) mix in olive oil, tepid water, and salt. Stir.
3.) Add 3/4 of a cup of flour to the yeast mixture and beat with a wooden spoon for three min.
4.) Slowly mix in the remaining flour, kneading with your hands when mixture becomes too thick for spoon. (if the dough feels to dry, add a splash of olive oil, if it fells too wet, add a sprinkle of flour.)
5.) Place dough in an oiled bowl, cover with a cloth, and store in a warm spot for 30min.
6.) Remove dough from bowl and place on a lightly floured surface. Shape into one large disc, or two small, pinching and pressing with your fingers.
7.) Place on a oiled pan and bake for 3-8 min or until lightly browned.
8.) Place topping on foccaccia and bake for 3-4 more min.

The Toppings:
1 can tomatoes
1 mango, lightly steamed and cut into slices
1/2 cup of Parmesan cheese, shredded
1 Vidalia onion, sliced and caramelized with garlic and olive oil
zest from one lemon.

The X Rated Cup Cake

I realize that this past month's posts might give the impression that I survive on cup cakes alone, and although I partly wish this were the case, it simply is not. I have always had a fancy for cup cakes, but over the years this childhood fancy has blossomed into a full blown passion which, in my adult years, has swelled into a compulsive enthusiasm. In more recent months this enthusiasm has mutated into a fixation bordering on fetish.

It all began with the Pumpkin Spice Cup Cakes . These blameless little cakes were simple and sweet and could inspire nothing less than wholesome delight in the jaws of a virtuous eater. But when I took my first bite of these innocent cakes, all I could think was sinister thoughts. I wanted to rip off their tops, tear out their guts, and fill them with sweet pastry cream. My mother, being as much of a subversive eater as I, agreed and during my visit with her she concocted the very sinister Blissfully Banana Cup Cake. This invention set ablaze my cup cake perversion and has lead me to where I am today, dreadfully trying to get over my reconstruction of Two Little Red Hens, Brooklyn Blackout Cup Cake. These X rated cakes were so nefarious that many of those who partook in them reported having scrumptiously disturbing dreams. "I was drifting on chocolaty waves of butter cream," one participant told me. "I dreamt about them (the cakes) last night," another one told me with a wicked grin "and I was making love to them." Oh no, my cup cake disorder was contagious!

It is hard to say if I will be able to cure my deviant cup cake malady, but now that I am aware of my 'affliction' and the savory, and not so savory, effect it has on the public, I know that I must try. If only being bad, did not taste so good. This will be my last cup cake entry for some time.

These chocolate cream filled chocolate cup cakes with chocolate frosting are intense and almost perverse. Enjoy them if you dare!

STEP 1 - Make the pastry cream first so that it can cool while you make your cup cakes.



STEP 2- Make your buttermilk cup cakes
STEP 3- Once the cup cakes are cooled cut a large hole in the top of the cakes, using a paring
knife and angling toward the center. Remove the top, carve out the center, fill with
pastry cream, and place top back on.

STEP 4 - Ice the cup cake. (With this recipe I used Sharffen Berger 99% Cacao Pure Dark Chocolate, and I used
a 1/2 cup less sugar)

Yes, Another Stupid Internet Survey...

1.) What do you do when a beloved friend desperately needs some reparation after a brutal
workweek?

Make chocolate cup cakes
2.) What do you do when your roommate has also had a difficult week and is in need of a
serious pick-me-up?


Fill the cupcakes with chocolate and butterscotch pastry cream.

3.) What do you do when you yourself are suffering from the blues because the one you want to
Cook with does not want to cook with you?

You dance and howl like a banshee to Hank Williams while making sinfully decadante frosting with Scharffenberger’s 99% chocolate.

The Blissful Secret

I made these cup cakes with my mother (on your left. Isn't she so cute?) and brought the leftovers to work with me the next day. With inquiring eyes, everyone wanted to know, "But how do you get the pudding inside?" I almost didn't want to tell them the very simple and uninteresting truth; I cut the tops off, carve out the middle, spoon in the pudding, and then place the top back on again. To let them in on my little secret would be the equivalent of exposing the reality of Santa Clause to a child. " Magic" I answered with a smile, deciding to let them linger a while longer with their own fantastical explanations. I have posted the recipe below, but if you ever resolve to make these tasty treats, you have to promise to keep my pudding-stuffing-method a secret, okay?

Blissfully Banana Cup Cakes


The Cake
18 cup cakes

2 1/4 cups- sifted cake flour (makes for a lighter cake than regular flour)
5 tbsp - all purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp - baking soda
1/2 tsp - salt
1 cup, 2tbs - buttermilk (room temp)
3/4 cup - mashed bananas (2 very ripe bananas with brown skin)
10 tbsp - (1 1/4 sticks) unsalted butter at room temp
6 tbsp - vegetable oil
3/4 cup - lightly packed brown sugar
3/4 cup - granulated sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
3 large eggs - room temp


1.) Preheat oven to 350 degrees and line two cupcake trays with liners.
2.) Sift both flours, baking soda, and salt, then set aside
3.) In a small bowl stir buttermilk into the mashed bananas and set aside.
4.) Cream butter, oil, both sugars and vanilla with mixer until light and fluffy. About two minutes.
5.) Scrape the sides of the bowl with rubber spatula then add eggs one at a time, mixing ten seconds for each egg.
6.) Starting and ending with the dry mixture, alternately add (in thirds) the flour mixture and then the buttermilk mixture to the creamed butter mixture. (To prevent over mixing your batter, mix the last flour mixture by hand, scraping the side and bottom of the bowl well.)
7.) Using an ice cream scooper with a side lever to release the batter, or a ladle if you don’t, fill trays 3/4 of the way up and place in oven for 15-20 min, or until golden brown, and springs back to the touch.


The Pudding

2 cups - milk
1 cup - sugar
4 tbsp - all purpose flour
2 eggs 1/2 tsp - vanilla extract
Pinch of salt

1. In a medium saucepan, heat milk until it is just about boiling.
2. In a separate bowl, mix sugar, flour, eggs, vanilla, and salt then slowly add mixture to the hot milk.
3. Continue to cook over medium heat, whisking constantly until pudding thickens.
4. Add two or three bananas thinly sliced, and press plastic wrap or parchment on top of mixture to prevent skin from developing. Cool on counter before chilling in refrigerator.



The Butter Cream Frosting

2 sticks - sweet butter at room temp
31/2 cups - confectioners sugar (no sifting necessary)
1 1/2 cups + 2 tbsp - chilled heavy cream
1.) Place everything into food processor and process for 5 min.
2.) Place mixture into large mixing bowl, and beat on medium speed until butter cream is light and fluffy (15-20 min)


Pudding-Stuffing-Method

1.) Angling the knife (small sharp paring) toward the center of the cup cake, cut in a circle motion, close to the edge.
2.) Remove the lid and shave off the underside.
3.) With a tiny spoon or a paring knife, carve out center of cake.
4.) Fill center with pudding and place lid back on.
5.) Frost the cake with a cake decorator tip, or with a butter knife.
6.) You can decorate the frosting with remaining cup cake crumbs, or you can toast them in the broiler or a hot oven and, in a small bowl, layer them with the leftover pudding. YUM!

Somebody's Gettin' Lucky!

The second day of my visit, some very serious food was on the itinerary. My mother and I were to attempt Banana cream filled cup cakes. After coffee and breakfast we prepared the pudding and as it chilled in the refrigerator, we set out on a reconnaissance mission in the town of Saugerties. The night before I had sampled a few chocolates from my mother’s Lucky Chocolate stash. The flavors were interesting and innovative, many using powerful fruit purees and even Chimayo chilies, famous for their vibrant red color and deep rich flavor. I was excited about visiting the shop, and picking up some interesting chocolates for my roommate.




When we arrived we were greeted by the bitter sweet sent of cocoa, the wonderful sounds of Ranchero music, and a glass counter brimming with colorful chocolates. By the register there were piles of broken shards of chocolate and cookies for sampling, all of which I took advantage of. After carefully surveying all of the flavors I filled one box with chocolates for my roommate, then filled a slightly smaller box with chocolates for myself. In the car I immediately sampled some of the goods. The dark chocolate covered ginger was rich and had a nice kick, the pomegranate exploded with the bright zest of citrus, then finished with the earthy resonance of brown bark and tannins. A nice hearty glass of Malbec or Zinfandel would make a happy companion for this tiny but complex little delicacy. The Salted Caramels in particular caught my attention. I curiously examined the caramel before taking a small nibble. I have always like the combination of salty and sweet, but the grains of salt seemed awfully coarse and thick for such a bite-sized confection. The coarse grains of salt were the first flavor to hit my tongue. The, almost, overwhelming saltiness was soon proceeded by the melting chocolate coating. As the chocolate and salt began to mingle I bit into the caramel kneading it with my teeth into the chocolate. I did not immediately take another bite, but sat for a while reviewing the experience. “I felt the same way,” my mother told me. “After eating the salted caramel for the first time I couldn’t have told you if I liked it or I hated it. I’ll tell you one thing, I haven’t stopped coming back for more.” I took another bite, a heartier one this time. I think I can say with confidence that, I like it!

When we got home, we made the banana cupcakes, filled them with the custard, and finished them off with vanilla Butter Cream Frosting. I wiped down the counters as my mother washed the dishes and as she dried the last bowl, she turned to me and said, “ So we really need to start thinking about food.” What she meant was dinner. It was already 4:30pm, dessert had been taken care of, what we had neglected to think about was what we were going to cook for dinner.

La Vida es Dura

I have been so worn out that after arriving at my mother’s house yesterday I nearly turned down a soak in her new outdoor hot tube on account of my foolish belief that I could carry my body no further than the couch. Christmas and New Years has for the most part been a blur. I have been working nearly every day and any time off has been spent playing catch up with menial chores such as laundry, cleaning up after my Blue Christmas Party, and with more essential tasks such as showering and sleeping. The truth of the matter is that I am always overwhelmed when I first arrive at her house weary from the trenches of my hurried urban life. From the instant I close the front door I am bombarded with jars of freshly baked gingerbread, butter cookies, and chocolates from the very near by Lucky Chocolates (more about these wonderful chocolates later). It is a sensory over load that always leaves me bewildered and mystified, besieged and bedazzled and, with the faint crackle of the wood stove and Alma (my mother’s husky) sleeping at my feet it is impossible not to surrender. In my underwear I stumbled with her the hundred yards in chilly winter darkness and plopped gracelessly into the torrid water boisterous with bubbles. Rings of steam swirled around us like rising spirits while gusts of wind assaulted huddles of indelible trees, their only protest, the sound of their naked branches clapping . I gave in, ate the gingerbread, and the chocolates, and that night I slept like a baby.

A Blue Christmas

If I had to name my favorite holiday, Christmas would not be it. Maybe it’s the busloads of tourists that invade Rockefeller Center clogging up already congested streets. Or perhaps it is the flocks of fierce and furious shoppers frantic to find a last minute present for Aunt Martha. I like giving presents to my friends like everyone else, I just don’t like feeling obligated to.
As you might have guessed, Thanksgiving is my preferred holiday, because it is a day entirely dedicated to food; the only presents given are ones that will soon to be consumed. Because of my Holiday Preference, Christmas plans tend to fall by the waist side. One year I went out to Indian Food, another I went out to a bar. Last year I went to the movies, a profane American custom in my mother’s opinion.
This year my roommate and I had decided that we would have a little Christmas Eve get-together at our place, but as the Eve drew nearer we were loosing our enthusiasm. Fifty-five degree weather does little to inspired holiday cheer, besides we would have to clean the apartment, and I would have to cook.
It was two days before Christmas and though I was setting out to attempt, for the first time, my mother’s Gingerbread recipe, I was not feeling the spirit. I put the butter, molasses, and spices in a saucepan to melt slowly on the stovetop and the mixture began to fill the apartment with a sweet and gingery scent. I closed my eyes, and inhaled taking in the aroma of my childhood. As I exhaled I released a euphoric sigh and when I opened up my eyes my roommate was standing before me. “ Are you familiar with Elks Candy Store on the Upper east side?” she asked me, her eyes full of warning. “Of course, my mother would get our ginger bread house there every year when I was growing up. She modeled her own recipe after theirs. Why?” I asked. “ Well apparently they went out of business.”

The entire day was one enormous blur of sugar, eggs, butter, and spice. I made Brownies filled with chestnut puree, and decorated the ginger bread meticulously using pumpkin seeds, dried cranberries, and black caraway seeds.





There were ginger bread boys, girls, and flowers, I even made gingerbread maple leafs for a Canadian Friend of mine. By the end of the day I was exhausted, covered in icing, and though I was more than a little blue about the closing of Elk’s Candy Store, it was finally beginning to feel like Christmas.

Naughty and Nice

Yes I know, I have been a very Naughty food blogger. Not only have I denied you the conclusion of my 'Cultural Fridays'- In Paris post, but I have been entirely AWOL from the blogging circuit and for this I humbly apologize. As you all know I have started a new job, and at this time of the year in the restaurant business that translates as Holiday Slave; basically I have been working everyday and have had little time for much else, my exercise schedule has gone to shit, my correspondence has dwindled and I have been more than remiss in my food blogging . I have good news for you however, I have decided to be a nice food blogger and share with you my method of making friends at a new job...That's right, Cupcakes. I've never been very good with small talk so my first week I brought these cuties to work with me. Lets face it, there is no need for small talk when you're stuffing your face with Pumpkin Spice Cupcakes.

Pumpkin Spice Cupcakes
18 servings

2 cups - all-purpose flour
1 tsp - baking soda
1 tsp - baking powder
1 tsp - coarse salt
1 tsp - ground cinnamon
1 tsp - ginger
1/4 tsp - fresh ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp - allspice
1/4 tsp - cumin (if you are brave, this is not in the original recipe)
1 cup - packed light brown sugar
1 cup - granulated sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) - unsalted butter, melted and cooled
4 - Large eggs, room temperature and lightly beaten
1 can (15 oz.) - Pumpkin Puree

1.) Preheat oven to 350 degrees and place cupcake liners in cupcake pan.
In a medium bowl, whisk flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and allspice.
2.) In a large bowl whisk together brown sugar, granulated sugar, butter and eggs. Add
dry ingredients and mix until smooth, then add pumpkin puree.
3.) Divide the batter in pan, filling cups up halfway and bake for 20-25 min. Let cool before
icing your little cakes.

‘Cultural Fridays’ In Paris

I am sure that you are all on the edge of your seats with anticipation about the launching of ‘Cultural Fridays.’ Well, you will be even more intrigued to find out that my roommate and I never ended up at the Whitney Museum for The Picasso exhibit as we had originally planned. Nor did we end up at The Bemelmen’s bar for Martinis. What did we do instead? What any resourceful peasants would do, we spent the evening in Paris of course.

Perhaps its best if I start at the beginning. My roommate and I have been working opposite schedules for a while now and often find ourselves taking care of roommate business and social arrangements via gmail chat, me at home and her from her office. Today was one of those days. The Whitney and Bemelmen’s was on the agenda and we had intermittently been tweaking our plan as the day and the weather report progressed. At 11am she sent me a message, “AccuWeather says there is a chance of rain”
An hour later I checked the weather and responded, “Currently, there is more than just a chance of rain” “f***ing AccuWeather!” she typed back bitterly. This is something we were in the habit of doing, blaming AccuWeather for undesirable weather. It was still early though, and we decided to wait it out. By 4pm the forecast read: THUNDERSTORMS and 50 MPH WINDS!!!

Our determination to participate in Friday night nightlife pretty much dissolved with the image of us entering The Bemelmen’s bar sopping wet and with our hair so badly wind blown that we looked like a certain member of an 80's hair band.


Throughout the day I had also been sending my roommate links to appetizing posts about Parisian bakeries, and chocolate and red wine pairing on one of my favorite food blogs, David Lebovitz’s Living The Sweet Life in Paris.

“Wouldn’t you just love to be in Paris eating flourless chocolate cake and washing it down with a luscious glass of Cotes-Du-Rhone?” I pressed the send button, already anticipating her answer. She responded in two seconds flat, “Oh I would loooooooove be in Paris right now and I would looooove to be eating chocolate” I could hear her dreamy sigh as I read the text on my computer screen.

My roommate has always had a love of Paris; I on the other hand, have not. I traveled to Paris in my early twenties. I was incredibly ignorant at the time, on a bare bones budget, and a vegetarian; needless to say I did not enjoy myself. I will spare you the horrors of the numerous stories that illustrate my stupidity, but will share with you one in particular that demonstrates my then shameful culinary cluelesness.
While in the planning stages of my trip, a friend of mine, who had traveled to Paris many times, gave me the names of a few cheese shops to visit. My travel companion, Chris and I had for the most part been eating out of grocery stores due to our obscenely sad budget. In Amsterdam we had done a good job of sustaining ourselves on their amazingly creamy strawberry yogurt and sandwiches of Edam and tomato on nutty grain bread. We had no reason to believe that it would be any different in Paris…

Stay tuned for the conclusion of 'Cultural Fridays' in Paris

Without Further Ado

I was just chatting about The Gourmet Peasant blog with Kadie, a good friend of mine in California. She told me that she likes the little films and all but, “where are those recipes????” It was impossible for me to be sure of her tone, we were chatting online after all, but the excessive use of question marks lead me to believe that she was not at all happy.

It is true. I have been a bit sparse in the recipes department as of late. It seems every time I sit down to type one up, something gets in the way - most often my own hunger - and I instead end up in kitchen whipping up a little snack or a full-blown meal.

So without further ado, and before I lose a perfectly good friendship, I hereby post this new and yummy soup recipe.

Thanksgiving I used this soup as a accent to my Roasted Carrot and Garlic Soup, but everyone
agreed that this incredibly creamy and peppery soup would have no trouble standing alone.

Creamy Parsnip and Apple Soup
ingredients

4 med parsnips, peeled and sliced in half lengthwise
2 large rome apples peeled and diced
3 shallots
1/4 cup of heavy cream
4-5 cups of vegetable broth
2tbs ground cumin
1tbs cinnamon
1/2 - 1 tbs cayenne
2 tbs olive oil

1.) Preheat oven to 374 degrees. Toss parsnips in oil covering them completely and spread on a baking sheet.
2.) Roast Parsnips for 30-40 min, flipping them once during roasting. Parsnips should be golden brown.
3.)On stove top, heat olive oil over medium flame. When oil is hot add shallots and apples. Sauté for 3-4 minutes or until shallots are tender.
4.) Add parsnips and sauté for 2 more minutes.
5.)Add broth and bring to a boil.
6.) remove the vegetables and apples and puree.
7.) Add puree back to broth and season with cumin, cinnamon, cayenne, salt, and fresh pepper.
8.) Stir in cream just before serving and sprinkle with crushed pecans and pomegranate seeds.

Piñata Time

'Cultural Fridays' Part I - The Cedar Cavern

So The Cedar Tavern, where I’ve been working forever, closed down for construction two days after Thanksgiving, casting me out of the job, and leaving my Fridays wide open. I have been working Friday nights for an embarrassingly long time and the idea of having them free has caused me to sympathize with newly released convicts who have to face the exciting and intimidating prospect of their newly entrusted freedom. Frankly, other than the chance to ask patrons, ‘do you want that on the rocks or straight up?’ I have no idea what this city has to offer on a weekend night.

I must say, the opening in my life was refreshing and immediately my roommate and fellow Cedar expat and I began planning a regular Friday night outing. “ How about we have a cultural night?” she suggested, “ almost all the museums are free on Friday nights.” The museum was a great idea; it would fulfill the novel and expansive potential of this newly realized freedom, yet there seemed to be something missing from the equation. “ The museum followed by martinis,” I exclaimed, and just as I spoke the words it occurred to me what it was that was absent.

The Cedar Tavern, as with many other bars, had been its own self-contained universe, stocked with a wide variety of regular customers. There was every flavor you could imagine, there was the belligerent loud mouth who Steven-Got-Even, the best bartender in NY, would eighty-six every other week, only to have Joey, the second best bartender in NY, welcome him back the following week. There was the jovial and talkative regular who joked around and made it his business to keep abreast of the goingons, as if he were the elected mayor of this intoxicating universe. Then of course there were my favorites, the ones who came in alone to enjoy a martini and read a book, to observe, and perhaps even to participate in some light banter with employees and fellow regulars.

They, all of them, were like fixtures and, like the sun and the moon you could estimate the time of day by their arrival and their departure. If, at two o’clock on a snowy afternoon, you found yourself in the neighborhood you could always stop by for a quick Guinness and a chat with Norman about the works of Gabriel García Márquez. If, at five o’clock on a weekday you had a half hour to kill, you could join Harold for a martini and an extremely overused, yet always entertaining joke at somebody else’s expense. If at two o’clock in the morning you found yourself a little lit, yet curiously questioning the laws of physics, you could always stop by for a bourbon with ‘Martini’ Dave and he would explain it to you using metaphors in jazz.

I could go on and on and on, but I think you catch my drift; the closing of The Cedar has created unfamiliar and exhilarating possibilities in my life, but it has also left a giant chasm where this comforting and familiar universe once resided. It might be the case that a search is in order. Of course we could never find another Cedar, but we might be able to find a few different bars that could provide at least a fraction of what The Cedar had to offer. It was certainly worth a try!


So what is on the menu for the inauguration of Cultural Fridays? The Picasso and American Art show at The Whitney museum followed by Martinis at The Bemelmans Bar located in The Carlyle Hotel. Stay tuned to find out how my first Friday of freedom panned out.

Holiday Postpartum

So perhaps I owe you all a bit of an explanation about the Thanksgiving Shake and Bake. You see this quaint little montage is merely a link in the lengthy line of Peasant Thanksgiving tradition in which I require my guests to provide me with some documented form of entertainment at their own expense.


Thanksgiving 2000, I made everyone take a picture with these heart shaped antennas. She looked much happier doing the twist in my Thanksgiving Shake and Bake...















2001 everyone posed with an Indian Headdress...










And my all time favorite, Thanksgiving 2003 when everyone was subject to the Groucho Marx glasses.
Clearly my mother does not embarrass easily.







Why do I do this? There is no question that the Thanksgiving mishaps I have encountered have lopped years off the end of my life. One time the oven rack snapped under the weight of the turkey sending the thirty-pound bird plummeting through the bottom of the stove and into the broiler. Another year I learned that, when you brine the bird, it cooks faster! As charming as these escapades might be, the point is that by the time I have overcome the stresses of cooking, I have missed the liveliest part of the party. Just as I am free of the apron and can be at ease with my guests, they have all begun their one-way descent into a haze of butter drenched euphoria.
This is when Thanksgiving postpartum kicks in and I find myself asking, ‘ what is it that I have to be thankful for again?’ This year, it was only once I browsed the dancing footage that I realized what it was. I am eternally thankful that I have friends who have no problem humiliating them selves in front of a camera. Do they do it for the sake of my personal entertainment; do they do it because I would withhold their dinner if they refused? I will never be certain, but the moral kernel of the story is that when you are cooking for a group of hungry friends, you can get them to do just about anything.

Thanksgiving Shake and Bake

The Beloved Side Dish

The days before Thanksgiving are growing fewer and fewer, and the number of guests rises and falls as does my confidence. Not only is this holiday a heap of work the day of, but the entire week leading up to the festivities is crammed with back-breaking preparations: grocery shopping, decorations, soups need to be made, sauces concocted… Another thing to consider is time, not only is it a lot of work, but its an outrageous amount of hours, hours that I simply don’t have!*!@?!


You see, what these ‘festivities’ are doing to my stress levels? Something has to be done!
I reviewed the menu and decided that I would have to scale down on some of the higher maintenance dishes. Number one on the list, Brussels sprouts, sautéed in a port Dijon reduction and garnished with rustic shards of Parmesan. They are a beloved dish and have been a Thanksgiving staple for years, but replacing them with a simpler dish would lighten my load and also free up valuable space on the stovetop. Most everyone took the news well, all except for Aaron that is.

Aaron has been one of my oldest Thanksgiving devotees; he is also one of my favorite people to cook for on account of his spirited responses to each and every bite he takes. “Diggidy-Dog!>” he says shaking his head after a mouthful of soup. After a nibble of salad, he jumps from his seat gyrating and shrieking “Eurika!” like an epileptic Elvis who has discovered something much more thrilling than electricity. It is impossible for me to write, without laughter, how it is that he responds to a mouthful of Turkey or stuffing for that matter. Foods of all sorts have a profound impact on Aaron, but it is the Brussel sprout that that has inspired the most heartfelt response.

Many Thanksgivings ago, when I first mentioned to Aaron that I was thinking about making sprouts he was more than a little skeptical. You see Brussels sprouts have never been his favorite vegetable. In fact, I’d go as fare as saying that during his childhood, he had a damaging encounter with the unsuspecting sprout and was now, years later, still experiencing post-traumatic stress. Aaron has an adventurous spirit however, and is a good sport, “I’ll give them a try,” he told me as if he had agreed to eat an insect.

It is Aaron’s original response to this innocent side dish that makes his later response so astonishing. After his first bite, he became quite, tilted his head down as if in prayer, and sat that way for almost a minute. Then, out of nowhere, possessed by some external force - good or evil it was hard to decipher - he popped out of his seat and began to twist around as if experiencing both pleasure and pain. Everyone at the table sat quietly half expecting a miniature alien to burst from his stomach and dance across the table. No such entertainment was on the agenda. When he had completed the unscheduled performance, he sat back down and continued eating, hepping and hollering with every spoonful.

At first I was surprised with how well Aaron coped with the elimination of the notorious sprouts, “I understand,” he told me, “but only because I know you’re going to make them.” The certainty in his voice was chilling. “ They‘re just too much work, I don’t have the time,” I reiterated. But, with a sparkle in his eye, and with the grin of a car salesman, he grabbed my hand gently and in a comforting tone repeated, “ I get it, I do.” He took a deep breath, “But I know you're going to make them.” His certainty must have been less creepy this time because I instantly began reviewing the menu in my head one more time, trying as hard as I could to figure out how I could squeeze in the adored sprouts.

Gourmet Math

Thanksgiving invitation created by Margeaux Mulligan, artist, mermaid, and all around nice girl.

Last you heard six was twelve, that was before Elijah's girlfriend had to work a double at the hospital leaving six at the unsavory number of thirteen. As of today, Jessica is moving back to Florida restoring six to the unsuperstitious number of twelve.

It Takes Two...

Favorite Pastime

What does a Brooklyn Peasant do when the weather turns breezy and brisk?
This past Sunday I headed out to the local grocery, making a quick detour to the new bakeshop, Joyce, for a black and White cookie. I picked up a few things at the store then headed home to partake in one of my favorite pastimes, making soup. I spent the entire day doing what I love, cooking and singing along like a goof ball to Etta James, Carmen Miranda, and Elvis Presley.

As four pots of broth gurgled on the stove top, I fluttered about the kitchen to the Big Band jive of Cab Calloway, It’s the jim-jam-jump with the jumpin’ jive, makes you nine foot tall when your four foot five, Hep Hep!

I seared, I shredded. I swung and I swayed to the swing of Billy Holiday, deep rhythm captivates me, hot rhythm stimulated me, can’t help but swing it boy, swing it brother swing!

I minced, grinded, rattled and rolled to Lightnin’ Hopkins, Wow Baby, I don’t know your name, but I do believe oh yeah, you can shake that thing come on, come on baby, wow come on baby shake that thing.

It was a wonderful day, but somewhere in the back of my mind I had an awful feeling that I had forgotten something incredibly important. I reviewed the day in my mind. Was it the coffee? No, I had brewed myself the perfect cup at home, then had a wonderful latte from Joyce. Did I forget to add an important ingredient to one of the soups? That couldn’t be it, the soups, all of them, turned out as expected. The day was a complete success, perfect damn it! It was as I finished the last minute seasoning of the soups that I was captured by Lester Young’s incredibly hip and relaxed scat intro in It Takes Two to Tango. It was then that I realized what it was that was missing from my nearly perfect day. There is only one thing better than spending the entire day alone cooking, and that is spending it cooking with somebody else.

A Thankful Realization

I Can?

Every year at this time, the reality of what I have gotten myself into begins to sink in and I am overwhelmed with alternating waves of anticipation and fear, of exhilaration and desperation. This past week I had a realization; Thanksgiving is just around the corner! It is a realization that brings along with it a mixture of joy, because it is my favorite holiday, gratitude, because I am blessed with wonderful friends and family to share it with, and terror that I will lack the ability to make it happen.

I have been cooking Thanksgiving dinner for many years now and after each year I tell myself, and my grinning friends, that I will never ever do it again. Yet every year, when Thanksgiving rolls around, I have conveniently forgotten about my vow and I promise my friends that I will cook, “ but only for a few people this time, no more than six!”

It is never six. Six is always twelve and twelve is sometimes twenty-five. I’m sure plenty of people can handle cooking a three course sit-down meal for twenty-five people without losing their composure, I am not one of those people. As the guests start arriving I become a monstrous muddle of nerves, I refuse entry to the kitchen, and tell people not to talk to me. The balance between making it happen and letting it happen becomes impossible to negotiate and at more than a few moments through out the day I find myself asking, “how did I end up doing this, again?” It is only after the meal is served, and I glance over at my friends, fat, happy and lethargically sprawled about the room, that I find the answer to my question: I do it because I want to and because I can. I can.

This year, the sensible list of ‘six’ guests is currently at eleven. “But what about Jessica?” Margeaux asked me this past weekend,
“Alright, twelve, but her husband can’t come!”
I am determined not to let the number grow, but with two whole weeks left until Thanksgiving, anything can happen.

Soup Soup Soup Hep Hep!

Honky Tonk Blues

This past weekend, nature was on the agenda. The plan: pick apples from a near-by orchard then spend the day making apple pie and apple butter. Sunday morning, having eaten an early breakfast, we- my mother, her boyfriend Dave, and Margeaux- piled into the car and headed for the Orchard. Zipping down 212 at fifty miles an hour with the bellow of Hank William’s Honky Tonk Blues pouring from the windows, we crashed into a racing deer. Well I left my home down on the rural route, I told my pa that I was steppin’ out and find these honky tonk blues... We struck the deer head on and she was tossed flailing into the ditch on the other side of the road. Margeaux screamed, and I took a deep breath and held as if I were about to dive underwater. “OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!” repeated my mother gripping the steering wheel. Yeah these honky tonk blues…My mother slowed the car down but kept driving, “ Pull the car over,” shouted Dave. She didn’t respond, “Viv, pull the car over” repeated Dave. She slowed the car this time and came to a complete stop turning the key to the ignition as she began to cry. Yeah the honky tonk blues…hey lord I got’em, I got the ho –eee—onky tonk blues...

I love the country but, deep down, I am an urban peasant and am deluded with romantic notions of nature and how it is that my life intersects it. Growing up in the city has lead me to believe that nature is something I can let into my life or not, something I can schedule in when it is convenient or postpone when it’s not. A daily run in the Prospect Park and I’m ‘tuned-in with the elements’, a day of apple picking and whalah, I’m rugged. No one in the car got hurt but the deer died within a matter of minutes. We did not go apple picking that day, scheduled or unexpected, romantic or realistically gritty, I think we had had enough nature for one day.

I’m gonna’ tuck my worries underneath my arms, and march right back to my pappy’s farm and leave these honky
tonk blues, yeah these honky tonk blues. Hey lord I got’em, I got these ho—ee—onky tonk blues…


Though we did not go apple picking,
we still needed some apples for the pie.








We dedicated our pie, made with store
bought apples, to the deer that was killed
that day.





May she rest in peace.

Bombastically Buttery Butter Crust

Ingredients

2 1/4 cups - sifted flour
3/4 teaspoon – salt
14 tablespoons – chilled butter cut into pieces
1/2 cup – ice water

Directions

1.) Cut butter into flour with pastry blender* until resembles coarse meal. It should be crumbly and should not resemble a paist and is inconsistent in texture. Do not over mix or your crust will not be fabulously flakey.
2.) Sprinkle mixture with ice water a little at a time and mix in quickly with a fork.
3.) Work lightly with fingers squeezing it together. You should be able to work dough into a ball, if not add more water. WARNING: It is important to work fast the mixture must remain cold.
4.) Cut in half. At this point you can roll out your dough on a lightly floured surface, or you can refridgerate for later.

* If you do not have a pastry blender (a hand tool for cutting butter into flour), you can use two butter knives. Use knives to, literally, cut butter into flour, taking time out to toss the mixture. Cut then toss, cut then toss. This method works just as well as any other.