The Texturally Challenged

All little kids like Peanut Butter and Jelly right? Wrong. When I was a little girl I was wild about Peanut Butter and could not seem to get enough of it, but was in fact scared of Jelly. You see, as a young girl I was what you might call texturally challenged in the eating department, anything too slimy on my plate and I was liable to cry. My slimy food issue was further complicated by my severe sensitivity to B-movie horror flicks and after seeing the 1958 version of The Blob, I vowed to never ever to eat that menacing gelatinous fruit compound we call Jelly.
No matter how hard parents and family members tried to convince me of the faultless attributes of fruit preserves, I held my ground and turned my nose to the stuff. As my friends easily munched away on their PB&Js, I would struggle through my pasty Peanut Butter sandwich, as it would stick to the ruff of my mouth without the aid or lubrication of grape jelly.

As an adult I have fully recovered from my fear of Jelly. And thank goodness I did, otherwise I would not have never thought to make this PB&J Ice Cream and Sorbet Swirl.
I am still working out a few minor kinks in the recipe, but this combination of Peanut Butter Ice Cream and Grape Sorbet sure is a nice way to cool off in a heat wave.

Trump Card

In the past, when pursuing a boy, I have relied a great deal on my abilities in the kitchen. This method has always worked well for me, I mean, who doesn't like it when someone else cooks good food for them? Recently however, I have found myself in a bit of a quandary in the wooing department. How do you woo a boy who can compete with you in the kitchen? How do you entice a boy who candies Cherry Blossoms,
who makes you Vietnamese sandwiches,
who makes Homemade English Muffins, fries up Soft Shell Crabs,
and makes curried Monk Fish Wrapped in Bacon with some weird looking vegetable you've never heard of before?
When trying to cultivate the affections of a boy who can cook, and does cook quit often, the only choice you have is to play your trump card, in my case, that would be Candied Bacon and Maple Ice Cream. It certainly isn't kosher, but it is damn good. And any man who could turn down a scoop of this stuff atop a stack of pancakes must have some serious problems, or he could be a vegetarian. Either way, I'm not interested.
Don't have a courting trump card of your own? That's cool, go right ahead and borrow mine.

Candied Bacon and Maple Ice Cream

Ingredients
8-10 strips of bacon
1/2 cup - raw sugar
1 1/2 cups - whole milk
2 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 cups - heavy cream
5 large egg yolks
3/4 cup - dark amber maple syrup
1/8 teaspoon vanilla extract

Candied Bacon

• In 2 batches, cook bacon in a 12 inch heavy skillet over med heat until it is lightly browned but still flexible
• Transfer bacon to a paper towel to drain and pour excess fat from pan.
• Return bacon to skillet and cover with sugar. Cook over a low flame.
• Once the sugar begins to dissolve, keep a close eye out so it does not burn. Occasionally turn bacon with tongs until it is cover with melted sugar. It should look lacquered.
• Remove and let cool on a paper bag.

Ice Cream ( This recipe comes from David Lebovitz's book The Perfect Scoop)

• Warm milk and sugar in saucepan. Pour cream into a large bowl and set strainer on top.
• In a separate bowl, whisk together egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm mixture into the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape back into saucepan
• Stir mixture constantly over med heat with a heatproof spatula, scraping the bottom as you stir, until the mixture thickens and coats spatula
• Pour the custard through the strainer and stir into cream to cool.
  
• Add maple syrup, salt, and vanilla then stir until cool over an ice bath.
• Chill mixture thoroughly then freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturers instructions
• During the last few minutes of churning, add the chopped up candied bacon.

Dangerous Substance

Just this past week, I was introduced to a dangerous and habit-forming substance. It was such a luscious experience that I have found myself feverishly longing for it morning noon and night. My mind has been seized on it and can think of little else.

It all started when Ben, yes the one with the chickens, came over to my place with sack of chickpea flour in hand. “Have you ever had Madhur Jaffrey’s chickpea pizza?” he asked innocently enough. What do chickpeas have to do with pizza? I wondered silently, the crinkle in my brow disclosing my doubt. As I watched Ben sift, whisk, and stir the batter to a watery consistency, my eyes did a poor job of concealing their informal query, How was this watery paste going to form a crust?

Moments later, and a twist of Ben’s wrist, and the batter was gasping and squirming under the heat of the pan, unleashing a captivatingly nutty fragrance. We covered the pancake-like dough with whatever we could find in the fridge: cheese, bacon, sweet potatoes, pepadews, and pickled garlic, then stuck it under the broiler for a final blast of heat.
By the time this peculiar concoction was ready for consumption, the spell had already been cast. The crust was toasty and crisp and at the same time, delicate and buttery - a cross between polenta, pastry, and a freshly pressed tortilla.

As I finished my first piece, I was already planning future pizzas: Green Tomatoes, Goat Cheese, and Sweet & Spicy Tomato Chutney, Spicy Black Beans with Shredded Mandarin Pork, garnished with Fresh Lettuce and Avocado, Spicy Lamb Sausage with Wilted Watercress, Golden Raisins, and Roasted Red Peppers, not to mention an infinite number of something-out-of-nothing recipes. My mind was racing.

My pizza rampage- though imaginary at the time - did not end there, for when I visited my mother upstate this past weekend, what do you suppose I brought with me? “Have you ever had Madhur Jaffrey’s Chickpea Pizza?” I asked her eagerly as we discussed the menu for the weekend. My mother was soon hooked on the stuff and every night we happily satiated our vice with a newly invented pizza, forgetting all about our previously planned menu.

It was on the third night that I sent this e-mail,

Ben,
My mother and I have made chickpea pizza every night I've been here. I just tried to sign into my gmail account as gourmetpizza (instead of gourmetpeasant.) I'm afraid may have started something very very dangerous!
Madeline

It was pretty bad. I was beginning to crack up under the pressure of my infatuation and nearly vowed to never touch the stuff again. It was then that I realized, there's nothing sinister at all about the Chickpea. I was getting bent out of shape for no reason at all. Of course you will have to decide for yourself whether or not dreaming day and night about pizza is a potential problem. For myself, I've decided to embrace this new devotion as a positive development, for what would life be like without obsessive zeal for the garbanzo in all its forms?

Madhur Jaffrey's Chickpea Flour Pizza

Ingredients

• 2/3 cup chickpea flour (see Notes)
• 1/3 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup water
• 1/2 teaspoon finely chopped rosemary
• 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 2 tablespoons chopped tomato
• 1 tablespoon finely chopped onion
• 3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
• 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

directions

1. Preheat the broiler. Sift the chickpea flour with the salt into a medium bowl. Slowly add 1/4 cup of the water, whisking constantly to form a paste. Beat with a wooden spoon until smooth. Whisk in the remaining 3/4 cup of water and let the batter stand at room temperature for 30 minutes, then stir in the rosemary.
2. Heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a 12-inch nonstick ovenproof skillet. Stir the batter once, pour it into the skillet and drizzle the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil on top. Cook the pizza over moderately high heat until the bottom is golden and crisp and the top is almost set, 2 to 3 minutes. Burst any large air bubbles with the tip of a knife.
3. Sprinkle the tomato, onion, Parmesan and pepper over the top, then place the skillet under the broiler and cook until the pizza is golden and crisp, 4 to 5 minutes. Slide the pizza onto a work surface, cut into wedges and serve hot.

Evolution Of a Bowl Licker

Some things you just don't grow out of. So much has evolved between my mother and myself over the years, cake batter is not one of them. Not once during my childhood did my mother fail to give me the mixing bowl of cake batter to lick clean.And not once, might I add, was I negligent in my duties as dedicated bowl licker. As you can see from this picture of my recent visit, this mother/daughter tradition is in no danger of extinction. Yum.

Urban Poultry - Beulah Sure Can Strut Her Stuff

Everyone, meet Beulah. Though she may look familiar to some, to most of you she probably looks like just another chicken; but don't be mistaken, she is no ordinary chicken. Beulah is no backwoods yokel, preferring the urban refuge of her Red Hook home to the humdrum existence of country fowl.

For the minor fee of surrendering her eggs to owner Ben Peikes, Beulah affords a lifestyle of which only few chicken's have ever dreamed. Her pastimes include, picking on her three sidekicks, eating cherry blossoms, hiding from Ben, and partaking in a soccer like sport involving grape tomatoes.

It was my recent pleasure to spend a Saturday afternoon watching Beulah strut her stuff on the playing field as well as show off some of the many stunts she has cultivated during her time here at Ben's 'Dikeman St. homestead.' Who knew that chickens could be so charming.

Serious Thoughts About Bacon...

Its my day off, and as I drink my coffee and stare out the window at the glorious spring day rouse itself from its chilly morning slumber, I can't help but wonder, is there such thing as leftover bacon?
This weekend I made a grand brunch for my roommate and friend. There was salad, there was French Toast, Scrambled Eggs and Mimosas but, most importantly there was lots and lots of bacon. Between the three of us, there were no leftovers of any kind and it made me question, had there been twice as much bacon, would we have eaten less salad or French toast in order to eat it all? There is no shortage of websites and blog entries providing all sorts of wonderful advice on how to deal with leftover bacon but, I can't help feeling as though I will never have the opportunity to try them because, as far as I'm concerned, there is no such thing.

Mama Mia, What a Pizza

The first time I tasted mole poblano I cried. I had been living in Mexico at the time and the woman I was staying with happened to be an amazing cook. She could make just about any type of food, Thai, Chinese, Italian, and of course her native cuisine, Mexican. I’ll never forget that first bite of that rich nutty sauce, a sumptuous wrestling match of smokey and sweet. The tears that welled up in my eyes had nothing to do with the artful blend of Pasilla and Guajillo chilies, neither did it have to do with the Spiced chocolate that was so lovingly stirred in at just the right moment. To be honest, at the time I had no idea what caused the crying episode. I was simply overwhelmed and that night I rushed to a phone both and called my mother to tell her about my experience. Considering I was such a long distance, she was rather surprised to hear from me, “Is everything okay?” she asked me having sensed the urgency in my voice. I paused for a moment not knowing what to say, then clumsily blurted out, “ I had mole. It made me cry.” As it turns out, along with all the Italian Pastry my mother gorged on during her pregnancy with me, she also consumed Mexican food in record amounts, Mole Poblano in particular! Well that explains my tearful discovery of the food I was prenatally weaned on.

I was recently reminded of this story when a very close friend and dinning companion of mine, Kara, made plans to have lunch. Kara, being pregnant and subject to random and overwhelming food cravings, was in charge of selecting the type of fare. As it turns out what she was craving most, was Pizza. “Bread, Tomatoes, and Cheese. Its all that I want” she informed me. “Well I know just the spot!” Di Fara Pizza is as famous for the pizza as it is for the wait for pizza (sometimes up to 2 hours). The Pizza is well worth the wait is the general consensus and in a city like New York where time is coveted in a fashion akin to power and wealth, that says something.

Kara and I planned to meet at Di Fara’s at 3pm on Saturday afternoon. As it turns out it was spring break and in total we waited two hours for the pizza. Here is the run down of those two hours:

Arrival 3pm

A crowded mess and not many seats. Little did I know that I would have plenty of time to poach us a table.

3:20
Kara arrives and we put in our order for a regular pie and sip our bottles of root beer while watching for a table. A woman sitting beside us tells us that she has been waiting for an hour and a half. I ask her why she is smiling. Her eyes widen with delight, ‘cause it’s worth it…and my pie is the next one up.’

4:00
We get a table in the back and finish our root beers. Classical music showered down upon the sea of patrons and the little green room seemed to inflate and deflate as people came in hungry and left full.

4:30

The group next to us receives their two pies. One of them guards the pies from the drooling crowd as the others pick out beverages. Wise decision, I think to myself as I hungrily eye their steaming pizza.

5:00
I get up to film the fames owner Mr. DeMarco work his magic on pie after pie after pie. (DeMarco is a bit of a perfectionist and works seven days a week. He is the soul architect of the pie, basically because he does not trust anyone to make pizza up to the standard that his patrons have come to expect). I film DeMarco drizzle olive oil atop a pie then place it in the sweltering oven, the gingerly retrieve a perfectly cooked pie, my pie as it turns out, from the oven. On lookers swoon and he finished my pie off with a sprinkle of grana padana cheese and some fresh Basil.

I was so hungry by the time we got the pie that I literally drank my first slice down in one messy slurp. How did Kara like her first piece? I couldn’t really tell you cause there was very little talking. The second slice we both savored. The crust was thin and perfectly burnt at the ends. The sauce was not overly sweet – one of my biggest pet-peeves – and the grana padana cheese added a level of complexity in both flavor and texture that caused an involuntary smile to well up from the depths of your soul.

By the third slice, Kara and I had slowed down to a moderate pace and I told her about my mothers Mole eating habits while she was pregnant with me, and the emothional affect it had on me decades later. “ Wow. So what your telling me is that its possible that, twenty years from now, my son or daughter (we don’t know the sex yet) is going to wander into Di Fara’s and start crying after their first bite of pizza?” I swallowed my last bite and brushed the crumbs from my lap, “Are you kidding me, I believe it’s in their destiny clause”

Handle With Care

(cup cake, I meant I'll never bake another cup cake)
As I push ever-onward with dismantling furniture, packing boxes, and coming to terms with how much crap I actually own - clearly I packed this box prior to my morning cup of Joe - it dawned on me that, due the poor planning of me and the roommate, we will be without internet for at least a week. A WHOLE WEEK!

Now, I can't tell you what I find more disturbing, a week without internet, the fact that I am so distressed about a week without internet, or the fact that my kitchen looks like this. Without DSL and a place to cook, it is like living in some sort of a primitive state where you must read the paper to get the news and grab a slice of pizza to combat hunger. Do people live like this?

What I am trying to say is that I will be on vacation from blogging for the next week. Will I be sipping margaritas in a bikini near the shore? Ah No. More like pulling my hair out trying to figure out which box the coffee grinder is in. And I suppose you'd like to know whats up with the chickens, check back in a week and I just might tell you.

Meet me on the corner of...

Just one of the many reasons I love Red Hook Brooklyn.

Never Say Goodbye...

It's not easy, and it's never the right time, to tell a loved one - one that you have housed with for many many a year - that it is time to move on. Today I signed the lease on a new apartment and as I stood in my brand new beautiful open kitchen - unfortunately not the one with the sunken in wine fridge - I felt a momentary pang of guilt.

In the next week I would be packing up my old kitchen, stripping her of all her cookware, utensils, and glorious appliances before leaving her high and dry. Who knows how she will be treated by future tenants. Will she be neglected, or will she be loved as she was by me, its hard to say. All I know is that, as I push forward to newer and snazzier kitchens, I will never forget the time I spent in my modest little kitchen on Franklin, from which I have fed countless friends, family and acquaintances. It was in this kitchen that I began my chocolate merrymaking, that I suffered an indescribable obsession with cup cakes, and blissfully conducted forays in ice cream making and for that dear kitchen, you deserve a proper farewell...

I must be Dreaming

What can I say? It would be super if I had some wonderfully exciting reason for my AWOL status as of late, an impromptu trip to Tierra Del Fuego for example. Instead all I can do, is whine to you about complicated computer problems that, in the end, are not really all that complicated, and the pain, sorrow, and stress of finding a new apartment.

Yes I am moving, and hopefully it is into the AMAZING apartment I applied for today that just so happens to house my dream kitchen. How did the landlord know that I have always wanted a kitchen that opens into the living space, I'll never know. How did he ever guess that I love marble counter tops, stainless steal appliances, a stove with an air duct, and get this, a wine refrigerator that is sunken into the wall? Pinch me, I think I'm dreaming!

I am aware that I owe you an entry, or two, or three or four... and I promise you they are in the works. In the meantime, wish me luck with my application. I think I'm gonna need all the mojo I can muster.

Red Lips, Stained Teeth - The Skurnick Marathon

1:30 pm-
When I arrived, five minutes late, Robin was standing at the front door with a wine glass in hand, ready to get things started. "Well happy Birthday Madeline," he said with a cordial grin, "I hope you don't mind spending the day of your birth tasting wine with your boss." To be honest I was thrilled and simultaneously overwhelmed. It was my first wine tasting, and the Michael Skurnik portfolio tasting was more of a marathon than it was a tasting; over 700 wines from Australia to Austria, from South Africa to the South of France, all housed in a two room spread in The Puck Building - a humbling sight for a novice such as myself. Nevertheless, I gallantly clutched my glass and dove right in, beginning, quit appropriately due to the occasion, with the sparkling wines from Spain, New Mexico, and Champagne.

The first hour slipped by as we drank our way through Australia, South Africa, Argentina, and Chile with nothing too memorable other than a wonderfully rustic and attractively priced Bonarda from Huarpe/Lancatay, and a fairly interesting Chenin Blanc from Rudera Wines in South Africa.

2:30 pm-
It was not until I approached Italy that I realized how many tannin drenched miles lay ahead of us. There were nearly twenty-five Italy tables, each holding 4-20 bottles a table. Gangs of Chianti assaulted tasters, as fragrant flocks of Valpolicello romanced them, and the poised armies of Barolo rolled elegantly across their taste buds. By the time we reached Napa I felt as though I was breathing out mixed berries, violets, and hot tar. Ah, anyone have a breath mint?

3:30pm-
California, and Oregon were massive, and Robin and I speed threw making a few stops along the way to taste a Zinfandel here, a Cabernet there, and a few Chardonnays for good measure. The Dashe Cellars "Todd Brothers Ranch" Zinfandel stood out in my fledgling mind. It had presence with nicely balanced oak, and a long peppery finish. Minutes later the cherry and spice still lingered on my palette.

4:30pm-
Before I had time to contemplate all that I had encountered, I found myself on the precipice of of a new and distinct Land, the grand matriarch, France. A few highlights,

• The Domaine Mardon, 'Tres Vielles Vignes' Quincy had a powerfully flirtatious nose, crisp acidity, and more than a hint of mineral, and grapefruit.
• The Chateau Pibarnon, Bandol Rose had a nose that reached out of the glass and smacked you, really hard! A lovely and complex rose. I can still feel the sting.
• The Marc Portaz, 'Tete de cuvee' Vin de Savoie Apremont, was fruity, crisp, and 'easy like sunday morning...'
• and Domaine Cauhape, 'Symphonie de Novembre' Jurancon Moelleux had the undeniable flavor of candied bacon. Trust me I know my candied Bacon.

Of course there were many more wines accompanied by many more adjectives, some more flattering than others - I'm still trying to decide weather cat pee is something I want in the nose of a red wine from Provence. I'll get back to you on that one.

5:30pm-
Four hours after the initial sip of Champagne, it was time to buckle seat belts, and put trays in their upright position, we were coming in for a landing. My feet were soar, my cheeks a little rosy after the cognac tasting, my left index finger was dyed red from the little dribbles of wine the splashed on the outside of my glass, and I was dying for something to eat, other than cheese of coarse.
What they must have thought, the innocent pedestrians who were there to witness the hoards of winos, with their stained teeth and lips, pouring from the front doors of the Puck building, and flooding Lafayette ave. It certainly was a sight to behold.

" So what did you think of your first Skurnick tasting?" Robin asked me. My stomach growled adamantly and I stretched a crick in my back, " It was fun but man, this is hard work!"I exclaimed. "Well at last someone understands," he replied with the unmistakable air of an aristocrat.

La vida es dura.

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy Birthday to me!

Last night, after a slow drawn-out night at work, I did the books, indulged in a cab ride home to find a bottle of Gewurztraminer and a mini Brooklyn Blackout Cake from my favorite Bakery, Lady Bird (formerly known as Two Little Red Hens). Today I will start my day off with a bit of cake then rush to a wine tasting with my boss, followed by champagne and oysters at Pearl Oyster Bar with a dear friend and a colleague, two people I don't see nearly enough of.
It is gray and raining outside and accu-weather has predicted Thunder storms all day long, but as I sit here, chipping away at my chocolate cake, I have nothing but sunshine in my heart - as cheesy as it may sound.

Food, Wine, Coffee, and Robotics

There now exists a Robot that has the sensory capability to pinpoint the region of any tasted wine, as well as to detect the subtle differences in terrior within subregions of that wine(sometimes a matter of a few miles.)
There also exists a Health and Food Advice Robot that can distinguish between thirty different kinds of wine, cheeses, and breads in order to give advice that reinforces healthy choices. And finally, there exists the prototype of a Robot that will cook you dinner.
Now, I have no qualms about letting one Robot offer me wine suggestions while another gives me health advice, and another cooks dinner. Nevertheless, I must ask the question, if scientists can do all of these things, why the hell have they yet to invent a Coffee Robot? I just don't understand!

What Hulk Hogan Has in Common With California Chardonnay

Here it is, Friday March 7th, more than a week since my last blog entry, and still I have nothing interesting to report back. Basically I have been working like a dog in order to pay for my upcoming WSET course. Because I work nights, I haven't had many opportunities for dining out, or staying in to cook for that matter. Sad, I know. Hopefully tonight my kitchen and I will be sharing a romantic evening together, after I give it a good scrub that is.
In the meantime I thought I would share my latest Internet find, Wine Library TV ,a video wine blog hosted by the wine guzzling, cork flinging, Jets loving Gary Vaynerchuck. Gary's playful and down to earth wine descriptions - he compared the hue of a California Chardonnay to the gold locks of WWF wrestler Hulk Hogan - are elaborate, witty, and extremely accessible. He records five shows a week, and has cover such topics such as training your palette, vintage Bordeaux, Kosher wines, and many many more.

The episode below is his 416th, and is a showdown - his words - between an Oregon Pinot Gris and an Italian Pinot Grigio. Will you walk away from his blog having learned more about wine or football, wrestling, and boxing, its hard to say. What is certain is that you are gonna laugh more about wine then you ever thought was possible, and your gonna want to drink more wine, but hell, we already knew that was possible.

Monday Heartbreak

Monday always seems like the perfect day to enjoy Brooklyn unadulterated by the weekend crowds. But, for those of us who have Mondays off, Brooklyn usually turns out to be a real heart breaker. This past Monday I woke up and decided to grab breakfast at a local restaurant, Cheryl's, only to find that it is closed on Mondays. Not a problem, I assured myself, I'll just grab some tasty coffee and a Ham & Cheese Croissant at Joyce Bakeshop. Wrong! Joyce is also closed on Monday. I don't know how many times I have to go threw this very process until I learn my lesson: almost half of Brooklyn is CLOSED ON MONDAYS. It appears that we may now add The Chocolate Room to the long list of my Monday heartbreaks.

Some Quality Time With a Neglected Love One

As of late, I have been finding every reason possible not to step into the kitchen. One reason is that I am actively searching for both, a good Thai Food restaurant in Brooklyn, and some good BYOB spots .Another reason is that, though I have never before had a problem cooking unaccompanied, in the last few months, cooking alone has become a terribly isolating experience. I have been having the urge to collaborate in the kitchen and have yet to find a remedy for this, seeing as most of my friends don't enjoy cooking. Another more concrete reason for not wanting to cook is that my apartment has recently been invaded by a gang of mice who have found their way into my grains, sugar, and anything else unprotected, then popped all over every inch of my kitchen.

Between the exterminator and our recent house guest,
the mice have decided to take their vandalous show on the road. Still, the entire thing has turned me off to the idea of cooking and my kitchen has been left unattended, aside from morning coffee and my roommate's version of cooking which includes boiling vegetables and heating up boxed soup.

It's sad, I know. I'm not at all proud of my behaviour and I feel like a neglectful mother. However, yesterday was the day it would all come to and end. The snow set the stage for a guilt free day at home, and while futzing around on the internet, I did something spontaneous and entirely beyond my budget; I signed up for the Advanced WSET wine certificate. For the next four months I would be paying off monthly installments towards my class beginning in May.
Considering I am already treading water financially, it was going to take some maneuvering to make this all work - in other words, less eating in restaurants. There would have to be a reconciliation between my Kitchen and myself. In order for this to work, I would need some food. I threw on my snow boots, braved the slippery snow, and made my way to the Park Slope Food Coop for some supplies. Eastern Parkway was oh so elegant with her snow capped trees, and her side walks dusted in powdery white. As I took this picture a woman passing behind me leaned in for a closer look. "Its very beautiful" she said with a thick Caribbean accent. "Yeah. But by tonight it will all be a slushy brown mess" I said looking back at her. "Ain't it the truth" she replied letting out a hearty laugh.
An hour later I arrived home with an overflowing bag of groceries, ready to get to work. I pulled everything down from the shelves and cabinets, wiped down every surface, and sanitized every inch of my neglected kitchen. These walls really need to be painted I thought to myself, and this pantry could really use a once over. There were so many things that need to be done and I found myself excited by the idea of giving my kitchen a face lift. Now of course, fixing up my kitchen would set me back a couple of dollars, but a coat of new paint and a little bit of reorganizing will encourage me to spend more time cooking, which in the end, will save me money. This is my theory at least, only time will tell.

Stained Teeth and My #3 Reason to Love The French

I have been hitting you awfully hard this month with entries centering around wacky French customs and observances. Does this make me dangerously close to being called a Francophile? Probably. Is that going to stop me from giving you my number three reason for why I love the French? Hell no.
I stumbled across my #3 reason when I was bartending at the cafe and a customer of mine (French) spilled red wine on her white silk blouse. "Oh dear" she said looking down wryly at the red blotch as though it had said or done something wildly inappropriate. " Would you like some club soda?" I offered trying to be helpful. "Oh no" she said waving her hand, " bring me a glass of white wine." "But the club soda may help remove the stain," I replied, thinking that she may not have understood me. " Oh, I understood you," she said, her pride brimming " but the best way to remove a red wine stain is with white wine, not with club soda." She ran her index finger down the list of wines by the glass, passing the house white (a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc), the Pinot Blanc (a moderately priced Alsacian), and then pausing at the Sancerre (our most expensive white by the glass)." I'll take this one, " she requested. It seemed a bit extravagent to use such an expensive glass of wine for the purpose of removing a stain, but then again, she was French and in the end, it did remove the red wine from her blouse.

I must say, I was amazed. I priased the French for their infinite wisdom and when two days later a friend of mine, Andrew, found himself with wine stained lips after a Malbec rampage, I suggested that he might clean his lips and whiten his teeth with a nice crisp glass of Sancerre.
" What do you think about a glass of Prosecco?" he asked, kicking it up a notch. Now clearly Andrew was in no need of more vino. Still, I could not fight my curiousity, " I bet the bubbles would create a kind of scrubbing effect" I responded with glee. Andrew ordered a glass of bubbly and the Rioja totting Spaniard sitting beside him at the bar leaned in, " I don't mean to listen to your conversation but, did you say you were going to remove the red wine stain on your mouth with Prosecco? I am Spanish (pause) and we know a bit about wine, (pause) and I have never heard of such a thing." He looked perplexed, and almost anxious at the idea that his wine knowledge was lacking such unessentials . I fought the urge to feed his pompus anxiouty with insinuations that our hair-brained scheme was common knowledge among those in the know, and I explained everything to him.
When the Prosecco arrived, The Spaniard and I watch intently as Andrew sipped then scrubbed, sipped then scrubbed his lips and tongue.
Whether the French remedy worked, or fail in the end is rather obvious from Andrew's purple tinted tongue. Perhaps we should have splurged and gotten a glass of Champagne.

A Case of The Februaries?

Usually I read on my way to work to help speed the wasted hours of commuting. This morning however, no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to concentrate so I reached for my I-pod. I swiveled down my list of artists, and for the life of me could not decide what listen to because truthfully, I did not feel like listening to anything. After a few more idle minutes, I traded in the I-pod for brooding like a hormonal teenager. What the hell was going on with me? Why have I been feeling so apathetic, so anti-social, so, lukewarm about everything? Could I be suffering from a case of what Horvendile of A Likely Story, calls The Februaries? Here are my other symptoms that corroborate my creeping suspicion that i am indeed suffering from this seasonal malady.

Symptom #1 "Self-indulgence masquerading as self-reflection"

This morning the larger of my skinny jeans did not fit me as comfortably as I would have liked. Translation: I could only just get the zipper up while standing, but would risk serious embarrassment by sitting down in them. I can’t believe this! How did this happen? I shouted at my bulging reflection in the mirror. The truth of the matter was that I knew oh too well how this happened. It’s called eating ice cream once and sometimes even twice a day for two weeks! Not too much of a mystery there.
Why the abuse? I have been telling myself that it is all in the name of research. How am I to break into the ice cream business, if I don’t eat lots and lots of ice cream? All I have to say is that if I don’t get rid of this case of the Februaries, the only thing I will be breaking into is a pair of plus size jeans.

Symptom #2 ‘Why Bother?’

The, what the hell am I doing with my life panic, that seems to set in this time of year has only been met head on with the, why even bother doing anything with my life indifference that is doing a pretty good job of unraveling me. You are right Matt; it’s not despair that I’m feeling. Despair would be a welcomed improvement from my disgruntled, yet unjustifiably phlegmatic state. Despair would signal the coming of spring, the season of giving a shit, the season of sucking it up and doing something about it.

Symptom #3 “Massive Social Hibernation”

Lets just say that, my apartment is clean, all my bills are paid, and I’m doing a good job of catching up on this years reading.

Symptom #4 “Mister Roboto”

That’s Miss Roboto to you. I have unconsciously developed the worst fake smile and, like those aging TV actresses who are over zealous about Botox, I seem to have no control over it. Just look at me for longer than five seconds and that goofy smile will magically display its self. March better get here fast, or people are gonna begin to think I’m the Prozac Queen.

Symptom #5 “I just called to say I love you…”

Now I’ve skipped over a few important symptoms in order to get to the granddaddy of them all, Valentine’s Day. Somehow, I seem never to have a boyfriend for Valentine’s Day, not that I would relish the holiday if I had. Romance is a spontaneous thing. You can’t plan it, you certainly can’t buy it, and you’re lost if you think your gonna find it in a quaint little restaurant, seated side by side with other couples all trying to have a romantic meal of their own, all the while, listening to cheesy love songs, and sharing a heart shaped cherry cobbler. That’s the curse of St. Valentine if you are paired off.

Now if you’re single, Valentine’s Day is just as much of a trap. Stay home and read a book or watch Sex and The City like your February Social Hibernations is telling you to do, and you’re a loser. Go out with your chick friends for some, we’re single and okay with that drinks, and you’re an even bigger loser.

The restaurant where I work is offering their annual Valentine’s Day pre fix, and all this week the reservation have been rolling in, table for two 6pm, table for two 7:30, and could we have that romantic table by the fire place… blah, blah, blah. There is one reservation however that brought a smile, a genuine smile, to my face. It’s a reservation for one. That’s right, one. And, it’s not an error, for example not remembering it would be Valentines Day and therefore, full of couples. The reservation was informed of the special pre fix and chose to take part in the Valentine’s meal, all by themselves. I won’t reveal the name of the reservation, but what I will say is that you, Reservation For One, are my one and only Valentine’s Day hero, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

Symptom #6 My Very Own

Now this symptom is one of my very own. It’s not a common one, but if you find yourself suffering from it, just consider it an added bonus.

This morning I left for work much earlier than I am used to. I did this, not because I was overzealous about working a day shift, but in order to take a TB test that the health department was requiring of all employees. That’s right people, TUBERCULOSIS! When hearing the words, have a good day and, good luck with the TB test! from my roommate this morning, I strangely felt like a character out of a freakin’ Charlotte Bronte novel. And get this, when do we have to come back in to get our results? Valentine’s Day! I do have a dark sense humor and, if I weren’t suffering from a wicked case of The Februaries, I might actually find that funny.

La Chandeleur - Another French Holiday

The first time I heard of La Chandeleur was when I invited Regine to my Boxing Day Brunch where I was planning on serving crepes. She just laughed at me because, sort of like wearing white after Labor Day is considered uncouth in the United States, making crepes this side of La Chandeleur is apparently unheard of in France.

La Chandeleur is celebrated the second day of February and marks the day that the baby Jesus was taken before Simeon and declared " the light of the world." Here is the part of the story where I declare, yet again, that I love the French and their ability to take any boring religious holiday and turn it into a celebration that artfully intertwines slapstick ritual and pastry.

You see, the French don't celebrate this religious milestone by spending the entire day in church. No way! Instead they make crepes because La Chandeleur also marks the kick-off of the crepe making season and is sort of a French equivalent of Ground Hogs Day. How exactly is it done? Just follow these easy steps and you'll soon be partying it up and stuffing down crepes like a wild Frenchman.

1.) Find a gold coin, a franc, a Euro (which is what I used), or even a quarter.
2.) Light lots of candles because, how could it be a hokey holiday without candles...
3.) Be careful not to burn your place down with all those dangerous candles.
4.)Make crepe batter.

Crepe Batter Recipe
3 eggs
1 1/2 cups of whole milk
1/2 cup of water
dash of sugar/salt/orange blossom water

Blend all ingredients in blender until the suction whole
in the center of the mixture is roughly the size of a quarter

5.) Pour batter into a properly greased crepe pan and spread batter evenly across pan. If the batter is too thick, add more water. When the crepe is ready to flip, hold your chosen coin in your left hand while attempting to flip the crepe with your right. If you manage to flip the crepe perfectly you will be blessed with good luck and an early Spring. If the crepe lands badly hold on, its gonna be a long and luckless winter.


As you can see, after a bit of practice my crepe flipping skills have earned me good luck and an early Spring. Hopefully my tardiness in celebrating - its already February 11th- won't get me expelled from the program. Even though the winter has only just now decided to show her icy face at the party, I would not be at all upset to see her duck out early.