Mary Poppins in Heels

Craziness in the Form of a Sister...Mine...

2011-09-03T01:52:00.003-04:00

My sister has, in the middle of her life, found religion. This, on its own, isn’t monumental. She’s searched her entire life for an identity and I should have expected this old standard to be one of her stops on this, her journey.

I’ve little doubt that my words will sound harsh, especially to “believers,” but you have to know the players. My sister, six years my junior, has taste tested just about every persona she could conjure up. When she was small, she fancied herself a budding ballerina, as do many little girls. Rather than merely taking ballet lessons, however, my sister took on an affect: The Budding Ballerina. She floated about wearing pastel leotards, tights and fluttery, flowery skirts. In truth, it was a pretty cool look for a little girl in the early 70’s. The juxtaposition of her long dark, wildly curly hair, and the gentle pinks and yellows of her soft, simple outfits offered a beautiful balance to her developing craziness and her little girl sweetness.

She moved lightly during this phase, mimicking the carriage of the dancers she admired. Ballet posters began to adorn her half of the walls in our shared bedroom and she talked of being A Ballerina. A tiny part of me thought--hoped--she was following in my footsteps, albeit to an extreme. I had been taking dance lessons since before she could walk, and I was, after all, her big sister. It made sense. And it seemed a nice persona for this tiny person just coming into her own. I thought encouragement would be, well, encouraging, so I told her how pretty she looked, how I loved her outfits and that she danced (when, in reality, the persona involved more fashion than dance, but, hey, what’s encouragement without a healthy dose of bullshit?), how my friends thought it was so cool that she had already found so distinct a style…

But this, like all of the phases to come, was short lived. As I would soon discover, my encouragement helped end each phase. From A Ballerina she went to Athlete, trading her fluttering skirts and delicate shoes for heavy sweatshirts and muddy sneakers. She pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail and began to look more like one of our brothers than my little sister. I ran, so she ran. We were both light and fast, but she was more competitive than I. Just when she was about to make a mark, my admiration of her speed and grace penetrated, and she moved on.

In high school, she wanted to be a punk rock singer, regardless of the fact that every second spent on key was followed by a minute off, and she went from audition to audition dressed as a nightmare-inducing cross between Madonna in her I’m a Virgin stage and Dee Snider of Twisted Sister (oh, hey, irony). She fancied herself a true artist when some of my artwork was displayed in my school’s art cabinet, and decided that she could write after my brother's first book was published.

I went to law school and she hedged toward applying, too, but her course had begun to change. Instead of going to law school, my sister decided to become the wife of a lawyer. Working on a master’s in social work at Rutgers, she studied in the law library, becoming what she envisioned a future lawyer’s future wife to be: studious, demure, subservient and conservative. She began dating a law student and was crushed nearly beyond repair when he dumped her for someone with a personality of her very own. My sister had learned, though, that a persona is only as good as the effort put into it, and she quickly recalculated. Her mistake, she felt, had been in scoping out the educated. She began frequenting the enlisted men’s haunts at and around McGuire Air Force Base, near our parents’ home where she still lived. Within two weeks, my now 29 year old sister met and became engaged to an alcoholic enlisted 20 year old man.

New persona: Wife to be. My sister seemed almost normal during the two weeks we furiously planned and had her wedding. The night before, her fiancé, who had moved into my parents’ house, left for the base, smelling heavily of alcohol. My mother explained to my sister that it was not too late to call off the wedding. She talked about wanting my sister to be happy, and hoping she would never be with a man just to avoid being alone. My sister listened, as she rarely had, seemingly giving what my mother said great thought. She stroked the fabric of her wedding dress and said quietly, but with absolute conviction, “No. I want a wedding.”

“You can have another wedding, another time.” My mother’s voice was calm, her face pained.

“Yeah, with someone who deserves to be with you,” I chimed in, reluctantly.

“No, I want a wedding tomorrow. I want to wear this dress. Tomorrow.” And, with that, she left the room.

She went from wife to mother to divorced woman living with her parents. From there, she had many incarnations, dragging all who cared about her through turmoil and grief. She thought she'd add three adopted Columbian children to her family of two sons, spending all of her savings and, no doubt, leaving her sons feeling less than adequate. She became pregnant, dropped the idea of adoption, married a second time...blah, blah, blah...fast forward: Is a Christian.

What the fuck happened between becoming pregnant out of wedlock and becoming a Bible thumping, judgmental, utterly overbearing pain in the ass...okay, she was always an judgmental and overbearing pain in the ass...Christian? She now sends my brothers and me diatribes about how our sins can be erased...or fixed...frankly, none of it makes any sense to me. The diatribes start out talking about Yahoo...really, I shit you not...and end with something about Jews becoming Christians and...I think it's supposed to be something good...or at least better...?

I've asked her to stop sending it and she has, as a Good Christian, refused to honor my requests. I am, it would appear, not of sound mind to know what I believe. The first time I asked her to stop sending this offensive Jew-Turned-Christian-Because-It's-Only-Right reading material to me and the man with whom I live (a Jewish born, non-believing, non-practicing, non-religious, highly moral, more decent than most man), she yelled at my 80 year old mother that it was her fault that none of her children had religion. My mother, Yahoobadoo bless her soul, yelled back that she had no control over her 50 year old “children,” and my father, how I love that man, proudly proclaimed that he hoped it was their fault that they'd raised thinking people. But my sister, ever the fruitcake, persists. She continues to send out diatribes and blatherings and Yahooisms, none of which make any sense to me.

It's sad to me that my sister can't value me as a person, if not as a sister, and I'm left to ponder the same old question: Is she doing this as affect? I look at friends who have relationships with their sisters, and wonder why mine is, and always has been, so difficult, so contrary, so on the verge of non-existent. I have a very dear friend who has a crazy sister, too, and marvel that he sees mine as so off the wall and his as merely pathetic, as someone to be pitied and, as a result, indulged. Mine fumbles through personas while his puts hexes on the women he tries, in vain, to have relationships with. Why is his more worth an effort than mine, I wonder. The conclusion is, for me at least, that neither is worth that kind of effort. He's just more conditioned or better trained, or maybe he possesses a greater ability to say, "Uh-huh" and nod, while playing Stairway to Heaven in his head while his sister talks.

Let's face it, crazy is crazy. My sister—and his—can raise a hand, proudly and with vigor, when a count is taken of the annoying, creepy, judgmental fruitcakes in the audience. My friend tries to pretend that his crazy sister is less crazy than mine—praise Yabadabdoo for crazier sisters--as I try to figure out a way to convince my sister to have her beliefs without so utterly alienating me that I have to pretend that I don't have a sister.

It's sad. My sister has been through a hundred incarnations and still comes up wanting. And, if you think about it, mildly comical (she believes in Yabadaboohee, after all). And my friend, well, his sister is just nuts.

Thanksgiving...Christmas...Bless the Baby Cheeses

2011-01-03T22:24:00.001-05:00

We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with those who are near and dear to us. They, seemingly in return for our company, were sweet and welcoming and, maybe best of all, loved the cakes we delivered to them.

We lean toward the inappropriate and have an inclination to be irreverent. Thanks to our hosts, this was not a problem.

The cakes speak for themselves...

(I'm leading up to a real...A REAL...post, with writing and all, soon...with recipes to follow.)

Who Knew?

2010-05-12T13:27:00.001-04:00

Freebies and Much More is a site the purpose of which is to tell the world about giveaways. Who knew? Endangered Species Chocolate is doing a giveaway, and there's no way that can be bad. Go look...

Destiny and the Blogspot Fairy

2010-04-29T14:39:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, for no apparent reason, my blog's "Followers" box disappeared. Having ignored my basic disability with overly technical operations, I tried to set up a link to my newly created Facebook fan page, but, instead, I wiped out, or altered or otherwise fucked up, an entirely different box, one I'd had no intention of even venturing near. It all seemed so simple at the time.

When I saw that my "Followers" box was empty, I launched into an absurdly frantic flurry of non-activity in an effort to diagnose the problem. In the middle of reading my blog's Edit HTML Page, comparing what I saw there to—to what, I must ask?--it occurred to me that I had not a clue what I was "reading." This, of course, forced me to sit back and ponder my reaction.

Could this be one of those Signs from the Universe of which the I'm-Not-Religious-I'm-Spiritual speak? And if it is a sign, what, exactly, is the sign? Is it that, in the end, I'm not meant to be followed (which is, please note, in true keeping with the ItWasn'tMeantToBe sermon offered when life goes all twisted and scattered, stubbornly refusing to yield to The Plan). Or is it the SetItFreeAndIfIt'sRealItWillReturn philosophy working its wonders, perhaps? If you love me, dear readers, you'll return?

I have to laugh at the Church of Signs from the Universe congregants who spew their ItWasn'tMeantToBe wisdom. Why is it so difficult for some people to accept that solutions aren't always found hiding in plain sight, and that rarely do they come with either signs or confetti? Sometimes things in life are muddy and vague. Sometimes they are have huge lumps and jagged edges, even though we want desperately for them to be smooth and easy to hold onto. Sometimes things in life simply seem too painful to bear, and nothing is as we'd hoped it to be. Sometimes there are no clean answers or easy solutions, and, sometimes, that is just the way it is.

The absence of ease doesn't mean that we have no part in any of it, or that we shouldn't give it a good try. The failure of things to fall easily into place or work as we'd planned isn't proof that we are controlled by something grander out there.

Maybe it's that I feel better thinking that I have a certain amount of control over the things I do and choices I make, but I suspect that my brother, who meets it'll all work out with but what if it doesn't, is right. We have to do our part to make things work out. We have to pay attention to the plans we're cultivating, and do the things that get us to the point of either "I did it" or "I sure gave it my best shot." Things aren't going to be okay just because we decide that the universe—or some other force—is taking care of the details. Besides, why does so powerful a universe need us if it's doing all of the work? And how much of a token gesture do we really want to be anyway?

Another thing I wonder about is if we really want to let ourselves off that easily. If we decline acceptance of some aspect of control over our lives, we relinquish responsibility for the paths we take, and the byproducts of the decision to take those paths. I like thinking...believing...that we impact our own existences and, to some extent, the existences of those connected to us.

Let's face it, your souffle didn't fall as a sign that you were meant to serve tuna salad at your dinner party. It fell because you haven't yet perfected the art of souffle making, or because the creepy neighbor kid stuck his fingers in it when it came out of the oven. How you handle serving tuna salad at your dinner party says something about you, not the universe.

I would rather have made my little programming maneuver with finesse. Instead, I touched something I shouldn't have touched, or I saved something I should have discarded, and here I sit, utterly and completely without a follower to my made-up name, with no one to blame but myself.

The only sign I see in this is a flashing blood red neon reminder not to touch things I know nothing about, like HTML. I don't even know what HTML means, so why would I go around touching it? And, not only did I touch it, I fondled it. No, I molested it, and that is just wrong.

I knew that I was going in over my head, but I went in anyway. I tried and I screwed it all up, but I will try again. It's only Not Meant if I decline to even try.

So, in this vein, I will read about how to identify the error in my blog's HTML, after finding out what HTML means, and I will, through diligence and determination, work toward reestablishing my "Followers" list. I may even put in the link to my Facebook fan page.

I will, however, do this tomorrow. Right now, I'm thinking about what a bitch the Blogspot Fairy truly is.

Happy Birthday to Naomi....with Gingerbread Cookies

2010-04-07T10:13:00.005-04:00

This year, Naomi's birthday came two days after Passover and four days before Easter, making it, to some, a mere blur on the calendar. In our house, however, March 31 was noted, as it is every year, in bright pink marker and fancy script befitting the day: Naomi's Day!

Naomi is the wife of Evan's brother and, though not one of my oldest friends, she is, without a doubt, one of my closest. I hate that her day went by without the calls and accolades she so diligently ensures the rest of us receive on our significant days. Naomi is the person who remembers every birthday and anniversary, without fail, and makes each event into something grand and memorable. When she is in charge of the party, the Naomi-droppings are wonderfully special little treats carefully selected for each individual. The food is an array of our favorites, with Coke in chilled glass bottles for the Coke drinkers, and a selection of expensive wines for the would-be connoisseurs. She always has meat for the carivores and vegetables for me, and manages to make each guest feel like her favorite. I love that she remembers that Evan favors blue cheese dressing, but not blue cheese, and I feel compelled to deliver a hug to her when I hear her lean over to one of her guests and say quietly, "I thought of you when I saw this recipe." There is no way to feel anything less than truly valued and loved when Naomi is at the helm.

And so why, I must wonder, is it that Naomi's birthday would pass without a parade? Ever? Why would she say, in response to my query about how her birthday was going, that she was a little surprised that she didn't get calls from some of the people she considers family? Of course, she is Naomi and, so, dug up various excuses and reasons, and applied them all to the assorted delinquents. She's too generous of heart, in my estimation, especially since, to this day, they've still not called to say boo.

Fully aware of the WhatAboutMe universe in which we linger, and wanting the celebration of the day of Naomi's entrance into this world to be totally Naomi-centered, Evan and I planned our course of action many months ago. Knowing that Naomi prefers her won birthday parties to be devoid of guests, we invited her for a quiet dinner at our house.

Two years ago, we tried to have an intimate surprise dinner party for Naomi's birthday, with only Naomi, her husband, Evan and me in attendance. We moved along nicely, planning and plotting until, through some course of events that, to this day, remain mirky in our haunted memories, all hell broke loose. Our intimate dinner for four evolved, in one uncontrollable afternoon, into a dinner party for the masses. We found ourselves "inviting" people who called for invitations, who, in turn, felt compelled to invite their own guests, not one of whom was Naomi's friend. The usual late arrivals arrived predictably and dreadfully late, and the tag-along invites brought dates, but not gifts. The group had a single conversation centered entirely and solely around the most irksome of topics and characters, and never once turned to the guest of honor, who sat there smiling and nodding and, I've no doubt, calculating exactly how long she had to stay before fleeing the scene without being rude. Having had dinner and cake, opened her presents and lingered a while, Naomi put on her coat as she thanked Evan and me profusely. Holding both of us in a giant, warm hug, she begged us to slaughter, on sight, any urge to throw her a party again, ever, in all of her remaining years.

This year, as it turned out, Passover was two days before her birthday. In true Naomi-ness, she and her husband did the bulk of the Seder cooking, transporting the food into the city from their house more than two and a half hours away. The day after her birthday, her husband left for a week, so her birthday was spent readying him for his trip. Finally, on Easter, Naomi was all ours.

It was perfect, too, because Naomi, our nice Jewish girl, loves Easter. (Frankly, Naomi refuses to turn down an opportunity to fuss and fix and prepare for family and friends, so all holidays are equally precious to her.)

Evan, who adores a good play on words fashioned especially for the recipient, had, long ago, come up with the perfect gift. At every family event, Naomi and I do kitchen duty, and the outfit of the day always includes an apron and yellow rubber gloves. No, this isn't a housewife's sexual fantasy, it's Naomi's idea of preparedness. While I've been known to don an apron on the rare occasion, I will not, under any circumstances, do anything at all ever while wearing yellow rubber gloves. Ever. But I digress.

Evan's idea was to paint something witty and purely Naomi-esque on an apron. I would make the apron and then paint his literary genius on the pocket. Here's the foundation for his thinking: Naomi was raised in a traditional Jewish family. She attended Hebrew school for five years in preparation for her Bat Mitzvah and is, in many ways, the embodiment of a good Jewish girl. She feeds us and hugs us, and tells us we are the best and the brightest, before noting that we're too skinny and probably could use more rest (or sex, depending on who she's counseling).

"You're wasting away," she laughingly scolds in her exaggerated New York Jewish mama accent as I wedge my fat ass into the chair directly in front of the pile of chocolate she's laid out especially for me.

I believe that most of her husbands have been Jewish, and, of course, I know that Evan's brother, her current husband, is. All of this notwithstanding, she does not cling to a strong religious belief system. It's the very best of the Jewish heritage, culture and tradition all rolled up in one beautiful Naomi.

Evan has a wonderfully warped sense of humor and Naomi possesses a delightfully quick and equally warped wit. When EvanHumor enters the conversaton, recongnition flickers in her eyes immediately and her appreciation for his cleverness is demonstrated with rolling rounds of hearty belly laughs. Now, bearing in mind these senses of humor, in conjunction with the apron/yellow rubber glove fetish, Evan's creative juices spewed out this:

She loved it. With only the slightest trepidation remaining on her part, I do believe that Evan has convinced her to wear the apron at Passover dinner next year. That should make an interesting story...

Now, the cake. For some reason I've yet to understand, Naomi is called The Duck. In honor of her birthday last year, and her Grand Duckness every year, Evan and I made the Duck Diving Cake.

The Bird Brothel Birdhouse Evan made for Naomi's birthday last year. She won't let birds go in it--they'll make it dirty, she says.

This year, we made an Easter scene with, of course, a duck in residence. We made it out of sugar cookies and, Naomi's favorite, gingerbread, and decorated it all with Royal Frosting.

I say "we" made these lovelies because, while I'm the baker, Evan is my technical advisor and cheerleader and, when needed, carpenter and master finagler. I've yet to take on one of these bizarre projects without his counsel and, frankly, the bizarreness is borne, as a rule, largely out of his oddly brilliant and frighteningly creative mind. Naomi, our comrade in the absurd, was thilled with her "cake" and felt loved, making ours a successful endeavor.

So, dear Naomi, Happy Birthday one more time. We love you more than you know. You're a true and consistent friend to both of us, and you bring tremendous joy into our lives. And, my dear, you have the best That-was-the-time-I-had-sex-in-the-Louvre genre of stories of anyone on earth!

GINGERBREAD COOKIES (adapted from Betty Crocker's Cookbook)

INGREDIENTS
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/3 cup butter
1 ½ cups dark molasses
2/3 cup cold water
7 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

PREPARATION
Mix brown sugar, butter, molasses and water. Stir in remaining ingredients. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.

Prepeat oven to 350 degrees (F). Roll dough out on floured surface to about ¼ inch thickness. Cut with floured cookie cutters and place about 2 inches apart on lightly greased chookie sheet.

Bake for about 10 to 12 minutes, or until no indentation remains when the center of the cookie is touched. Be careful to not to over bake.

Allow to cool slightly before removing from cookie sheet. Cool completely on wire rack before decorating with Royal Frosting.

FROSTING AND ASSEMBLY
I still don't quite have the piping as clean as I'd like, but it was easier, and more fun, after reading Brown Eyed Baker's How To on decorating with Royal Frosting.

For this project, I made 3 batches of Royal Icing.

(The base is a sugar cookie. I was concerned that the gingerbread would puff too much to make a decent foundation. Roll out about 1/2 inch of dough and use a dinner plate as a template, placing the plate on the dough and then cutting around the outer edge of the plate. Drape the cut dough around your rolling pin, and carefully transfer it to an ungreased cookie sheet. I baked it at 350 degrees for about 25 minutes. After the first 15 minutes, check it frequently until it's a very light golden color along the edge.)

When the base was completely cooled, I iced it with thinned, green tinted Royal Icing and placed it in the refrigerator overnight to harden.

I don't yet have a duck cookie cutter (if you can imagine such a thing!), so I cut the tail off of the turkey shape, reshaping her feet into smoother, longer shapes, and elongating her beak into a bill. I also pulled her head down a bit and fluffed up her tail.

I decorated each cookie and placed those, too, in the refrigerator to allow the icing to harden completely.

The black flower is actually purple

Once hardened, the cookies were applied to the base using piping consistency icing.

The sheep and house were thick enough to allow me to put a toothpick through them, with the other end of the toothpick going through the sugar cookie and icing on the bottom of the cookie for added glue. Everything was brought to room temperature before the toothpicks were inserted.
I made the cookies one day, and frosted and assembled them the next. Unfortunately, the pictures are blurry, but the "cake" was cute, the cookies were delicious and we had a very happy Duck in our house.

** The apron and its decoration were made with love and respect, and were no way meant to be a display of anything derogatory toward Jews, Christians or Cheese Lovers. If you're easily offended, frankly, this probably isn't the blog for you.

Poop and fleas, and other nice things

2010-04-04T23:50:00.003-04:00

Recently, a woman told me that she named “all poop” after me. She actually wrote that in an e-mail message.

“I name all poop after you.”

I shit you not (excuse the pun). It wasn’t even in the body of the message, it was the post script. She wrote it in response to a note I sent to her thanking her for the I-Love-You-Still card she sent to the man I live with. I thought her comment about poop was uncalled for, given how gracious my message was, my motivation so clearly borne out of generosity of heart.

“Thank you for the card you sent to Evan,” was what I wrote.

Okay, maybe “gracious” is a slight exaggeration, and I guess my motivation was borne more out of wanting her to feel irked that I knew about the card, and, perhaps, pissed, even, that he showed me something she thought would be private between them. Frankly, I'm still feeling rather justified and somewhat cleansed. After all, I could have opted for full-on bitchy rather than wading through with polite passive aggression. I think my approach shows reserve and ingenuity, all rolled up in one. She did, after all, send the man I live with an I-Love-You-Still card, and that's just not polite.

Upon receipt of my “thank you,” she immediately wrote her adorable little response. In only one or two lines of amusingly bad spelling and creatively mixed metaphors, she noted, in essence, my proclivity for certain oral activity, the practice of which is completely illegal in most Southern states and an unmentionable abomination in all religions. In keeping with her eloquent writing style, she added this witty post script: “P.S. I name all poop after you.”

Honestly, I don't think she meant for it to be amusing. She doesn’t like me much.

Admittedly, I understand the effect she was going for. She meant for me to curl up, thumb in mouth, whimpering and ashamed of the low I had so clearly hit by, you know, existing and all, thereby causing so decent and lovely a human to feel no options but to name shit after me. She was, after all, thoughtful enough to send Evan a card. That was nice of her.

But no. Wretched One that I am. I couldn't even give her credit for being so swell. Instead, I read her note and post script, and paused, mouth bobbing open ever so slightly, before bursting out in a hearty belly laugh.

Obviously, the first thing that hit me was that she actually names shit. And admits to it. In writing. To me.

As I sat there, reading this e-mail message, tears streaming from my eyes, laughter rippling uncontrollably through me, I envisioned her putting little doggie boots and a little doggie beret on her poor little doggie before trotting out into the world with him cringing on the end of his lavender glitter-studded leash, and I could hear her Julia Childesque baby voice tittering, “Does my widdle boy need to take a Wosawe?” (Oh, come on. Tell me you really think a woman who names poop doesn't prance around the dog park with her poor little dog looking utterly douche-like.)

And it isn't that she simply names shit. She names all shit after me.

I've been accused, of late, of being mean for no particular reason, so I want to be careful here. This naming of shit might, after all, be a kind and generous gesture, rather than the “fuck you” I have attached to it. I mean, one's name being affixed to a mound of sizzling, smoldering waste might actually be an honor in some countries, among various cultures. Of course, it's possible, too, that “poop” is a gentler, kinder substance than is shit, hence the compliment in the reference to poop in relation to me. While shit is smelly and gloppy and gag-inducing, poop may be, in her glitter-glued universe, a sort of preferred substance, something sweet and silky, sparkling and clean, something reserved solely for the special and much loved. And she did say, you'll recall, “poop.” It was only I who likened it to shit.

This brings me to the second thing that made me laugh heartily: She calls shit “poop.” At 50-something, this woman actually calls shit “poop.” It's not that she's calling shit “poop” because children are within hearing or, in this case, reading, range. (Of course, that logic pretty much falls apart where it sits anyway, given her commentary, in the same note, on blow jobs.)

I'll admit that there may have been a time that it could have been cute that she called shit poop, but such time passed, oh, like 45 years ago. A grown woman who can write a note in which she addresses the administration of blow jobs can, most certainly, bring herself to say the word “shit.” (And, since we're on the topic, the fact that she finds an insult in saying a man might get enough oral sex to satisfy him just could be one reason she's the old girlfriend. Could be.)

Alas, this little ditty wasn't the last she would pen. Since then she has offered words of wisdom worth embroidering on a little pillow. In response to a mass mailing that a virus may have gone out through my e-mail address, via hacking, she sent this bit of literary brilliance: May a flea bited, sexually deranged, dung covered camel take up residence in your kitchen and infest your bed.

It's not a typographical error; she actually wrote flea bited.

And, although I wasn't aware that one could have an infestation of camels, let alone an infestation of a lone camel, I'm assuming my uber articulate friend would know about such things. I'm not even going to start on the concept of the camel needing to be in both the kitchen and the bedroom. Seems inconsistent, but, hey, who am I to question the curse of a shit-namer?

I thought the embroidered pillow would be lovely on the bed in which the infestation of camel resides. I'm picturing a cream background with delicate stitches, perhaps in rich and vibrant shades of poop. Nice?

Where's a White Knight When You Need One? (Chocolate Tassies)

2010-03-15T10:08:00.003-04:00

My experience with White Knights is that you can never find one when you need one. I have to admit, though, that my experience is extremely limited. I'm usually the one to run to the rescue or defense of someone in need, rarely asking for a hand or shoulder when I've had the wind knocked out of me.

And then, of course, the raging sexism inherent in the whole Distressed Damsel/White Knight concept has always made me wretch just ever so slightly. First we have the fragile damsel, unable to cope, stranded and teary-eyed, calling out weakly for her only hope of salvation, which is, of course, embodied in a man. Enter the White Knight. He's clad in cold, hard armor, heroically available but conveniently untouchable. He's here in a moment, and gone just as swiftly, strong and silent, and as readily available to absolutely any other woman who bats a dewy eyelash at him.

Of late, however, I hate to admit that I've come to understand the inclination to turn to the occasional White Knight. A White Knight might be handy when things hit overload. What's unique about a White Knight is that you don't have to wait for the ax to actually fall for him to heed your call. No, he's there before the ax is even lifted above your pretty little head. Before it's picked up. He's there when the ax is still in the box. His role is to save the Damsel in Distress before her delicate whimper finds full voice. Shit, all a damsel has to do is break a sweat and nibble her nicely painted pinky nail, and he's on the scene. That's how valuable a White Knight can be. Should be. Is.

I've seen White Knights in action. They hold dainty hands, cradle crumpled bodies, comfort frazzled minds. They are the strongest and most solid, they're fearless and, best of all, they love being White Knights.

I have a dear friend who's a self proclaimed White Knight. He's wonderful. I've seen him in costume, as it were. He jumps into cars and planes at a moment's notice. He cancels his world and puts his relationships in jeopardy just to help the damsel d'jour.

Interestingly, the damsel doesn't have to be a would-be lover or current girlfriend, though I've seen those included. Nay, mostly she's an old girlfriend, a family member, a friend, a casual acquaintance or the neighbor of a casual acquaintance, but--and here's the clincher--she's always someone who would never return the favor were he in need. Of course, it's possible that an inherent part of being a White Knight is serving best those who value him least. Maybe the lack of returned consideration makes it all more heroic, more dramatic, more seemingly vital. It could be also that competent, healthy women don't summon White Knights. They merely ask friends for assistance.

I once watched my friend stop his world mid-spin to run to the aid of a most annoying woman he once dated. She called from the other end of the country to say that bees were in her bus. (No, it's not a euphemism. She actually summoned him because bees had gotten into the school bus she lives as she follows carnivals around the country. Don't ask.)

And the bees weren't actually in her bus, they were in the engine compartment of her bus. Now, starting the bus would have made those bees do something else, bringing about a solution of sorts, I've no doubt. Those bees might have left or dispersed or evacuated, for example. But, no, any such solution would have negated the need for a White Knight altogether. Her tiny brain clearly unable to come up with anything else, having thought and strained until little wisps of smoke emanated from her oddly large ears, she confidently settled on, "Oh, please, be my White Knight just once more. There are bees in my bus. Engine. Compartment...”

And, being a White Knight, my dearest friend called out from work, put his relationship with his current girlfriend in a treacherously precarious state and headed for the airport, saying, "She needs my help. No one else can do it.” And then, muttering through his fingers (because no man has balls that big), "I have to start her bus. There are bees in her bus. Engine...compartment...." And he was gone.

You can imagine the stunned and dejected look on Current Girlfriend's face. "There are bees in her what?" she called after him. "But why can't she just turn on the engine herself?”

He didn't break stride. He was, after all, a White Knight and he could not falter.

In keeping with the whole White Knight framework, this woman, this old girlfriend of his, had proven herself time and again to be someone who didn't worry about him. She'd never wasted a thought on his happiness or his sorrows. When they spoke on the telephone in the days, weeks, months following their break up, he told her, in response to her queries about his life, about his ever mounting troubles at a job he'd once loved. Of course, she asked only because she wanted to hear that he'd fallen apart since asking her to leave, and she wasn't at all pleased that, other than in his work life, he was happier, calmer, saner.

Okay, maybe not saner, the whole White Knight thing pretty much defying the concept of sanity, but you see where I'm going.

As I said, he's a wonderful man. He's been a true friend since we were children, and I've no doubt that he's one hell of a White Knight. I've not, however, had the pleasure of his rescue. Until recently, I didn't want the benefit of this particular talent of his. To the contrary, upon discovering his penchant for rescuing Damsels in Distress, I noted, with great vigor and, no doubt, volume, that I would never, ever, under any circumstances, play the part of the damsel d'jour.

“You just keep your Knighthood tucked away, there, my friend," I announced. "I can defend myself.”

Well, let me just say that I misunderstood the value of a White Knight. He's not merely someone who starts the engines of the push-up bra-ed, whiny voiced, addle brained faux-ettes you find flopping around unrestrained out there in the world. No. He's there for regular people, too. The best part is that (and this is really significant, so pay attention), in addition to holding dainty hands, cradling crumpled bodies and comforting frazzled minds, your average White Knight will defend one's honor. That, I have to say, is amazing. Who does such things?

Well, while I can't tell you who does do such things, I can tell you who doesn't. My very own, personal, ever ready, merely-a-phone-call-away White Knight. That's who.

As it turns out, no long ago, I slid into my maladjusted persona and decided that I needed some defending. Some pretty major defending, as I saw it, so I said to my friend, "You know all of that White Knighting you like to do so much? Well, I'm needing some defending--my honor having been put in great peril and all--and I was wondering if you'd take care of that for me."

And I followed this with my best faux, damseleque smile and, though I could be mistaken, I believe I simulated a bat or two of the eyelash.

My “situation” involved The Triplets, people my friend and I've both known for some time. It seemed to me that, my friend's reputation for valor being what it is, The Triplets might hear reason regarding my most recent faux pas were it to came from his lovely lips.

“All you have to do when The Triplets start to talk shit about me, and they will, is just whip out your trusty knife and...

“Sword.”

“What?”

“Sword. It's a sword.”

“What is?”

“Or it could be a lance, but it's not a knife. You said 'knife,' but a knight carries a sword. Or a lance.”

“Oh. Yeah. Whatever. So, just...”

“Well, I know it's only a metaphor, since I'm not really a knight or anything, but a knife doesn't make sense. I hate when you say things that make no sense.”

“Sword. Okay. Whip out your--so, do you whip out a sword? You draw a sword, right? Okay. Whatever. Just don't let me down. When they start to talk shit about me, please stick by me, philosophically, I mean. Stick up for me. When they talk shit, refuse to listen. Say, 'I won't listen. This is wrong.' Okay? They'll want you to listen, and maybe even to talk shit about me, too, but don't. Take any other path, but Do Not Listen to Shit.”

Now, he's aware that I've never been the Dial-a-White Knight type and, as such, haven't a a reserve of White Knights tucked away in a safe place. But, just as a reminder that he was It for me, I said, "I don't have any other White Knights, you know. You're It for me.”

I should have known that something was amiss when I looked into his beautiful blue, and frantically darting, eyes, just before hearing, I could swear, a faint gagging sound.

“Sure, he said, "No, it's good. Really. Right up my alley.”

And off he went, into the lion's den, for me, one of his dearest friends. And a damsel, to boot.

And back he came, having completely sold me down the river. I'll not bore you with the details, but trust me when I say that he did not start my bus for me. When The Triplets started talking shit about me, he went entirely into Every Man for Himself mode, and sold me right down the bloody river. Not only did he listen to the shit, he did it without hesitation, and, from his own rendition of the events, with true gusto.

In all fairness, he came back with absolutely no understanding that he had sold me out. He was shocked that I was less than thrilled with the results.

“But you don't understand, I did the best I could. The situation was very difficult. They were really pissed at you, really pissed. I did the only thing I could. I'm not sure I could have gotten out of there without them being, well, really pissed at me, too, if I hadn't listened. It's not like I agreed or anything. And the good news is that The Triplets seemed much happier now. I think they're going to be fine." He actually had the bad sense to smile, albeit weakly, at me.

“They're going to be fine? We wanted me to be fine! Of course they're going to be fine! They wanted to talk shit. You listened while they talked shit. YOU WHERE SUPPOSED TO DEFEND MY FUCKING HONOR!”

“But you don't understand. Even you would have listened! It was horrible! They were mad!”

And so it went, back and forth, to and fro, until, finally, he had to go home and I had to throw up. He didn't see that he'd failed as my White Knight--still doesn't to this day--and I don't see that he succeeded.

Of course, it could be that I asked him to exceed his authority as a White Knight. Maybe White Knights aren't in the business of defending honor any more. Maybe they never were. Would I know?

This much I can tell you. Even if I find that I do have another White Knight tucked safely away somewhere, unbeknownst to me, I can't imagine ever calling on one again. When it comes to things like fucked-with honor and bees in places that don't effect anything anyway, I'll pull my own knife and start my own engine from now on, thank you very much. It's easier to keep friends that way.

In celebration of the demise of my fleeting fantasy that White Knights might have a place in the more dysfunctional sections of my world, and the happy realization that, if I refrain from playing a helpless twit, I can avoid an opportunity to be disappointed by a friend, I made Chocolate Tassies. And, in keeping with the mood of the day, they were inedible.

I exaggerate. They were edible, I just don't know why anyone would bother. The crust was rather tasteless and bore a texture akin to wet paper, and the filling was chalky, at best. I can see how they would be a delicious dessert, but this recipe wasn't the one to make that happen. If you have a recipe that's good, I'd love to hear about it.

In the meantime, don't try this one without making some major changes.

CHOCOLATE TASSIES

(Recipe by Creative Chef on www.ifood.tv)

INGREDIENTS

PASTRY

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

2 packages (3 ounces each) cream cheese, cold, cut into chunks

1 cup butter, cold, cut into chunks

FILLING

2 tablespoons butter

2 squares (1 ounce each) unsweetened chocolate

1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

2 eggs, beaten

Dash salt

1 1/2 cups chopped pecans (I omitted these)

PREPARATION

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (F).

PASTRY

Place flour in large bowl. Cut in cream cheese and butter. Continue to mix until dough can be shaped into a ball. Wrap dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1 hour.

Shape chilled dough into 1-inch balls. Press each ball into ungreased miniature (1 3/4-inch) muffin pan cup, covering bottom and side of cup with dough. Set aside.

FILLING

Melt butter and chocolate in medium-sized heavy saucepan over low heat. Remove from heat.

Blend in sugar, vanilla, eggs and salt; beat until thick. Stir in pecans.

Spoon about 1 teaspoon filling into each unbaked pastry shell.

Even more appetizing when the cups are overfilled.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until lightly browned and filling is set. Cool in pans on wire racks. Remove from pans; store in airtight containers.

I should have known that something was wrong when I read the final direction. In a recipe, “store in airtight containers” should never be the replacement direction for “eat with vigor,” don't you think?

Further proof that these babies were gross is that our chickens wouldn't go near them. Chickens, please note, will eat absolutely anything, including, but certainly not limited to, the remnants of a murder scene. These Chocolate Tassies, however, were shunned.

Say Happy Tuesday with a Story & Decorated Sugar Cookies

2010-02-19T10:02:00.002-05:00

I keep thinking about Valentine's Day and wondering why, despite what feels like my best efforts, I end up stuck when I try to write about it. I have no problem with the day, even though its focus is on gift giving and coupledom, two things I find offensively overemphasized in our society. This notwithstanding, as a rule, I relish any holiday that provides an excuse to pay more attention to the people I like paying attention to, and that embraces goofiness with heartfelt gusto. Halloween and Valentine's Day probably rank as the top two for taking goofiness to new heights, and Valentine's Day is really keen on paying attention to those we love best. So, I wonder, why have I had trouble putting pen to paper, as it were, about The Day?

I think it may be at least in part because I'm keenly aware of the false expectations The Day conjures up for most people, much like those conjured up on any given Saturday night in the Land of the Dateless Adolescent. While I don't feel the need to do more than say “Happy Valentine's Day” upon waking, and, until this relationship, I haven't received (and, so, haven't expected) Valentine's Day gifts, I'm aware that the day itself holds some weird, uncomfortable energy for people who do expect something. Like those Dateless Adolescents on a flat Saturday night, they feel like something should happen. They've no doubt that the masses will ask how it was, and they know that they'll have nothing of value to offer in response. It isn't enough to say that the day was fine. Flowers or candy or jewelry must have crossed the threshold for the day to be awarded any real merit. For some reason, we falter at the idea of having a Valentine's Day that doesn't measure up the expectations of the masses.

Our Valentine's Day this year was a nice enough day, but it was Tuesday that was truly special.

Sunday, The Day, started with a beautiful morning followed by a brown kind of day. The only reason it turned brown at all was that we allowed the world outside to invade our quiet and bang around for a bit. Once we regained our balance, we had an evening filled with sweetness.

(Sweetness and a touch of food poisoning. We tried a new sushi restaurant and left feeling, as Evan says, slimed. Even though the food was highly mediocre and, come Monday, not a distant enough memory at all, the company was perfect, and we both felt happy and loved for the rest of the evening. Monday brought prayers for swift deaths, but that's not a story you want to hear.)

On Tuesday, we awoke to snow covered everything. The world outside was fluffy and white and oh so quiet. We watched as the tiny flakes continued to fall, and marveled at the beauty. The chickadees played on the lilac branches that rest on our bedroom windows, making us chuckle and reminding us that it was a good day, if we were at all inclined to forget.

We laid on our bed, watching the birds and squirrels outside, and talking about the animals we had known in our lives. Some comment or other sparked Evan's memory and, mumbling enthusiastically about a dog and a story, he jumped up, gracefully sidestepped a cat doing the tango across his path, and left the room.

“You'll love this,” he said as he walked back in, flipping through the pages of E.B.White's book of essays, The Points of My Compass, while peeking over the top of it in time to step over yet another cat shimmying happily in place.

He turned to an essay called Bedfellows, propped up his pillows and began reading in his deep, rich, very best storytelling voice.

“It's about White's dog, Fred. I love this story,” Evan, a great lover of both E.B.White and animals, smiled as he settled back into his spot with the contentment of a man about to be enveloped by the warmth of a good story.

Fred was a vibrant character in life and remains one still, long after his departure, thanks to White. Evan read about Fred's bogus pedigree and generally shady past, his too-firm convictions, unwavering paranoia and exaggerated commentary until we laughed so hard that tears filled our eyes and he had to stop reading for a minute. He read as White voiced his conviction that Fred was not especially loyal so much as obsessive, and his annoyance at the way Fred hogged the covers in bed and insisted on walking ahead of him when they surveyed their country property together. His voice catching ever so slightly, Evan brought to life White's revelation that Fred's was the only grave he ever visited and how, seven years after Fred's death, White still felt him always nearby.

When he finished reading, Evan rested the closed book on his chest, and we talked about dogs we'd known, and places we'd lived with them. We talked about our own odd family of cats and ducks, chickens and rabbits, all former rescues and strays, and their adorably quirky personalities. We talked about White's writing, and our own writing, and came to the firm conclusion that it was a perfect kind of a day.

Waldo doing his impression of a Macy's parade float

And it was. It was a perfect Valentine's Day. Had the planets been properly aligned when Hallmark's New Holiday Committee chose the official date for Valentine's Day, making it February 16 instead of February 14, I would have had an easy go at writing a lovely story about The Day. Instead, I struggled. I had misunderstood for a minute. I thought that I was writing about The Day, rather than about the day.

Our stomachs have regained their ability to digest food, so much so that we ate sushi again last night. (We went back to our tried and true favorite sushi restaurant, however, deciding to shun experimentation and adventure where raw fish is involved, at least until the memory of the aftereffects of Sunday's culinary adventure fades sufficiently, and we've restocked the Pepto.) Evan continues to read stories from The Points of My Compass, but now he has to go find it first, since I snatch it when he puts it down and fail ever to return it to its place. I love to read White, but I love most the sound of his words spoken by Evan's voice.

I want a day like Tuesday to be our Valentine's Day from now on. It doesn't have to actually be a Tuesday and it doesn't even have to be in February. Any snowy or rainy or sunny day will do. And no flowers or candy or jewelry need pass over the threshold. We need only a window and a comfortable spot, some cats snuggled up against our legs, each other and a good story.

Happy Valentine's Day.

(I mean every word I write, and I write them with a full heart. I am not, however, giving back the exquisite square cut peridot earrings Evan gave me on The Day. I mean, come on.)

HOUDINI'S SUGAR COOKIES

Ingredients

½ cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 ¼ teaspoons baking powder
¼ cup citrus juice
1 teaspoon good vanilla

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees (F).

1.Cream together the butter and sugar until smooth and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time.

2.Mix together the flour and baking powder, incorporating them fully. (I do this by placing a strainer over my mixing bowl and putting the flour and the baking powder in the strainer, and then straining the dry mixture into the wet mixture. The flour and baking power are fully incorporated this way. You can use a good old-fashioned sifter, too.) Thoroughly mix together the flour and the butter mixtures.

3.Add the juice (I usually use either pineapple or orange juice, though any citrus will work) and vanilla, and mix well.

4.On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough to your desired thickness. The dough puffs only a bit, so the thickness you roll is, roughly, the thickness of your finished cookie.

5.Using cookie cutters or the open end of a drinking glass, cut out shapes.

6.Place the cookies on a baking sheet with the raw edge up. Bake for about 7-8 minutes, removing them from the oven before they brown. Cool slightly before transferring the cookies to a wire rack.

7.Once the cookies have completely cooled, they're ready to decorate.

If you plan to store the cookies for a while, you can freeze or refrigerate them in an airtight container. Freeze them without frosting; defrost thoroughly prior to frosting.

ROYAL ICING

Ingredients

1 large egg white (Remember that this is going to remain uncooked, so use only pasteurized eggs. You can also use meringue powder equivalent to 1 large egg white plus water, following the directions on the container.)

1 ½ cups confectioner's sugar, sifted

1 teaspoon clear vanilla (Regular vanilla will cause your white frosting to turn a beige color. If you plan to tint all of your frosting, you don't need clear vanilla.)
Preparation for Stiff Consistency

This consistency dries hard, and is used for outlining, writing and making shapes.

1. In a large bowl, whisk the egg white. Beat in vanilla.

2.Add the confectioner's sugar, ¼ cup at a time, to the egg mixture, beating well after each addition. Beat on high setting until the icing is stiff and glossy.

Preparation for Flooding Consistency

Use this consistency when you are filling in an outlined surface with frosting. It's a much thinner consistency, and is used to fill in designs. After letting it dry thoroughly, you can pipe stiff Royal icing over the flooded area.

Prepare using the recipe for Stiff Consistency, adding warm water at about 1 tablespoon at a time. Beat until the icing dissolves into itself on the count of three when you lift the paddle of your mixer.

You'll pipe this onto your cookie, or you can use a fine paint brush.

Coloring Frosting

I use Wilton gels, but you use any food coloring you like. Divide the frosting into little bowls and add your color, mixing thoroughly. If you're using gels, start with just a little and increase slowly. The color is much more intense with much less gel than it would be if you were using liquid coloring.

~As you can see from my cookies, I'm not particularly good at piping yet. It takes practice.

I'm not even going to comment on this...

Check Our Simply Life's Giveaway

2010-02-14T22:55:00.000-05:00

Simply Life is having a Chobani Yogurt giveaway!

Sugar (Putz) Brownies

2010-02-12T13:01:00.006-05:00

Their name notwithstanding, Sugar (Putz) Brownies are pretty basic brownies. The recipe doesn’t call for anything particularly interesting or different, and the technique is hardly unique. They are delicious brownies, but so are others. In fact, the relative normalness of the brownies is revealed in heading on the little recipe card which reads, simply, Brownies. I named them Sugar (Putz) Brownies after hearing their story.

Evan and his mother spent much of their time together as a family of two. Evan’s parents divorced when he was a teenager and his older brother went off to create his own family. Evan and Houdini’s bond was loving and, when Houdini died, Evan became the keeper of her recipes.

Several years ago, Evan mentioned that his mother’s brownies were the best he’d ever had. It was a “one pot” recipe which, in his younger days, he’d made himself upon occasion. As he spoke, he pulled a little tin box out of the cupboard. He said he thought the recipe would be in the box, since it held some of her favorite recipes.

He stood there, in the kitchen, resting his hand gently on the little tin box while he told me the story of would become Sugar (Putz) Brownies.

Evan was in his late teens or very early twenties when, one day, he decided to make brownies. He found his mother’s recipe and set out baking. He dug out a big pot and lit the stove, melting the shortening and unsweetened chocolate before adding the rest of the ingredients. While he measured and mixed, he sang to the music playing on the radio and made plans for the evening with a friend who telephoned. He prepared the pan, poured the batter in, slipped it into the hot oven and stood waiting impatiently for those delicious, chocolatey bits of heaven to bake.

Evan, unlike me, waits for baked goods to cool before tasting them, saving his tongue from the little burns and blisters I sport so regularly. True to form, he refused to taste the brownies before they reached a safe temperature. As he waited, they teased his senses, sitting before him looking so rich and lusciously brown, their chocolate aroma filling the kitchen, begging for him to pick just one crumb up and touch it to his mouth.

He resisted, waiting until, finally, they were cool enough to eat. He cut a big square along the edge, scooped it out of the pan and put it to his lips. Closing his eyes (everyone knows it’s impossible to truly enjoy chocolate with open eyes, after all), he took a huge bite, fully confident that his senses were about to be tickled by that delectable chocolate brownie of his childhood.

But instead of the sweet, smooth chocolate-laced gooeyness he so loved, his mouth suddenly harbored a tangy-bitter blob of wet flour and salt.

“AAAUUUCCCCCCHHHHHH,” resonated through the house.

He spit the offensive concoction into the sink and frantically scraped his fouled tongue with a paper towel before it disintegrated entirely under the influence of the disgusting substance engulfing it. His tongue rubbed raw and his mouth still tingling, he seized the little card from its resting place, and scanned it for its flaw. The stupid recipe was wrong. He went through each ingredient, remembering very distinctly putting it in the big pot.

Shortening…yes, he had a specific memory of wondering, as he carefully measured it, how something so gross could make so delicious a flavor. Unsweetened chocolate…yes, he clearly recalled breaking it into sections and then breaking each section in half before putting it in the pot, a piece at a time. Sugar. Sugar…sugar….Sugar.

Oh.

Not one to knowingly blame the innocent, he quickly revised his position and made a mental note that sugar, especially four cups of it, is probably crucial to the success of a batch of brownies. And always one to laugh at himself, he immediately edited the recipe card, adding (putz) after the word sugar.

I love the visual of him spewing brownie and then laughing his hearty laugh at himself. I suspect his mother got a tremendous kick out of the murder of her ever-so-simple brownie recipe, and I can hear the two of them laughing at each subsequent telling of the story.

I made the brownies for him for the first time the night he told me the story, and as I presented them to him, I was still chuckling at the visual of him spewing the would-be brownies all over the sink.

“Wow, what did you make?” He scooped up a big square and bit into it with abandon.

“Your mother’s brownies,” I announced.

“Mmmmm,” he said through a mouthful of brownie, flashing his most charming smile at me. “I love that you made yours with sugar.”

SUGAR (PUTZ) BROWNIES

(I’ve made some changes. The card gives you Houdini’s ingredients; I’ve given mine below. Both make delicious brownies.)

Ingredients

1 1/3 cups butter

8 oz. dark chocolate or unsweetened chocolate

Dark chocolate chips to taste (I use a full bag, plus some)

4 cups sugar

4 teaspoons good vanilla

8 eggs

3 cups unbleached all purpose flour

½ teaspoon salt

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees (F)

Grease and flour an 8 x 12 cake pan (Or, if, like us, you like a lot of sides and top, grease 2 of them.)

1. In a big pot, melt the butter and chocolate.

Remove from heat and add the sugar and vanilla, thoroughly incorporating each ingredient before adding the next.

2. Add the eggs, one at a time, incorporating each thoroughly. Add the flour and salt. Mix thoroughly.

Pour into the prepared pan (or pans), and add the chocolate chips to the top.

(The chips will sink a bit during baking because of their weight. If you like them in the bottom of the baked brownie, add them to the mix prior to pouring it into the pans. Sometimes I pour some peanut butter chips onto half of the batter, too.)

Tap the filled pan on the counter a couple of times. It helps pop air bubbles as it settles the batter evenly in the pan.

3. Bake for 45 to 60 minutes*, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. (This can be a trick since it’s just as easy to hit a chocolate chip, making your toothpick look gooey and wet. You’ll have to judge the difference between batter and melted chip if, like me, you put so many chips in that you can’t possibly find a chip-free zone.)

*Note that your baking time will be cut in about half, depending on your oven, if you've used two big baking dishes instead of one.

And there you have Sugar (Putz) Brownies.

GraphicsFairy

The Shit & The Fan

2010-01-27T00:54:00.008-05:00

The shit hit the proverbial fan yesterday.

Last night, post shit-laden fan maneuvering, I posted a little ditty about my dilemma. Having offended someone about whom I've written, I was asked to do what anyone who knows (1) how much of a struggle exposing my writing was for me and, (2) how isolating and difficult an existence this little cluster fuck that is my life remains, would never ask of me: To delete posts. My question then became this: Do I obliterate the posts relevant to her solely, as requested, or do I obliterate the blog entirely, rather than complacently give in to self serving censureship? Or, do I leave my writing as it is, standing firm and strong, spine in tact?

I thought about it all afternoon and night, weighing all of the arguments thrown at me. Between yesterday afternoon and last night, I have wavered and regained my footing countless times. I knew that I had said nothing untrue and, even though it was unflattering, it was nothing I haven't said out loud, in person, to the person herself. I decided to stay true to myself and, for once, not succumb to the mandates of people who give not one shit about me.

This morning, I awoke feeling sick and friendless. I wondered how people continue to write when they feel strongly about something, but realize that those upon whom they rely for support aren't actually standing in the room with them anymore once controversy enters. I have spent my morning bumping into walls and babbling to myself. In the end, I fear that my spine lies crumbled on the bed between the neatly folded laundry and Waldo the Cat. I give.

Aidan of Ivy League Insecurities said something about the post I've just deleted, before the crumpled spine hit Waldo's big orange tail and while the post was still something on which she could comment. And her comment cut me to the quick. She was encouraging and sweet and, utterly true to the Aidan I am getting to know through her wonderful writing, she placed it squarely before me. She said, "Obliterate nothing unless you see compelling reasons to do so."

Reading it made me cry, Aidan. Thank you for that.

The beautiful encouragement everyone wrote here has been wonderfully cleansing, as odd as that may sound. I thought it had fortified me, had helped put me where I absolutely needed to be to do what was right for me. But Aidan's simple refrain just kept ringing in my head. It refused to step away from me, it insisted on becoming that song on the radio that gets stuck in my head.

My compelling reason to obliterate my posts involving this person, true and fair a rendition of the event as each may be for me, is that Evan asked me to do it. Knowing that this person is important enough to him that he would ask so impossible a thing of me also makes me cry, but, frankly, that's not such a big deal since I'm already a blubbering mass of tears and snot.

I'm not going beige, I'm merely allowing myself to be censured. Wild. Fucked up. I'm not sure what the difference is, to be honest. I'll let you know how it feels. In a fully censured sort of post, of course.

I'm still not convinced that it's the right thing to do, but here goes...

Brown Eyed Baker's Giveaway...

2010-01-25T19:03:00.000-05:00

Check out Brown Eyed Baker's giveaway!

Tequila Mockingbird Needs Your Vote!

2010-01-19T10:14:00.005-05:00

I entered Aiming Low's If It Has More Than Two Ingredients It's A Recipe. So Bite Me. contest, and am one of the 12 finalist! The recipe is Evan's brainchild. He is, after all, the Creative Director and Designated Brains of the group. However, as the Taste Taster and Slightly Tipsy Cheerleader of this particular recipe, I can tell you that it is delicious.

Anyway, the deal is that the winner is determined by vote. So, please check out the contest and vote for Tequila Mockingbird! (While you're there, read Aiming Low. Great writing and tremendous wit!)

Tequila Mockingbird

A drink for the literary elite, the tenured literature professor and the novelist who needs a "tightener" now and again.

Ingredients

1. Pour a shitload of good Tequila over ice.
2. Add just enough club soda and pineapple juice to turn it yellow.
3. Sit down.

Thanks for your help! And enjoy the drink!

Happy Birthday to My Girl

2010-01-15T15:03:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, my niece, Alexandra, turned 21.

My brother, the father of two, says that no one wants to hear about other people's kids. He says the people who love those particular kids are the only ones interested in the minutia of the kids' existence, and, thus, has never been tempted to thrust upon others unsolicited tidbits of his daughters' lives. He knows that the people who want information will ask, and that only about half of those inquiring are merely feigning interest out of a sense of duty or politeness.

I believe that he is correct. I also I believe that the rule about not boring people with child-oriented tales applies solely to the parents of that child. And I further believe that as an aunt, I am actually honor bound to torture strangers and friends held captive by circumstance or etiquette with what I perceive to be fascinating anecdotes about this precious person. And I'm going with that.

I love the person Alexandra is. I always have. She's a remarkable woman who started out as remarkable little girl. She has always been kind and generous of heart. Even when she was exceedingly short, she abhorred a bully and she has never suffered an injustice silently, especially when she saw it perpetrated on another being. She was barely walking on her own the first time she befriended someone who needed a friend, and she's been doing it ever since. And, like her father and her aunt, she doesn't suffer fools lightly, but she allows people to fully establish themselves as shit heads before she walks away.

Among her other attributes, Alexandra has a rather twisted sense of humor that leans decidedly toward the perverted. This is a woman who came to a huge party at our house carrying a bag tucked carefully, but firmly, under her arm. When I went to take it from her, she looked mildly panicked and pulled me aside. She had grabbed the bag, without thinking, she said, as she ran out the door. She was mortified when she realized that she had taken this bag because she was worried that it might offend one of our completely wasted and unquestionably inappropriate friends. She moved her arm to reveal the picture printed on the bag: A brightly colored rainbow danced between white, fluffy clouds, under which a beautiful purple unicorn stood humping another equally beautiful green unicorn, with just enough penis showing to make it all truly magical.

Note that she did actually purchase the bag.

This kid kills me.

Interestingly, the penis thing goes way back to her pre-perverted sense of humor. When Alexandra was four years old, she asked me if we could have one of our chats. Without a moment’s hesitation, I scooped her up. I loved these chats. We dove onto the sofa and snuggled in for a nice, long session. We chattered and giggled, told fabricated secrets and planned imaginary events. She told me about all of the kids in nursery school and described in grand detail what this boy looked like and what that girl traditionally brought on her assigned snack day. Alexandra, a talented mimic, played the part of each child, flamboyantly replicating accents and mannerisms with the detail and care of a studied artist.

When she'd finished telling me about The New Boy and how cute he was, she snuggled in close to me, an impish smile overtaking her face, and cupped my face in her tiny hands. Looking me square in the eyes, she said, "We like penises, don't we?"

"We like...what?"

"Penises," she giggled. "We like them, don't we?" Giggle, giggle.

Holy shit! I am not prepared for this, I think, frantically seaching for some kind of response. She was looking at me, little hands firmly in place, giggling, waiting.

“Don’t we?”

My thoughts simply would not settle on the issue of penises and whether we liked them.

This is something her parents should deal with, not me, I thought, nary a penis in sight, so to speak. A parent is for this stuff, for dealing with questions…if this is handled incorrectly or indelicately, I could cause…oh, shit, who knows?…all kinds of irreparable damage, causing…shit, I don't know, all kinds of scarring and...

Just then, her mother walked past the doorway.

"Friederike, wait! Alexandra just asked me if we like penises," I heard myself whispering ridiculously loudly.

She chuckled, rolled her eyes and, calling Alexandra by her nickname, said, "Funny Hubie."

"No, wait! Don't go! What do I say?" Why am I whispering, I do wonder, since Alexandra is nearer to me than her mother is? The whisper is that horrible whisper-shout thing obnoxious people tend to do in an effort to be cute or sneaky or something equally annoying.

Friederike never even broke stride. She kept walking, flashing her I-thought-you-were-smarter-than-this look at me and said, "Oh, no, she's all yours."

I turned back to that precious smiling face. Crap, she's still here.

Alexandra immediately replanted her hands on my cheeks while firmly pulling herself up onto her knees.

"Don't we." Giggle.

My brother sauntered by. "WAIT!! WHAT DO I SAY?" By now the whisper-shout had evolved into a kind of shrill, wounded animal-sounding whine, making it more of a whisper-shout-scream. The sound made Alexandra and her father laugh out loud.

"Hey, you wanted to be the aunt. You know what to tell her," my dear brother chuckled as he walked off.

What the fuck does that mean, I wanted to be the aunt? And how do I know what to tell her? I could absolutely do this little girl in emotionally without ever meaning to. The chances are really good that I'll say the completely wrong thing---I'm only an aunt! I’m pretty sure I only thought all of this and hope to God I didn’t actually say it, but it’s hard to be sure.

"I'm supposed to feed her crappy food and take her shoe shopping! I can't be responsible!" This, I said out loud. It mattered not, though. I heard him chuckle again, from very, very far away.

Jesus, this just can't end well, I thought, oddly, in the same grating whisper-shout-scream.

Slowly turning back toward her, I saw my sweet girl looking at me, her precious little face wearing a huge grin.

“I can do this. This is absurd. If they trust me to do this, then I can do this,” I said under my breath.

"Okay.” Inhale. Make eye contact. Exhale. “What do you mean, Honey, that we like penises?" Okay. This is okay. Inhale.

"I mean that we like boys and boys have penises."

"Uh-ha. Yeah..." Exhale.

"Girls don't, you know. Have penises, I mean."

"Oh. Okay.” Makes sense. “Yes, that's true..."

"Well, and if boys have penises, and we like boys, then we like penises, too. Right?"

Wow. That's really logical thinking. That makes perfect sense. This is an amazing child. I realized that I’m no longer whisper-shouting-screaming in my head.

"Yes, Honey, that's right."

"Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, stroking my cheeks gently. "Soooo, can we have ice cream now?"

Alexandra, I hope I haven't embarrassed you, as I suspect I’m inclined to do without much effort. I love this story and I treasure the memory of that day. I saw that you would hold true to the course you assumed at the beginning of your existence, a course that would lead you to think about all kinds of amazing things, to question and ponder the wonders of the delicious world around you. You are kind and funny and brilliant and beautiful, and since your arrival, the world is a brighter, happier place for me.

We love you dearly.

I'm thinking the next story I tell about you ought to be non-penis specific...

New Year Ramblings...and Shrimp with Pasta...

2010-01-11T19:28:00.009-05:00

from The Graphics Fairy

Having just entered a new year, many of us are still looking back at what has passed, and forward to what we hope will be. I think we're supposed to reflect and feel grateful for the good things, letting go of, or perhaps blocking out, the not so good things. I suspect we ignore the not so good because we want to be happy as the New Year comes in, we want to be positive and hold out hope for feeling renewed. In short, we feel desperate about the lives we have created and we need to bullshit ourselves into a stupor.

I, however, remain reluctant to look back on 2009 and, if I must, I am most certainly not inclined to ignore anything that may, upon close inspection, ooze, all greenish and slimy, out of the seams.

It has been a rough year for me, one filled, oddly, with a tremendous amount of hope. I've hoped that I would understand the absurd, accept the outrageous and feel kindly toward the assholes. Alas, I find that I am imperfect, and I elect not to set myself up for more of the same. I want a New Year full of success and fulfillment, and, if the New Year must bring with it crap, I want new and improved crap. I want different crap. I want a higher class of crap, if you will.

As I contemplated the upcoming New Year, I sat in a cluster of days that held in its sweaty little palm a big old bundle of, yes, crap.

***I have, upon request, deleted this portion of this post.***

In the meantime, I’m looking into 2010 with a bit of caution and a shit load of conviction. I’ll look back only enough to avoid making the same mistakes again, and I’ll look forward as I do the things I say I want so much to do. I’ll hold nearer to me those who are dear, and I’ll close the door on those who continue to cause me, or those I love, even a second of unnecessary pain. In Spring, I’ll plant a garden full of flowers and vegetables, and, until then, wait impatiently to smell the clean, wet dirt and taste the freshly picked cherry tomatoes as they pop in my mouth.

I’ll stop trying to understand the absurd or accept the outrageous, and I’m thinking I don’t really want to feel kindly toward the assholes after all. If crap must float past now and then, as surely it will, it’ll have to be a higher level of crap if it wants my attention.

***I have, upon request, deleted this portion of this post.***
Apropos to absolutely nothing (like that's ever made me hesitate), we had Shrimp with Pasta for dinner. It's easy and delicious.

Shrimp with Pasta

Ingredients

1 lb. Jumbo shrimp per person, cleaned (amount depends on the appetites you're trying to satisfy)
6 Large Mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
2 Large cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 Medium onion (Vadalia, if you can get one), finely chopped
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Butter
Asiago Cheese, grated
Fontina Cheese
Good wine (red or white, but something you would drink)

Angel hair pasta, cooked (figure about 5 ounces of dry spaghetti per person)

Preparation

1. Cover the bottom of your hot pan with oil and a bit of butter. (The butter adds a nice flavor, but isn't necessary. The oil helps keep the butter from burning. Go easy on both; you can always add more.) Saute the onion until golden brown; set aside. Do the same with the garlic and then the mushrooms, sauting each separately, but putting the sauted food in the same bowl when set aside.

2. Add more butter and oil to the pan and throw in the shrimp.

Let the shrimp cook until it is browned (the pan should be very hot before you put the shrimp in, or it will overcook before browning). Cover the bottom of the pan with wine (not too much, you only want a shallow pool in the bottom of the pan). Cook until the wine evaporates.

3. Add all of the remaining ingredients to the shrimp; mix well. Add the pasta to the shimp mixture and mix well. Top with the cheeses and mix again.

4. Transfer the shimp and pasta mixture to a serving dish and serve hot.

This is such an easy and delicious dish. You can really play with it--it's impossible to hurt it.

Ahh, I think I feel better now. Thanks for listening....

Twitter?

2010-01-07T08:40:00.002-05:00

Here goes nothing...I've just joined Twitter. For those of you who are on it (in it? with it??), do you like it? Is it worth the extra thing to check?

Brown Eyed Baker's Giveaway

2010-01-06T13:40:00.000-05:00

Oh, yes, another wonderful giveaway! Check out Brown Eyed Baker's blog to see the great kitchen scale she's giving away.

Beautiful Blogger Award

2010-01-04T02:36:00.000-05:00

Thank you, Simply Life, for this! I'm passing it on, too.

Here it is for you, Not Quite Nigella, The Kitchen Witch, Souffle Bombay, Nutrition as Nature Intended and The Little Foodie.

My New Mixer Made French Bread!

2010-01-04T01:57:00.005-05:00

We agreed not to give each other Christmas presents this year. On top of being broke and feeling very Grinchesque (perhaps as a result of being broke), Evan has been doing major renovations on the house. As an added benefit to having the house perpetually ripped apart, we have been getting rid of more crap than any small crowd of dedicated pack rats should own at any given time. So, the last thing we need is more crap. Evan and I spend a lot of time together, good time, time during which we actually pay attention to each other, and we decided that we'd simply do more of the same for Christmas. Time together and no money spent on new crap. How can that be bad?

We also decided to make the Christmas gifts we we're giving to Evan's extended family. He made beautiful bird houses and feeders, and I made bread and cookies. Since we were seeing his family on Christmas Eve, I made some of the cookies two days before, and the day before Christmas Eve was set aside for making the bread. French bread seemed the safest choice in this sea of picky eaters and hardcore critics. It's a beautiful bread, as breads go, and it suits most tastes. Easy.

After a nice, relaxing Christmas Eve morning together, Evan ventured outside and I started looking for a bread recipe I liked. He strolled in and out of the house, and did whatever he was doing. I sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the computer, cookbooks and notes, as I looked at recipes.

Not quite a week before, I participated in the Foodbuzz 24, 24, 24 event. For my part in it, I baked 24 cookies from each of 24 recipes. I did this, if you can imagine, without a mixer. In the past, I had used Evan's mother's mixer for things like creaming butter and making cake batters, but I worried that the mixing time involved in 24 recipes might be too much for the old dear. Houdini's mixer was top of the line when she bought it in the 1960s or so, but now the motor has trouble with too much activity, and wants to blow up when faced with a heavy a batter. Of late, this includes anything with flour in it.

Also, it's one of those mixers with the shallow mixing bowl, so the batter tends to fly out during mixing, hitting the ceiling, the cat, me, and making it all so much less fun than it seems like it ought to be. When this happens, the cat glares at me as if convinced that I am deliberately flinging shit at him and, being a cat and all, his idea of pay back is to pee on the clean laundry. I make cookies, he pees; it's a vicious cycle that has subsided only because the mixer became a piece of kitchen art.

Another reason I'm reluctant to use the mixer is that one of the mixing blades doesn’t fit properly into its hole, so it jams into the other blade occasionally, subsequently, and repeatedly, requiring Evan to rebend it into shape once he has unwedged it--no small feat--from its clinging partner. Aside from that, it has been a joy to use. (Actually, it has been an honor to have and use it. Houdini loved to bake and I've loved having her mixer, even if only to cream butter and sugar, and offend the cat from time to time.)

With all of this behind and before me, I had decided to mix my 24 batters by hand, and skip risking blowing the motor on Houdini's mixer. I thought I had been a good sport about it all. I was under the impression that, even after blisters had formed on my mixing hand, I had kept the whining to a minimum, both during the 24 event and afterward.

Apparently I was wrong.

It’s possible that I moaned ever so slightly at the mention of more baking and the attendant mixing, even though it was I who, so cheery and perky and Grinchy, suggested it, and I might have whimpered quietly, though, undoubtedly, repeatedly, while flipping through my recipes. It’s so hard to be sure.

It's likely that the anticipation of hearing me rant about freshly washed and peed upon laundry combined with the memory of watching me scape chocolate cookie dough from the ceiling was more than Evan could face. On Christmas Eve day, he lured me into our bedroom, smiling, and presented me with a box big enough to house a small child, wrapped in Christmas paper (the box, not a small child). I couldn't imagine what he had done. Although I had felt comfortable with our agreement to thumb our noses at the puckered, disapproving face of social dictates and expectations, I suddenly felt sad that I didn't have a present to give him.

Our edict and my expression notwithstanding, he was beaming, "Open it! I know we promised no gifts, but this doesn't count."

I stuttered and protested until finally succumbing (and, honestly, who wouldn't?...huge box, pretty sure there isn't actually a kid in there, Evan's smile even bigger than the box...). In that box was a beautiful, brand new, silver Kitchen Aid Pro 500 Stand Mixer!

When I was a very little girl, I got new shoes at the beginning of the school year. Since it was my only pair of shoes for the year, unless my feet grew enough for my little toes to separate the top of the shoe from its sole, I got to pick them out with only minimal adult interference. I always chose shiny, patent leather Mary Janes, and if I could get them with bows, I was in prissy-girl heaven. I would wear those shoes out of the store and home, walking all through the house, here and there, to and fro, for no reason at all except to hear the clicking of my pretty new shoes on the floor. I would revel in the tingly, new shoes feeling all the rest of the day, and then, at bedtime, I would take those new shoes to bed with me. I'd put them in the bed right next to me, on my pillow, so I could touch them and smell their new shoes smell until I feel asleep.

I had the same feeling when I saw my mixer. It was just like getting those Mary Janes, those pretty, new, shiny shoes. It was like getting the ones with the bows.

I stood there soaking it all in for what felt like hours. I looked at my beautiful new mixer, I touched it, and cleaned it, and I tried its different attachments on it, and then I broke in my new mixer by making French bread.

By the way, the bread was a tremendous hit. The mixer, however, was the true hit of the holiday. When I saw Evan's ex-sister-in-law and current sister-in-law on Christmas Eve night, they huddled around me, excitedly asking for every detail of the day and of the presentation of the mixer--Where were you when he gave it to you? What did he say? What did you say? Were you surprised? Do you love it? Isn't he wonderful?--as if that big box had held a four carat diamond engagement ring.

Frankly, I don't know that he could have made me feel one bit more loved had he given me an engagement ring, or that I could have been more thrilled...wait...four carats...?

FRENCH BREAD
(adapted from allrecipes.com)
Makes 2 large loaves

Ingredients:

5 ¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 ½ packages active dry yeast
1 ½ teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon sugar
2 cups warm water (110 degrees F)
1 tablespoon cornmeal
1 egg white

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F)

1.    Proof your yeast by putting the yeast to 2 cups of warm water, salt and sugar. Wait about 8 to 10 minutes. If yeast mixture foams, your yeast is alive; if it doesn’t foam, discard it and begin again with fresh ingredients.

2.    To the foamy yeast mixture, add 2 cups flour, and beat until well blended using a stand mixer with a dough hook attachment. Gradually add the remaining flour; blend thoroughly.

3.    On a lightly floured surface, knead in enough flour to make a stiff dough that is smooth and elastic. Knead for about 8 to 10 minutes. Shape into a ball and place in an oiled bowl, turning once to coat the entire ball of dough with oil. Cover, and let rise in a warm place until doubled.

4.    Once it has risen, punch the dough down, and divide in half. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface. Cover, and let it rest for 10 minutes.

5.    Roll each half into a large rectangle. Roll up, starting from a long side. Tuck the ends under just before you make the last turn on the roll. Moisten the edge with water and seal.

6. Oil a large baking sheet and sprinkle with cornmeal. Place the loaves, seam side down, on the prepared baking sheet. Make 4 or 5 diagonal cuts about ¼ inch deep along the length of the loaf. (Lay the knife almost down on the bread and use a quick, fluid motion to make the slice.) Brush each loaf with the egg white for a shiny crust. Cover with a damp cloth and allow the loaves to rise until they’re nearly doubled, or for about 35 to 40 minutes.

7. Bake for 20 minutes. Brush each loaf again with the egg white. Bake for an additional 15 to 20 minutes, or until bread tests done. If necessary, cover loosely with foil to prevent over-browning.

8. Remove from baking sheet, and cool on a wire rack.

The bread is beautiful (the pictures don't do it justice) and delicious. You could add a bit more sugar or maybe a bit of honey--I'm trying the honey next time--but it's really wonderful just like this. I modified the original recipe, adding the tablespoon of sugar, which I think was a good change.

I was in such a rush in the end that I didn't take photographs of the loaves of bread before they were handed out. I wrapped each one plastic and then in a cotton (not terry cloth, but soft cotton) Christmas tea towel, and tied each end with ribbon. They looked beautiful and the recipient had a pretty kitchen towel to keep.

Yeah, I've been absent, but...

2009-12-29T01:08:00.003-05:00

Have you seen Iowa Girl Eat's give away?

FoodBuzz 24, 24, 24...24, 24...Have a Cookie!

2009-12-20T23:54:00.006-05:00

Relatively new to the world of blogging, I thought participating in the FoodBuzz 24, 24, 24 would serve all kinds of purposes. It would be an opportunity to do something fun while gathering fodder for a story, which would force me to write. How could it be anything but good?

My first thought was to make fun and interesting dishes, maybe inviting some friends over for a dinner to share in the event. Evan, clearly thinking about our current reserve of readily available friends, responded with, “Well, if we invite all of my friends, then they can each drink 24 beers and eat 24 hot dogs in 24 minutes, all with just 24 teeth.” Okay, not a great idea.

My next thought was a theme party, the theme, of course, being the type of food served. We could be exotic and innovative, serving food that none of us had ever before encountered. Evan’s response, obviously envisioning that same reserve of friends, was simply, “Yeah.”

And so it went for days, ideas flying in and out of my head until I had a jumble of mediocre to crappy possibilities on my ever-growing, though relatively useless, list. Finally cornering Evan, I whined until he admitted that he hadn’t actually considered how to approach the thing. With this, I knew all would be fine because once Evan decides that he is absolved from participation, his ideas begin to flow in a way possible only to one who feels truly and wholly free of investment.

He sat for a moment, his soulful blue eyes peering vacantly out the window, seemingly oblivious the twitching mass of anxiety sitting next to him (yes, that would be me), when, suddenly, out of the mist, it happened. Bells gently chimed and lights softly flashed, and I’m certain I heard the soothing chorus of angels singing in the distance, as Evan said, very quietly and with characteristic calm, The Plan: Bake 24 cookie recipes, with 24 cookies from each recipe, and donate the fruits of the fiasco to charity. (And I think he actually called it “the fiasco.”)

So that’s exactly what we did.

Interestingly, finding a home for the cookies wasn’t easy. I called soup kitchens and shelters, oddly scarce in our low income county, only to hear from each that no one would be available on a Saturday to accept the donation. Heeding Evan’s now much valued advice, I called Family of Ellenville in Ulster County, New York, the next county over. The director immediately jumped on my offer and agreed to meet us on Saturday night to accept the cookies, and she even sounded thrilled to do it. She laughingly agreed with my philosophy that there’s something happy about a cookie, and unwittingly offered a bit of motivation by telling me that the cookies were coming at the perfect time, and that they would go to people who needed something nice in their lives.

Without a doubt, there is something about a cookie that makes everything feel better. It’s whimsical, as foods go, and yet somehow anchoring. A cookie doesn’t offer enough nourishment to live off of. Even a good sized pile of cookies, on its own, won’t help us sustain life, but the cookie somehow helps us maintain a happier, emotionally lighter life.

Silliness and frivolity surrounds the eating of a cookie, mostly, perhaps, because it’s impossible to be serious or heavy with a piece of a snickerdoodle dandling out of your mouth. A woman can’t stand in front of her husband, demanding, with any authority at all, that he end his affair with the neighbor and his wife while brushing peanut butter cookie crumbs from her lower lip and chin. (Of course, in addition standing there as the very embodiment of her own self-invalidation, she’ll only be reminding him of one of the reasons he strayed to begin with.) Similarly, a man yelling at the paperboy for throwing the newspaper into the water sprinkler every single day while he scraping the creamy filling off of a dissected Oreo with his front teeth is, oh, I don’t know, somehow less than effective. He can’t possibly be pissed that the paperboy is chuckling out loud, not even trying to hide his disgust for the ranting, Oreo-toothed cookie-eater standing before him.

No. A cookie is for making skinned-knee-tears go away, soothing a mildly fractured ego or helping a bad haircut start to grow out. It’s for all kinds of good, warm, loving moments, and as a surrogate, when good, warm, loving moments are in short supply. A good cookie fixes things. I don’t know how or why, but I know it does. Maybe it’s because we’re able to keep the memories of times we were given a cookie, and because those were good, warm, loving times. I can still see my mother, in my mind’s eye, giving a cookie to my crying baby brother as he sat in his highchair, doing his best to be all things annoying and loud. I watched his hot, red, snot-streaked and tear-stained face, turn back into the cool, pink, completely kissable thing I had known and loved as he nibbled on the cookie, cooing and giggling all the while. And I can see her turning and giving me a cookie, too, as she flashed her beautiful You’reMommy’sBigGirlAren’tYou smile at me.

Because of these things, we had little doubt that The Cookie Fiasco would be a success. First, though, I needed a strategy—hey, stop laughing, we’re talking 576 cookies in 24 hours! (While I realize fully that agreeing to, and carrying out, this feat may be an indicator of rather serious mental health issues, I will remind you, as I continue to remind Evan hourly, that it was his idea. I’m not sure if sadism is worse than masochism, clinically speaking, but, though they compliment each other frighteningly well, I’m going to go with sadism as the winner and end it there.)

So, I began by looking at what felt like hundreds of cookie recipes, trying to figure out which recipes would be delicious and doable.

Celie helping

I selected and omitted, chose and deleted recipe after recipe, I made up my shopping list, worked out my schedule and called to order cooking gas. I had 24 hours to bake a lot of cookies and get them to Family of Ellenville, and I wanted it all to be fun. It had to be fun. These were cookies, damn it.

The Big Day was yesterday, Saturday. I spent Friday preparing—I shopped and cleaned the kitchen, I organized the selected recipes and put them in the order I wanted to bake them, and I called to ask what time the cooking gas would be delivered, since it hadn’t arrive the day before, as promised. There was my first mistake if staying anxiety-free and happy had ever been my goal. “Oh, I can’t promise that the gas will be delivered today,” the lovely creature on the other end of the telephone snapped at me. “But you did promise. You said it would be here yesterday or, at the latest, today,” I heard myself snap back. Big mistake. The Lovely held my order ticket in her rude little hand and had all of the power (yes, even her hand was rude). “Please hold,” and she was gone for days. When she came back on the line, she advised me that it was still possible for the delivery to be made that day.

I went to sleep on Friday night with Evan telling me that it would all be fine, that there would be enough cooking gas to bake 576 cookies, even though we had been certain that the tank was almost empty.

And he was right. We woke up, in the wee hours of the morning, to the gas truck pulling into the driveway. Evan deemed it a good omen and we commenced a-baking.

First, I mixed all of the dough that had to be chilled. These were Peanut Butter Cookies, Peanut Butter with Dark Chocolate Chips, Orange Cookies, Orange with Dark Chocolate Chips, Butter Cookies, Dark Chocolate Mint, Butter Cookies and, finally, Snickerdoodles. I made the batters and set them, one by one, on the table on the deck. (It was 14 degrees outside, cold enough to chill my batters, letting the never-roomy-enough refrigerator off the hook. The catch, of course, was that the bowls were frozen to the table when I went out to gather them for baking. Nothing an ice pick couldn’t handle.)

I baked the Peanut Butter Cookies first, and then followed with Peanut Butter with Dark Chocolate Chips. I counted out 24 of each after they had cooled and for breakfast, we tasted the cookies with glasses of cold milk. The cookies were delicious. Feeling good and not wanting to break stride, I jumped into the Orange Cookies and then slid right into the Orange with Dark Chocolate Chips. Neither of us is a fan of the orange-flavored dessert, but the Orange Cookie, even sans chocolate, was really tasty. With chocolate, it was wonderful. Evan had jumped in to help by washing the baking sheets and measuring cups. It was all good.

I moved through the chilled doughs and then on through the remaining recipes, one at a time. While we had started the day savoring a sample of each recipe and discussing its merits, by about noon, we were sharing a single cookie and throwing out a quick, “Oh, yeah, that one’s good, too,” before moving on to the next recipe. In addition to standing on the edge of never eating another cookie, encroaching exhaustion had helped me decide to transition from baking an extra baking sheet of each recipe—for tasting and ensuring that we had the full 24, in case of breakage or miscounting—to baking about eight extra.

I made Chocolate Chip, Chocolate & Peanut Butter Chip, Dark Chocolate Chip with Toffee, Dark Chocolate Chip with Nuts, Shortbread Cookies, Oatmeal with Raisins, Oatmeal with Dark Chocolate Chips, Dark Chocolate Cookies, Dark Chocolate with Peanut Butter Chips, Dark Chocolate with Dark Chocolate Chips, Dark Chocolate with Toffee, along with Houdini’s Fruit Cookies (with strawberry jam, apple & nuts), Houdini’s Blue Cookies (with grape jam and blueberries), Houdini’s Cookies with Dark Chocolate & Nuts, and Houdini’s Cookies with Cinnamon Sugar.

By the end of the day, I was baking only two or three extra cookies, and neither of us was even remotely interested in tasting them. (That had changed by this afternoon, you may rest assured, and we were both lamenting not having extras of the recipes we didn’t taste. Go figure.)

Dark Chocolate Cookies

At some point late in the morning, blisters began to form on my stirring hand and my back began to give out from standing in such odd positions for extended periods of time. By afternoon, I had grown really tired and was wondering what I had been thinking. I was fortified, though, by Evan's forays into the kitchen to wash the baking sheets and the other things that refused to stop filling the sink. He made a wonderful pile of orange zest for Houdini's Orange & Chocolate Cookies and fixed lunch, reminding me only occasionally that it was all sheer madness.

Orange zest

He kept a steady stream of good music floating through the house and helped keep the day, and the adventure, light and fluffy.

By nightfall, I think I was whimpering a bit, but bad Chinese take-out for dinner, picked up and served by Evan, cloth napkins and all, gave me a nice little nudge and, before I knew it, all of the cookies were baked and ready to go (not really—it was an incredibly long day and night, and it felt like two days and nights, at least).

We packed all of the cookies, 24 on a plate, complete with a little card bearing the name of the cookie, and drove to Family of Ellenville.

Cookies!

We were met by the smiling face of its director and made to feel as if we had done something special. Family is closed on the weekends, so we weren’t able to see any of the cookies handed out, but that’s okay. Those who frequent Family—people in need of companionship and care, people who could use a hug in the form of a good cookie —will be met with our cookies on Monday morning.

Our cookies won’t solve life’s very difficult and painful problems, this I know. But I also know that they might just bring a smile to people who could use one for no particular reason. Our cookies might remind them, in some small way, that they count, that a couple of people they don’t even know think they’re worth a cookie, and that feels good.

24 COOKIE RECIPES

1. DARK CHOCOLATE COOKIES

Ingredients

1 cup butter, softened
¾ cups white sugar
¾ cups packed brown sugar
1 egg
1 egg white
¼ cup dark chocolate cocoa
1 ¾ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt

Preparation

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (F).

1.   In a mixing bowl, cream the butter and sugars until smooth and fluffy. Beat in the egg and egg white until fully incorporated.
2.   Place a strainer over the bowl and put into it the cocoa, flour, baking soda and salt, and sift into the sugar mixture. Mix well.
3.   Drop teaspoonsful of dough about 2 inches apart onto ungreased baking sheet . Bake for 9 to 11 minutes, until just crispy around edges. Wait a minute or two before removing from baking sheet (the cookies will be too soft until then), and cool on a wire rack.

2. DARK CHOCOLATE COOKIES WITH PEANUT BUTTER CHIPS

Add ½ cup Reese’s Peanut Butter Chips to the Dark Chocolate Cookie recipe.

3. DARK CHOCOLATE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

      Add ½ cup dark chocolate chips to the Dark Chocolate Cookie recipe.

4. DARK CHOCOLATE TOFFEE COOKIES

            Add ½ cup toffee bits to Dark Chocolate Cookies recipe.

5. DARK CHOCOLATE WITH NUTS
   Add ½ cup chopped nuts to Dark Chocolate Cookies recipe.

6. HOUDINI’S FRUIT COOKIES
Ingredients
Dough
½ cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 ¼ teaspoons baking powder
¼ cup citrus juice
1 teaspoon good vanilla

Filling
Jam (your favorite flavor)
1 apple, peeled, cored and finely diced
1 cup almonds or pecans, finely chopped
Cinnamon

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees (F).

1.   Cream together the butter and sugar until smooth and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time.
2.   Add the juice (I usually use either pineapple or orange juice, though any citrus will work) and vanilla, and mix well.
3.   Mix together the flour and baking powder, incorporating them fully. (I do this by placing a strainer over my mixing bowl and putting the flour and the baking powder in the strainer, and then straining the dry mixture into the wet mixture. The flour and baking power are fully incorporated this way. You can use a good old-fashioned sifter, too.) Thoroughly mix together the flour and the butter mixtures.
4.   Divide the dough into 4 balls. On a lightly floured surface, roll the first ball into a rectangle, about 1/8 inch thick.
5.   Spread jam on the surface of rectangle, and sprinkle ¼ of the chopped apple and ¼ of the nuts over the jam. Cover lightly with cinnamon. Roll the rectangle, pulling one long edge toward you to make a long tube. Repeat with the remaining 3 balls. (Frequently, I forget to sprinkle the cinnamon on the apple mixture. When this happens, I sprinkle it on the rolled tube. It works just as well and some people like the look of the cinnamon on the outside of the tube. It's your call.)
6.   Place 2 or 3 tubes on a baking sheet with the raw edge up. (Leave about 2 inches between each tube. Not to worry, though, if they end up touching as they expand during baking. Separate with a knife as soon as they come out of the oven and they'll be fine.) Bake for 20 to 30 minutes, or until the crust is a golden brown and the jam is bubbly and oozing.
7.   As soon as you remove the tubes from the oven, use a sharp knife to cut each roll, on an angle, into approximately 1 inch pieces. (If you wait until the tube has cooled before you cut it into pieces, you’ll end up with a pan full of crumbs.) Allow pieces to cool on racks.

7. HOUDINI’S BLUE COOKIES
    To the basic dough, add 1cup blueberries and use grape or blueberry jelly; add nuts.

8. HOUDINI’S DARK CHOCOLATE AND ORANGE COOKIES
    On the surface of the basic dough, slather 2 cups melted dark chocolate and 1 tablespoon orange zest.

9. HOUDINI’S NUTTY DARK CHOCOLATE COOKIES
   On the surface of the basic dough, slather 2 cups melted dark chocolate; sprinkle chopped almonds or     pecans sprinkled over the chocolate.

10. HOUDINI’S COOKIES WITH SUGAR AND CINNAMON

Mix together ½ cup cinnamon and ½ cup sugar. Sprinkle sugar mixture over the surface of the basic dough.

11. SHORTBREAD COOKIES
(Adapted from www.tasteofhome.com)
Makes about 4 dozen

Ingredients
1 cup butter, softened
¾ cup packed brown sugar
2 teaspoons good vanilla
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

Preparation
Preheat oven to 325 degrees (F).

1.   Cream butter and brown sugar in mixing bowl. Beat in the vanilla.
2.   Slowly add the flour, mixing only until the ingredients are fully incorporated.
3.   Form tablespoons of dough into round balls (or any other shape you like). Place about 2 inches apart on ungreased baking sheet.
4.   Bake for 15 minutes or until golden brown. Cool on wire racks.

12. Chewy Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies (Brown Eyed Baker.com)
Yield: 18 cookies
1½ cups (7½ ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
½ teaspoon salt
16 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened but still cool
1 cup packed light brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1½ cups raisins

1. Adjust the oven racks to the low and middle positions and heat the oven to 350 degrees. Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper or spray them with nonstick cooking spray.
2. Whisk the flour, baking powder, nutmeg, and salt together in a medium bowl.
3. Either by hand or with an electric mixer, beat the butter on medium speed until creamy. Add the sugars; beat until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Beat in the eggs, 1 at a time.
4. Stir the dry ingredients into the butter-sugar mixture with a wooden spoon or large rubber spatula. Stir in the oats and raisins.
5. Working with a generous 2 tablespoons of dough each time, roll the dough into 2-inch balls. Place the balls on the prepared baking sheets, spacing them at least 2 inches apart.
6. Bake until the cookie edges turn golden brown, 22 to 25 minutes, rotating the baking sheets front to back and top to bottom halfway through the baking time. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheets for 2 minutes. Transfer the cookies with a wide metal spatula to a wire rack. Let cool at least 30 minutes.

13. OATMEAL WITH DARK CHOCOLATE CHIPS
Omit raisins and add dark chocolate chips

14. CHOCOLATE MINT COOKIE   (adapted from allrecipes.com)

Ingredients
3/4 cup butter
1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
2 tablespoons water
2 cups semisweet dark chocolate chips
2 eggs
2 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon mint extract
Directions
1.   In a saucepan over medium heat, cook the sugar, butter, mint and water, stirring occasionally until melted. Remove from heat, stir in the chocolate chips until melted. (Batter will have the texture and consistency of a cake batter.) Set aside to cool for 10 minutes
2.   Pour the chocolate mixture into a large bowl, and beat in the eggs, one at a time. Combine the flour, baking soda and salt, stir into the chocolate mixture. Cover and refrigerate dough for at least 1 hour.
3.   Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease cookie sheets. Roll cookie dough into walnut sized balls and place 2 inches apart onto the prepared cookie sheets.
4.   Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in the preheated oven, be careful not to overbake.

15. BUTTER COOKIE (allrecipes.com)

Ingredients
1 cup butter
1 cup white sugar
1 egg
2 2/3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Preparation
1.   In a large bowl, cream together the butter and white sugar until smooth and fluffy. Beat in the egg, then stir in the vanilla. Combine the flour and salt; stir into the sugar mixture. Cover dough, and chill for at least one hour. Chill cookie sheets.
2.   Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Press dough out onto ungreased, chilled cookie sheets.
3.   Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in the preheated oven, or until lightly golden at the edges. Remove from cookie sheets to cool on wire racks.

16.   CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES
(makes about 6 dozen)
Ingredients

1 cup butter, softened
¾ cup white sugar
¾ cup packed light brown sugar
1 egg
2 ¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
18 ounces dark chocolate chips

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees (F)

1.      Cream together the butter and sugars until smooth and fluffy. Add the egg, incorporating completely.
2.      Mix together the flour, baking soda and salt, and add to the butter mixture a little at a time.
3.      Mix in the chocolate chips.
4.      Drop by teaspoon onto ungreased baking sheet. Bake for about 11 minutes, or until lightly browned around the edges. Cool slightly before removing from pan to cool on wire rack.

17. DARK CHOCOLATE CHIP WITH NUTS
       Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe, adding nuts.

18. DARK CHOCOLATE CHIP TOFFEE COOKIES
      Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe, adding toffee.

19. DARK CHOCOLATE CHIP AND PEANUT BUTTER CHIP COOKIES
       Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe, omitting chocolate chips and adding peanut butter chips.

20. PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES (adapted from Betty Crocker’s Cookbook, 6th Ed.)
Makes about 3 dozen

Ingredients

½ cup white sugar
½ packed brown sugar
½ cup peanut butter
½ cup butter
1 egg
1 ¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt

Preparation

Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F)

1.      Cream sugars and butter together until smooth and fluffy; add peanut butter and egg, and beat thoroughly.
2.      Add to the butter mixture the dry ingredients, incorporating completely.
3.      Cover and refrigerate for at least 3 hours.
4.      Shape cold dough into approximately 1 ¼ inch balls, and place about 3 inches apart on an ungreased baking sheet. Flatten with a fork dipped in flour, making criss-cross pattern on cookie.
5.      Bake about 9 to 10 minutes, until lightly browned. Cool slightly before removing from pan to cool on wire rack.

21. PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES WITH CHOCOLATE CHIPS

Same as above, but add dark chocolate chips to batter and flatten with bottom of small drinking glass instead of fork.

22. ORANGE COOKIES (adapted from Baking Recipe Book) makes 30

Ingredients

½ cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar
2 egg yolks
1 tablespoon fresh orange juice
grated rind of 1 large orange
11/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder

Preparation

1.      Cream butter and sugar together. Add the yolks, orange juice and rind, and beat until blended. Set aside.
2.      In another bowl, sift together the flours, salt and baking powder. Add this to the butter mixture, stirring until it is a dough consistency.
3.      Wrap the dough in wax paper and refrigerate for 2 hours.
4.      Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F). Grease baking sheets.
5.      Roll spoonsful of the dough into just smaller than walnut-sized balls and place 1 to 2 inches apart on the baking sheets.
6.      Flatten with a fork. Baked about 8 to 10 minutes, until golden brown. Cool on a wire rack.

23. ORANGE KISSES
Above recipe, folding dough around dark chocolate chips before baking; don’t flatten.

24. SNICKERDOODLES
Ingredients
½ cup (1 stick) butter, softened
1 ½ cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs
¼ cup milk
3 ½ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ cup walnuts or pecans, finely chopped

COATING
5 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons ground cinnamon

Preparation

Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F). Grease baking sheets.

1.      Cream the butter until light. Add the sugar and vanilla, and continue creaming until fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, and then the milk.
2.      Sift the flour and baking soda over the butter mixture and stir to blend. Stir in the nuts.
3.      Refrigerate for about 15 minutes.
4.      For the coating, mix the sugar and cinnamon. Roll tablespoonsful of the dough into the walnut-sized balls. Roll the balls in the sugar mixture.
5.      Place the balls 2 inches apart on the prepared sheets and flatten slightly. Bake about 10 minutes, until golden brown. Cool on wire rack.

The Director of Family of Ellenville holding 24 of the 576

And another one...!

2009-12-15T21:14:00.002-05:00

http://veganmindedblog.com/2009/12/12/my-first-giveaway/

Hey, a giveaway!

2009-12-15T21:09:00.000-05:00

Check it out...

http://www.mybreakfastblog.com/2009/12/simple-giveaways.html#comments

Happy Hanukkah with Potato Latkes...sort of...

2009-12-12T17:57:00.018-05:00

Last night was the first night of Hanukkah. Initially, Evan and I thought it would be nice to have a family dinner at our house. Of course, when I say he and I had this thought, I mean I did. I came up with it and he acquiesced, but not before he exhibited distinct signs of absolute panic as I blurted out to his father, “Why, let’s have Hanukkah here!” Panic or no, the thing had already left our hands entirely somewhere between the words “Hanukkah” and “here.”

We—I—do this all of the time. I make an offer and The Family instantaneously kicks into full activity in a completely inactive sort of way. There are calls made and tentative information is exchanged, which is followed by promises to call back with revised plans and concrete information, which is entangled in failed attempts to force the plans and information out of those who will never call back anyway…and on it goes, with me, all the while, standing on the sidelines, so pissed that I stutter. My guess is it’s the stuttering that makes it impossible for anyone to register that I’m asking to be included in the plans of the event I’m supposed to be having, but it’s hard to know.

A few years ago, we actually pulled off a Hanukkah dinner here. I made blue and white felt gift bags, Star of David and all, and filled them with treats—chocolates and bubble gum, colorful magnets, little wooden dreidels (yes, our household remains "green" even in the midst of being utterly wasteful) for the kids and adults alike.

We made brisket and latkes for dinner, and little chocolate cakes for dessert, and there was singing and chattering throughout the night. We played the dreidel game and traded stories of Hanukkahs and Christmases past, and it was as much fun as the typical family gathering can be, tension and all. It felt good to have it, and them, here.

We tried to do it again the following year. The calls flew, the plans made and altered.

One person was only available on the second and fifth nights of the eight day holiday, while another could be here on the fourth day for lunch or the third night, and only if he could bring six extra people, with the father concluding, after a good week of negotiations (which completely excluded Evan and me, but of course), that we’d have to do it after Christmas because of time conflicts….Needless to say, we skipped that year.

Last year was much the same, with phone calls accompanied by planning and replanning and unplanning, every bit of which took place without us. In the end, we skipped last year, too.

This year, I jumped right in, brain clearly leaking out of the back of my head, and offered to do it here. Evan’s father, who was visiting for the day, immediately got on the phone to Make The Plan. He called someone in his family, they conversed at length, and, after he hung up, he informed me that I would be advised of the plan…once it was formed.

Oh.

Okay.

Evan’s father having left, I mulled this over for the evening and the following day, growing more and more pissed and stuttering, I have no doubt, more and more loudly. Finally, after having a small tantrum, during which I lamented ever having made the offer in the first place, while simultaneously wondering aloud (loudly?) when I would ever learn, I decided that the chances of the dynamic ever changing were nil and I had, essentially, wasted a perfectly good hissy fit on nothing.

Poor Evan.

So, I called Evan’s father and had a very nice conversation with him about everything but Hanukkah. We made no plans and there was no mention of who was available when and under what conditions. He may still be planning a gathering; I haven’t a clue.

And I don’t much care.

The key to learning from experience, it would appear, is to actually learn. This, I will venture to say, requires that one stop, completely and fully, doing the thing that leads one (okay, me) to feel shitty. It is essential that I begin to change my own patterns, and that I understand and truly embrace the reality that I will never, ever, ever be able to change someone else’s behaviors. Especially—I’ll go out on a limb here—the behaviors of a family that works around The Shiksa.

In celebration of my new and improved efforts to maintain (or, at this point, rediscover) sanity amidst insanity, I made a traditional Hanukkah dinner of potato latkes for just the two of us last night.

Okay, it wasn’t exactly traditional. For two days, I pondered the acceptability of baked, rather than fried, potato latkes, until Evan said, completely in passing, “How can that be bad?” So, baked, it was. And the cooking began.

Ah, yes, well, not quite that simple. I prepared my ingredients, chopping and shredding, all the while wondering if the onions might not cook enough if baked. “I’ll sauté them first,” I decided with conviction. I placed the chopped onions in the oiled, heated pan, just as Evan walked through the kitchen. “Too strong a taste if sautéd,” he declared with more conviction, “They’ll be delicious baked.”

Since he’s usually right about such things, I mixed in the shredded potatoes and other ingredients, only to discover that the extra oil had made it all very moist, too moist to stick together in true latke form.

On the verge of OhShitNowWhat moment, Evan walked through the kitchen again and very calmly said, “Just spread the mixture out thinly in a glass pan. And put cheese on top.” “But it isn’t traditional, it’s not really a latke that way,” I (no doubt) whined. “Who cares. Really, how can it be bad?” I love this man.

So, one huge latke it was, baked, not fried, with cheese on top it was. And sour cream on the side, of course, and a salad. It was delicious and, though still not particularly healthy, it wasn’t fried.

It was a wonderful first night of Hanukkah. It was just the two of us, a warm fire, a gaggle of snuggly cats (or is it a herd?) and our delicious latke-esque dinner. Later, we called Evan’s father and his girlfriend. Together we lit the first candles on the menorah, ours here and theirs in their house, while Evan and his father sang together in rich, beautiful voices. What could be better?

Next year, I think I’ll skip the part where I annoy the crap out of myself and jump right to the happy, warm, HowMuchCanYouReallyFuckUpShreddedPotatoesAnyway part of the holiday. I'll be happier (translate into ever so much less of a pain in the ass) and I'm thinking Evan is probably asking for that for Christmas this year.

BAKED POTATO LATKE-ESQUE CASSEROLE

Makes 2 large casseroles

Ingredients

4 or 5 medium potatoes, grated

1 large sweet onion, finely chopped

2 eggs, lightly beaten

1 egg white

1 cup matzo meal, or finely crumbled matzo crackers
Salt and pepper to taste
Extra virgin olive oil

Grated Asiago and Fontinella cheeses

You'll have a huge pile of grated potatoes.

Preparation

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Heavily coat the bottoms of 2 large glass baking dishes with extra virgin olive oil and place them inside, on the highest rack, to warm. (The oven doesn’t have to have reached 400 degrees—you’re just warming the oil.)

2. Squeeze the excess moisture out of the potatoes, and mix in the onions, eggs, egg whites. Add the matzo meal or crumbled matzo crackers ¼ cup at a time, until any moisture is absorbed. (A bit of remaining moisture is just fine if you’re making the casserole. No moisture should be remaining if you want to make these into pancakes.). Salt and pepper to taste.

3. Remove glass casserole pans from the oven and, dividing the mixture evenly between the two dishes, spread a thin layer of the potato mixture in the bottom of each.

4. Bake for about 20-30 minutes on the bottom rack of your oven.

Clearly, the only purpose of this photograph is to show off my clean oven, really...

5. After the tops and bottoms of the casseroles have browned a bit, spread the grated cheeses over the top of each casserole. (We love cheese, so I use a lot of it. Add it according to your own taste, but a solid cover of cheese makes a nice topping when it’s browned.)

6. Turn on your broiler and return the casseroles to the oven, putting them in about the middle of the oven. You want the tops to brown, but you don’t want any exposed potatoes or matzo to burn. Broil until browned. (The time will depend entirely on your broiler and the distance of the casseroles from the flame. Mine took about 15 to 20 minutes a decent distance from the high flame.)

7. When browned to your liking, remove and enjoy with sour cream or apple sauce on the side.

8. These babies can also be made into latkes and baked. Everything is the same, except for the shape. You’ll take about 2 tablespoons or so of the potato mixture and shape them into round, flattish pancakes (about ¼ inch thick). Place them on a heavily oiled cookie sheet and bake for about 20 minutes on each side. When they’re golden brown, they’re ready.

Happy Hanukkah!

A happy birthday with Houdini's Fruit Cookies

2009-12-05T23:52:00.007-05:00

Evan’s brother’s 55^th birthday came and went only a short time ago. Always game for a good party, his wife, my dear friend, had us gather for a surprise lunch. And surprised he was.

As part of our gift to him, we gave him Houdini’s Fruit Cookies. He loves these cookies. I can’t imagine why anyone would want a cookie devoid of chocolate, but he does love these fruit filled babies, so I made them for him.

Actually, I make these cookies often and I make them most often when he is about to appear on our doorstep, or we on his. They’re easy to make and, notwithstanding their woefully chocolateless state when made according to tradition, I must admit that they are delicious.

The recipe was Evan’s mother’s. Though she died before I had the luck to meet her, it always feels like she’s baking with me, satisfied that I’m using her recipes.

I love using Houdini’s recipes, which we keep stored safely in a tin box on a shelf above the stove. It’s as if she were standing next to me, grinning her beautifully toothy grin and poking me gently with her elbow, as I watch Evan’s face when he tastes the brownie batter I’m mixing or breathes in the aroma of the marble cake that’s baking, and he says he remembers the taste or smell from his mother’s kitchen. The smile I so adore drifts across his face and he says, “That’s it.” I bet she adored that smile, too.

Evan, The Namer of All, dubbed his mother Houdini in tribute to her happy escape, as a young woman, from New Jersey. There was a time in life, when Evan was a teenager and young man, that it was mostly just the two of them, each looking out for the other. He speaks lovingly, though realistically, of her, remembering with tenderness and amusement the qualities he so admired in her.

I think he is a lot like Houdini. He shares her love of animals, and her passion for words and writing. Neither one of them, I suspect, ever turned away from a homeless cat or a stray person, or sidestepped an even mediocre play on words. Evan took care of his mother when she became ill with what would be her final illness, putting his own life on hold in many ways. He moved her into a house on the water, and there he lived with her. I’m sure he maintained other relationships, but I’m sure, too, that his primary focus during that time was Houdini, and the care and feeding of her body and soul.

Although he seems haunted by the loss of her too early in both of their lives, he keeps her near with what feels, to this invested bystander, like pure happiness. He beams when one of her recipes is reenacted in our kitchen. He doesn’t seem particularly concerned about the success of the recipe and he’s never interested in the strict adherence to the letter of her laws. He has said more than once that he thinks she would have loved the experimentation and tweaking, and would have relished the triumphs and failures alike. She would be happy, he says, to see puddles of chocolate in place of clumps of fruit in her fruit cookies, and creamy milk chocolate dumped for rich dark chocolate in her brownie recipe. Playing in the kitchen with me, Houdini would have laughed, I suspect, at my need to touch absolutely every dessert with chocolate, and I pretend that she would have indulged me without flinching.

It’s funny how those cookies bring her into a gathering much the same way that memories and stories do. I think that’s one of the reasons we so love food and its preparation—it reminds us of things, moments, people. Acts so simple as nibbling on cookies made from the recipe my mother used when I was small helps me relive happy times and revisit comfortable places. Lingering in a kitchen warmed by an oven baking a favorite treat fills me with a tranquility little else can and preparing a dish I loved to eat as a child creates a sense of well being so often absent from this adult world.

And Houdini’s Fruit Cookies, made according to tradition (with fruit, not chocolate), played a part, I like to think, in bringing her to our table while we sang, ate and drank in celebration of her first child’s 55^th year.

No, I didn't make the cake...

Houdini’s Cookies

Ingredients

Dough

½ cup butter, softened

1 cup sugar

3 eggs

4 cups unbleached flour

1 ¼ teaspoons baking powder

¼ cup citrus juice

1 teaspoon good vanilla

Filling

Jam (your favorite flavor)

1 apple, peeled, cored and finely diced

1 cup almonds or pecans, finely chopped

Cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

1. Cream together the butter and the sugar. Beat in the eggs, one at a time.

Mix together the flour and baking powder, incorporating them fully. (I do this by placing a strainer over my mixing bowl and putting the flour and the baking powder in the strainer, and then straining the dry mixture into the wet mixture. The flour and baking power are fully incorporated this way. You can use a good old-fashioned sifter, too.) Thoroughly mix together the flour and the butter mixtures.

Add the juice (I usually use either pineapple or orange juice, though any citrus will work) and vanilla, and mix well.

Divide the dough into 4 balls. On a lightly floured surface, roll the first ball into a rectangle, about 1/8 inch thick.

Spread jam on the surface of rectangle, and sprinkle ¼ of the chopped apple and ¼ of the nuts over the jam. Cover lightly with cinnamon. Roll the rectangle, pulling one long edge toward you to make a long tube. Repeat with the remaining 3 balls. (Frequently, I forget to sprinkle the cinnamon on the apple mixture. When this happens, I sprinkle it on the rolled tube. It works just as well and some people like the look of the cinnamon on the outside of the tube. It's your call.)

Place 2 or 3 tubes on a baking sheet with the raw edge up. (Leave about 2 inches between each tube. Not to worry, though, if they end up touching as they expand during baking. Separate with a knife as soon as they come out of the oven and they'll be fine.) Bake for 20 to 30 minutes, or until the crust is a golden brown and the jam is bubbly and oozing.

As soon as you remove the tubes from the oven, use a sharp knife to cut each roll, on an angle, into approximately 1 inch pieces. (If you wait until the tube has cooled before you cut it into pieces, you’ll end up with a pan full of crumbs.) Allow pieces to cool on racks.

As you may have gathered, these are also delicious with melted chocolate (I use dark chocolate) slathered on the face of the dough, chopped almonds or pecans sprinkled over it. Of course, you’ll omit the jam, apple and cinnamon.

Blueberries, in place of the diced apples, make a delicious cookie, too, but use fresh. The moisture from defrosted frozen blueberries makes the dough too wet.

I'm not a fan of beige. I don't like beige clothes or walls or food. However, as beige as these cookies are, they really are delicious.