Memory Meals

I never have an answer when someone asks me what my favorite food is.  There are certainly things I love to eat, but I am hard pressed to say what my absolute favorite is.   I like to go out to eat, but not necessarily to the big time, big name expensive restaurants.   I do remember distinctly, growing up, a few special meals.  There were meals that signified certain occasions or events or even just represented a celebratory mood.  There was crown roast – big event, usually a holiday.  A French restaurant in the city – not usually for any occasion but a family affair, time to act like a respectable human being.  Fancy brunch in a hotel – special occasion or celebration.  And then there was fondue.  At home, not usually for any particular reason, but it certainly didn’t happen on just any old Tuesday, maybe it was over a holiday break or extended vacation period at home. 

My son eats anything.  Sushi?  Why not!  Indian food – sure.  Hey, want to try some octopus?  Abso-lutely.

My daughter.  Not so much.  Food can’t be touching and must be being in color. Possibly yellow.  Occasionally orange.  If it’s a month with a “Y” in it.

So I made fondue.  Modified.  No wine, I made a roux, added a lot of milk, stirred in Gruyere and cheddar.  Weird consistency, so I whisked it a lot.  It needed a ton of salt and pepper not to be bland.  Frankly, regular cheese fondue with wine and kirsch is a ton better, but I knew that would never sell.  We ate it with crusty bread, tomatoes, cauliflower, and green peppers. And by “we” I mean three of us.  One of us ate a lot of bread and melty cheese.

Good times were had by all.  So much, in fact, that I forgot to take a picture.

Until…dessert.

Then I remembered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melt chocolate – mostly semi-sweet, some milk, over a double boiler, add half and half or light cream until it’s a pourable consistency.  Serve with fruit, cut up pound cake, and marshmallows.  Give children Benadryl so they sleep.

 

Critical Mass

Over the weekend my daughter turned 8.  She spent a lot of time making little signs that said, “Happy Birthday!” and sticking them to windows and doors, as if to remind us that we weren’t quite meeting her standards of celebration.  Everybody’s a critic.  I’d put the picture my brother took of her wearing the outfit her aunt got her for a birthday present up here to show you that she might actually be 17, not 8, but every time I look at it I get hives because she’s too good looking and too saucy for everyone’s good.

Yes.  I just said “saucy.”

We saw We Bought A Zoo over the weekend.  Worst title for a movie I think I’ve ever heard.  It wasn’t a movie I really cared much about seeing.  I’m not a big animal-story fan.  It’s not about animals, as it turns out.  It’s about people – and I cried seventeen times.  Every so often my son would look over at my and announce, “Oh look, there goes mom again!”  I was like the freaking Trevi Fountain, minus the filthy tourist-maimed coins.  I don’t even know if I liked it;  I know I wasn’t manipulated.  I just know it worked.

Animal print hair extensions:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nope.

Temporary lip tattoos:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, yes.  I rather think so.

Yesterday, whilst dodging reminders that it was someone else’s VERY SPECIAL DAY, I got a present.  This book:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not only is the book completely spectacular – more on that later, but the giftiness of it just took my breath away.  You know how you’re just living your life, minding your own business, when these perfect people wander through your door? Out of the ordinary but sane, funky but brilliant, uplifting but grounded? And then they become your friends and your life is so much the better for having them in it – there is laughter and community and did I mention the laughter? Well…that.  Sometimes fate has other plans and when you are too good at what you do, you have to follow where your star leads – even if your star leads to New Haven, or thereabouts. So they moved, but not without taking the spirit of Wednesday Spaghetti with them.  They’ve had two of their own Wednesday Spaghetti dinners now in their new home.

This cookbook begins with an introduction written by the author that captures the absolute spirit of Wednesday Spaghetti – don’t freak out, just invite people over.  Of course, then she gives some gorgeous recipes so that the food is somewhat more impressive than boxed noodles and jarred sauce.  Maybe if I can, one week, get the numbers down under 50, I’ll rustle up a Wednesday Pork Roast (but don’t count on it).

 

Carnivore’s Carnival

I don’t write about dieting and weight much…at least not my own.  First of all, I’m feeling self-conscious merely writing about writing about something I didn’t write about (read it again, it actually makes sense), and second – and way more important – BORING.  Everybody is hung up enough on what they, themselves, look like naked and their own sordid histories and sado-masochistic relationships with food to give a crap about mine.

In the interest of context, however, I will say this: I’ve never been skinny.  I’m not tall (read: I’m short), so there aren’t very many places for weight to go, let alone go unnoticed.  Two pregnancies might have done (absolutely did) some damage.  Eating too much and not exercising nearly enough definitely didn’t help.  And holy buckets of cellulite, it is not possible to be overprepared for what turning 40 does to a girl’s metabolism.

So, last spring I pretty much stopped eating carbohydrates.

STOP RIGHT HERE!!

Do not, under any circumstances, tell me why this “isn’t going to work,” why I am going to “gain the weight back,”  how I am going to “damage my kidneys/liver/heart/arteries/left foot/uvula/fill in the body part.”  Seriously.  Please don’t.

Moving along.

I eat lowfat and nonfat dairy products, at least those that don’t make me puke – so, that would be nonfat lattes and yogurt and some cheese.  I eat  non-starchy, low sugar vegetables, and yes I know they have carbohydrates in them, refer to the “pretty much” up yonder.  And I eat meat.  Lower fat cuts of meat, and more chicken breasts than any person should ever have to face in a lifetime because I don’t like fish, but lots and lots (and lots and lots and lots) of meat.

So…three things have happened.

1.  I’ve lost weight.  Slowly, steadily, consistently.  Which is nice.  I’m not giving numbers because I’m not that kind of girl and also, hell no, but some people say, “Huh, something’s different about you.  New haircut?”, some people say, “Hey, you like like you’ve gotten in shape.  Nice!”  and some people say really charming things like, “HOLY ****!!!  I barely even recognize you!!”  because apparently those people were born in a sludgy bog somewhere where manners don’t exist.

2.  I’m pretty sure I’m growing fangs and it’s possible that some nights I howl at the moon.  At this point, I’ve eaten more meat in five months than I have in my entire lifetime prior to those five months put together.

3.  I learned how to cook meat.  Other than on a grill.  The fact that I didn’t know how to do this before has always been sort of mortifying.  That I can serve up a few different cuts of beef, other than, say, a cheeseburger, and that I know what to do with a pork chop is kind of rewarding.

 

Phil W.’s Porkchops

note:  this isn’t low fat at all, but worth it

Brown a few thick cut boneless pork chops in butter mixed with a tiny bit of olive oil (keeps the butter from burning) over medium heat until they are mostly done.

Add two TB cream (or half and half, whatever you have) and apple cider (or apple juice, or brandy, or even beer, although I almost always use apple juice b/c that’s what’s easiest) to the pan and swirl it around until mixed.  Simmer, still over medium, until the sauce is reduced.

In a small bowl, mix 3/4 cup grated gruyere cheese, 2 more TB cream (or half and half) and 1 TB Coleman’s dry mustard and a very small bit of salt and pepper.

Top each pork chop with some of the cheese mix and broil until the cheesy stuff is melted and ever so slightly browned.

Eat two.  They’re really good.