West
Last night we took a flight out of Denver that left at 4:15pm and headed back to LA. It was so amazing to chase the sunset west, as we crossed the rockies, flew over viva Las Vegas and then landed at LAX. I loved every minute of the flight back. I love my family, but MY GOD do I love coming home.
Having said how much I love my family, (and knowing that none of them read my blog, except my mom) I can now VENT about the insanity that runs rampant in the mid-west. Most of my family are Democrats, but they are also serious Christians. And so a couple have been snared by the notion that Bush is anointed by God, just because he SAYS so. I can usually avoid topics that would be as painful to discuss as being stoned to death in a Walmart parking lot, but sometimes, without meaning to, I walk right smack into them.
Some of the things non-political, non-religious topics were particularly fascinating, because most of my family doesn't have cable, go to the movies, listen to the radio, or read People magazine. Now remember, I work in CABLE TV. I make a living making commercials that appear on CABLE TV. One of my box-of-rocks cousins told me that he didn't have cable because he didn't "want that filth in my house," and then he proceeded to tell me about the crap on network he
loves. Anyway, this trip one aunt asked me if Jessica Simpson was going to get a divorce. And another aunt asked me about Star Jones recent marriage.
Well, huh. Who knew? One of my aunts is violently opposed to the show,
West Wing, because she thinks that it's disgraceful that the show is broadcast in other countries. She's convinced (try to follow here, the logic is more than a little rocky) that folks in foreign countries can't discern between the fictional US government and our real government. And therefore, we shouldn't "be showing a show that's not real."
Again, I literally scratch my head, "Huh?" I would prefer the fictional cabinet of the West Wing to the real thing, but arguing that isn't going to land me an extra piece of pie. Know what I mean?
Throw Your Hands in the Air
We are headed to the middle of the country tomorrow. We're going early for the sole reason of preparing for the biggest food holiday of the year, known as THANKSGIVING.
And all the foodies in the house throw your hands in the air, and say YEAH... YEAH...
Sorry about that, I'm a little giddy. Then we're driving to the most fabulous ski resort to throw ourselves off of mountains over and over as gracefully as possible and to work off the calories from the aforementioned food holiday.
Before we head to the middle of the country, we have a tendancy to eat ethnic, storing up on all those flavors that will be denied to us when we are in places where people are mostly WHITE. So last night we ate at Hurry Curry. Hot, hot, hot. Yes, I ordered it HOT. I underlined and italicized the word, hot as much as I could to the waitress with my eyes. And yes, it was not lost on me that the chef popped his head out of the kitchen and watched us eat. He was hoping I was sweating and reeling from the pain, but NO. He poured it on thick and I took like the Brawny Man my taste buds are made of.
SO THERE.
Little Gunky Black Balls of Heaven...
Seriously. One reason to be grateful for Fall.
Summer Black Perigord Truffles from Whole Foods for only $10.99. G made mashed potatoes, and I carefully grated them over the top. You really can't get better than that, unless you're at La Trufferie in the Latin Quarter in Paris. Don't go insane and buy them online from places like
this. Just keep a careful eye out and buy them when you see them. And don't waste them on people who aren't into them. They are too good to waste.
So what exactly are they? The black truffle is a fungus. This fungus forms a symbiotic relationship with the roots of oak and hazel trees. The edible portion, or truffle, is harvested in winter once it has matured.
Here's a little history. And
Martha's ideas about what to do with them. Truffles for
breakfast. Truffles for
dinner. And more
info for those who might be confused by the lovely flavor that looks like something you scraped off your shoe.
Something So Wrong...
The turkey's name is
Biscuits and he and his pal, Gravy were pardoned by Bush today.Unlike the
152 death row inmates during Bush's term as Governor of Texas.
Happy Thanksgiving.(sigh)
Magnolia Bakery Cupcakes (No Less)
A couple of years ago my Tittae Sistah Nicole, (kin to my Aunt Tittae on my mother's side), gave me an incredible gift. While she was in New York she made a pilgramage (on foot no less) to the Magnolia Bakery (on the recommendation of
Isaac Mizrahi, no less). And she flew back to LA with a box of perfect cupcakes on her knee. Not an easy feat when you're flying coach. She was irritated because one had a teeny little dent in the mile high buttercream icing. But the dent did nothing to impinge the cupcakes that were like a gift from GOD. (And by putting GOD in all caps, I'm indicating that without a doubt, even GOD would agree with this kind of blasphemy.) Cupcakes are little miracles, in and of themselves. I don't use exclamation points easily, but these are well deserved. Cakes that fit in your hand! Cakes that you don't have to share! The guy who invented them should be in the
National Inventors Hall of Fame. Forget laser beams and microphones. They should be honoring the advent of
cupcakes. Anyway, we devoured them in two bites and that was my introduction to the joy that is known as the Magnolia Bakery. And lucky for those of us stuck out on the left coast, they have not one but two cookbooks. You can
make them youselves! Which is almost as good as cruising into the shop on Bleeker Street and eating one with a cup of coffee chased by a big glass of milk.
Notes about the recipe. I was kinda freaked out by using two different kinds of flour, not to mention almost three whole cups of flour for one recipe. I thought for sure I'd gotten it wrong. And I was careful about beating everything as suggested, but wondered if I beat the four eggs too long? Or too short? Because they tasted vaguely eggy to me. Which bugged me. Any suggestions? And there was enough icing to paint the house. Not that I minded. I'm planning on icing everything for the next month. Eggs. Bacon. Peanut Butter. Sweet Potatoes. Brussels Sprouts. I'll call it the Buttercream Diet, and write a book and make millions. (Insert evil laugh here...)
Guess what we're having for dinner again!
Yippee!
Anyone you know?
These are indeed pears.
I'm craving...
This morning I dug up a load of my French Guides for a friend who's on his way to Paris this week. When I opened the
Patricia Wells' Food Lovers Guide to Paris, and a tiny little ticket stub for the
Musee d'Osay fell out and my heart ached. I love Paris. I love France. I love French food. I love bistros, mussels and pomme frites, ouef et fromage Breton crepes. Everything. All of it. I love the dogs and the people who don't bother to pick up La Petite Poo-Poo. I love the open stall markets with the wild array of cheese and olives and flowers and it's all so reasonable.
Montparnasse and
Montmartre is my favorite neighborhood.
This is one of my favorite restaurants. And this is a lovely place to have
tea. It's not an accident that I keep daydreaming about France. And it's more than a longing to be cut off from ugly politics, a romantic ex-pat drinking with Hemingway.
A couple of years ago, I ran the Paris marathon. It poured down rain and there were cobblestones.
Buckets of rain and cobblestones.I was squishy, wet, cold and in enough pain to bark like a dog. But there were these incredible moments that made every step worth it, all 27.2 miles. For instance, all along the way there were musicians crowded into doorways, sheltering their violins or their cellos from the rain and playing for us as we ran,
or hobbled by. There were kids blasting Queen from their window. There were little old men in their wool coats and black berets waving and shouting, "Allez... allez! Courage... courage!" And at the very end stood a little French woman who hung the medal around my neck and touched her forward to mine, celebrating with me and for me. All a reason to push on, not give up hope that things can be better, that we can rise above the ugliness of politics and discrimination and be more, do more, have a more demoncratic society sans
l'idiot.
If You Cut Me I Will Bleed Sweet Potato
I'm trying to figure out a sweet potato recipe that I'll be excited to eat for lunch on Monday. Sometimes I lug my lunch all the way to work, and by the time lunch rolls around think, blech, maybe I'll just go out? I hate that. So I try to psyche myself out, wind myself up. Pick a recipe that I'll be excited to try. At the moment I'm trying to decide between Mashed Sweet Potatoes with fresh Sage Butter, Roasted Curried Sweet Potatoes, or Harvest Hash, which is a bunch of roasted veggies and sweet potatoes and will only require me to wash and lump everything in the oven. All the recipes above were found at www.epicurious.com.
Cheeky
It's as if I don't have anything better to do on a Sunday afternoon than search for naughty pear pictures.
Ich Bin Ein Brussels Sprouts
If you haven't seen, Super-Size Me, you should run now and buy it or rent it. It's an amazing little movie. I know lots of folks that avoided it thinking it would be over the top, preachy, but honestly it wasn't. It was smart and funny and horrifying. It just might inspire you to eat more of everything but processed food. I will admit I like McDonalds once every six months. I salivate with the red and yellow and have been known to eat a happy meal. And I know better. Their food is as addicting as crack. And evidentally it's cheaper and just as dangerous. But I think the movie may have seriously injured my occassional self-destructive craving for a Big Mac.
On to real food.
Brussels Sprouts. Did you ever notice that Brussels is plural? I, who may have been hit in the head one too many times, had not. I made the Pasta with Brussels Sprouts and Bacon (sans bacon) from the recent Martha Stewart. It was rockin' good. It's one of those one dish meals. And while we compensated for the bacon grease with a little more olive oil at the beginning of the recipe, and added a little butter at the end for some flavor. It was fabu. The fresh sage was not overwhelming and kind of melts into the dish at the last minute. The recipe says it feed four, but those are generous helpings my friend, because I had three for dinner (everyone had seconds) and G and I both had leftovers for lunch, and Mark came over and finished it off. You do the math, my brain is still sore from trying to count and recount electoral votes.
Can someone explain why most brussels sprout and cabbage recipes use bacon?
Now It's a Vigil
I haven't felt this kind of antsy energy since the day the US began bombing Iraq. I got up at 7am and was in line to vote at 7:30. I voted for Kerry. I voted to protect the civil rights of my friends, to bring Chris and Doug, and Nathan's brother home, to rebuild faith and earn the trust of our friends and family in England and France. I voted for Kerry, because I don't like being lied to and I don't like being manipulated with fear, and because I don't play the lottery and I'm not going to be in the 2% of the population who lobby for the most tax protection. I want to pay my taxes. I want them to pay for schools and invest in people rather than real estate. I can't breathe for hoping and the line between my brows is threatening to stay, a Republican map on my face. Our radio is blaring, but they keep repeating what we already know. Record turnout. Suspected fraud in some places. We're having folks over to watch the returns, and to feed them comfort food. If I can't do anything about the state of the government, at least I can knock everyone into a food coma.
I've made four batches of brownies. I'm working on 20 pounds of mashed potatoes and roast chickens. My mom's bringing homemade party mix, homemade mac and cheese and a cheesecake. Nic's bringing pumpkin curry soup. Jeff's bringing homemade beer. By noon, I'd cleaned almost everything. I even did the windows. G has dusted and mopped every surface in the entire house, except the ceiling. I'm afraid to suggest it. I think we would be doing this even if folks weren't coming over. Trying to figure out what to do with our hands. I'm trying to write, but it's hard to concentrate. Write me and tell me how your evenings are going. What you're eating while you're waiting for returns.
