Samanthics

IN DEFENSE OF PAULA DEEN

2012-01-24T09:12:00.001-08:00

My discontent with this topic - Paula Deen's disclosure that she has type 2 diabetes - started with a well known columnist calling on Paula Deen to change the way she eats.

Wow, good idea, writer guy who gets clicks and comments and money - I mean, how gosh darn smart are you. Telling a person with type 2 diabetes to change the way they eat, you should be a doctor by the same logic that all argumenative people should be lawyers.

The media flurry over this topic just seems to be never ending. Another "expert" criticism of Paula Deen on this issue is this stating the obvious revelation - her cooking style and approach to food is unhealthy and irresponsible.

The voices of reason, unfortunately, just aren't as sexy to people as judgement. To tell society their lack of accountability and inability to make nutritious choices ain't Miss Paula's fault, y'all, that's no fun. I guess culpability just always looks better on someone else.

I'll take some blame here. I will defend Miss Paula. I am so grateful for Paula and her butter rich, fat heavy foods. And you know why? Because that ONE DAY OF THE WEEK that I let myself eat what I want, and say it's a summer day and white corn is abundant and cheap at my farmers market, my cheat day, y'all? That's right, I make Captain Jack's corn chowder, and I learned it by watching Miss Paula. (Because I can't eat quinoa all the time, that's just unrealistic). I don't regret one second of that enjoyment, life is too short, and so are my cheat days.

And if I want pound cake instead with the lemons dropping off my tree right now, say for a teacher who deserves something special? I'd go to Miss Paula's recipes first. Because who am I going to trust about a pound cake more than a southern matriarch with a sweet demeanor? (Hint, it's not someone who calls themselves a "skinny b***h, no disrespect to the skinny b*****s of the world, we need you too).

And it shows a remarkable misunderstanding of the balance of indulgent to healthy programming on the Food Network (among other networks) to call on Paula to "lighten up her dishes." Because there is a lack of healthy cooking shows and publications, ya know. (I've been waiting for years for someone to hop on that moneymaker, guess I'll just have to wallow in lard until someone shows me how in a magazine or on television). Wait, my bad - doesn't Paula's son have a new cooking show that is a spin off his Mama's, her food made healthier?

You could be cynical and say that was coincidentally timed with her announcement, endorsement of a diabetes med. You COULD be.

Or you could say, well, Hell. Paula never did do me any wrong. After all, she did raise two boys on hard work towards and hope for a good life, and she delivered. She made a living without causing any trouble to anyone, built something that generations in her family will benefit from. You could say, shoot, Miss Paula has done a lot of good works for others. What do I need to be picking on her for? What she eats is none of my business. It's not like she's holding a gun to my head and forcing a pound of Crisco down my throat.

Finally, the latest news on this is how Paula is shocked none of her Food Network comrades have defended her. The spin is, she's had this disease for 3 years and kept it hush-hush. Gosh, that is absolutely, positively the WORST dirty little secret I have ever heard. I am certain NO ONE, certainly no world leaders, have skeletons in their closet bigger than that. Damn. (No one, in the history of the world, has ever done anything as atrocious as showing folks how to fry a chicken right?). I mean, those "chefs" on that Food Network, they have every right to be checking with their PR firms to see what statement to make, to be sure they don't upset their own fan base, so as not to damage their own empires. Right?

That's not how I was raised. But that's just me (I'm not a celebrity chef, and I'm not any saint). The Food Network lost me long ago, but it wasn't because of Paula. It was because FN is indicative of how a shallow, flash in the pan, let's rush to the elimination round and the uglier the better society compromises decency and rushes to condemnation unconsciously. And I don't mean to sound sanctimonious, y'all.

Diabetes is just one of the crises out there. In case you wanted to see or discuss another one, check out Blessings in a Backpack, a charity Paula Deen supports.

Unless of course, your side of the street is completely clean, now and always has been. Or you can justify any missteps by pointing out just how awful someone else is. Then you're fine.

In fact, you should become a columnist.

coconutty.

2011-06-09T15:18:00.001-07:00

Time must alter taste buds. Two foods I hated as a kid, peas and coconut (not eaten together, of course), now monopolize my appetite in their respective seasons.

I am not sure if coconut even has a "season", but I instinctively associate it with summer - you know, coconut tanning oil. I grew up at the pool, on the beach, and otherwise never far from a body of water and what came with those surroundings - sun worshippers. Coconut oil, pina coladas, and the sweet and exotic smell of cracked coconut always made me want to...enjoy summer to it's fullest...but coconut never enticed my appetite.

Until now. I don't know exactly when I stopped hating coconut and seeing it as something other than thin, papery, over-sugared flakes thrown on top of processed confections, or why I stopped resenting coconut because, in my opinion, it ruined a perfectly good chocolate cake. My change of heart may be attributed to this; I am married to a coconut freak who can eat 20 coconut macaroons after dinner at our local Jewish deli, disregarding the fabulous chocolate chip cookies I make (and had) at home. That just can't happen in my kitchen or my life. It was LOVE. Love (and maybe a little jealousy) drove me to coconut, and now, as evident in my current state of ingredient obsession, I guess I love it too.

Not to overlook the successful marketing of coconut's health benefits. You can feel good about eating it, as well as while, eating it. And it's easier to find now, too - checked the dairy aisle lately? Coconut milk is next to the almond, soy and regular milk, instead of being over-priced and shoved into one little section of the market. Coconut water is all over, too...

I give.

I started making coconut cakes. I wanted to participate in the myth and glory of that legendary cake and have my kids say "My mom always used to make that when we were kids." (I like the way that sounds.) I made coconut ice cream, because I didn't have to cook it or make a custard out of it before adding it to my ice cream maker. And last week, I made coconut popsicles because I was on a whim and had three ingredients I thought would work lovely together.

Take note...

COCONUT POPSICLES

You will need 8 popsicle molds!

1 can sweetened, condensed milk

1 can (14.5 oz. size) UNSWEETENED coconut milk

1 cup toasted (or not, that's fine) toasted UNSWEETENED coconut flakes

Directions:

To toast coconut flakes, Under broiler, put coconut flakes on a cookie sheet atop parchment paper. Place coconut flakes under broiler for about 3 minutes - watch them they burn fast.

Mix together sweetened, condensed milk, coconut milk, and coconut flakes.

Pour into popsicles molds.

Freeze overnight.

Three ingredients, three steps. These popsicles are summer.

But not exactly healthy. So I'm working on a version with low fat or fat free sweetened, condensed milk, Truvia, coconut milk and coconut flakes. I'll let you know how those turn out.

The version I have posted carries 8 Weight Watchers points per popsicle. Gotta work some kitchen magic so I can eat these all summer long (and I will. I will.)

Tonight I'm cooking jasmine rice prepared with coconut milk and fresh peeled ginger. Next week I'm going to bake shrimp in a panko/coconut breading mix and serve with some sweet chili sauce. I love falling in love with foods, and coconut, I've done you an injustice by ignoring you and I am happy you forgive me by delivering up sweetness to me and my family and friends.

As far as the peas, an Italian dish called risi e bisi flipped me into a pea advocate, committing depraved acts of culinary opportunism (pushing other people aside at farmer's markets to get the first baby English peas of the spring, but I clearly wanted the peas more)...risi e bisi is a rustic Italian dish that combines risotto, peas, parmiggiano...oh, carbohydrate heaven! But that's another blog.

Start with these popsicles. You'll LOVE them. Follow me into more coconutty recipes. I won't let you down.

Happy summer.

May I Join You?

2011-05-31T11:35:00.000-07:00

This year the schedule allowed volunteering for me, which was fantastic for lessening the guilt I automatically feel as I drive by the mommy-vans parked in front of the school on my way home from the gym every morning. This year I was again one of the moms who counts with kids, reads to kids, crafts with kids, all in the name of doing my share, which, I believe in one form or another, everyone should do. Even if it's just smiling at a stranger.

So, I get invited to the volunteer luncheon put on by the school each spring, even though I thought I had been passed over (another blog), but the folded-in half invitation in italic font came home in the kids folders one day, and on the calendar it went. For many of the same reasons as I volunteer in the class, I went to the volunteer luncheon.

The luncheon was on a half day, early school dismissal, so the day was kind of a mad dash...but by the time the luncheon began I was out of my grungy clothes, had done the one-day-sale grocery shopping and dropped off the goods at home, and was in a sundress, perfumed up and lip-glossed, with a smile on my face. If you've ever navigated school functions, you know how important that smile is.

The luncheon was a buffet. Hot coffee, fruit salad, fresh bagels...I went straight to the coffee. Fuel for my smile.

Fold-out chairs were assembled in circles throughout the school auditorium, and there were several circles in which I could have planted myself, at least one person I knew in each circle. I had grapes sliding north, south, east and west on my paper plate, ready to fall and cause someone (probably me) to slip, and I needed to commit and park it. I almost sat next to my friend from back east with an accent. But there was someone sitting alone in a circle, by the door.

Well, I don't like seeing people alone. I understand that there are people who enjoy solitude (I am one of them, please don't call me on Fridays between 3:00-6:00 p.m.), but this volunteer luncheon was a social function. Walking through the heavy doors of the school auditorium involved a commitment to chat, mingle, get to know people better, and smile (don't forget the smile) while forking at grapes on a floral print plate.

I sat next to the lone volunteer and I mentally recalled my conversation-starters from the part of my brain that remembers being employed.

What drew me to this volunteer, this 60-something woman, was the fact that I had not seen her at school before, I was almost certain she was not a school parent or grandparent. I had a feeling she was one of the seniors who volunteer their time at schools where the budget falls short of hiring people.

Turns out, I was right.

Joanne was her name, and she, I learned, reads with kids every week for a few hours. My meager volunteering experience, I think this task is one of the hardest. It involves encouragement, repetition, optimism, and diligence.

We chatted more. Other people joined us. Joanne's appearance now took on a more personal quality to me - her hair was short, she's busy and doesn't want to fuss with it. She had only coffee, it wasn't her usual time for lunch. Her glasses were the kind that go light inside and dark outside, she travels light (these are all assumptions, but I was subconsciously building this woman's character up with increasing speed, I do that). Because she had me at the words "retired nurse." She had me when she told me how she and her husband drive seniors to their doctors appointments and take meals to them - seniors who have no one else to do these things. "I don't know what they'd do without us," she straightened her blouse from the cuff and cleared her throat, settling back into her fold-out chair with a solemn smile.

Gosh, I don't know what this world would be like without people like you, I thought.

"So you're still in the service industry, even in retirement!" I added with enthusiasm I hoped she would infer as appreciation, after all, it was a day for appreciation.

"Indeed I am," she replied, and nodded her head.

"My grandmother was a nurse," I felt selfish for adding that. I wanted to hear all bout Joanne, but adding this footnote about my grandmother may loosen her up and encourage more conversation. I already had started writing about her in my head, and I needed additional material.

"Oh, is that right?" she asked, seeming pleased to let me talk for a while, sipping her coffee. I mentioned how my grandmother retired here in California from Ohio and then volunteered at a free clinic at the beach, and how my grandfather volunteered his spare time driving a school bus to keep himself busy while Grandma did her thing. "When I was a teenager and my grandfather would drive by our house and honk the big school bus horn, I used to die of embarrassment," I popped a couple of grapes in my mouth. "Now, I think volunteers are heroes, and I still see my Grandpa hunched over that big wheel with just a big smile on his face." Joanne smiled and said "Hmmm."

Darn. She's done talking. Other people joined in our circle. Get away, other people. Joanne is my own personal hope for humanity and I was talking to her first.

"My husband and I though are taking a vacation here in a few days, we're volunteering then too," she straightened her shirt again from the collar. Predictable and selfless. I LOVE this woman. Before I could ask, she was giving everyone who sat around her now the details of her...get this...Alaskan ranger vacation at a national park.

"So you get to have the vacation the rest of us can't even get or even book online?" Excuse me, Mr. Volunteer Dad, that was my line, I got this story started. Continue, Joanne.

Joanne was loose now. Her face lit up, her cheeks got rosy, and her shoulders broadened. Or maybe the caffeine in her coffee kicked in. "Every summer we go up to a state park in Alaska and volunteer at the campsites. We get to see everything, eagles, a moose being born in front of us, it's just....amazing."

Some people process what the world offers with effervescence, and help make it a better place while they're here. Some people are filled with goodness and you can't help but wonder if you may have come into contact with such people because your faith was a little shaky...

I want to be a better person, I want to transcend through osmosis and, Heaven help me, even chit-chat.

May I join you?

May I listen to you and let you remind me of my Grandma, may I silently trip out on how you look like my bestie's biological mother, may I emulate you next time I catch myself griping about helping with another craft project with 5 year olds, may I blog about you because for once, ONCE! someone I put on a pedestal truly deserved it?

You just can't put an estimate on giving. You can't. It ripples.

I sat and listened to Joanne talk about how she and her husband will spend their summer, and in another attempt to connect with her, I discussed our first state park camping experience last summer, as well as our Pacific Northwest vacation years ago, and I simply enjoyed talking about something besides budget cuts or what class my child was in this year, or hopefully will be in next year. I continued to paint a picture of Joanne, but more of a worthy illusion, of her helping campers, keeping the state park in check, and I believe that no wildlife will go unnoticed or unappreciated in her presence. She'll be surrounded by nature while she does what is in her nature - assisting others and improving what she can.

She and her husband usually drive to Alaska but this year they're taking a cruise to their destination, they're making the most of the journey. I wanted to say "May I join you?" (I so adore cruising), but instead I smiled (a genuine smile) to myself, emphatically stated she absolutely must have the time of her life, because, no doubt about it, she deserves it.

Just ask any of the kids who can read better now.

Turning 40

2010-10-24T11:36:00.001-07:00

Because my birthday is in the last month of the calendar year, most of my friends have already passed the mark and I am watching the pages fly by on the calendar waiting for my turn, but I am not filled with dread as I expected to be.

There are several roads I could go down if I change my mind and want to fret - reading articles about how long my hair should be since I am now middle aged, listening to people talk about the decline of passion in marriages, or how to keep the passion alive in relationships, look at pictures of myself at 20 when hair color was optional and a sun tan didn't seem like a pre-cursor to sun damage...yes, I have ample material to make me feel like I'm past my prime in life, if I were to buy into that.

But I don't. Because it may sound cynical, but I defend it as sensible - the number 40 is a way to rationalize stupid, selfish acts, or to convince you to buy into them.

It's a simple formula shoved down the throats of the still-impressionable. "You've denied yourself, now is the time to indulge." Or, "Haven't accomplished all you thought you would? It's not too late!"

Quicksand.

I'm sitting here wondering why it's only now that I understand the things I was told in my youth by wiser people, but that isn't a heavy weight, it's the price of admission. And I don't feel the price is exorbitant, it makes me smile - often times to the point that little ones ask me "Why are you smiling? No one said anything."

"Nothing," I reply, and it's assumed that dementia is sitting in. But I don't mind. When I can smile and take things in, without stating the obvious or inserting my fears into a moment of all-planets-aligned, that is where I always wanted to be, just never knew.

When my parents were my age, I remember a movie called "Middle Age Crazy", in the era of "North Dallas Forty" and before "The Big Chill." I saw parts of Middle Age Crazy here and there and I remember wondering if I would lose my mind one day, wake up on THAT birthday and act like a child again. The main character, who turns 40, buys a sports car, alienates his wife, strays with other women, watches footage from his birthday party in which his wife cries about how much she loves him, and ends up spray painting the hood of that sports car, a rationalizing statement (that happened to be the name of the movie). I looked at my parents long and hard after that movie, challenging them because, it was understood, their chance at fallibility had passed. They needed to be well-behaved because they were adults, they needed to have it all figured out because they were parents (or vice versa).

Booby trap.

If you want to feel like an instant piece of crap, compare yourself to someone else, or measure your character against what society and the media say it should be. The age forty seems to be a magnet for these illogical measures, and I am not trying to be arrogant when I declare this practice as silly. Temporary insanity can set in at any age. People make mistakes as long as they are alive. And you are never too old, or too young, to feel just fine in your own skin, and at peace with your life as it is.

My hair is longer than it's been in years, but I keep it in a clip most days. I don't buy expensive, youth-sustaining facial creams because there are too many to choose from and it makes my brain tired. I recently started jogging not because I am afraid of gravity hitting me hard, but because it feels good when I'm done. And I can honestly say that when I am in the right (or wrong) light in a restaurant bathroom and my wrinkles are exposed, I remember how I got them (eating Hawaiian shaved ice on a beach reading Stephen King and Anne Rice while my best friend or honey/future husband snored in the sun on a threadbare towel next to me), and I smile.

"What are you smiling about?"

Nothing. Everything. Happy birthday to me. No regrets.

Summer Treats - Homemade Popsicles

2010-07-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

Got fruit on the counter that's a little too ripe? Listen here...

Get your blender or food processor ready.

Puree.

Freeze.

And "Yes, kiddo, pleaaase get yourself dessert!"

MANGO BLUEBERRY POPSICLES

the mango is so sweet no extra sugar is necessary.

6 oz. blueberries, rinsed and looked over for bruises or excessive squishiness

2 ripe mangoes, peeled, pitted, roughly sliced

popsicle molds

Puree the fruit and pour into the molds with a funnel if necessary.

Freeze at least 4 hours.

Note - if you're using thick fruit, you may need to add a little simple syrup to get the right sweetness and consistency (see below for simple syrup how to).

Also, some fruit will benefit from a squeeze of lemon juice to prevent browning (strawberries, bananas).

Enjoy the fruit of summer while you can, use every last bit, sneak in the anti-oxidants under the guise of dessert and you've done a darn good thing for everyone.

SIMPLE SYRUP

1 cup sugar

1 cup water

Stir together over medium high heat until sugar dissolves. Refrigerate leftovers and use for lemonade or limeade.

To The Ball Player Who Saved My Son's Life

2010-07-09T18:36:00.000-07:00

I've tried to find your Mom at ball games since the incident but I've been unsuccessful. I've rehearsed the conversation a thousand times, what I would say, and how I would deliver the words slowly, so I wouldn't cry and freak you, a 12 year old kid, out completely.

Tonight I understand you're playing on an All Star team, against a team in which we have an amicable interest. My husband and son are at this game right now, but I stayed home to play on the computer and watch Ghost Adventures. But now I wish I would've come to the game so I could look at you and smile, and maybe tell you something that - if silly to you - is so, so important to me.

But a this-decides-who-goes-to-district-championships-ball-game may not be the right venue for what I need to say anyway, so here goes.

Four months ago during that inter-league ball game, it was my son's first season in the majors division, and he was still ten years old. My son is, I would say, small to medium size in a division where there are many players bigger - or as big as - their coaches. I've heard people refer to you as "The Beast" because you hit bombs, your long balls go far, and you, as I witnessed that night, hit hard. In tonight's All Star game, you've hit a three-run and a two-run home run, both before the 3rd inning. Wow.

But that getting-dark-early night in late March, you made what seemed like a meaningless decision at the time, but you saved someone's life.

Because you used a wooden bat.

The line drive you hit took my son down on the pitcher's mound so fast I couldn't believe there wasn't a body-shaped dent on the hill. My son stayed down there for what seemed like twenty years while the paramedics assessed him, slipped a gurney beneath him, taped him down for safety and wrapped his neck (this is when I began to cry that night, but I don't say this to make you feel bad).

I didn't notice you, or anyone else, after my son fell. What I remember is being in the emergency room with our league president and something being mentioned to me about "the kid who hit Alex" and how you, and your family, were so concerned.

I made myself a mental note to ask the league president, Phil, to let you know my son, I was being told, escaped severe head trauma somehow.

"It's because of the wooden bat," my husband said in the waiting room of Children's Hospital. "What do you mean?" I asked, because, I admit, I knew very little then about why metal bats were so expensive and preferred by young ball players. "The batter was using a wooden bat, if he wasn't," my husband paused then and didn't finish his sentence. But I understood it to mean that had you chosen to put your strength behind a metal bat, my son may not be asking for a popsicle or which episode of Wizards of Waverly Place was being shown in his cordoned-off area in the ER. My son may have been

You understand, right?

When we got home from the ER that night, and I had to wake my son Alex up every two hours to check on him, I passed the time by reading online news sites. That very night, I read an article about Gunnar Sandberg, a 13-year-old pitcher who was in a coma after being hit by a line drive 12 days earlier while pitching, the batter using a metal bat. The title of that article was something like "ball player clings to life." I read that article, placed my hands over my face and wept, realizing the miracle that happened just hours earlier.

And right then, you became one of my favorite people in the entire world. Ever.

Because you, for a reason I will probably never know, used a wood bat when batting against my son as he pitched, a little guy facing big, able players like you. After the incident that night, the game was called, people I barely knew texted us and my cell phone rang non-stop, and the concern displayed was, honestly, very flattering to my son. He took it all in, smiling goofily at the attention of nurses and fellow players, and we all knew we'd dodged a bullet.

But the concern that mattered most was yours. Your family's. I made our league president promise me that night that he would contact your family by way of your league president and let them know that my son was fine. Mild concussion. Few headaches. He got back on the mound after that game, during the same season, and pitched 5 times. He pitched in one of his All Star games, too.

I'm a Mom. The parent of a ball player. We never realize the risks we've been exposed to sometimes until it's too late. There are, I believe, "it's a miracle" incidents, divine intervention, moments of strong intuition in everyone's lifetime - unexplained decisions to do one thing instead of the other for no apparent reason. In case you didn't know it, the wood bat was one of yours, his, ours. I know you're using a metal bat in tonight's game. But you didn't on March 23, 2010, and how come? Doesn't matter now. I just want you to hear me say thank you.

This will have to suffice. If I could talk to you right after the incident, I would tell you

You did nothing wrong. You didn't hurt anyone intentionally. Random things happen and this one turned out okay. Maybe you'll never understand why I need to tell you this until you're a parent too, but thank you, thank you, for making that seemingly meaningless decision of using a wood bat because that choice impacted my son's health, his life, and probably saved it, and therefore, saved mine, and his fathers, too. And please, don't let this incident mar the sport for you in any way [fast forward to July 2010 and evidently it hasn't! Good for you, kid!]. There are risks in everything we do. And because of an unexpected incident in which no one wanted to be a participant, I'm bittersweetly aware of how fragile and miraculous life really is, and I love more completely now.

I asked my husband tonight to perhaps approach your parents after the ball game and give a summarized version of this speech to them but I got an "Oh come on honey, I don't wanna do that...". So this is it. The official appreciation letter to you that you'll probably never read.

But I needed to pen it.

I can't remember the ball hitting my son in the head, all I remember is seeing my gray Ugg style boots running down the bleachers towards the field where he laid, huddled by the coaches who got to him before I did. I remember a district umpire telling me I was handling it well, and my father telling me to calm down when I yelled at the 911 dispatcher (to whom I later apologized, by the way). Mostly I remember the feeling in my chest when I learned the had-it-been-a-metal-bat scenario. I felt like someone had punched my heart so hard that it shot outside my body and landed somewhere else, and for a moment, I couldn't find it. For just a moment, my spirit and body felt the emotions of that scenario, but my eyes found my son's face, and he was looking at me; alert, conscious, alive.

These things happen and I don't know why, but I'll take away the best, and worst, lessons from it that I can. Not a day goes by that I don't thank you, many entities and divine beings for the miracle that was my son leaving the hospital that night. I've done some research on the metal vs. wood bat debate, read the statistics, and become a wood bat advocate.

You, unnamed player from an anonymous little league, started in motion a miracle when you simply picked up a bat. However far your ball playing goes, you get to say that, always.

And I, except for your own parents, will be your biggest fan.

Thank you.

SHRIMP ON SALE, LEMONS ON TREE, HERBS IN THE GARDEN

2010-05-03T09:36:00.000-07:00

Butter, lemons, cilantro, olive oil (or butter), salt and pepper.

Six ingredients are all you need.

Seven, if you count the pasta or rice to soak up the juices.

This is one of those warm weather dishes that can put you in a sun-washed, ocean air-infused, citrus scented state of mind, in that place where the world is your chaise lounge.

Here is what it looks like when it comes out of the oven...

And here is how it looks ready for your palate, on a bed of shells (the pasta kind).

When the sky is blue and the sun has touched my shoulders, I make this dish and I dream about the lazy days of summer, vacations at the beach, the bounty of summer food...

shellfish, citrus, and bunches of herbs.

If you just open your eyes and take it all in, there is so much to enjoy.

BAKED LEMON SHRIMP WITH CILANTRO

1 lb. shrimp, defrosted, peeled and deveined

3 lemons, sliced

1 bunch cilantro, chopped

5 tbsp. of butter, or 3 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil (or a combination of both!)

coarse grain salt and fresh ground pepper

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Lay lemon slices in a 9 x 13 pan or casserole dish.

Layer chopped cilantro on top of lemons.

Lay shrimp down on top of the lemon slices and herbs.

Top shrimp with butter and/or olive oil.

Add salt and pepper on the very top.

Bake at 425 degrees for approximately 15 minutes, or until shrimp is pink and opaque on both sides.

Place shrimp atop fresh cooked pasta or rice, and pour buttery, lemony the pan juices over both.

The Garbage Plate, A Real Mess

2010-04-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

Going out to breakfast.

Doing brunch on a Sunday.

Meeting for coffee and scones.

Taking the family out for pancakes and waffles.

All of the above!

I used to wait for Friday evenings. When were were dating, he took me out for oyster shooters and steamed clams with linguine at places with dark oiled wood and copper pots hanging from the ceiling.

I now wait for Sunday mornings. Our dates have become family weekend breakfast outings where smiley faces are put on pancakes with whipped cream, chocolate chips and maraschino cherries and we determine where to go by the durability of the crayons that come with the kid's menus.

And we do a lot of living on our Saturdays.

Something happened to me in between the Friday Night and Sunday morning - besides becoming a wife and a mother. I became an advocate for survival. Well, not just our survival. I want us to thrive.

Saving money.

Eating less sodium, processed foods, preservatives.

Hibernating inside our home after long, over-scheduled weeks.

I can do that myself, maybe even better.

All of the above!

We've been doing our Sunday breakfast outings in lately. We've spared ourselves the long wait in restaurants and pricey meals to simply stay at home, watch Sunday morning baseball, and decide only between cinnamon rolls or pancakes. And why shouldn't we? To have a fabulous weekend breakfast meal at home, all you need is a good sense of humor, a few market ingredients, and the learned skill of removing eggshells after toddlers insist on cracking eggs, that irresistible culinary task of young chefs everywhere.

This past Sunday morning, I didn't decide between anything. I made it all - all being everything I had in the fridge and pantry at the time (only ingredients I missed were sausage, toast, and gravy).

I made a Garbage Plate. A mess of breakfast foods on one platter, cooked on the same griddle, one thing after another, a delicious marriage of going-out-for-breakfast flavors, all in one bite. I've ordered this several times in diners, and seen it done on Food Network. Well, Saturday night, I saw a show that served their patrons the prototypical Garbage Plate, the tell-tale mess of piled-high eggs, potatoes, cured and salted meats, cheeses...and I fist-pumped my sous chefs, saying only, "10 a.m."

And at 10 a.m. the next day, we took it on. Peeling and grating potatoes, sharp cheddar. Whisking eggs and grinding fresh pepper. Chopping up bacon into small bits and I am not ashamed to say, cooking the eggs in the residual grease (aahhhh, memories of my childhood).

If I'd had any leftover coffee, I would have made a red-eye gravy. If I had corned beef, I would have made a hash. If I hadn't used all of the tomatoes in the salad the night before, I would have made a salsa.

Next Garbage Plate, another mess.

We do so much living, we need to compensate with a lot of eating. The satisfaction of a hearty breakfast Sunday morning makes surrendering those Friday nights easier.

Of course, Friday nights are how we got into this mess in the first place.

GARBAGE PLATE

5 Russet/Idaho potatoes, peeled and shredded

1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil, or canola

coarse grain salt and pepper to taste

dash of Tabasco

8 slices bacon, chopped

12 eggs, whisked - salt and pepper added

2 cups grated cheese

Preheat a griddle or large, flat pan over medium-high heat.

In a bowl, toss potatoes with oil, salt, pepper and Tabasco.

Put potatoes on griddle and let cook about 5 minutes per side, until the potatoes are browned evenly and cooked through (may need longer depending on your stove and pan).

Slide your big hash brown onto a platter big enough for a big mess.

Cook bacon next, until done.

Top hash brown with bacon.

Drain most of the fat off the griddle, reserve about 1 tbsp. of fat for the eggs.

Add eggs to griddle and cook until done.

Add eggs onto mess on the platter.

Top eggs with grated cheese, it should melt right away.

EGGS.

2010-04-25T12:27:00.000-07:00

The egg is so simple. But so pleasing and versatile. I just love them.

When the kids got tired of toad in a hole (one of the best breakfast dishes of all time, recipe below), they started asking for shapes. I'll get breakfast down their gullets any way I can, and I have a drawer full of just cookie cutters for toast, eggs, scones, and oh yeah, cookies. Fine, I said, here is a hearty take on egg and toast.

When springtime rolls around, their Greek Yia-Yia holds the title for egg decorating. She uses leaves and herbs from her garden, and dye from Greece. I could never top these eggs, so I don't try. When I was young, it was PAAS pastels and the scent of vinegar to beckon the Easter Bunny. The Greek Easter eggs my mother-in-law makes are on a different level, I hold them in my hand and appreciate their smoothness and deep color, and wonder how she gets them so perfect.

Just give me a flame-warmed tortilla, a sunny-side up egg, and fresh salsa, this is all I require to appreciate the egg. The compact, convenient, dependable egg. When I don't have time for eggs in purgatory, I do this (below). The meeting of a tangy tomato salsa with cilantro and the runny yolk, wrapped inside of a soft tortilla, the masa's earthiness activated by the flame...that is how I make myself happy with this yellow and white refrigerator staple that counts as protein.

QUICK EGGS IN PURGATORY, ON THE BORDER STYLE

pat of butter

2 eggs

1 cup salsa

1 corn tortilla

In a skillet/pan over medium-high heat, melt a pat of butter.

Crack eggs into pan.

Pour salsa around the eggs.

Cook eggs until done, and slide over tortilla.

TOAD IN A HOLE, OR EGG IN A BASKET

1 tbsp. unsalted butter

coarse grain salt and pepper to taste

1 egg

1 slice bread, a middle piece cut out and set aside

In a large skillet/pan over medium-high heat, melt butter.

Add bread slice, and the middle piece you cut out right next to it.

Crack the egg into the hole of the bread slice.

Sprinkle over salt and pepper.

When you can smell the bread and butter, or after about 1 minute, slide a spatula under the bread and flip it over, carefully (the middle piece too).

After about another minute, the egg should be done.

Slide into plate, and use the middle piece to break the yolk.

Clam Chowder...Homemade, from Scratch, and Deeply Psychological.

2010-04-22T18:14:00.000-07:00

I have no idea how soup became the food at which I am best at cooking. All I know is, anytime of year, I am simmering away at the stove. During the hottest days of summer, for the coldest days of winter, when the slightest hint of autumn hits the air, and in spring, when vegetables beg to be sweated in good olive oil and a pat of butter.

In summer, I do gazpacho type soups with our California avocados and coastal tomatoes, and whatever the fishermen have pulled out of the Pacific. Either that, or chicken tortilla soup. You can't live where I live and not know how to make chicken tortilla soup, and once you make it, you'll never order it in a restaurant or buy a plastic tub of it at Costco again.

In the fall, root vegetables reign, so I bring together pumpkin and acorn squash soup with acini de pepe, and add a hint of curry. If I am in the mood to food mill potatoes, I make potato and cheddar soup, or slow cook some lentils and add chicken and basil sausage.

In winter, come on. We're fighting colds and such, so I bring on the scratch chicken noodle soup or avogolemono. I usually jones for a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup about this time of year, so I roast tomatoes with garlic and thyme, then puree it with some chicken broth and maybe - if no one is looking - a touch of heavy cream, baby.

Springtime. Our current season. So many moods. Warm and sunny today, cool and blustery tomorrow. Outside recreation - like tidepooling - beckons us. But the wind whips us and freezes the little hands that touch the still cold ocean water, so clam chowder makes sense.

It is not as hard as you think. You only need to make it once or twice to get clam chowder mojo. Then people from all around will talk about your restaurant-quality (or better) clam chowder, that you have to be from, like, New England or something. Really? Me? No, I just love seafood, scratch cooking, and for some reason I need to read Carl Jung about, soup.

And I love my people who love my clam chowder. That is truly the only reason that matters.

Here is a great clam chowder recipe. Dig in.

CLAM CHOWDER

4 slices bacon, diced

3 stalks celery (with leafy tops, especially)

1 small yellow onion, grated or chopped fine

2 cloves of garlic, minced

1 tbsp. unsalted butter

3 Russet/Idaho potatoes, peeled and diced

(6) 6.5 oz. cans chopped clams, strained RESERVE THE CLAM JUICE!

* Open cans of clams over a fine mesh strainer and save the clam juice, set clams aside *

(1) 8 oz. bottle of clam juice

1 cup heavy cream

2 cups whole milk

1 bay leaf

3 tbsp. all purpose flour

optional - chopped parsley

Over medium-high heat in a large pot, melt butter and add the raw, diced bacon.

Render fat out of and cook bacon and until browned.

With a slotted spoon, remove bacon and set aside on a paper towel lined plate.

Add celery, onion and garlic to pot and sweat veggies until soft, about 3-4 minutes.

Add potatoes and toss to cover with the rendered bacon fat (it smells sooo good about this point).

Add the bay leaf, strained clam juice and bottle of clam juice to the pot.

Bring to a boil.

When potatoes are cooked (check after 4-5 minutes), add the heavy cream and milk to the pot.

Reduce to a simmer and whisk in flour.

Stir consistently until soup thickens.

Add clams and if using, the chopped parsley.

Remove bay leaf.

I dug up this clam last summer at Coronado state beach. Had to fight a pretty nasty seagull off, too. But I'm okay now.

Clam chowder photo from foodnetwork.com.

If Life is a Journey, Parenting is an Adventure

2010-04-08T10:49:00.000-07:00

The pediatrician told me something yesterday I would have just nodded my head and forgot about afterward, had she said it a month ago.

"Parenting is an adventure." That sounds so simple doesn't it? Small talk almost. But it has different meanings, like the Life Is a Journey, Not a Destination thing.

Read the definition of adventure, according to www.dictionary.com -

1) an exciting or very unusual experience.

2) participation in exciting undertaking or enterprises.

3) a bold, risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome.

4) a commercial or financial speculation of any kind; venture.

a) peril; danger; risk.

b) chance; fortune; luck.

At one time or another, being a parent fits all of the above criteria. It's crazy, optimistic, expensive, risky, and even benefits and requires luck sometimes - to name a few things you can say about having and raising children.

It's easier just to say "It's an adventure."

In the movie Parenthood, Jason Robard's character Frank, the imperfect, pragmatic and seemingly remorseful patriarch says that the caring involved in being a parent "never ends." He says something like "You never cross the goal line, not when your kids are 30, or 40 or 80."

You never know what you're getting in to when you talk about having children, but from the second you know they're in there, you're only certain that you love them. Everything else that comes thereafter is subject to variables.

Forgive me for stating the obvious. I'm in the process of changing the way I think. Being a parent has recently moved me from the mindset list and prepare for all that could go wrong to the attitude of things will happen, meet life head on.

It's not like I'm waiting in line for a roller coaster and still have time to change my mind and turn back. I'm on the ride now and it never, ever ends.

Grandma in Parenthood says - "I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it."

In my personal experience on roller coasters at Six Flags Magic Mountain, Disneyland, and Disney's California Adventure (adventure!), roller coasters aren't as scary, are easier on the stomach, and much more fun when your eyes are open and you surrender yourself to enjoying it.

My life would be less of an adventure without children. Without them, my life would have been one of those bus or train rides around the park, from which you sit and watch other people - families - living their lives to maximum, exciting, capacity.

I don't think the bus or train ride is adventurous enough for me.

sing with me...when you're sliding into first and you feel a sudden burst...

Is That an Earthquake, He Says

2010-04-06T13:40:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been in an earthquake?

Me, and earthquakes, we go way back. To my infancy.

I was born in the San Fernando Valley, where we lived until I was a toddler. I was 3 days shy of being 2 months old when the "Sylmar Quake" hit.

Earthquakes have a lot of different effects on people. After that quake, my father doesn't sleep naked anymore.

Because when that 6.6 hit, he ran to get me out of my crib. And ran out into the street.

Naked.

Incidentally, he left my mother behind to get her own self out of the apartment complex, but she can scream louder than any earth rumbling, and has, and she wasn't injured in the quake at all.

When I was 2 1/2, we moved to Seattle, where my Dad got his Masters at UW and it rained, but we didn't fear tsunamis and figured Rainier was dormant. When I was 5, we moved to San Diego, where life is good, right? Away from the San Andreas fault, more blue skies than gray, I mean, what happens in San Diego besides that groovy, Southern California sunshine-y living?

I was 39 when the 7.2 hit San Diego, just north of the Baja California epicenter. Stronger than the Haiti quake. Two deaths reported, 25,000 misplaced because of structural damage.

My parents didn't move us up and down the Pacific Coast to avoid natural disasters. They were following higher degrees and satisfying careers.

I've been in San Diego ever since I was 5, and felt only tremors from the San Andreas now and then.

What happened on Easter Sunday was no tremor.

I was in the kitchen, two of my kids were in the living room, my daughter was in the backyard.

"Is that an earthquake?" said my husband. We have false earthquakes that are usually rationalized and explained away as sonic booms, or a jet from nearby Miramar (yes, the Top Gun Miramar, but now it's a Marine Air Corps base).

I dismissed my husband's question until the windows rattled. And kept rattling. And kept rattling. And still, after the seasoned-native-third generation-Californian arrogance of "That's hardly an earthquake" cynicism passed, kept rattling.

I ran to get my daughter who was outside climbing a fence, or a tree...or, something.

The dog accompanied me the whole way to get her and pull her down to safety from whatever tomboy thing she was doing. Once I had my family assembled and ready to get under the dining table, the quake subsided.

"Would you calm down?" my husband asked. Why is it, no matter what, a man has to tell a woman to calm down, even when she is composed and self-possessed? I had to round up my ducklings, I'm a Mom! And I was simply acting upon one thing I do know - earthquakes can start off as Matthew Broderick and soon be all Charles Bronson.

Secure your troops, assess the damage, move Grandma's fine china before the aftershocks start and send hubby to the store for 10 packages of bottled water, band-aids and rubbing alcohol, and also soup that doesn't expire until the year 2054.

Just in case.

That is what Californians do. Right after they update their Facebook status about the earth-rattling drama.

Earthquakes effect people differently. They are one of those things that make you realize you've forgotten what you thought you already knew. All those things you thought you knew? Well, you just had a loud, rumbling, Wrath of God type refresher course in them.

I have been so reminded this past month. There are a hundred blogs, stories and chapters inside my head, because you know who the best author is? Life. More random and surreal than any piece of visual or literary art.

I haven't been calm the whole time, but I am near it now.

A 7.0 killed hundreds of thousands of people in Haiti, a 7.2 won't even be front page news in San Diego tomorrow.

By nature, I hate cliches, despise overused terms and statements, and one of my least favorites is "It's not a question of IF but WHEN the BIG ONE strikes."

DO NOT say that to me. LIFE is the proverbial "BIG ONE." What snese does it make to wait for something bad to happen? Since you don't know when it will, keep your heart open, your spirit hopeful, and your precious things close. (And your insurance policies STACKED, just in case.)

I looked up the quake epicenter on the USGS website soon as it hit and realized so many little quakes happen all the time, and I don't even notice.

So many little disasters are averted, or never come to pass, and we continue in our lives, unaware - or too aware - of the potential danger.

One of those things I knew, that I forgot, and just learned all over again.

Die, Yellow Fizzie Beer - Long Live Homegrown Resistance

2010-03-07T10:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, maybe I am getting a little carried away about something as simple as beer.

It's just that, I can't help it. I used to work for Anheuser-Busch, who was bought by a foreign company (Inbev), and they were not very nice to AB employees. A lot of people think they're drinking American when they crack open a Coors or Miller but guess what? SABMiller stands for South African Breweries (they acquired Miller in 2002) and although the 2008 anti-trust regulators approved Miller Coors as a joint venture between SAB Miller and Molson Coors, Molson is Canadian. They have some headquarters on American soil, breweries that still employ people in this country, but if there is any question over who is getting rich off red, white and blue happy hours, summer picnics on the lake, and weekends, let me introduce you to a famous fictional, and non-fictional character known as the little guy.

The little guy, who gets the proverbial **** end of the deal when corporations monopolize. The little guy, who works his whole life to support his family while the Gordon Gekkos of the world are slow to get their comeuppance. The little guy, who has optimism, the right to assemble peacefully, and a history of changing things from the underground with good recipes for brew.

That recipe is one part anti-establishment, one part non-conformism, one part authentic craftsmanship, with roots in autonomous ingenuity, and 100% spirit.

Add a few tattoos, irreverent visionaries, a nothing-to-lose attitude, and quality ingredients and you have a revolutionary movement against yellow fizzie beer with no taste, no fair distribution of wealth, and more importantly, no heart.

I'm getting carried away again. And I DO NOT wish to undermine the work of people who built family companies, or those in the heartland (all over our land) who still work for a living making yellow fizzie beer. Nothing wrong with sending your kid to college this way.

But gee whiz, I want the fair share to circulate where it ought to go.

I was the dorky kid in college who had to subdue my enthusiasm when the professor had us watch Tom Joad's speech. (But I have a cool side too, and I can recite Otter's speech from Animal House word for word and I cheer the demise of Neidermeyer). And I understand the way the market, the world, and even temptation work.

So when I see the success of microbrewers, when their popularity has an international reach and the little guys get a piece of the pie, I see irony, justice, and victory in a 12 ounce bottle of beer. I taste it in the heavily-hopped, attention to detail smoothness, and I see it in the deep, multi-dimensional, never transparent amber color, you know, the hue and agricultural staple that are mentioned in America the Beautiful.

But that's just me. Throw the empty Coors Light cans at me now.

And I'll tell you that San Diego was named Beer Capital of the U.S.A because we have the most (award-winning) breweries here, a concentration of breweries unknown anywhere else nationally. Oh, and we've also gotten nods from Food & Wine magazine for said concentration.

Last night I went to a place called Small Bar, where there were more microbrews on tap than I could count. And NO YELLOW FIZZIE BEER. There are lots of these bars and restaurants in my city now, they open their doors to everyone (that's their style), but, as I read in San Diego magazine, decline the reps from the foreign owned beer companies.

Where there is the little guy fighting the system, you'll find me. Drinking it in. And eating, too of course - these bars have elevated bar food, scratch cooking (homemade pickles deep fried, mac and cheese with Guinness! street tacos, oh my...), but that is another blog.

Where is Tom Joad now? He's in San Diego, eating fish tacos and sipping the hoppy fruits of his labor in the warm sun that, for now, shines in exactly the right place.

Image from southernliving.com Beer Glossary

Happy Birthday Dad!

2010-03-03T11:29:00.001-08:00

My Dad is 60-something today, and he's just the best Dad. That's all there is to it.

Best Dad Top 10:

1) When it was raining, as a kid Dad always took me to see the monster waves or around the neighborhood to splash in puddles. I do these things still today.

2) He fills my car up with gas whenever he drives it, or riding with me.

3) He tells me I'm an awesome cook (making him beef enchiladas tonight, his favorite).

4) Thirty or so years later, he's yet to lose his patience when I repeatedly fail to comprehend the infield fly rule.

5) He dislikes garlic, coconut and cilantro, but I love him anyway.

6) He had some wicked cool jobs before he met my Mother, but they're classified.

7) He's never late for a baseball, soccer, or football game.

8) On my wedding day, he opened up my bredroom door, woke me up for the last time, and shouted "GAME DAY! GET UP!"

9) He treats my Mom like a queen, even though she routinely, accidentally, bleaches his favorite clothes.

10) He's a wonderful Dad, but an even better Grandfather.

That Steak Dinner...

2010-03-01T19:03:00.001-08:00

That steak dinner, I knew he wanted to marry me. He didn't say it, but he threw a fit when I asked to take my teriyaki steak (the only time in my life I think I ordered a teriyaki steak) to go, and it had already been discarded in the restaurant kitchen.

He wanted to get me what I wanted. He didn't like seeing me disappointed. He wanted to marry me.

Maybe I was taking a little bit of a rational leap after three months of dating, but sitting across from a table from him Friday night after Friday night, we had so much to talk about that our Friday nights continued until the sun came up Saturday morning. And this continued after we got off work on Saturday, and when classes were over during the week...

We ate dinner in so many places - seafood, steak houses, salad buffets, dive bars - but I remember that teriyaki steak because, damn it, me getting my doggy bag was a matter of honor for the man who would become my husband.

Two weeks later, lounging in the pool during a dry summer with extraordinarily colorful sunsets, he told me..."I can see myself married to you."

I re-create that steak dinner at home now all the time. Our offspring, they looooove it.

They have absolutely no idea.

FLANK STEAK WITH A KIND OF TERIYAKI MARINADE

Serves 2, of course. (But it doubles, even triples well if you wake up one day and find yourself surrounded by hungry little people calling you Mom & Dad).

(1) 2 lb. flank steak

1/2 cup Worcestshire sauce

1/2 cup soy sauce

1/4 cup brown sugar

2 garlic cloves, crushed

2 tbsp. honey

1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

a few shakes Tabasco sauce

cracked black pepper

optional: red pepper flakes

Marinate the steak in fridge at least three hours. Let steak come to room temp for one hour before grilling.

Drain off marinade, put in a saucepan over medium-low heat.

Grill steak until it reaches 145 degrees.

Let rest for 20 minutes, if you can stand it.

When sauce is reduced by half, strain through a sieve into a gravy boat.

Serve steak with sauce.

Image from foodnetwork.com.

Carne Asada - Iconic Taco Shop Classic (#3)

2010-02-28T10:38:00.000-08:00

Today, I entered the Foodista Food Blog Contest, and I did not enter this recipe because the text of the original post was too long. Nevertheless, this carne asada post got more hits on my old blog than any other.

People just love taco shops and carne asada, the search results do not lie. So I am posting it again, even though I just posted carne asada fries the other day. Here is how to marinate, and make your own.
SECOND POST ON CARNE ASADA
Posted January 5, 2009

I got a comment asking for clarification on my carne asada recipe. Firstly, please forgive me for any confusion. I think I was just so excited over the success of making my own carne asada that I went too fast! Timeless recipes do that to me. The correction/clarification is in all caps below.

Here we go...my version of a Mexi-Cal classic;

CARNE ASADA
for marinade:
juice of one orange
juice of one lime
juice of one lemon
1/2 cup soy sauce
1-2 tbsp. cumin
1 tbsp. ground coriander
* 2 TBSP. CHILI POWDER *
2 tbsp. dried Mexican oregano
one bunch chopped fresh cilantro
one chopped yellow onion
1/2 cup honey
what I will add next time: tomato paste

2 lbs. flap steak

Let steak marinade overnight, rotate the meat within the marinade a few times to make sure flavor gets integrated. Grill about five minutes per side.
####

The reader who asked me to clarify on the chili pepper/chili powder ingredient is from behind what they called the "Redwood Curtain." I am guessing this means Northern California (NorCal). Thank you for reading, for sharing your Roberto's story with me, and for giving me the answer to this weekend's Sunday afternoon riddle (what to cook?). I had been wondering about that. And if it is NorCal I'm thinking, I want you to know I envy your location as well. Nine years ago I drove out of the Redwoods and saw/smelled the ocean intermingling with the forest, and it was an experience I will live my whole life and never forget. That and seeing wild blackberry bushes and wildflowers thriving along the two-lane highway, or finding sea glass aplenty on a beach in Mendocino.

Those provocations towards the senses make life worthwhile.

ORIGINAL POST
Posted September 11, 2008

Doesn't everyone eat Carne Asada burritos at 2:00 a.m.?

"When we travel to California, we make sure we go to Roberto's," I hear out-of-towners say. Roberto's, Royberto's Aliberto's, and Mariscos are all euphemisms for the prototypical western United States taco shop where Mexican fast food reigns among other fast food.

Since I was high school – we had off campus lunches – the taco shop to me has been a sure thing, a routine destination, and an icon of youth and southwestern culture. My college campus had taco shops, because trips and purchases there cure pre-exam jitters, post-exam hunger, hangovers and deliciously filled the need of between class re-fueling.

In the days before children, when I worked (I should say, got paid to work) and had strict one hour lunch breaks, the taco shop read my urgency and hunger, and complied every time. When I began this mommy thing, and my first child had to be driven around at night to get to sleep, the taco shop once again became a destination, as many taco shops are open 24/7. A new Mommy with a good memory, I would sit in my Jetta, baby in the back, watching singles leaving the bars or parties to reunite at the taco shop in the wee hours. It was cute. Or it wasn't pretty. But it has never changed.

Taco shop food comes wrapped in a waxy yellow paper or styrofoam box. The goodies found within are representative of the many levels of our lives, now that I think and write about it. Tortillas filled with cheesy, gooey, meaty, sour cream and salsa, or the enticing crunch from a rolled taco - I'll never stop eating this food. These days, I haul taco shop food to play dates, the park, soccer and baseball tournaments.

Or polish off the leftovers while everyone sleeps. ("Mom, what happened to my burrito?")

The taco shop aroma, it's just the familiar scent of home - grilled, spiced meat intermingling with salty sea air, smoke from a brush fire, or eucalyptus trees. It makes even the worst day better.

Every city in the United States has a McDonald's, but taco shops in the southwest, I think, must be like delis in New York or Cracker Barrels in the Midwest. Rustic regional food - it's just comforting to know there's one on almost every corner.

When they closed down the last Bob's Big Boy in San Diego, the first taco shop I ever saw went up in its place, the smoke emanating from the roof somewhere. Plastic tables sat out front, nailed to the ground. It was a newly built establishment, this eatery that uprooted Bob ( another blog), but it looked like it had been there for years. I gave it a shot. One taste, and I traded burgers for burritos.

The taco shop era of my life began. From junior high on, I fell in love with cilantro, easily afforded quesadillas, and only recently, discovered carne asada fries. Carne asada fries - strips of lean meat marinated in spices (these vary), placed atop French fries. That alone make this meat-and-potato girl curl my toes in anticipation, but the toppings make this dish; first, you've got the fries, then the grilled and chopped meat, then shredded cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese, sour cream, guacamole, cilantro, and salsa fresca. Potato nachos if you will, a meal that all three of my kids agree on. For pure indulgence, I get the California burrito - carne asada fries wrapped inside a tortilla with pico de gallo.

Many taco shops have up to 20 combination plates; enchiladas, tamales, rolled tacos, open tacos, with rice and beans. I usually get stuck deciding between rolled tacos - tortillas wrapped around shredded beef or chicken then fried - or chicken enchiladas. When I can't decide on that, I'll move over to the burrito menu and vacillate between macahaca, chorizo, pollo asada, or fajita. My husband never deters from his standard carne asada burrito. Everyone has a favorite.

In my experience in the food industry, I have met some masterful Mexican chefs who immigrated from south of the border. The best taco shops are backed by guys like them.

And I believe good food should be accessible to everyone, not just through a drive-up window.

"Macario, I need to know how to make the white sauce for fish tacos!"
"Does the chef share his ceviche recipe?"
"How did your abuela make it?"
"You're family is from Mazatlan? No kidding? Tell me about the beans!"
"Auntie, let's talk menudo while the kids are swimming."

When it's a recipe I want, I know how to talk to people. With some luck and their spirit of generosity, I now treasure my archives of fifty plus original Mexican recipes from artistic, ritualistic, innovative chefs with roots in Mexico who displayed - in the kitchens where I worked - instinct, good ingredient choices, and common sense: the food must taste good. Period.

I see these philosophies demonstrated every time I drive by a taco shop, the drive-thru packed, the service lines deep. Sometimes, I just don't want to wait in one of those lines. Sometimes - Quetzalcoatl forbid - traditional recipes are tinkered with and flavors thrown off.

So I made up my own. Macario, Mr. Gutierrez, and Aunt Rose Marie would be proud of me.

Here is my recipe for carne asada. I am reluctant to tell you that I used soy sauce which is probably not an original ingredient. However, I ran this by a friend of mine whose family knows carne asada and she seemed familiar with this addition. I need to do some more research on carne asada before I perfect this recipe, get it more authentic, but this was a good start. I grilled the carne asada last night before we went to Alex's ball game, and when we got home, I served salsa, guacamole, sour cream and corn tortillas with it. Alex finished whatever was left on his sister's plates (atta boy).

The meat is lean, the flavor is taco shop worthy, it's the perfect cure for Mexican food jonesing, little bodies enduring growth spurts, and family re-grouping after each one of us goes in a different direction during the day.

CARNE ASADA
for marinade:
juice of one orange
juice of one lime
juice of one lemon
1/2 cup soy sauce
1-2 tbsp. cumin
1 tbsp. ground coriander
2 tbsp. chili pepper
2 tbsp. dried Mexican oregano
one bunch chopped fresh cilantro
one chopped yellow onion
1/2 cup honey
what I will add next time: tomato paste
2 lbs. flap steak
Let steak marinade overnight, rotate the meat within the marinade a few times to make sure flavor gets integrated. Grill about five minutes per side.

FRESH SALSA
4 tomatoes, diced fine
1/2 white onion, diced fine
tomato paste (little bit)
garlic puree (you can find this in the produce section, or puree a few peeled cloves in a mini-chop processor)
lime juice
serrano pepper, diced fine (remove seeds - handle and discard carefully)
jalapeno pepper, diced fine (remove seeds - handle and discard carefully)
white pepper
coarse grain salt
chopped fresh cilantro

I haven't listed many measurements here because salsa is so subjective. Start out with small amounts of ingredients (except for those indicated with a specific amount), and add the other ingredients from there to your liking. For example, if the lime is particularly juicy, you needn't squeeze it dry. If the lime is small, squeeze until the last drop is released from the fruit, and add the zest, if you like. Trust yourself. Act like you've been making this all your life. Sometimes mojo begins with an illusion.

I begin with half of a serrano and half of a jalapeno. I then set aside some of the salsa and add the additional jalapeno and serrano, making a "spicy" bowl for my husband and son. I like mine mild, with extra cilantro.

If you just don't like how it looks, maybe the veggies are not diced fine enough, or whatever, puree the salsa in a blender. The chips don't know the difference!

Make sure you clean that blender well before getting started on the margaritas. When you get into college and beyond, you need more than a Coke to wash this food down.

SWISH, SWISH....

2010-02-25T13:38:00.000-08:00

The Olympic athletes who navigate the snow and glide upon it like magic are a beautiful thing to watch. Also to listen to...the swish, swish sound of skis ripping fresh snow just tingles my senses in a feel-good way, and makes me want to ski.

Until I remember March, 1991 in Aspen, Colorado.

I grew up in California, where you can ride quads in the desert and make a quick trip to the Colorado River, if you like it hot. If camping is your thing, you can explore and reflect under some of the Earth's oldest living trees, and I assure you, the sights and scents of the redwood forest meeting the Pacific Ocean is enough to make you believe in elves, and spend the rest of your life burning ocean and cedar scented candles simultaneously in vain hopes of re-creating the sensory experience. It's very Tolkien. And if you like the ocean, our surf culture is rivaled only by Hawai'i, and our rocky coasts and sandy beaches are as much of a lifestyle as they are a magnificent sight to see.

You can do anything in California, all of our different climates, zones, and landscapes. When I was 20 years old, I had swam, boogie boarded, surfed and sailed my youth away in the Pacific, waterskied in desert lakes, and fished and camped (and learned how to drive a stick shift, incidentally) in the Sierras. I'd done it all but skiing. So I tried it.

To realize in a humiliating way that I, am not, ahem, snow compatible.

First of all, Colorado is a much higher altitude than California, and this unexpected reality hit me after enjoying the local night life in Aspen. My first attempt at skiing was at a place called the Highlands. I went with my girlfriend and her family, all skiers. Skiers for years. I got stuck in a beginning skiers class while my snow bunny girlfriend and her parents rode to the top of some mountain, me waving good-bye to them as they rode up the whatever-you-call-it, looking like a kid saying a reluctant good-bye to their parents on the first day of school.

To my credit, I gave skiing my best shot. I did what the young, suave ski instructor with the Nordic countenance and accent told me to do. I tried to side step on these huge things attached to my feet. I tried to go forward, but only slipped and fell backwards in my black ski pants. I wondered how anyone could have fun doing this nonsense thing called skiing. I got frustrated, so my system, I think, involuntarily sent out detectors to the surrounding environment for any tells of familiarity. I didn't smell and brush fires, nor ocean air. I couldn't pick up the nearby scents of taco shop carne asada burritos, and all at once, we - my psyche and me - realized we were far, far out of our element.

And I threw up. In front of the whole beginning skier's class and the European ski instructor. I. Got. Sick.

It didn't start a throwing-up chain reaction like in Stand by Me or anything, but I threw up on the white snow, and then, and only then, was I able to move on those damn skis like I was supposed to, in the opposite direction of those people and into the bathroom.

My friend and I spent the rest of our Aspen vacation shopping and happy hour-ing. There are many cute little shops, good restaurants and fun bars in Aspen.

Back in California, any day of the week (even pregnant), put me on waterskis and I swish, swish all across the wake and under the sun (slalom!) with ease, have since I was 12 years old. I can even handle the desert heat as long as I am near a body of water with plenty of sunscreen. Camping in the forest is enjoyable enough for me because the world around me looks like a fairy tale, and I usually go with much more experienced campers than myself. (Maybe I can't ski, but I'm not stupid.)

But snow. Snow and skiing represent me out of my element. I admire the Vonns and Mancusos of my country and in this world.

However, I'll take them on in a carne asada fries challenge any day of the week. And because it's food that centers me, I think I could take the gold in even a mile-high altitude.

CARNE ASADA FRIES

this ain't no apres ski food.

1 package frozen french fries, prepared according to package instructions

1 lb. purchased carne asada meat, grilled and cooked through

2 cups shredded cheddar cheese, or Mexican blend cheese

1 cup sour cream

salsa fresca, or your favorite salsa

chopped green onions

diced tomatoes

chopped cilantro

TABASCO!!

Preheat broiler, place fries in an oven-safe dish big enough for the fries, meat, etc.

Top french fries with carne asada. Sprinkle cheese on top.

Put under broiler for 3 minutes, or until cheese melts.

Top with sour cream, salsa, green onions, tomatoes and cilantro.

Tabasco is optional, but, come on. You so need Tabasco on carne asada fries.

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS YOU HAVE LOTS OF OPTIONS.

2010-02-24T09:26:00.000-08:00

My in-laws have a crazy-productive Meyer lemon tree in their backyard. They ask me if I have any friends that might need lemons, and to please, distribute their surplus around my community so the fruit needn't go to waste. These lemons can cost up to $1 each in stores, even in California where almost everyone has a lemon tree in their yard. This time of year, the extraordinarily juicy Meyer lemons dangle off trees (especially my in-laws, growing things is in their Greek blood*) like grape clusters, and I do the usual - lemonade, lemon shrimp, lemon squares, avgolemono, and frozen cubes of lemon juice in the freezer.

My brother-in-law the other night suggested I make preserved Meyer lemons this year. Poor guy always regrets it when he starts talking to me about food, because I ask question after question until he tells my sister-in-law "Honey, it's time to go."

Home with sick kids today, I have a chance to preserve these beautiful lemons, which are native to China and are a hybrid between lemon and mandarin orange. You have probably seen a recipe call for a Meyer lemon, or felt you were paying extra in a restuarant for a dish that included Meyer lemons. But it's worth the time you take to find them and what you pay to consume them. The flavor is distinct and superior to those waxy, mostly pithy lemons that aren't Meyers.

And finding new things to do with what you have grown in your own backyard (or your in-laws backyard) is thrilling, a home cooking way of reinventing yourself. Second only to the taste of the preserved lemons with some pasta, roasted cauliflower, and shaved Parmesan, or with some fish steamed en papillote, and chopped then tossed into couscous.

My next venture will be Meyer Lemon sorbet. Stay tuned!

PRESERVED LEMONS

Thank you Chef Leo Gianulis for this recipe, for giving me new ideas and putting up with me in general.

2 to 3 (Meyer) lemons

kosher salt

fresh herbs - thyme or rosemary

Cut 4 vertical slits into one lemon and sprinkle kosher salt inside each slit.

Place lemons into a clean Mason jar.

Squeeze a little lemon juice into jar.

Stuff in rosemary or thyme.

Store in a cool, dry place for up to a month.

LEMON OIL

I am hoping my kids do not mistake this finished product for furniture polish.

2 to 3 (Meyer) lemons, sliced

enough extra virgin olive oil to cover lemon slices

Slice lemons and place into a clean Mason jar.

Cover with oil.

Store in a cool, dry place for a week. Check on it after 2 days.

* Paint the bottoms of your lemon trees white. I don't know why exactly, it may have to do with ants, but trust me, you should. My in-laws do it and have some lemons the size of watermelons in addition to the righteous Meyers.

SPRING VEGETABLE SOUP WITH PASTA BEADS AND WHITE BEANS

2010-02-10T19:45:00.000-08:00

"You better use it while you got it, 'cause it ain't gonna last forever." ~ Two Moon Junction

This philosophy doesn't just apply to...youth. Two Moon Junction is one of my favorite movies from the 80s, filled with good one liners.

Use what you've got is an approach I now apply to things like...organic produce about to go bad.

Sitting in the fridge, staring at me at 5:00pm were two green onions, asparagus, and peeled garlic cloves that needed to be used tonight, or be tossed out.

I can't stand doing that. I detest waste as much as undeveloped potential, and when I think about it, they are the same thing. Nothing in this world doesn't have a shelf life. And the kitchen is my stage, baby.

Spring vegetable soup with pasta beads and white beans is what I made for dinner tonight. The kids were occupied with a friend and I had twenty minutes to do my own thing, and I did it at the stove.

Use what you've got, go with what you know, and this Valentine's Day, cuddle up, eat soup, and watch a good love story.

You know what I recommend.

SPRING VEGETABLE SOUP ET AL...

4 garlic cloves, minced

2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

1 large red potato, peeled and diced

6 cups of water

3 tbsp. vegetable boullion

3 sprigs of fresh thyme

1 14.5 oz. can diced tomatoes with their juice

1 bunch of asparagus, ends trimmed* and each stalk cut in half

1/2 cup acini de pepe pasta beads, or orzo

1 14.5 oz. can white beans, slightly strained of juices

juice of 1/2 lemon

optional: schmaltz**

In a soup pot over medium-high heat, add olive oil.

Throw in garlic and sweat for 1-2 minutes, don't let it burn.

Add diced potatoes, mix around in the olive oil and garlic until coated.

Add water and boullion, mix well.

Add thyme, tomatoes, asparagus and pasta.

Bring to a boil.

Boil or aggressively simmer until pasta beads are al dente.

Add beans to soup.

It's done when the pasta tastes like you want it - al dente, or more cooked, about 3 more minutes from adding the beans.

Squeeze in lemon juice.

Remove thyme sprigs before serving.

note: fresh white corn would've been awesome but i didn't have any, luckily, the potato and tomato provided some sweetness.

* to get the ends off asparagus, snap the stalk, and where it breaks, that's the length of the spear you want to eat - discard the bottom end, no matter where it breaks.

** schmaltz: rendered chicken fat. I make my schmaltz by roasting a chicken with butter under the skin and olive oil all over the top with a cut lemon inserted inside it's bum, then straining the pan juices from the pan and freezing the liquid into a freezer baggie or ice cube trays. I then add this super-delicious flavor-packed secret ingredient into all of my soups, stews, sauces, and braises. If the recipe found by clicking on the link above, or my way aren't for you, find a good butcher and ask if you can get it from them.

It Shouldn't Make Me This Happy (but it does)

2010-02-09T19:39:00.000-08:00

I don't iron hubby's clothes, this was an arrangement we agreed to before exchanging gold rings.

My youngest sometimes leaves the house in clothes that don't match - camouflage t-shirts with striped pants Tuesday and a polka dot skort with a cow print jacket on Wednesday - and wild, curly hair that is detangler resistant; these things would make m-i-l cringe if she saw us on our way to school.

And I don't know how to properly set a dinner table. This, however, is something I want to learn to do. I understand the plate chargers and napkin rings, low-level floral arrangements so you can see your guests across from you (I even remember some sophisticated looking napkin arrangements from my Catering days), and maybe someday I will read the sections of Martha Stewart's books that involve entertaining and not just cooking.

But there is something I do and enjoy doing, a domestic task that brings me so much, ridiculous giddy joy that I don't give up all hope on myself as a good wife.

I make hubby's lunch every night, and not just any lunch.

I make paninis - deconstructed Nicoise Salads within a panini, and send him off with a red wine vinaigrette in a cute little Tupperware so the bread doesn't get soggy sitting in the fridge overnight.

I make BLT's on whole wheat, and they definitely crunch so freshly the next day when he bites into them. I'm not with him at work, but I am sure this happens, with or without me there. I guess this makes it kind of a philosophical sandwich.

I make his favorite - egg salad - and I know just how he likes it (extra extra mustard) and no deli anywhere in the country could make it better for him than I do.

I make wraps, and not with deli chicken because that is overly salted and preservative-ized beyond recognizable flavor. I roast a chicken, slice the meat thin, and make a basil aioli with Swiss or sharp cheddar (the sharper, the beddar), add a Romaine leaf, then wrap it up in foil so well, I make burrito-wrapping taco shop dudes look bad.

And when I feel like sharing my typical lunch, I slather some hummus into a pita, stuff with alfalfa sprouts, diced tomatoes, hard-boiled egg, and whatever lean protein we had for dinner the night before, then put in it parchment paper for him, and it is worthy of a profile in Cooking Light, I swear.

These homemade lunches save us oodles of money. And that gives me a boost.

But most of all, I do it because I love him so much. The extraordinary brown bag I send him off with, I hope, translates into, with this healthy grilled panini without ingredients you can't pronounce, may you sleep next to me every night into an eternity.

When you are so intertwined with someone, even chicken salad can deliver a message of intimacy. Yes, really.

With scribbled love notes and hearts drawn in red Sharpies on the sandwich baggies, of course.

NOT JUST ANY CHICKEN SALAD

1 cup cooked chicken (from either a roasted chicken or a store-bought rotisserie), diced or cut up fine

3 stalks celery, diced

optional: 1 hard boiled egg, chopped

optional: one green onion, sliced thin

optional: 1/3 cup toasted walnuts, pecans, or almonds - cut up, sliced or slivered

2-3 tbsp. mayonnaise

1 tsp. sour cream

1/2 tsp. smoked paprika

1/2 tsp. Old Bay seasoning

salt and pepper to taste

squirt of lemon juice

Mix all ingredients well, taste to check seasonings, Add salt and pepper last, after checking seasonings! Good on toasted bread or sourdough roll.

seeing with your heart

2010-02-09T15:15:00.000-08:00

Every Valentine's Day, all of the fuss and build-up usually wear on me very quickly.

Same chatter on the television.

Same advertisements on the Internet.

Same class parties and stuff to buy.

Of course, that's one way to look at it.

Same husband to take me out to a candlelit dinner.

Same chocolate-covered faces saying "Thank you, Momma!"

Same words written the the cards, that I can never hear enough.

Each year, I try to be less of a cynic and ever more grateful.

A friend of mine posted Thoreau as her FB status yesterday - "Things do not change, we change." I love when someone else quotes a Transcendentalist to me. If I were to tell this friend how she changed the course of my day, my week!, she would begin to regard me as the nerd that I am. Because hearing Walden quoted to me (when I've had a week of reading my college copy of SELF RELIANCE to keep me self-possessed an un-depressed), and not just Walden, but a succinct quote that explained everything (except why my son's socks get stiff and crunchy at the bottom), I nearly cried at the beautiful simplicity.

I said nearly.

This year, I see the things that have stayed the same, but I try - and usually succeed - in looking at them differently.

I think I am finally starting to understand.

I see chocolate, roses, and heart-shaped crafts coming home from school. But I look at it all, especially the things that aren't spoken, obvious, or noticed without a few years of experience, and realize that strangely, those are the things most fleeting.

Things don't change, we change.

Yeah.

Slow Cooker Roasted Potatoes

2010-02-04T11:49:00.001-08:00

When you have these two things: (vine-ripened tomato, Meyer lemon)

and you add them to these quartered root vegetables (red-skinned potatoes, about 2 lbs.)

in a slow cooker, this is what you'll get...

YUM.

I tried roasted potatoes in the slow cooker only recently because I did not believe roasting vegetables could be accomplished this way. Goes to show in the kitchen, as in everything else, we're only limited by our imagination.

In a blender, I...

zested the Meyer lemon and squeezed in it's juice

threw in one seeded tomato

added in a handful of dried, Greek oregano

measured out and put in 1 tbsp. of good quality tomato paste

poured in half a cup of chicken broth

finished with coarse grain salt and freshly ground black pepper

...then I pureed all this, and poured over the potatoes in the slow cooker.

2.5 hours later after slow cooking on the HIGH setting, the potatoes were fork tender but not mushy, and the family actually fought - pushing, shoving, name calling - over them. It should have annoyed me, but instead I felt rather proud of the culinary results and ignored the bad behavior of my kids. I was hungry, damn it.

The potatoes were mostly consumed before anyone realized there were delicious juices left behind in the slow cooker. So I plated what was left of the potatoes, along with the simple chicken I'd grilled, strained the slow cooker juice over the chicken and potatoes, and topped with some crumbled feta and roasted pine nuts.

It was one of the best meals we'd had in a long time, and it was all centered around the slow cooker. My 5-burner gas range and oven feels unloved and ignored, so we're planning to do some cookies together as soon as the butter reaches room temperature.

THE RETURN OF A CHILDHOOD HERO

2010-01-28T08:28:00.000-08:00

There was a Bob's Big Boy in my neighborhood growing up, and when I knew we were going there for dinner, my school days weren't as dreary. I knew I'd be getting a vanilla Coke, a double decker hamburger with special sauce, and listen to my father talk about cruising Van Nuys Boulevard as a teenager, ending up at the Bob's Bog Boy of his youth on Friday and Saturday nights all during dinner.

About the time I found another icon named Bob, my favorite childhood restaurant, Bob's Big Boy, closed down and was soon replaced by a taco shop. It's been more than 20 years, but Bob's just came back.

To say I look forward to savoring the red relish, to say that the sauce and sesame seed buns call to me, to say that the diner atmosphere and checkered outfit on Bob himself cause irrational anticipation is similar to stating that kids in the snow-buried Midwest are looking forward to Springtime.

Bob's was gone too long. The return of this restaurant icon goes right to the epicenter of my American girl-ness. Give me a double decker cheeseburger, and bubbling soda pop or thick chocolate malt, a ball game to watch, and green grass to play on. I'll kick it here for a while.

Burger Sauce similar to Bob's...

sweet relish

mayonnaise

ketchup

seasoned salt

little bit of water

...that easy.

pasta with chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, artichokes, pine nuts and broccoli - and food oddities

2010-01-25T18:29:00.000-08:00

Everyone has food oddities, I think. Things we like that no one else does. My hubby likes chicken gizzards in lemon. I want to regurgitate just typing that. When I was a 13, I used to re-create cookie batter by mixing sugar and butter together and eating it. My son pours ketchup in a bowl and eats it like soup. My father loves gravy made from the neck of the turkey (no other parts, just the neck) and raw steak. He slices filet for the grill and every other cut of pink, lean meat goes into his mouth.

Eww.

My food oddities are simple. When I say I like the liquor left behind in an oyster shell, mixed with the horseradish-y, tomato-y taste and the remnants of Tabasco and tang of lemon juice, I don't think this is odd. But when I say I skip broccoli and cauliflower florets and eat only the stalks of these vegetables, I get strange looks. And when I leave succulent, sweet white meat on my plate and eat only the burned edges of barbequed chicken, no one at the dinner table understands me.

Years ago when Food Network first premiered in my city, every night I watched East Meets West with Ming Tsai. He remains one of my favorite chefs. He's clean, industrious, witty, and always showcased a different wine or beer at the end of each episode with the meal he prepared.

During one episode, he was using broccoli, and segued beautifully into the usefulness of all food parts in the Chinese kitchen. Ming's parents ran a catering business if I remember correctly, and he described cooking with someone from a different culture once who chopped off the stalks of the broccoli and threw them in the trash, intending to use only the pretty flowering parts of the vegetable. This caused Ming and his father distress. He said that the Chinese will use as much of a food source as possible - every useable part of the grain, vegetable, fish, pig, it's all fair game and significant to flavor, texture, and nutrition. Okay, maybe I embellished a little there, but Ming taught me to julienne the broccoli stalk and dice it fine, and this will add some sweetness to whatever it is you're cooking.

He was soooo right, and I guess you could say, I stalk.

I hope I get some comments, people telling me what their food oddities are. All food likes or dislikes are linked to some kind of memory, some joyful imprint made during a meal. I inadvertently collect this type of knowledge and I don't know why. Maybe it feeds some subconscious search for interesting characters and experience. Food oddities are just one giveaway, one tip-off into the uniqueness of all people. I feel more alive and adept noticing these silly things (but I couldn't tell you where the stock market closed today, or even last year). If you've ever been in a restaurant and looked at what other people are eating, listen to what they're ordering, seen what parents pack for their kids to snack on at the park, or served people dinner at your house who you'd never thought would like pureed turnips in place of mashed potatoes but they ask for seconds, you'd see, it's really a diverse, amusing world we live in.

There is so much to take in. Starting at the dinner table.

PASTA WITH CHICKEN, SUN-DRIED TOMATOES, ARTICHOKES, PINE NUTS AND BROCCOLI

I've posted this recipe before, but it has been requested over and over.

1 lb. spaghetti or other pasta, cooked

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

1 cup chicken broth

meat from a store-bought rotisserie chicken, torn, shredded or cubed

1 cup artichoke hearts, in oil (from a jar of artichokes hearts in oil, more hearts than oil)

3/4 cup julienned sun-dried tomatoes (not in oil, found in the produce section)

1/2 cup pine nuts, toasted

2 broccoli stalks

flat-leaf parsley to garnish

optional: crumbled goat cheese or feta

Boil water for broccoli. When water is to a rolling boil, add broccoli and cook until done, about 6 minutes. Remove and set aside until cool.

In a large saucepan or skillet over medium heat, saute garlic in olive oil until soft, about 4 minutes. Add chicken broth and bring to an aggressive simmer/low boil. Add chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, and artichoke hearts in their oil.

Chop off florets of the broccoli, and the stalks too. Julienne the stalks and then dice into bite size pieces.

Add broccoli to pan. The chicken broth should be reducing by now.

Add pasta to the pan, and toss well. Transfer to a platter and garnish with pine nuts, parsley, and cheese, if desired.

photos from worldcommunitycookbook.org and Google Images.

We're Not Worthy.

2010-01-22T16:29:00.000-08:00

Take a look at these two guys. We - San Diego - aren't worthy of them.

Below, Philip Rivers, quarterback for the San Diego Chargers.

Below, Greg Maddux, Hall of Fame bound pitcher who was with the San Diego Padres in 2007 and 2008.

I have been wondering, since Sunday when the Chargers lost to the Jets, why San Diego teams can't win big ones.

Are we cursed? Is there a trickster spirit in San Diego that plays with the emotions of the hopeful fans? Did the founders of San Diego make an unholy pact that traded 75 degrees and sunny weather 360 (okay, 355) days a year for teams that choke in the playoffs, Super Bowl, and World Series? Who cursed San Diego's sports teams, and why?

Why my heart aches, besides the disappointment, is for Philip Rivers and Greg Maddux.

Every home game Maddux pitched, I was in the stands, Field Level, in my Maddux jersey. As a fan it was frustrating to watch him pitch an incredible game - getting up in the count, keeping his pitch count low, making it easy for his offense - only to end up without a W because his team couldn't hit or committed errors. I can only imagine how much that sucked as a pitcher, but Maddux never bad-mouthed anyone.

I watch Chargers games from home because I'm superstitious. This past season, I watched Philip Rivers drive down field and lead his team to victory 13 games out of 16. I saw things in the last two minutes of Chargers 2009 football games I've never seen in my life. Rivers does what he sets out to do, and owns what he didn't mean to do. Off the field, like Maddux, he does his own thing, and quietly.

This past Sunday Rivers' team mates got penalized for some of the most bonehead things any football player could do. One of the best, most reliable! kickers in NFL history, San Diego Charger Nate Kaeding, missed 3 field goals. Off field antics of certain Chargers could not have helped the cause of a composed, unified team image - strip club partying, vehicle impounds, handcuffs, and paternity suits shouldn't be what players are known for the week of one of the biggest games in franchise history. Rivers wouldn't comment on these things when asked, though. Handled the press better than they deserved to be handled.

Maddux's career as a player is over, but San Diego still has Rivers. And even though history (and maybe geographical location) gives me reason not to, I choose to reach out and take what players like Maddux and Rivers offer.

Statistics and shining qualities aside, ultimately, people like Maddux and Rivers give you something at the end of the day where others let you down. (Hope).

That's why, in my humble opinion, sports are like Pandora's Box. Fans open it for selfish reasons, but the game is saved by the very best of what it produces.

(incidentally, both are fire signs, Maddux an Aries and Rivers a Sagittarius, but astrology has nothing to do with it).

Photos from www.cnn.si.com

The Vacation Without ESPN

2010-01-21T08:10:00.000-08:00

http://www.awhitejasmineinnsantabarbara.com (Outdoor Common Areas)

Hubby and I dated for one year and two months before we got engaged.

Hubby and I were engaged for 4 years before we made it to the altar.

Hubby and I were married for two years before we starting having children together.

This makes the lack of weekend getaways easier to deal with now - we went many places, and did exciting things.

There was a time when I chose a vacation based on it's romance factor, rather than the online reviews of the onsite Kid's Club.

One such place was The Glenborough Inn (now named A White Jasmine Inn) in Santa Barbara, California. Separate cottages, trellises with flowerings vines, a gazebo, Victorian gardens, and warm scones baked twice a day with lemon curd, cream, and honey butter, among other goodies.

And no televisions in our particular cottage. This meant no ESPN. The only reason I got hubby to go was because it was the spring and the pennant race was months off.

He will never admit it, but we went antiquing on State Street. We ate fresh seafood by the water. We bought new tennis shoes from a small shoe store owned by two people, not a corporation. We wrote each other notes in journals that were fabric-covered with pastel flowers.

I am lucky I got one vacation like that in 19 years of being with my guy. My hubby, who refused to let go of his favorite ball while being baptized, was the proverbial fish out of water in that bed and breakfast inn, twittling his thumbs and not able to see highlights or check scores at the end of the day, but he did it for me. Now he does mostly everything for the kids, who like Santa Barbara just as much as we did and do, especially the Zoo and Brophy Brothers.

In our normally sunny home state right now, we're getting pounded with storms. It's weather that keeps us in the house and we seem to eat about 12 times a day. I feel the need to bake when the sky gets gray, so I pulled out some old cookbooks I knew would have pound cake or coffee cake recipes. One book, The Great Country Inns of America Cookbook, has a recipe for Buttermilk Coffee Cake, attributed to The Glenborough Inn.

The Glenborough Inn, our vacation without ESPN. It probably won't ever happen again (all rooms have cable tv's and internet hook ups now), if we dare to get on a plane, even off to Vegas for the weekend it would have to be orchestrated carefully, planned well in advance, and executed with the cooperation of parents, in-laws, baby sitters, friends, and coaches. And we'd spend most of our time in the Sports Book, hubby watching six screens at once, as I called home every ten minutes to check on the kids while sipping a mediocre Bloody Mary (with extra olives, thank you).

That's a blog for another time. It's 218 miles to Santa Barbara, I've got butter at room temperature, euphoric recall of our former getaway habit, it's dark outside, and I'm listening to ESPN radio.

BUTTERMILK COFFEE CAKE

from The Great Country Inns of America Cookbook

2 1/4 cups flour

1 cup firmly packed brown sugar

3/4 cup sugar

3/4 cup vegetable oil

1/2 tsp. plus 1 1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

1 cup buttermilk

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. baking powder

Blend the flour, sugars oil and 1/2 tsp. cinnamon in a large bowl. Transfer 3/4 cup of the mixture to a medium bowl. Stir in the walnuts and 1 1/4 teaspoons cinnamon. Combine the buttermilk, egg, baking soda and baking powder in a small bowl. Blend into the flour mixture until thoroughly incorporated. Spoon the batter into a greased 9x13 inch pan, spreading evenly. Sprinkle the nut mixture over the top, then press it into the batter with the back of a spoon. Bake until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Serve warm with butter. Serves 8.

what are you trying to say?

2010-01-20T08:52:00.000-08:00

There is a commercial playing on the radio now for a newer grocery store in which customers are interviewed on the unparalleled greatness of this new grocery store chain. They need more intelligent customers to speak on their behalf, or better editors to clip the substance out of the taped and oft replayed comments.

I'll tell you why.

When someone begins a conversation with "It was funny, because..." they've already negated any intelligent statement with a misnomer.

In this commercial, a customer says "It was funny, because my husband is an electrician, and the first thing he noticed when we walked into the store was the bulbs and the dimmer lighting." Or something like that.

Really? That was funny? Is it funnier than watching President Gerald Ford trip over and over? Is it as funny as the fart scene in Blazing Saddles? When you say funny, you mean like funny, ha ha! ROTFL funny? Or, a different kind of funny, one that makes you wonder the real meaning of funny, the way Joe Pesci does in Goodfellas "What's so funny about me?" (language warning if you click on that link).

I guess I should admit, I am a pretty bad conversationalist. And small talk makes me want to ask someone "What do you really want to say?" Because in the interest of time, let's skip talk of the weather and get to the meat of it. I prefer that. And I beg you, please don't state the obvious. I'm doing fine, time does pass quickly, and no, I'm not ready for a) school to start, b) the next baseball season, or c) a new regime.

I want what is real. I want the heart of the matter. I want the substance, the meat of an issue without having to make small talk for twenty minutes first. I don't care for the scoop, the juice, the skinny, cliches, false starts, or heresay.

You can come right out of the chute saying what you mean, and no one will think lesser of you, this is totally socially acceptable. I wish more people did.

I wish people would talk more and chatter less. I think we'd have empathy for and better knowledge of more people, I think understanding each other would be easier. Yep, I got all this from a radio commercial.

Isn't that funny?

HEY NOW YOU'RE A CROCK STAR GET YOUR FLAME ON GO SLOW

2010-01-14T07:59:00.000-08:00

a slow cooked chuck roast, bought on sale for under $7, shredded and topped with the strained liquid it cooked in, tossed with Mexican-blend shredded cheese

the beef, sauce, and cheese rolled up in corn tortillas, topped with more cheese

straight outta the oven, waiting for it's final accoutrements: more (reduced) cooking liquid, sour cream, diced tomatoes and chopped cilantro

One of my recent status updates stated that I was giving up my attempt to be a Domestic Goddess (seeing how many people would get the Nigella reference) and settling on being a Crock Star. Here is what I'm really saying in that update...I'm not CIA or media trained, but rather a self-taught and unknown foodie. I may teeter in between urban sophisticate and go casually incognito to unearth home-making bargains, but, like the German lady in Ohio said on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives the other night, "we're not trained chefs, we're just good cooks."

Oh, Eastern European matriarch who decided to warm the world one schnitzel at a time, I worship thee.

It's not always glamorous, home cooking. No one touches up my makeup after I dump boiling pasta water into the sink, catching egg noodles in a seen-better-days colander. I have not dared to make a souffle - even though chocolate souffle is hubby's dream food - because the kids keep this house at a noise level similar to a jetliner runway in a big city.

And sometimes (I blame it on the fact that I live in an arid climate) my cakes fall apart, and within 60 seconds of such a disaster, I'm personally responsible for the swear jar going from mostly empty to bursting full (I don't really have a swear jar, but damnit, I should).

Two years ago in the fall, my mom gave me the surprise gift of a new slow cooker. Not just any slow cooker. This slow cooker could be used on the stove top for searing meat and sweating vegetables. It had a timer. And when it's done cooking, it automatically switches to to the WARM setting.

I thank my parents for this by making so much food in this slow cooker that Mom & Dad get dinner at least twice a week.

Does slow cooking replace meal-making? This was a question I asked myself, always neurotically gauging my worthiness to our family unit. "Cool machine, it does all the work for you," said hubby.

There was a time when I would throw a can of soup, a cup of rice, and chicken breasts into the old slow cooker - the round, brown one with the root vegetables painted around the bottom and tell-tale red on or off light - and call it a meal 6 or 7 hours later.

But how can I be idle in this age of culinary technological improvement? You know how they have moms participate in van and SUV design? I think the people at Crock Pot got smart the same way. An automatic timer that switches to WARM is not a bell nor a whistle, it keeps a Mom from worrying if her house will catch on fire while she's at work. A slow cooker that can do it's own searing saves water, energy, and time (and keeps flavor, you don't lose the glorious "browned bits" at the bottom of another pan). Slow cookers, when introduced, sold on the promise of helping busy families come home to hot food. They still do, but what the right crock pot can do is kind of revolutionary, at least to me.

I cook oatmeal overnight, soup in the late morning, and dinner from 1pm-5pm. The other day I made evocative swiss steak for my whole family that tasted almost exactly like my Grandma's, but organic and sustainable. If that isn't meal-making, what is?

I'm still chopping, mincing, reducing, and whisking ingredients, just as if I were cooking in the oven or on the stovetop. Although I'm doing the majority of our meals in the slow cooker, the contemplating, planning and shopping for family meals that is so imperative and fulfilling to me needn't be lost. The euphoria of serving up a home cooked meal, of standing at the helm of the sudsy kitchen sink and realizing your house smells like a bistro or reputable cucina, these are fortunate happenings independent of a cooking vessel.

The title of this blog is from my witty friend Michelle. After my post about slow cooked fajitas, Michelle came up with the Smashmouth All Star reference, while others told me to blog the recipe. I have been reluctant to blog recipes that are not my own, but what I really want to do is pass on things that I find to be helpful and/or delicious. A little research and I'm assured that with proper attribution, there is nothing ethically wrong with posting the recipes of others - it may even help promote the sale of good books, and encourage people to cook well (quick or slow) for themselves and others.

Happy and healthy. Let's go. Slow.

CROCKED BEEF FAJITAS

from Not Your Mother's Slow Cooker Cookbook

3/4 cup prepared chunky salsa, such as a fire-roasted one

1 tbsp. tomato paste

1 tbsp. olive oil

1 clove garlic, minced (use more, it's cold and flu season*)

3 tbsp. fresh lime juice

1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

1/2 tsp. salt

one 1 1/2 lb. flank steak, trimmed of excess fat and silver skin

1 large white onion, cut in half and thinly sliced into half moons

3 red bell peppers, seeded and cut into 1/4 inch wide strips (or shoot for color & more vitamin C-one red, one yellow, and one green pepper*)

TO SERVE:

Warm flour tortillas (the small ones)

1 cup guacamole

1 cup chopped plum tomatoes

1/2 bunch fresh cilantro

1. In a small bowl, combine salsa, tomato paste, olive oil, garlic, lime juice, pepper, and salt. Lay the flank steak in the slow cooker and pour the mixture over it, making sure to coat all exposed surfaces well. Lay the onion and bell peppers on top. Cover and cook on LOW for 6 to 8 hours, until the meat is tender.

2. Remove the steak and vegetables from the juice and transfer to a serving platter. Cover with aluminum foil and let stand for 10 minutes. Cut the meat across the grain into 1/2 inch thick slices. Serve it heaped over warm tortillas, with the peppers and onions on top. Garnish with a dab of guacamole, the some chopped tomatoes, and the cilantro on top.

CINNAMON APPLE OATMEAL

from the same book by Beth Hensperger. Buy it.

1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats or thick-cut rolled oats

2 tbsp. light or dark brown sugar

1/2 to 3/4 tsp. ground cinnamon, to your taste

grated nutmeg*

pinch of salt

2 1/2 cups of water, or a combination of water and apple juice

1 1/2 tbsp. unsalted butter

1 medium size apple or pear, peeled, cored, and chopped

1. Combine all the ingredients in the slow cooker. Cover and cook on LOW for 7 to 9 hours, or overnight, or on HIGH for 2 to 3 hours.

2. Stir the oatmeal well and scoop into bowls with an oversized spoon. Serve with milk or cream.

* my comments.

well, maybe ONE resolution....

2010-01-11T13:20:00.000-08:00

I'm a person totally against New Year's resolutions. I think it's silly to prolong the inevitable until a new year begins. But I can see why this happens.

Most New Year's Resolutions involve eating better, losing weight, and exercising more. December leaves little time to exercise 5 times a week. Every time you turn around there is a cookie sprinkled with cocoa or powdered sugar, or a party with a type of bubbly you never treat yourself to and before you know it, your daily caloric intake has exceeded it's rational limits. Again.

This past December, there were some weeks that had something - party, concert, birthday celebration, cookie exchange - scheduled every damn night. I stared into the printed out copy of the iCal on the fridge as if we were in a gunfight, waiting to draw.

You are so not gonna beat me.

And by some Christmas miracle, I danced around the temptations that are cream sauces and themed cocktails, but never let 'em drop me.

But there is something I need help with. I need healthier recipes. We do the no-brainers: eat fish once a week, use olive and coconut oil, take our vitamins and eat whole grains, plus plenty of fruits and veggies.

Okay. What that means is we're all bored out of our minds with roasted chicken and couscous, sick of spaghetti sauce with ground turkey. There is room for improvement in my culinary imagination, I admit.

I resolve to crack open my healthy cookbooks (and save anything prefaced with "comfort" for rainy days only) and make something new at least twice a week.

And drink more water (so I'm not chugging the last 32 ounces down at 11:00 at night).

Those are the two things I'm copping to...I make the same menu items over and over and forget about the all-important 8 glasses of water until doing the dinner dishes. Nothing else need be told about the daily things I do to make myself a better person, whatever month of the year it is. Believe me, that list is long. I've put things on myself that leave little room, time, or energy for escape.

Why else would I choose to spend so much time in the kitchen?

TURKEY BREAST MEDALLIONS WITH BLACKBERRY SAUCE

This recipe is from Canyon Ranch Cooks - a useful tool if your goal is feeling, and looking better.

FOR THE BLACKBERRY SAUCE

1 1/2 cups chicken stock

2 tbsp. diced shallots

1/4 cup white wine

1/2 cup fresh or frozen blackberries, strained

FOR THE MEDALLIONS

1/2 cup all purpose flour

1/2 cup cornmeal

3/4 tsp. ground cumin

3/4 tsp. chili powder

3/4 tsp. ground coriander

3/4 tsp. garlic powder

1/4 tsp. salt (optional)

pinch black pepper

1 lb. boneless turkey breast, fat removed

4 tsp. butter

1. In a small saucepan, bring 1 1/2 cups chicken stock to a boil and reduce by half. Set aside.

2. Lightly coat a medium saute pan with canola oil and saute shallots until translucent. Add white wine and cook until wine is almost evaporated.

3. Add strained blackberries and chicken stock. Cook until liquid is reduced by half. Keep warm.

4. In a shallow bowl, combine flour, cornmeal, cumin, chili powder, coriander, garlic powder, salt and pepper. Set aside.

5. Slice turkey breasts into 2 ounce portions. Pound with meal mallet between sheets of wax paper until 1/4 inch thick.

6. Melt butter in a large pan. Dredge turkey medallions in seasoned flour and saute in butter for 3 to 5 minutes per side, or until golden brown. Serve 2 turkey medallions with 2 tbsp. blackberry sauce.

MAKES 4 SERVINGS

EACH SERVING CONTAINS APPROXIMATELY:

285 calories, 29 gm. carbs, 7 gm. fat, 78 mg cholesterol, 28 gm. protein, 406 mg sodium, 1 gm. fiber.

Cook's Note: Other fruits or even fruit juices may be used if blackberries are not available.

Greek Roasted Potatoes

2010-01-04T15:01:00.001-08:00

And the solution has been there all along.

"Where do you keep all of your cookbooks?" asked my foodie friend. I replied, "All over the place." My cookbook collection, well, it's a real problem, getting progressively worse each year.

I have a four-shelf bookcase unit from Costco, it is built very well. But the shelves have collapsed three times and I've gone through two packs of those shelf reinforcements you get at the hardware store.

Then, there is my cookbook stash in the shelves next to my pantry. I have so many stacked so close together, they often fall down and scare the dog. Those cookbooks are primarily my Food Network celebrity chef books, with Nigella's How to be a Domestic Goddess in front (buttermilk birthday cake, buttermilk birthday cake, buttermilk birthday cake...). When one of those cookbooks fall of the shelf, I take it as a sign that I need to break out of my comfort zone and try a new recipe.

Lastly, I have a third cookbook stash on my bedside table. Piled high. Very, very, high. Like, don't even touch it with a feather-duster because the tower of books will collapse high.

If food magazines count, I have a collection of Cooks' Illustrated, Gourmet (old ones, sniff sniff), Food & Wine and Bon Appetit's near the, um...bathtub.

I have a cookbook problem. At the beginning of each new year, I usually take holiday gift cards or money and buy myself the new Jamie Oliver (i heart you) and a discounted holiday issue of Taste of Home.

But I have no room left, unless I start keeping books in the attic. I love my books too much not to see them everyday, especially my cookbooks, who wait for me on their shelves as if to say "You're gonna need us, sister, next time you wanna impress somebody!"

I went to the library today. I can check out up to 5 (FIVE!) cookbooks at one time!!

The recipes I want, I shall photocopy, keep in manila folders according to type of food (hors d'oeuvres, entree, cocktails, etc), and use much less space.

I can maintain my cookbook habit and not spend money. I can placate my food obsession and not clutter my home further, keeping my husband sane. I can reference the recipes I covet and dream of making without causing a landslide of hardcover first editions, avoiding concussions and waking up the pets.

With the solution that has been there waiting for me all along. My neighborhood library.

I don't have to go without and all the delicious answers lie within.

PATATES RIGANATES

from THE FOODS OF THE GREEK ISLANDS by Aglaia Kremezi

My mother-in-law makes these and they are the first dish to be scraped clean at holidays or Sunday dinners. They melt and crumble at once on your tongue in a slightly tangy, creamy, herby way.

3 pounds baking potatoes, peeled and cut into 1 1/2 inch cubes (my mother-in-law slices them thin, lengthwise)

1/2 cup olive oil

4 garlic cloves, minced

1 1/12 tsp. dried oregano, crumbled

1 tsp. salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1/2 cup beef stock or chicken stock

1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

2-3 tbsp. chopped fresh oregano (m-i-l also skips this step)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Place the potatoes in a single layer in a 13 x 9 baking dish and pour the oil over them. Add the garlic, dried oregano, salt and pepper to taste and toss well to coat with the oil.

Bake the potatoes for 15 minutes. Add the stock, toss and bake for 15 minutes more. Add the lemon juice, toss and bake for 10 to 15 minutes more, or until the potatoes are cooked through. If you like, preheat the broiler and broil the potatoes for 2 to 3 minutes, or until golden brown.

Sprinkle with the fresh oregano and serve at once.

VARIATION

Dissolve 1 tbsp. tomato paste in the stock, and reduce the amount of lemon juice to taste.

(I have seen my mother-in-law use a little canned tomato sauce too, but not decreasing the amount of lemon juice).

CORN BREAD & OYSTER STUFFING

2009-12-24T13:52:00.000-08:00

2 loaves of cornbread - enough cornbread to fill a 9x11 baking dish - broken into chunks or cubes (double or triple this recipe)

1-2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup chopped onions

1 cup sliced mushrooms

4 cloves garlic, minced

3/4 cup diced celery

1 tsp. chopped basil

1/4 cup chopped flat leaf parsley

dash nutmeg

dash smoked paprika

salt & pepper to taste

32 oz. strained fresh oysters - as fresh as possible - chopped or whole

!! reserve oyster liquor !!

2 tbsp. melted, unsalted butter

1 egg

1/2 cup chicken or vegetable stock

Optional - reserved oyster liquor

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Bake cornbread 2 or 3 days ahead of time so it's dry.

In a large pan that can transfer to the oven, add olive oil over medium-high heat.

Add onions, garlic, mushrooms, and celery.

Sautee veggies in olive oil for approx. 5 minutes, until soft.

Add basil, parsley, nutmeg, paprika, salt and pepper. Mix in well.

Stir in oysters.

Add cornbread.

Whisk butter and egg together, mix into stuffing.

If stuffing is dry, add chicken broth plus some oyster liquor if you like the flavor. Oyster liquor is the liquid left behind when you strain the oysters from the jar, bottle, or the shells.

(I always add it because I usually eat too many of the oysters while prepping the stuffing so I need the flavor from the liquid to fortify the stuffing.)

Bake for 20 minutes.

WHERE WERE YOU WHEN...

2009-12-21T22:51:00.000-08:00

So, my kids are all of a sudden fascinated by Michael Jackson, since airplay of his music and footage of his dancing are everywhere and all the time since his recent death.

At the video rental store today, This Is It was being previewed, and they stood in front of the big screen showing parts of Thriller, in total awe. Like I did when I watched it for the first time, near their age now.

They've watched MJ on YouTube, they sing Ben or I'll Be There when they hear them on television, and they're just curious about the reach of his talent, stardom, and absence on the world.

So I started thinking. When they're older, saying "When I learned Michael Jackson died," will be like "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?".

Where was I when I heard that someone famous passed away, what was I doing when history was made?

I can tell you exactly.

When Elvis Died: I was sitting in between my grandparents in their silver Caprice Classic on a little cushion called the "kid's seat", right in front of the dashboard. On a highway in Ohio, listening to the broadcaster talk in what I thought was a weird accent.

When Reagan Was Shot: In 6th grade, and they wheeled in a television set on which we watched the same scene over, and over, and over, and waited for news of the President's surgery and welfare to break. I am pretty sure we ate lunch in the classroom.

When The Space Shuttle Blew Up: In 11th grade, sitting in class (a two-hour class called Cultures", social studies and literature). Someone walked by and yelled in the window "The space shuttle exploded!"

When We Went to War with Iraq, 1st Time: In a VCR Repair Shop in Ocean Beach, California. A guy with dread locks told me "We just went to war, ya know." I rushed to my boyfriend's house, and we sat in front of the television all night.

When The O.J. Simpson Verdict Was Announced: I was in college at UCSD, in a Women's History class. When the teacher asked who thought he would be acquitted, I was one of three students out of 150 who raised my hand. Then I quickly pulled it down, and I still don't know why.

9/11: It was 6 - something in the morning here on the West Coast. I was pregnant and snuggling with my 2-year-old son in bed still. The phone rang once and I ignored it (probably a telemarketer anyway). Then it rang again, and I let it go to voice mail a second time. When the third call came in, I knew something was wrong. I picked up the phone and my Mom kept screaming WORLD TRADE CENTER! I turned on the television, wrapped one arm around my belly and the other arm around my son.

When We Went to War with Iraq, 2nd Time: At my stepson's ball game. A guy I'd gone to high school with said to us "We started dropping bombs about half an hour ago." I put my face in my hands, shook my head, then watched the ball game.

All of these things I remember that had such profound national or global impact, they're all so negative, these things are sad. I don't want to remember only tragedy in this time lapse manner just because I was present for my own history-making moments.

So what I'm going to do is this...go to sleep now and think about all of the wonderful news I got via phone calls, radio and television broadcasts, or the varied verbal deliveries.

That's going to be a longer, better list.

scattered PICtures

2009-12-14T06:34:00.001-08:00

Are you old enough to remember the movie BIG? Do you remember the scene when Tom Hanks calls his mother (after he becomes big and runs away to the city), and she (Mercedes Ruehl, one of the best actresses of my time) says to him "If you're Josh,what song did I sing to you as a baby?"

And the song was Memories. So he sings it quietly so no one else around him will hear, with the following intonations...

Mem'ries....likethecornersofmymind

Scattered PICtures...

My best friend Kim and I did (well, sang) this all the time when we were young. I have files in Outlook Express, on my laptop, in my picture boxes in the closet labeled "scattered PICtures."

Because it makes me smile or giggle. Or it makes me misty. Or all three (at once).

Like these pictures do.

I have taken pictures of my feet since I was a kid. First, just because I was happy an adult would let me hold a camera, I took pics of everything. Years later, I took pics of my cute summer sandals. Now I take pics of m feet wherever, whenever, because I think it's indicative of stages in life. I need professional help (I don't mean a better photographer).

My family on ice.

Saturday was the dog's birthday. It breaks my heart to see my one year old pooch hobbling around on bad hips, so I spoiled her with a doggie cake. The lady who runs the dog and cat bakery (Paw Pleasers) became an instant friend.

Christmas List & GO CRENSHAW!!!

2009-12-11T08:53:00.001-08:00

G = Grandma's getting it for me

P = Parents getting it for me

1. Demarini CF4 31 inches/20 ounces - G

2. A Good Fishing Pole - G

3. A Really Good Tackle Box For Fishing - P

4. Some Good Trout Bait That Works - G

5. A Lot Of Money To Help My Dog Lulu

6. A Larry English Chargers Uniform - P

7. Some New Nike Cross Trainers (Black/White) - P

Reading his list, I think to myself that life is simple when you're a 10 year old boy.

It's not for all kids. I hate this fact of life.

Tomorrow, my son's football team competes in a playoff game to get to a championship. It will be raining, we'll be cheering them on as we shiver from the wind coming off the ocean, but we won't be complaining. It's a privilege. It will also be my birthday, and of course my wish is for glory.

Not just for my son's team.

The story of Crenshaw High in South Central Los Angeles reads like a movie (several movies in fact, but that's another blog), but it's non-fiction. From the homeless student players to the losing record, to the gangs in the area. But they're one game away from a State Championship, thanks in part to their benefactor, Snoop Dogg. Go Crenshaw! I will be thinking of you, wishing championship bowl games, dreams fulfilled, and a peaceful world for all kids. I will be 39, and you will be #1.

Read more about Crenshaw in the Wall Street Journal here. I love this story.

Photo courtesy of Squidoo - holiday cards for pet lovers that help animal charities - buy some!

The Age of Hypocrisy Awareness

2009-12-10T07:48:00.000-08:00

"Great, kid! Don't get cocky!" Han Solo to Luke Skywalker, Star Wars

Come to find out there is a developmental stage when kids start to question if their parents are living by the same rules which they profess.

I am living through such a stage.

The kid is 10 years old. Participating in the dichotomy of how things are (what I tell him about the world) and how he sees them (becoming his own critical, independent thinker) has been an enjoyable journey, until now.

The kid has started to call me on things.

You know how in Star Wars Luke Skywalker's idealism bounces off the smug Han Solo's occasionally clouded values? It's kind of like that.

My kid: "We can so beat that other team."

Me: "Don't be cocky, dude."

Later that day -

Me: "My home made refried beans rival those of any taco shop!"

My kid: "Don't get cocky, Mom."

When my child said to me last year "I can't follow a rule unless it makes sense to me," I suppressed my Cheshire Cat grin and resisted the urge to jump up and down in victory, feeling pretty good that I was succeeding in raising a non-conformist, or at the very least, another INTJ. But what if it doesn't make sense to him to clean his room, what if he "doesn't see the point" in feeding the dog? He may be developing an individual approach to data and circumstance, but he is a little guy. This forming-his-own-identity thing still needs some guidance.

Like when Skywalker says "I got one!" in a battle with Han Solo, and Han Solo delivers the now famous line about being cocky.

Another example:

Me: "You need to do your [baseball] hitting drills. When you set a goal, you need to do something each day towards that goal."

My kid: "Like you and your book? You only blog. Or play on Facebook and Twitter. I don't see you writing your book every day. Mom."

Alright, that's it. All of a sudden the kids are sippy-cup philosophers.

But really, they're just doing what I've taught them to do. Question they way things are when they don't seem balanced or fair. (Damn it).

Since my son began his streak of parental awareness, I've been up late at night, every night, with my ultra-fine point red Sharpie making notes in my book. I've made less excuses, and I have dark circles under my eyes to prove it. The lessons I'm imparting to the kids are unexpectedly jump-starting my own goals and refreshing my ideals, it's a developmental stage in parenthood, I think.

But I, trying to maintain authority while disguising fallibility, will never tell my son that. What are the chances that he already knows? What are the odds that I can make a good man out of the smart mouth kid without a getting a little bit of mud on my face?

Don't tell me.

Saving the Pooch

2009-12-07T16:11:00.000-08:00

Doggie doc says hip dysplasia in both hips. Surgery anywhere from $2,500-$10,000. For our dog, Lulu.

Which presents the dilemma about ten to fifteen years sooner than I wanted to deal with it; how much is it worth to keep your companion living? Because I've never been the type of person who would put down an animal that could be saved. I've never been in this situation, before either - well, not exactly.

Terra, our last dog, was a pit bull/Rottweiler mix with hip dysplasia that caused mild, continuous discomfort. With Terra, the vet initially said surgery was likely, with 6 to 8 years of quality life thereafter, and then we'd have to make "the decision." Terra lived to be 10 years old and never required surgery. We medicated her and she frolicked, jumped like a rabbit, and chased us around the house for years until one day she just couldn't walk anymore.

But Lulu, oh, our Lulu...who started limping last month about the same age that Terra began to show signs of lameness, and this caused my heart to sink. It's two weeks before Lulu's surgical consult and I am doing things quite contradictory: detaching as I pull closer, being frugal about Christmas and December birthdays as I prepare to burn our savings on the family pet, and cursing our bad luck with animals while I enjoy the pleasure of Lulu's loyal, endearing company.

All those contradictions in action make me feel like I have a mental grip on the situation. I can weigh the emotional cost of losing a dog to the financial burden of keeping her around with practicality, because that is what adults do. I do this without anyone knowing what I am thinking.

Then, as if on cue, the dog walks up to me and gives me those eyes. Feed me. I don't want to be put down, I really love this family. I'd rather have a body that works and doesn't cause you any trouble. If the dog could talk, that's what she'd say.

Or an ASPCA commercial comes on, showing a neglected dog behind big white letters on the screen that say things like AM I GOING TO DIE TODAY? or WHY DID THEY ABANDON ME? And then not only do I want to save my pooch, but every other animal on the planet.

And the kids. The kids, who cry at the mere mention of a shortened life span for the dog. The kids, who cried every night for months at bedtime when we put Terra down. The kids, who ask me if I am going to decide to put the dog down, "because the vet said we could fix her, Mom!".

I make hundreds of decisions a week that are easy, simple, or only cerebral - whole wheat or white? PB & J in the lunches or tuna fish? Spinning class or yoga?

Then I have to make a decision that has no easy answer. And about this, I should not complain.

I suppose I am only asking...what is it going to take to save the pooch?

I hope I can save everyone else in the process.