Thank You Hallmark!

There are only two days of the year when I can do whatever I want — my birthday and Mother's Day. Too bad they're not farther apart. Perhaps you're thinking, "Why can't she do whatever she wants most days? Or at least on the weekends?" If you're asking that, you don't have kids, or your kids are grown and you've forgotten, or you're not a single helicopter mother. Or maybe it's just a severe lack of parenting skills that gives me only those two days. All I can tell you is that the other 363 go something like this:

J: Hey, S, why don't we go to the ICA?
S: Isn't that a museum with, like, art? I don't think so.
J: Okay, why don't we take a walk on the beach?
S: Doesn't that involve sand, and salt, and movement? Let's just go to Starbucks and then go somewhere else to buy me stuff. Did you make my lunch yet?

But while my discipline tactics clearly come from... um, nowhere... on my birthday and Mother's Day, I have S trained. Here's what I got to enjoy last Sunday:

1. An extended breakfast of baked eggs with avocado, tomato, and goat cheese on my deck (okay, I had to make it myself, but I got to eat it in peace).
2. Movie of my choice (wasn't very good, so I'll keep the title to myself, but I highly recommend Bridesmaids).
3. ICA with no discussion or backtalk and even a few moments of feigned art appreciation.
4. Lobster roll, oysters, and margaritas on the water at the new Legal Harborside. I usually poo-poo Legals, but you can't beat the location and the views, and while the lobster roll isn't quite as orgasmic as B&G's or Neptune Oyster's, it really is very good, and it's $10 - $15 cheaper.

Photo stolen from Legal Harborside web site

S even suggested a stop at Sportello for dessert. Perhaps I've mothered better than I give myself credit for. In any case, I came home feeling happy and loved.

I spoke to no fewer than three women in the week leading up to Mother's Day who were just waiting and hoping that their husbands and kids would do something special for them. Too risky if you ask me — a possible road to bitterness and disappointment. I recommend taking the bull and the daughter by the horns and doing what you want. That's my (and Hallmark's) gift to you. Along with the recipe for the baked eggs — so easy and delicious on any day.

Baked Eggs with Goat Cheese, Avocado, and Tomato
Adapted from "Herby Cheese Baked Eggs" in The New Basics Cookbook by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins

1 t unsalted butter
3 t heavy cream
1 t chopped tomato
1 t chopped avocado
1 egg
1 t herbed goat cheese
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Fresh green herb chopped for garnish -- chives, chervil, parsley, whatever you have around

1. Preheat the oven to 450.
2. Place the butter and 2 t of the cream in a 3/4 c ramekin. Break the egg in the center. Carefully scatter the avocado and tomato around the egg. Dot the egg with cheese, and spoon the remaining 1 teaspoon cream over the yolk. Season with salt and pepper.
3. Place the ramekin in a small baking dish, and fill it with boiling water to reach halfway up the sides of the ramekin. Bake until the egg white is milky and the yolk is set, 7 - 10 minutes. Sprinkle with fresh herbs and serve immediately. I like mine with a toasted English muffin for dipping.

AARP: Chicken with Canned Corn

Ho, ho, ho....

I've started to identify with AARP. Not because there's even a remote possibility that I will ever be able to retire, but because I'm turning 46 this week, and it feels old. Forty-six isn't 50, I suppose, but it is something. I don't think I can even pretend to be young anymore. Usually I make a pretty big deal about my birthday — having multiple celebrations with different sets of friends, sending out memos at work, that sort of thing. This year I'm keeping it low-key — dinner with my family at Coppa on my birthday eve and lunch at Tico with my work friends on the actual day. Thinking about my birthday evening has caused me some angst. For a moment (okay, several moments), I considered asking out someone I know I shouldn't spend time with, but I'm trying to stay strong. So I bought a ticket to the massmouth story slam semifinals at the Coolidge Corner Theater instead. Which I plan to go to by myself. Alone. Did I say alone? I'll let you know how that works out for me.

The other day I was on the treadmill at the gym when an AARP commercial came on my TV screen. It was a great commercial — people of varying older ages, declaring what they want to be when they grow up. I, for one, definitely appreciated the idea that even when most of your life is behind you, maybe all of your choices aren't. After all, the Colonel didn't fry a piece of chicken until he was 40, and Marion Cunningham didn't revise the Fannie Farmer Cookbook until she was in her 50's. Why not me? When I grow up, I want to be a food writer, so my birthday gift to myself is to write as much as I can. Every week if possible. Not just when the spirit moves me, or (unfortunately for you) I have something of particular interest to share. We'll see how long it lasts, but now it's in print (or "on screen," as it were), so you can hold me to it.

Food writing, by definition, requires writing about food, so enough rambling and on to a recipe. This week the best thing I made (aside from the Schmitter) was Stir-Fried Chicken with Creamed Corn.


I threw a cup of diced eggplant in as well because I had one in my fridge. When you first look at the list of ingredients, you may say, "Food writing, my ass. Like I'm really going to make anything that calls for a can of creamed corn!" I thought the same thing (even S said, "um, Mom, can't you make the creamed corn from scratch?"), but since trusty food writers and cooks Amanda Hesser and Mark Bittman both said the canned bit was essential, I followed the directions. And I wasn't sorry. I even went to Stop and Shop! They don't seem to have cans of corn at Whole Foods. The last time I bought a can of anything other than tomatoes or black beans was before I was old enough to shop. It felt nostalgic. Like going back to an easier time. A time before pork belly, vacuum-packed lobster poached in butter, and burrata. A time of Swanson's, Jello, and canned peas. A time when I was six, and not 46. A time when AARP was just a rude noise you made at the dinner table after a particularly big bite of Velveeta. Was it a better time? Looking at that list, I'm going with a no. But, even then, I loved to cook and eat. Too bad I didn't know the job of a food writer existed, so I pursued other dreams. Here's hoping 46 isn't too late.



Stir-Fried Chicken with Creamed Corn (and Eggplant)
adapted from The Essential New York Times Cook Book: Classic Recipes for a New Century, edited by Amanda Hesser

1 lb boneless chicken breasts, cut into 1/2 inch chunks
1 c peeled eggplant, cut into 1/2 inch chunks
2 T soy sauce
1 t Asian sesame oil
1 T rice wine
2 T peanut or canola oil
1 T minced garlic
1 small chile, seeded and minced (I used serrano with seeds)
1 can of creamed corn (or what I found, "cream style sweet corn." huh.)
1 cup frozen or fresh corn kernels
chopped cilantro for garnish

1. Mix the chicken and eggplant with the soy sauce, sesame oil, and wine in a small bowl. Put the peanut oil into a deep skillet or wok, preferably non-stick, and turn the heat to high.

2. Drain the chicken/eggplant mixture. When the oil is hot, add the chicken and eggplant to the skillet and cook undisturbed until the bottom of the chicken browns, about 2 minutes. Stir once or twice and cook for 2 minutes more.

3. Turn the heat down to medium-low. Add the garlic, ginger, and chile and stir; 15 seconds later, add the creamed corn and corn kernels. Cook, stirring occasionally, until heated through, 3 - 4 minutes. Garnish with cilantro and serve over white rice.

Joie de Vivre in LaLa Land

For the first time in my life — or at least since I found it around the age of 16 — I lost my joie de vivre. So, I went to LA to try to get it back. I like LA; I know many people don't. Maybe I'd have to stay there longer than a week to start to hate it. I definitely couldn't live there without making $3M an episode. And, I'd need an episode to begin with. But, I just can't resist the sun. And, I love Hollywood history. It doesn't go back that far, so it's not hard to learn, and it's filled with interesting facts and places — like the house where Michael Jackson died (as our tour guide gleefully announced: He never made it to the hospital people!). Or the park on the Paramount lot that Lucille Ball had built for publicity shots with her kids, capturing moments of "good" mothering before she sent them away and went right back to work.


I guess the thing I love most about LA is it's so unlike anywhere I've ever lived — even a palm tree in a ditch by a gas station reminds me that I'm on vacation. And this year, in particular, I really needed a vacation. Okay, so my life isn't Haiti or Japan, but it's felt at times disastrous to me. I've been sad. I'm never sad. And that joie de vivre that I can generally count on to pull me out of any situation took a hike, so I went to LA to get some of the fake stuff. They can make anything happen in LA, right? So, for a week I went searching for the façade of happiness and joy. I gazed at the Pacific ocean! I drank two margaritas a night! I stalked Diane Keaton! I was sorted by the real Warner Bros sorting hat! I made it into Gryffindor! I saw Kurt and Mercedes from Glee! I was clearly visible in the Tonight Show audience behind a guy who could eat eight raw hot dogs in 30 seconds! I rode the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier! (Okay, more scary than joyful for me, but at least I was on the ocean); I ate cotton-candy-wrapped foie gras! I used valet every day! And, I ate this pizza:


Pretty much one of the best pizzas I've ever consumed.

Maybe that list wouldn't make everyone happy. But, it made me happy. And the best part is it made S happy. For those of you who are parents, you know that a mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child. And, because there was no work or school to bring either of us down, we could create our own movie of our lives. But, like everything in LaLa Land, it disappeared the minute the director called a wrap — in this case when we boarded the red-eye back to the cold and gray of Boston where spring hadn't quite yet sprung.

But the sun is now out, and today is a good day. It started with leftovers of this pizza I will always crave and tried to recreate for you.

Porchetta and Artichoke Heart Pizza
inspired by the "Centurion" pizza at Hostaria del Piccolo in Santa Monica: the perfect antidote to the terrors of Ferris wheels and life.

1/2 c sharp provolone, shredded
1/2 c mozzarella, shredded
1/4 c pecorino romano, shredded
1 recipe of this dough (or use your own favorite pizza dough or, like me, go to Clear Flour Bread and buy a ball of dough for $3)
8 slices of this porchetta (or slices you purchase in a high quality specialty shop. In Boston you can find okay porchetta at Russos and much better porchetta at the South End Formaggio)
4 baby artichokes trimmed, held in lemon water
1 T olive oil
2 T minced garlic
1/2 t red pepper flakes

Saute artichoke hearts in olive oil until they begin to soften, about 5 minutes. While hot, add 1/4 c of water, cover, and steam until you can just pierce them with a fork. This shouldn't take too long, depending on the size. Season with salt and pepper, cool and slice thin. Set aside with porchetta and cheeses.

Preheat oven to highest setting (500 - 550 degrees).

Dredge dough in a bowl of flour to coat and transfer to dry work surface. Holding one edge of dough in the air with both hands and letting bottom touch work surface, carefully move hands around edge of dough (as Gourmet says, like turning a steering wheel), allowing weight of dough to stretch round to roughly 10 inches.

Lay dough flat on lightly floured pizza pan and continue to work edges with fingers, stretching it into a 14-inch round. [I used to have a pizza stone but it broke and I've been happily using a non-stick pizza pan from Target ever since. But, if you have a stone, feel free to preheat it, roll dough out onto a bakers peel and do the burn-defying stunt of getting the dough from the peel to the hot stone.]

Stir together cheeses and sprinkle a quarter over the dough, leaving 1/2 an inch border. Cover cheese with slices of porchetta and artichoke hearts, sprinkle with remaining cheese.

Cook garlic and red pepper flakes, stirring, until just fragrent, 30 - 40 seconds. Spoon over pizza.

Bake until crust is golden brown, 12 - 15 minutes.

It will make you happy. I promise.

Every Year

[I wrote this post a little over a month ago. But Valentine's Day effectively got me back into a holiday gloom, so I'm going with it, outdated or not. I'll try to write something more current as soon as possible. All of my college roommates are descending on February 25 for a reunion, and you can bet I'll have a lot to say about that. So, until then....]

****

"Every year I just try to get from the day before Thanksgiving to the day after New Year's...." – Harry Burns

I've watched When Harry Met Sally dozens of times, and, until recently, I never understood what Billy Crystal's character was talking about. Now I totally get it. Today is January 3, and I couldn't be happier. No more pressure to have fun and spend money. My holidays were festive enough, but I'm so glad they're over. Maybe because they ended badly – in an Olympic-sized pool of regurgitated red wine risotto mixed with my first Dom Pérignon and a Châteauneuf-du-Pape gone south. Maybe the pressure for happiness was just too much.


What are you doing for the holidays? This is a constant refrain in everyone's fall. What if you don't have a fun response? I start panicking around August to make sure I have my answers all lined up. Christmas has gotten a little tricky since my divorce, but Thanksgiving is easy. It's my family's best holiday. We’re descendants of Henry Sampson who came over on the Mayflower, so Thanksgiving is in our blood. Anyone in our family who’s the least bit fun shows up and we cook, eat, drink, slurp oysters, and laugh. A lot. The daylight hours are filled with walks in the woods, sitting by the ocean, shopping trips to Rockland, and getting started on dinner. But cocktail hour is my favorite part of the day. We usually try to hold out until at least 4:00 when it’s definitely 5 p.m. somewhere on the continent – maybe in Nova Scotia – and then it lasts for hours.

This year we accompanied our oysters, cheese, lobster salad, drinks, etc... with a stuffed pumpkin. As I write it's still cold enough (and the need for a decent beach body seems far enough away) for this decadent treat. Basically you take a pumpkin, hollow it out, and stuff it with everything good. Meaning cheese, and garlic, and bacon, and wine. We may have thrown some kale in their as well, but I honestly can't remember. But you could. If a touch of healthiness is important to you.


The pumpkin needed a good hour and a half to bake so we filled it,

popped it into the oven, and headed out for our pre-Thanksgiving dinner stomach-emptying walk. (We don't usually all wear baggy orange clothes, but it was deer season, and fashion isn't nearly as important as making it home to dinner safe and sound!)




Problem was, as you can see, it was overcast but still a glorious day with glorious views. So we walked a long time and we forgot about the pumpkin.

When we returned, several hours later, this is what we found:


I whined for a while, "We ruuuuiiinnneedd the pumpkin! We ruuuiiinnneeedd the pumpkin!" But, as it turns out, it's really hard to ruin pumpkin, cheese, bacon, and wine, especially when cocktails are on hand to accompany the melted, delicious mess.

So, if winter or the holidays have you down, this is what I recommend:

Pumpkin Stuffed with Everything Good
adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Around My French Table

1 small sugar pumpkin, about 3 pounds
1/4 lb stale bread, sliced and cut into half-inch chunks
1/4 lb cheese, such as Gruyère, Emmenthal, or a combination, cut into 1/2 inch chunks
2-4 garlic cloves chopped
4 slices bacon, cooked until crisp, chopped
1/4 c chopped chives or scallions
1/3 c heavy cream
1/4 c dry white wine
pinch of nutmeg

Center a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment (or we actually cooked ours in a Pyrex pie plate, which made it easy to serve).

Carefully cut a cap out of the top of the pumpkin like you do on Halloween. Clear away the seeds and strings from the cap and the inside of the pumpkin. Season the inside of the pumpkin with salt and pepper and put on the baking sheet or in the pie pan.

Toss the bread, cheese, garlic, bacon, and herbs together in a bowl. Season to taste with salt and pepper and put the mix into the pumpkin. It should be filled nearly to the top. Stir the cream with the nutmeg, wine, and salt and pepper, and pour it over the filling in the pumpkin. You don't want it to overflow, but everything should be moist.

Put the cap in place and bake for about 2 hours – check after 90 minutes – or until everything inside the pumpkin is bubbling and the flesh is tender enough to be pierced easily with a fork or the tip of a knife.

When the pumpkin is ready, carefully serve with crackers and/or spoons for scooping!