Eating What I Want

(Note #1: When I mentioned the topic of this blog to a friend, she gasped and said something like, “Are you really going to admit online that you’re happy your daughter is away?” The answer, is "yes." Because Hemingway says to write what is true, right? And, while other single parents may have an ex-husband or two to take care of their kids every once in a while, I do not. So, while S and I generally have a blast, I need the break. I will be happy to get her back in August, but until then, I am going to relish my alone-ness.

Note #2: I wrote this post on Saturday, July 2, which is why the dates are off. And, since then I’ve had the mustard vinaigrette from this chicken recipe on lamb as well, and it was mighty tasty. I highly recommend it.)

So without further ado:

Eating What I Want

An acquaintance in my neighborhood that I see on occasion once said to me: Don’t you agree, Janetta, that it’s easier for couples to socialize than it is for single people?

What was I supposed to say to that?

Oh, yes! Your life is so much better than mine! I sit at home hoping and wishing that someone will please invite my lonely self over.

I think I do okay. I’m way funner than this woman, so maybe no one would invite her anywhere without her husband and she was taking it out on me.

That said, I am spending today completely by myself. Which is okay even for the holiday weekend because I have at least two social activities per day lined up for Sunday and Monday.

How can Janetta have the day all to herself, you may wonder, remembering that I generally have a pesky, needy (frequently wonderful) teenager around. One word for you: camp. This is the moment that I wait for all year (now that I can watch the Sound of Music and the Wizard of Oz any old time I want). This time she’s gone for 6 weeks (barring any catastrophes, but I told her coming home before the scheduled day is out – camp or, in the event of scarlet fever, the hospital, are her only options). This may sound harsh and non-maternal – my apologies to all of you mothers out there who are bereft at even the thought of dropping your kids off at camp for weeks at a time. I wish I were you, but this is the only break I get, so I’m not.

When S was younger and more dependent on me, I would fill every moment of alone time (even a day) with as many activities as possible – so by the end of my mothering hiatus, I was exhausted and didn’t even feel the break. This summer I have 42 whole days, so I’m trying not to do that.

Today I swam and ran and read and now I write. And tonight I’m going to eat what I want. Since I’m solely in charge of the shopping and cooking in my house, you’d think that would happen more often. But it doesn’t. For the next month and a half, I’m going to squeeze in everything I can that S says she won’t eat for whatever crazy reason: lamb (I won’t eat baby animals!), chicken (no rational reason at all, and she’ll eat it in Asian food, just nothing else), anything grilled (You always burn it!). And I’m going to eat every meal I consume at home outside. Something S hates to do for various complicated adolescent reasons (someone might see us!). And I’m going to do other stuff I never get to. Today I had both the Bose and the iHome blasting This American Life throughout the house. I haven’t listened to even one note on Kiss 108 in the two days she’s been gone (god, am I already down to 40 days??). And without someone begging me to buy them something every single second of every single day, I’m going to save money.

But back to the food. This recipe is one of my favorites even though I haven’t made it in many years. It was the cover recipe from the May 1994 Bon Appétit with a feature on French picnics. I generally want to live inside a French picnic, so it’s perfect for me. When I first made this chicken, I was half of a couple, socializing with ease, I suppose. And I still had two years before I would become a mother. I was 29 – I actually went on Outward Bound that same month to try to get my emotional life together before I had a baby. The best laid plans…. I was living in the country and commuting to my job at National Geographic Television during the week. It was a good time. All of the Oprah-worthy scenarios that defined my 30’s and seeped into my 40’s were totally unimaginable. I thought I had it all. Tomorrow I’m going to bring leftovers to the beach where I’m going with a couple and a single friend (who somehow managed to snag an invite despite her marital status). And then I’m driving to another friend’s ocean-side house for a pre-4^th barbeque. They invited me on my own, imagine that. And I have two parties on Monday and two consecutive weekends w friends in the Berkshires. So maybe I don’t have it all, but I have what I need. And people do invite me over, and I still have this chicken. And now you do too.

Roast Chicken With Mustard Vinaigrette
from Bon Appétit

For chicken:

• 1 6- to 7-pound roasting chicken
• 1 large shallot
• 2 fresh rosemary sprigs
• 2 fresh sage sprigs
• 1 cup Mustard Vinaigrette
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh sage

For vinaigrette:

• 1/4 cup Dijon mustard
• 3 tablespoons white wine vinegar
• 3/4 cup olive oil
• 2/3 cup chopped shallots
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
• 2 teaspoons chopped fresh sage

To make vinaigrette:

Mix mustard and vinegar in bowl. Gradually whisk in oil. Mix in shallots and herbs. Season with salt and pepper. (Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover, chill. Bring to room temperature, mix before using.)

To make chicken:

Preheat oven to 450°F. Pat chicken dry. Season cavity with salt and pepper. Place shallot, 2 rosemary sprigs and 2 sage sprigs in cavity. Slide hand between chicken skin and meat over breast to form pockets. Spread 2 tablespoons vinaigrette under skin over breast meat. Tie legs together to hold shape; tuck wings under body. Place chicken in roasting pan. Brush 2 tablespoons vinaigrette over chicken. Sprinkle with chopped rosemary and sage. Season with salt and pepper.

Roast chicken 20 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 375°F. Continue roasting until juices run clear when chicken is pierced in thickest part of thigh, basting occasionally with pan juices, about 1 hour 20 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool 1 hour. (Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover and chill.)

Place chicken and herb sprigs on platter. Serve with remaining vinaigrette. I made a side of tabouli salad with tomatoes and artichoke hearts (shown above), but it goes well with anything.

First Day of Summer

Aside from eating this cake, which you really should make and consume as soon as possible, what are your plans for the summer? Really, tell me. I won't get jealous. Maybe.

Here's what I am not doing this summer (so far anyway): writing about food or going to Paris. Here's what I am doing: eating daily transformative strawberry rhubarb muffins at Flour;


rowing crew early in the morning on the Charles (with the amount of times my name emerges from the coach's mouth, I'm fairly certain I suck, but it's the best thing I've done in a long time anyway); sitting on decks with friends drinking gin and tonics and rosé wine (not at the same time). Oh, and tonight I'm going on a date. I don't actually want to go on a date, but since I'm still essentially stuck where I was when I wrote about my linguini with clam sauce dilemma a year ago, I guess it's necessary to try to get unstuck. Which also means I'm going to meditate a lot this summer. So far I just carry books around by Jon Kabat-Zinn and Pema Chodron, waiting for osmosis to kick in, but as soon as S leaves for camp next week, I'm going to greet each morning with a full body scan. Really.

And, I'm trying not to spend too much time thinking how last June I was brushing up on my French and reading Hemingway and Gertrude Stein in preparation for a trip to Paris. When you think about it, Boston is really just like Paris, right? River? Check. Art? Check. Croissant? Check. We even have an old church or two. And, nobody ever gets annoyed that you only speak English. Maybe we just have to treat whatever city we're in like it's Paris and actually use the river and look at the art and eat the croissant, outside at a café if possible. And I need to write. Like I pretend that I would do every day "if only I lived in Paris." Boston has writers too. Like Louisa May Alcott and Dennis Lehane. One can certainly write in Boston if one chooses to.

I will say that I have been cooking. I sat by my grill for four hours and made this pulled pork. And last night I made cauliflower cumin fritters from this Notting Hill cafe. And this weekend I'm going to the farmer's market to get fresh berries for the buttermilk cake I showed you at the top. It will be a nice send off for S before she goes to camp and the perfect start to summer. Do tell me what you're doing. I'd love to hear your plans. Maybe.


Raspberry Buttermilk Cake
Adapted from Gourmet

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup plus 1 1/2 tablespoons sugar, divided
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 cup fresh raspberries (or blueberries, or strawberries)

Preheat oven to 400°F with rack in middle. Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

Beat butter and 2/3 cup sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes, then beat in vanilla. Add egg and beat well.

At low speed, mix in flour mixture in 3 batches, alternating with buttermilk, beginning and ending with flour, and mixing until just combined.

Spoon batter into cake pan, smoothing top. Scatter raspberries evenly over top and sprinkle with remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons sugar.

Bake until cake is golden and a wooden pick inserted into center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes. Cool in pan 10 minutes, then turn out onto a rack and cool to warm, 10 to 15 minutes more. Invert onto a plate.

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.