FOOD ON THE FOOD

United Statesian Honey Tarts for World Peace

One thing I learned last week is that if you want to see some Canadians get all opinionated, just try to muscle in on their butter tarts! And to think that diplomatic relations between our two countries hinged not on trade or other mutually beneficial economic factors, but on the enforcement of clear pastry boundaries. Sure, we can filch all of the Canadian comic talent and then fake a vacation in order to burden their generous healthcare system, but hands. off. the butter tarts.

Just kidding, Elisabeth et al! But I have to warn you that I did revisit the butter tarts. I couldn’t help it. I was sooooo close, and I had extra pie dough plus a couple of egg yolks I needed to use up. So I tinkered further with the recipe for what I think we can all agree wasn’t really a butter tart at all, aside from the butter. What I came up with will hopefully restore faith between the two nations and narrowly avert a third World War.

First item of business: lose the butter. Well, not all of the butter. I haven’t gone mad. Just half of it. I wanted the predominant flavor of the filling to be honey, not butter, and only enough to bind the nuts together. The answer: egg yolks. Next step: change the name. We like to do that over here. Change something nominally, then call it our own. It’s the American way.

Behold: American Honey Tarts. Wait, now I’m pissing off the Mexicans. North American Honey Tarts. Well, North American (But Not Canadian) Honey Tarts And Now The Nuts Are Mad. I’m still working on the name. But these homely little tarts made me insanely happy. I loved them. The next time I throw a wine and cheese party (in 2018, by my estimation), I’m breaking them out. Only maybe I’ll try them with maple syrup next time!

Honey Walnut Tartlets

If you have a favorite pie dough, feel free to use that instead. Or you could use store-bought, though I’ll deny I ever said that. One of these days I’ll make a video on how to make an awesome pie crust. That day is not today.

Dough
1 cup flour
½ tsp sugar
½ tsp. salt
6 tbsp. cold, unsalted butter, cut into pieces
4-6 Tbsp. ice water

Filling
1½ cups walnuts, whole or pieces, but not diced
2 Tbsp. softened, unsalted butter
¼ cup sugar
2 egg yolks (remaining whites can be put towards this recipe)
¼ cup wildflower honey (stronger, more complex flavor than clover honey)
Fleur de sel

To make the dough, mix flour, sugar, and salt. Cut cold butter into flour mixture by hand or in a food processor (pulse about 10 seconds or until butter pieces are pea-sized, then dump into bowl). Add ice water and fluff until starting to clump together in a raggedy mass. Gently squeeze a bit in your hand and see if it holds together at all. If not, add more water. Tear off a large swath of plastic wrap and dump the dough mixture into the middle. Gather up the sides of the plastic wrap, and press the dough into a flat disk, wrapping tightly. Refrigerate at least a half hour.

Preheat the oven to 425°F. Lightly grease mini-muffin tins. On a well-floured surface, roll out the dough to ¼-inch thickness. Better to have too much flour on the counter than not enough. You can always brush off any excess—you don’t want the dough to stick to the counter at all. A word on rolling: Don’t crush the dough into the countertop. This will make the finished crust tough. Basically, you want to push the pin across the dough to smear the butter between the layers of flour as you go. Imagine buttering a piece of bread. Like that, only rolling. This will result in a light, flaky texture.

Using a biscuit cutter, a sharp paring knife, or, I suppose, a glass, cut circles out of the dough that are a bit larger than the diameter or the muffin cups. Cut a Pac Man mouth out of the side, then fit dough into muffin cup, pressing the cut sides gently to seal. You’ll have to experiment to get the perfect size. Repeat until you run out of dough. You can reroll the dough once more, but the more you work it, the tougher it becomes. I usually end up gently pressing the scraps into the cups in a free-form way towards the end. When you finish a pan, put it in the refrigerator so the gluten in the dough can relax while you do the rest.

In a medium bowl, cream the soft butter with the sugar with the back of a spoon. Stir in yolks and honey. Fill pastry cups with walnuts, breaking up pieces that are too large. Spoon filling over walnuts to cover, but don’t overflow the tops of the crusts. Add a few more walnuts. Sprinkle lightly with fleur de sel. Bake 12 minutes or so until walnuts are toasty brown and filling is bubbly. Let cool in pans for 10 minutes, then remove to wire racks to cool completely. Makes about 20.

Local ingredients:
Honey: Warren Farm & Sugarhouse, North Brookfield, MA
Eggs: Red Fire Farm, Granby, MA
Butter: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Chicks!

Look what my sister just bought. Baby chickens! A half dozen, just in time for Easter. These are the newest additions to my sister’s organic piece of paradise perched on an active volcano in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. (sigh)

Aren’t they cute?

Can’t you just taste the fresh eggs? I can, and not just because I’m eating eggs right now.

My sister takes some pretty spectacular photographs, as you can see here. Can you believe we’re from the same gene pool? There are some other differences, too, like her willingness to pursue her dreams, wherever they may lead her, and my tendency to seize up at the slightest threat. I would do well to take a page from my sister’s school of bad-assery.

She has a nice little business, Trish Barker Photography, so if you find yourself on Maui for your wedding, for example, and need some pictures taken, that would be my highly unbiased recommendation. Let me also offer some other unsolicited advice. While you’re visiting the Hawaiian Islands, speak quietly and don’t anger the tectonic plates. That’s three major earthquakes worldwide in as many months, plus one tsunami narrowly averted. Enjoy the beaches, the fish, the lush vegetation, then get the hell out of there. Get out before it blows. Is all I’m saying.

Nuts, Part 2

I swore I’d never do it, but I did actually roast and peel chestnuts last Christmas. Not over an open-fire, but in the oven, as nature intended. Then I peeled them all until shell shards got jammed under my fingernails and I was all out of curse words.

I’m glad I tried it, though. It makes you appreciate how much hard work goes into shelling nuts. Plus, there are other sensory aspects of the process that are far more pleasurable than the aforementioned shards. The beautiful mahogany shells, for example, and the way the dry-roasting makes the whole house smell of shoes. Not stinky, old shoes. New shoes of the finest Italian leather. Then, of course, there are the sweet chestnut meats inside that can go into stuffings or cakes. But especially cakes.

Even though it feels like we’re on our way out of chestnut season, if it’s not already long gone, I have to mention this particular cake because it makes an elegant but manly dessert. Like if your dad, for example, has a winter-ish birthday. It’s super-easy to pull together, but makes a great impression. You can buy chestnut puree in a can at discerning markets (at Russo’s, it sits on a low shelf across from the eggs and cheese). The brand I bought was straight from France and contained chestnuts and water only, no surprising additives, so the recipe remains gluten-free. It makes for a somewhat expensive shopping list, but you will consider it money well spent when you’re sitting down eating cake instead of peeling a million goddamned chestnuts.

Chocolate Chestnut Torte

Unfortunately, the kids loved it, too.

1 15-oz. can chestnut puree
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
6 eggs
10 oz. semi-sweet chocolate (of the high-end variety), melted and cooled
1 tsp. vanilla extract
Two pinches of salt
¼ cup granulated sugar

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a 9- or 10-inch springform pan with a circle of parchment paper.

Add chestnut puree and softened butter to a large bowl and, using a mixer, beat until well blended. Separate the eggs using clean hands (crack an egg, pour contents into your hand, and let the whites fall through your fingers into a small bowl until only the yolk remains). One by one, add the yolks to the chestnut-butter mixture. One by one, dump the whites into a separate large bowl. (If the yolk breaks, set that egg aside for an omelet. Get another egg. A broken yolk will render the associated egg whites unwhippable). Set bowl of egg whites aside. Add melted chocolate and vanilla to chestnut-butter mixture along with the yolks, and mix well. Set aside.

With clean, dry beaters, whip the egg whites with the salt. Gradually add in the sugar. Continue whipping until stiff, glossy peaks form (but you don’t want them dry and Styrofoam-looking). Gently mix one third of the egg whites into the chocolate chestnut mixture to lighten. Then, add half of what’s left of the whites to the bowl and fold in until incorporated. Gently fold in the remaining egg whites. The idea is to deflate the egg whites as little as possible. Proper folding technique is important. Here’s a refresher.

Gently pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 35-45 minutes, until the top looks dry and slightly cracked. Cool in pan for 20 minutes, then remove to wire rack. Serve alone or with a dollop of whipped cream or crème fraiche.

Source: Adapted from A Treasury of Jewish Holiday Baking by Marcy Goldman, who adapted it from a recipe from Montreal’s Titanic Café.

Nuts, Part 1

I’m kind of a nut freak. No, not those kind of nuts. Tree nuts. I’m crazy about baklava and pignoli cookies. I love all the nut ice creams first and foremost (though, admittedly, this may have something to do with the ingredients with which nuts are usually paired, like butter, maple, and, er, grapes).

Lately, for a snack, I’ve taken to toasting walnuts in a dry pan, tossing them until fragrant and just thinking about browning, then removing them to a bowl, coiling thick ropes of honey over them, and raining the whole sticky thing with fleur de sel. Lordy. I was trying to think of a good way to present this potentially show-stopping dessert other than “Nuts in a Bowl.” Perhaps nuts encased in buttery pastry. Like pecan pie, but less goo, or little pecan tassies, but with walnuts and honey.

So, I started tinkering with a Canadian butter tart recipe. You know, in the spirit of the Olympics and all. Not that I’ve ever had a Canadian butter tart, mind you. Maybe I should actually try a Canadian butter tart before I go fucking around with the recipe, but it just seemed like a few teeny-tiny substitutions would get me exactly what I was craving. Changes like switching raisins to walnuts, corn syrup to honey, brown sugar to white (so that the molasses character wouldn’t compete with the honey’s floral undertones), losing the vanilla, and sprinkling with sea salt. The butter in the butter tarts remained as written.

The results were on the right track, but not quite the medal contenders I had hoped for. They ended up kind of greasy, truth be told. Whatever tenuous emulsion I had established between the butter, sugar, and honey wasn’t enough to keep the butter from leaching out under high heat conditions, soaking the muffin papers, and pooling in slick puddles at the bottoms of the muffin cups. Mmmmm. However, like baklava, they do seem to improve with age, and I’m having trouble keeping my hands off of them today, I must say.

I’ll perfect these eventually, but until then, I suggest you stick to the original Canadian butter tart recipe. Or, you know, just nuts in a bowl.

Hot Stacks

Oh my god, you guys, I have to tell you about this awesome place I discovered. They let you pick out books to borrow, as many as you want, FOR FREE. No kidding. I mean, assuming you return them on time or miniscule charges will accrue. It’s called a “public library” and there’s one pretty much everywhere. There are free slow computers with even slower Internet access, too. Why haven’t we heard anything about these “public libraries” before?

Now that we’ve cancelled our Netflix account, discontinued our magazine subscriptions, and slashed every area of our budget besides mortgage, utilities, and food, I’m starting to explore all of the areas of the public library, not just the book section. Like the public restrooms. Just kidding, but did you know that you can rent DVDs? It’s true! Cookbooks? Of course. Magazines. Well, you can at least flip through them on-site and write out your freelance ideas onto note cards that will later be formulated into query letters that will be systematically rejected by every one of those publications because everyone has cancelled their magazine subscriptions. Apparently, I’m shooting myself in the foot with this whole library thing, but that’s okay because the building has these large, low buttons that, if you aim your cane just right, activate these automatic doors that open right in front of you. AMAZING!

Anyway, I’ve been reading a lot of books lately. First, I read all of the breast cancer memoirs that have been published, both to help me sort out some of this emotional baggage that’s been packed away for six months, and also to see if all of the cancer-related writing that I diverted away from this blog and into a folder in the dank basement recesses of my hard drive could be turned into anything useful. Maybe something that might help somebody else. But no, according to my formal queries. Apparently, cancer’s not funny. Really? It’s not? Thanks for telling me. Also, it’s overpublished. Call us back when you have a more obscure, deadlier disease. Okay. I’ll keep my fingers crossed! Also, nobody reads essays anymore. Are you sure about that? Short-form writing is dead. (cough) Twitter.

But that’s okay. I didn’t want to write about cancer anyway. Cancer doesn’t deserve it. So I’m back to reading food books, and, my oh my, do I love them. Here are some of my favorites:

• Cod by Mark Kurlansky. Doesn’t this sound like the most boring read ever? About a fish. Well, it’s not. The history and plight of the cod are fascinating and still very important today. If only my high school social studies teachers were able to convey history so enjoyably. Kurlansky also wrote Salt about the humble mineral that changed the world.

• Farm City by Novella Carpenter. A UC Berkeley grad moves to Oakland and starts a small urban farm amid the gangs and crackhouses. First it’s just vegetables, but soon she’s raising poultry, bees, rabbits, and pigs. From dumpster-diving for pig chow to navigating the transition from life to their inevitable death, her writing is full of dry humor and a passionate love of food.

• A Platter of Figs by David Tanis. Written by the co-chef of Chez Panisse, this cookbook is full of relatively simple, seasonal menu ideas that will put your farm vegetables to good use. The photography is absolutely gorgeous and makes you yearn for in-season cherry tomato crostini with ricotta and Vietnamese cucumbers. The Preschooler was fascinated by this book and made me help him read the recipe names over and over and over again. I didn’t mind a bit.

• The Jungle Effect by Daphne Miller. Possibly my favorite so far (though I haven’t finished it), this book examines how certain indigenous diets evolved, from Mexico to Cameroon, and how they relate to low incidences of diabetes, cancer, and heart disease in those same populations. The idea is to examine how some of these concepts can be applied to our diet today to help counteract the negative impacts of a modern, industrialized diet. Fascinating stuff, I tell you. Very interesting psychological insights as well. There are a couple of copies available at the Lexington and Medfield libraries, if you’re interested (you can also request that a copy be sent to your own branch if you’re part of the Minuteman Library Network).

So, what else have you guys been reading lately?

Zaleti

I don’t know if anybody else is going to like these. Not the best way to start a post, I realize, but this isn’t one of those guaranteed-crowd-pleaser types of recipes. It pleases the Preschooler and I, and that’s about all I can guarantee. There are cookies that will kill you with sweetness and there are cookies that won’t, and while there is definitely a place for both (right here in my stomach), these fall firmly in the latter category. However, after the Caramel deLite incident(s), this is a welcome departure.

Zaleti is the traditional name for these northern Italian cornmeal cookies, usually made with lemon rind and grappa-soaked raisins. I use dried cranberries plumped with brandy instead and a perky pinch of zested tangerine peel. Then I cut them into diamond shapes and, after they’ve baked and cooled, give them a February dusting of powdered sugar. They’re like a rustic tea cookie if tea parties took place in the woods instead of fancy hotels. With some tree stumps for tables and the woodland creatures and my mushroom log dolls sitting all around. What are you looking at?

The result is a snack I don’t feel guilty about when the Preschooler (or I) want more than one. But, for some mystical reason that I can’t explain, two is usually plenty.

Zaleti

Winter Moon Organic Farm of Hadley, MA sells local cornmeal ground on a bicycle-powered mill at the Wayland Winter Farmer’s Market.

¾ cup dried cranberries
¼ cup brandy
1½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup cornmeal
½ tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. unsalted butter, softened (1½ sticks)
2/3 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 tsp. vanilla extract
Zest of one tangerine (or corresponding amount of orange or lemon)
Powdered sugar, for dusting

In a small bowl, soak the dried cranberries in brandy for about an hour or until plump. You can omit the brandy and use apple cider or even water to moisten the cranberries instead. The kids won’t miss it, though I might.

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line two cookie sheets with parchment.

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, cornmeal, and salt. In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar until smooth. Beat in the egg, vanilla, and tangerine zest. Stir in the dry ingredients along with the raisins and any remaining liquid. Cover and chill until firm enough to handle, about an hour.

On a floured surface, roll out the dough to a thickness somewhere between ¼- and ½-inch. Using a sharp paring knife or bench scraper, cut the dough into diamond shapes and set on cookie sheets. Bake about 15 minutes or until zaleti are lightly browned around the edges. Let cool on rack. Dust with powdered sugar just before serving.

But They’re So Damn Cute!

If only the Girl Scouts were honest. Honest about the serving size of their Caramel deLites (the cookies formerly known as Samoas) that they so innocently peddle. The nutrition label on the box assumes you will eat two cookies in one sitting. Two! That is incorrect. Everybody knows that as soon as you open the box, it’s as good as empty. So, I took the liberty of extrapolating all the nutrition numbers to reflect the reality of the situation.

Discuss.

My Chocolaty Valentine

Have you ever gone out to buy a present for someone and you finally finish your shopping only to realize that what you bought was what you yourself wanted? Not necessarily what the other person wanted. At all.

That’s kind of what these Valentine’s posts are like, in case you haven’t caught on. A whole lot of what I would want, which will work out perfectly if the person you're buying for is anything like me. Or actually is me. That would be the most perfect situation of all, but I don’t want to be presumptuous.

Anyway, here are some chocolaty (and local) Valentine’s ideas:

Taza Chocolate: Full-flavored, stone-ground organic chocolate bars and nibs from tropical Somerville. Okay, fine, the beans are actually grown in the Dominican Republic in a direct trade arrangement, but the craft is right here, baby. We like the drinking chocolate made from melting their chocolate disks in hot milk with a plate of churros on the side. Taza chocolate can be found wherever fine local foods are sold or online at tazachocolate.com (churros sold separately).

Sassy Sauces: Decadent ice cream toppings in a variety of flavors including Bittersweet Chocolate, Peanut Butter Fudge, Milk Chocolate Caramel, Spicy Dark Chocolate, and Rum Caramel. They're made right in Natick with Vermont butter and cream. Someone gave these to me as a gift last year and they’ve become verrrrry popular in our house. You can find them at these locations or at sassysauces.us.

Cocoa Metro Chocolate Milk: Local milk + Belgian chocolate = the most delicious chocolate milk you may ever taste. Plus, the cute bottle can be used as a vase for any possible flowers in your future. You can find Cocoa Metro here.

And speaking of flowers, that picture up there is a glass replica of the cacao plant at the Harvard Museum of Natural History. Their glass flowers exhibit would be a cool place to take your Valentine’s Day date if your date is into such things as anatomically correct botanical replicas painstakingly crafted in blown glass starting in 1886. My dates prefer the dinosaur room, but I digress. We were talking about chocolate.

For you non-local folks, check out the chocolaty confections from Foodzie. A friend of mine turned me onto this online marketplace that connects you to small-scale artisans, sellers, and growers all over the country. You can also search by region.

And don’t worry if your chocolaty gift doesn’t arrive exactly on Valentine’s Day.* Love doesn’t like to be confined to any particular schedule, really. And we’ll always wait for chocolate. So go on and make some love happen.

*If the chocolate doesn’t arrive in time for Valentine’s Day, you at least need a card or something. Don’t be a dumb-ass.

Just Keeping It Real Around Here

I hear people are worried that I might actually bare a breast at some point in this sacred space we call my blog. Fear not. Given what I know about myself, I think the odds are highly stacked against that. A part of me still wants to believe I’m badass enough to do it, so if you could just continue to play along, I would appreciate it.

Things on the cooking front have been less than inspiring this week, with one kid recovering from strep and the other one coming down with it, and me only a week out of surgery. I never quite made it to the grocery store (save my trip to Codman for the fish delivery), so we were working with a barren pantry and the dregs of the crisper. Dinner one night consisted of fried rice made with some ratty old turnips and a hopeful heap of curry powder. The next night was pasta and salad. Then more pasta and salad, this time with a side of fresh fish. Words cannot express how very uninterested I was in gutting 5 grey sole that day, but the reward was a fish that tasted absolutely delicious when sautéed in nothing more than olive oil.

Last night’s dinner was pita pizza, my fallback when we’re out of hotdogs. I made the kids their favorite: cheese, no sauce, hold the toppings. It evolved through trial and error over several weeks with me coming up with various creative combinations and the kids eliminating at least one ingredient until there was nothing left but cheese melted on bread. Whatever. I’m too beaten down to care. Then I made one with sauce and sausage for Husband, and a sauceless version for me with caramelized onions, mozzarella, goat cheese, and rosemary.

Actually, the last one adds up to more than the sum of its parts, and I would recommend it for your winter pizza repertoire. Just sauté an onion in olive oil on low for about 20 minutes with a pinch of salt and sugar (2 onions for a regular-sized pizza). Sprinkle some mozzarella on the pita (often, I put a little cheddar on there, too), pile on the onions, dot with goat cheese, sprinkle with rosemary and black pepper. Bake 8 minutes or so in a hot oven. Drizzle with a tiny bit of extra virgin olive oil while it cools. Around here, you can make it with all local ingredients, too. I use the large pita pockets from Bay State Bakery in Worcester because they stay thin and crispy the way I can’t seem to make my own pizza crusts come out.

Ah well. Next week is another week.

But My Ribs Are Real

So everything went fine with my “procedure” last week, in case you were wondering. My expectations, admittedly, were pretty low. The initial conversation with the plastic surgeon went something like, "Can you just slap something up there that’s moderately convincing. Something that will stay put, instead of shimmying up and out of the neck hole of my shirt while I’m talking to my neighbors, Jesus Christ.”

But it turns out that the man has an artistic streak, a masterful grasp of subtlety and restraint that you don’t see too much evidence of on the market these days. It took me by surprise because I’m pretty sure we didn’t hit it off the first time we met. Probably because I just assumed he was surgically altering me with his eyes the minute he walked in the room, sowing potential seeds of self-doubt to ensure future business, causing me to become instantly hostile and defensive. Nevertheless, I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong and I may have been a little bit…you know, wrong about him. Maybe. Potentially.

Anyway, his good work isn't suitable for viewing, yet, so how about some ribs instead?

Sticky Asian Spareribs

Let marinate overnight for maximum flavor. Parboiling the ribs keeps the cooking time in the oven to under an hour.

3½ lbs. pork spareribs
½ cup hoisin sauce
3½ Tbsp. soy sauce
2 Tbsp. rice wine, white wine, or sake
1½ Tbsp. minced garlic
1½ Tbsp. minced fresh ginger
Pinch or two of dried red pepper flakes, more if you like them spicy
1 tsp. toasted sesame oil
½ Tbsp. sugar
2 Tbsp. sliced scallion greens

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. With a sharp knife or kitchen shears, separate the spareribs into 2½-inch-long pieces. Add the ribs to the pot and return to a boil. Reduce heat to medium and simmer 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk together hoisin sauce, soy sauce, wine, garlic, ginger, red pepper flakes, sesame oil, and sugar. Remove the ribs, let cool slightly, then add to the marinade. Toss lightly to coat and cover with plastic wrap. Let the ribs marinate in the fridge for at least 3 hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Place the spareribs and marinade on a sheet pan lined with foil, and bake for 30 minutes. Flip the ribs and bake them another 15 minutes or so until the meat is tender and the glaze is sticky but not burnt. Sprinkle with sliced scallions. Original recipe says to serve with roasted winter squash, which you can bake alongside the ribs on a separate pan, cut-side down, until tender. Serves 4-6.

Source: Adapted from A Spoonful of Ginger by Nina Simonds.

Local Ingredients:
Ribs: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Butternut squash: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Boooooooooobs!

It’s very convenient that breasts are food-related. That way, when I feel like talking about mine, which is pretty much never, I can do so without breaking theme. In fact, this blog could have been 100% boobs all the time and no one could convict me of exploiting the female form. I really feel I’ve missed out on an important marketing opportunity, not to mention a chance to really connect with my male readership.

I only bring this up because I go for reconstructive surgery tomorrow and posting may be spotty for the next week. In layman’s terms, that means boob job. Yes, I know I’ve made fun of boob jobs several times on this blog that I can recall. Have you noticed that every time I make a joke about something, I then have to go and eat my words in a very humbling fashion? It’s almost like somebody’s trying to teach me a lesson. But that somebody is going to be very distracted from their lesson-teaching when they get a load of my giant new boob!!!

Just kidding. It’s not going to be giant (despite Husband’s enthusiastic lobbying). What the hell am I going to do with one giant boob? Sounds like an awful lot of unwanted attention if you ask me. I know the jury is still out on the long-term health implications of breast implants, and I don’t really consider them to be a fabulous idea, but do you know what I like even less? The constant reminder of cancer. What can I say? Life is just a series of justifications for your hypocritical behavior.

So, to welcome my new bionic boob, I made cookies. Special, celebratory cookies.

The nipples, of course, are optional.

This is a great cookie recipe I pulled from Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life. It’s easy enough for kids to make, it rolls out perfectly for cookie cutters of all shapes and sizes, and the resulting buttery, shortbread-like texture is quite satisfying for all ages. The cream cheese frosting is barely cherry-scented with kirsch, and two drops of red food coloring give it the palest hint of pink, making it perfect for Valentine’s Day. Or, if you’re not the frosting type, roll out the cookies thinner, and sandwich a layer of dulce de leche in between for Argentinian-style alfajores.

And in a few weeks, depending on how things go, I’m thinking I might enact that 100% Boobs All The Time policy on this blog. There will still be food, of course, just food in the vicinity of boobs. Boobs with biscuits. Boobs with soup. Boobs giving away the temperature of all the outdoor shots. I think I’m going to be getting a lot more compliments on my photography. Let the traffic spike begin!

Pink Cookies

You can flavor and color the frosting however you like. Don’t feel limited to the most hideous color known to man.

Dough
3 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted
3 cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Frosting
8 oz. cream cheese, room temperature
6 Tbsp. unsalted butter, room temperature
3 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1¼ tsp. kirsch, or more to taste
Red food coloring

For cookies, combine the butter and sifted powdered sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Beat until light and fluffy, starting out very slowly so the sugar doesn’t fly everywhere, and gradually increasing speed. In a medium bowl, mix together the flour and salt. With the mixer on low, add the flour mixture to the butter mixture, beating until the flour is just absorbed. Add the vanilla and beat well to incorporate. Lay a large sheet of plastic wrap on the counter and turn the dough out onto it. Gather the dough into a ball and press into a thick disk. Wrap well and refrigerator for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. On a clean, floured surface, roll the dough to a thickness of ¼- to ½-inch. (Breaking the dough into two pieces makes it easier to manage.) Cut shapes with cookie cutters or drinking glass. Place the cookies on prepared baking sheets, spacing them an inch apart. Bake one sheet at a time for 16-20 minutes, or until the cookies are pale golden at the edge. Do not allow them to brown. Transfer pan to wire rack and allow cookies to cool completely on pan.

To make the frosting, wash your mixer bowl and paddle. Combine cream cheese and butter in the bowl and beat with the paddle on medium speed until smooth. Add the powdered sugar and beat on low to fully incorporate, then raise speed to medium, beating until there are no lumps, scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber scraper as needed. Add the kirsch and a few drops of red food coloring and beat well. I like the frosting barely pink, but feel free to add more food coloring and kirsch to taste. Spread thickly over cookies. They will keep in the refrigerator for 3 days, and can be frozen. Makes about 2 dozen.

Source: Adapted from Jimmy’s recipe in A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg. I hope he would approve of my interpretation.

Possibly Still Drunk

Today’s post was supposed to be about a pie I made yesterday for National Pie Day. However, my pie came out all soupy-like and so we’ll have to save that recipe for National Soup Day, whenever that is. Anybody?

So instead I’m going to share with you a party idea because I’ve been to two awesome parties in all of 7 days, and it turns out parties are fun!! Which is too bad because I’ve already filled my quota for the year. Oh well.

Last night’s neighborhood party was originally billed as a “Winter Food Festival and Musicale,” which sounded really scary to me, the “musicale” part at least, like I might be required to sing, dance, or some frightening combination thereof, possibly with some sort of squash involvement. I think the last time I did those things together was in the chorus of a middle school production of Annie Get Your Gun in which I was dressed up as an “Indian” and we shan’t speak any more of that incident.

Luckily, when enough people threatened not to show up to last night’s event, the theme evolved into more of a talent show. Or talentless talent show—you decide. You got to pick your “talent,” the sillier the better, but everyone had to take the stage for 60 seconds. Talents ran the gamut from actual talents to “only when you’re drunk” types of talents, but what I learned is: a) humiliating yourself in front of strangers is a great ice-breaker; b) it’s true what they say, that everybody is a unique snowflake carved by space and time in delightfully unpredictable ways; and c) rolling up your rug for the occasion is a good idea unless you want whipped cream spilled all over it.

Some highlights of the night: A hilarious interpretation of “I Cain’t Say No” from Oklahoma!, a tap-dancing demonstration, a poetry reading, magic tricks, a pasta-making demo, an improv stand-up bit, a rousing rendition of “Lonely House” from Street Scene with piano accompaniment, speed-cartooning, beer-tasting, juggling, an unbelievably ballsy male striptease that fell mercifully short of unveiling any actual balls. There was a pavlova-assembly demonstration, complete with a very messy battle between the culinary school graduates to see who could whisk up some whipped cream the fastest. (In the battle between the CIA v. Cambridge School of Culinary Arts, can you guess who won?) One of the hosts even played a round with himself on the recorder, ventriloquist-style. Things wound down with some blues guitar and a lovely version of "Blackbird."

Even I, hardly a showman, managed to pull off a killer card trick. That is, until everyone plied the secrets out of me later on in the evening with alcohol and flattery. At next year’s party, I will fool no one. Oh, and there was food, too. How could I forget? Pot pie and grits and mint juleps. Some sort of yummy pomegranate concoction. Apparently everyone in attendance was multi-talented because the food was excellent, too. So if you want to throw a fun party, I highly recommend something like this.

When in Rome/Russo’s

Last week, I planned to take my Diemand Farm turkey sausage and put it into a lasagna using a recipe my neighbor recommended out of Sunset Magazine. I planned to follow the Sunset recipe as written even though it called for cottage cheese instead of ricotta. It wouldn’t kill me to try it, right? My neighbor has good taste.

So I went to Russo’s to procure my local cottage cheese, which I did, but as I was leaving the refrigerated section, something caught my eye. A metal tin of ricotta piled high to overflowing like a muffin top, plastic wrapper stretched and rubber-banded comically over the bulge. Boston.com had an article last month about the best food finds of 2009, and in it they mentioned a ricotta that’s made in Hamden, Connecticut, practically right down the street from where Nonni lives. They mentioned that Russo’s stocked it. Whoa! A cheese at Russo’s that I haven’t tried? Impossible! I knew they carried ricotta from Purity (MA) and the Mozzarella House (MA) and Maplebrook Farm (VT), but I had never seen the brand they mentioned: Liuzzi Angeloni. Well, there it was right in front of me, plain as day.

Me: Buy the ricotta.

Me: No, we’re trying cottage cheese this time. It’s already in the cart.

Me: Put it back and get that ricotta.

Me: No, you already know what ricotta tastes like in lasagna.

Me: Yes. Delicious. There’s no improving it.

Me: I’m walking away.

Me: Stop, you idiot. You forgot the ricotta.

Me: I can’t hear you.

Me: Wait. Stop…YOU’RE A DISGRACE TO YOUR PEOPLE!!!

It’s useful to talk to yourself at Russo’s so everyone gets the hell out of your way. Remember that tip. So anyway, I did walk away without the ricotta. Can you believe that? Yeah, me neither. Now for Part 2 of the story.

I was seething all day long about it, my lack of delicious ricotta, to the point that I couldn’t even bring myself to make the lasagna that night or the next day. The day after that, however, I dropped the kids off at their respective schools, then sort of blacked out, and when I came to, someone was ramming their cart into my hip over and over. Yup, you guessed it. I was back at Russo’s planted in front of the cheese fridge. And there was one container left! I assume I paid for it. I’m not really sure because I rushed home to make lasagna, and it was…

Ahhhhhhh. That ricotta was soooooo good. I think the moral of this story is that I wasn’t meant to put cottage cheese in my lasagna.

A Lesson in Dinosaur Social Dynamics

While playing dinosaurs the other morning, the Preschooler was orchestrating a conversation between a triceratops and a stegosaurus in which they compared their various types of armor and the plants they liked to eat. When they ran out of things to talk about, he decided to introduce a T-Rex to the mix.

Me: Uh-oh. A Tyrannosaurus? Is he going to play nice?

Him: Yes.

Me: But what if he’s hungry? Won’t he eat the stegosaurus or the triceratops?

Him: No. He’ll eat a different dinosaur.

Me: Oh, yeah?

Him: He’ll eat a parasaurolophus instead.

Of course. Fill up on parasaurolophus, the chips and salsa of the dinosaur world. A main course of stegosaurus asado or triceratops rellenos would never cross his mind. Looks like the beginning of a beautiful, albeit short-lived, friendship.

Buy 1, Get 1 Free

Ah, the lure of the sale. Fixed-income grandmothers everywhere can’t resist its siren song, as evidenced by the following conversation with Nonni over the weekend:

Her: Do you eat grape jelly?

Me: I’ve been known to.

Her: Here, take these home.

Me: No, you keep them.

Her: I can’t eat it.

Me: Then why did you buy so many?

Her: They were on sale.

Me: …

Her: Buy one, get one free.

Me: But…it’s not free if you can’t eat it.

Her: (looking at me like I’m crazy)

Oh well. Who am I to condemn the ways of a near-century-old human?

It’s free to me!

Grapefruit Mimosas

Thank you all for coming to my New Year’s Eve potluck. It was awesome! I especially enjoyed the F*ck You Fondue, Why-Didn't-Anyone-Tell-Me-I-Had-Celiac-Disease French Toast, “Busted Knee” Leg o’ Goat, Menopause Hot & Cold Soup, Torturilla Chips and Guantanamole, and Crazy Momma Biscotti. See the comments for the rest of the offerings. Oh, and sorry I threw up in your car afterwards. That’s just my way.

In the unlikely event that you have any champagne leftover that I didn’t find and then drink, here’s a cocktail recipe for your brunchtime pleasure: grapefruit juice, tequila, elderflower liquor, topped off with a bit of bubbly. What’s wrong with a little cocktail first thing on a Monday morning? I hear companies are really loosening up about employees showing up plastered to work in 2010. All right, fine, I am trying to get you fired so I can take your job! Shhhhhh. A few more sips won’t hurt. You’re taking the train anyway.

Jalisco Flower
Since there’s no simple syrup in this, pick a grapefruit with a tartness you can tolerate. White grapefruit if you like things on the sharper side, ruby red if you prefer them sweeter, pink grapefruit for something in between.

1 oz. freshly squeezed grapefruit juice
¾ oz. elderflower liqueur (like St. Germain)
½ oz. reposado tequila
3 oz. champagne, prosecco, cava, or sparkling wine

Pour first three ingredients into an ice cube-filled cocktail shaker and shake vigorously. Strain into champagne flute (or travel mug) and then top with champagne. Serves 1.

Source: Adapted from Organic, Shaken and Stirred by Paul Abercrombie.

You’re All Invited

I’m looking ahead to 2010 with great anticipation, and it’s going to be very hard to keep me sober on the eve of it. To usher out this crap-tastic year and escort in something better (much better), I’m throwing a virtual New Year’s Eve party and you’re all invited. You don’t even have to cancel your existing plans as it all takes place right here in the all-you-can-eat banquet hall of your mind.

The theme is Fuck 2009! It would be potluck, of course, because I’m not actually very good at throwing parties, real or virtual, and everybody could bring a dish that symbolized their particular hard knocks of the year. Partaking in the feast would be like participating in a delicious, communal exorcism. I wouldn’t even force you to use local ingredients, though there might be something in it for you if you do. You never know.

We’d set up tents on one side of the hall and let the kids go all Lord of the Flies over there while we civilized adults engage in similarly vicious but slightly more veiled mind games having to do with who gets the last slice of chocolate chestnut torte and whether or not the person tasked with mixing drinks is making them strong enough. Have no fear, there will definitely be a fry-o-later and a grill on hand. This is my party after all. Oh, and we’ll need a good blues band. Maybe during their break, people could get up and tell funny stories about this calamitous year. Not me, though. Nothing makes me want to throw up more than public speaking, and I think I’ve already paid my dues in that respect.

Then we’d all boisterously count down the seconds until midnight (maybe sans Dick Clark, though—we’re trying not to be depressed, remember?), and then I’d kick everybody out five seconds later because I need my beauty rest. Sound like the awesomest time ever? I thought so.

RSVP ASAP with the dish you’re bringing. Some ideas:

“My Heat Got Shut Off” Vichyssoise
Laid-Off Deviled Eggs
Repo Potato Skins (potato skins stripped of their cheese, bacon, sour cream, chives, etc. by someone who shall remain nameless)
Kidney Stone Soup
Store-Brand Spaghetti with Blighted Tomato Sauce
Roasted Loin of Infected Swine with Sour Grape Conserve
Chapter 11-Bean Chili
90-Days-Late Sauerkraut (I have dibs on this one)
Foreclosure Flan
“At Least I Have My Health” Deep-Fried Snickers Bars

C’mon, clever readers. You can do better than this. Watcha got?

Scenes from Christmas

Christmas went without a hitch this year. No disasters to speak of, I’m sorry to report. St. Nick managed to cram himself down our tiny chimney right on schedule to deliver the goods to the children. He took some liberties with the fudge, I noticed, making short work of what we left for him on the mantle and then dipping into my secret stash in the refrigerator (he really is always watching, isn’t he?). You can imagine my reaction when I found the empty pans strewn about in the snow, reindeer footprints all around. I’m willing to let it slide, however, in the spirit of Christmas.

Husband and I kept our gifts to each other to a minimum. We didn’t want to end up in a Gift of the Magi-type situation wherein I relinquish my most precious asset, my gorgeous, flowing hair, only to find out that the measly ¾-inch growth I've accumulated will barely get you enough loose change to buy one and a half fishing lures to replace the dozens that have gotten caught in various trees over the years, not by Husband. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, he would have pawned off his fishing pole to buy me a truckload of barrettes or whatever you call those things that keep your hair out of your eyes. To which I would respond, in language befitting an O. Henry character, “WTF? You know I’m physically incapable of accessorizing.”

My in-laws came over Christmas morning bearing Hole-in-One doughnuts and other goodies. I didn’t knock myself out too much with the meal this year. Just a laid-back brunch with bacon from Chestnut Farms, fresh fruit, and a goat cheese-artichoke strata. Oh, and grapefruit mimosas, but that’s for another post. No spiral hams taking forever to cook or ducks to be trussed or husbands to make vomit. Nope, just a casserole made the night before and shoved into the oven amidst a flurry of wrapping paper (made only slightly more challenging by hastily deployed Lego minefields everywhere). Later on, once food coma set in and everyone cleared out, I took a three-and-a-half-hour nap. That was my Christmas present to myself. I thought baby Jesus would approve.

And that, my friends, was Christmas. How about you?

Goat Cheese-Artichoke Strata
This one’s for my mother-in-law. It’s a good use of leftover cheese from the cheese plate you might have served on Christmas Eve.

1 1-lb. loaf sourdough bread, crusts removed if thick
3 garlic cloves, unpeeled
18 oz. marinated artichoke hearts, drained, 3 Tbsp. or marinade reserved
2 tsp. minced fresh thyme
¾ lb. goat cheese, crumbled
¾ lb. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
8 large eggs
2½ cups half-and-half or milk
1 tsp. salt
¾ tsp. black pepper
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter a deep 9- to 10-inch baking dish.

Cut bread into 1-inch cubes. Transfer cubes to a baking sheet, along with cloves of garlic, and toast for about 25 minutes, stirring once or twice, until bread is golden brown and lightly crisp. (Or you could use stale bread and toast the garlic separately.) Peel the garlic, smash the cloves, and add to a medium bowl. Slice the artichoke hearts about ½-inch thick and add to the bowl. Mix in the thyme.

In the baking dish, arrange half of the bread, artichoke mixture, and cheeses, then finish with another layer of each. Whisk the eggs with the half-and-half, salt, pepper, and reserved artichoke marinade. Pour custard over the strata. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours or overnight. In my case, I did this Christmas Eve so I could just pop it in the oven Christmas morning.

Remove the strata from the fridge a half hour before you plan to bake it. Preheat oven to 350°F. Drizzle olive oil over strata and bake for 50-55 minutes, until golden brown, puffed, and lightly set in the center. Serve hot.

Source: Adapted from A Real American Breakfast by the Jamisons.

Blizzard Boy Strikes Again

The First Grader turns 7 this week, but we had his party over the weekend. Naturally, a big snowstorm came through that day. Husband was busy finishing up the birthday cake, so I went outside to shovel out some parking spaces. I’m glad I can just copy and paste this same blog entry year after year after year.

Luckily, our friends have caught on and started making secret reservations at their local ski lodge for whatever day the party invitation says. Then they call us up that morning to say they’re totally snowed in, won’t be leaving anytime soon, that’s for sure, barely hanging up before the ski lift deposits them at the top of the powdery slopes.

It may not snow all year, but it always snows on the day we celebrate the birth of our eldest son. He even made the front page of the Boston Herald on Christmas Day 2002 for being born while a sizable nor’easter was bearing down upon us.

(He's the one in the middle. Don't be fooled: he's not sleeping, he's concentrating intently on mobilizing giant weather systems.)

I just assumed kids were born during snowstorms all the time. I didn’t realize this was a sneak preview of his unique superpower. Over the years, Blizzard Boy would prove to have uncanny control over the weather, able to whip the winter winds into a frenzy, dump massive amounts of precipitation onto the surrounding areas, and, perhaps more importantly, enjoy mixing crushed-up candy bars into softened vanilla ice cream anytime of year, even when Dairy Queen isn’t open. (Fear not, Public at Large, he only uses his powers for good, not evil.)

We always manage to have a respectable turnout despite the weather. The parking spaces I clear on the street, while never big enough for actual cars once the plows are through with them, are usually big enough for sled-only parking for the locals. But you know the only reason I bring up these parties is an excuse to show you Husband’s latest cake. This year’s theme was Bakugan. You know, those little plastic balls that get rolled onto magnetic cards that then trigger all these little spring-loaded arms, legs, and horns to explode out of them.

This is Spin Dragonoid all folded up. But Husband designed it so that when you blow out the candles, color-coordinated marzipan appendages shoot out of the cake in three dimensions like a pop-up book. Unfortunately, my camera ran out of charge right at that moment, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

Take that, Neighborhood Dads!

Last Raffle Winner

And the winner of The Devil’s Food Dictionary is…Alexis!

Wow, I couldn’t have rigged that any better if I tried. Alexis is the reigning champion of codeSparrow so far, and I was worried that I’d have to come up with some kind of prizes for that site, too. And I’m running out. We’re down to just my sauerkraut at this point and, given how tasty it came out this time (finally), I’m hard-pressed to share. Plus, is it gross to eat somebody else’s sauerkraut? I hope not since we had our neighbors over last weekend for a sauerkraut bake with pork chops and brats and, now that I think about it, I haven’t heard from them since. Hello?

Anyway, thanks to everyone for participating. I wish I had something for each of you. And thanks to Husband for policing the whole raffling process. He’ll make an honest woman out of me, yet. Maybe.

Suddenly UnScrooge-Like, Part 3

Up for grabs in our next and final raffle is a brand new (dare I say autographed?) copy of one of the best food books out there, if truth and factual accuracy mean nothing to you. I’ve written about The Devil’s Food Dictionary: A Pioneering Culinary Reference Work Consisting Entirely of Lies before, and I likely will again. I will continue to write about this book until it takes its rightful place on shelves alongside (maybe even in front of) Ruhlman and Bourdain and Fisher. An excerpt:

fig Known as "Nature's racy metaphor," the fig is a luscious tree fruit that, at its ripest and most succulent, has a disreputable air of wantonness and sensuality. Figs can be dried into a tasty, durable snack food or incorporated, either dried or fresh, into works of fiction. Adam and Eve are said to have employed fig leaves to "cover their shame" after their expulsion from Eden. Sometime later, their son Cain murdered his brother Abel after the latter publicly joked that a whole leaf was not necessary to cover Cain's shame, but merely a single fig.

See? It’s good, wholesome fun for the whole family!

You may remember author Barry Foy as the guest poster extraordinaire who introduced us to his canned bean CSA over the summer. I came along to his Toot Hollow Farm CSA pickup last fall down a long, long, very long asphalt road in the middle of nowhere, pepper spray hidden in my pocket and firmly in my grasp the whole time, and, let me tell you, it was a delight! Really, you smell it before you see it.

Anyhoo, he just did a book signing thing out in Seattle as well as a radio interview that was pretty funny. If you’d like a chance to win this book, I’ll meet you down there in the comment section.

Cookie Cutter Winner

And the winner of the train cookie cutter raffle is...Susanna!

Happy cookie-making! I’ll be in touch.

To ease the blow for the rest of you, here are some of my favorite cookies and cookie-like confections for the holidays that I’ve posted over the years. None require cookie-cutters.

Chocolate chip cream cheese cookies

Pignoli cookies

Blondies

Seven-layer cookies

Penuche

Raisin cheesecake cookies

Anginettes

Bambury tarts

There’s one more giveaway left, and then it’s back to our regularly scheduled Scrooge-like behavior.

Suddenly UnScrooge-Like, Part 2

The last raffle went well. Only 57 people hate me now.

Next up is a set of train-themed cookie cutters for your holiday baking pleasure. They’re courtesy of Ann Clark, a Vermont company that specializes in handcrafted cookie cutters in all different shapes and sizes. You can check out the rest of the inventory here (I like the cardinal and acorn ones, too). Do you know where your cookie cutters came from? Hopefully, not China.

So, if you have kids, are a kid, know kids you have to buy for, like cookies, eat cookies, eat cookies on trains, or anywhere else for that matter, leave a comment on this post. I will then write the names on little slips of paper, roll out some cookie dough, bake the cookies, insert the papers fortune-cookie-style, hop aboard a train, start eating cookies, and when the train conductor comes by and asks me for my ticket, which I won’t have, I’ll offer him a cookie instead. And the name inside that cookie will be the winner. Okay?

Get going.

Cookbook Winner

And the winner of the 5 Spices, 50 Dishes raffle is…

Amanda!

Congratulations! I hope you love it as much as I do. I’ll be in touch by e-mail. Don’t put your address in the comment section unless you want lots of hate mail.

Everyone else, stay tuned for more free stuff.

Suddenly UnScrooge-Like, Part 1

You’re such awesome readers. Not just because you visited codeSparrow like I asked, and some of you even played, but also need I remind you of the kind of content you’ve been subjected to over the years on this here blog and yet you still come back. Why? No one knows. So, I’m getting into the holiday spirit by raffling off some free stuff. See? I love you guys, whoever you are.

First up is a brand new copy of the Indian cookbook, 5 Spices, 50 Dishes by Ruta Kahate. It’s the cookbook I’ve used the most this year. I haven’t made everything in it, yet, but pretty close. The stir-fried cabbage is to-die-for, not to mention the railway potatoes, spice-rubbed lamb chops, chickpea curry with dill, sweet potatoes with ginger and lemon, beets with mustard seed, lentil rice pilaf, creamed farmer greens, red onion raita…I could go on.

As the title suggests, you only need five spices to make all the dishes, most of which you probably already have (cumin, coriander, cayenne, turmeric, mustard seed). That makes it a good gateway into the world of Indian home-cooking without having to commit to any other expensive spice relationships. I just reduce the amount of cayenne by half for my wussy, post-chemo taste buds. The other great thing about this cookbook is how many vegetable dishes there are, so if you’re in a CSA and looking for ideas, you can pretty much always find something. Oh yeah, and the recipes are relatively uncomplicated.

I thought you might enjoy it, so I contacted Chronicle Books and they generously offered to donate a book to one lucky reader. Since my copy is all splattered and singed with a broken binding from being flung all over the kitchen in a frenzied manner, I’m half-tempted to switch them out and give you the crappy one. But that would be Scrooge-like of me. I’m going for the opposite of Scrooge-like. Therefore, you will receive a pristine book with which to work your own singed, splattered magic.

To be entered in the raffle, simply comment on this post about anything, anything at all, whatever’s on your mind, before my next post goes up, which will probably be on Thursday. Then I’ll put all the names into a mixing bowl with those five spices and see which one tastes the best. Just kidding. I’ll have Husband pick the winner so you can get mad at him, not me, if you lose. I have a few other things to give away in the next few weeks, so don’t worry if you miss out this time.

Ready, set, go!

My Latest Get-Rich-Quick Scheme

Can you guess what it is?

Another blog! Not just another blog, but a blog with “advertising potential.” Possibly. You know, once it has “readers.”

Anyway, it’s not about food or cancer. I’m branching out. It’s called codeSparrow and how it works is I, disguised as a clever and discerning bird, pick out my favorite tweets (i.e., quips from Twitter) and encode them into a cryptogram. Then you, or whoever, with your masterful grasp of the English language, solve the code and hopefully giggle instead of unfollowing me.

Why, might you ask, would anyone want to struggle to decode something that they could read on Twitter in its original form in under 1 second? To answer your question, I pose two questions of my own: 1) Is everything in life supposed to be easy? and 2) Do you know how many tweets you have to read to get to the entertaining ones? A lot. A real lot.

I love cryptograms and I know other people do, too, not just the 80-year-olds I hang out with. I’m hoping that amateur cryptography is like knitting in that you don’t know how many other knitters are out there until somebody starts a blog and then suddenly there are millions of knitters everywhere, not just your mom, but also your neighbor, as well as half the people who shop at Russo’s, even the sports bloggers have a knitting page, and, come to find out, even I, the world’s least crafty person, still remember how to do hairpin lace 20 years after my mom showed me how and could definitely produce some sort of drafty scarf if pressed by terrorists. Who also have knitting blogs.

So, I hope I can coax you guys away from your knitting to at least check it out, maybe compliment me on my bird drawing, which took about 112 tries. And, no, I don’t plan on putting ads on Food on the Food. I mean, unless things get really desperate around here. Like if you see me on the sketchy side of Moody St. wearing sparkly eye shadow and an unflatteringly low-cut top. Then you might see some low-budget advertising. Featuring me in sparkly eye shadow and an unflatteringly low-cut top.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving this year was less eventful than last year. However, that was only because the iron I left on while we were out of state for two days wasn’t close enough to anything flammable to set the house on fire, thank god. I guess I was too distracted by checking the oven 45 times before we left to make sure it was off to venture into the other rooms in the house. This is why I keep my ironing to a minimum.

Forty-eight hours earlier, far away from the blazing iron, Thanksgiving dinner with my dad and Nonni (now 91) was cozy and pleasant. This despite the very recent shadow of a rather significant death in the family from a rather significant disease (I’ll give you three guesses as to the culprit, but you won’t need that many). Still, the easy banter between Nonni and my dad remained more or less intact, like when my dad decided to do some of his laundry at Nonni’s house:

Her: You have some nerve.

Him: I’ll pay you for the water.

Her: The water’s free.

Him: Okay, then go outside and wash my car.

So even though it’s been a rough year for everybody, it seems, there are still plenty of things to be thankful for: a nice meal, family, free water, shelter, life, etc.

Aunt Margaret Ann Donroe Bellafronto
1942-2009

Is Anyone Hiring a Dictionary Editor?

Sometimes kids can boil things down to their best, most essential parts. Take the other night. Husband made his garlicky chicken and broccoli pasta dish. The 4YO, pleased with the dinner offerings that evening, sat down and said he was going to “enjoy” it. Not simply “like” it, but “enjoy” it. He said he hoped that we would enjoy it, too. He was very proud of his new vocabulary. Then he followed it up with, “Enjoy means you have a family, and you like the pasta. That’s what enjoy means.”

Couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Sugar Mama

We’re still working our way through the Halloween candy, if you can believe it. We (the kids, I mean) got an unbelievable amount this year, probably because it was so warm outside that everyone was in a good mood, raining entire bags of candy in the vicinity of outstretched plastic pumpkin buckets.

We’ve been rationing out the loot to the kids if they eat a good dinner: two pieces for them, two pieces for mommy. That means they each get to pick out one for me—their choice—although I have absolute veto power over Smarties, Tootsie Rolls, NECCO wafers, or basically anything that’s not a Snickers, Milky Way, Kit Kat, Twix, Butterfinger, you get the idea. Husband gets an automatic Almond Joy.

As the First Grader was agonizing over what he could possibly spare from his dwindling reserves, the 4YO, who is still unclear on the concept of consequences, handed me a two-pack of peanut butter cups with a smile. Score! Husband looked on in disgust:

Him: (to the First Grader) Watch out. She’ll trick you out of your best candy.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: Notice that she doesn’t deny it.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: She’s got guilt written all over her chocolate-smeared face.

Me: (still chewing) ...

He can say whatever he wants. I know my Miranda rights.

Maybe He’ll Get Free French Fries

Over breakfast the other morning, I was explaining to the kids why we would be seeing a lot more of daddy around the house. I said there wasn’t any more work for him to do at his old job, so he would be looking for a new job. That seemed perfectly logical to the First Grader:

Him: What kind of a job is daddy going to get?

Me: I don’t know. Maybe something the same as what he had before.

(Earnest thinking from the First Grader)

Him: I know what he should be.

Me: What?

Him: A clown.

Now, why didn’t I think of that?