FOOD ON THE FOOD

Upcoming Book Events

I've had a nice little break from book events over the past few weeks, but then I looked at the calendar and realized that winter is almost over. Yes, indeed. Only seven short weeks of fricking freezing weather until the first day of spring. GREAT NEWS! Except that once we hit mid-March, nobody will even be able to entertain the notion of a winter-themed cookbook without feeling the urge to stab the author in the neck with an icicle.

So thank you to everyone who bought WINTERSWEET this fall and winter, especially those of you who bought multiple copies! It is my best work (not counting my kids), and I really appreciate your support. A few more events are coming up in case you haven't been able to get your hands on it. For those of you who don't eat sugar, don't need any more cookbooks, can't spend any more money, are on a diet, don't bake, can't read, don't really like the cut of my jib, this is what I suggest so you can feel good about yourself in the morning: buy the book, read it through, and then regift it next Christmas. Or better yet, Valentine's Day. Who's to ever know? Surely you must know someone who does eat sugar, could use a few more cookbooks, can't spend any more money but would happily spend yours, isn't on a diet, is on a diet but not likely to stay on one, does bake, learned to read, or might actually like the cut of my jib. I'd be willing to bet this book would make that someone very happy.

Here's where you can find me:

Sunday 2/2, 2pm: West Falmouth Public Library, 575 West Falmouth Highway, West Falmouth

Saturday 2/8, 10am-2pm: Wayland Winter Farmer's Market, Russell's Garden Center, 397 Boston Post Road, Wayland

Saturday 2/15, 10am-12pm: Somerville Winter Farmers Market, Center for Arts at the Armory, 191 Highland Avenue, Somerville

Saturday 3/1, 10am-2pm: Cambridge Winter Farmers Market, Cambridge Community Center, 5 Callender Street, Cambridge

Thursday 3/13, 7pm: Barnes & Noble, Shopper's World, 1 Worcester Road, Framingham

Now's your chance to get your very own signed copy and perhaps do a little farmer's market shopping while you're at it. You can also purchase the book through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or your local indie bookstore (e.g., I just signed a bunch of copies for the New England Mobile Book Fair this week).

Snow Day Cookies

Photo by Steve Legato

When the kids were younger—think preschool through first grade—I used to dread snow days. I desperately needed an empty house despite the weather, not only to try to bail the water out of my freelance career, but also to maintain my sanity. And it never failed, snow days always fell on the only two days of the week that I had prepaid for preschool and/or had a deadline. It all seemed like some grand conspiracy.

Now I love snow days. Both kids are old enough to entertain themselves with books and board games and, okay, I loosen up a little on the Wii rules, too. They can play outside by themselves without coming back in every three seconds to have me retuck their mittens into their sleeves and empty all the snow out of their snow pants. We can actually go sledding and not have it end in tears. We can make cookies or doughnuts or snow cones or all three. (Actually, we always did that, but it's a lot less messy these days.)

I know you moms and dads with younger kids are hating me a little right now, but just think—in a couple of years, this too can be yours!

I'm not helping, am I?

Okay. We'll talk later. You're all scaring me with your hateful laser-beam eyes.

In Which I Harness My Inner Drummer

 Over the weekend, we made a short video on how to make one of my favorite healthy winter recipes: black bean and sweet potato chili. Since it's not going to be used for its original purpose, I thought I'd share it here. I've included the outtakes, too, because, let's face it, that's always the best part of any video production.

Editing the footage drew my attention to some of my more annoying cooking habits, one of which you might detect in the first video. If you don't notice it there, you'll definitely notice it in the second. As always, please disregard the gratuitous ass shot on the blooper reel. This time, Husband was to blame. It's kind of becoming my trademark. Also, I might need skin grafts for my mouth.

My Fan Club Starts Today

I was reading an old New Yorker I found at the gym the other day when I came across a tasty little tidbit I just had to share. The article was about George R.R. Martin, writer of the book and TV series A Game of Thrones. I wouldn't necessarily classify myself as a fan—the medieval fantasy storyline has a little too much rape and incest for the average Sunday night at our house, but I'm old-fashioned that way. Still, I'm always curious about my fellow writers, and the story was mostly about how Martin contended with his fans' insatiable appetite for entertainment, specifically the resentful impatience and impossibly high expectations that characterized it.

What interested me most, however, was the following story about one of the first gatherings of his fan club in Philadelphia. Laura Miller writes:

"At that first Brotherhood party, in 2001, a tipsy reveller (this is a crowd that likes to lift a glass) asked Martin to knight him. Martin said, "I can't knight you. You haven't gone on a quest yet!" When his petitioner implored Martin to invent one, he sent the fan and several others off in search of Philly cheesesteaks. When their prize was secured, Martin dubbed the group the Knights of the Cheesesteak. So began the custom of Martin sending fans off in the middle of the night with orders to bring back local street food."

Great Scott! I had no idea that this was one of the perks of being a successful writer! Who cares about fame or royalties when people are always bringing you delicious snacks? (Although I've heard that cheesesteaks aren't really what you want in Philly—what you really want are the pork and broccoli rabe sandwiches from Tony Luke's or DiNic's in the Reading Terminal Market. True fans, take note.)

Fast forward to an event hosted by Martin in Kansas City several years ago:

"It was a brisk night, and as we clustered by a clay fireplace…Martin commanded [some fans] to retrieve barbecued smoked brisket tips. But by the time Martin issued his decree, restaurants had closed. In desperation, the fans rooted through garbage left outside one establishment. Finally, they tried to cook the dish themselves, in a drug-store parking lot. Martin was impressed enough by the effort to dub them the Knights of the Dumpster."

First off, let me just say that I would totally eat Kansas City barbecue from a dumpster. I just want to put that out there should we ever find ourselves in Kansas City. We bloggers-turned-authors can't be too choosy (but food not from a dumpster or drugstore parking lot is always preferable). Just so we understand the order, it should be:

1. Food NOT from a dumpster or drugstore parking lot
2. Food from the dumpster of a respectable eatery
3. Food from a drugstore parking lot
4. Food from the dumpster of a drugstore parking lot

Let's keep this edible quest concept in mind for future book events, shall we? And to avoid any catastrophic late-night restaurant closings, it might be best to start early. Like at the crack of dawn. With doughnuts, perhaps? Like the maple bacon ones from Union Square Donuts in Somerville? Now that would be a true fan!

Photo by Rachel Blumenthal

The Kitchen-Bathroom Effect

We live in a house that's nearly a century old. It has its charms (crown molding, hardwood floors, beautiful built-in cabinets), and it has its quirks (no insulation, drafty windows, a heating system that requires a manual water top-off every few days). One of the quirks of the house is that the downstairs half-bathroom, a later renovation made possible by sealing off the back entryway and converting it into a windowless closet of a room, is unprivately located between our stove and kitchen table. I mean, there's a door and everything, but there might as well not be. The noisy fan may give the illusion of privacy once you're cloistered within, but don't be fooled: everyone can still hear what's going on. If the spirit should happen to move you during dinner, you'd best take your business upstairs.

The other night, we were finishing up our spaghetti dinner. By "we," I mean "I" was finishing up. I'm always the last one done by a good 5 to 10 minutes, during which time I force the kids to remain at the table and give me details about their day. (It's amazing what you can find out when dessert is on the line.) This strategy doesn't work on Husband, however, who in his impatience had disappeared into the water closet.

Twirling my spaghetti, I began to hear some rumbling coming from that direction. The boys looked at each other and started giggling. A brief pause, and then the noises increased in volume and intensity. More giggling. By now, I recognized Husband's trademark theatrics. I paused with my spooled pasta halfway to my mouth while the sounds built up to an unsettling crescendo that defied physics in its interpretation of solid, liquid, and gas. I waited several seconds more to make sure he was done and to try to settle my gag reflex before finally allowing the still-suspended forkful of spaghetti to pass my lips. But then, mid-chew, it started up again, just as zealous as before—if not more so—like the encore of an overeager garage band or the delayed finale of the Waltham fireworks.

His symphony complete, Husband emerged to take a bow and bask in the accolades of the children:

Him: I knew it would be a crowd-pleaser.

Me: It was only 66.6% percent crowd-pleasing.

Him: I think any comedian would take those odds.

Honestly, I'm surprised it took him 11 years to think of it.

Hash Rehash

My fallback plan whenever there's nothing in the house but some ground meat is to make a simple hash with onions and potatoes. It's something I remember my mother making when I was little and something my kids now love, too. In fact, the 11YO loves it so much, he's become rather picky about what's supposed to be an unfussy dish with ever-flexible parameters. Observe:

Him: This isn't as good as last time.

Me: It's a little different. Last time I used sausage. This is ground beef.

Him: The sausage was better. The chunks of meat were bigger. And the potatoes weren't so small. And they were squares.

Me: …

Him: Don't worry, you'll get it right next time!

I'll get it right next time? Looks like someone's going to be learning how to make his own hash in the very near future!

Simple Hash    

If using plain ground beef or pork, I like to add a mashed clove or two of garlic and spices like garlic powder, paprika, cayenne, and maybe a pinch of ground ginger or cloves. Sometimes I'll add some dried thyme, sage, or fennel seeds. You can also season it with Worcestershire sauce, which is what I remember as a kid.

2 tablespoons bacon fat or olive oil
1 lb. ground breakfast sausage or any other ground meat of your choice
2 to 3 medium starchy potatoes, like Yukon gold, unpeeled
1 yellow onion, chopped
Salt, pepper, and Worcestershire sauce to taste

Heat 1 tablespoon of fat in a large skillet and brown the meat, breaking up the pieces into mini-meatball nuggets, about 8 minutes. Transfer to a plate.

Cut the potatoes into large chunks and add them to a blender. Fill with enough water to cover the potatoes. Pulse the motor several times until the potatoes are cut into smallish shards. You're not trying to puree the potatoes, merely chop them small. They smaller they are, the faster they cook. Keep the potato pieces in the water so they don't turn brown. (You could also just chop them instead.)

Heat the remaining tablespoon of fat in the same pan and cook the onions for 4 minutes until they're translucent and lose their crunch. Pour the potato mixture through a strainer over the sink to drain the water. Add the potatoes to the pan and cook, stirring occasionally, for about 5 minutes. Return the browned meat to the pan and add the seasonings of your choice with plenty of salt and pepper. Cook 10 to 15 minutes more until the potatoes are done and everything smells delicious. Serve with some kind of vegetable. Any leftovers made a great pizza topping or frittata filling.

Local Ingredients
Ground beef/sausage: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Onions, potatoes: Waltham Fields Community Farm, Waltham, MA

Say Cheese

Photo by Steve Legato

Here's a nice article in a Vermont newspaper about coming off the sugar parade of the holiday season and enjoying a nice, virtuous cheese plate for dessert instead. The ideas are courtesy of my book WINTERSWEET, which I hope you all have by now (or you've at least put in a request at your local library). Down at the bottom of the article are a few recipes for cheese accompaniments, like balsamic fig paste and port cranberry compote, that won't undermine your New Year's resolutions too much. Maybe just a little. As always, it's a good idea to seek out a few local cheeses to grace your cheese board. That's a no-brainer in Vermont, but it applies here in Massachusetts and many other places, too.

Also, for you southern New England folks, I'll be at the Monte Cristo Bookshop in New London, Connecticut this Saturday 1/11 at 7pm signing books and talking about winter desserts. Samples will be served as well as coffee. Well, something coffee-like at least. That's all I can promise with my traveling coffeepot and second-rate barista skills, but the desserts will be good for sure.

CT people, please spread the word!

Monkey Pajamas

Christmas was a nice, relaxing day during which the boys were inundated with Legos and Magic cards and I was inundated with pajamas. Specifically, red-and-white-striped, monkey-themed footie pajamas.

It was my own horrific version of A Christmas Story, only instead of Ralphie's pink bunny pajamas given to him by his well-intentioned aunt, I was faced with a giant sack made of festive candy-cane-colored fleece with two sock monkeys dangling from the bottom. There was no eccentric aunt to blame, only Husband. Betrayed by my own spouse! I should have known.

To make matters worse, the kids absolutely LOVED the monkey pajamas, and there was no end to the requests for me to try them on. At one point, the two of them were jumping around gleefully singing:

We represent the monkey pajama guild,
The monkey pajama guild,
The monkey pajama guild.
And in the name of
The monkey pajama guiiiiiiiiild…
We wish to welcome you to Munchkinland!

Embrace the monkey pajamas, campaigned Husband. Instead, I stuffed them as far down into the gap between the couch cushions as they would go (not very far), and then feigned important business in the kitchen. I have a hard enough time getting people to take me seriously in my own house. I don't need to be walking around wearing ridiculous one-piece monkey-pajamas.

Later on after lunch, as I was napping on the couch, the 11YO came over and whispered in my ear: You'd be so much warmer in your monkey pajamas!

Sure, yeah, if you count shame-based hotness. I blindly batted him away. My dreams were tormented by mischievous monkeys.

After dinner and much cajoling, I finally promised the children I would try on the monkey pajamas. And then the pajamas would be returned. As soon as the stores opened the next day.

I emerged in full-blown monkey mode to much hooting and hollering and carrying on. The kids were so enthusiastic, I threatened to buy them their own set of monkey pajamas. They continued undeterred. A few minutes later, the 11YO found me brushing my teeth in the bathroom wearing my usual boring pajamas. He took note of my utter lack of candy stripes and monkeyless feet. As he turned to walk away, he lingered a second to say, in the most perfect deadpan: You disgust me!

I sprayed toothpaste all over the bathroom.

Still, the monkeys had to go. Except I was too lazy to leave the house the next day. Or the day after that. Then, after a fun New Year's Eve with too much wine, beef bourguignon, and goat cheese cake with dried cherry compote (WINTERSWEET, page 194), I woke up on New Year's Day and guess what I was wearing?

Monkey pajamas.


I guess the moral of this story is: One never knows what the new year may hold! (Or maybe the moral is: People really like monkeys.)