Suzy Says

Yesterday, Megan met up with Lu in Mendocino. I was planning to make dinner* at Meg’s house that evening, and she called me from town to see if there were any last-minute ingredients I needed.

She called me from Lu’s phone, though, because her own had decided to jump suicidally into a public toilet.

Lu, in the next stall, heard Meg’s vocal despair and asked what was wrong. When she heard what it was, she said, “You’re on your own, kid.”

You really are in a situation like that.

Meg retrieved it, dried it off, and treated it with hand sanitizer that she always carries with her, just for occasions like this. Lu reminded her to remove the battery.

I’m sorry to say I laughed when my sister called me and told me about her potty phone.

On the bright side, they were able to assist at a car accident until the ambulance came. Nothing gladdens the heart of an off-duty EMT more. And they demoted my brother to traffic duty at the scene, which made it even more fun. When he arrived for dinner, bearing home-made cinnamon rolls, the first thing he said was, “Hey, you bogarted my call!”

I made chicken with cornmeal dumplings, and we had wine and talked. It was great having Lu there. Her schedule makes it really hard to get together, but now she’s convalescing from her ankle injury, we get to see her more often. She had just had a “cold laser” treatment, which magically removed the swelling and made it much easier for her to walk. Amazing.

As I walked home with my bag – when I go to my sister’s house, I pack an extra sweater, and a flashlight, along with any ingredients needed, borrowed books, Tupperware, etc.** – my flashlight spotlit June, who walked me home under the stars.

*We usually decide what to make by comparing the contents of our refrigerators, freezers and pantries and going from there. The dish with the least ingredients to buy and/or the easiest to make is the winner. Though sometimes we try new things. It’s always more fun together.

**My dream is to have one of those Radio Flyer red wagons to carry things in. But they’re surprisingly expensive. And anyway they’d probably flip over on the puddled, rutted dirt driveway. But a girl can dream, especially at night.

Exhibit A

Thursday night is my turn to make dinner.

Megan finishes her three, 12 hour night shifts on Thursday morning, so she’s too tired to dream up or whip up dinner. I have to say I’m really glad to take that small burden from her.

I usually start thinking about what to make on Thursday on Sunday afternoon. I look through my collection of recipes and my Dad’s, and if I don’t find inspiration there, I turn to Sunset and Epicurious. I love Sunset because it’s written for a Western audience and knows what’s in season here. And Epicurious has recipes from many magazines, including Gourmet and Bon Appetit, all in one place.

Yesterday’s inspiration for shrimp chowder came from Epicurious, and you can find the recipe here. I left out the fennel seeds, thinking it would be too much, and added the red pepper flakes. I substituted half and half for the heavy cream. It was a big hit. I served it with a simple salad of curly endive and radicchio (in the newly-rediscovered wooden salad bowl my parents used when I was a kid) along with a salad dressing I made with garlic, seedy mustard, olive oil, red wine vinegar, black pepper, and tarragon. Add in a loaf of ciabatta from Costeaux bakery, and dinner’s ready!

As good as dinner was, it was what happened after dinner that was really wonderful.

Audrey climbed up onto my sister’s lap, put her arms around Megan’s neck, and fell asleep with her face cuddled up to Megan’s. She stayed there for at least an hour. In the meantime, Henry Etta had curled up* next to me and fallen asleep. Audrey slowly drooped down my sister’s arm while she slept, her face eventually coming to rest against Henry’s back. She stayed like that for a while, then got up, stretched, and curled up next to Henry Etta (see above). They were actually touching!

This is a first, and I hope it’s not the last. Henry Etta is always cold, and it would be nice for her fragile old bones to cuddle up to warm, strong Audrey.

And speaking of old cats: you’ll be glad to hear that Gertie has moved in with Rose’s daughter and is doing well.

*This is a big step forward. She used to just huddle anxiously, even in her sleep, ready for takeoff if anything happened. Also I can now pet her in her sleep without getting clawed.

In the night garden

On Friday night, Megan made her famous Chicken Makhani (Indian butter chicken) and naan (finally using the pizza stone). If you want Indian food up here, you have to make it yourself, and Megan has it down pat. I helped her as best I could, but I mostly got in the way. I was useful for opening wine, though.

After dinner, we left Rob happily watching the original Star Trek*, undoubtedly enjoying the peace and quiet after the gabbling girls decamped to my garden.

It was still mysteriously warm, so we sat by the chiminea with our glasses of wine under a galaxy of stars. We left the sliding glass doors open so we could listen to music outside. The cats were thrilled to be allowed out – much like little kids staying up late on special occasions – and we had the outside lights on at the back and side of the house. We figured they’d be safe with the fire, lights and music.

When we were ready to go in, I lured them in with treats. It was the first time they’d had them since we moved, and they went nuts, especially Henry Etta. Lately I’ve been letting them out after dinner if they want to, as long as they’re back by bedtime. You know how kids need curfews. I’ve also started letting Audrey out when she wakes me up and then going back to bed. Today it was 4:30 am. She didn’t come back until after 9:00. I have a feeling that I’m not going to see her much once summer comes.

*Having now seen a couple of episodes, I finally understand the appeal for high school nerd boys. There seems to be an endless supply of babes in tight and/or revealing outfits with fabulous hairdos. What’s not to love?

The sky was grey and depressing today. There are a lot more grey days up here, and a lot more rain, and this tends to dampen my spirits along with the ground. Even yesterday’s early violet turned to overcast skies. I think we should invent some kind of festival requiring lights and sparkliness and maybe even fireworks to get us through the gloomy hibernal months after the holidays are over and you can no longer eat candy and drink with impunity any time of the day or night.

My brother dropped by yesterday to borrow a couple of movies, and pointed out that I could have left the Christmas lights up if I wanted to. It hadn’t even occurred to me to do that, since yesterday was Twelfth Night and that’s when we traditionally took down our decorations when I was a child. I still think it’s bad luck to take them down on any other day, and given the family curse, I’m not willing to tempt bad luck. Especially since I’m still injury-free so far this year. I even managed not to burn myself on the oven when I put the scalloped potatoes in for dinner tonight.

I make the potatoes the way my mother’s mother did. I couldn’t tell you what the recipe is or the amounts of the ingredients. Megan was fascinated to watch me put together the layers, always in a certain order, and asked me why. The answer was that it was the way Nana always did it. It’s the same reason that I crimp the edges of pies against my fingers and then cut a design in the crust showing what’s in it, such as an apple. I wish I’d asked Nana why she did it when I did still had the chance, but I’m still part of the tradition that was handed down to her. I love that feeling.

Jonathan gave Megan a pizza stone for Christmas. In spite of our usual “no gift” rule, if you see something someone would want/love, it’s OK to get it. No reciprocation needed. It’s all in keeping with our guilt-free Christmas.

I knew the big box was from Williams-Sonoma. I recognized the gift wrapping from the days when I had professionals wrap my gifts, partly because of my innate slothfulness and partly because of my total lack of wrapping skills. But we were surprised and delighted to see what was in the box.

Now, I used to have a pizza stone, but since I couldn’t figure out how to get the sticky, topping-laden pizza onto the hot pizza stone in the oven without damage to pizza or Self*, I gave it away before I moved.

Megan thought that she could put cornmeal on the back of a cookie sheet and the pizza would slide off onto the hot stone, but she also experienced stickiness and general recalcitrance on the part of the pizza, and ended up baking it on the cookie sheet. It was still good, but the stone remains untested, and we were hoping the stone would give us the crispy pizzeria-type crust of our delivery-deprived dreams.

Of course, Rob immediately started thinking of ways he could make a pizza peel from found objects, so I’m sure we’ll experience the pizza stone in the near future.

While Megan was struggling with the pizza I was struggling with Key lime pie.

The pie problem was caused by Megan and me modifying a new recipe into a sort of Thai chicken soup. It called for lime juice, but a whole bag of Key limes was less than two dollars, so we got that instead. The obvious way to use up the leftover limes was pie, and Megan already had the recipe. I picked up graham crackers and condensed milk at the local store and got to work.

When I looked more closely at the recipe, I saw that it called for a pre-made crust. I figured it was crushed crackers and butter and maybe sugar, but in what proportions? I consulted Epicurious.com and found an easy-looking recipe. I started to crush the crackers by hand, but it soon became apparent that this was not one of the best ideas I ever had.

I went to the studio/pantry to look for my food processor. While I was at it, I located the components of the electric juicer. I like to make my expeditions to my house’s Arctic as productive as possible.

The food processor was a big improvement. Once I had the crust in the oven, I turned my attention to the filling. You wouldn’t believe how many teeny limes it takes to make two teaspoons of zest.

Then it was time to juice the limes. They turned out to be inconveniently small for the pointed part of the juicer and kept sliding off. This in turn made the juicer slide around the counterette (it’s too small to be called a counter), so I had to try and hold it down with one hand while attempting to juice the limette with the other.

You wouldn’t believe how many limettes it takes to make 1/3 cup of juice.

By this time, the crust was done and I put it into the refrigerator without burning myself on the oven. Score! The recipe says to chill the crust thoroughly before putting in the filling, but then you put it back in the oven, so why does it need to be chilled?

Once I had the juice and zest ready, I opened the can of condensed milk. I was immediately horrified. Dairy products other than cheese and ice cream disgust me, so you can imagine the dismay with which I regarded the sticky, gelatinous goo that oozed forth from the can of horror.

I mixed the frightful mess together with egg yolks, an egg, the zest and the juice, then poured it into the sort of chilled crust and put it in the oven for 20 minutes.

Obviously, you don’t want it to brown, but how can you tell if it’s done? I hoped for the best when I took it out of the oven. It was kind of jiggly, but I figured the eggs would finish cooking at room temperature. It seemed to be fine once it had cooled, and there were no crust issues caused by lack of chilling, so I still don’t know why you’re supposed to do that.

I’ve eaten a lot of Key lime pies over the years, but now that I know what’s in it, I never want to eat it again. I did take a taste though, and concluded that it needed more labor-intensive juice and zest. But everyone else loved it, and the whole thing’s been eaten by now.

Ignorance is bliss, my friends!

*I’m pleased to report that I’ve been injury free for four days and counting this new year!

Yesterday Megan had a long day, so I volunteered to make dinner. I decided to make a couple of recipes I picked up in Florence: chicken breasts with fresh sage* and lemon-herb risotto, because we had most of the ingredients on hand. I commissioned Meg to pick up the others: mint and Parmesan.

Around 5:30 I headed over to her house, flashlight in hand. The heavy fog danced in the light beam as I walked down the dirt driveway. As I approached a curve, I saw headlights coming toward me and stood back against the bushes. It turned out to be Megan coming home, and I thought it was funny that we met up like that. She thought I had heard or seen her car and then started over, but it was just a coincidence.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I hadn’t made the recipes for a while, so I had completely forgotten how long it takes to make risotto (which is Italian for “delicious”). Of course I had to pick the slowest possible recipe to make for people who were tired and hungry. I really should have started sooner. I’ll remember next time.

Or not.

*It’s always satisfying to go out and pick herbs from the garden. You can pick as much as you like and not waste any. I can never use up the giant bouquets of herbs from the grocery store before they wilt or rot, and always feel guilty, even when I put the leftovers in the compost.

Christmas cookies

Wow. It’s pouring out there. It’s raining so hard I can hardly hear myself try to think. Between the glass roof on the back porch and the skylight in the bedroom, I feel like I’m under a waterfall.

It’s dark enough to have a light on, and I’ve lit the Christmas lights on the banister:

Here’s my little tree. I thought lights on the tree and the banister above it would be too much, so I just settled for ornaments. Now I kind of wish I’d gotten the lights, and also the light up star shaped topper which was on sale at Rite Aid, but still seemed too expensive at the time.

This is my wreath. I put the ornaments on it and I think it’s cute. It’s on the side/front door.

Yesterday, I helped Megan decorate her tree. It’s a living one, and lives outside, so Rob dragged it over near the sliding glass door* of their living room, so we can see it from inside the house. We put on lights and hopefully rain-resistant ornaments, and it’s beautiful. Pretty soon we’re going to have to haul it to the property and plant it in a place of honor. I think I’ll get a living tree next year, too. At least up here I won’t have to see the depressing sight of trees unceremoniously dumped at the curb the day after Christmas.

We also made Christmas cookies. I can’t even remember the last time I made cookies, but it probably wasn’t during this decade. I found a couple of recipes in the Chronicle which looked intriguing: Russian tea cakes and molasses-black pepper cookies. It was a butterpalooza, I tell you what. Megan made calzones from scratch during the baking process, so the house was toasty and warm.

Later Jonathan came by after work, and we all ate calzones for dinner and enjoyed the sparkling tree, glowing in the darkness.

*It doesn’t actually slide – the house has settled too much. Not that it’s scary or anything. Also it will be really hard to get their furniture out when they move, since the only other door is about half the width of a regular door. And purple.

While I was making egg salad today, it occurred to me that it was basically eggs with egg sauce. Also that it may be the only food which is ever served with, as it were, a sauce of itself. Not just egg salad (eggs being an important part of mayonnaise), but Hollandaise*, too, the most delightful part of any Eggs Benedict or Florentine. If you are a fan of Hollandaise and find yourself in the picturesque town of Fort Bragg, California, go to Egghead’s. Theirs is magically delicious. I love their freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice, too.

I make excellent egg salad, by the way. I’d tell you how, but I never measure anything when I make it. So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

As I sliced and diced, I pondered other culinary conundrums, such as why you always have to buy huge bunches of herbs, like a bridezilla’s bouquet. Wouldn’t it be great if you could buy just what you needed? I can almost never use them up and I always feel guilty, though at least I can put them in the green bin and know they’ll be composted. Maybe other herbs will grow in the leftover herb compost, completing the circle of life.

Another mystery is why the hothouse or English cucumbers always come in shrink wrap, whereas regular cucumbers don’t. Why do the English ones need condoms? I mean, they have their own skin, which should be protection enough. Shouldn’t it?

When you order a dish in a restaurant that has shrimp in it – say, for example, seafood fettucine – why does it always have the tail on? It’s an uncomfortable reminder that the shrimp in question was once swimming happily around, minding its own business, until someone yanked it out of the water and killed it so you could eat it. That makes me feel even guiltier than the composted herbs.

Apart from cruelty to small crustaceans, there is the problem of actually eating the shrimp. You can either pick it up and de-tail it, thereby getting sauce on your manicure, or you can cut it off with a knife, possibly missing out on some shrimpy goodness. It’s a problem, I tell you. At least for those with shrimpy minds.

And if you’ve been wondering what kind of wine to serve with your Cool Ranch Doritos or Krispy Kreme donut – and who hasn’t, really – here’s your answer. Enjoy in immoderation!

*Does “aise” secretly mean “egg-based” in French? Enquiring minds and unreformed linguistics majors want to know.

Yes, Virginia, there really is a hell. And it’s right upstairs!

The thing about my upstairs neighbors is that they are just so generous. Even if it’s 9:00 on a Sunday morning – and a Sunday dedicated to God and Moms (does it get any more sacred than that?) – they are delighted to share their egregious taste in music with anyone within earshot (and your ears will be shot, believe me). Given their propensity for equal volume and bass overdrive, those of you in Indonesia and Outer Mongolia are probably having your ears assaulted right now. If there’s a huge avalanche on Mt Everest or somewhere on either Pole, you’ll know who to blame.

Rita & I eventually tired of being univited guests at Hell’s Disco, and decided to get out for a breath of quiet air. While ambling away from Racketville, we discovered the above item in the Upstairs Disco’s recycling.

Suddenly, it was all so clear.

Changing the subject from those mothers, today I hosted a couple of motherless friends for brunch. Makes the day easier for those of us who are Mom-less, and instead of braving the restaurants with their happy, Mom-celebrating parties, I made Eggs Florentine. I used a mixture of baby arugula and baby spinach, and successfully made my own hollandaise sauce. The addition of the arugula really helped to cut the richness of the hollandaise and brought it all into balance. I am pleased to report that it was enjoyed by all, though conversation was difficult since we were temporarily located inside a giant speaker, but I took the pleased expressions and empty plates as a compliment.

To those of you who have mothers or are mothers, hope you had a fabulous Mother’s Day! And wishing everyone peace and quiet. Send some my way if you got it.

While ambling some errands yesterday (more like practicing my old lady walk, since I kind of overdid the fluff removal the past couple of days), I saw an abandoned glove on the sidewalk. Sleek, dark leather fingers curled toward the sky as if in supplication.

I was immediately reminded of an incident from my now-distant youth:

My father and I were going somewhere in England by train (the destination, I’m afraid, is lost in the mists of time). In those days, there were still corridors in the carriages, and you opened and closed the carriage doors by reaching through the open window of the door and turning the handle.

Just as the train pulled out, a very pretty young lady leaped on board and collapsed into the seat opposite ours. She settled her handbag on her lap, with a glove — and then she looked out the window. There was the glove’s mate on the platform. She flung open the window and gaily tossed the other glove to the platform to join its mate, clearly thinking that whoever found the pair would get some use out of them, whereas the one she had was no good to her at all. She then settled back in her seat, eyes bright and cheeks aglow. The spontaneity and charm of that gesture remains with me still.

Yesterday turned out to be one of those days that seeing Dad’s writing reduced me to a puddle of tears. It’s been almost four years since he died, but there are still days like that when grief jumps out of its lurking place, both surprising and surprisingly intense. Suddenly, you feel as horrible as you did when it first happened.

I was planning to make one of his recipes for dinner, and this one happened to be included as part of one of his weekly letters. The letter was breezy, amusing, and poignant all at once, and whammo! There I was, sobbing over the shrimp.

Here’s the recipe, which I promise will not make you cry. In fact, it will have quite the opposite effect, being as it is, delicious. (Notes in parentheses are mine.)

Shrimp and Artichoke Salad

2 cloves garlic (I tend to use a little more)
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard (I like the seedy kind)
4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons shredded basil
1 red onion, thinly sliced (I find half an onion is enough for me)
12 ounces cooked, peeled shrimp
14 ounce can of artichoke hearts
Lettuce (I use mixed greens)

Coarsely chop the garlic and then crush to a pulp. Mix the garlic and mustard together to form a paste, then beat in the vinegar, and finally, the olive oil. Season with freshly ground pepper. Stir in the basil and onion and let stand at room temperature for half an hour, then stir in the shrimp and chill in the refrigerator for an hour or more. Drain the artichoke hearts and halve each one. Make a bed of lettuce, place the artichoke hearts on it, and spoon the shrimp mixture on top.