Thursday, November 27, 2008

Family meals in concept and in reality invariably have some significance to everyone. Ideally the notion of family meals evokes all sorts of pleasant feelings. Although I have no doubt that some would argue that, having had unhappy or at least, less agreeable experiences. That wouldn’t be surprising since either subject viewed alone, food or family, has great power.
Food gathers my three sisters and me. We all live close enough to each other to be able to meet semi-regularly. In Orange County these days that means not having to drive for over half an hour, at least that what it means to me. When we get together it’s typically for breakfast. Conversation covers a range of topics, the weighty as well as the meaningless (fashion comes to mind). But it always flows easily in the way of families who have come to accept each other as they are and are comfortable with that knowledge. One recent day at breakfast sister Isabel mentioned that her daughter Erin had once commented, “have you ever noticed how in so many of the pictures we have of the family, there’s food”. All of us laughed, and I quipped, yeah - it’s always about the food, isn’t it?
Even though I dismissed it then, thinking how obvious a comment that was, it did get me thinking. So later on I went into my photo albums to do my own “research”. Sure enough, there I am smiling into the camera with my husband out at anniversary restaurant meals. Or with friends at special occasion dinners, or again with my sisters at breakfast or lunch out. There we all are at Mother’s Day celebrations, centered around a buffet, of course. And that’s not even including major holidays which, if Hallmark hadn’t already marketed them would be sponsored by camera makers or food purveyors. Oh wait, they are, aren’t they?
Major holidays bring out the food and foto connection big time. Not only do we take pictures of each other, we take pictures of the food too. so when I think about major holidays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Fourth of July, sure I think of events and family members, but I also remember the food.
Thanksgiving in particular is the food appreciators’ World Series/Oscar Night/Olympics all folded in to one great feast. Media images depict beautifully set tables, loaded with myriad offerings, centered around the roast turkey, or other showy main course. Money is spent, effort is made because great attention is paid. Many of the contributions are the crème-de-la-crème of that person’s culinary repertoire. And, yes, sometimes there is some of that, too.
In times past, when we were all families with young children, my brothers and sisters, seven in all would all get together for Thanksgiving. With young children we were still in the position of controlling their whereabouts, and we were still able to all fit into one house. The rooms were full, kids playing board games or playing outdoors, thanks to our temperate California weather. Husbands and brothers watched endless sports on television, and we women were in the kitchen, ostensibly preparing food.
Since the food mostly had been prepared prior to going there not much had to actually be done so it was a time to be enjoyed. We mostly clustered around the table, drinking wine or other beverages and catching up on our lives. Our table wasn't quite like the idealized pictures in magazines. There was more of a jumble of dishes, but there’s no denying the beauty and attraction of the food. In those days we all had our own specialty to contribute to the annual coming-together feast. I was a relatively new cook in those days. Between attending college classes and raising two kids, I still had managed to read a few recipes that appealed to my sense that food was more than just sustenance. I learned to make quiches in the days when it was declared “real men don’t eat quiche” which was only true until they learned quiches were basically cheese and eggs in pastry. Although for the most part my contribution to family parties and what I came to be known for was quick bread. Zucchini bread, carrot bread, cranberry bread, pumpkin bread and so on. Others also specialized. One sister-in-law brought fabulous flaky-crusted home made pies, another would bring that ambiguously named buffet dish, ambrosia, with mini marshmallows and canned pineapple and tangerines. There was the ubiquitous turkey and potatoes, sweet and otherwise, and various types of salads and side dishes. Usual for us but not as typical were things like chicken in mole sauce, a somewhat spicy Mexican dish customary for family occasions such as this, and “Spanish” rice or as we knew it, arroz. My oldest sister Isabel’s special contribution was a dressing that was a meal in itself, because of the many ingredients and also because it was so good we probably could have just had that and been satisfied. It was a recipe she learned from her husband’s mother early in her marriage which had become a favorite with our family. Thinking back, I now understand that since her children were part of the occasion she included it as her own nuclear family tradition, one to which they were entitled since it came from grandparents from their other side. No matter. I always thought of the dish as being part of our family celebration. It was the best dressing I had ever tasted. Thankfully, it is second nature to make extra for a large group so that no one leaves the table hungry. It soon became apparent that we all wanted more of that fabulous dressing than we could eat there, so in later years Isabel would thoughtfully make extra so we could all take some away, even stocking up on those disposable aluminum pans in which we could carry away and reheat our bonus.
There are so many things to look back upon fondly about those times; children small and as yet untroubled by time. Parents still present and part of daily life, and the feeling of life yet to be lived. Less poignant but gratifying in a different way, I have to say one of the things I miss are those go-packs of that special dressing that were so enjoyable the day after. Combined with a sliced cold turkey sandwich made with white bread, mayonnaise and sliced tomatoes it truly was, ambrosia.

Isabel's Holiday Dressing
Since this is one of those recipes that was passed down by doing, and typically was made in a large quantity, this is an approximation of the original.

½ cup slivered almonds - toasted
1 cup golden raisins soaked in water to soften then discard water
4 oz yellow chilis from a jar & their juice, dice 1 or two, leave the rest whole
and remove after the baking.
8 oz frozen peas-thawed
4 carrots diced-cooked
4 cups chicken broth- enough to moisten the dressing
2 cooked chicken breasts – shredded
2 pickles diced
4 stalks celery sliced
½ lb brown mushrooms sliced
1 large onion diced
½ cup pitted kalmata olives
1 lb small new potatoes, cooked and diced small
1 box bread stuffing mix

Saute the celery, mushrooms, carrots and onions in small amount of olive oil. Combine
with other ingredients in a 9 x 13 baking pan, dot top with butter. Bake at 350 for approx
1 hour or until browned.

Serves 6 -8, depending on appetites

Saturday, November 22, 2008

It's the weekend before Thanksgiving and this time of the year, perhaps not surprisingly, every casual conversation seems to turn to the dinner preparation. I’ve noticed that men more than women frequently have some sort of special way they prepare the turkey. It seems for many, their once-in-the-year time to show off their culinary prowess. Or maybe it’s more of an unconscious throwback to hunting days of old. Although turkeys seldom appear in their natural state in stores in California, still they do look kind of big and game-bird like. The way I've heard it, these days turkeys are deep fried, salted, grilled and jerked, along with the more conventional roasting.

In a recent conversation with friend Tom, he mentioned his turkey preparation which consists of somehow placing the stuffing under the turkey skin, thereby keeping it – turkey and stuffing – moist while it roasts. Tom is the bartender at The Quiet Woman, a Corona Del Mar restaurant and something of a landmark, and this conversation took place over drinks so I can’t be certain of all the details. Suffice it to say that he had a very specific recipe for his Thanksgiving bird.
Conversationally, my contribution was a mention of a side dish I made for last years’ dinner and will prepare again this year because it was so fabulous. When I said root vegetable gratin it got Tom’s attention as he is interested in cooking and although not a strict vegetarian enjoys good veggie preparations. Now he wants the recipe. So here it is for Tom and anyone else that might want it. It’s seasonal, colorful, easy, can be prepared ahead of time through step 1, looks grand and tastes even grander.
And after having it, like with so many of these types of foods, I always wonder why I limit it to the holiday, why not have it all year?


Root Vegetable Gratin
Makes 8 to 10 servings

· 1 pound carrots, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
· 1 pound new potatoes, quartered
· 1 pound parsnips, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
· 1 pound rutabaga, peeled and diced
· 2 tablespoons olive oil
· 1 1/2 teaspoons sea salt
· 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
· 1 cup cream
· 1 cup cubed fontina cheese
· 1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
· 1 tablespoon finely grated Parmesan cheese
· 1 tablespoon breadcrumbs
1. Preheat oven to 400. Place first 4 ingredients into a large roasting pan. Drizzle with olive oil, add sea salt and pepper and toss to coat. Roast vegetables 1 hour 10 minutes or until tender.
2. Transfer vegetable to a lightly greased 13-X-9 baking dish. Stir in cream, fontina, and ½ tablespoon parsley, sprinkly top with parmesan, breadcrumbs and remaining ½ tablespoon parsley. Bake 10 minutes more or until bubbly. Serve hot.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Julia Child and Me

I need to make one thing clear. I am not a groupie by nature. I am not now nor have I ever been a member of a fan club. I will admit to writing an admiring or appreciative letter or two over the years; always to different people and never more than once. And on those occasions only because I believe that if someone is doing something you believe in you should let them know.
But, Julia Child was in a class by herself. If being accomplished wasn’t enough, she seemed like the kind of person you would like to know. For me, that impression firmed up when I saw her on a TV show sharing space with Martha Stewart., that perfectionist/upstart.
Julia, just by being her natural Julia self, stole the show. It was a holiday show, leading up to Christmas and all the special preparations that seem to be required. Both cooks created their particular version of a croquembouche, a holiday confection made up of profiteroles or small cream puffs arranged in tiers in a pyramid shape to resemble a Christmas tree. The profiteroles from each were fairly similar. It was the final assembly that differed. And it couldn’t be more different! Martha’s creation was stacked with geometric precision into a perfectly shaped inverted cone. Julia’s may well have been tossed on from across the room, so casually was it assembled. It approximated a tree shape but with nowhere near the exactness of Martha’s construction. The finish to that dessert is typically a caramel coating that serves to hold it all together as well as providing the signature crunch. Julia finished hers off with some trailing ribbons of snow-like icing, then moved on to other things. Martha continued to embellish her confection with colors and fanciful décor. Even the plate it rested on had to be a certain style and positioned just so. In my imagination I saw Julia out of camera range and already digging into hers, perhaps with a glass of champagne.

My appreciation of this woman wasn’t just based on small remote glimpses, or even on her fabulous cooking mastery And as compelling as her life story was, of a plain American girl that became a war correspondent and then went on to challenge the male-dominated world of gastronomy, that wasn’t the reason I held her is such high regard. Well not the only reason anyway. Mostly my admiration was because here was a woman who had found her passion in mid-life, worked hard at it and carried it off so fully. That her version of this involved food, rather than say, the Iditarod, just endeared her even further. We can all relate to food.

And unlike many celebrities or others in high positions Julia was available. I felt I knew her, perhaps not as a friend, maybe more as an acquaintance. We had attended the same Saturday farmers market and exchanged comments over the tomatoes, after all.
And I can even say we have dined together; or at least at the same time in the same restaurant, the eponymous William, a lovely small place in Santa Barbara.
I spoke with her then, not in a typical breathless admiring exchange one might have with other types of celebrities, but a regular conversation relating to that night’s dinner selection and how we each liked our choices. (She and my husband Steve both had the lamb -hers was a little dry- she said to us)
She was gracious. She was real. She was a brilliant example of a life well lived and enjoyed to the fullest.
Now on weekends when we sit down with a glass of wine to enjoy a nice meal one of us has prepared with care and intent, as opposed to just throwing something together for a weekday dinner as I usually do. I raise my glass in salute, and in an attempt to replicate her distinctive voice, say in a falsetto “Bon Appétit”.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Brownie Points
We take our usual morning walk and run into neighbors Yvonne and Mark, who are with friends visiting from out of town. After the usual idle weather chat, they mention that after dinner last night they went in search of the perfect brownie. This is the type of thing you do when on vacation, or perhaps after drinking a little too much.
That is my own thought of course, what I actually say is “the perfect brownie - Hmmnnn. - I’ve done that,” Meaning, of course that I have searched for that same thing though not necessarily under those same circumstances.
In any case, the perfect brownie means different things to different people. If you were on the hunt for one of those brownie desserts commonly seen in restaurants, ones that are heated, sauced and accompanied by things like vanilla bean ice cream or crème anglais, I don’t know about that.
What I do is give them is my interpretation of the perfect brownie. My perfect brownie is cakey but not overly so and is moist but not heavy or sticky. Must have walnuts, not pecans, and is not frosted.
To my delight they agree. “Well, I say, that’s easy. Zinc Café has them.” “Zinc,” they react, somewhat doubtfully. Right here in our Corona Del Mar neighborhood?
Yep, and not only that, I reply “but they are not too expensive, are generously enough sized to feel that you have something worthwhile enough to call dessert, but not so large that you question your ability to consume them.”
They laugh and decide to take my word for it. Though I know that having voiced this opinion, it may be subject to challenge. So, rather than wait around for that, I go home and look up brownies on the internet. It will come as no surprise to anyone who has navigated the web that there are lots and lots of recipes out there for anything you may desire. That includes brownies.
With a particular thing in mind, a brownie vision if you will, I was not happy to find that brownies come in all sorts of flavors and styles. And, I have to say, most of them not particularly appealing sounding. Irish mist brownies, toffee brownies, espresso brownies, layered and swirled brownies. Oh sure, they may appeal to some of you, maybe to many, but when I think brownie I think of the plain ones I described. These other versions may be “brownie desserts” but in my opinion are not true brownies.
And, what you see on-line of course, are recipes for brownies. Maybe the best thing about my perfect brownies is that I don’t have to make them, going through all the processes and ending up with more than I need. I can walk down the street and get them, or just one. Now that’s a perfect brownie!

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Morning Muffins

Like many mothers do, I suppose, I have certain and sometimes fond, memories of my kids’ growing up years. What I have discovered, as they have gotten older, moved away and formed their own households and lives, is that my memories don’t always correspond with theirs.
Over the years I have concluded that this could actually be a good thing. Some parts of life are not worth remembering, or are in fact, better off forgotten.
Still I persist in a mom-like way, in seeing much of that time through the warm glow of remembrance. Hey if it was good enough for Proust, it can work for me too.
Take morning muffins, for example. I used to make these for my two when they were adolescents. The way I remember it, they were always running late for school or something, or were otherwise too busy or distracted to eat breakfast. Since we all know and agree that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, I hit upon a method to provide a healthy and quick option for their busy lives. Morning muffins were actually from a recipe I found on a bran flakes package. Along with the healthy fiber already in the cereal, the recipe added other stuff that made them an even more well-rounded meal, and taste good besides. They could be prepared ahead and frozen in quantities. And, they were portable, so could be taken and eaten on the run.
In my head, a vision persists of me casually tossing a wax-paper wrapped morning muffin to each kid as he and she rushed out the door; I of course basking in the glow of my good mothering. They of course, have no such memory. It’s not that they deny that it happened, they just don’t remember it. So much for giving your kids warm childhood memories.
I know it did happen because I still have the original recipe, somewhat grease-spattered from use. Steve says at some future time when the kids visit I should bake some and have them available, in effect re-creating the experience. I haven’t done it so far, not wanting to test those memories further. Still, it’s a good healthy recipe, and some day I may just make them for myself. I too have a busy life, after all.

Morning Muffins
Makes: 12
1-1/2 cups flour
2/3 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. salt
1 egg
1-1/2 cups fat-free milk
2 Tbsp. oil
3 cups Bran Flakes
1/3 cup raisins or currants,
(finely chopped dates, or other similar dried fruit also works well)
½ cup chopped walnuts
MIX flour, sugar, baking soda, cinnamon and salt in large bowl. Beat egg in small bowl; stir in milk and oil. Add to flour mixture; stir just until moistened. (Batter will be lumpy.) Stir in cereal, nuts and raisins. Spoon batter into muffin pan which has been sprayed with cooking spray, filling each cup 2/3 full.
BAKE at 400°F for 20 to 25 minutes or until lightly browned.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008


I enter a store, Trader Joe’s, Peet’s Coffee, Bristol Farms. Maybe it’s after breakfast, or lunch, so I’m not hungry. And, if I was hungry the food I would probably choose isn’t necessarily what is being offered as a sample. And yet, if there are samples I make a beeline to them. Why is that?

When you ask anyone or almost anyone if they like food samples, most people will say yes. For some it’s a fortunate fluke when they come upon them; but others specifically go to stores that give them out. We all have heard of the Costco “buffet” even if we have not been there. I will line up for a two-inch piece of pizza, a chunk of cheese, a bit of cookie, a minuscule cup of coffee. I’ll line for foods I would not think of having at home or ordering in a restaurant. Knowing that doesn’t seem to make any difference. If it’s offered free, I will try it. The joke goes “broken cookies don’t have calories and neither do samples”.

Farmers markets have the sampling thing down to a science. As you walk down the center concourse of any farmers market, you will be accosted by people whose sole mission is to stand in front of their booth and thrust a slice of melon, or peach, or a grape at you. One walk through and you might find you’ve had more fruit in 100 feet than you normally would have in a whole day! And it’s not necessarily limited to fruit. One local market has freshly roasted peanuts and kettle corn to sample. Another has samples of Hawaiian style potato chips.

I just love those samples. I try to convince myself, and others who listen to me go on, that it’s only because I want to sample before I buy. And, frequently, legitimately, that exposure does lead to the purchase of something I might not have otherwise discovered.

But if I am honest, I have to admit that’s not what it’s all about. It’s really about the spontaneity, the surprise. So much of life is, necessarily, planned, scheduled, pre-thought. To have someone just offer me a little something, a piece of chocolate, a perfect raspberry, a tiny cup of mango smoothie. It’s a gift not anticipated or expected and for that reason has the power to brighten my day.

And the fact that it’s free is a bonus.

Monday, November 10, 2008

I dream of food. More correctly stated, I dream of food situations. Does everyone do this? I am in a strange city, traveling with husband Steve, my daughter Bonnie and unknown others. It is morning and as is my natural habit, I am up before they are. As with most peoples’ dreams, this is not clearly stated, it just seems to be. I get up and head out into the day, looking for good coffee and good rolls, by my definition.
The place I am in seems to be more of a city – with tall buildings and warehouses- than a place that would have food areas. Although I do know that food is sometimes contained in places that seem unlikely unless you’re familiar; since I am not familiar that knowledge does not help. I drive around and notice a place that looks like a combination of night club and greasy spoon with a parking lot that has cars and others coming in. I assume it must be the local’s morning spot. I go into the place which has a long dark paneled entry hall and looking beyond I can see an area with booth and tables where people are eating. But all I want is coffee! I quickly figure out, or assume that the type of coffee I want is not going to be available here so spin around and after telling a waitress I am not staying, start to leave. The momentary distraction throws me off and I have to exit by a different way that I came in, taking me by a cashier and a bakery case. I have a momentary wave of hopefulness; perhaps it’s one of those hidden gems, a tacky restaurant that has a few specialties of fabulous baked goods! No such luck, I see tired looking Danish pastries that appear to have come out of grocery store packaging, and some dry looking cookies is all. Oh well. Again I head out.
By this time I am willing to settle for the average known, Starbucks, but that is available only if you are familiar with the territory. Still, I get into my rental car and start to drive, trying to estimate how long I can be gone before I am missed, and the others get hungry.There is a call on my mobile; “mom where are you? Bonnie asks. Well you should ask, I reply. I have no idea”. I continue back, hoping to come upon something, someplace on the way.
Where are the places with light and fluffy brioche, with interesting braided breakfast breads laced with currants and walnuts, I wonder. Someplace I could get a good strong flavorful cup of coffee?
That would be in another dream, apparently.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

And so I start

I have a lot to say - were blogs invented just for people like me? What fun! It's scary and wonderful at the same time.

Food. I love food. Oh sure, everyone loves food, or at least likes it somewhat. Like Sara Lee, nobody doesn't like food, do they?

Anyway it's more than sustenance. In fact if that's what it was about, for me I would starve. I like a lot of things that aren't particularly "healthy", like bread. Love bread. Man may not live by bread alone but this woman could.

Bread and books

It seems I have always had two loves in my life; bread and books. Not necessarily in that order. Both are essential for life, at least my life. And besides bread, they say, is the staff of life. So the feeling I have must be universal. Bread the food and the concept has a lot of meanings to other people besides me, I find. For example, “breaking bread” with others symbolizes community. My own feelings about bread are probably less esoteric than that. I just love bread! An early memory about bread has to do with a book called Heidi. Heidi was a character, a young girl in a story that took place in the Swiss Alps. I must have read the book when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade. Frankly I don’t remember the story line well. What did stay with me, and something I remember reading over and over, had to do with Heidi”s grandfather cutting off a thick slice of bread from a (presumably) homemade loaf and then spreading butter or cheese thickly on it. The author describing the thickness of the bread, the spreading of the butter and cheese, and Heidi’s enjoyment of it so convincingly that my mouth was watering at imagining it. It was as if I was there too.

In a family with seven children there weren’t many extras, particularly in my early childhood. Resources were spread pretty thin so most things that weren’t absolutely necessary just weren’t part of our lives. Although at the time that wasn’t part of my thinking, I must have felt deprived in some way. At least that’s what I imagine now. Pictures of me from that time do show a skinny little girl, but I have to admit that is mostly genetic.

However it happened, I developed a great love of bread. Not just your ordinary Webers white spongy bread. I’m talking about extravagant breads. Crusty sourdough. Fragrant rosemary/olive oil. Exotic chocolate-cherry. Satisfyingly filled focaccia. My introduction to fabulous breads, besides Heidi, occurred in my childhood. The bread that was atypical and showed me what wonders bread can be was Mexican pan dulce.

We lived in Orange County, which is about 30 miles south of Los Angeles. From time to time my parents would take the Red Car, which was a local train service that was operating at the time, into the city. We would exit the train at Union Station which was right next to Olvera Street or as it was known then, “La Placita” which means “the little plaza”. There was a Catholic church across the street from the plaza where we would go to Sunday mass and then afterwards walk to breakfast The nearby Mexican bakery had a fabulous assortment of different kinds of pan dulce in a large glass display case. Here were the plain bollilos that my father always had. They were crusty hard French type rolls with just a hint of sweetness.; a little butter and jam completed those. There were the semas or “semitas” that my mother would have. Light wheat rounds, slightly sweet, studded with tiny bits of cinnamon bark. At the time, I didn’t understand why they both always had those plain, and to my eye uninteresting, rolls. There were so many other appealing options. I loved it that I had so many choices. Each visit I would select something different. Sometimes it was the large round brightly colored thick butter cookies. Other times it was the “elotes” which means corn, because they were shaped and colored to look like an ear of corn. And then there were the torcidos, or twists, which were made with an egg and butter dough, like challah. I recall the gingerbread-boy like pigs, and the turnovers filled with all sorts of the usual fruit fillings but also with less typical pumpkin, which was somehow fresher tasting and not as spiced as the more familiar pumpkin pie filling.

After we each made our choices, mine taking the longest, we would go sit down at a table or booth, and our choices would be served to us along with thick flavorful spicy Mexcan hot chocolate. Pure heaven.

That was the beginning. Over the years, I have experienced more breads. That is to say, I am drawn to bakeries everywhere I go and so taste all kinds of breads whenever possible. Some are more successful than others. I discovered croissants some time in the late sixties. We were living close to Laguna Beach which was probably at the time the most sophisticated town in the area. There was a bakery there named The Renaissance which had foods and breads not usually found in our suburban landscape. After I discovered croissants, they were my favorite for quite a few years. Then, some years ago I found a new love which became my ultimate favorite, my most loved bread; brioche. Brioche, they say, is what Marie Antoinette was referring to in the French Revolution when she uttered her infamous phrase; “let them eat cake”. Brioche is cake-like. It is made with a lot of butter and eggs and is supremely satisfying. But it is bread. I have attempted baking brioche a time or two with no success. So I mostly leave it to the experts. I have accumulated a bunch of recipes however in case I ever can’t find a good French bakery nearby and am forced to try to bake my own which I would have to do as I cannot imagine life without brioche.

Then there’s my other love -books. Loving books really needs no explanation. Everyone loves books, don’t they? Well actually, in my case the books are truly related to bread. Books give me sustenance. They fill me up. I don’t know exactly at what age I started reading but I think it was pretty early on. I also was introduced to that most luxurious, yet most basic creation of modern life, the public library, at an early age. Since the day I first acquired a library card I have been an enthusiastic user of libraries. And wherever I am, whenever I’ve moved, one of the first actions I take is getting my library card. When I browse in the stacks, reading and sorting through the books, I am transported with each possible choice. When I take my pile of books home, and set them upon my nightstand, I feel rich. I am satisfied in a way I have no words to explain adequately, and that’s even before I actually start reading them!

Which takes me back to Heidi. You might say that particular book gave me the whole experience at that early age. A book with bread at the center of it. my idea of heaven.
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