Take Four Ripe Tomatoes . . .

Zowie, the harvest is great, and we must have vitamin C coming out our pores. Last night we had tomatoes provencal, which were so good we have to have them again. We finished the dish with our eggs and bacon this morning. Yum-O. You can find a recipe on the web. I took a short cut and used Panko and put the garlic, parsley, thyme and parmesan into the crumbs. My recipe called for broiling the tomatoes, then broiling again with the crumbs. You have to be ever-vigilant that the crumbs don't burn.

http://www.jacquespepin.net/members/recipes/tomatoesprovencale.html

We had shish-kebab with a green pepper from the garden. It tasted to fresh and sweet. I used decent sirloin for the meat, and also had mushroom and onion on the skewers. We topped off the dinner with corn on the cob. No dessert last night. Not necessary.

My marinade is something I've used since I was a young bride--and it's always good. Herewith:

Marinade for Shish-Kebabs

For 4 skewers

Juice ½ lemon
1/3 c. olive oil
½ cup sherry (dry)
1 T. Worchestershire sauce
1 T. salt
½ t. pepper
1 t. curry powder
½ t. ground ginger
1 small onion, grated
Mix together and marinate beef or pork for two hours--you could probably use for lamb or chicken, too, although I always go for the beef.

Here's a blogger who thinks with me. I loved the "All America Summarize Proust Contest." Remember, Sarah cooks with Polar Bear Helper.

http://lotsasplainin.blogspot.com/2008/08/all-american-summarizing-proust-contest.html

Burning Man

Ah, the Man burned last night, and I wasn't there. Every year that I don't go, I'm seized with such a visceral longing to be in the heat and the dust and the art and the anarchic chaos that defines Burning Man. If you've never been there, here is the description of "the burn" from my manuscript, Festival Madness.

The boat carried us out of Black Rock City and moved across the playa always avoiding the people, bicycles, and mutant vehicles that converged on the fixed point of the statue. In a perfect state of inebriation, I had ridden a horse with no name to a strange but friendly planet of flat alkali desert surrounded by dark mountains. The desert dwellers came to this place and formed an immense circle around the god of fire, who had assumed the mythic shape of a blue neon man, glowing over the desert.

Dancers twirling hypnotic flames spun around the statue while ships and dragons and animals belched propane-fueled fire. Weird and wonderful shapes descended from the sky, lit by a yellow moon that crept above the mountains. The fire dancers swirled like dervishes, and drums throbbed in the eerie light where glow sticks burned like neon candles. I was eerily conscious of each detail of this carnival night with its colors, sounds, tastes, smells and the absolute anticipation. The dancers spun in their circles of fire, and the drums pounded to a crescendo. Alone, the neon man loomed over the desert, canopied by thousands of twinkling stars.

The ritual began with a massive barrage of shooting rockets and fireworks illuminating the man, then a blaze of fire and a magic conflagration roared to life in a frenzy of heat and flames. The inferno raced up one of the man’s legs and consumed him bit by bit even as his triumphant arms remained raised, as in defiance. Everyone was yelling and shouting and the air pulsed with music. In an eruption of galactic grandeur, the Man was burning bright. The Man was burning. ©

Sarah Who? Oh, the Polar Bear Helper cook

When S.O. told me the name of McCain's VP pick, I asked, "any relationship to Michael Pallin?" because it seemed like a true Monty Python moment.

I mean, how short-sighted and cynical can you be, going after those fragments of the Hilary vote with such desperation? And the far-right, too, beyond the fringe, as it were. And two Westerners, but not those calculated to appeal to California, not the new frontier but the lost frontier.

I don't know. I don't know.

Does no one think anymore? The Hilary backers rather worry me. So shrill. Bad sports. Bad losers. God, when I was in school back in the stone age, being a bad sport was really de trop.

How many languages does Sarah speak? What does she know of anything outside Alaska? I was in Alaska, the last frontier, last summer. Great place for scenery and critters. We understood where the Bridge To Nowhere that Sarah supported and then flipflopped on went to. Nowhere. Talk about pork.

She likes wildlife. To shoot. Screw the polar bear. Screw the environment. Jeez, John. What have you unleashed? A snowmobiling hockey mom? Just what the country needs. And you being such an old coot.

I don't know. I don't know.

Of course two old white men, old white rich men, wouldn't work. Are the Republicans so bankrupt they have no suitable candidate for Veep? Guess so. Mitt was gov. here and no great shakes. Flip-flopped after he left too.

Well, it will be interesting, but my great fear is that the fringes, the flat-earthers, the world-enders, those who watch reality shows and think they have some connection with reality, the drones, the gullible, the non-thinkers, the whiners, and the polar-bear helper people may win this election and it just scares the sh__ out of me. Those who believe we belong in Iraq to bring "democracy and freedom" and those who think global warming is a communist plot, those who still live not even in the last century, but in 1500, will they have their say?

I don't know. I don't know.

Isn't is scary to think so?

Grapeshot, who is trembling in her flip-flops. Did someone say Flip Flop? Aiiieeeee!

Politics But Not As Usual

I have been transfixed by listening to the speeches of Hilary Clinton and Barak Obama. What a pair of speakers!

Two years ago I joined Toastmasters to hone my speaking skills. Why? I wanted to be able to talk about writing in an engaging, humorous, knowledgable way. As a shy only-child, this is not as easy task. I was brought up to think promoting oneself was "forward," and an unattractive trait in a young lady.

Toastmasters has helped me a lot, and now I even look forward to giving short talks. Toastmasters also taught me to critique a speech and I've got to tell you, Hilary and Barak do a bang-up job.

The pauses, the eye contact, the sincerity, the stories, the lack of um, ah, er, and 'you know.' They both produced great inspirational speeches. Obama just blew me away last night, and as the camera panned to the faces in the crowd, well, the faces looked like, how can I say this? They looked like they had seen the second coming of Christ, meaning no disrespect, but Obama Barak has obviously inspired them beyond belief.

Folks, this is politics. How often does it happen? And he's not a demagogue either. And Hilary, so gracious, yet trenchant. "Did you think this was all about me?"

Wasn't the venue terrific? Obama with his good looks and charm and rangy, American build does seem a little like a rock star, and what's wrong with that? God knows our standing in the world will skyrocket if he is elected.

One won't have to aplogize for this country and declare that "not everyone believe that or thinks that or agrees with that," THAT being the current administrations shennigans.

But this blog is not about politics, except today it is. Loved that speech. So perfect, ah the rhetoric. Wish I could talk about anything a fraction that well.

Grapeshot

Tortilla Soup

Since we are trolling for recipes that say, "take 4 ripe tomatoes. . . . ." I thought of my old tortilla soup recipe which I have served to countless Europeans who have all thought it excellent.

I found a similiar recipe on the web, just change the canned tomatoes to 4 ripe tomatoes and you're in business. Don't cheat and skip the cilantro. We love all the toppings. We love sitting with a box of Kleenex on the table because I left part of the pith and seeds in the jalapeno.

Live bravely. Soup is good food.

The world's best torilla soup is at the Stanford Court Hotel (see Blog photo) in San Francisco, but it's big time cheaper to eat this recipe. On the other hand, the Stanford Court is a lovely spot to eat lunch, and if you have some ready cash or credit, why not treat yourself to a bowl of this heavenly soup?

Enjoy. http://www.elise.com/recipes/archives/002087tortilla_soup.php

Ratatouille

We are eagerly seeking out recipes that begin, "take 2.5 pounds of tomatoes, and . . . " Ratatouille is a great side, because the recipe calls for all the veggies that are in season in your garden or at the farm stand. I made a big pot this week and it was delicioso. Muy.

Tomtoes from your garden are best. We also had green pepper and basil. Oh, it was lovely. Julie Child has a great recipe, but it is a pain to make. Use lots of garlic and olive oil. A spoonful or two of capers add interest.
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/RATATOUILLE-108350

Epicurious will not lead you wrong.

Grapeshot

Musings about Denver with restuarant reco

The convention in Denver is in full swing. Wasn’t Ted Kennedy inspiring last night? The Wall Street Journal had a comparison of St. Paul/Minneapolis and Denver restaurants last week. The only Denver place I recognized was the Buckhorn Exchange, a place I ate with my father, many, many moons ago. He undoubtedly had a medium well T-bone, and I just remember the excellent bean soup. Unlike me not to recall the meat dish.

I’ve been a denizen of Denver off and on since childhood, long enough, in fact, to recall when Larimer was the street where the bums hung out, and the Daniels and Fishers tower was the tallest in town. As kids, we used to spit from the top of the tower, well-bred young ladies that we were, but that’s a different story.

I attended 5th grade in Denver, in Lakewood, and for the first, last and only time, I was the teacher’s pet. Never knew why, but it was a heady feeling and everyone should experience that once in a lifetime. We did fractions and long division and the last 20 minutes of every day the class got to show off the talents of the various members. I played the piano with major stage fright. I still recall how a classmate, Jacqueline Emerson played so beautifully and without trembly fingers.

At the teacher’s behest, I ran for some class office, and did not realize that you were supposed to vote for yourself. It still goes against the grain. I wasn’t raised to have high self-esteem. That was for boys and girls who were “too forward.”

Back to Denver. The day after I graduated from high school, we moved back to Denver, way the hell in Southeast Denver by the new Valley Highway. A nice little two-bedroom house with a fireplace in the living room that my mom would never use because it would become “dirty.”

For some reason, the day after I was married, my parents moved again, eventually ending up in Aurora, where my dad had an auto parts store. Summers from from college, I went to the main library, hung out a bit at D.U., patronized art films somewhere, maybe Englewood, and ate at the Palace Arms, actually drank at the Palace Arms. I took trig one summer at East High and there was a Coors kid in the class. Harry Belafonte sang Island In The Sun every day on the car radio as I drove home from class to Southeast Denver. Cherry Hills was always "The" neighborhood.

Returning with kids, we stayed at the Brown Palace in a suite, and you would faint if I told you how cheap it was then. I remember drying diapers on the radiators. This was obviously in a different life.

Denver was cool, and the Colorado School of Mines sign that lights up the mountain in Golden was my beacon.

Last summer we returned to Colorado for a class reunion, flew into DIA, and the city was smoggy and you couldn’t even see the mountains, which just about killed me. My town and it’s been ruined. I feel that way about Montana, too. Excessive Californication and all the big shots moving in, building these god-awful ugly mansions, and then selling them, blighting the land. Their punishment should be to have to live there in the wide-open spaces forever.

Last year before the reunion, we spent a most pleasant evening at Las Margaritas, an excellent and casual Mexican restaurant where they understand the drink as well as the cuisine, and I couldn’t have liked it more.

The art museum also rocks. Denver is so cool.

I hope the smog is gone for the convention. God knows, there’s always enough hot air.

I will lift my eyes until the hills, from whence cometh my help. Thought for the day in Denver.

Pretty Good Pizza

The cold, half-eaten pizza is displayed, but not without a certain yumminess.


If you read the blog regularly, you may recall that I am not the greatest fan of pizza, at least the general greasy cheese variety. And no matter what, I don't ever want to eat it more than once every two weeks, so this puts me at odds with our society, but hey, alienation is nothing new.

I do, however, like my own pizza. Wouldn't you know? How is it different?

I buy the crust at the grocery store, either frozen or at the bread counter. A ball of yeast dough. Then, I scour what's in the house. Right now, we have a feast period.

Garlic, olive oil, home grown tomatoes, basil, sage, onion, red and green peppers, arugula.

Zowie! I bought some grated mozzarella. Yikes, the price of cheese has skyrocketed. Also bought some pepperoni. The quantities of pepperoni they force you to buy is absurd. This will yield about 6 pizzas. But it keeps. I also bought a small stalk of broccolli. Are you getting the idea? Veggies to the max.

A layer of garlic oil, a sprinkle of cheese, tomatoes and veggies, pepperoni, more cheese, and topped with parmesan flakes. Oh yum! Into a 500 degree oven until the crust is brown. Leave off the pepperoni and you have a wonderful vegetarian pizza.

Makes us two meals, because the topping is so generous. Love those hot melting tomatoes. Yum, yum, yum.

Grapeshot

Mad Men

I came to Mad Men last season and couldn't wait for it to begin again. The thing about the show is, I feel like an in-the-know insider. How could this be?

We once lived in a neighborhood with lots of those mad men, hard drinkers and smokers all, and I served on various committees with them and met them through committees their wives served on. That sort of thing. To a man they had a cool, ironic sense of humor that I loved.

The pretty blonde wife (Betty Draper) should be on a committee or two for versimiltude. Should I write the producer?

Today, watching last week's program before tonight because the Olympics is playing hell with my free time, viewing habits, sleep--god I'll be glad for the closing ceremonies--oops, long sentence. Today I realized who the real life model for Don is, and wild horses couldn't drag it from me.

From Those Wonderful Folks Who Brought You Pearl Harbor, a great book by Jerry della femina (hope this is spelled right) with big insights into the advertising agency culture, told some tales out of school and I knew who he was talking about, and it's the same person that Don is modeled after. Has to be. It is so fun to be in on something.

I love the furniture and lamps and paintings, even the clothes in the show. They've done it right, and I also like that Peggy Olsen is no raving beauty and I guess we're all wondering what's going to happen with the new young priest.

Of course, it's a soap opera, but then so is life. Love the drinking and smoking, even at the office drinking, ah those were the days, my friend.

Don is in his way a lot like Tony Soprano, don't you think? It's the same show built around different characters. We always write the same book over and over again.

These Sunday morning insights are creating a huge desire for a drink, which would actually be another cup of coffee. Ha. Ha. Fooled you.

Grapeshot

Issues that no longer worry me

Photo is 2002 at the DPW Parade.

The last Jack Rabbit Speaks before The Man arrived yesterday. I have been sighing a lot and wishing I would be in Black Rock City, Nevada come Monday, but alas, this year it was not meant to be. Maybe next year. That's what I always say.

When I read the articles in the links below, I didn't know whether to laugh or be appalled. I must confess at the mention of "Latex Gloves," I inadvertently thought of rubber gloves, the kind you do dishes with. Hey, I am a suburban housewife, and although the dishwasher powers up at our house once a day, rubber gloves still have their uses, but not the kind mentioned. Ye gods!

Warning: these links are probably not for guys and may cause uncontrollable laughter or some erotic reveries. The Playa is an in-your-face place, and stuff happens there. What happened to me was that I fell off my bike twice, and accidentally served the vegetarians refried beans with lard, but so it goes. Dust storms, hook ups, the farce and frolic of being in the desert for a week with a gentle anarchy. Ahhhhh.

Guys, don't read this. You don't want to know.

http://www.womenscommunityclinic.org/guide.php

http://tinyurl.com/6yuudu

It's Cat Blog Day!

Thisbe in repose, after a thoroughly taxing adventure.

Friday is, of course, cat blog day. This morning Thisbe was most accommodating and chased some critter across the yard and ended a foot or so from the street, then freaked out, as in "where am I and how did I get here?" Her tail as big and round as a baseball bat. Definitely surprised by her catlike activity.

Notice the halo effect in the photo. Thisbe has a genuine white cross on her chest, earning her the nickname of "Sacred Kitty." She knows that the pope likes cats and if she weren't scared of strangers, she would like to meet the pope. Maybe if he hung out at the house for a very long time, and spoke softly and never ever clumped around or made noise, she would eventually come out and give him the once over. Annie would be here usualy sluttish self and jump in his lap. But then, Annie not sacred in the sense that Thisbe is.

This morning, when Thisbe realized she was in the yard alone, she saw me open the door and raced in. Gadzoosks, what a close call! Then the UPS man came, necessitating a visit to beneath the bed where everything is safe and known, including the dust bunnies.

The hummingbird appeared today. Haven't seen him/her since we returned from Chicago. Checking out the geraniums and the small blooms atop the big purple flowers, said to attract butterflies.

Tomatoes coming along apace. The lawn care people, we call them the "turtle crushers" because they have mown down big turtles, hell they would mow a cat if it were sitting in the yard, did a number on the neighbors zucchini which was marching across the grass as zucchini are wont to do in August.

My morning glories seem to be on the wane, but the geraniums and the red begonias are still crazy with blooms. Impatience still good. It's the time of year when extra grooming in the garden pays dividends. Hey, there's still at least another month of summerish weather, and a prudent gardener doesn't throw in the towel. I ate the heirloom beets which were delicious.

Baby sparrows chowing down at the feeder. I think the parents show them where it is and say, "go to it, kids." Bluejays, cardinals, titmice, doves, etc. join in the feast.

Tonight we're having a salad with bulgar wheat, shrimp, tomatoes, arugula, mint and feta. Sounds good, no? I keep telling you, an adventurous spirit is good. Go forth and eat strange stuff.

Grapeshot

Vacation Gleanings, Diet Observations and Faux Turkey

Short men with short legs shouldn't wear long (below the knee) shorts. They look like dwarves. Not a good fashion statement.

One morning at our Chicago hotel, someone abandonned a $6.00 bowl of fresh fruit. Totally untouched. Delicious blackberries, et. al, with juicy watermelon chunks. I wanted to whisk it off to my room and scarf it down. What a shame.

Devon Avenue in Chicago, the longest street in the world. Starts in Pakistan, ends in Israel.

Chicago, like many other cities, has two seasons. Winter and road construction.

Tonight we're having a South Beach Diet chicken salad. SBD has some delicious recipes, although of course sometimes I make a few substitutions in the interest of taste.

The non-fat half-and-half is a weird concoction of chemicals--better living through chemistry I guess. Why don't they call low-fat cheese no-taste cheese, in the interest of truth in marketing. Actually, the Laughing Cow brand (La Vache qui Rit) does taste like, well, cheese. It's good on celery, just like the diet recommends. Whenever the stores have in on special, they sell out the first day, which tells you that many folks must be following the diet. As diets go, it's do-able.

Lots of people do, but I never could hack weight watchers. Counting all those points was a full time job, and they were such lipophobes. 72 points for a pat of butter. Not quite that bad, but almost.

And then there was good old Dr. Atkins, with peaches and cream and pork rinds instead of potato chips.

When we lived in Wellesley the stores didn't even have pork rinds. Wellesley women are thin by nature, driving those big SUVs to soccer practice, and whatever must burn calories. You can stroll through the entire Roche Bros. store and amid all that food and temptation, not see one fat woman. They are all buying that disgusting sliced turkey that has some sixth-cousin relationship to turkey or meat but mostly related to nitrates, saline and flavor enhancers. Yuck.

O.K., ask me how I feel about deli turkey. Do you ever seen skin? Bones? Anything resembling a real turkey? Ask yourself what you're eating.

Better yet, buy a turkey breast--the kind with bones, damn it, and rub it with canola oil, salt, pepper and some seasonings and roast it until the timer pops up. Carve and eat and put the rest in the fridge for turkey sandwiches.

Real people eat real food.

Grapeshot

The Californication of Mexican Food

You are reading a one-woman crusade against flour tortillas, effete, tasteless, showing-up-everywhere flour torillas. I expect that one of these days our New England supermarket will not even stock corn torillas but you will be able to buy seventy-seven varieties of flour torillas in white, yellow, orange and green, bland, white bread offerings. May I say just one word? Yuck!

I will be the one throwing a screaming fit in the International Foods aisle or at the dairy case. The red-faced, profanity shouting woman flinging the big, ungainly packages of flour tortillas at the hapless clerk.

At the Border Cafe in Harvard Square I have to ask for the fish tacos to be served in corn tortillas. The staff is very obliging and the fish tacos are mega-tasty.

There are new chains like Qdoba that only have corn tortillas in the hard crust out-of-the package variety. Everything else is wrapped in, well, you know what.

Today I was heartened to read in the Dining Out section of the NY Times about a place in East Hampton (did I say effete?) that has true south of the border food. And most of the locals like the unspiced inspidid variety. But not everyone.

I applied my eagle flour-tortilla spotting eye to the photos and guess what? Not a flour tortilla in sight. Thank you, God, thank you. Recipes look delicious. Spicy, too.

Did you know the heat (capisicum) in hot peppers in a POWERFUL Anti-oxidant. So put the kleenex on the table, have some sour cream and cold cerveza ready, and pile on the hot peppers. Wrap everything in corn.

Note: corn torillas have fiber and not too many carbs. Ha! Ha! Take that you mealy-mouthed flour eaters.

The only place a corn tortilla belongs is in a burrito. End of story. I mean, can you imagine a tortilla casserole made with flour tortillas. It would taste like unseasoned gravy made with water.

Viva corn tortillas, the true taste of Mexico. Down with wimpy flour tortillas! Down with tasteless wraps. Why don't you just use a few layers of paper towel? Tastes about the same.

My mom was a Kansas farm girl and I like bread and the amber waves as much as anyone, but not in my Mexican food. Give me corn, lots of corn.

Grapeshot, whose guerilla name today is Pilar.

The next rant will be about sugar in corn bread. Ye gods, even a good Southerner like Paula on the Food Network is spooning sugar into corn bread, flour too. No. No. Omigod, what are things coming to? Where is purity? Where is authenticity?

Whither?

Spanish Rice Not Fly

Bet the blog title got your attention.

The weirdest thing. I could not find one decent recipe for the kind of main course Spanish Rice my mom used to make. Looked all over the web. So today I concocted my own and thought you might like the recipe. Most of the recipes I read were gunked up with bacon and ketchup and garlic powder and even tomato soup. Disgusting to the max.

Grapeshot's Spanish Rice

Brown a pound of ground beef in a 10 inch skillet that has a lid. Remove the beef, and add a teaspoon or two of olive oil if the beef didn't render much fat. Into the skillet put a cup of diced onion, a small green pepper, diced and 2-3 gloves of garlic. Brown and stir until the onion is soft. Add 3/4 rice to the skillet and cook and stir until the rice is nicely coated with fat. Put the beef back into the skillet, stir, and add a 14 ounce can of tomatoes with their juice, about a cup of water, a few sprinkles of hot sauce, 1/2 t. fairly hot chili powder, 1/2 t. ground cumin, 1/2 t. Mexican oregano, 1 t. salt, some grindings of pepper (don't stint) and a shake or two of Worcestershire sauce. Stir together, put the lid (remember the lid?) on and cook over low heat for about 20-25 minutes until the liquid has been absorbed and the rice is tender. Taste and correct seasoning, if required.

That's it.

You can sprinkle with a little grated cheddar if you like, or put a sliced fresh tomato on top for exta color and beauty. Parsley might be good. Thyme is always a flavor pleaser.That's it? Easy, and made with fresh ingredients.

Tomato soup? Sheesh. Yuck. This will serve 4 or more depending on appetites or two teenage boys. Serve with a green salad and bread or bread sticks.

Don't ever say I didn't ever give you anything.

Grapeshot

Group Exercise and the Gossip Girl

Last week the low-impact aerobics/weight lifting class at my gym had a substitute while the regular instructor was on vacation. Naturally the sub had her own ideas about music and movement, and we did a bit of dancing, some step routines on the floor and worked hard with the weights.

A change in routine is always a good thing, because otherwise one’s muscles accommodate themselves to the regular routine and don’t get the workout they might.

There is one woman in the class I don’t like. Did not like her from the moment I set eyes on her. One of those natural antipathies. I don’t even know her name, but she is a gossip and a troublemaker and probably has been since kindergarten. “Doesn’t Sally have a dorky dress?”

Naturally, I wasn’t too surprised when I overheard this woman grousing about the sub. In fact, she didn’t attend the second class. This morning she went on her malicious rounds, trying to get one after another of the participants to bad mouth the sub.

You could sense her disappointment when most of the women had actually liked the sub. She just wouldn’t let it alone. Now I have to confess the sub is a fellow writer and a friend and I didn’t like this badmouthing of my friend at all.

There are as many exercise variations as there are instructors. I’ve taken water aerobics in Puerto Rico, a step class at Mohonk Mountain House, interval training in Tucson, and even a somewhat bizarre class in East Germany. All different, all enjoyable.

Lest you think I am Molly Muscles, it ain’t so. I just try to keep a minimum level of muscle tone and fitness.

Why are some of my sex like that? I can’t imagine guys doing this. Can you?

Nature News from All Over

A week ago, coming home from my writing group, a fox ran across the road and into the bushes just a few hundred yards from where we live. Very cool indeed. I lectured the cats on the topic of the fox and why it is inadvisable to sneak out at night, but they just looked at me. Maybe they know that they are each about the size of a fox these days, and would give the fox pause. Third fox I've seen in these parts.

Then two nights ago, a weird bark came from the slough. Didn't exactly sound like a dog. A fox? A coyote? Went to the open door and listened. More like a dog, but coming from a spot where NO DOG ever barked. Listened again. Most like a dog. Then the barking stopped. When the barking first started, a bull frog joined in the chorus.

In the front feeder, we have messy baby sparrows, baby finches, blues jays, cardinals, titmice, chicadees, and mourning doves. Everyone eats on the ground from the mess the sparrows make. Somewhat of a bird seed/poop mess on the porch, too.

Keeping all the feeders full and seed in the house, along with the cat food, catnip and litter is a fair amount of work. I should take some seed to the spot where we saw the wild turkeys.

Somewhere in New York State, we saw a flock with lots of baby turkeys. Very nice. Ohio has an interesting device for letting motorists know that a large animal is on the highway. Something to do with a camera and lights. Couldn't figure it out, but it must be a godsend if lots of deer are present.

A good corn crop this year. I noticed it before the newspaper. A farm girl, I never was, but I always lived in farm communities, and I don't know, it must get into the blood what good crops look like, because after all these years I can still eyeball wheat, corn and evern soybeans and tell you if the yield will be good or not. A useless talent, for sure.

Tonight we are having Spanish rice, which I usually just make, but today I'll look up a recipe to see if I can add some extra ooomph.

One of your fellow critters,

Grapeshot

The Thrill of the Grill. . . is gone

We managed to get the salmon cooked on its cedar plank. Mustard-mint sauce way too mustardy. And I remembered it tasting so good. Salmon was all right, but no way as good as the Fishmonger's. Grilled squash and zucchini always reliable, salad o.k., potatoes a wee bit underdone, so if truth be told, not one of my best efforts.

I'm thinking of a speech for Toastmasters about various cooking disasters, a humorous speech, naturally. Do you think it's a good topic? Let me know. I don't know who the hell is reading this blog. Never any comments but the counter goes up nicely.

So today I fell back on the bones of the chicken and made some soup, a free meal as it were, with nice herbs from the garden (ever hear of mean herbs?) and a handful of cherry tomatoes.

I'm making the Mediterrean dish of long, slow cooked green beans and tomatoes, both being in season now, and with judicious amounts of EVOO and some garlic. How can you miss?

On the literary front, (remember that?), my bad guy is such a cliche, and I have to figure out a way to make him a really good bad guy, and distinguishable from all the rest. This is not easy. In the meantime, I've been all over the web researching a) glittzy offices in Miami, b) interesting and classy lounges in Miami Beach, c) what people wear d) what they drink, e) how the office is furnished, and f) how to make cell phones secure.

Ya gotta have the details right. Oh, yes, and bad language in Spanish. I'll be able to spew some really good curses. The thought is always in the back of my mind (along with much other minutiae) that if anyone ever looked at the websites visited on my computer, they would wonder WTF?

All for now, miles to go and it's a pretty nice day so we may go to a walk and after last night's downpours, the garden needs grooming.

Grapeshot

Don't Rain on My Grill

All ready for a grilling extravaganza and here comes the bloody rain again. We have the cedar planks soaking, new barbeque tools, a slab of salmon from the ocean, not the farm, some squash and zucchini, everything for the grill. The salmon will receive a fab mint/mustard sauce that's to die for. Now rain, rain, go away.

I forgot to take a photo of last night's tomato bread salad; remembered when the bowl was, like, empty. It was all red, white and green just like the flag of Italy. And good! The tomatoes were like the platonic form of tomato--everything a tomato should be. Big, ripe, sharp and juicy. My god the juice! This was a winner.

Tuesday evening we motored down to Woods Hole to meet friends for dinner. Tried a fish place under new management. The Fishmonger. Was it ever good. Did I say good? It was superb. The Atlantic salmon was so toothsome that I just had to have some more tonight. The people who had scallops loved them, and the sea bass eaters were more than satisfied. So hie yourself over to the Fishmonger right in the port area in Woods Hole and have a fantastic feast before the rest of the world discovers it and the line it out the door.

Wine was good, too. Grilled asparagus exceptional. Done just right. How many times does THAT happen? I had a couscous salad as a side, and it tasted to bright and right, somehow, with the salmon.

I am a salmon snob, which is to say I turn up my nose at farmed, which has a weird color, a bizarre taste, and a suspcious texture. Sorry, the girl can't help it.

So here's to all the wild fish in the ocean and may they live a joyous life until the fisherman's hook or seine lands them. Fishy, fishy in the sea. . . . Does anyone remember how this goes?

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COBOL Back From the Dead

As a former long-time COBOL Programmer/Analyst, I had such fun reading the article about COBOL, Back from the Dead, and the comments were lively and on target.

http://weblog.infoworld.com/tech-bottom-line/archives/2008/08/calling_all_cob.html?source=NLC-DAILY&cgd=2008-08-07

Being a COBOL programmer was never exactly cool, and you sure as hell got no respect from the bleeding edge part of the tech community, but I wrote some good systems and programming COBOL always paid the rent right up until I boogied out after Y2K and went into supporting a direct sales catalog and web system, which was a whole new life and paid the rent for eight more years until I retired to write full time.

With a little IBM Assembler and a mastery of COBOL and CICS, you could create huge systems that had that big mainframe reliability, systems for big time transaction processing. And it was always fun to put that Big Blue machine through its paces. I loved trying Go To . . . Depending On, and String and Unstring and having indexed tables search other indexed tables, maybe putting a little bubble sort in when needed. I could do anything, and I must say that there are some writing and cooking and for sure gardening techniques that I've never mastered as I mastered COBOL.

Once I took a kludgey old system and cut the processing time from 24 to 2 hours. Shit, I was good.

So here's to you, Grace Hopper, Admiral and Inventor. It was a great ride while it lasted.

Late Summer Meals

Tomato Bread Salad!

At right, tomato harvest ripens, and tonight we are eating tomato bread salad. Made with big homemade croutons, olive oil, red wine vinegar, fresh mozzarella, ripe, home-grown tomatoes (yowza!) fresh basil from said garden, some organic baby spinach and red onion. A vegetarian treat. Create your own proportions, with tomatoes the star of the show.

We're keeping the salad theme throughout, with a fruit salad of banana, nectarine, figs and oranges. Mega yum!

I harvested the young beets and we'll eat the beets and their greens separately. I love to pop a few cherry tomatoes into my mouth while I'm working in the garden. It's not really work, it's joy.

Not A Sparrow Falls

I just hate wildlife carnage on the highways. All sorts of unfortunate critters may end their days on a road, and today, just around the corner, I saw a baby river otter dead in the road. Such a dear little creature and it's so sad because he must have been born this spring back in the slough somewhere. S.O. saw an otter heckling ducks back there a few years ago.

http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/NorthAmerica/Facts/fact-riverotter.cfm

And a bird was hit by the car in front of me. Naturally the most cautious driver cannot avert a bird flying into the car. Nonetheless, I was sad. We already had the tragedy of the fox and the duck perishing during their encounter on Oak Street.

Another fox was luckier, and we saw him/her dart into the bushes just before we turned into our neighborhood Monday night. We are semi-rural, but I'm not sure where a fox would live, but obviously they find a den somewhere. All the more reason to keep the cats in. Someone's kitty disappeared a few weeks ago. Happens all the time. I try to explain the facts of cat life to Annie, but she's sure she can take care of herself, a big portly cat with heart problems. Don't think so.

I fed the cows today, and they seemed quite congenial, and the babies are eating all the fruit and veggie scraps now, not just the tender lettuces. The black cow and her young bull keep their distance from the rest. Hmmm. What gives?

Being There: Moulin de Mougins

En route to Chicago, we were reminiscing about various early August trips we've taken. Last year it was to Northeastern Colorado to a class reunion. Quite a few years earlier, we were spending a few days on the French Riviera.

Being something of a foodie, I love to try different restaurants and recipes, and once long ago in Paris we had dined at then two-star Laperouse, which had exceeded expectations and was the most expensive lunch we had ever eaten. Do you know, I still recall what we ate right down to the Grand Marnier souffle. Ole!

The idea of a three star, just-this-once meal got under our skin, and since we would be on the Riviera, S.O. made a reservation by mail (that's how long ago it was--no email) at Moulin de Mougins up in the hills above the coast.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moulin_de_Mougins

Roger Verge was chef du cuisine, and the charming hill town of Mougins increased our anticipation of what was to come. We parked and entered and then of course, came the decision indoors or in the garden. The interior with a big hearth and wonderful appointments was seductive, and certainly on a cold winter night would have been just the ticket, but on such a fine summer day where else but the garden?

Pink napery and a menu so vast that I was bamboozled. How to choose? The waiter took mercy and recommended the table d'hote (forgive missing accents). I read what we would eat, and quite frankly, it didn't sound too temping. Fish curry, and duck cooked in its own blood were two of the menu items that didn't inspire.

But that big menu was SOOOO intimidating, and we let the waiter persuade us. A selection of courses arrived, and each one was so delicious one wanted to say, "never mind the rest of the menu, just bring more or this. Lots more."

The curry was superb. There were mushrooms to die for. Potatoes that redefined the dish. No lucious morsel of the duck revealed any cooking blood. Wine unsurpassable. We were too stuffed to share even a cognac.

Of course looking around the garden was not without its charms. That was the time when lots of wealthy Arabs tooled around Europe. Maybe they still do. One always saw them in the best restaurants and department stores, and the women were gussied out in the latest fashions, and everyone was drinking and smoking to beat the band.

There were stories of quick changes on the restroom of the 747 back into traditional dress. It was just very interesting to get a glimpse of life as we didn't know it.

The other persons of interest were two Alsatian (we guessed, because they easily switched from French to German and back) couples with two young children each. The kids were maybe five to 10 in ages. I gaped at their plates, each with a huge bloody filet that had been relieved of two or so bites. Pounds and pounds of prime filet that were going to feed someone's dog at best. And to calculate the bill. Mon Dieu! After their meal, the waiter brought out bottle after dust-covered bottle of liquors, and they drank and drank.

We would have driven right off a corniche. So, regretfully, we left the garden and the other diners and drinkers, one more trip through the welcoming dining room, back to the car and reality. I think we took a very long nap.

It was worth every penny, and everyone who loves fine food should do it once. Maybe right now you may want to wait until the dollar comes out of the toilet. Or hie yourself to New York, Chicago or Montreal. Or even Baghdad by the Bay. Any city where French food is still valued.

Chicago has many fine French restaurants. As young marrieds, we tried them all, and back then meals like that were affordable. The little bistro where the wall was lined with the corks of wine bottles, Chez Paul, Chez this, chez that. We knew the famous Bakery when it was just a little storefront where they seated you in the kitchen if the front was full.

Where are the snows of yesteryear?

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Sauerkraut with Four Fats

Ha! Ha! Bet you've never seen this recipe before. Actually, I found a recipe very similar to the one my German mother-in-law taught me, on the web. The recipe spans Eastern France to East Prussia, but true cuisine knows few boundaries.

http://www.cooks.com/rec/doc/0,1926,158182-241203,00.html This recipe is for Alsatian kraut. My mother-in-law was from Silesia. She sure could cook.

Sometimes Kielbasa are on sale. I always purchase those with half turkey, being leaner and we've decided we like the less fatty flavor better. So what's with the four fats recipe?

Came home from out of town. Found the Kielbasa almost past it's "date" in the fridge. Also found a big can of imported kraut from the Job Lot. Get to work.

Chopped up an onion, and found, like one teaspoon of butter in the dish. Aha! There is a smidgeon of chicken fat from the roast chicken of the night before we left. Tossed that into the skillet. Ye gods! What's this weird red stuff. Omigod, it's the fat I drained off the barbequed brisket. I put it in the freezer for the trash pickup, but took about a tablespoon of that to add to the (so far) other fats. Then I espied two slices of pancetta in the freezer, so I thawed those out and chopped them up. Now we have pork, chicken and beef fats and a bit of butter.

Browned the onions in same. Man, did they look good. Added some carraway seeds and a bay leaf. Dumped in the little bit of gelatinous chicken broth. Oh yum! Cut the kielbasa into 4 and tossed it in. Found a bit of andouille sausage in the freezer and put that into the pot. On top of the meats, I dumped the drained and rinsed kraut, and stirred it up.

Added a goodly amount of white wine, Vermouth from the fridge, always handy. Any white, even champagne will do. Cooked on slow heat for 15 minutes. Stirred again and cooked another 15 minutes. Oh, and I dumped a tablespoon of brown sugar into the browned onion, but I could just as well chopped an apple and added. You need a bit of sweetness.

You can keep adding wine and cook all day or stop there are reheat later. We made two meals of it, with mashed potatoes and Insalata Caprese for an appetizer. Tonight, the sauerkraut had mellowed into something that transcended saurkraut. Delicious.

Always have a good brand of German mustard. We drag something called "Loewensenf" back with us when we go to Germany. Keeps forever. Comes in a yellow tube. A superior mustard.

You can open a can of sauerkraut and heat it up or you can make something special. This was not a time hog and the big work was chopping the onion. I mean, we aren't talking The French Laundry here, but the result was stunning.

So keep bits of leftovers; they may create your reputation as a stellar chef. And the chicken sandwiches we ate on the road were extra good. I put the carcass in the freezer for later soup making. We have discovered that if you share a sandwich, a drink and a bag of chips that's enough for get you through an afternoon of driving without tiredness. O.K. we didn't share the Pepperidge Farm cookies.

If you can't make your own sandwiches, Panera Bread does a fine job, and those are also big enough to share. We had a lunch time picnic along the Erie Canal that defined pleasant. And a $7.00 chicken served us three meals and we'll get at least 3 more. The price is right. Just do it.

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Queen Anne's Lace

The road sides and fields and the lanes between the interstates are abloom with Queen Anne's Lace (wild carrot). I had to think of a wonderful poem by William Carlos Williams.

Here is the link: http://www.geocities.com/ecaria/poetry/wcw1.html

I found this photo by Googling images on the web and this image is from the blog, "Scribal Terror," on which I found some fantastic posts and a very touching cat blog and all sorts of other eminently readable stuff. My good friend in Illinois doesn't use a computer and I tried to tell her what she is missing but she has no clue.

Our cats were happy to see us again. I don't know where the expression "dumb animals" came from, unless it is dumb as in unable to speak. They do speak, however and Annie's trademark three mad meows speaks volumes, as does Thisbe's "catnip meow." Their ears speak, and their eyes speak and their tails speak, and all the body language. One only needs to look and listen with attentiveness. That works for almost everything.

I saw a painting in the museum of two peasants bringing a newborn calf (according to the title of the painting) from the field to the barn, and that calf wasn't newborn, it was a few weeks old. I realized how much I had learned from being close to the Highland Scottish Cattle, and how much better I understand cows now. A very cool thing indeed.

How wonderful it is to get to know our fellow creatures sufficiently to understand them.

While I was gone, some worms ate all the buds off the red petunias. The hummingbird feeder was empty and all the suet was gone. Today a sparrow (not English) took some of the material lining the petunia planter. The birds steal it for nesting materials. He was very noisy about the theft, too. August 10th is late to be nest building. Big mystery.

The blue jays and black birds have discovered the small bird feeder by the front porch and are stealing from it. Both birds are noisy and greedy and very creative and dextrous in their ability to eat from feeders designed to thwart them.

Ah, nature.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

Chicago Skyline

Milwaukee Museum of Art

So we're back from The Road. Chicago is a fantastic city of stunning architecture, museums, public spaces, food, culture, you name it.

We had a Mexican feast at Salpicon, so delicious, the kind of Mexican food you cannot get at any price in Boston. Chowed down on beef at the Chicago Chop House; went back to an old haunt at Hackney's in Wheeling. Another old haunt was The Berghoff in downtown Chicago, closed and now reopened, but a shadow of its former menu, which was German. German food is hideously out of style, even in Germany. They perfer bad Italian. Whatchagonnado?

We touched the Finger Lakes region briefly and had motel issues, but the Hotel Burnham in Chicago was great. A former office building. They had wine in the lobby at 5:00, a nice San Francisco tradition. We like wine at 5:00.

We also had a drink at the Ritz, and the vodka gimlet was very fine. I do enjoy quaffing a good gimlet.

The Milwaukee Art Museum was an incredible white structure with great exhibit space and some cool art. The Art Institute, reliable as always, but I couldn't find the cute little tiger that used to greet me when I trudged by en route to the School of the Art Institute.

We visited the Botanic Garden which was just underway when we left, and found it unbelievable. Worth two or three days of your time. S.O. took great photos which I may post on Flickr.

Here are some links to museums and restaurants in The City of Big Shoulders, that toddlin' town:

Chicago Botanic Garden

http://www.chicago-botanic.org/

Art Institute of Chicago

http://www.artic.edu/aic/

Museum of Contemporary Art. Sigh! I missed the Jeff Koons exhibits. (:

http://www.mcachicago.org/

Milwaukee Art museum (pictured in blog photo)

http://www.mam.org/info/

Salpicon Restaurant-- fantastic Mexican food and drinks!

http://www.salpicon.com/

Chicago Chop House: old timey Chicago atmosphere

http://www.chicagochophouse.com/noflash.htm

Hackney's: world's best onion rings, bar none

http://www.hackneysonlake.com/

Burnham Hotel: Our home away from home

http://www.burnhamhotel.com/

The Berghoff, another old-timey Chicago establishment

http://www.berghoff.com/


So, more anon, and lots of good book plotting done, always something to think about when falling asleep in a strange bed in a strange room.

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The garden looks great, with scads of ripening tomatoes. We enjoyed insalata Caprese again tonight. I find it addictive, but in a good way.

Apropos the Olympics: Aren't the Ralph Lauren outfits the U.S. Olympic team marched in wearing incredibly cool? Grapeshot, as a young, skinny mom, discovered Ralph Lauren when we were both young. My first purchase was a turtleneck with the now familiar logo and corderoy slacks, size 4. Sigh.

Chicago in August? Really?

So we're off to the Windy City. Supposed to be the hottest day of the year on Monday. Oh well. It's been hell on wheels to get ready. The damn garden. Watered everything deeply and schlepped the pots around to the front where the automatic sprinkler will take care of their needs.

The neighbor is going to do the petunias and the morning glories, but I worry about my gorgeous geraniums, carried over the winter, fed and pruned and now absolutely glorious. The tomatoes are ripening and have been offered to the neighbors along the with basil and herbs.

In an act of insane frugality, we decided to take our own road food, and thus made lists, got out the cooler, trips to the store, culminated in the roasting of a chicken this p.m., in which everything but the breast was eaten, the breast being saved with slices of tomato for tomorrow's chicken sandwich. With chips, fruit, cookies and drinks. Lunch for Sunday as well as breakfast.

I have to tell you that the food cost about $17.00 and I think 4 meals would have set us back three times that much. So we're off amid picnic baskets, coolers, hostess presents, maps, guides, my god, a trek along the Silk Road would require fewer supplies.

Observing and recording details of the trip will be necessary, as my new book will include some road trips. Florida to Boston, Boston to Chicago, and Chicago to Reno. Maybe I should call it On the Road. Oooops, that's been taken.

I'm having a hard time figuring out who the villian is. No good to have faceless men like the eeek-can't-remember-her-name-now books, Mary somebody, where the villians are always 2 steps behind a couple fleeing across Europe. Not bad books, but isn't it better when the bad guy is a known quantity.

So Manny Ramirez is gone. I like Manny. He seemed to belong to himself. Always did cotton to anyone who was a bit of a rebel. Anyway, Satan is the hero of Paradise Lost, and a tragic hero is the best kind.

So it goes. Until next week. And if you see some wilted geraniums, for Pete's sake dump some water on them.

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