The best cooking is home cooking

As a kid, I loved my mom's spaghetti and meatballs. When we lived in Denver, sometimes we ventured into the Italian neighborhood of North Denver and had an Italian meal. In suburban Chicago, we would trek to Highwood for Italian food.

At one point, I joined Smokenders in a major effort to quit smoking. Didn't happen then, but one of the "smokenders" invited the group for a meal at her house. She was Italian. Yowza! I had never eaten food like that. A real revelation. Stuffed shells to die for.

My friend Jim makes the best Oysters Rockefeller in the world, and my friend Karin cooked the best wild mushroom lasagne that you could ever imagine. Toothsome. Perfect.

A few weeks ago when we were in Germany, my nephew Alex and his wife put together a feast that boggled the mind. First of all, we started with huge scallops in a curry sauce. Each scallop was garnished with a sauteed slice of avocado. The sauce was perfect, with the exact right amount of heat. The main course was Wiener Schnitzel. I've eaten that dish all over Germany, the U.S. and Austria. Alex's was by far the best. Tender and perfectly seasoned. Pefectly seasoned.

Amazing how perfect seasoning resonates. The sides were a delicious green salad and a freshly made hot potato salad that one could just keep eating and eating and I did.

Dessert was chocolate mousse. Yum. Garnished with a delicous little kumquat-thingy. Something fruity in a dry husk. They were all over Germany and I have no idea what it actually was. Everything in that meal was so special. The wine was tres potable as well.

I'll put Alex and Palle's meal up there with Laperouse (in the old days) in Paris and Roger Verge's cooking in Mougins. The brunch at the Warwick in Houston. Unlimited raspberries, anyone? Some food just lasts forever in one's head.

Legal Seafood used to serve a mussels appetizer like that. Loads of butter, cheese, garlic and breadcrumbs. They tinkered around with it too much, and cut out the butter and cheese and it became pedestrian and is no longer on the menu. Wow! Was that ever good!

But nothing beats good home cooking. My mom's angelfood cake and strawberry pie, my grandma's pies and chicken and noodles, and fried chicken. Karin makes a mean pie, too. I have made a few in my day. What is it about pie? The best breakfast in the world is a piece of cold fried chicken (or two) and a slice of pie.

So. . . when I go to a potluck or a brunch at someone's house, I always head for the home made stuff. So hie thee into the kitchen and cook up a storm. Someone will always remember how good it tasted.

Oh yeah, and I make the world's best traditional lasagne and some mean potato pancakes. Let's hear it for the home cook!

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Competitive Cooking

When I was in junior high and accompanied the pastor's daughter to the Wednesday Night Christian Fellowship suppers in the church basement, one of the biggest culinary delights of the spread (and a spread it was) was Mrs. Dahm's poppyseed cake. She made it for every supper, and no one had the recipe. It was white cake and a gooey layer and poppyseeds. Scrumptious. Maybe I wouldn't like it anymore, but back then it was oh-so-good. The good Lutheran woman's reluctance to share her recipe was my first inkling that cooks could be, well, competitive.

The second jolt was at a New Year's Eve party at my friend's house in Syosset, Long Island. We were trolling for hors d'oeuvres, and I made meatballs, always a popular offering, especially in the 70's when people didn't shun beef. A mutual friend, a male, made the comment that I was really a good cook and the meatballs "weren't very competitive," i.e. I could have made a showier dish and garnered more . . . what? compliments? admiration? Who knows.

The New Year's Eve group remained friends forever, and my friend and I used to cook on houseparty weekend's in East Hampton. We had some really cool menus and we cooked together, collaboratively, which is the way women have cooked for millenia. No mention of competition. The host made a fab Key Lime Pie, other guests made lunch or helped with dinner, the hostess, a non-cook, did the dishes. S.O. contributed his fantastic cocktail, the Sea Breeze. We were a happy crowd.

Then came the food channel. I love the Barefoot Contessa, and Paula and Giada and even Rachel and some of the guys. What I don't love are the frantic emo-laden competitions with tears and flashing knives and racing against the clock and the frantic urge to win, win win. This is not cooking as the world knows it. This is something else, rather ugly, actually.

Even the NY Times got into the action this week, pitting two food writers against each other, but the judge (the food critic) had enough sense to delare the competition a draw and just enjoy the meals. As we all should.

This competive cooking is crazy, and it must deter newcomers to the cooking life, which can actually be rather relaxing and easy if one times things right. So. Enough said. I made my poppyseed lemon cake today, and tonight we have a South Beach Diet chicken salad, both yummy. Last night I made a Spanish dish with scrod, and that was toothsome as well. No hurry involved. Working deliberately is one thing. Racing around the kitchen like a bloody fool is quite another.

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Reading, Writing and Arithmetic

Yup! I've been reading. Three novels on the trip. The Last Trip since I've been home, also finishing up Hallie Ephron's book, 1001 Books for Every Occasion. Lots of good suggestions. And for about a year I've been struggling to get through The Guermantes Way. Almost done. Don't think Hallie recommended Proust. He's a bear, but so rewarding.

Writing, yes. Always writing. More rejection. One that particularly stung yesterday, because the editor didn't like the characters, thought the main character unbelievable and the beginning forced. This was the book which my writer's group favors.

I admit I have plenty of unlikeable characters in my books, which is odd, because in life I tend to like most everyone. There are a few exceptions of course, but if I think back over jobs and organizations, most of the folks were all right.

The beginning of this book originally started much earlier in the story, but there is always, always, the advice to get to the murder, the action, no back story, blah, blah, and obviously the advice "shows." Forced beginning. How to make the character believable? My character is much different from me, so how to get into someone else's head? Dunno. Struggling with that in the current opus. So, suck it up, as usual. Currently, that book is nowhere. I'm wondering if I should try non-fiction. Short stories? Poems? Put down the pen forever. Then what?

Arithmetic, you ask? Always the calculations about the month and the money in this time of diminished value of investments. We have been through hard times before, and are used to scrounging, so it isn't so bad. The shock and adjustment were the worst things. So . . . suck it up there, too. Life is a series of suck-ups, isn't it? Or periods thereof.

Goulash soup last night. I stopped at Shaw's and bought one potato and one stalk of celery. . . everything else was in house, and then I discovered, whoops, no pepper. Used the rest of my jar of dried peppers. Couldn't tell any difference. My trick is to use 1 t. sweet paprika, 1 t. hot paprika, and 1 t. smoked paprika. Generous but not obscenely so toss of carraway seeds. Plenty of onion and garlic. I used some cheapy round steak that became tender in cooking. Plenty left for lunch today. I also used a mixture of beef and chicken broth.

Next topic today: competitive cooking

Oh Wind, If Winter Comes . . .

Yikes, winter is back. Cold wind. Shrivelled rhododendums. Ice on the slough again. Ducks ain't gonna like that. Chives regretting they poked green tips above the cold ground.

Well, it was good to have a break. I think I am officially caught up with my homecoming chores. Now, if only the house were clean.

Today has been a lazy day, which is to say I lay in bed all afternoon and read. Of course, I really could do this every day, but a weird puritan streak keeps me up and about. The cats have NO problem whatsoever sleeping and lazing about all day.

I finished a great book by a woman who became caught up in the cocaine trade in Colombia in the early 70's. The co-author was a wonderful writer who really took you there, and the last 1/3 of the book was a tension-filled pounding adventure. Just what I'm trying to write. I read it as background for the Colombian "stuff." I had not expected it to be so good. The Book is The Last Run by Kay Wolff and Sybil Taylor. Good stuff. Great descriptions. Think I'll write a review for Amazon.

I had done so much research on Colombian for my robot fish short story that I knew where most everyplace was.

Chicken Soup for the Garbage Disposal

Weight gained is weight that must be shed, before it solidifies, so to speak. With that in mind, we had a light dinner last night and I began a chicken vegetable soup for today and tomorrow.

Put two chicken thighs and a breast to simmer with aromatic vegetables. Was hoping the stock would be stupendous with lots of fresh herbs, a shallot, etc. Came downstairs to fiddle with my book. S.O. upstairs in front of the telly.

Two hours later, I smelled a hideous burnt odor as I came up the stairs. S.O. sacked out in a chair. The soup had boiled dry and charred the bottom of my red Le Creuset Dutch oven. I salvaged part of the meat and that was all. The damnable smoke alarm, which shrieks every time one sautees an onion kept its counsel, perhaps not wanting to disturb the jet-lagged slumbers of Significant Other.

Damnation. I made the soup today with the non-charred scraps of chicken. The Dutch oven is sitting slathered in a paste of water and baking soda. Sigh.

I'm trying to read through the first 165 pages of my novel and to determine how it reads. Of course I found tons of stuff to change and correct. On the whole, however, not too bad. The beginning, of all things, is good. I usually suck at writing beginnings.

Time for a walk, since exercise will undoubtedly play its part in the required weight loss. No more running through airports.

I've been researching the cumbia, the national dance of Colombia. Working on a new scene with my drug lord. I have learned so much writing this novel and also my fish short story. The fish was a wonderful character.

We discovered a new Brothers Grimm story in former East Germany. I will post the link when I find it in English. It's wonderful. The discoveries one makes as a traveller are never the expected ones. Serendipity rules.

Ye gods, the link was hard to find. This is from a book of fairy tales, but you can read the story in all it's bizzare unlikelihood.

http://books.google.com/books?id=rmszExFht7IC&pg=PA102&lpg=PA102&dq=the+carrot+and+the+goat+and+heiligenstadt+germany&source=bl&ots=EvmVMz-jHR&sig=xxU9Ar_yOIe6YVuGkRZ2YVbIMbE&hl=en&ei=4mbGSaLvFqflnQfl9726DQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=1&ct=result
As ever,

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Cultural Differences

Just when you think Europe is too Americanized, surprises spring up like a Jack in the Box. First surprise, Air France served free champagne, wine, and even cognac to the herd of us in tourist. I only opted for wine. Of course one isn't supposed to drink on long flights, but put the words "should not" in front of practically anything, and that is what I absolutely want to do.

Wine alone was the compromise. The food was fairly good for tourist class, too. I have already commented on CDG (Charles de Gaulle airport). One thing to be said: the signage is good.

Another difference: half the population is not constantly walking around their ears glommed to cell phones or texting like mad. A pleasant break.

German breakfasts haven't changed. The only sweet stuff is the jam and jelly; otherwise, it's breads, cheese, ham and other meats such as salami and (yum!) liverwurst along with various jams, honeys and spreads. The only spread I didn't see was margarine. The low-fat paranoid-about-every-bite lifestyle doesn't appear to have caught on. The most unfortunate word, "wellness" has. What can I say?

Wine by the glass is cheaper. Flowers at the florists are much cheaper. We saw a McDonald's in a half-timbered building. How is that for bizarre?

East Germany now seems quite similiar to West Germany and the differences are subtle.

I was somehow touched to revisit the scenes from The Shadow Warriors-- the Markt Platz in Goettingen, Handelstrasse and Merkelstrasse, and even the Kuhsiel outside Bremen. We stood in front of the hotel in Duderstadt where Peter wanted to take Emma. We drove by the gray university buildings where I put the "Institute for Advanced Computing." I couldn't find the Italian restaurant around the corner. It must be gone.

So. Things change. Things stay the same. Italian food has taken over, but not to the extent that one can't find local specialties. We ate a real Thuringer Bratwurst in Thuringen. Cooked on a grill on the street. Huge, juicy, on a hard roll with the proper mustard. My God, you couldn't buy that in Boston for love nor money.

When I was lying awake in bed at night due to jet lag difficulties, I plotted my book, trying out this and that in my head.

More anon. Lots of photos.

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And the Hunter Home From the Hill

The family conversation of the past twenty-four hours has been a vigorous debate (or as vigorous as a debate can be when the parties are sleep deprived) as to whether JFK or CDG is the worst airport for traveller's changing planes. So far it is a toss-up.

The French did it again! Three years ago when we were en route to Paris, there was a transportation strike which, luckily, did not affect us.

Not so lucky yesterday. Our plane sat on the ground in Bremen (due to the air controller's slow down) and we missed our flight back to the U.S. from Paris. Of course, we might have made it if we had not been navigating the airport from hell. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say we and our luggage arrived together at 10:30 p.m. in Boston, six hours later than expected after changing planes at JFK. Let's just say that we got our work out in yesterday, hauling ass through the various terminals, and our muscles are toned from all the walking. Let's also say that we debated buying a bottle of Campari at the duty free shop and decided not to. An excellent decision as it would have been confiscated at security in NY.

Let me tell you what's no fun. Going thru security four times in one day. And being wanded and patted down thrice. And having hand baggage checked twice. And being sleep deprived, forgetting about the mini-bottle of wine from Air France and the water bottle and taking them through security. I was tempted to stand there and drink the wine on the spot, offering toasts to the guy who misdirected us, the churlish woman who took the luggage, and the two-mile walk to the gate. Oh well, Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot?

We are back. Everything unpacked. 2/3 of laundry done. Grocery list made. We decided to stop for cheeseburgers before going to the store, because an American needs a cheeseburger every now and then, and when we finished, we asked ourselves why go to the store because we could eat cereal tonight after eating such a pig-out lunch.

I did not like what I saw when I got on the scale. There is fasting and deprivation ahead. Well, it's Lent after all.

I have photos and stories and discoveries to share, but right now, the idea of a nap is toooo seductive.

At least the snow is gone. That's something. The cats are glad to see us. Thisbe made friends with the nice lady who came to give her injections twice a day. Annie is always a love. She didn't even offer three mad meows. What gives?

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They're Baaaack!

The birds are back, as mysteriously as they left. With a turtle dove added. The flock of robins is happy in the cow pasture. I fed the cows the last scraps of fruits and veggies this morning. There's a new young cow (half-grown) bringing the little herd up to five. Iris and Maggie are still rambunctious.

It seems like a week that I've been getting ready to leave, longer than that if you calculate pants hemmed, dry cleaning, lists, cat care and all that good stuff.

The cats know something is up and are bearing up pretty well. Always sad when one's adult's desert one for an unknown period of time. I feel sorry for Thisbe, so sad and sensitive.

My writing group isn't crazy about the last scene. In a sense, it's become drudgery. Last week was fun. Rewriting in store. I'm just feeling my way through the novel, even though I know what's going to happen.

I should hear from a publisher, an agent and ABNA while I'm gone. Could there be good news? Maybe the census will call and tell us we're hired.

Or will sucking it up be required yet again?

Back on the 20th. Stay tuned.

The Assyrian Swept Down Like The Wolf on the Fold

We have "lost" all of our birds. There's just one lone woodpecker occasionally at the suet. It's been like this all week. I suspect a big hawk visited the yard and made off with one of the denizens, maybe even a squirrel.

This happens periodically and the birds just disappear for a while. No idea where they go. I really miss seeing Mr. and Mrs. Finch eating seeds and all the little nuthatches, chicadees, the downy and hairy woodpeckers, the new flicker, the tufted titmice, the cardinal--my whole gang. It's sad.

Once when we lived in Wellesley a big hawk swooped down and carried off a squirrel. We saw it happen here to a bluejay. Causes extreme terror. My poor little critters.

At least our cats, who each tip the scale at 14 pounds are way too porky to be hauled off. They stay inside, anyway, except that Thisbe takes the air on the porch for a minute or two on a nice day.

As of Tuesday, I won't be blogging for 11 days as we take a long-delayed vacation, a real one, not just the quickie weekend kind. On the cheap, as usual.

The cats have a special sitter from the vet's office who can administer pills and injections. The instructions cover more than one page.

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#Queryfail day

They had "Query Fail Day" on Twitter yesterday, and some literary agents tweeted about the worst queries they had ever received. I read a blog that had summarized them and I have to admit there were some lulus. Fictional novelists, take note. Your novel is, by definition, fiction. And writers, if you have been abducted by enemy aliens, don't tell the agent. Pretend this is fiction.

I have sent out a lot of fruitless queries in my day, but none that would shame me. At least, I don't think so.

Lately, I've been having trouble with agents responding, which is to say they don't. This is the problem with email queries. You email the agent. She says, "sounds good. Send 50 pages" or whatever, and you do. In "reply." Right away, before she forgets.

Except, then something happens, and you hear nothing. Nada. Niente. So you send a friendly email follow up, and she replies that she must have lost it, send again.

And that's the end of it. Again, nothing. Except by now you're too embarrassed to send a second reminder. And you also ask yourself if you really want an agent, no matter how big the name or the agency, who keeps losing your writing. I mean, is this any way to run an agency. So I'm moving these queries to the "no response" bucket. And crossing the agent off the list. Gee, she seemed nice. Sharp. Good reputation. Why did she lose my stuff?

Maybe there should be "agent fail day" (#agentfailday) and everyone could bitch and moan about queries that went into the ether. No names, of course. You don't want to burn any bridges. Never burn bridges.

Suck it up. That's the ticket. Jeez, why didn't I think of that?

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My favorite four letter word

Lake Superior State University 2009 List of Banished Words

http://www.lssu.edu/banished/current.php

My favorite banished four-letter-word word is “Icon.” Icon has been overused to death and every third-rate entertainer is now an icon.

Columnists and writers who should know better just can’t stop writing it.

Icon icon icon icon.

Vomit.

Whenever I want a character to use a mouthful of cliches, I visit the lists of banished words. Someone should give Lake Superior State University a prize.

Grapeshot, who is reading Proust again this days. No seriously. Haven't seen one single "icon" in Proust.

Tragedy In India

This post came to a Burning Man list. I hope everyone who reads it can help a little.

Hello friends and family, So as many of you know, and many of you don't as I have not even talkedto you in a while. I am in the midst of a crazy tragedy here in southern India. I was travelling with my sweetheart Hollis by motorcycle and theworst possible scenario has unfolded. She was in an accident that took a freak turn and I will spare you the gory details (and they are gory) but end result, she is in a coma with the most serious injury one can sustain. Shehas a serious brain stem injury.

This is the part of the brain that controls and is connected to everything. The accident happened at 11:30 amon Tuesday Feb. 24th, it is now 5:30 am on Monday March 2nd as I am writingthis (I don't sleep). This is what's going on... The treatment she isreceiving is okay, for India. There are however huge rats scurrying about on the floor. I am sleeping on the ant covered floor outside her room as Iam not allowed in and the water they have used for many procedures is noteven purified.

Today as the final straw they would not allow her own motherwho has just flown here from Tennessee with emergency support from the USconsulate to see her own daughter when she inquired. She has been allowedsome of the time but they sort of shame you/ are mean to you to make you notask for visitation. They are not observing her brain pressure and have donenothing to alleviate the swelling in her brain. These are things that canmake of break her early on in her recovery and healing process. Her chancesare slim.

Her chances are slimmer here in Puducherry, Tamil Nadu, India. So we miraculously got her accepted to Stanford which is one of the best hospitals in the world. Also, as a charity case which is very rare, since she has no insurance. So what we need now is to get her there.

I am reaching out to everyone I know to help us get an ICU Plane (a.k.a. airambulance) to fly her back to California. If anyone knows anyone with a plane we could rent or has anybody in the Air Ambulance industry or a doctor who could volunteer their time to come and get her and fly her to Stanford and reduce the cost... those things would be amazing. The reality of the situation is that we need to raise $150,000 dollars, now for the quote we have. There is a blog that Hollis's best bud Eliza (from her bicycle dancetroupe the SF Derailleurs) started: *friendsofhollis.blogspot.com* and ithas a donate button on it.

I would like to urge everyone to give somethingto this button even if it is 5 dollars and then pass it on to everyone theyknow. Hopefully we can all figure out a way to give $1,000 whether it be by sheer generosity or organizing a fundraiser where ever this reaches you.Send it to people who know her and send it to anyone who is a compassionate person and knows what its like to lose a bright brilliant star of a person. She is an amazing performer, heart, bicycle and food activist and so much more, in San Francisco (and everywhere) and we need to do everything we canwhile we have the possibility, to bring her back.

It was crazy to go through my contacts to select everyone to send this to and see the amount of amazing people who are no longer alive on it and how badly I don't want toadd her to this group. Please help however you can even if its just keeping her in your thoughts and sending healing energies and magic. You can write me with any questions or support or call/text anytime, day or night.

Thank you more than anyone can be thanked, for everything you have all done so far, you have kept me going in my darkest hour. Please forward this on. Put it on myspace, facebook, your blog, craigslist, tribe, tell everyone.love and teary thanks,

Harrison
http://friendsofhollis.blogspot.com/

Snowy Sundays

Was it Verlaine or Baudelaire who complained about rainy Sundays? What about snowy ones? Tomorrow is supposed to be a bitch with LOTS of snow. Ah god, I am so sick of the cold and the ice and the snow.

On Friday, we took a nice long walk in the 50+ weather. Hadn't been out since November. What a seige. It was lovely. Fed the cows, too. The cows have a flock of robins in their pasture. I wonder if the robins don't find bugs in the cow manure. No idea, really.

So today we tackled the accountant's tax workbook. The writer must keep meticulous records. Mine were only so-so. I had to do a lot of research to find out what some of the listed expenses were actually for, and changed the categories to better agree with the work sheet.

I was astounded that I spent to much money on writing last year, compared with the really paltry money that came in. I attended three conferences, one out of town. And all the dues and meetings and this and that really add up. The royalty check was laughable. It is always hell on wheels to compute the "beginning inventory." This year I will write the freakin' number down instead of having to back into it.

Doing the tax workbook takes a day out of my life, and I always resent it. Accounting is not my thing, although I do force myself to keep records all year and not just throw receipts into a paper bag. Imagine! Eeek!

Last night we had oregano chicken which was tres tasty. I made a broccoli rabe dish from Cooking Light, which I swiped at the vets. Reminder to self: take a nice magazine back in return. Tonight we have a tenderloin with pepper recipe from the South Beach Diet. I went through all my diet recipes (yeah, as the pie was baking ) and realize most of them are actually salads or veggies. Salad in the snow is really not an option, but there are a few beef or chicken that actually sound good.

Hey, there are still 2 pieces of the chocolate pecan pie left, which will be history after the scanty fare on tonight's menu. We really were very disciplined to eat ten pieces over 5 days. Self control is all.

Thisbe wanted to go for a stroll on the porch all day, but whenever I opened the front door, she recoiled in horror. Once she stood with front paws on the porch and back paws in the house. She complained a lot. Water bowl is low; moist food now; where's the catnip? Do something about the weather, will you?

Off to make dinner. Last night we saw a fun movie from Netflix. Waiting for Guffman. Much of the same cast as Best in Show. Forgotten Indie gems.

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