Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Phyloccine Ice Cream Sandwiches -- In 3 or 4 Simple Steps.

Phyllo + fetuccine = phyloccine. Brilliant!
Ice cream + anything = immediate win with the kids.
Fruit + stick = immediate win with pretty much anyone.
Sugar + butter = count me in.


In the spirit of throwbacks from the days of yore, I present to you a pared down recipe from Baking With Julia, care of our inimitable Tuesdays with Dorie baking group (more than two years into the project and still going strong!). 

If you really need more details, check out the other bakers' posts, or go buy the book.

Step 1: Roll and slice phyllo dough and separate strips into little "nests." Sprinkle with sugar and butter and bake for 10 minutes at 375, or until golden brown.

Step 2: Assemble fruit skewers and make raspberry compote (raspberries + sugar + five minute macerate. Add a little mint to the compote if you're feeling inspired.)

Step 3 (Optional): Make whipped cream if you want. No photo available, since I didn't use it. But I'm guessing you know what whipped cream looks like.

Step 4: Assemble layers: phyloccine nest, compote, ice cream, phyloccine nest, skewer. Whipped cream goes on the bottom as "glue" and wherever else it feels good.

TA-DA! You've got a tall, retro, kid-friendly, low-stress dessert that is certain to win friends and influence loved ones. You're welcome.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Party of the Year

Once upon a time, before the reign of Reality TV, I was the star of my own social experiment. The setup reads like the beginning of a joke:

What happens when a lowbrow, mid-western young Jewish girl (me), lands a PR job at a posh New York City investment firm … run by the bluest blue bloods still surviving today … and THEN… gets put in charge of the 80 year-old CEO’s social calendar? 

I'll tell you what happens: there's a major culture clash. Comfort-zone-wise, it was worse than Wife Swap. Hilarity ensued.

Although I had had plenty of experience planning fundraising events in my previous job, I had no idea of the mountain of etiquette I'd need to scale in order to organize this company’s soirees. 

I couldn't figure out the rules about how to address envelopes to Lords and Ladies; where to seat the dinner guests at a formal dinner party; even placing a stamp on a return envelope became a lesson in class distinctions. (“If they can’t afford the stamp on the return envelope, they shouldn’t be attending the event,” I was told.)

I was reprimanded for wearing blue suit pants, rather than a skirt, to the office. I flubbed the menu for the Board meetings at the 21 Club and miscounted the guest list for the dinner at LeCirque. And the wine lists! Our CEO had a very specific idea of what should be served, and I didn’t know my cabernet from my claret. Thank God for the sommeliers (a word I learned on the job).

Then there was the annual trip to the Ascot races and the after party in London. I planned every detail of the lodgings, food, travel and entertainment --  long-distance --  for months in advance, but was not invited to cross the pond with the team. Talk about class distinctions!

Our grandest event of the year was held the first Tuesday in December, in conjunction with the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. For this party, 200 of New York’s high society hovered above the festivities taking place in the freezing plaza below, observing the lighting ceremony from the floor-to-ceiling windows in our office. Dom Perignon flowed as swiftly as the ancient aristocratic blood in our CEO’s veins, beluga caviar disappeared by the tinful, and 24-carat-gold encrusted hors d’oeuvres whirled around the room on gleaming silver trays. The elite of New York City were dazzled.

Does it surprise you that my time at the investment firm was brief? Alas, I only regret that it had not been filmed. "The Blue Blood Chronicles" would have made great TV.

It is in this spirit of Gatsby-esque decadence that I embarked upon this week’s culinary adventure, sponsored by Julia Child and her featured guest baker, Gale Gand. Our Tuesdays with Dorie project was scallop and pesto “purses”.
The recipe itself was simple enough, but I did visit five different stores to gather the choicest ingredients. After making the pesto and melting the butter, it was all about assembly. (But first place the scallop in a strategically lit dramatic pose for the blog photo op.)

14 minutes in the oven, and the party began. The phyllo/parmesan dough purses were appropriately buttery, and the scallops inside, dripping with pesto and garnished with scallions, devolved into an opulent, fleshy indulgence that inspired sighing and fawning from my honored guests: my 8 and 10 year old. 

We slumped in my worn out Ikea kitchen chairs, decked in our coziest pajamas after a long sweaty day on the baseball field, happily licking cheese and butter off our chins. Seating arrangements be damned. The ornate purses were served on white, Stop and Shop paper napkins, paired with nothing but tap water. There was not an ounce of  gold plating to be seen, and yet, it was the party of the year.


 To see how other bakers from Tuesdays with Dorie fared, check out their links here. For the recipe, buy the book!

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Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Six Signs You’re Turning Into Your Cat

It was just a matter of time before I submitted to the supreme will of the Internet and started posting about my cat...
There’s been a lot of speculation about whether or not pets take on the personality of their owners, but I think in my case, the reverse is true.

Slowly but surely, I’m turning into my cat. (But not a werecat: those are scary.)

Let me introduce you to Wolfie: he’s a black, 8-year old, short-haired domestic who just joined our family a couple of months ago. Wolfie and I spend lots of time in the house alone together, so it’s only natural that we should influence each other's behavior.

Still, I’m concerned that I might actually be morphing into a feline. Here’s why:

1. During the day, all I want to do is nap. I’m good for about an hour or two of productive work – whether that’s exercise or laundry or cooking or writing – and then I’ve had it. My entire being is yearning (yawning?) for sleep. Just give me half an hour, and then I’ll be human again. Mostly.

2. I usually want to be left alone, unless I need you to scratch my back. I’ll curse a blue streak at anyone who comes near me when I’m trying to rest, or anyone who – heaven forbid -- tries to talk to me when I’m watching Idol. Just leave me alone, thanks. Unless you can reach the Lubriderm over there…

3. Dental floss is my new best friend. Really. I found a new brand, and my gums have never been cleaner.

4. I prowl around the house all night long. Between practicing for Jazzercise classes, scrubbing the pots, and straightening up after the kids, who has time to sleep? Good thing I did all that napping during the day.

5. I’m starting to crave fish at every meal. This could mean that I’m breaking feline, or it could just mean that spring has finally arrived and I’m ready to eat lighter meals. You decide.

6. My night vision is getting better all the time. I’m now able to sense the moment before I’m going to kick the cat in the dark. Somehow, that still doesn’t stop me. And that stealth laundry basket is another story.

On Wikipedia, there’s actually a name for the shape-shifting process: feline therianthropy. If it’s on the Web it must be true, right?

What do you think? Should I invest in my own scratching post and some catnip toys, or should I just stop spending so much time on the Kitty-Interweb and start interacting with the real world?

And what about you? How much do you have in common with your pet? I can’t be the only one who worries about this kind of thing. Do tell, in the comments below.

But I'll have to get back to you later. Right now it's time for my nap.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Jesus Lives at Comcast

I’m sitting at Panera Bread trying to do my writerly thing, but it’s almost impossible to concentrate because this lady at a nearby table is on her cell phone and she’s a yeller. I’m not trying to eavesdrop, but it’s hard not to listen.
She’s doing some research with a Comcast representative. There’s lots of talk about monthly rates and cancellation fees. She yeses and uh-huhs a bit, and I start to think maybe the phone call will be ending soon. Good, maybe I can get back to the essay I’m supposed to be working on.

But then the conversation takes a different turn. Apropos of nothing, the woman says into the mobile, “Can I ask you a question? Are you a Christian?”

Remarkably, it appears that the Comcast representative is indeed a Christian, since the woman on my end responds, “I knew it! Because, you know, I felt the presence of God!”

I think about the phrase, “Presence of God.” I have felt the “Presence of God,” only a few times in my life. I suppose, if I were a true believer, I’d say I felt the Presence of God the first time I held each of my children, the first time I heard Beethoven’s Ninth, and the first time I made love to my husband. Major milestones, all.

But this woman felt the Presence of her God in an everyday transaction. Her search for a phone carrier was an extension of her search for salvation. That’s pretty impressive.

She continues, “I wasn’t going to call you guys, ‘cause I already talked to Verizon. I called them first. But something was telling me to call you, and now I know: it was God! I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my savior, and he brought me to you!” The joy and optimism in her voice nearly makes me gag on my spinach.

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to look around to find some sympathetic neighbor at whom I can roll my eyes. Also, I’m desperate to get a peek at this loony tunes who thinks her savior is with her, speeding through the invisible telephone wires.

But I can tell this is just the beginning, so I bide my time. And now she’s saying, “You know, I was having the worst day, and I’m so glad I called you. My day was just terrible until now, and now that I know you’ve accepted Jesus too, my day just got so much better...”

“…But don’t give the devil an inch,” she warns, “‘cause he’ll take a mile.”

The easy thing to do would be to laugh. I’m an agnostic – a “cultural,” barely practicing Jew sitting in a public space listening to a very loud woman proclaim the glory of her God. But the hard thing to do, the hardest thing for me, is to stop judging.

I think about this woman’s “terrible day,” and try to imagine what terrible means to her. It could mean that she spilled coffee on her blouse and was late for work, or it could mean that her husband left her and she just got diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. The point is, we never know how others are struggling. If this woman is having a rough day and this connection to a stranger has made her life a little more bearable – who am I to judge?

Isn’t that what we all need – a sympathetic ear when we’re feeling down? A tiny connection in this universe of fast-talking strangers? A belief that maybe there’s a purpose to all the little decisions we make throughout our day, and throughout our lives? Decisions even as simple as which company to call up for a quote on phone service?

And still, compassion is hard. The rational, ironic, post-post-modern side of my brain is screaming: oh man, this will make a great story at book club tomorrow night! But the more honorable side of my brain says Stop. This is someone’s life. This is important to her. Right now. Don’t presume to understand her pain or how she could ease it.

Then there’s the Comcast rep: why was he still on the line with her? A cynic would say he’s going along with anything she wants to hear. He gets paid on commission after all, and studies show that the longer he keeps a customer on the line the more likely she is to buy. Maybe this is true, but the pauses on her side of the conversation are getting longer and longer as she listens ever more attentively. She seems to have found a soul mate. And I begin to think, “wow, maybe he really is providing a little comfort to this woman who is howling in the wilderness. Maybe, just maybe, strangers can be kind to one another just for the sake of being kind.” I’d like to believe that was true.

A friend once said to me, in all seriousness, “You make a great Christian, for a Jew.” What she meant, of course, was that I had acted like a decent person; a kind person. I don’t even remember what act prompted that statement, but since my friend is a devout believer, I took her words as the highest form of compliment. The truth is, we all need to strive for compassion, especially when that’s not the easy choice. We all need to accept that others are struggling to make sense of the world.

I’m not always great at showing compassion, but I’m getting better. I’m trying to be more sensitive to the ways in which people cry out for help, and I’m trying very very hard not to judge.

Who knows? Maybe this woman yelling into the phone was onto something. If Jesus himself doesn’t live within the Comcast cable lines, certainly those lines allowed his spirit to appear at Panera today.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Scones: A Baking Muse Sings Again

I have very strong opinions when it comes to scones. In the US, we’ve found many ways to massacre this deceptively simple tea time treat.
Originally, scones were eaten in Scotland and eventually found their way to the US via the United Kingdom and Canada. When I refer to scones, I’m talking about the fully Americanized version. A good American scone should be medium-density, dry, fairly buttery, and nubby-textured. It can have a range of flavors, and even a variable amount of sugar, but it really shouldn’t be round. 

In my quest for the perfect scone, I’ve been lured into buying, basically, a croissant in triangle form, or a hockey puck with currants, or what amounts to a giant mound of chocolate chips glued together with a little butter and sugar. If you enter a bakery and sense that any of these are in the offerings, exit the store immediately and run for the hills. Or better yet, run to your refrigerator and pull out a stick of butter to start making your own. Scones don’t take that long to make, after all. It is almost always worth the wait to do it better yourself.

A couple of years ago, I went on a scone-baking bender. I baked for four consecutive days, trying out a new recipe each day. (For those who are keeping score, that equals 48 scones in four days for a family of four.) Eventually my husband had to shut the operation down.  And, truth be told, after all that baking, I’d mastered the art of pressing butter into flour, if not the perfect scone recipe.

But lately the muse has been singing her siren song again, and here I am, obsessively fantasizing about flavor combinations and texture profiles. And so I’m back in the kitchen. Here’s a recent winner made with buttermilk, figs and orange zest, from Baking with Julia, by contributing baker Marion Cunningham:

Since I was taking these to a book group meeting, I opted for the mini-scone shape (I caved and used a biscuit cutter – inauthentic shape, gah!). The technique of brushing the scones with extra butter and a dusting of sugar just before popping them into the oven gave the scones a nice sweet crust, but they were a bit firm from over baking, so the quest continues. 

I’ll report back when I’ve decoded the ideal scone recipe, or when my husband drags me – flour sullied and pastry blender flailing – out into the light. Whichever comes first.

For the original recipe, buy the book. To see how the other bakers in the group fared (some great ideas here!), visit Tuesdays with Dorie.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

What? You've Never Had a Bialy?

Why is it that no one outside the New York metropolitan area seems to know what a Bialy is? Among New Yorkers and Jews everywhere, the bialy is the exalted deep-dish cousin to the plain old NY bagel. Though both originated in Poland, the bialy sports onions right inside the dough, and it's pitted center is filled with sauteed onions and plenty of poppy seeds. I've always preferred these to regular bagels, and now that I know how quick they are to make, I expect they will become a Sunday morning staple in our house.

This bialy recipe, from Baking with Julia, was simpler even than making bagels -- it omits the boiling step and bakes for just 10-12 minutes. The recipe calls for a full teaspoon of pepper in the dough, which added tons of flavor, but proved a bit strong. Next time I'll reduce the pepper to just 1/2 tsp. for more balance. But either way you do it, you'll be fine. Just remember to poke holes -- lots and lots of holes -- in your dough before baking, and you're all set.

Bialystock and Bloomin' Onions: first attempt.

Poke lots and lots of holes. Or else you'll end up with a big poof (Which is appropriate for The Producers, but not for a bialy.)
In the meantime, you should know that bialys are named for Bialystok, Poland, which of course brings to mind the classic Mel Brooks movie/play, The Producers. Throughout the shaping, baking and serving of these bialys, I couldn't help singing to myself in a high pitched voice, over and over again: "Bialystok and Bloom, Bialystok and Bloom!" (Though I passed on the miniskirt and gogo dancing -- much to my husband's disappointment.)

Inevitably, the word bialy spins me into a vortex of 1960's movie images involving Nazis, comb-overs, pretzel bras and lederhosen. Thus I feel obliged to take a moment to reflect upon these classic quotes from The Producers. See if you can recall:
  • "I'm not so sure about this year. I'm supposed to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia, but I think I look more like the Chrysler Building."
  • "Hold me, touch me. Hold me, touch me. Where is hold me, touch me?"
  • "Ulla dance!" 
Baked bialys, properly poked.
And of course, in the middle of yet another snowstorm, we could all use a little "springtime" pick-me-up. (Go ahead, you know you want to follow the link.)

For more detailed accounts of the bialy-making experience, visit the other bloggers from Tuesdays with Dorie. For the recipe, buy the book.

My favorite phood photo yet!

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

I Told Myself I’d Never Do It Again

Linking up with MamaKat's pretty much world-famous Writer's Workshop today. 


She was tiny, like me. Curly brown hair, pert nose, eager to please.  She was quiet and timid; overshadowed by her vivacious big sister. And she stank.

It’s true, I’ll admit it. Despite regular bathing, my toy poodle Pookie trailed a constant stench of bodily waste and decay, especially at the end. But I get ahead of myself.

Pookie was my first pet -- I think she was presented to me when I was still in diapers. Eventually, I learned to control my bodily functions, but poor Pookie never did. She was awarded her name, our family’s term for ‘fart’, during her first days at home, because we quickly realized it would become her primary form of communication with us. Pooks were her signature party trick; her calling card; her drafty personal contribution to family conversation. From the day we met her until the day she died, she was gassy.

It got worse. Despite our halfhearted attempts to train her, throughout her life, skinny, nervous little Pookie seemed to prefer to relieve herself on my green shag rug or in the laundry room, where at least we had a linoleum floor. Inevitably, the odors, Pepe LePew-like, followed in her wake.

Still, Pookie was my dog, and I loved her unconditionally. She was my confidant and my playmate. She’d lick my tears when I was sad, and steady my breathing when I slept. I fed her and brushed her and bathed her; cleaned up after her many “accidents;” dressed her up in doll clothes; took her for walks – everything you'd expect from a girl and her pup.

Each night we’d drift off to sleep together – me: corpse-like on my back, fist balled into my hip, Pookie: wound up in the crook of my arm, resting her doll-sized poodle head on my shoulder. And each morning, I’d find my dog stone asleep at the foot of my bed as I stepped out into a reeking wet circle on the rug, or worse.

Pookie was 13 years old, and I was a delicate 16, when she began to die. She had been growing sicker for many months. Her small body was more skeletal than ever. Her fur had been falling out, and what was left clung to her frame in matted patches. Most of what she ate she vomited out. After we found a mess she’d cower in the corner, reduced to a shamed heap of small, shivering bones. Her body was literally wasting away, as bodies will do. She smelled of approaching death.

At last the day came when my parents decided to take Pookie to the vet for a lethal injection. They told me to say goodbye. In the foyer I held my dog close, cried into her sour hair one last time, and gingerly passed her to my mother. Pookie, for her part, seemed to know what was up. She didn’t complain. I’m told that she passed away even before they arrived at the vet.

I was inconsolable after Pookie died. I lashed out at friends who had teased me about the dog’s filthy habits and I cried myself to sleep for weeks. I moped around the house and wept in the bathroom at school. 

I knew that I should have been grateful that I had so many “good years” with her. I should have been happy that I’d lived to the ripe age of 16 without ever having to say goodbye to someone (something?) I loved. But the cuts ran deep. Never again, I told myself. I swore that after Pookie broke my heart I’d never again let myself get attached to a pet.

Yet time moves on, and though there are scars, wounds do heal. Now, 25 years and two kids later, I am finally opening my home to a new animal. I hope that since Pookie died, I have gained some wisdom and distance from my pain.  While I am saddened at the thought that my children will have to endure the same kind of loss that I did, I realize that caring for an animal is a character-building opportunity. It is a chance to learn how to love and care for something beyond ourselves. It teaches responsibility and generosity, patience and sharing. Sooner or later, the suffering will find us. It is how we deal with that suffering that makes us who we are. Better to have loved and lost, and all that.

If there’s one thing children teach us, it is to open ourselves to all of life's possibilities – to welcome the joy and the agony, and yes, even the stink – because in the end, our lives will be richer for it. I know this now. My kids have been lighting the way for years. I think I am finally ready to follow.

So welcome, Wolfie the cat, to your new home. Let me show you where we’ll keep the litter box…