Beef Birds - A Recipe for the Retro Years

My parents remember their "lean years." The early part of their marriage that included an incomplete honeymoon, a basement apartment decorated with furniture from yard sales, dinners of tuna salad and green beans, and a creative collection of cost-effective date nights.

Despite the beautiful and hysterical stories that came out of my parents lean years - stories that make the continuum between where they were and where they are now more impressive and stories that make their marriage even richer - I never really wanted to have my own stock piling Chicken of the Sea hungry years. But, as fortune would have it, Peter and I are in the midst of them. Except they aren't only lean, they are retro. In a tumultuous, down economy, and in the still early stages of our second careers, we have learned to live a little more humbly, save a lot more, and make the most of what we have at present, which might just have been set pieces in the Brady Bunch.

As a somewhat (my brother would argue a lot more than somewhat) spoiled girl, I originally had visions of getting married and moving into a brand new, double balcony, two-bedroom condo complete with an enormous walk-in closet. But earlier this month, when "when I get married" became a reality, I earned two assets - my handsome groom and his retro ranch house.

I remember when Peter first told me about his house. And then when I first saw the house on our first weekender trip to Naperville in MBA school. And then walking in, looking down the hallway and seeing this.

Ew. What is that wall paper? (Yes, I blurted that out to my at the time very new boyfriend.) But then I got a little closer to it.

And touched it. The black detail work is raised and felted, and the backdrop is a silky material. It reminded me of the textured wall paper at Le Vieux Logis, the beautiful Relais and Chateau hotel in the Dordogne region of France where I had stayed on a family vacation in 1999. And now, post honeymoon, it reminds me of our room at the Belles Rives in Antibes.

I fell in love with the wall paper, and by the end of the tour of Peter's house, I said, wherever we live, that wall paper is coming with us.

After many visits to Naperville, after many meals cooked in the little kitchen, and after moving in, I started warming up to the other elements of the house. The green bathroom with two showers. (Yes, two showers.) The dark cabinetry. The flooring. The light fixtures. Each retro detail had a charm to it - a character - a reason why I should give it a chance.

And then on her first visit to the house, my sister pointed out something that really made me love it. "Oh wow, that's the same floor that Grandma and Grandpa Barry have in their kitchen." I hadn't realized it, but when I looked at it again, I saw it too.

And I started to see other details that enabled the house to channel both sets of our grandparents and the legacy from which we come. The smell of the midwestern basement and descent into it reminds me of going down to the basement at 719 Forrest, and getting the ping pong paddles out or sneaking a couple snickernoodles out of the freezer. Being in the kitchen reminds me of standing in line at the stove at Olga and Red's house to get my helping of stuffed cabbage, pork and sauerkraut, or beef birds and then take my seat on the bench at the long kitchen table made for a family of ten. The furniture in the house from Peter's grandparents calls to mind his trips to visit them in Colorado and the perfectly perfect pound cakes, sugar cookies, and kugels that came out of Oma's kitchen. The beautiful artwork made by the one and only SGS, brings the romantic stories of SGS' travels with Poppa Bob through Europe to the equation. And as irony would have it, the house was built on a old asparagus farm, so like Grandpa Barry, we now grow our own in the garden out back.

Last night, my sister came all the way from Pittsburgh to retro land for dinner, so in the kitchen that she told me channels Grandma Barry, I made one of our favorites growing up, beef birds. (What is that?!) Round steaks, meat malleted into tenderness, stuffed with bread, carrots and onions, roasted to perfection, slathered in pan gravy, and served with sides of mashed potatoes and asparagus (of course.) A recipe that is most likely not in your Joy of Cooking books. A tribute to Grandma Barry and a celebration of our "retro years."

There is a For Sale sign in our yard. It's been there for about a year now, and the future of our continued retro residency is uncertain. Part of me wants to remove the sign and stay - to give the house the love and rehab it deserves. Day by day, meal by meal, I'm becoming more attached. After all, the asparagus roots are only two years old - Grandpa's are about 50 - we have a long way to go to achieve the ultimate harvest. But one thing is certain for now, the retro years are great, and we will always remember them, look fondly on them, and tell our children lots of stories about them.

Lo.

(For those interested in making your own beef birds ... read on.)

I bought about a pound and half of round steak. And used my Samurai sword of a new butcher knife to cut it into thin (1/4 inch) strips. Then I used the meat mallet and went to town pounding them into submission. Then I salted, peppered and floured the strips of meat, browned them on each side in vegetable oil, and set them aside. In the same pan I added about a cup and half of beef stock and slopped up all the brown bits. Then I added about 2 tablespoons of tomato paste.

Then I made the stuffing: Sauteed onions, carrots and celery in vegetable oil for about 7 minutes. Added chopped up stale bread, salt and pepper. Nothing more, nothing less. And wrapped up each slice of meat with the stuffing and stuck them with toothpicks. I set them in the sauce, and then let them roast for an hour in a half at 350 degrees. (I would actually let them roast for another hour after that, so they go from tender to melt in your mouth Grandma Barry goodness.)

I removed them from the oven, smothered them in the pan gravy that had been created, and served them with mashers and spargel.

 Them are goooooooood.

Let Us Eat Cake

On Friday, Peter and I watched Marie Antoinette. I had told him about it when we were walking through the Tuilleries in Paris a couple weeks ago. "We should definitely watch it when we get back!"  I alluded that it would be able to provide an accurate historical representation of 18th century Paris and would be fun for us to learn from together.

Honestly, this was mostly a selfish act as I had seen it countless times before and knew it was Sofia Coppola's artsy adaptation of the youthful, beautiful, party-going queen. I also knew it was in Peter's terms, "a girl movie." I first saw the film when it came out in theaters in 2006 - a year when the theme and, as Peter put it, "plotless story line," seemed to hit home. When I felt like I was more or less in Marie Antoinette's pointy-toed, courtly shoes leading a life of shopping, dining, and drinking in fancy long gloves (yes, I wore gloves on a couple occasions) with no real goals in sight. As MA said, "it's fun!" And that was the sole explanation I was looking for.

This time around, on Peter's first viewing and my 10th perhaps, I had a different sentiment. I still loved the costumes and the modern music and Jason Schwartzman's awkward portrayal of Louis Auguste and the Swedish captain with the dark eyes who fought valiantly in America. But instead of opening up my own closet after the film, getting dressed, calling my ladies in waiting and Mini Coopering over to SOBA for French martinis a la Rob Hirst, I had a bedtime of 9:30 and alarm clock set to 5:30 to look forward to.

There were no French fetes to attend this weekend, and I found myself more or less among the common masses, incredulously ogling the behavior at Versailles, dismissing any desire to be a part of it, but simultaneously disappointed that we weren't invited. I became one of the people who was supposed to eat cake while Marie Antoinette and the Contesse and the Dukes and Duchesses were partying.

So I did.

The next morning I made and ate old fashioned sour cream cake donuts - recipe courtesy of the one and only and totally amazing Jess Thompson who just published her first cookbook about what else, mmmmmmm, doughnuts. (Rolling pin made by her equally amazing husband Jim.)

And I made some petites madeleines - perfect little French sponge cakes.

And in an effort to make sure no one in this house went hungry and revolted against Naperville's own revelers, the cougars at Jilly's, I went all out last night and made an entire stuffed, roasted chicken, which we will be eating tonight as well.

At which point my mind was really off going to court, because I wouldn't have been able to fit into any of my ruffly dresses.

It was the first weekend in a long time when Peter and I had nothing planned and no parties to attend, and I've got to say, it felt weird at first. So I spent a significant amount of time making a scrap book about all the places we'd been over the past year, all the people we had partied with, and all the times we had said, because it's fun!  

And then I realized something while showing off my weekend's worth of work to Peter last night, I had a lot of pages left to fill. My scrap book was far from finished.

Sometimes though, you need a time out and a whole weekend when it's just you and me (and Roscoe), to reflect on where you've been, to confirm that the future of your life in your little ranch house is far rosier than that of those living at Versailles, and to make sure that life together will always be happy and the kind of private party that everyone wants to emulate. And that's really fun. 

Now, I'm off for a morning jog with my new running partner.

Lo.

Picture Retake Day

I run by Washington Junior High School in Naperville just about every day. In front of the school, there is a big promotional placard showcasing their slogan of sorts, "Educating the Producers of Tomorrow." Yesterday and I'm guessing for the next week or so, that important academic mantra was replaced with an essential announcement, Picture Retake Day is October 3.

I giggled down Washington Street after reading that, thinking about the stress that Washington Junior High seems to put on the day. It's like they wanted to make sure that Naperville's tweens don't end up on AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com. "We know there were LOTS of bad photos this year, make sure your kid ceases looking awkward by October 3!" I also giggled as I thought about picture days past, and how many times I imagine my parents wanted a retake.

Say, kindergarten's picture day, when my parents didn't get the bulletin the week before and didn't know about it. I showed up to the make-shift photo studio with a pink sweat suit and strangly hair. The photographer gave me a little comb to straighten out my do, but he had nothing to cover up my aerobics outfit. My parents were mortified when I came home and told them that I had had my picture taken that day.

Then there was seventh grade, when I was at the prime of my braces. I was perhaps the one girl in the world that was proud of them - that loved showing them off - that saw getting her rubber bands changed as a golden opportunity to color coordinate with every holiday. I rocked everything from orange and black, to green and red, to red, white and blue. Before rappers had grills, I had a pimped out metal mouth that I truly believed looked awesome. On school picture day, 1994, I made the widest grin possible, revealing the Steeler pride of my teeth. The black and yellow rubber bands set against the steely gray, shiny background, literally took up half of the photograph. I can remember showing my family the 8 by 10 - Ooooooh.

In Naperville, both of these would have been retakes, but we never seemed to have this option in Pittsburgh. Which might explain my parents' scrutiny over my brother's school picture outfits. (He wore a bow tie and blazer from Pre-Kindergarten on.) Or my sister's supplemental photo shoot for her senior portrait.

Despite the assumption that my photo would be bad, it was always very exciting getting the portrait studio's envelop in your mailbox. I would always keep mine face down on my desk so I couldn't see the 5 by 7 through the window on the front of the envelop. I would slowly open it and reach for the wallets first, the smallest versions of my awkwardness, and decide whether or not I would continue to the 4 by 6's and 8 by 10's, or hide my envelop so Brittany, the girl with the perfect school portraits couldn't see, and hope that next year's would be better.

While the excitement and inevitable disappointment of school pictures is over for me, this week I got something even better than my triple chin laden sixth grade school picture or my David Cassidy look alike eighth grade school picture. I got the wedding pictures! And guess what? I mostly don't look awkward! Perhaps having a hair stylist and make up artist on site helped. Or perhaps Purvis was just way better than the creepy photographers with the little combs at St. Edmund's. Regardless, I'm not keeping them face down on my desk, I encourage you to take a look!

My sister told me this week that one of the ways to get past the wedding is over blues, is to look at the pictures. And yes, each evening this week, I have looked through 100 or 200 of them. (There are 1,400!) But that just doesn't quite cut it.

After seeing the "Retake Day" sign yesterday, I had this great idea. What if we had a wedding picture retake day? We don't have to do everything again, but maybe just get dressed up, and lounge around in the backyard in our fancy clothes, and perhaps bring back the band, and the champagne, and everyone on the dance floor? After all, there are definitely some that need to be retaken.

I swear that is my prayer face, not an eye roll.

I had to have one more sip didn't I?

Really? Who told us to not smile. (Oh yeah, me.)

Der.

I do not know why I am touching Heski's armpit.

Peter: "That is the world's smallest piece"

Me: "Fine, you cut it!"

Ew.

Okay, my Dad's probably shaking his head, "NO!" with a vengeance right now. So I'll keep looking at the good ones, which are a plenty.

And I'll also try to follow my other friends' advice. Courtney said she just focused on her house and her dogs. So this weekend, we're doing just that; organizing and planning our future Atomic Ranch winner, and taking care of our house guest, Roscoe.

Thank you Michael Purvis for an absolutely phenomenal collection of wedding photos - they capture the fun, happiness and love on our wedding day perfectly.

Lo.

The Anatomy of a Thank You Note

When I was growing up, I never needed to go to a card store. I never needed to combat the scrutinizing eyes of the ornery old sales lady at Cards Plus. And I never needed to shield my eyes and scurry past the "adult card room" to find a birthday card at Kards Unlimited, the more liberal card store in town. The cards came to us. By way of our very own card dealer, my mother, who after a long day using legal language must have a sought refuge in the poems and riddles of Hallmark and moonlighted as a greeting card collector.

About once a week she would come home with a little paper bag filled with cards. She would quietly call us one by one into her room to pick a card - for grandpa's birthday, for Anna's Christening, for Teacher Appreciation Day, for Dad (just because he's Dad and he deserved lots of cards.)

You always wanted to be the first to pick your card - to get the cream of the crop. The fold out, story one that depicted you and your grandpa, say, as house mice, reading by the fire, picking tomatoes in the garden, watching the big game, and laughing together. The one that wasn't as childlike as the others.

Occasionally, the little brown bag had something else in it though. The other purchase you can make at card stores. Thank you notes. Two 10-packs of cute little thank you notes, that my mom had picked out just for me. I could thank all my relatives with one set, and all my friends with the other, for all the shiny, new birthday gifts that lined my twin bed.

While I loved writing a message and signing my name on greeting cards, I was a little less enthusiastic about the repetitive messaging on thank you notes. My Mom taught me how to write them - the winning formula. Tell them thank you for the gift. Name the gift. Tell them thank you for coming to your party. Tell them that you love them a lot. And then sign your name.

I mostly followed my Mom's etiquette, except for once, around my eighth birthday. I can still remember the Snoopy themed thank you cards. I skipped the first four sentences, and went straight to signing my name. And not even signing my full name, just my initials. I opened up each each Snoopy card, wrote "L.F." on the inside, and sealed them. Word traveled quickly across the chatty Auntie network and soon enough my Mom found out about my faux pas, My thank you note writing was under surveillance for several years later, until I developed an affinity and appreciation for the art of writing "thank you," and my own little formula.

True to form, my Mom (and Dad) got me my thank you cards for the wedding. Three giant boxes of them. And I'm nearly through box two. This time around, I didn't only get schooled in thank you note etiquette from my Mom, I got it from the high class card lady at Marjie Allen, who told me not to fall behind! And I'm proud to say, I haven't. I believe that I have written more than 200 thank you notes at this point, with a couple more to go, and they don't just have my new initials "L.S." on them, they each have a different, personalized, and thoughtful message.

While my hand gets a cramp each evening, my handwriting goes from somewhat cryptic to completely so, and I continue to wish that I was just done already, there is something really special in writing each message. And I start to wonder, how one card can express all the gratitude that Peter and I have. It can't, but its an artful gesture.

Last night, after card #201 most likely, I sent a tweet that went something like this, "So tired of thank you notes. I wish a thank you tweet covered it." I didn't mean it, and a tweet most certainly wouldn't express it all, but if I could expand the field beyond 140 characters, it would have gone something like this.

Thank you for making our house, a home sweet ranch home.
Thank you for making our toasts sing crystal's sweet tune.
Thank you for allowing dinner to have such stunning edges.

Thank you for framing our most special moments.

Thank you for encouraging our bed to go from orange and brown to white.
Thank you for wrapping us in steely gray warmth.
Thank you for making cooking and carving even more exciting.

Thank you for being there.

For praying with us, dining with us, dancing with us, loving us, making us smile.

You made our day. And you will continue to make our life.

Lo. (and PTS.)

Blogging Ahead

When I was young, I was taught to not count my chickens before they hatch. But to think ahead, to be the early bird that catches the worm, and to get it while it's hot. After this weekend, I have a new cliche word to the wise to add to this list. Despite your desire to be first to market, don't blog ahead.

In talking to "professional bloggers" at work in an attempt to pitch our campaign messaging, I've learned a thing or two about how they blog. And one thing that they all seem to do is blog ahead. They blog when they can, often times on the weekends, stage the content it, and schedule it to be published on certain days when they know they will drive the most traffic to their site. 

Trying to up my status as an amateur, I decided I would plan ahead this weekend. Friday evening, I started outlining, writing and even formatting my entry for Saturday evening. I was all prepped and ready to go, I just needed to add some photos, and voila! I would have this high traffic day because everyone would be searching for news about the Notre Dame game and I would have the scoop, live from South Bend, Indiana.

My blog was going to be called, "How to Cheer for a Losing Team.” The entire premise was based on a Notre Dame loss and the comfort food I would make to ease the spirits of the downtrodden fans. The take-aways were to:

Cheer for yourself. (I ran 22 miles Saturday morning in 3 hours flat! Feeling pumped and ready to run for Team RMHC, I spent the whole 2-hour ride to South Bend, cheering for myself, and making Peter cheer for me too.)

Cheer for your friends. The MBA crew was in town, so I anticipated spending the afternoon cheering for them to be goofy and goofier. 

Skip the inevitable loss and cook. Yes, I've become the ultimate fair weather fan, and decided I don't even need to go into the stadium anymore. I used to go in midway through the first quarter and leave at halftime, but this year, I opted for the couch.

Comfort the losing team's fans with good food. A roast beef and mashed potato dinner was on the menu.

That was my plan. And then, ND started doing well. And winning. And winning by more. And I became the loser - the only person in South Bend hunting for a better bone-in standing rib roast in Martins while Robert Blanton intercepted the ball and nearly ran it back for a touchdown.

It made me kind of sad. I used to be such a good little Notre Dame fan. I grew up watching the Irish every Saturday with my family. I would lie on the living room floor, staring up at the television, dressed from head to toe in ND gear that we had received as souvenirs the year before at the old Notre Dame bookstore on South Quad. I would get anxious with my Dad and brother when the game came down to the wire. And I would get angry when the refs made a bad call or Rocket’s touchdown was called back. I would cheer and applaud, and scream and yell when Chris Zorich and his swaggering defensive line made a heroic goal line stand. And I would eagerly wait for the following weekend, when we would actually be on campus for the game - when I could hoot and holler for the band as they stepped off from the Golden Dome, and proudly follow them into the stadium, ready and raring to do every cheer the way the students did. I was a great fan!

But after a decade or so of Domer disappointment, I started to find new things to do on Saturdays. It became a waste of time to watch the irrelevant Irish. And while my parents, brother and sister, friends and extended family held on to high hopes, I fell off the band wagon.

On Saturday, I totally missed the excitement. I missed the potential turn around from mediocrity. I had to live vicariously through Peter's pictures.

And scrap the blog that I had created. I had no insider perspective, no value-add on Saturday.

But on Sunday, I got a new lead. Perhaps one that won't drive Search traffic to the Early Riser, but one that definitely merits some words. Ellie ate solid food yesterday, and I was there to see it! Talk about a headliner.

Which means that Auntie Lo and Uncle Peter will certainly be Friday night babysitters soon. And that Ellie will soon enough be eating chicken pot pies with us on Sunday evening. 

I don't talk about sampled products, big brand events, or blogger conventions on my blog. I talk about life. And in our life, you most certainly shouldn't blog ahead.  

Here's hoping that the Irish can make a fan out of me again.

Lo.