To Casados; To Kassen

Around 7:30 PM, on a water taxi traveling from Coronado Island to San Diego, nine (well-dressed) girls gathered around the Veuve Clicquot to make a toast.
"To Casados!," I said.
"To Casados!," everyone echoed.

As Captain Nick navigated the calm San Diego Bay, onward to dinner at Seersucker, we each agreed to give Kassen a bit of marital advice. With as many as three years and as little as six months of marriage to draw on, we each mustered up a tip or two. Of the suggestions to 'never go to bed angry,' 'always find fun in the mundane,' 'be open to the unplanned' and 'communicate,' the maid of honor held my favorite - a lesson in both Spanish and matrimony.

She said, (and I'm going to butcher her wise words, so apologies) "In Spanish, the word marriage is 'casados,' literally 'house of two.' Often times we want to bring everyone into our marriage. That is, when there's a problem we tend to poll the audience for perspective on a solution. But really, your marriage is about two people; no one will fully understand all that goes into it. As much as you may want to invite others in, realize that you are the permanent residents."

I loved that. I toasted to it. And I pocketed it along with the rest of the wonderful memories from Kassen's bachelorette weekend in Coronado. But I do have an addendum to it.

I believe before you can reach casados, you need casaonce - a house of eleven, or twelve or fifteen. After a casatres in Baden Hall, a casadiez in 702, and a couple other casas filled with roommates in D.C. and South Bend, Kassen needed one more full house to make sure she was 100% ready to live in a house built for two.

So, thanks to the generous hospitality of Kassen's Aunt Beth and Uncle Bill, we met in Coronado for one last all-girls sleepover. The most well-organized and executed nautically-themed bachelorette party ever, where no buoys were allowed, except for the friendly man who needed to put out a fire.

We needed one last all-girls yoga session.

And some all-girls goofing around.

We needed some all girls sun soaking.

And all-girls scavenger hunting.

We needed several all-girls shots.

And many all-girls sweets.

We needed to do a little last minute flirting.

And wedding bell ringing.

And most importantly, we needed to surround Kassen in the kind of love, friendship and laughter that she has given all of us over the years.

Being the speech enthusiast that I am, I ended up giving Kassen three or four pieces of advice on that boat ride. With almost six successful months of marriage under my belt, I guess I thought I was hot stuff. I concluded with my understanding of soul mates though. I never used to believe in them, but each day, I'm finding more and more that I found mine.

A toast tonight to knowing that in marriage, every day your mate will get closer to your soul. 

Lo.

The Fast

We finished Food Week with a bang. On Monday night, to celebrate Peter's birthday and to do his turkey proud, we had triple-decker club sandwiches, with tomato-basil soup and avocado fries. Last night, for Mardi Gras, we went the way of the Bayeux, and simmered and spiced up some Jamabaya set to the beat of Creedance Clearwater Revival. We finished each meal with Oma's signature pound cake, Peter's birthday present, which is now entirely gone. And leaves me calculating just how much butter I consumed via that cake in the past four days.

Now full, satisfied, and hopefully not too pleasantly plump, it's time to fast and focus on more spiritual nutrients as we start the Lenten season.

In Lents past, I used to give up something with little to no success. Desserts for instance. Typically, a week into Lent I would find myself eating a bowl of ice cream and starting to make exceptions to my rule. So by the time Holy Thursday rolled around it seemed perfectly acceptable in my mind to have dessert at breakfast, lunch and dinner.

This year, I really want to try do something bigger and better. I want to make it work. And I want to head into Holy Week, feeling that I'm in a better place spiritually than I was before. So I've decided to make a promise to look with a keener eye, listen with a more captive ear and connect with more of my soul. It's a promise that requires several steps.

1. I'm giving up Facebook. Well, not entirely. Part of my job and livelihood depend on it, so I'm giving it up in the evenings, when I get home from work. This is going to help me listen without distraction. 
2. I'm giving up alcohol. On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. If the first week works, I will add on Thursday. And so on throughout Lent. This is to help me look without fog. 
3. I'm committing to attend weekday mass at least once a week, ten minutes of quiet prayer every day, and Reconciliation at least twice during these 40 days. This is to help me connect better to a world that is so close to us, yet so far away too much of the time. 
4. And hey, for the heck of it, I'll give up desserts, and see how long I last. I'm predicted that I'll fold when Josephine fills up her candy jar after lunch.

Finally, and this is a big maybe, so I'm not numbering it: Use my words to talk about something really important. Though I laugh in the face of the dangers of public sharing, there are a couple of things that I am reluctant to share. One of which, is my unwavering faith. So I always get a little nervous, even afraid, talking about something so personal, so essential to my being, and so sensitive. But I have a feeling that I may need to commit some public-facing words to a more spiritual conversation this Lent. There is a lot going on, a lot that has made an impression lately, stuff that I might want to work out here. We'll see. Maybe when I start seeing better.  

For now, just say a little prayer that I'm better at numbers 1 through 4 this year.

Lo.

An Ugly Duckling

When I was in sixth or seventh grade, then, come to think of it, in high school and college as well, my friends and I made lists of the qualities we were looking for in our dream men. Generally, they were all pretty similar - hot, athletic, smart, nice, good dancer (yes, that was a universal trait on our lists.) But the order in which these attributes ranked differed. Very high on my list, second to 'hot,' was 'funny.' Humor has always been one of the most attractive personality traits to me - a nearly automatic trump card.

Five years after my final list was created in a BP dorm room with Kristen, I found him - the dream man that didn't only receive the highest marks on my scoring system, but a man that took the humor test to the next degree. And I married him. And for the past sixth months, I've pretty much had a smile on my face all day, every day.

It's not necessarily a stash of jokes, or the use satire, or slapstick. It's just the youthful, fun approach that Peter takes to life that keeps me laughing. It's the fact that a Sunday drive alongside Guillermo is going to be a bit bouncy because we're going in the monster truck - the one that sits above the raging yummy mummies in their premium SUVs.

It's the fact that a legitimate excuse for taking a break from filling out real estate paperwork is the need to stoke the flames of the smoker. But hey, it'll just take ten minutes, we'll be right back.

It's the fact that our freezer isn't stocked with contents labeled Breyers, Stouffer's or Jolly Green Giant. Rather, you open the door to find two frozen pheasants, two frozen ducklings, venison roasts, and vacuum sealed hops.

And it's the fact that chores at our house are never chores. They are opportunities for giggling, set to the right melodies on the record player. Cooking dinner and doing dishes every night in our dishwasher free house is never an inconvenience. It's a hoot. And last night, after one of the frozen, dare I say, ugly ducks, thawed and roasted, it turned glazedly gorgeous and delicious.

Last night we used two new gifts, the Mirabelle Cookbook and the Falling Water Cookbook, to make an ugly duckling into a decadent Sunday supper topped with a currant, orange glaze. 

And served a beet and toasted goat cheese salad alongside it.

Today, I'm just happy to wish the man who checked out as a perfect 100% while adding a bunch of his own, unique, untouchable Peterific attributes to my list, a very, very happy birthday.  

Lo.

Purchasing Power

About two months before our wedding, I decided I was going to do it. I did some analysis, found the wiggle room, and figured I had enough earning power to make the ultimate purchase for a Sex and the City aficionado.

So I went online, and shopped around a neighborhood of Saks.com that I've only dreamily driven through in the past, without intent to purchase. But this time around, I meant business. I narrowed my search down to a couple of options. Blue or silver. I knew I wasn't a VIP purchaser, I knew my limits, I felt no need to linger. Silver it was. The pair of my dreams since Carrie registered for them in 2006. 

I clicked to see the 360 degree views. And I confidently clicked to add them to my cart. I clicked to purchase, and ... one second later, I was thanked for making my exciting transaction. Two seconds later, I received confirmation via email that I had really done what I once thought impossible. 24 hours later, they were shipped. And two days later, I was warmly greeted by a little brown box, and the most beautiful words in the world of fashion written on the white box inside - Manolo Blahnik. Heaven. I slipped them on as if Prince Charming had just found his perfect match, and I marveled at their beauty. Complete satisfaction. 

Yesterday, as we were sitting around a table at ERA Naper Realty, putting paper work together, and initialing here, there and everywhere, I started wishing the big purchase we were trying to make was as one-click, transaction complete, instant gratification simple as the purchase of my Manolos.

After I got married, and after I got a bump in salary, I felt like I had a little more purchasing power than before. The only thing is, joint salary purchases require joint decision processes. And lately, our decision trees haven't included the labels I know.

With the sale of the Ranch and its approaching closing date, Peter and I have been dutifully searching for an upgrade from the 1950s. Last weekend we did our first serious window shopping spree. And during it, found a dream of a house that seemed to fit us both perfectly. We couldn't just buy it though. There were all these things we had to do first, and before we had a chance to make an offer, some spiteful yuppies decided that they wanted it too, and poof, took it off the market, and under contract. I wondered why it all couldn't have been as easy as going shopping with my Mom, trying on a new cocktail dress, and hearing her say, 'well it fits you that well, you've just got to get it, and psst, Mummy will take care of it.'

Not that easy. So we started over, a bit discouraged, but eternally optimistic. And just like that, faster than Christian Laboutin can design a new pair of 5-inch stilettos, another cute little house appeared on the Redfin website. It looked as picture perfect as the one before. Just a little smaller. We decided to try it on for size Friday evening. I knew it was going to fit me, but wondered if Peter's arms, legs, and hobbies would fit as well. They did. Both of us combined, fit the house like a glove. The perfect size, location, and best yet, an on-sale price.

So Saturday we did a little bidding. And Sunday we've been waiting to hear some news. Crickets. Crossed fingers. And a cranky customer that wants immediate satisfaction.

I've told myself to think that if the two days of separation between Mr. Manolo and me made standing in front of the altar, kissing in Mellon Park and dancing at the Fairmont two times better, then the 10, 30, or 60 business days we might have to wait for this house, will make the memories in it exponentially sweeter.

In the meantime, Peter and I decided to take our purchasing power to Binny's and the City Meat Market where we made more Food Week preparations. Yesterday we smoked ribs and a turkey breast (which is now in Pete's tender, slicing care at the Meat Market). And tonight roasted duckling with a toasted goat cheese and beet salad are on the menu.

Lo.

30 and One Day

Had a quiet happily ever after birthday party.

Cleaned my plate.

Posed for a picture.

Slept on it.
And 30 plus one day feels great.
Need to run off the damage though.

Lo.

30

I remember standing at the hostess station of Soba with my coworker and friend, Adam. It was his 30th birthday. I was 24 at the time. And I started making fun of him for being old. With an almost malicious tone he sneered, "You're not so far off - you're going to blink your eyes, and you'll be thirty too."

I just blinked.

I'm 30.

And honestly, that blink of an eye really scares me.

The past six years have gone so fast. Too fast. And I'm scared that the next six, sixteen and sixty will blink by as well. I'm worried that I'll suddenly be 35 and stuck in the same dated work outfit rotation that I'm in now. I'm nervous that I'll suddenly be 40 and weigh in as the fattest alumni lacrosse player at the tailgate because I decided to give cream a chance. I'm scared that when I wake up on my 50th, 60th, and 70th birthdays that I won't be able to run the way I can now. And I'm petrified, that I'm going to blink again, be 80 and not remember a thing.

But ... if a blink, as quick as it seems, contains as many wonderful, hysterical, heart-warming, powerful, and lasting impressions that the past six years, and the past 24 years before that contained, I think I'll be okay. And I will keep on living life to the fullest, despite that approach's ability to turn days, weeks and years into blinks. 

While I can no longer don the title of '20-something blogger,' which mentally kept me connected with my collegiate years. While gray hair, cellulite, and crows feet creep closer and closer. And while personal timelines for books, restaurants, success and stature get passed, I have to say, I don't care. Because I'm really (really) happy with where I am in life. And with all the cards, texts, and (holy crap!) Facebook posts today, I feel very, very loved. So thank you.

Now, on this third night of Food Week, my other set of eyes and I are off to Vie, that wonderful restaurant in Western Springs where Peter and I butchered a pig last summer. We'll be celebrating our good life and its next chapter. And we will toast to it being just as sweet yet spicy as the grilled stuffed peppers we made together last night.

Lo.

Grilled Stuffed Peppers
1/2 pound Italian Sausage
4 ounces goat cheese
1/2 shallot, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper
Variety of peppers, top chopped off, core and seeds removed. (we used jalapeno, poblano and sweet peppers)

Heat grill. Mix sausage, cheese, shallot, garlic, parsley, salt and pepper together. Stuff each pepper. Lay sideways on grill, for bigger peppers 10 minutes per side. For smaller peppers, 5-7 minutes per side.

Food Week

I have decided that from this year forward, the corridor from Valentine's Day to Peter's birthday on the 20th, will officially be Winter Food Week chez nous. (There will also be a Summer Food Week. But more to come on that.)

From a very young age, say birth, meals and their sweet birthday cake finales within a seven-day window of February 16 were a plenty and they were epic. Basically, I used to have three and a half birthday parties on and around the big day. One with my immediate family, usually at one of my two favorite restaurants, Pasta Piatta or Juno Trattoria. One with the extended Barry family at my parents house. One with my friends ... at Ardmore Rolling Rink, in the Factory's computer room, on Hidden Valley ski slopes, at the back booth of Mad Mex, or in the step aerobics room at the River's Club. And the half party, over a cupcake snack with all of my classmates, those invited to my party and those not, a quarter of the class cheering me, the remaining majority talking behind my back, while methodically licking their icing.

A couple nights ago, as we plotted the courses or lack there of for our Valentine's dinner, and as I thought about the rest of the week and its celebratory meals - at the Ranch, at Vie in Western Springs, at Schloss 440, in Chicago, and perhaps over the table behind Vicky's desk at work - I saw an opportunity. While it is no longer appropriate to have three birthday parties for myself, it is appropriate to celebrate two people's age increase, two national holidays, and potentially Mardi Gras all within one week ... aha! While New York celebrates Fashion Week, we will have celebrate Food Week, Brewer and the Bee style.

It kicked off last night - A private dinner off the Small Plates menu: Bacon wrapped stuffed dates, shrimp cocktail, seared beef crostini, mushroom ragout, oysters, and a wintry chopped salad. Served with Chandon Champagne, which tasted just like our wedding. An excellent fifth Valentine's Day accompanied by a Valentine. 

Tonight - the Pre-30th. 

Lo. 

And some recipes from the first night of Food Week.

Wild Mushroom Bruschetta
1/2 pound wild mushrooms, sliced
2 cloves garlic
1 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon flour
1/2 cup sherry
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 teaspoon chopped tarragon
Dash of salt 
Crostini (I usually toast baguette slices with a little olive oil and salt)
1/4 cup shredded Parmesano Reggiano

Melt butter in medium saute pan over medium heat. Add garlic and mushrooms, season with salt. Saute until tender, about 7 minutes over medium to medium low heat. Add flour. Stir to incorporate and cook for 1 minute. Add sherry, slowly, stirring to make sure there are no lumps. Let simmer for two minutes until it starts to thicken. Add chicken stock. Simmer for about ten minutes until sauce is thick and rich. Add tarragon and Parmesan cheese.  Serve with Crostini.

Oysters with a Classic Mignonette 
Oysters on the half shell
1/4 cup Red Wine Vinegar
1 teaspoon Sugar
1/2 teaspoon shallots, minced
Juice from half a lemon
Salt, Pepper

In a small bowl, mix vinegar, lemon juice, sugar and shallots together. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve alongside oysters.

Seared Beef Crostini with Spicy Mustard
6 ounce Filet, about 1 inch thick.
Salt, pepper
1 Tablespoon butter
Watercress
Crostini
Mustard bar (mix and match a variety of mustard with beef crostini) - - we liked dijon, mixed with Saracha, Hoisin, and Soy Sauce.

Season Filet with salt and pepper. Melt butter in small saute pan over medium high heat. Add filet. Sear on one side for 2 minutes, flip and do the same on the other side. Remove, thinly slice. It should be pretty rare in the middle. Lay watercress on crostini. Add beef. Top with mustards.   

This Old House

The setting for Oma's 85th birthday party was a house. An old house. A beautiful Victorian farm house built in 1870 in the heart of Batavia, Illinois.

When we approached the house and Peter pointed out that the big building behind it used to be Bellevue Place, the insane asylum where Mary Todd Lincoln was committed in the latter part of her life, thoughts of nightly hauntings quickly drifted through my mind. 

However, after walking up the stairs, onto the porch, through the sturdy, historical double front doors and into a house ripped from the pages of architectural digest, the ghosts quickly vanished. Any specter would have been shooed away with the squirrels and bats and soggy newspapers that were found in the crevices and crawl spaces of the house as Uncle Andy and Aunt Jeannie started doing massive renovations about seven years ago.

Celebrating 85 years would have been momentous and rich with stories whatever the backdrop. But something about the house - its history, the TLC it has received, and the subtle creak in the floors, begging for our noise to continue - made the party more festive, the lasagna tastier, the icing sweeter, and Ellie's smile bigger.

Andy and Jeannie's home seemed to bring out the best of our memories as well. Seemingly everyone had a story as rich as the character of the house to tell.

Over the course of the evening, I heard about Aunt Jeannie's father's Sherry Apple Pie recipe that afforded the family $10,000 as the winner of a national contest back in the '70s.


I heard about Moss' hometown of Carson City, Nevada, and how her family would drive to the original Sierra Nevada brewery to fill a couple buckets with beer for the week.

I heard about Uncle Andy's date with the heiress of a toilet inventor's fortune, A. Crapper, and her faux pas at the swankiest restaurant in Birmingham, Alabama - a request for 'catsup' when her beef wellington was dropped at the table.   

I heard about all the others who had received Oma's knitted socks before Ellie.

And I heard about the house and its champion - spending evenings and weekends restoring it by himself to something better than it ever was. An absolute masterpiece.

As we drove home, I started thinking about the magic a house can make. Especially the right one. With the right layout. And the right balance of decor. And I started thinking about one of the houses we saw on Saturday. A house that produced a sparkle in both of our eyes. Not the one with the dwarf-sized master closet. And not the one with the organ pipes in the yard.

The one with the beautiful woodwork. And big closets. And classic 1940s design. The one that I could imagine raising a family in. Where our kids would run down the spiral staircase and grab their coats and mittens out of the front hall closet. I wondered if everything would work out. And I quietly hoped I would be cooking in a kitchen with a beautiful bay window in April.

What will be, will be. And we'll find out more on Friday. For now, I'll continue to sweetly dream of my old dream house.