Ranching

Thursday night has always been a favorite.

In grade school, many Thursday nights promised the chance to put on a Laura Ashley dress, attend a Civic Light Opera performance, and eat Junior Mints at Intermission. In high school, Thursday night meant NBC's prime time line-up - Friends, Seinfeld, and ER - which never under-promised. In college it meant putting on your tank top and black pants in the dead of winter so you could be one of the hot, sweaty, underage revelers squeezed onto the dance floor of Boat Club. And in MBA school, without classes on Friday, Thursday evenings could mean a short ride to New Buffalo for a sunset cruise on the boat. 

In the working world, a productive Friday lies on the other side of Thursday night, so my days of Boat Clubbing are definitely not an option. But there's something about tweeting #TGIF the following morning, that makes a Thursday night relaxing and great.

On this particular Thursday night, last night, we most definitely should have dismissed the idea of fun. We'd already had our big night out for the week, getting my boots shines, eating Smokin' Joes, sitting court side at the McDonald's All-American Basketball Games on Wednesday. So we should have had one activity in mind -  packing. With a mere three days left in the Ranch there is a ton to do: china to wrap, crystal to carefully tuck back into boxes, clothes to fold, books to organize, and junk to toss. We should have steamed the leftover tamales, unloaded the boxes from the monster truck, and packed. But we didn't. And our house is still in perfect order.

Instead, we sat in our Adirondack chairs; we read, grilled, and watched the little world we have called home for the past three years go by.

Last night, we just Ranched - the thing we've done best for the past three years. And although we'll most likely do just about the same thing, minus a decade, at our new house, there is something about this place that I don't want to let go of - that I will miss dearly. So until we hit a breaking point where we really need to start packing, probably shortly after my run on Saturday, we will keep on giving the Ranch the love and time it deserves. 

It was a great Thursday night in Naperville - one that would make my other favorite Thursdays proud. And one that would make the Ranch happy to have had the brewer and the bee as its residents.

 

Lo. 

Grilled Pork Chops with Leftover Tamale Sauce

2 bone-in pork chops
Leftover tamale sauce
(I made tamales on Tuesday night with chicken instead of pork. The sauce that I braised the chicken in makes about 1-2 cups too much. Reserve the pureed sauce and use as a marinade.)

Marinate the chops in the tamale sauce for 45 minutes to an hour.

Heat up the grill. Cook chops 10 minutes per side, or for thicker cuts (which we had), 15 minutes per side.

In a small sauce pan, bring the leftover marinade to a boil. Boil for three minutes, then reduce heat to medium low and simmer for 10-15 minutes. Drizzle over grilled pork chops.

Serve the chops with a blue cheese chopped salad and corn bread. And you've got a meal for the Rancher in you.  

Black and Bloody

After more than ten days down under my stomach lost its bloat. My restrictive diet of roughage and fiber had most likely puffed it out, but somehow by the time we checked into the Palazzo Versace on the Gold Coast of Australia, it deflated, enabling me to finally see my toes when gazing south instead of a convex, globular hump.

In celebration of the incredible shrinking abdomen, I put on my blue strapless sundress and joined my parents for dinner at Vanitas, the hotel's signature restaurant, where we sat on, dined with, smelled like, and wished we were dressed in Versace.

Afraid that my stomach would return to its former glory, I played it safe. 'The red pepper soup and the sea bass, please. Except what is the black pudding in the soup? Can I have that removed?'
The waitress courteously, yet zestfully dared me to keep the soup as is and use my senses to deduce the pudding's composition. My boastful palette accepted her challenge, eager to flex my food knowledge.

The soup was delivered in a Versace bowl; there was a round black disk in the middle and the smoothest, silkiest puree of sweet red peppers all around it. I took a spoonful - more pudding, than soup - and I tasted fire and smoke, the crispy part of a Filet mixed with the inner juices it secreted, bacon and crispy hash browns, and then the delicate sweetness of a perfect sun-ripened red pepper. Before my parents had taken so much as three bites of their salads, I had consumed all of my soup, pudding and all, and raised my hand to tell the waitress what I tasted. As I described my experience her smile went from a smirk to a toothy grin.
'It's blood sausage.'
The 'Noooooooo.... Ewwwwww.... Groooooooss!' ringing through my head and stomach came out in a blank, emotionless expression. I sat there stupefied. I had just eaten a whole patty of sausage made up of pig blood and pig fat. And I loved it. Every last bite of it. What had I become?    


This past Saturday, I made my way downtown to fill my long-distance run induced starving stomach, unsuspecting that I would have a reunion with one of my most storied food memories.

The first stop was Abby's house. On my agenda was saying, 'welcome to the world,' to her beautiful baby girl. So I sipped some seltzer, snapped some photos, and feasted on some good old fashioned lacrosse girl laughs.

From there I made my way up to Lincoln Park to a cafe called Floriole where I helped shower my friend, Teresa. We noshed on cucumber and moroccan carrot sandwiches, reveled at the tastefully chosen presents, and gushed over my new house.

Then I headed back downtown, to Publican, feeding ground for the carnivores. I sat down, tried Peter's beer, and cut off a hunk of the country ribs, shaking my head with approval at their tenderness and ability to fill a still very present void.

After the last of the ribs were licked clean, I think Peter caught my wandering eye, scouting out food remnants, and pointed out the little brown bag under his chair. Inside were the first of his Publican Meat Market butchered prizes: salami, bacon and blood sausage. My eyes popped wide open when I heard the last two words and the sentence that followed. 'Let's make them for dinner tomorrow night.' 

My vampire-like memory surfaced. Could I do it again? Especially knowing what they are. I'm blaming the Champagne, but I found myself agreeing to fulfill the request.

On Sunday, I made a grilled red pepper soup, topped it with black pudding, and served it with a watercress and poached egg salad. I presented dinner on some Versace. And cautiously consumed the unnerving. 

Once again, I ate it all. And once again, my blood sausage dinner wasn't followed by an ever-expanding stomach. It sat just right. My challenge to you, try some black pudding. 

Grilled Red Pepper Soup with Black Pudding

2 red bell peppers

1 tablespoon bacon fat

1 tablespoon butter

1 shallot minced

3 cloves of garlic, minced

1 1/2 cups chicken stock

14 ounce can of whole tomatoes with juices

1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes  

Salt 

2 links blood sausage

Directions

Grill red peppers until blackened, about 20-25 minutes. Remove, core and set aside. Grill blood sausage until done, about 8-10 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a medium pot, melt bacon fat and butter over medium heat. Add shallot and garlic and cook till aromatic, about 2-3 minutes. Add chicken stock, tomatoes, red pepper flakes and a dash of salt. Simmer for 15 minutes until flavors meld.

In a blender, puree tomato mixture and red peppers. Pulse till the soup is smooth. Return to pot and to low heat. For a thinner soup, add a little water. For a richer soup, add a little cream.

Serve with slices of blood sausage.

Hungry

On Friday night, equipped with our pre-purchased tickets, excited by the start of a weekend's liberation from work, and surrounded by one of Naperville's loudest and giddiest assembly of tweens, Peter and I took our seats in one of Regal Cantera's big theaters. We were squeezed in between a row of athletic tweens, a row of nerdy tweens, and two rows of hormonally charged tweens, counting down the minutes till The Hunger Games started - till the unveiling of whether or not Hollywood had the same vision for a world so vividly impressed on our minds.

From the time the movie started at 5:20 until it ended around 8:00, I went through just about every emotion: I blushed amorously with the rest of the girls when Gale first appeared. I felt pain and anguish as we toured the poverty, starvation, and duress stricken District 12. My heart burned when Katniss volunteered as Tribute and when Peeta was called to the stage; and then developed ticks of annoyance when I realized that the casting of Peeta was all wrong. I felt a very similar kind of nausea during the blood bath at the Cornucopia as I felt when Piggy was killed in Lord of the Flies. Huge tears streamed down my face for Rue and District 11. I laughed from the comic relief provided by Caesar Flickerman, Haymitch and Effie. I was charged with excitement and happiness when the odds became more in Katniss' favor. And I felt a whole mixture of emotions churning through my stomach as Cato made his last stand.

But around 6:30 say, I felt angry. Right as Katniss appeared in front of the Gamemakers to rank her, I got really, really mad. It wasn't directed toward the themes of authoritarian rule, slavery, injustice, or corruption in the story. It wasn't directed at the Hunger Games skeptics who are incapable of seeing the projection of human history that Suzanne Collins' so accurately nails in her dystopian world. Instead it was directed at the row of tweens to my right and their chatter. In particular, one unbelievable comment.

 

"She's kind of fat."

I could not believe what I heard. I wanted to stand up and slap some sense into each one of their awkward, self-conscious bodies. Really? 'Not that skinny?' 'Fat?' You have got to be kidding me.

With all that Hollywood got wrong about Peeta's casting, they got right with Katniss'. Jennifer Lawrence doesn't only play the part perfectly, she looks just as I imagined Katniss to appear. Strong, beautiful, and feminine. And the scrawny girly girls next to me were scrutinizing her for being a size or two bigger than they them.

Well, tweens, here's what I thinkt:

• Katniss' emaciated Twilight counterpart, Bella, would have been one of the first to go in the Hunger Games.
• Gale, Peeta, and the rest of the male population staring at the cover of Glamour Magazine this month, really, really like Katniss' curves. 
• There is a reason why Katniss has amazing hair and skin, it's her diet. And it includes food. 
• And in the real world, it's the strong, confident women who know how to hunt that are capable of beating the odds, taking over the top spot of the career men, and winning the games that life throws at us.

Overall, I liked the movie a lot. And it was a very entertaining way to spend a Friday night. But I've got to say, as scary as the post-apocalyptic world of Panem may be, the distortion of the ideal female image in our world, is equally scary. And I'm really hoping that beyond entertain, this film helps show female tweens, teens, and adults that strong and curvy looks a hell of a lot better than a size 0, wallowing, stick figure.

Lo.   

The Missing Season

Hidden Valley boasted four seasons to their resort life. Vivaldi composed concertos that corresponded to each of the changing seasons. Poussin painted them; Franki Valli named his band after them; And businesses galore, ranging from tanning, to furniture, to heating and cooling certify their products will work through each of the four seasons.

The thing is, I feel like I only know three seasons well - that at least recently, I'm not very familiar with the Earthly Paradise that Poussin painted or the subtle, cheerful, awakening of the world that Vivaldi orchestrated. Instead, I've been living in a place where one only needs to acclimate to three and sometimes only two seasons. A place where winter burns away into summer almost instantaneously around Memorial Day weekend. And where Indian summers get extinguished by the first snow fall on Halloween. In Chicago, and for that matter in South Bend and Pittsburgh too, I have seen very little of spring in the past twenty years.

But this year, oh, this year, something magical happened. About ten days ago, a week before the first official day of spring, the temperatures rose, the sky went from overcast to crystal clear, the sunrises and sunsets became ethereal, the birds commenced a set of sweeter melodies drowning out the obnoxious geese, the buds popped out of the trees and bushes, and then, just as Vivaldi's introduction swelled into the familiar chorus we know well, the colors of spring started blossoming, turning every inch of the Midwest into something spectacular.

Flowers I hadn't seen since looking around the wild strawberry patch, up the bank or under the Magnolia tree on Bartlett Street started appearing. Violets, buttercups, crocuses, and other delicate varietals produced by only the perfect spring climate finally had the chance to perk up and say hello.

While the dormant flora awakened and slowly, gently, miraculously added their beautiful pigments and fragrances to my suburban landscape this week, I felt that dinner needed to have a spring-like palette and aroma as well. So on Monday, we grilled citrus marinated sea scallops, served them over a pea puree, tossed up a beet and feta salad, and sat down to a meal that tasted as wonderful as spring looked. 

But while reveling in spring wonderment, one of my co-workers commented that she was nervous about what the weather meant, hinting at the effects of global warming. While it dampened my mood, I couldn't help but think that if so many people before us staked their masterpieces, businesses and namesakes on the four seasons, why isn't a real spring in Chicago the most natural thing? I think Double G's asparagus are all for it at least. 

Lo.

English Pea Puree

• 3/4 cup chicken stock
• 1 cup English peas, shucked from their pods
• 2 teaspoons butter
• 5 mint leaves
• 1 tablespoon of a triple cream cheese, like St. Andre
• Salt and pepper

In a small sauce pan, heat chicken stock and butter. Bring to a boil, add peas, then reduce to a simmer.  Cook for about 5 minutes, until peas are bright green and tender. Add cheese, melting it into mixture.

Put peas and stock in a blender, along with the mint, salt and pepper. Puree into a smooth mixture. Serve warm under chicken, lamb, or seafood. Sure, it looks like baby food, but it's fantastic!

The Corned Beef Void

While Thanksgiving at our house brought turkey and gravy, Easter at Grandma's brought ham with raisin sauce, and Barry birthdays throughout the South Hills brought Aunt Joyce's layer cakes and ice cream, the double holiday of St. Patrick's Day and Cousin Ryan's birthday at Aunt Dee-Dee's house had the all-time winningest combination: Corned beef, cabbage, boiled potatoes, and a basket full of Irish Soda Bread. (Oh, the Irish Soda Bread.)

It might have been the Irish in me, or Aunt Dee-Dee's exquisite skill at crafting the ultimate feast, or perhaps it was Double G's proud smile and assuring, 'that's my girl,' as I filled up my plate with a second round of cabbage; but regardless, the annual Barry corned beef bash was highly anticipated and slowly savored by me. My favorite meal.

Sadly, while I was able to come home at turkey time in college, I wasn't able to make it for St. Patrick's Day, which initiated a streak of being corned beef-less for too long. I was never without Soda Bread though. Thankfully, around this time of the year, I could always expect a sugar-topped loaf in the mail from my Mom. 

This year, the void was finally filled. Thanks to a new tradition - the double holiday of St. Patrick's Day and Ellie's birthday - the epic gaseous combination reached my belly and satisfied.

Yesterday, after Naperville's parade, the most dire 16-mile run ever, and 40 minutes in the oven, Peter and I biked over to Claire and Trent's house, gift and Irish Soda Bread in tow, for a wonderful celebration of one year gone by and the Irish in all of us.

Maybe it was because of the reason, but Claire and Trent produced a feast that Aunt Dee-Dee would have lauded.

And while it wasn't the same as the lovingly prepared loafs of Aunt Dee-Dee or my Mom, the Irish Soda Bread I brought was a hit. And took me right back to Piedmont street where I know the Barry family was celebrating yesterday.

Because there are no leftovers, I'm thinking I should bake myself another loaf right now.

Lo.

Irish Soda Bread 

Adapted from Bon Appetit

2 cups all-purpose flour

5 tablespoons sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

3 tablespoons butter, chilled, cut into cubes

1 cup buttermilk

2/3 cup raisins

Directions

Preheat oven to 375°F. Prepare baking pan by greasing with butter.

Whisk together flour, 4 tablespoons sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in large bowl. Add butter. Using a pastry blended or your fingertips, mix together till coarse meal forms. Add buttermilk and gradually stir into dry ingredients until blended. Mix in raisins.

Transfer to prepared pan. Drop the pan on the ground a couple times to level the dough out. Sprinkle dough with remaining 1 tablespoon sugar.(This is what makes the best part of the bread.)

Bake bread about 40 minutes or until loaf is brown on top. Cool bread in pan 20-30 minutes. Remove, cut into slices, and serve. It's best warm on the first day, but makes excellent leftovers or a gift to a hungry lacrosse player with a craving for the best quick bread ever.

Ever In Your Favor

As the sun comes up on this unseasonably warm and gorgeous St. Patrick's Day, I find myself having one of those, 'so that just happened' moments.

More often than not recently, the days, weeks and months have been flying by, characterized by a very positive sentiment rating. But this week, I hit an aberration. A week where the work never seemed to have a stopping point, the stress took a tole on my appetite, my headache wouldn't stop drilling into my temples, no amount of water could ease my scratchy sore throat, and the addicting young adult novels that I was reading took me away, but to a place far, far scarier than my existing state of mind. It was the kind of bad week that crawled by, giving me ample time to truly appreciate the painful moments.

But whether it was the luck of my quarter part Irish or just the way things worked out, life inevitably gave me a hand to hold, pulling me out of the rut.

On Thursday it came in the form of dinner and a special dinner guest, my friend C - Who didn't only warm the Ranch with his illuminating stories, hearty chuckle, and generous compliments toward the brews and beets on the table, but also thoughtfully warmed our future home with the grace and beauty of Simon Pierce.

(What better to serve to a fellow Marathoner than pasta?) 

On Friday morning, it came in the form of a wink from my boss - a gesture that spoke a thousand words, bringing back my composure, relieving my on-the-job stress, demonstrating that you should signal when you need a little help.

And on Friday afternoon, it came in the form of the iconic iPhone ring tone, sounding off inside my bag. With Peter's face smiling back at me, I answered. 'Hi.' In response I heard, 'Hi homeowner.' Yep, the house is ours. I am a homeowner. We have a home. It's cute as can be. And we Moet and Chandon toasted the great news last night.

It took a ten-day cold, one ton of stress, and several liters of tears welling up inside of me to bring me down this week. But it only took dinner for three, one wink, and two words to bring me right back to the sunny side of life.

Despite what we're told, we do end up sweating the small stuff, especially when it adds up. But when you keep looking for the little gestures, appreciating the generous gifts, and listening to the kind words, it's much easier to put on deodorant and move on.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Lo.

Pre-Game Pretzels

The night before the big game meant Chicken Parm. A pre-game meal that was supposed to fuel you for the 60-minute match that stood on the other side of the Italian Restaurant, a team meeting and a bad night's sleep.

My stomach would be in knots, my nerves going beserk thinking about the play I needed to run in order to beat the top ten opponent, and my mental faculties would be in conflict as a compared the potential number of calories burned tomorrow with the number of calories lying on the family style platter of Bucca di Beppo's signature Chicken Parmesan in front of me. The fiery directions to 'eat it' came once from my left and twice from my right. There was nothing I or my digestive system wanted to do less. So to everyone's chagrin, I ate a salad.

Inevitably, as the last couple seconds of the first half of the game expired, I ran out of fuel. It happened every time. I still hadn't learned my lesson. I would turn to the stash of Cheerios I kept stocked in my stick bag - an extra 140 calories to get me through the second half. Even then, with five key minutes left in the game, my shot would turn from a goal-piercing bullet (I like to think so at least) to a lob that would have gotten my kicked out of a partner passing drill at practice. And I became, to a certain extent worthless on the field. There was no doubt about it, especially looking back now, a salad for pre-game wasn't enough.

This evening an unsettling feeling is once again taking over my core - a slight nausea as I prepare to head into the ring tomorrow evening. I will need to be on my A-game - I will need to make sure my note cards are memorized and the 'whopper' words are flowing freely. Tomorrow, I face the Board. And I've got to admit, I'm a little nervous.

So naturally, I thought back to our pre-game ritual - the good and bad of it - failures made and lessons learned - calorie battles won and lost. And I decided that if I'm going to perform well tomorrow, I will need a good, balanced meal - one that is more than the sum of a mixture of baby greens. Something with carbs for the short bursts of energy I'll need, and something with protein in case the questioning and dialogue goes long into the night. And perhaps something with the kind of international flare that would be appropriate for the global organization where I work.

Virtually and gastronomically, we decided to go to Munich by way of the Wednesday Chef for the big pre-game meal this evening. I decided to get my carbs through homemade soft pretzels, my protein through brats, and my greens through bohne. And I ate it all. Plus the remainder of Peter's pretzel.

And I'm pumped. Ready to go. Looking forward to going over my slides one last time in the morning. Confident that it will be great meeting. Thanks to a great pre-game meal.

Lo.

Pre-Game Pretzels 
Adapted from The Wednesday Chef
Makes 12 pretzels

Ingredients
1 tablespoon dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons softened unsalted butter
2 packets instant yeast
5 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon kosher salt
Food-grade lye, for dipping (amazon.com)
Coarse sea salt for sprinkling

Directions
In a mixing bowl, stir together sugar, butter, yeast, 2 cups warm water and 3 cups flour. Add kosher salt and remaining flour and stir until mixture just comes together in a shaggy mass, pulling together with your hands.

Turn dough out onto counter and knead for 8 to 10 minutes, until smooth and supple. Cut into 12 equal pieces and let rest 5 minutes.

Roll out each piece into a rope about 22 inches long. I had to use a little hand bowl of water to get them to roll out effectively. Fold the rope into a pretzel shape. Transfer shaped pretzels to an ungreased baking sheet and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then refrigerate them for at least 1/2 hour.

Heat oven to 425 degrees.

(I didn't do this part, because I didn't have lye. Instead, I made an egg wash.) In a deep bowl, wearing rubber or latex gloves, make a solution of 1/2 cup lye and 10 cups water (or 1 part lye to 20 parts water); pour lye carefully into water to avoid splashing. Dip each pretzel in solution, turning it over for 10 to 15 seconds, and place back on baking sheet.

Sprinkle pretzels with salt. Bake about 15 minutes or until deep brown. Remove to a rack and serve warm.`