Ribfest

Every year, Naperville hosts Ribfest during Fourth of July weekend. It's a four or five day event, centered on 16 of the best rib vendors in the country. The party extends far beyond barbecued slabs of pork though - there are carnival rides, concerts, games, and tent after tent of fat people food, designed to help you pack on the pounds as quickly as possible.

We not only used to attend Ribfest, we used to actively participate. Peter was a rib judge several years in a row; we had parties in sponsorship tents; and I spent a lot of time hanging out with the Mayor's grand kids. While at first, I was incredulous that this activity was going to happen on more that one day in a lifetime, it started to grow on me. I liked the Americana feel. The ribs started to season my stomach. And the pulled pork - it was just awesome. I found that for a weekend, I enjoyed embracing my inner park person, relaxing in the grass while listening to over the hill rockers like Joan Jett and ZZ Top, and methodically snacking on every bite of my perfectly prepared funnel cake. 

With our move closer to the city and with our trip to D.C. last weekend, we didn't make it out to Ribfest this year. And we were both sensing a summer void. So midweek, Peter asked what was planned on Friday night?
Nothing.
Saturday night?
Nothing.
Done.
We're smoking ribs.
Great idea!
Which then made me think that where there are ribs, there has to be a festivity.

So today we hosted our own little ribfest at our house.

It starred the rib master and his ribs:

The rib judges and their overwhelmingly positive scores: 
Trent: 10
Claire: 10
Becky: 10
Kate: 10 

The live entertainment:

And the park people food, brought to the crowd by yours truly.

If you don't have any plans next Saturday, I'd recommend hosting your own ribfest. (The recipes are below.) It was a great afternoon and evening.

Lo.

Sweet Potato Chips

5 sweet potatoes, peeled, and thinly sliced
Tub of crisco
Parmesan or Pecorino cheese, finely grated

In a large dutch oven, heat the oil until it reached 350 degrees. In about 4 or 5 batches, drop potato slices into the oil and fry until crisp and browned. About 15 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and let dry on a rack. Season with grated cheese.

***

Corn Bread Salad with Green Goddess Dressing

Corn Bread (I've tried tons of recipes, but I love Jiffy Mix), cubed and toasted
Boston Bibb Lettuce
1 Avocado cubed
3 tomatoes, preferably heirloom or three different colors
Shallot finely sliced

Mix together lettuce, tomatoes, avocado and shallot. When ready to serve top with croutons and toss with Green Goddess Dressing (below.)

Green Goddess Dressing (Adapted from CHOW)
1 anchovy filet
1 clove of garlic
3/4 cup mayonnaise
1/4 cup sour cream
1/2 cup tarragon
1/2 cup Italian parsley
2 tablespoons scallions
Juice of 1 lemon
1/2 teaspoon course salt
Pepper

Place all ingredients in blender, mix until smooth. Add extra seasoning if desired. Serve over crouton salad.

***

Apple Slab Pie - Just like Grandma's

Buttery Pastry Dough (I also really like Martha Stewart's Pate Brisee)
Three big granny smith apples, peeled, cored, sliced and then halved
2 tablespoons cinnamon
1/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
Egg wash (1 egg plus a bit of water, whisked together)
Vanilla Glaze (1 cup confectioners sugar, 1 tablespoon milk, 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Butter a 10 by 10 by 3 inch pan.

Mix together apples, cinnamon, sugar and lemon juice. Set aside.
Split dough into two pieces - one bigger, one smaller. Roll out large piece of dough and lay in pan, letting the extra crust drip over the side. Fill with apples. Roll out the small piece of dough and drape over the apples. Pinch together the two crusts and trim the edges with a knife. Brush the top with egg wash. Bake for 45-55 minutes or until the top is golden brown. Let cool and drizzle with vanilla glaze.

I'd give you Peter's rib recipe and methodology as well, but the rib master did not reveal his secrets. 

Oral History

I had written about both of these things before, so shame on me for falling into the rabbit hole once again. Yesterday, my storied experience with the dental community of Naperville and my inclination to blog ahead collided. It wasn't pretty. 

I was all set and ready to go. I had skipped breakfast, heeding the advice of the skinny Russian receptionist who probably always skips breakfast. (Lunch and dinner for that matter.) I had let the hole that Roscoe dug in my flower bed while pursuing Chipmunks this morning slide. I had made it to the train in time, boarded it (bike in tow), exited it, and commenced a five mile bike ride to the oral surgeon. I was thinking about the next couple hours: park the bike, text Peter the address, fill out paper work, go under, wake up without the four champion chompers in the back of my mouth, get in the monster truck, go home, start recovery. I had the perfect article to write. I would call it 'Dog Therapy.' It would be all about my house guest, Roscoe, helping me recover, loving me despite my chipmunk cheeks and inability to talk. Man's best friend was also Lo's best friend. 

About a mile out (still on my bike, on the sidewalk, helmet on, Mom and Dad) I called the oral surgeon whose name just happens to start with an H and end with a -uvar to tell him that my five minutes late had turned to twenty. The Russian receptionist answered and courteously said, 'Oh, I was just going to call you. We have to reschedule your appointment because you are late and there isn't time.'

WTF.

I explained my situation - that I was a mile away - that I was on bike - that my train had arrived late to the station - that she and the whole oral surgery team and the terrible dental office that referred me to them sucked - that if the doctor were late, later, later, I would remain waiting - that the moment a patient is late, he or she is shewed away? She stuttered a couple more 'sorry we can't do anything for you' statements, then gave me the option of rescheduling on July 4. 'Oops, we're not open then. We can take you on July 31.' I dramatically said I was taking my business some place else, hung up the phone, and irrationally started getting choked up in the middle of Washington Street.

It was 95 degrees, I was stranded in Naperville on my bike with nothing in my basket but a wallet and phone. I had been putting off this surgery for at least five years and when I finally had it on my calendar I was denied. Yes I was tardy, but come on! Choked up turned to tears when I reached downtown Naperville.

After another $5 train ride followed by a two mile bike ride, I made it home to find that the truffula tree haters had gathered around the majestic Elm tree outside of our house to saw it down. It had been marked with a neon orange circle, signifying Dutch Elm Disease and an urgency to turn it to dust. I tried to stop them Lorax style, but it was in vain. Twig by twig, branch by branch, from the 70 year-old bow to its anchored root system, our house went from shady to sunny to sad.

Yesterday, my nice life was punctuated with a bad day. And as much as Roscoe's dog therapy helped in the afternoon, it was something tried and true that enabled me to wake up on the right side of the bed this morning. That is a great dinner - tandem Italian sausage burgers - and a great night's sleep.

 

Lo. 

Italian Sausage Burgers with Garlicky Spinach: 

For the sausage patties - mix together: 

1 pound ground pork

Fennel Seed

Anise Seed

Paprika

Garlic cloves minced

Onion minced

Salt, pepper

Red Pepper Flakes

Drizzle of olive oil

Chianti

Italian parsley

For the spinach - saute

Spinach
Olive oil
Garlic
Salt

Roasted Red Pepper - roast a red pepper at 390 degrees for 30 minutes
Toasted kaiser rolls
Provolone cheese - melt on burgers

Assemble. Enjoy.

The Ranch is Closed

I wonder if they miss me. Or at least recognize that I'm gone, most likely for good. I wonder if they are whispering about our whereabouts up and down the River Walk.

I bet the squirrel lady, who so begrudgingly gave me the evil eye every morning as I counteracted her friendly feedings by spastic, yes I'm scared of squirrels, shewings, has one too many squirrels on her hand.

I'm afraid the dog walkers from thin to pudgy, old to young, grumpy to friendly, mute to gossipy will think that I've been injured and forced to give up my methodical, paced runs every morning.

I imagine the butchers at Casey's have assumed that the Bee finally got her way - that the clearly delineated orders of a porterhouse and a piece of salmon have gone to one side, making us migrate to Succulent Seafood.

I think Bud already misses talking to Peter and living vicariously through the aromas steaming out of our retro kitchen.

I bet the Trick or Treaters will worry, scoff and complain when the girl with the silver tray of full size Hershey bars doesn't come to the door this Halloween.

I can just see the Starbuck's employees speculating and brewing about their favorite regular deciding to cut loyalties and go to the new Caribou instead.

I think the Ushers in Church will be happy to have two extra seats for the standing room only crowd.

I can see the stock piles of Kim Crawford at Binny's waiting and waiting for the faithful fan who won't come.

And I wonder if there is talk around town about the sudden disappearance of the (relatively) young couple with too many hobbies.

Yes, I'm giving our impact on the Naperville community too much credit. Though we pounded its pavement, swam in its quarry, prayed at its church, and frequented its shops, our Naperville experience was largely defined by the Ranch. Which as of today, closed, and shifted from us to another owner.

We turned over the key, the wall paper, the double showers, Grandma Barry's floor, the side yard and the chipmunks in the gutters to someone I only know by name. And further claimed our status as two-suitcase vagabonds, living in just about the most perfect little yellow room in La Grange Park.

Whether or not we made an impression on Naperville, I believe the Ranch will forever be changed. And I just have a few parting words to the house, to the memories it created and to its new home owners.

Ranchers - It may not seem like much. It may be just your investment property. But please feel the wall paper, do all the dishes by hand, bring good food and wine to the table every evening, play music loudly, dance, plant vegetables and flowers and watch them grow, give good morning and good night kisses to your special someone, and give the house all the love it deserves. It'll treat you very well in return. Just please, please don't tare it down.

To the Ranch. Thank you for being the best first home, sweet home ever.

Lo.

Fragile

Oh I had big plans this weekend. There was to be a packing party at the Ranch. A weekend's worth of a fete - the final send off for the home sweet home that has treated us so well. 

There was going to be champagne and my grandma's bear claws. Perhaps a 'My Week with Marilyn' viewing while we wrapped and stashed. We'd listen to Bon Iver and commence 'remember when' stories as we wrapped up scrapbooks, photo albums, snips and clips. We'd remember each thoughtful, generous, well-wishing wedding guest as we carefully bubble-encased our registry. We'd break for mass, perhaps a Red Mango too. Then we'd start right back up again, dusting off great memories, thinking about where the collection of scuba gear would go in the new house, planning THE outfit for the house warming party on the other end of the move, and relishing the addition of a dish washer to our kitchen. 

Then we'd do a cookout. The perfect spring weather would make the Eleven burgers, corn on the cob, and onion rings even better. And as the sun set, we'd wash our hands of the newspaper smudges, have a home brew, and anticipate the fun that the future holds.

Ha! I April fooled myself. 

Packing.

F-ing.

Sucks. 

There was no party. There was no champagne paired with iced pastries. There was no last supper. Or cookout. And the newspaper smudges aren't isolated on my hands, they are all over my aching, ornery body. I'm filthy, and tired, and completely paranoid that the movers are going to come tomorrow, break my China, smash my crystal and drink my alcohol, even after reading the detailed notes I left them.

I'm on my break. I'm not eating a bear claw, and I'm sure as hell not watching a movie, because the Internet isn't connected and the TV is dismounted. My rosy, posey optimism is tapped. So I will instead document lessons learned during my 48-hour non stop packing hell.

Start early. Don't wait till the weekend before.
Don't run 14 miles the morning before you start packing. 
Yes, that registry item looks amazing, and it's just what you want, and it'll make all the food you cook taste better. But it's really, really heavy. And really, really fragile. And really, really not meant to move once it's opened and in your house.
In that spirit, brides, keep every single box that your wedding gifts arrived in.
Buy more packing material. You can never have enough. Ever. 
Get a dumpster. Or if you are so inclined start removing the crap you are storing for no particular reason from your house immediately. 
Play loud music. It drowns out the annoying noise that your packing partner is making by crinkling paper, ripping tape, clacking hangers, and dropping stuff. 
Don't pack near your significant other. You will end up fighting about the way you overstuffed all of your boxes.
Forget about any ideas that translate into making the process of moving fun. It's not. It never will be. I'm not moving ever, ever again. Why did I pack that last wine glass?!

Lo. 

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.  

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.

A Winter Pairing

Last week, winter finally came to Naperville. We had been experiencing global warming's version of the season throughout December and even into January, but finally, just as the 'we all need a snow day from work,' mentality set it, it snowed. And snowed. Over the past ten days or so, we've had a little bit more than a foot of the white stuff, and Naperville has officially turned into a winter wonderland. The sledders and skaters have returned to their frozen playgrounds. My running routes have become a little more challenging. The bundling up has reached the three and four layer mark. And finally, FINALLY, the geese that I so love to hate, have started to fly South.

Besides the snow, ice and lengthy commutes, there are other signs of winter being in full effect. Peter's dopplebock - the one that we brewed back in the early fall - finished its final fermentation, was carbonated, and then tapped. It's a rich, dark beer, with an almost Scotch-like after taste. And it's amazing - my favorite I think - the perfect antidote for the frigid temperatures.  

The food being produced in our retro kitchen has gone from holiday comfy to completely insulating. Seemingly, I'm in the mood to make and eat something that doesn't just stick to your ribs, but to your hips and thighs every evening. 

And the silence and solitude that tends to settle over the world during a snow storm or during the coldest, dreariest days of winter has arrived. It's the time of year when everyone, including us, has set up camp in their living room, saying, 'I'll see you in the Spring.'

Throughout these winter months it's helpful to have friends and family around to combat the quiet. B.P. (before Peter), when I lived alone in a small South Side apartment and the winters seemed particularly lonely, I would often walk down the street to my sister's apartment to watch a movie with her, or cross the Birmingham Bridge to have dinner with my parents, or snuggle up next to the fire at Soba, equipped with a French Martini and my best friends to fend off the cold. The buddy system helped, but there were still nights when the winter seemed particularly depressing.  

This year I have a roommate again. And more than that, I have family, a best friend, and a bartender in house. And I feel like I'm part of a perfect winter pairing. It took a while to find, and it took some failed attempts. But in the end, just as the Dopplebock made it through several mismatches and finally found the perfect pairing in a plate of Moules et Frites last night, I found mine in Peter. Et il sera merveilleux et chaleur.

Lo. 

La Recette. 
Moules
1 1/2 pounds mussels
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large shallot minced
3 cloves garlic minced
1/2 cup shaved fennel
Sprig of thyme
2 1/2 cups dry white wine
Salt, pepper

In large soup pot, melt butter with olive oil. Add shallot, garlic and fennel and saute for three minutes. Add white wine, lemon juice and thyme. Bring to a boil and cook for 5-7 minutes until liquid is slightly reduced. Add mussels and steam for 3-5 minutes or until the shells open. Discard any mussels whose shells have not opened. Serve with crusty bread.

Et Frites
2 Russet Potatoes
Oil
Salt

Heat three to four inches of oil in Dutch Oven. Slice potatoes into french fry shaped slices. Working in batches, fry for 7-10 minutes or until golden brown in oil. Set on paper towel to drain. Salt. Serve immediately.

Baum

Peter and I have a very special, very sweet, brand new addition to our little nuclear family. A little someone that I can't wait to wake up to every morning; that I can't stop thinking about at work; and that I hastily swerve through traffic at the end of the day to see. 

It's Baum, our Christmas Tree.

We named him on the ride home from Marmion Abbey Farms on Sunday, right after we pulled the car over to prop up the camera, set its timer, and take a picture of ourselves in one of those head-in-hole boards that Peter spotted on the way out. 

Last weekend, we had set our sights on trekking into a forest a la Berenstain Bears' Christmas Tree to find the biggest, best tree. But living in the exurbs, surrounded for miles by urban sprawl, we figured a twenty minute drive to the tree farm in Aurora would suffice.

Upon arriving, we classified the wimpy trees left for public chopping as Charlie Brown-esque poor trees.  Knowing that we weren't going to return to a decorated tree house if we failed to find our perfect tree, we perused the pre-cut selection - a bounty of tall, full Douglas and Frazier Firs (why didn't they leave those where they were for us to chop down?) Among them was our big guy, calling to us, 'Pick me! Pick me!' So we overlooked it's eight and a half foot stature and the doubt in Peter's mind that it would fit, and packed it into the pick-up. Our very first Christmas tree. In our very first house. In the very first year of our marriage.

After surviving the two-hour hunt for a tree stand during the great tree stand shortage of 2011, finally finding one at the second Home Depot that we tried, we came home to start decorating. As I was hanging ornaments with Il Divo blasting in the background, I got so excited - on the brink of emotional - thinking about our tree and all that will happen under it this year and in years to come. I looked at each ornament - some that were Peter's, some that were mine - and saw how two lives came together this year.

It took us two days to finish - mostly because we needed more lights (still need one last strand) and we needed tinsel (the other item on the Naperville shortage list.) But on Monday night, it was a marvel to behold - the solution to the ranch's interior design challenges - the reason why I now believe we no longer need to spend money on house renovations - all we needed was Baum. 

Growing up, I used to spend December evenings laying under our family tree, looking up into its magical beauty - imagining how it surely came to life each night - how Clara danced with the Nutcracker; the trumpet and French horn harmonized with the soulful sounds of the saxophone; Bubby Brister threw a Hail Mary, Bobby Bonilla caught it, and passed it to Mario Lemieux; the train traveled along the bow of the tree to pick up Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, and Donald; me and my brother and sister, ages zero to thirty laughed and played together while Mom and Dad as Raggedy Ann and Andy watched over us; the shepherds herded the clay sheep; Gloria burst out in a hymn of glory and praise in front of a giant stain glass window; all gathered from near and far, right there in our living room to play witness to the birth of baby Jesus under the sun, moon and glimmering, half-eaten Star of David.

At the age of 29, as I gazed up at our very first tree this morning, I sensed the same kind of magic that I felt as a child, but with a new cast of ornamental characters. And I felt completely enamored and blessed by all the amazing things that have come my way this year, including Baum.

As strange as this Christmas tradition might be, I'm totally in love with it.

Lo.