A Saturday Routine

Yesterday, Livia was showing me how she could stand in first position, do plies, pose in an arabesque and leap across the carpet with a grand jete. Her aunt had given her some of ballet's fundamentals, but in a couple months she would be able start taking classes in her neighborhood. I could sense her excitement about the upcoming opportunity to take the steps she had learned and weave them into a routine that she could perform in living rooms across the Western Suburbs. 

It made me think about my experience dancing - the first steps that I learned - the anticipation I felt as my teacher started piecing them together - the thrill I found when my movements started to make sense - and my pride in knowing with absolute certainty all the fancy footwork and armwork to match. After a while, improvisation and swaying from my prescribed routines started to confuse me. I needed the precise rhythms, measured spaces and calculated cues. Without them, I felt lost.

This notion of strict choreography started to seed itself in my day to day activities as well. I embraced knowing what came next. But when I met Peter, all the solo acts that I had memorized and perfected, were no longer relevant. I needed to start developing duets.

However, trying to establish a new routine with a partner who prefers improvisation is quite difficult. While he thrived on the riffs, scats, and jam sessions in life, I tried to tame the dissonance with structure. There were times when we just flopped.

In the end, we learned to compromise and take turns leading. Some days, we used my choreography, but set to songs that I knew Peter would like. Other days, we would wing it, constantly changing keys, tempos, and direction all in the name of creating something different. To my surprise, both ways worked and both ways made the performers and spectators happy.  

Peter and I tend to be really good together on the weekends, and yesterday was no exception. I must say it was one of our most successful routines - one that combined both of our styles and possessed all the right elements. Sure, there were some trials leading up to its execution: a steady rain that made us soggy; a cheese shipment delay, detouring us from one theme to Peter's love affair with the pig; a goal line stand controversy; and a cider press conundrum. But the show, good food, cheers, and juices went on - another little thing I taught Peter about show business.

And it went a little something like this. 

5,6,7,8 ...
A good read. 
Followed by a good run.
A special frittered breakfast.

 

Then a couple chores and some stokes of the smoker. 

Quick chasse into the shower. 
Chopping, slicing, pestling, chilling.
Brendan, enter stage right. Stoke, stoke.  
Brises or jumps, followed by plies to the beat of hole finding, pass grabbing, quarterback scrambling, helmet hitting, fumble recovering, field goal kicking, touch down scoring, and goal line standing.
Bill and Meghan, enter stage left. Mira and Livia scurry in. 
Slicing, smashing, pressing, apple foam tasting, bottling. 

 

 Shredding, eager forks noshing, stacking, Carnitas consuming, stomach satisfying. 

Little bow. 
Bravo!

The crowd wanted an encore of apple fritters, so I've included it below. 

Lo. 

Apple Fritters (makes about 8 fritters)
Adapted from Pioneer Woman

1 apple, cored and sliced into 1/8 inch rings
1 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Pinch of salt
1 egg
1/2 cup milk
1 tablespoon melted butter
Vegetable or canola oil
Powdered sugar, for dusting

In a medium bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and almond extract.

In another medium bowl, beat eggs. Then add milk and melted butter. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients.

Heat oil over medium high heat until about 375 degrees. Keep this temperature consistent. Drop each apple slice into the batter to create a thin coat. You made need to coax the batter along to stick on the apple slices evenly.

Drop battered apple slices into oil, perhaps three per batch. Fry for 1-2 minute per side until golden brown. Keep a careful watch over them as they can quickly burn. Remove from oil and set on a paper towel lined plate to dry. Repeat process with remaining apple slices. Serve immediately with sifted powdered sugar.

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.

A Housewarming

The day that Peter and I closed on the house, we ordered Chinese Food, hopped up on the counters of our new kitchen, popped some champagne, and surveyed our pride and joy over egg rolls and sweet and sour soup. At the end of the meal we cracked a couple fortune cookies, hoping for a good omen as we started the next Chapter of our life. Peter's was forgettable. At least I forgot it. But mine revealed a very telling phrase.
'You are the center of every group attention.'
Aw, perfect. Totally meant to be. Fitting.

However, about a week ago, I learned that my freebie fortune might have had another meaning.  One of our neighbors had offered us a couple of their hostas by way of a note in our mailbox - their take on a basket full of muffins, I suppose. I was deeply entrenched in the war of the weeds, so Peter went over to say, 'hi' and snab the perennials. Along with the plants, Peter came back with a little neighborhood history.

According to the hosta dealers, our house used to be the 'epicenter of madness.' Our yard was where all the kids on the block would congregate - where all the dogs would come to play - where all the screaming children would hit their highest, loudest, most deafening notes. Kid chaos - 'the center of every group attention.' That's the reason I see kids walk past our house, longingly looking into the back yard, wondering when the circus will come to town again.

Instead of putting up a sign that the Big Top was closed, Peter and I hosted a housewarming party to set the tone for a new era of the backyard. It was an attempt to redirect my fortune to our favor and to gain some group attention with something other than outside voices that should only be used if stranger danger is imminent. 

The combination of a retro themed bar complete with punch, craft brews on tap, a 10-hour smoked ham with accompanying mustard bar, summer sides, dozens of chocolate chip cookies and snicker doodles, a hammock, and good people hanging out on the lawn, took our home from cozy to completely warm. In fact, by the time Keith, Kate and Brian were howling in the basement while watching Duck Dynasty, the house had turned pretty darn hot.

Friends, thank you for helping to warm our House. And now that a certain, more subtle tone is set, I'm thinking perhaps we should offer to host the block party.

Lo.

Super

I would love to hit publish on another photo montage depicting an all-star weekend. But my love affair with a pair of Magic Erasers on Saturday afternoon and the war I waged on Peter's annex closet on Sunday morning weren't nearly as photogenic as a party on the Potomac or a blushing bride.

But just as I thought our home improvement themed weekend, spent under house arrest, applying an absolute resolution toward getting our home into a clean, organized, working order, wasn't going to produce a single photo friendly moment, there was a glimmer of glamor.

Say, when the meatballs were served.  

Or when I figured out what to do with the niche in the entry way. 

 

Or better yet, when my no rest for the weary Cubs fan who just wanted to watch the bottom on the ninth and finish his beer mantra, paid off with the look of utter excitement and astonishment at our house from the sensational, celebrational, super Grandma Shirley, our guest of honor on Sunday evening.

Super Grandma Shirley, SGS for short, is Peter's grandmother. Now, I remember Mrs. Lauer telling me not to use words like 'super' when writing English papers. That there were better descriptors. But I believe 'super' is the only word to describe Shirley. It encapsulates her contagious zest for life; her enthusiasm for family, friends and the social events that bring them together; her ability to do yoga every morning and hop into the captain's seat of a boat better than I can; her classic style, perfect posture and impeccable manners; and above all, her warm smile and laughter that lights up a room.  

SGS returned from Florida this weekend, and without being here for the purchase and move-in, I knew a welcome to our house, a little sneak peak before every last piece of furniture has arrived, and a dinner party would be appreciated. 

So around 5:30 PM yesterday evening, when there were no boxes on the first floor, Burton Morris was on the wall instead of the ground, Louis Armstrong was trumpeting in the background, the table was set, the menu, selected - a little something to take SGS back to Paris where she and her husband used to vacation, Peggy, Jan and Shirley arrived.  

With yellow tulips, making the dining room look a little more like the bistro I was trying to create. 

Dinner was roasted pommes de terre, steamed haricot verts, and seared steak au poivre served with a brandy pan sauce. Dessert was David Lebovitz' via Dori Greenspan's French apple cake.

 

And the wine was a 2007 Fort Ross Pinot Noir Reserve.

The pain in my shoulders, back, legs and feet, from dusting, scrubbing, lifting, hanging, and doing my last long runs before the Marathon, quickly subsided when everyone gathered around the dinner table on Sunday evening. The weekend was super, just like that.

Despite the chores, errands, and to dos that need to get done on any given weekend, you can always make it an all star one, by inviting someone super to join you.

Lo.  

The Great Midwest

You know how in grade school the teacher used to ask the class, "did anyone do anything fun over the weekend?" And you hoped that you had that winning weekend experience to relay - something that would trump the birthday party you weren't invited to. Well on Monday, before my department commenced a big planning meeting, the room was polled with just that question. Before anyone could even digest it, I blurted out, "I butchered a pig!"

YES! It was the most satisfying, exciting, interesting response I ever could have imagined - and it was not only mine, it was 100 percent true!

The entire room chuckled, looked at me, (yeah right), and begged for more information. So I explained.

Well ... Peter is obsessed with the pig - that is, in the smoking, roasting, pan frying, and devouring of him. So for Christmas, I went beyond Bacon of the Month Club and enrolled us in a Whole Hog Class at Vie Restaurant in Western Springs - a what do you do when you find a whole, dead 250-pound pig on your kitchen counter class.

So on Sunday, we cashed in Christmas morning, went to swine school, and found out what to do with that hog. To make a bloody, four-hour, long story short, you take a sharp knife, saw, and cleaver, dig in your hands, and dissect the bestial animal into the good parts - the ribs, the belly, the ham, the cheeks, the tenderloin and the loin - and grind up the rest to make sausages and country pate.

The faces of the people in the room took on expressions somewhere in between disgust and disbelief. Seriously? This little girl at the end of the table took a cleaver to a hog? Yes I did! (And loved it.)  They didn't seem to share my enthusiasm. They didn't understand why I was so proud of my unique weekend activity - that it was more than the sum of the pig's parts. It was the fact, that after it, I felt a little more midwestern.


Ironically, on Saturday, while at the beach with our friend Becky and her three-year-old daughter, Eleanor - both Chicago natives, but current residents of Boston - Becky said that she wanted her daughter 'to grow up with some Midwest in her.' It made me wonder if after nearly four years living in the Midwest, I was getting some of it in me. 

Vie confirmed it. I had.

Vie is labeled as a French restaurant and directed by a head chef  who is trained in the French culinary arts - its chef de cuisine, the man responsible for day-to-day kitchen management, has a passion for Italian peasant cuisine - its supplied by the sustainable farms and farmers of Illinois - and its located in a town similar to Mayberry. Rather than stick to its label - contemporary French, contemporary American - they have decided that they are more. They are different. They are Midwestern.

Nathan, the pig professor and chef de cuisine explained that Chicago is a historic and character-driven melting pot - that the food of the Midwest melded old world European cuisine with what was available from the abundant farms of Illinois, the slaughterhouses, butchers and meat packing factories, and the store rooms of preserved vegetables and cured meats that they needed to get through the long winters. Vie embraces that heritage and celebrates it in its simply, uniquely, elegantly prepares dishes each evening.

But Vie takes Midwest beyond their cuisine - their comportment and attitude embodies it as well.

Like my family and friends who are Midwesterners, they have an open door attitude. On Sunday, they welcomed perfect strangers into their kitchen. They put us to work. They laughed and joked with us. They even prepared us a hearty lunch. They treated us as friends and we left feeling like we were part of their foodie family.

They aren't afraid to get their hands dirty - in fact, they don't just dismember pigs at Vie, they go at it with cows as well.

They act like themselves too. They don't pose or put on a show. They're not trying to be trendsetters, (but like any great restaurant, they probably will be.) When asked what his favorite section of the ribs are, Nathan didn't go with the manly chef answer, he said, "the baby backs."

I will always be a Pittsburgh girl, but I love the fact that I feel like I have some of these typical Midwest qualities now - that living here has shown me a friendlier, heartier side. And that attending swine school didn't intimidate me, but taught me that the pig makes countless great meals, even if the fat ratio is a little scarier than I'm used to.

In the end, Eleanor and I will have the best of both worlds. But after a three days of pig products - pork belly, sausage risotto, sausage pizza and sausage sandwiches - this yinzer is ready for some leaner cuisine.


And now for a recipe that is pure midwestern fusion food.
Breakfast sausage sandwiches for dinner

Homemade breakfast sausage patties
Fried eggs
Spicy mayo - mayo, lemon, hot sauce, salt, crushed red pepper
Slaw - shred green and red cabbage, carrots and green pepper, add green onions, cider vinegar, sugar, lemon, dollop of mayo, salt, pepper, celery seed
Smoked mozzarella - got a paprika smoked one at Whole Foods, which worked very well!
Brioche buns - great recipe!

Make the Breakfast Sausage

Stack up the ingredients.
And dig in.

Lo.