Prep Work

I used to arrive a couple hours early for my shift on Fridays and Saturdays. Typically, they were my longest, busiest days on the floor of Eleven; I figured what's another hour or two. Instead of going straight to the office though, I moseyed into the kitchen with a cautious plea to Chef, 'Can I help?' Incredulously, he would wonder what the girl with the wrong clothes, scar-free arms, and big hair was doing in the back of the house. But with an apron, a promise I wouldn't cut myself and a quick sweep of my hair, he would let me pitch in: rolling out, cutting and flouring the gnocchi, mixing up and molding the crab cakes, filling, simmering, and setting the massive pots of stock for a 24-hour journey toward richness.

I loved participating in the prep work rituals of the massive, industrial kitchen, steaming toward serving 300 to 400 people throughout the course of a given evening. There was both an art and science to the planning. Timing was everything and coached through frequent Chef check-ups on process and status. When the doors of Eleven opened at 5:00 PM, every cook, every pastry chef, every station needed to be as equipped as possible for the estimated amount of traffic that would come through the double doors. A slip in efficiency on the line due to a lack of preparedness, could dismantle the whole evening.

What I learned as an observer, I've transported to my kitchen. And at home, I've gotten relatively good at the prep work needed to execute a dinner party in which I'm less of a caterer and more of a guest.

Last night, I felt particularly proud of the prep work I put into a dinner for my friend, Cristine and her husband Kevin. The menu was planned by mid-morning. Grocery shopping was done by 3:00. Dessert was finished by 4:00. The ribs were braising by 4:30. The table was set, garde manger was ready for salad assembly, and cocktails and appetizers were set up fireside by 5:45 PM, Cristine's reservation time. After an hour relaxing and chatting with our guests, I only needed 15 minutes in the kitchen to get everything on the table. I felt like Chef would have been proud.

***

When it comes to prepping for the baby though, I'm a little less sure about my plans and timing. Sure, the nursery looks cute, I'll pick up the vintage Sound of Music poster that I just had framed tomorrow. Mary's closet is all organized and color coordinated. And I translating 'nesting' to mean buying new furniture for our sun room. But this week, I had a couple 'huh, I should really do that' moments which led me to question my preparedness.

Say when Genevieve asked if I had been reading a lot recently.
I have actually! I'm about halfway through Moby Dick. Great book!
Oh, I meant baby books.
Right. No. Haven't read any of those.
Or at my shower on Wednesday, when I started opening essentials like bibs, pacifiers, a baby tub and an infant swing, and realized that I would have totally forgotten about these staples had others not come to my rescue.
Or when my Mom sent me a message in her signature check-list format. Have you ...
Stopped running. (Kind of) 
Stayed away from anyone who is sick. (Like the plague) 
Relaxed and gotten lots of sleep. (Not so much.)
Stocked the freezer with meals. (No, but excellent idea.)

So with a little more than three weeks left, I've decided to do a little more practical prep work. I started to think of the comfort food classics that were always stocked in Grandma Barry's freezer and made a mental list of the meals I should make, starting with beef stroganoff. But I had this idea. Instead of making a whole meal without the instant gratification of eating it for dinner, I would just double the recipe so we'd have the other two servings for those days in March when I'll probably be too tired to cook.

My plan backfired though. See, the retro stews, braises, and roasts of this world - the ones that make excellent leftovers, also translate into amazing seconds or thirds. So my beef stroganoff for four on Thursday night, quickly turned into beef stroganoff for 2.5 with nothing, not even a couple egg noodles, left to freeze.

So I'm back to the drawing board again tonight. And with it, I'm thinking I need to make meals for eight or ten, in order for their to be any generous portions in my freezable future.

In terms of non-culinary prep work, savvy Moms, what else am I missing?

Lo.


Citrus and Pomegranate Salad with Honey Vinaigrette
Adapted from Thomas Keller's 'Ad Hoc at Home'
Serves four  

Ingredients:
Mixture of Bibb and Romaine lettuces (Keller calls for Little Gem lettuce, which I could not find in the store)
1 grapefruit, segmented
1 orange, segmented
1/2 cup pomegranate seeds
1/4 cup toasted walnuts
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 teaspoon honey
1 teaspoon fresh tarragon finely chopped 
Salt, pepper

Directions:
Mix oils, vinegar, honey, tarragon, salt and pepper in a small bowl. Toss lettuce with dressing. Plate lettuce. Top with citrus slices, a generous amount of pomegranate seeds and walnuts. Serve.

Red Wine Braised Short Ribs 
Adapted from Bon Appetit 
Serves six 

Ingredients: 
5 pounds bone-in beef short ribs
salt, pepper
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 yellow onions, chopped
3 carrots, peeled and chopped
2 stalks of celery, peeled and chopped 
3 tablespoons flour
1 tablespoon tomato paste
Bottle (750 ML) Red Wine, preferably Cabernet Sauvignon
3 cups beef stock
Head of garlic, sliced in half horizontally
10 sprigs of flat leaf parsley
8 sprigs of thyme
2 sprigs of rosemary
2 bay leaves

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Generously season beef with salt and pepper. In a large dutch oven, heat oil. Brown short ribs on all sides in two batches. Set aside.

Add onions, celery and carrots to the pot. Cook over medium high heat for 8-10 minutes until onions are soft and starting to brown. Add the flour and tomato paste. Mix well to incorporate and cook for about 2 minutes. Add the bottle of wine, stirring well, making sure the liquid is even. Put the ribs back in the pot, bring to a boil, and reduce liquid by half. It took me about 40 minutes to do this. By that time the sauce was thicker, richer in color, and delicious.

Add beef stock, herbs, garlic, salt and pepper to the pot. Place in oven and cook for 2 hours.

Remove the pot from the oven. Let sit for about 15 minutes. Remove the ribs. Strain the liquid into a saucepan. The fat should rise to the top, remove that using a spoon or skimmer. Serve short ribs in a shallow bowl over something like mashed potatoes and parsnips, with the sauce on top.

Beef Stroganoff 
Serves four (or two and a half on a hungry day) 

Ingredients: 
1 pound beef stew meat
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Salt, pepper
1 onion, halved, then thinly sliced 
1 tablespoon flour
2 teaspoons ground mustard 
2 cups beef stock
1/2 pound baby bella mushrooms, sliced
3/4 cup sour cream
Flat leaf parsley
Egg noodles

Directions:
Season beef with salt and pepper. Heat oil over medium heat in a dutch oven. Brown meat evenly, about 8 minutes. Add onions to the pot and saute until soft and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Add flour and ground mustard, stirring well and cook for 2 minutes.

Slowly add stock, whisking constantly. Turn heat to low, and let simmer for 2 hours. After an hour, check on the pot. If you need to add more liquid, add another 1/2 cup of stock.

Add mushrooms, salt and pepper and let cook for another 20-30 minutes over low heat. Right before serving add the sour cream. Serve over egg noodles, topped with fresh parsley.

Mayberry

This is what I want. To wake up in the morning, put on a pink robe, and with a kiss, send my husband off to work, dressed in the new blue suit I bought him from Marshall Fields. I want to leisurely read Breakfast at Tiffany's over coffee, and two pieces of toast. I want to get dressed for a day of grocery shopping, bridge playing, house decorating, and dinner making. My hat and gloves are a must. And I want to be surrounded by friendly neighbors, who just happen to drop by for tea, and a piece of cake, and a bit of gossip.  

Before we officially changed our address, a friend of mine told me that I was moving to Mayberry. And despite all the present day negative press that an idyllic imaginary location like Mayberry might get, I've got to say that I was quite excited about the prospect. I envisioned that I was going to a place where a cup of confectioners sugar was just a neighbor away, where Oberweiss delivered fresh milk to my doorstep once a week, where Dick and Jane played with Spot in their neatly manicured back yards, but always using their inside voices, where students skipped to school with apples, and where the grass was equally green on everyone's lawn. 

Although, I'm in love with my new neighborhood, Mayberry isn't exactly what I thought it would be. Some of the neighbors have had to beg, borrow, and steal from banks so they could lay claim to the greenest grass in the community. Spot isn't a cute little Cockerspaniel, he's a genetically modified hybrid dog that doesn't shed, bark, poop or smell. The few kids that I've spotted playing outside, don't know what an inside voice is. And the women who are sending their husbands off to work everyday aren't getting dressed in their Sunday best, they are sporting the latest Lululemon looks, judging whose thighs do or do not touch.

While the present day vision of Mayberry can be as disappointing as the kids that I have spotted smoking pot on the way to school three out of five days this week, there are still many old fashioned elements that make this community very special. Oberweiss does deliver. And I'm about to sign up. The neighborhood butchers already know me by name. The welcome wagon just came to our door. There are more parks and little leaguers per capita that any place else in Illinois. And our neighbors are this close to asking for samples from the grill.  

And as someone who was most likely born six decades too late, I believe that it is my duty to do my part to make Mayberry, as picture perfect as possible.

I'll only turn on the television for major events.

Cocktail hour shakes up about thirty minutes after the Mini and Monster Truck are lined up and put to bed for the day.

There will be fluffy pink cupcakes and the like at my house even though they don't look nearly as pretty as Sweetapolita's.  

 

There will be a Casey's bacon loving brewer in the backyard. And his apron clad bee finishing dinner inside.

There will be records playing, and land lines ringing, and people dressed to receive company.

And until I stumble upon the all access admission ticket of a kid or two or ten, I'll just grab Peter's fishing pole and go whistling down to Salt Creek on the kind of lazy Saturday morning that I'm looking forward to tomorrow. 

Lo.

A Fish Called Salmon

Seemingly, in 1993, households across America suddenly discovered the taste, health benefits, and availability of salmon. Children and families who had previously defined fish entrees by their canned tuna foundation, were delighted to unveil the wonders of this beautiful pink fish. Two households that joined the mass salmon migration were mine and Peter's.

When I was in fifth grade, my family became salmon aficionados. About once a week, my dad would brush  it with either his honey-mustard or lemon-dill sauce, grill it and serve it alongside couscous, sugar snap peas, and Breadworks rustic sourdough. I loved it and asked for it again and again, celebrating the fact that it had replaced my Dad's go-to fish dinner, fish with a coat of tan. (As little brother so boldly said, 'woof.')   

As fortune would have it, that same year I hit another culinary milestone. As my family gained admittance to the Pittsburgh Golf Club, I gained a golden ticket into the world of old-school, hoity-toity food culture - a wonderful world of vichyssoise and lobster bisque with Sherry; hollowed tomatoes filled with creamed spinach and servings of asparagus held together with carrot rings; table side bread service and little finger bowls of lemon-scented water; tiny gooey macaroons whose size allowed more than my three cookie limit; and the creme de la creme - salmon, seasoned, buttered, wrapped in puff pastry, and roasted till perfection - salmon wellington.The most epic entree - the most cataclysmic discovery of my petite palette - that I could have possibly imagined in fifth grade.

About 500 miles west of the corner table where I was devouring my new favorite food, in the village of LaGrange, Illinois, an eighth grader named Peter was sitting down to a salmon dinner of his own, the fourth that month. Concurrently, his family was having their own salmon bonanza. And while my love for salmon was reaching new heights with the inclusion of puff pastry, Peter's hatred was reaching new lows. Something in the repetition ruined the appeal. Or perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't caught it himself that made it undesirable. Or maybe it was just its color, pink, a girl color. But whatever the reason, he developed into the 'Sam I Am' of Salmon.

I, the salmon lover, married a salmon hater. And rarely, if ever, am I allowed to put it on the menu. I've tried a variety of recipes, but the reaction is always underwhelming, so I've basically given up.

That is, until I thought back to fifth grade. And puff pastry. And my introduction to the divine. Last night, I tried to sneak salmon into puff pastry and serve it for dinner.

But ... on the way to the Seafood counter at Whole Foods, Peter sniffed out my sneaky plan, and made me call an audible. A couple minutes later, I was adding a stop to the meat counter to my grocery getting duties. And we were not only having salmon wellington for dinner, we were having beef wellington as well.

So, it's back to drawing board. And I'm thinking that getting the smoker involved is my last hope.

Lo.

Casserole, Mold, or Croquette?

In 1988, my family invested in a condo at a ski resort outside of Pittsburgh named Hidden Valley. Given the "time is money" mantra that my parents live by, we bought the model home, complete with all the teal and pink furniture, linens, dishes, fake cantaloupe halves topped with maraschino cherries, fake ferns, baskets, artwork, and chopped wood for the fireplace. Hidden Valley was our contemporary 1980s showpiece.

For the nearly 20 years that we owned the place, it remained relatively unscathed. The only things we had added were our second tier personals - our less than favorite picture books (or if you were my sister, big girls books), St. Edmund's Bazaar trinkets for our nightstands, long johns, neon turtlenecks, and stirrup pants, and our family's characteristic make-your-child-look-like-a-sausage ski pants and coats. By 2007, when it was sold, it could have been auctioned off to a museum as a late 80s archival piece.

My parents more or less traded the Hidden Valley condo for its equivalent in South Bend, right off of Notre Dame's campus. And although not all of the time-warped furniture, fake food and artwork made the move, there were some classics that traveled straight from the Laurel Mountains to Indiana.

This past weekend, when we stayed at the condo for the game, I noticed a lot of that stuff - the collection of baskets on top of the kitchen cupboards, the linens, the mismatched gloves and glove liners, the Parcheesi board with missing pieces, the pink and teal dishes, the nightstand trinkets, and the big furry blanket we used to wrap ourselves up in after a day on the slopes. Although Ethan Allen has tried to mask and update its presence, on Saturday evening, while eating a popular apres-ski option, tacos, I honestly felt more like I was in Hidden Valley, than South Bend.   

A couple of other things I noticed on my where's Hidden Valley search were two cookbooks - one by Family Circle, the other, pictured below, by Better Homes and Gardens.

The latter was apparently a gift from my Grandma to my Mom on her 26th birthday - something to guide a busy working mom in the kitchen perhaps. I immediately recognized them from the cookbook lineup at Hidden Valley. Their coloring and cover photos were unmistakable. But I had never delved into the finer points of these gems.

So ... I leafed through, and then browsed, and then gaped and devoured each recipe, caption and image in these books. I couldn't believe what I was reading - what I was seeing - what meal solution suggestions were being doled out. From what I can decipher, a home cook with a busy schedule in 1977 had three, maybe four options for dinner. "Honey would you like a casserole, a mold, or a croquette tonight? .... And no, I'm not going to go to all the effort to make fondue."

The books are sectioned off by quick, quicker and quickest meals, ending with a trifecta of optimal fast dinner solutions for the working woman: the hot dog sauerkraut bake, the chicken of the sea stuffed tomato, and finally, the meatball confetti mold with the classic tag line, "canned corn, canned carrots, canned rice and canned meatballs make this confetti mold easier than ever!"

What shocked me more than the recipes, ingredients, and food photography, is how far culinary culture has come since the 70s. That is, the drastic difference between what meal preparation was and what it is today. Even if you think you have no idea what you are doing in the kitchen, with all the literature, media, ingredients, quick recipes, and peer-to-peer culinary guidance at your disposal, you are honestly well on your way to being a better cook than Betty Crocker circa 1977.

After closing the books, I debated whether or not to bring them back to Naperville with me, pondering if I could actually serve something as curious, yet elaborate as this for dinner ...

But I didn't. And now, I regret it. Just as I regret not being at Hidden Valley the day that our condo was packed up and parsed out between what stays and what goes - not being there to say, 'I want the gumball machine, the wooden crocodile, the neon pink ski goggles, and the little red bed' - I regret that I could so easily dismiss a part of my cooking heritage. I'm nostalgic, yes. But I think we are too quick sometimes to push the relics of our past aside. 

So, I'm reneging. With a cupboard full of Jello molds from Aunt Jeannie, our retro ranch begging for some deviled eggs, a new vintage party dress to wear, and those cookbooks just waiting in South Bend for me to use them, I think I'm going to go get them and start a new chapter in my kitchen capers. 

Before that though, we're off to have the perfect bite and all the rest of the amazing ones that follow in Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving. And maybe, maybe, if it snows, we'll hit the slopes.

Lo.