Thankful

The common complaint at this time of year is that we bypass Thanksgiving and move straight to Christmas. Since Halloween, the McMansions in Naperville have been bedazzled in twinkling lights; for the past month at Starbuck’s, I’ve been drinking out of nutcracker covered cups; and on the TV, radio and Internet, holiday specials have plastered the media waves. What about that wonderful turkey and pumpkin pie-fabulous national holiday? 

I used to have a similar complaint. That is, until my media consumption patterns shifted entirely toward web based food sites. Where, I have been celebrating and salivating over, not Christmas, but Thanksgiving for the past three weeks.

I’ve been reading about medleys of nouveau stuffing; sweet potato pies, mashes, and fritters; the best turkey ever; and deserts ranging in size from mini to monstrous. I’ve read twelve course menus and intricate cooking guides. I've deciphered how one might achieve that perfect balance between traditional and innovative. And I’ve probably gained twenty virtual pounds over the course of these morning musings.

I was tempted for weeks to make a couple of these recipes - to push the holiday and have a little trial Thanksgiving in Naperville, but I thought better. I didn’t want to spoil the beauty, the joy, the perfection of the best meal of the year and the first bite that goes along with it.

For those that don't know, my Dad owns Thanksgiving. I shouldn't brag or tell you that your kitchen trials will never reap the rewards my Dad achieves every year, but I'm going to. I swear, there is no professional chef that could do it better. He prepares every element (with the exception of the smorgasbord of pies) from scratch - a feast, handed down to him by his Mom, that has served our family well for decades and decades. Each part of the meal is more time consuming than the next - more beautiful than the next - more delicious than the next. And as a non pot-luck embracing family, I literally have no hand in it - my clothes remain greaseless, unfloured, and spotless from start to finish.

This year did not disappoint. It was Peter's first Thanksgiving in Pittsburgh, and luckily, there was enough room for us and Luke at the adult table. (He is a budding philanthropist with a mission to save small businesses after all.)

We got to sing 'Johnny Appleseed' - eat the stuffing out of the bird - take as much white meat off the 21-pound bird as we wanted - cut into the unannexed cranberries - get mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes - pour the gravy straight from the china gravy boat - and sip Yellow Label instead of Korbel Brut. Oh wow, the adult table made Thanksgiving better than ever.

On our run. At mass. In the yard, playing football. Around the table, toasting to a great year. On the couch, watching (very) embarrassing homevideos.

In the hallways, watching the cutest young family play with each other.

And while sitting with Peter in a turkey como after dinner. My smile kept getting bigger and bigger as I counted more and more blessings. It's been an amazing year. And as cheesy, corny, and dorky as it is, I am honestly overjoyed by thanksgiving.

Now. You can celebrate the Christmas season.
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.

A House Divided

When a Pitt girl marries a West Virginia guy; a Carolina fan marries a Duke fan; a Michigan cheerleader marries an Ohio State football player; a Texas Barbie marries an Oklahoma farm boy, or a Yale nerd marries a Harvard nerdier, family and friends shake their heads in disapproval, ask them if they're sure they've made the right choice, and fear for the worst. The couple claims that they can see past their collegiate differences - that they are more than their Alma Maters - that when the big game comes around, they'll love each other for good or for worse, through win or through loss, all the days of their lives.

When this Notre Dame girl, who comes from a family gilded by the Dome, married that Boston College boy, I expected a lot more incredulous questioning. But honestly, there wasn't a lot of concern in the minds of my friends and family. I'm thinking it's likely due to the fact that both of our teams haven't been in the running for a National Championship in nearly two decades. Perhaps if I had married Peter back in 1993, there would have been more "you've got to be kidding me, he went to BC?" commentary. As it is, the mediocre at best football teams that we halfheartedly cheer for, have never really spurred a fight between me and the Super Fan.

But, every so once in a while, there is a certain house divided scenario that pops up. It's not about sports, it's about everything else.

The argument is over whose school is better. Not at football. Just at being a college. Peter, who went to both schools, one for undergrad and one for his MBA, claims that he has the superior perspective, and that from his perspective, hands down, BC is the better school. He also claims that Domers have an insecurity complex when it comes to Boston College - the team that has beat them six out of the last nine years. That Domers are so insecure that they can't help but say things like, "Jiminy Christmas Trees and God Almighty, it's only BC!" (yes, these were the domerific words that I truly heard on Saturday at the game.)

While I roll my eyes and drown out his commentary, I do put together a little analysis to battle my own inner insecurities.  

BC versus Notre Dame
Academics: ND's back-up school versus ND. (I'm going to get it for writing that.)
Student Life: Boston versus South Bend.(He wins.)
Food: Grilled to order steak versus a portfolio of fried pastas.(He wins.)
Housing: The cockroach infested Mods versus the slumlord, Cramer's, mice infested shanties.(Draw)
Nightlife: (Apparently) thriving versus a nearly dry campus due to the administration and the SBPD. (He wins.) 

On Saturday, as staunch supporters of our respective undergrad Alma Maters, we drove down to South Bend for the holiest rivalry in college football - Me dressed in green and gold, Peter layered in a collection of Boston apparel.

While we walked around campus, we debated the finer points attached to the supremacy of our colleges. I said a prayer for a win. And we didn't budge in our convictions.

At halftime, just about when the band was spelling out Chicago as they played, "Saturday in the Park," I asked the trumping question of Peter. "Why didn't you go to BC for business school if it is so much better than Notre Dame."

He replied, "because I wouldn't have met you."
With that ... I won. (And I just so happened to win on the rink and in the stadium as well this weekend.) Notre Dame is better than BC because it has me.

And as the winner of the debate, after we reunited our divided house I made the loser wear his new Coach Kelly t-shirt and make me clam chowder for dinner. And as the good sport that I am, I did all the dishes.

Lo.

Vegas to the 5th

"Of course sinful places never look their best in the daylight. I remember thinking that Las Vegas looked rather endearingly pathetic when viewed over a cup of coffee and a doughnut. All that noise and electric energy that is loosed at dusk vanishes with the desert sun and everything suddenly seems as thin and one-dimensional as a film set."
- Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There

I have watched the sun come up over the Strip the past two days. Bill Bryson nailed it. At 5:00 AM, looking out the window from the 29th floor at the Cosmopolitan onto the Bellagio Fountains, a line-up of the best hotels in the city - Caesar's, The Venetian, Palazzo, Wynn and Encore, and then onto the mountains in the distance, Las Vegas is illuminated, brilliant, rich, textured, and alive. At 6:30 AM, it is entirely different - like the endless, flat film set that Bryson describes.

What he didn't capture in his dead-on description of Vegas' dichotomy, is how terribly boring the city is, not only during the daytime, but in the evening and into the wee hours of the morning, after you've been here five times in a year - how predictable, scripted, and lackluster it is when you've experienced it time and time (and time and time and time again.)

• The confident Crew-enhanced, Aqua di Gio saturated guys ogling the biggest boobs at the bar are five times skeezier.
• The second hand smoke is staler, stuffier, and smellier than you can possibly imagine.
• The life progression of a woman from hot, hopeful hostess with a platinum bob, to disappointed cocktail server with bags under her eyes, to disgruntled, over-the-hill, cigarette sales lady in the too-tight dress, to homeless person looking for a down payment on her next bottle of moonshine seems transparently apparent.
• The crowds and their lack of spatial awareness are particularly stupefying.
• The blinking lights and siren-like sounds of the casino floor penetrate five times deeper into your already established headache from your desert-induced dehydration.
• The food, though good, doesn't taste nearly as sumptuous as it should because the service staff at just about every celebrity chef-owned restaurant in town is snootier than the next.
• The exponential growth of reflective surfaces and mirrors in the city make it and its visitors vainer than ever.
• And the lines - for the buffet, the newest show, the hot Club du jour, the roller coaster, the chance to cross the street, or the privilege to stare at one of the many seedy pole dancers are five times more thoughtless. (Seriously, your wife is ten million times more attractive than the cracked-out import from overseas whose only move is bending over, jiggling, and showing off her fake boobs that the casino floor manager donated to her in exchange for an exotically wild night.)   

How do I know all of this? Because I have literally taken off from Chicago and touched down at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas FIVE times this year.That is three, four and five times too many. I'm here for a marketing conference, and although content-wise, it's a good one, I wonder why conference coordinators don't realize that Vegas is no longer the choice locale.We've all been here before!


On the plane ride, I was sitting next to a Vegas first-timer. Like the stinker I can be, and as the proud owner of the right to open and close the shutter whenever I saw fit, I shut it so I could read without the interference of blinding sunlight. Around the Rockies, the girl started leaning over me, halfway into my seat, totally disregarding my spatial boundaries to look through the crevice that I had left open. Seriously, it's just a bunch of mountains, girl.

But after considering my first time, back in 2004, right after graduating from college, and all the excitement and fun that went with it, I thought better of my decision and granted her a full view. She didn't stop staring until we landed, and although annoying, I gained a little bit of her perspective.

I saw her rush off the plane and into a cab so she could meet up with her best friends; the itinerary for the night starting with a primping party in the room; their strut four-abreast down the strip to Caesar's for drinks, a light dinner, and dancing; the hope that the guy she had baited and captured at the VIP table could against all odds be Prince Charming; the realization after he called her "babe" that the past three hours were nice, but not worthy of her full time; and the hangover nursed with laughter about last night's antics with her girls.

That's the Vegas that I loved. But as I sit here missing Prince Charming at home in Naperville this evening, I know I'm no longer in the market for those kind of nights.

The lights are back on all along the Strip and the magic that Bryson describes is back. And I hope tonight is just that, magical, for the girl that sat next to me on the plane and for all the other first or second timers out there.On my last night of 2011 and perhaps of this entire decade in Las Vegas, I'll be toasting 702, the Ellis Girls, TnT, my wedding party, and all the conference attendees past that have made this city so much fun.

Viva Las Vegas!
Lo.

Where Three Sibs Meet

"Never have an odd number of children - there will always be one left out."
- Anonymous parent

In Milwaukee, Pittsburgh Street turns into Milwaukee Avenue which runs through the historic gut of downtown. Around the trendy Third Ward, Milwaukee Avenue intersects with Chicago Avenue. If you turn left on Chicago, you hit the shops, spas, and restaurants of the city that can play supporting roles to a great afternoon. 

This weekend, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee and Chicago collided figuratively as well. My sister, brother, and I flew, pushed a stroller and drove to be together in Lyla's hometown. And we spent Saturday afternoon relaxing on Chicago Avenue and Broadway.

The rest of the weekend was spent eating and drinking. Running and walking. Praying and playing. Spa-ing and shopping. And a lot of Lyla ogling.

It's hard to believe, but we're all in different cities than each other right now, and getting together is a little more challenging than the days when we could just meet by the (non-cordless) phone at the top of the stairs. We'd wait there for the 'go' sign from Mom and Dad on Christmas morning; we'd collide to harass the phone user and the gentleman called to the point of erupted fury; we'd meet to argue whether or not practicing the flute at 9:30 PM was allowed; and we'd join together and laugh after we each got a knock on our door by Dad, alerting us that the turkeys were once again in the yard.

An anonymous parent once told me to never have an odd number of children - say three. She said that one will always be left out. That two will always gang up. That three means one will always have to sit by a stranger on the Thunderbolt. I have to disagree. Because the three of us are and have always been there for each other. Sure, there were afternoons - backyard games - dinner time conversations that stirred some sibling rivalry. But you could always count on number three to bring us together again, instead of choosing sides. And reconciliation tended to happen at the top of the stairs.

Around 1997, when my sister went to college, the hallway and meeting spot that joined my path with my sister's and brother's became a little less connective. My brother and I still intersected daily, but it was weird not having my sister around the corner anymore. Then I went to college, and my sister and I shared a path to North Dining Hall, while the hallway in Pittsburgh left my brother alone. Throughout the next decade, there were years when I was more likely to meet up with my brother. And years when my sister was just a walk down Carson street away. Years when we only shared the hallway on the holidays.  

We're all apart now, and it leaves me wishing that we were closer.


After I got back home from Milwaukee yesterday, Peter and I intersected on West Street for dinner - a meal that brought together the hunt and my love of Italy. Peter had shot ducks early Sunday morning in southern Illinois, so I rendered them in duck fat, Burgundy and stock until they formed a ragout.

I made homemade pappardelle, and served the ragout over the noodles.

Peter felt very field to table as we feasted, and I felt thankful that the dining room would most likely always be our point of intersection. That when we had a family, this would be the place where our children would meet up to make fun of their parents, exchange trials of the school day, and compliment Mom's home cooking (wishful thinking). 

My Mom, one of eight, told me that my siblings would always be my best friends - I'm glad that I have two of them. And just as easily as the city of Milwaukee brings together our corners of the world, so too does the bond, the stories, and the compassion that we share with each other.

Lo. 

Getting Better than Standard

The day you fall back is great. You get an extra hour of sleep, you feel refreshed, and you embrace the coziness of the early darkness. But following the Sunday fun, comes that first week of Standard Time. And it tends to be just that, standard. As in not particularly special or refreshing or cozy.

For some reason the first week of Standard Time 2011 was particularly rough. The peppy melody of my alarm suddenly became a dour and dreaded tune; the rain and cold and then yesterday, snow, that came with the time change was dreary; scandalous news defaming my home state's university was disgusting; leaving the office to drive home through the darkness was disheartening; and knowing that the next day was predicted to get worse was downright depressing.

More often than not this week, I felt glum and discouraged. And I begged myself to snap out of it, thinking of the advice Peter gave me - it was my choice to be sad or happy. I kept saying, "I choose the latter. I choose the latter!" But contrary to his belief, it isn't that easy.

Over the years, especially during that time in my life when weeks like this one turned into months and seasons, I've learned a thing or two about dealing with compounding crabbiness . In my findings, you do have to make a choice. But it's not as glib as Peter's cure-all solution. Basically, you have to choose to look for the good in your day instead of the bad. During the darker days, like the standard ones, the good can be harder to spot, but once you see it, bit by bit, it lifts you up.  

For instance, on Monday, after I had nearly been knocked off the Monopoly board nine or ten times by the notoriously aggressive Naperville commuters, there was a glimmer of hope. The death-defying, saintly Benton and Mill crossing guard, took three confident steps into one of the scariest intersections in downtown Naperville. For me. She tamed the tenacious traffic with her STOP sign for me. And as I waved and expressed my gratitude for helping me get back to 'Go' safely, some of the standard went away.
 
Then, there was this man on Tuesday, standing on the corner with me as we waited for our turn to cross the street, holding our ground against the wind and rain coming at us from all directions. He turned to me and said, "man, you are one intrepid runner."
I asked him to repeat what he said. I had heard it, but I needed another second or two to figure out what intrepid meant.
Intrepid - fearless, heroic, brave, bold. (cool.)
"You are one intrepid runner."
That statement made me beam. Not only had this man told me that I was bad ass in so many words - he had challenged my vocabulary for the day and gifted to me a bonus word that I could add to my cache.

On Wednesday, the Polish priest at mass who usually allocates the better part of the day to slowly reading and elaborating on his homily, closed the Gospel, and said "we're not having a homily today." That was just about as good as it gets. 

By Thursday, I was still laughing about the snuggie story, proudly wrapping my favorite wallpaper around my blog thanks to my friend, Pam, hugging Ellie, feasting on Pfifferling Suppe, crusty rolls, and apple kuchen at Claire's house with the whole family, and completely snapped out of standard. By Thursday, I had recognized once again that the good in this world far outweighs the bad.

Sometimes it comes from a person who is in your life for a minute. Sometimes it comes from a person who is in your life forever. But it and the people who spread it are everywhere. You just have to choose to see them. 
And then to be one of the people who shares goodness with others. On 11/11/11 - on Veteran's Day - and on Friday - I'm better than standard. I'm good. No, I'm super.


Lo.

The Great Gun Debate

I come from an anti-gun establishment - a household where even the purchase of a Super Soaker was scrutinized. Real or fake, in my family, purchasing a gun was out of the question. So as kids, we played the kind of non gun-toting make believe that always threw our friends for a loop when they came over.

Well ... we're not equipped to play cowboys and Indians here. Would you like to reenact the Johnstown Flood instead?

I did hold and shoot a gun - once. Riflery elective, session II of Calvary Camp, 1999. The sole reason I joined this elective was to have the counselor that I had a crush on help me handle my gun. But since I was the awkward 17-year old camper, I ended up getting no attention at my station, pulled the trigger, and launched a shot that missed the target, hit something else, and ricocheted, Christmas Story style, back at my lip. Blood dripping from my mouth was not the hippie hot look I wished to impress that day. I did finally get some attention from the cute counselor, but it wasn't the fawning kind - it was more medical and carried with it incredulous facial expressions that in so many words told me how moronic I was. 

Peter, on the other hand, would have been a Riflery ace. He didn't only grow up playing Cowboys and Indians, he had the tools and resources to stage bank robberies, war reenactments, and espionage thrillers. He collected pocket knives to forge trails through the uncharted parts of Bemis Woods Forest Preserve. His favorite section of any museum is the armory collection. And he hunts. Like puts on camouflage pants and hunts. 

So I live in a house divided by the gun debate.
He's for.
I'm against.
My rationale, and it's good enough for me: I'm scared of them; I've heard too many stories of accidents; And I don't see any reason why I should want or need to own one. The "yah" side of the equation thinks I need an education - that if only I knew a little more about them, I would immediately jump in line to register for a gun owner's license.

While I stringently held my ground, Peter instituted lesson one in my education this weekend.

Lesson 1 - The Goose


For the past eight months, ever since they deemed it warm enough to fly back to Chicagoland, the nearly domesticated River Walk geese have etched out their territory, Sharks verses Jets style, along the River Walk. They literally own certain parts of it, forcing pedestrians to run way off course, less they be maimed by these blood sucking geese. About four months ago they decided to mate with anything that flies, and soon enough they didn't just have a section, they claimed the whole thing. 

I f-ing HATE these geese. Every morning, they hiss, spread their wings, run at me, snap at me with their freaky beaks, and try to cross one more human off their most wanted list.

When Peter told me that he was going to go hunting for geese on Saturday, I became entirely present in the conversation. I started thinking that his gun might just come in handy. I asked if he was going to do it on the River Walk, which was apparently an inane question, but wherever he was going to do it, I figured it would be curbing the overpopulated population of the most annoying geese known to man.

Peter spent Saturday morning hunting with friends and Saturday night telling me about it.

His photos were stunning. Straight out of Field and Stream. And they actually made me want to see the world from a hunter's point of view sometime.

The troop shot ten geese and one duck. 

 

And I received four goose breasts. I don't want to know how, but they arrived deplumed, deskinned, and ready to prepare. And I have to admit, I thought, 'Now ... I will have my vengeance. Monday, we will have a roast goose feast.'

Yesterday, I marinated the breasts all day. Then in the evening, butterflied them, tenderized them, and rolled them up with a caraway seasoned apple, pecan stuffing. I roasted them at 350 degrees for about 50 minutes and served them with potatoes and pan gravy. 

It was good. Gamey. Hearty. Satisfying. Straight out of the Kings Crown Tavern in Historic Williamsburg good. And I was kind of happy that I had done my part to clean up the River Walk. 

I'm still not sold on the NRA and will continue to anticipate debates and lessons (which hopefully will have a squirrel or two in them.) But until it's finally cold enough for those damn geese to fly south and bother the old folks in Florida, I'm telling them to get out of my way because my husband's got a gun!

Lo. 

The Brewer's Bock

Around midnight last night, after manning the most central post at the registration desk at my organization's annual fundraising gala; judging each and every dress that walked by me; winning the self-designed registration throughput competition; handing out awards on stage; and finally, snickering with my co-workers about the creepy guy stroking his wife's back as Richard Marx sang "Right Here Waiting for You," I arrived home. But ... not to our atomic ranch. To our brewery. And not to Peter, the banker. To Peter, the brewer. The garage smelled like the deep fryer, the kitchen like hot sauce. (hmm ... chicken wings). The Boss Cruiser was in the middle of the garage waiting to tell me about all the adventures it had been on today with Peter. The Brew like a Monk, Clone Brews, and Brewer's Bible books were off the shelf and ear marked for tomorrow's chemistry. The yeast was rising. And my little brewer was asleep on the couch, hoppily dreaming.

The opening of the cookie jar, the unavoidable noise of biscotti eating, and the laborious face washing needed to remove the stage make-up shellacked to my face woke him up. Groggily, he told me about his big doppelbock plans tomorrow, and I agreed once again to be his brewnette. 

To marry Peter, was to marry a brew master - to inherit a garden lined with hops and a basement full of specialized brewing equipment. It meant that I only had room to shelve two collections of varietal specific wine glasses, because he needed the rest of the shelving for his collections of stout, porter, ale, pilsner, and Belgian glasses. It meant that I needed to include every issue of Zymurgy that ever was in my attempt to categorize and organize the mountainous library of books and periodicals that we have accumulated. It meant that I had to accept shopping dates to the Brewing part of Brew and Grow. It meant that we would always have a home brew or two on tap, and that every other month, we would dedicate a Saturday or Sunday to brewing.

So today. We brewed.

Well, Peter did most of the brewing, while I observed, learned a little more, guessed how many degrees the concoction was at various temperature reading parts of the process, and documented the different steps.

After five hours of brewing, we (he) created the first phase of a doppelbock - a malty, hearty, dark beer that monks used to drink during their Lenten fast as a meal replacement of sorts.

And while he created, I embraced what a brewing day meant for me. Time to hang out with the brewer - to talk and laugh with him. Time to read - and how fitting, I'm reading the Brussels Chapter of Neither Here Nor There by Bill Bryson. Time to go for a run. (Or two.) Time to update the scrap book. And time to plan the warming menus that will accompany the Bock this winter after its finished its fermentation.

The bock is resting now. And so is its brewer. And while I figure out dinner tonight, something that will go with the Belgian Wit that was tapped as I typed, I can confirm once again, that this is the place, both physically and mentally, that makes me happiest.

Lo.

Leftovers. But Cookies for the Cookie Jar

I've been told that it's just because it's the honeymoon period. I hear side remarks, breathy whispers, and Outlook Messenger dings expressing that it won't last much longer.
Just watch - she won't be cooking like that in two months. Just wait till she has kids - she won't have the time. Just think how much she's spending on groceries every night. Just look at how much easier it is to order in.

Pshaw. For two months, plus the four years that Peter and I were dating before we said, "I Do", I've proved the nay-sayers wrong. I've continued to cook, and usually something new and different, just about every night that we're together. And fine, we still might be in our honeymoon period, but my goal is to never leave it. My goal is to live, at least after hours, during the weekend, and during our vacation days, like we are back in the south of France.

Tonight, I feel like the others got the best of me though. I gave in a bit. Instead of staying on the Champs Elysees part of our honeymoon, I took us into the more humble part of town. Leftover-ville. A place that wasn't on the itinerary - a place that I've had a love / hate relationship with in the past.
(Love: Veal Parmesan, Thanksgiving Day, and Goulash leftovers.
Hate: Meatloaf leftovers. And for some reason, more often than not, the leftover on tap growing up was always meatloaf.)
But a place that I thought we needed to give a shot.

With a refrigerator full of Tupperware from a week's worth of overcooking; with a closer eye on the budget; and with a renewed commitment to not being wasteful, I decided we were going to have innovative instant replay. The Chili from Sunday was, "poof!" turned into beef brisket tacos for Peter; I indulged in the creamy spinach, sausage and pine nut pasta from Tuesday which was zested up with the small pumpkin from our porch roasted to perfection; and the remaining enchilada accoutrement from our celebration of La Dia de los Muertos on Wednesday was our salad.

It worked, and we still toasted the meal. But I felt like I was leading us astray - that if I kept it up I would lead us right out of honeymoon land. So I figured I could make up what I lacked on the stove, in the oven. I took out the flour, sugar, butter, and eggs; almonds, lemons, and cointreau; and whipped up one of my favorite desserts - biscotti. Those heavenly, long, thin logs that Mia's grandma used to send her; that Mia used to store in the kitchen for a snack after practice; that I used to wake up at 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning to not-so secretly steal. Those perfect cookies that are conceivably light enough to have five or six. And the cookies that I was dying to have the perfect recipe for.

I turned to Smitten Kitchen of course - her "hole in one recipe" was all that. And with the added lemon zest, a little more. Five or six. That would be kind. 

By 8:30, we had moved out of leftover-ville and into the upgraded Italian influenced patisserie around the corner. Better yet, by 8:30, we had more leftovers, and they filled the cookie jar. So tomorrow, after Peter takes off his costume ...

And I'm relieved of my Vanna White duties, we will be able to come back to our honeymoon phase over a biscotti or two.

Lo.

The Saints, The Souls, and Me

It is really hard to believe, but I have a planning meeting tonight for Christmas - a little family dinner to discuss the who, what, where and how of the tree trimming, turkey carving, church going, and present opening of 2011. (The first time I will do it away from Pittsburgh.) I also just designed my very first photo card for Christmas; picked out invitations for our rocking retro Christmas Party where I will definitely be making deviled eggs; and downed a cup of Starbucks coffee with the message, 'When we're together snowmen come to life' on it. (My hunch is that they were trying to convey that Starbucks was magical or something, but I'm seriously wondering how that agency pitch made it out of Seattle and into a store near you.) The blood, guts, goblins and ghouls are slowly coming down from the trees, windows, porches, and doors of Naperville, and in their place are going twinkling lights, wreaths, and the G-Rated collection of lawn ornaments. It's officially the holiday season. And like I said, I can't believe it.

I always complain about it, but I hate how our culture says, 'forget about November, forget about Thanksgiving, let's get right into the job creating, economy stimulating, consumer sentiment raising Christmas holiday.' But this year, it's really bothering me. This year has already gone fast enough, why do we need to rush it more?

So I've decided to give November and it's holidays, their due attention. Starting with the first and second of the month - All Saints and All Souls Days. All Saints is an obligatory church going day for us Catholics, and All Souls is more of a suggested thing. (They never seem to want to make you go two days in a row.) And in my own little way, I celebrated both.

On Tuesday evening, after leaving work a little early, I joined a full church of parishioners to celebrate the Saints, to pray for their intercession, and to hope that one day I might be like them. The mass started and ended with St. Edmund's Chapel classics - (down beat) "For All the Saints ..." and "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones." I didn't even need to turn to page 783 in my blue book to belt out the words. I knew verses one through five of both hymns by heart.

The music coordinator missed my all-time favorite hymn though - it wasn't included in the line-up for the evening. I really wanted to sing, "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God." The best. It's all about who the saints were - just regular old folks like us - "one was a doctor, and one was a queen, and one was a shepherdess on the green" - and how we should aspire to be like them too.

But just as I was thinking about that song and its message, the priest delivered a homily that said all that and more. He said that we tend to hold the Saints up like super heroes - like they were born with some super human power. But by seeing them in that way, we are actually diminishing how special they were. He said, that they were just as human as us - and that they just chose God's way over the world's even when it was very difficult. He said that we had the ability to do so too and asked why we chose the way that wasn't right. I rarely commend a priest on his homily when I shake his hand upon leaving church, but this time I did. "Great homily Father."

Yesterday was All Souls Day, and although I didn't make it to mass, I was able to find some quiet time during the day to pray. And to think about the friends and family members who have gone before me. In particular, I prayed for one of the kids who used to belt out "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God" with me - a St. Edmund's classmate that passed away three days ago.

Eric was perhaps the funniest person at that school. Making fun of Ms. Pimentel's cuatro, creating the world's largest paper hat and hanging it from the English room, molding clay into a nacho and cheese bowl instead of "something beautiful," and transforming Katy's school photo into "The Cap'n," were just a small sampling of the things that made me laugh as hard as Meredith makes me laugh today. He was actually my inspiration for becoming the prankster of the Ellis School and enticing Nicole to get involved with me, locking Katy in Latin Class, writing all over Mr. Walker's chalk board and steeling his erasers, and throwing Jessica's clogs in the bin to go to Chinoux Village in Peru. I always thought, I definitely brought a little bit of Eric to Ellis today.

I was very sad to hear about his passing yesterday, and it made me think that more than ever, I need to take each day at a time - to live life to the fullest - and to continue to think about the Saints and trying to live my life as they would have.

So I've decided to postpone thinking about how snowmen will come to life when drinking a Grande Pike, and I'm focusing on this holiday message at the start of the season ... "there's not any reason, no, not the least, why I shouldn't be one too."

Lo.