To Be A Barry

I usually turn here, to my blog and its online extensions to work things out in my head. But if you haven't noticed, I've been on mute for the past five days or so. I was grappling with the kind of hurt and loss that a post, or a pin, or a tweet couldn't heal.

My public-facing silence might be deceiving though, because privately, inside the inner Barry circle, I used my voice when it came and I used my words when people needed them. Back home in Pittsburgh, I partook in what I can now look back on as the most vital group therapy session that I possibly could have imagined. Five days of tearful goodbyes, hugs, stories, slide shows, songs, speeches, arias, and fiddled Irish melodies were shared by the Barrys, and helped lift each of us toward a place of consolation and celebration.

I was never a fan of group therapy. I like to think my emotions are too unique to compare to others. (Right.) But when therapy is orchestrated by a group of characters way richer than my own, it not only works, it takes on dimensions that AA never thought imaginable. My family - a living Claudaugh ring of friendship, loyalty and love - the group of bad-ass people that called Michael Barry their patriarch, took a wake, funeral and burial to a whole new level this weekend. And I believe in the end, found the kind of healing that was needed.

I heard a good friend of the family tell my Aunt Dee at the Luncheon yesterday that she wanted to be a Barry. That she wanted to be adopted. That she wanted admittance to our inner circle. While all-rights access is limited, I've come up with a few pointers to be as Barry-esque as possible. Suitors of my cousins, take note.

Make Guinness toasts. Lots of them. And make them 'to Red.'

Use your voice - that big one that you have deep within yourself. Be convicted of your passions, and don't be aren't afraid to share them even if it means a hot-tempered, good old Irish fight.
Wear black, but wear a little green as well.

Don't make one speech. Make twenty. And speak, sing, dramatically orate, fiddle, dance, pray and cheer them.

Vote Cumpston for President.

Eat and drink; eat and drink; Tell the person next to you to eat more; Order an Irish coffee; And make sure you wrap up the leftovers for later.

Embrace the Barry genes and assets, and make sure there are many more of us. 

Love each other. For the crazy, quirky, beautiful, goofy, loud family that we are.

And every day, try to make Michael Barry proud.

I now know that my loss, our loss, is God's big gain. And that heaven will be rocking this morning set to the tune of Red's laughter. It took more than a pint of Guinness, but our grief has turned to mourning.

Lo.

A Great Life

I had big plans for my blog today. I was going to write about Mrs. Kuhn, my middle school science teacher who used to drink coffee out of a beaker and belt her dresses with a piece of rope that might have been better suited for my faulty egg drop experiment. I was somehow going to relate her to the woman who perhaps loved Peter more than I when we were at Notre Dame, J.W. Chen herself, Chinese restaurant owner extraordinaire. But as I've learned at work, sometimes you have to adjust your editorial calendar for the unexpected. For the big news that you have to report.

This morning, I received information that I might have slotted into my blog's timeline five, ten, fifteen years from now - in a year that I've yet to plan for. So stylistically, poetically, graphically, thoughtfully I don't feel like I'm in a place where I can do today's headline justice. But removed from my family by Ohio, Indiana and half of Illinois until tomorrow, I had to put my emotions somewhere.

Today, Double G, my grandfather, passed away in Pittsburgh just as I was waking up in Naperville. My Mom called to tell me the news from the hospital. And I was immediately heart broken.  

I don't know how to write about a man who was double the size of life. And I don't know how to do it without collecting the pieces of his legacy from my Grandma, my Mom and Dad, my brother and sister, aunts, uncles and cousins. But one moment keeps coming to top of my mind.

I remember standing at the bottom of the hill at Medugorje with my Double G. And I shouldn't say a hill - it was a small mountain with some pretty epic Bosnian terrain. My grandma wasn't going to be able to make the climb, but at 85, my grandpa was going to do it. For her. With my help. I remember taking it one boulder at a time. Reaching down to help him up. I remember him sweating through his turtle neck. And fighting through the pain in his knees. And I remember his rationale - 'I have to do this for her.' I remember when we made it to the top. Even though it wasn't prohibited, Double G wanted me to do something - he pulled out the ND Lacrosse card with my photo on it from his wallet and told me to put it at the foot of the statue of the Virgin Mary. I was hesitant, didn't want to break the rules, but he was insistent. So I sneaked it into a small crevice.

When we got to the bottom, victorious, we told Grandma about our perilous climb, our success, and the prayers that we said for her up top. She just lit up.

That evening, my Grandpa gave me a little surprise.

This Rosary with soil from Medujorge. It has been on my night stand ever since. I prayed on it this morning - basically, just a bunch of Hail Marys. But after a day of grief and after going to mass this evening, I feel like I have something a little better to say. A prayerful promise that I will make to my Double G whenever I pull out my storied beads.

I promise to be always be a good eater.
And raise children who are good eaters.
I promise to cheer hard for the Steelers.

I promise to make sure the asparagus roots produce a bountiful harvest this year.
I promise that I will always grow Big Boys in the summer and give them to my children's children as gifts.
I promise that the hops will keep growing strong.

I promise that I will have acre-wide Easter Egg hunts. And that the special prize inside the big black egg will be a potato.

I promise to belt out carols loudly at Christmas time.
I promise to not shy away from critters, raccoons and the like.
I promise to hang on to my best friends.

I promise to always show slide shows when guests come over. 
I promise to ride a bike into my 80s.
I promise that I'll help take care of your beautiful bride. That we all will. And that she'll be alright.

I promise that you gave your approval to a winner, and I promise to hold his hand like you held Grandma's until the day I die.

And I promise that I will never forget you.

This morning my sister said that she thought that Grandpa would live forever. Erin, he will. He'll live forever throughout the halls of Central Catholic.

He'll live in the steel that he made, and in the bricks that he laid. He'll live on in the 50 year old asparagus roots waiting for Spring to come. He'll live on in the ham and bean soups and in the canned tomatoes that are lining the store rooms of his house. He'll live on in the laughter, and in the 'yeahs' of the joyous family that he created.

If my little lacrosse card is still up on the top of the mountain at Medujorge, Grandpa, give it a little kiss. I miss you so much.

Lo.

Bread, Aged and Perfected

I have a bit of a history with stale bread - a lineage with a lot of love.

I first learned the benefits of aged bread from my Dad who would masterfully turn it from hard and tasteless, to the world's best turkey stuffing by letting it soak up the juices and flavors deep within the cavernous depths of a 25-pound bird.

Stale bread took on a new delectable dimension when we discovered Breadworks rustic sourdough boules and their ability to hold their own against a cointreau scented soak, making Sunday morning breakfasts the best French toast feasts ever. 
 
In Eighth grade, stale bread reached epic literary heights when two of my best friends were caught, tried, and suspended Jean Val Jean style for stealing a loaf of it from the cafeteria for a mold-growing science project. It became their infamous bond - one that I wasn't cool enough to own - one that I honestly envy.

When I became your friendly neighborhood deli girl at La Charcuterie in high school, equipped with a firm understanding of the properties and potential of aged bread, I became a champion and savior of many neglected loaves that would have been tossed to the curb at the end of the deli's day. I would bring them home to my carb-enamoured family and we would prey on them.

More recently, bread was a staple and vital factor in the daily operations of the restaurant in Pittsburgh that I managed. The baker, an artisan genius, who had a knack for making my mornings fragrantly glorious, would create dozens of loaves of bread, rolls, brioche, and burger buns on a daily basis. Depending on our volume of diners and the hunger levels of the servers and runners who would sneak pieces here and there, there would either be a little or a lot left over. The remains were creatively turned into adventurous sweet and savory bread puddings by the pastry chef the following day.

Yesterday, after an uber-packed and exhausting weekend, I opened the refrigerator to consider what I could easily make for dinner given the refrigerator's contents. I found three half-eaten day to three day-old French baguettes in my selection set. I felt bad for them - like they needed some love - like they needed to be more than croutons. So I did some Panade, or bread casserole, research.    

I had been through several of these recipes before. But yesterday, I stumbled upon the New York Times' version. I liked the addition of milk/cream and the layering that they used. So I tweaked it a bit, accounting for Peter's pork needs and my desire to use up other ingredients in the house, and came out with this. (Don't judge the appearance - the bread at the bottom, is incredible.)

In our opinion, it was the best Panade recipe yet, and added another great chapter to my stale bread story.  It was fast, easy, fun to make, and allotted us a great 30-40 minute baking window to watch a little Downton Abbey.

Lo.

A Great Panade
2 cups, stale crusty bread, cut into 1 inch pieces. Baguettes work very well. 
1/2 pound Italian Sausage (mild or spicy)
1 small butternut squash cut into 3/4 inch cubes
4 cloves garlic
Splash of olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
1 shallot, minced
1 cup cream
2 cups chicken stock
Salt and pepper
1/2 cup Cannellini beans
1 bundle spinach, chopped (about 1 cup)
Teaspoon each of parsley, basil and thyme, chopped
1 cup shredded Fontina or Parmesan cheese.
 
Brown the Italian Sausage, set aside.

Roast Butternut Squash and garlic, drizzled with a small amount of olive oil for 15 minutes at 400 degrees. Remove, set aside. Reduce heat to 375 degrees.

In a small sauce pan, melt butter and saute shallot for 2 minutes. Add stock, cream, salt and pepper. Bring to a boil and then let simmer for five minutes. 

Line a 2-inch deep baking pan (perhaps the same one that you prepared the butternut squash in) with the bread. Layer sausage on top of the bread, then butternut squash and garlic on top of the sausage, then the beans, then the spinach. Pour all of the milky mixture over the casserole, and then top with cheese. Bake for 30-40 minutes.

Getting Ready

We're about five months into our marital equation, and the question has started coming. Quite frequently, in fact.
'So, are you thinking about kids? Any addition to come?'

The answer has been a resounding, 'Absolutely.'

But recently, after one particular query and after one particular response, my enthusiastic yes, became a little more thoughtful. This week, the rotating door at Zano Salon in Naperville once again swung its way around; out went my favorite eye brow waxer, and in came a new one. And as I've always done, perhaps due to the compromising position or the inevitable fear of the combination of dried wax and hair being ripped off my forehead, I started spewing my life story. The new girl learned about Peter, about how we met, moved out to Naperville, landed jobs in a down economy, got engaged, and celebrated our nuptials, and about my addiction to documenting and publicizing life's lessons on this blog.

Right before she was about to rip off the vagrant hairs of my left eye brow she said, 'So you obviously aren't thinking about kids anytime soon.'
Obviously not thinking about kids? Why would she think that? 

'Actually, we are. Ouch.'

'Really? Oh wow.'

'Well, I'm about to be thirty, and I want a big family, so basically, I need to get the show on the road. OUCH.'

'30? Really? I thought you were my age.'

'How old is that?'

'23.' 

Given my increasingly present old fart fears I was flattered, but it got me thinking about age and age-related priorities. Yes, I'm just about 30. But I honestly don't feel like it. And my maternal clock only recently starting ticking because everyone else seemed to think it should be on. I mean, my parents only took away my magical Gold Visa card about five years ago. And Peter, my first boyfriend ever, only came around about four years ago. It was just two and a half a years ago that I finally got the kind of job I had always wanted. And like I said, it's only been about five months since I got married. So really, my level of maturity hasn't aged past 25. Perhaps the technician at Zano had tapped into something a little deeper - physically, the clock might be ticking, but I still have some pre-children fun to get out of my system. 

The past 48 hours confirmed it. On Friday, we went into the city - to see friends, make some investments, and take a look at what living downtown would be like. Although children are on our minds, I would call the present a child prep phase - a phase defined by maximizing the experiences we have with each other, about living it up, and about making decisions that will set our future family up for, dare I say, the best life ever. 

We made steps toward finding the optimal place to live - whether its in Aqua or Bucktown or a great Loft in the West Loop, Peter and I are very close to making the leap over the Eisenhower, downtown this spring.

We asserted that there always needs to be a little Quinlan in our lives, along with hipsters, trendy dining scenes, and amazing muddled cocktails, oysters, and bone marrow spread on toast.

We invested in the ultimate Father-Son summer outing. After about a decade on the waiting list, Peter is now a proud season ticket holder.

Back in Naperville last night, we practiced, with the help of good friends who don't mind driving all the way out here for pork chops and home brew, for when our table will always be full.

We brought Roscoe over, and practiced being responsible care-takers.

And we added to the store, which will come in handy on rainy rug rat ridden days when aged beer is going to taste better than ever.

And this afternoon, we're off to see a child-friendly movie, Hugo.

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.