The Corned Beef Void

While Thanksgiving at our house brought turkey and gravy, Easter at Grandma's brought ham with raisin sauce, and Barry birthdays throughout the South Hills brought Aunt Joyce's layer cakes and ice cream, the double holiday of St. Patrick's Day and Cousin Ryan's birthday at Aunt Dee-Dee's house had the all-time winningest combination: Corned beef, cabbage, boiled potatoes, and a basket full of Irish Soda Bread. (Oh, the Irish Soda Bread.)

It might have been the Irish in me, or Aunt Dee-Dee's exquisite skill at crafting the ultimate feast, or perhaps it was Double G's proud smile and assuring, 'that's my girl,' as I filled up my plate with a second round of cabbage; but regardless, the annual Barry corned beef bash was highly anticipated and slowly savored by me. My favorite meal.

Sadly, while I was able to come home at turkey time in college, I wasn't able to make it for St. Patrick's Day, which initiated a streak of being corned beef-less for too long. I was never without Soda Bread though. Thankfully, around this time of the year, I could always expect a sugar-topped loaf in the mail from my Mom. 

This year, the void was finally filled. Thanks to a new tradition - the double holiday of St. Patrick's Day and Ellie's birthday - the epic gaseous combination reached my belly and satisfied.

Yesterday, after Naperville's parade, the most dire 16-mile run ever, and 40 minutes in the oven, Peter and I biked over to Claire and Trent's house, gift and Irish Soda Bread in tow, for a wonderful celebration of one year gone by and the Irish in all of us.

Maybe it was because of the reason, but Claire and Trent produced a feast that Aunt Dee-Dee would have lauded.

And while it wasn't the same as the lovingly prepared loafs of Aunt Dee-Dee or my Mom, the Irish Soda Bread I brought was a hit. And took me right back to Piedmont street where I know the Barry family was celebrating yesterday.

Because there are no leftovers, I'm thinking I should bake myself another loaf right now.

Lo.

Irish Soda Bread 

Adapted from Bon Appetit

2 cups all-purpose flour

5 tablespoons sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

3 tablespoons butter, chilled, cut into cubes

1 cup buttermilk

2/3 cup raisins

Directions

Preheat oven to 375°F. Prepare baking pan by greasing with butter.

Whisk together flour, 4 tablespoons sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in large bowl. Add butter. Using a pastry blended or your fingertips, mix together till coarse meal forms. Add buttermilk and gradually stir into dry ingredients until blended. Mix in raisins.

Transfer to prepared pan. Drop the pan on the ground a couple times to level the dough out. Sprinkle dough with remaining 1 tablespoon sugar.(This is what makes the best part of the bread.)

Bake bread about 40 minutes or until loaf is brown on top. Cool bread in pan 20-30 minutes. Remove, cut into slices, and serve. It's best warm on the first day, but makes excellent leftovers or a gift to a hungry lacrosse player with a craving for the best quick bread ever.

Ever In Your Favor

As the sun comes up on this unseasonably warm and gorgeous St. Patrick's Day, I find myself having one of those, 'so that just happened' moments.

More often than not recently, the days, weeks and months have been flying by, characterized by a very positive sentiment rating. But this week, I hit an aberration. A week where the work never seemed to have a stopping point, the stress took a tole on my appetite, my headache wouldn't stop drilling into my temples, no amount of water could ease my scratchy sore throat, and the addicting young adult novels that I was reading took me away, but to a place far, far scarier than my existing state of mind. It was the kind of bad week that crawled by, giving me ample time to truly appreciate the painful moments.

But whether it was the luck of my quarter part Irish or just the way things worked out, life inevitably gave me a hand to hold, pulling me out of the rut.

On Thursday it came in the form of dinner and a special dinner guest, my friend C - Who didn't only warm the Ranch with his illuminating stories, hearty chuckle, and generous compliments toward the brews and beets on the table, but also thoughtfully warmed our future home with the grace and beauty of Simon Pierce.

(What better to serve to a fellow Marathoner than pasta?) 

On Friday morning, it came in the form of a wink from my boss - a gesture that spoke a thousand words, bringing back my composure, relieving my on-the-job stress, demonstrating that you should signal when you need a little help.

And on Friday afternoon, it came in the form of the iconic iPhone ring tone, sounding off inside my bag. With Peter's face smiling back at me, I answered. 'Hi.' In response I heard, 'Hi homeowner.' Yep, the house is ours. I am a homeowner. We have a home. It's cute as can be. And we Moet and Chandon toasted the great news last night.

It took a ten-day cold, one ton of stress, and several liters of tears welling up inside of me to bring me down this week. But it only took dinner for three, one wink, and two words to bring me right back to the sunny side of life.

Despite what we're told, we do end up sweating the small stuff, especially when it adds up. But when you keep looking for the little gestures, appreciating the generous gifts, and listening to the kind words, it's much easier to put on deodorant and move on.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Lo.

Pre-Game Pretzels

The night before the big game meant Chicken Parm. A pre-game meal that was supposed to fuel you for the 60-minute match that stood on the other side of the Italian Restaurant, a team meeting and a bad night's sleep.

My stomach would be in knots, my nerves going beserk thinking about the play I needed to run in order to beat the top ten opponent, and my mental faculties would be in conflict as a compared the potential number of calories burned tomorrow with the number of calories lying on the family style platter of Bucca di Beppo's signature Chicken Parmesan in front of me. The fiery directions to 'eat it' came once from my left and twice from my right. There was nothing I or my digestive system wanted to do less. So to everyone's chagrin, I ate a salad.

Inevitably, as the last couple seconds of the first half of the game expired, I ran out of fuel. It happened every time. I still hadn't learned my lesson. I would turn to the stash of Cheerios I kept stocked in my stick bag - an extra 140 calories to get me through the second half. Even then, with five key minutes left in the game, my shot would turn from a goal-piercing bullet (I like to think so at least) to a lob that would have gotten my kicked out of a partner passing drill at practice. And I became, to a certain extent worthless on the field. There was no doubt about it, especially looking back now, a salad for pre-game wasn't enough.

This evening an unsettling feeling is once again taking over my core - a slight nausea as I prepare to head into the ring tomorrow evening. I will need to be on my A-game - I will need to make sure my note cards are memorized and the 'whopper' words are flowing freely. Tomorrow, I face the Board. And I've got to admit, I'm a little nervous.

So naturally, I thought back to our pre-game ritual - the good and bad of it - failures made and lessons learned - calorie battles won and lost. And I decided that if I'm going to perform well tomorrow, I will need a good, balanced meal - one that is more than the sum of a mixture of baby greens. Something with carbs for the short bursts of energy I'll need, and something with protein in case the questioning and dialogue goes long into the night. And perhaps something with the kind of international flare that would be appropriate for the global organization where I work.

Virtually and gastronomically, we decided to go to Munich by way of the Wednesday Chef for the big pre-game meal this evening. I decided to get my carbs through homemade soft pretzels, my protein through brats, and my greens through bohne. And I ate it all. Plus the remainder of Peter's pretzel.

And I'm pumped. Ready to go. Looking forward to going over my slides one last time in the morning. Confident that it will be great meeting. Thanks to a great pre-game meal.

Lo.

Pre-Game Pretzels 
Adapted from The Wednesday Chef
Makes 12 pretzels

Ingredients
1 tablespoon dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons softened unsalted butter
2 packets instant yeast
5 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon kosher salt
Food-grade lye, for dipping (amazon.com)
Coarse sea salt for sprinkling

Directions
In a mixing bowl, stir together sugar, butter, yeast, 2 cups warm water and 3 cups flour. Add kosher salt and remaining flour and stir until mixture just comes together in a shaggy mass, pulling together with your hands.

Turn dough out onto counter and knead for 8 to 10 minutes, until smooth and supple. Cut into 12 equal pieces and let rest 5 minutes.

Roll out each piece into a rope about 22 inches long. I had to use a little hand bowl of water to get them to roll out effectively. Fold the rope into a pretzel shape. Transfer shaped pretzels to an ungreased baking sheet and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then refrigerate them for at least 1/2 hour.

Heat oven to 425 degrees.

(I didn't do this part, because I didn't have lye. Instead, I made an egg wash.) In a deep bowl, wearing rubber or latex gloves, make a solution of 1/2 cup lye and 10 cups water (or 1 part lye to 20 parts water); pour lye carefully into water to avoid splashing. Dip each pretzel in solution, turning it over for 10 to 15 seconds, and place back on baking sheet.

Sprinkle pretzels with salt. Bake about 15 minutes or until deep brown. Remove to a rack and serve warm.`

Health Talk

I just emerged from the most crowded and boring elevator known to man. Essentially, a hive of health care jargon, threatening those who didn't belong with the biggest buzz words out there. If you weren't paying particular attention to any one of the ten conversations happening simultaneously as we ascended from floor 3 to 20, you could still decipher the general gist. 'We need better processes in place, because the robust data (and data is plural, so always treat it as such) demonstrate that there are disparities on the micro and macro level of health care. BUT my organization had some key best practices to share.'

I sensed that they had figured me out - that this digital marketer in their presence didn't belong in their health-oriented click. So they did what the healthcare community does so well, they fought me off with jargon, encrypting their dialogue so I'd stay an outsider. But ... it didn't work. I followed along just fine. And I exited the elevator proud of my abilities to translate and call their fluff.

See, for the past several months, I've been brushing up on my health linguistics. With my new title, came a new responsibility - that of healthcare grant maker. The job requires me to travel out of my comfort zone of spinner and social media guru and into the wonderful, but confusing, layered, complex and messy world of  health care. And this week, I literally did travel - to Baltimore - to saturate myself in the hot topics of health and wellness at the annual meeting of Grant Makers in Health.

It was a great meeting - excellent speakers, generous amounts of information, and a well-planned agenda - and I feel like I'm leaving Baltimore as a more effective grant manager. However, I also feel like I've been granted insider knowledge about the problems plaguing our nation's health and the dire situation we are in.

While I don't know where to start and what problem to tackle first, I feel like I came away from the week with some observations. And as glib as they might be, I think they are worth something.

First, when trying to solve our healthcare crisis, we need to bring leaders and general consumers together. And it helps to do it in a city with a lot of bridges.

Then we need to get everyone to talk a common language. Sometimes it takes a really good ice breaker, like cocktails while watching the sharks, to chew through the jargon and get to the point. 

Then once everyone is on board, perhaps we can start navigating the more dangerous waters.

But don't be a menace and don't put your guard up. There are still others out there that we can listen and learn from. 

And at the end of the day, always find a great place to eat and digest what you've heard throughout the day. If you're in Baltimore, I'd suggest Germano's in Little Italy. Delicious beet raviolis, charming service, good prices, and Roman television programming.

Above all, as much as we love complex languages - the ones we've invested dollars and years in Ivy League Schools to attain - the health care crisis is a universal problem with stakeholders who will never read past an eighth grade level. And in order for everyone to rally around common solutions, we need to start talking about societal and health issues in laymen terms.

Lo.

Hot Tamale

Last Friday, to kick-off Kassen's bachelorette weekend, the girls gathered around la mesa for a TGIFiesta - Margaritas, chips and guacamole, beans and rice, and tamales.

Now, I had seen this corn husk-wrapped dish on Mexican menus before, but had long prioritized burritos, fajitas and tacos over them. So I approached the front of the tamale buffet line with hesitation. Without ever trying one, I was a little skeptical of the corny surprise found inside.

I don't know if it was the margarita, the fact that I was starving after my five-hour flight, or my new found obsession with corn and its offshoots, but I loved it. Every last bite of it. And every last bite of the half that Meredith left behind on her plate.

Yesterday, I don't know if was the thought that I had deprived Peter of a good taco night in February, or the Vegas bachelor party I had tuned into over Twitter, reminding me of the hot tamales last week, or simply my sober mouth, desperately craving more masa, but I decided that on Sunday, we would spend some time trying to produce the ultimate homemade tamale. 

First things first, I did some research online. Along with a great recipe, I found a beautiful tamale story passed down from Grandma Salazar to Nicky on Delicious Days.  And I thought it needed another Chapter, set in a small retro kitchen in the Midwest. But knowing Peter, and knowing me, I knew we would need to make some tweaks here and there to make it our own. It went something like this:

Ingredients:
2.5 pound pork shoulder roast
4 chipotle peppers in adobe sauce
5 cups chicken stock
2 tablespoons tomato paste
7 garlic cloves, smashed
1/2 of a large onion roughly chopped
1/4 cup lard (I used bacon fat)
Mexican chili powder
Salt, pepper
Cumin
2 cups Masa Harina (found it at Whole Foods)
Corn husks

In a Dutch Oven, over medium heat, melt about a tablespoon of bacon fat. Season pork with salt and pepper. Brown on all sides. Stir in garlic and let saute for a couple minutes. Pour in stock, tomato paste, chipotle peppers, and salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and let simmer for five or six hours, until the pork falls off the bone and is very easy to shred.

Meanwhile, soak corn husks in warm water for five or six hours, or if you have planned ahead (which I never do), soak them overnight.

Remove pork, let cool, and shred. Add a little of the broth, some salt, pepper and cumin to taste. Set aside.

In a large blender, puree the remaining broth with the onion, and set aside.

Now make the Masa. Mix together 2 cups of the Masa Harina, the remaining lard, salt, pepper and Mexican chili powder (I used about 2 teaspoons, but we like stuff spicy.) Add in the broth mixture a little at a time, mixing with your hands until dough starts to come together. Keep adding until you can form a ball with the mixture and it is spreadable.

Now for the 'fun' part. Drain and rinse the husks and pat them dry. Take the corn mixture and spread it as thinly as possible - about 1/8 inch thick - inside the husk. Put the pull pork on top, and roll up, folding the ends after the first roll over. (It's tough. And it took a couple attempts.)

String one of the husks, and use the strings to tie up each of the tamales. (Again, this was tough. Those husks are pretty darn stubborn.)

Once they are all wrapped up, steam the tamales for 15 minutes or until the Masa is no longer sticky. If you have leftovers that you don't want to make, you can freeze them, and steam them later. 

After housing the leftovers this evening, I am happy to say I am the proud owner of the title, 'tamale maker.' And one recipe further along in the outfitting of my international comfort food portfolio. 

Lo.

House Happy

I was one of those kids who looked forward to the day when my report card came in the mail. I loved ripping in it, slowly unveiling each course and each grade that corresponded with the themed work I had done over the course of the year, and each of the comments that my teachers left for me. To me, getting an A was good, but getting a great comment was better.

I would relish in comments such as:
'Lo's enthusiasm is contagious.' (I loved that one.)
'Lo's enthusiasm is a joy to behold in class.'
'Lo is overly enthusiastic.' (I now wonder if this particular comment had a sense of irony to it. Like the teacher was actually trying to say, 'pipe down crazy!')

It's 100 percent true though - one of my strongest suits has always been an excitement and zest for life. In school, it boiled up after the Ranchers won the 'State A Fact' title in fourth grade, when I threw my pencil down and finished a Math test before Paul B., when I aced a performance on opening night in the school play, when I scored the winning goal in a field hockey or lacrosse game, or most commonly, when a teacher revealed a piece of knowledge or understanding that was fresh and new to me - something that I could pocket and take home to use as a trump card in the game of who knows the most around the family dinner table.
'Did you know? Oh you didn't? Well, listen to this. Aren't I something now?'

This weekend I learned that my signature enthusiasm, that zeal that afforded me the highest marks possible in classroom participation, doesn't have the same luster in the subject, house-buying.

Here's how it went down. I had set myself up for a best day ever type scenario: Long run, hair cut, Red Mango, house inspection, movie, dinner with Bob and Melissa - it was going to be amazing. After churning and burning 11.5 miles in 85 minutes, I was pumped. Six inches later, while bobbing and bouncing my new do down the street to get an ice cream, I was on cloud nine. Then when I pulled up to our (potentially) new house, and the seller's realtor drew the 'under contract' card and matched it to mine, I nearly exploded with excitement.

'WOW! I LOVE that sign!!'
'Oh my God, I'm obsessed with this House.'
'Can you please, PLEASE help make it happen by April 5. Oh, I'm just SO excited.'

With each of these (and other give-us-away comments) I would see Peter's face go from a straight, business-like mug, to a pursed lip, shaking head, rolling eyes, threatening, 'shut the F up' expression. He finally pulled me aside to let me know I was playing the game all wrong. I should keep a stern poker face - especially to the seller's realtor.

Seriously? How was I supposed to contain all the hopes and dreams that this house held to me?
The summer nights we would watch the big storm come in while sipping a home brew on the lanais.

The evenings we would snuggle by the fireplace to keep the cold Chicago winter off our backs. 

Our kids running down the stairs on Saturday morning to curb their aroma-inspired appetites with dad's bacon.

Making sure the top and bottom are locked when we were going to head out of town for the weekend.

Knowing that there are relatives watching over this house from above.

Displaying our wedding china and crystal in the built in hutch.

Understanding that the kind of TLC that this house needs is something that only Peter and I will be able to make possible.

And thinking that 326 isn't so far from 126. Built about 15 years apart. Filled with the potential for just as many memories, special niches, and epic feasts.

I'm really hoping my formerly high-scoring enthusiasm doesn't spoil anything. And I'm still crossing my fingers that within the next week or so, all parties will give this deal a go.

Lo.

Halibut, Paved with Herbs

Growing up, I never really understood why eating fish on Fridays during Lent was a sacrifice. After all, some of my favorite meals were meatless. I would take my Dad's linguine with clam sauce or salmon croquettes over a petite filet any day of the week.

However, about four years ago, while Peter and I were going through our first Lent together, I came to understand that for some, a day without meat can be a challenge. See, I am married to the ultimate carnivore and the ultimate fish snob. He prefers when dinner is bestial. And if the animal on his plate was once a swimmer, he likes it best when his skiff and line were its predator. So Lenten fish Fridays in the land locked city of Naperville have never come with much anticipation.

In the great Midwest, land of beef and butchers, dinner tends to come au jus. This week alone, I entertained requests for steak, stuffed pork chops and short ribs, which were each consumed with an eager eye and a salivating mouth.

But yesterday, when my response to Peter's 4:00 PM text, asking 'what's for dinner,' was 'halibut,' I didn't receive an enthusiastically hungry response. I wasn't about to let it defeat me though. I was determined to create an entree that might actually be requested outside of the Friday in Lent window.

I drew on inspiration from the fish that was served by the Fairmont on our wedding day, Halibut with an Herb Pave. I roasted it with a molded, herb and bread crumb crust until it was just done. 

It was well received, and as always, Peter and I donned our stripes as VIPs of the clean plate club.

But naturally, as soon as I mentioned that I wanted to try making pulled pork tamales on Sunday night, the carnivore's thoughts went straight back to swine.

In other Lenten news, I've gone six days without an alcoholic beverage and without looking at a recipe. I'm actually rethinking the whole wine helps me cook better theory. Now I'm about to test if a wineless Friday helps my long Saturday runs. Ready, set, GO!

Lo.

Halibut with an Herb Pave

2 5-ounce pieces of halibut
Juice of one lemon
1 tablespoon olive oil, plus a drizzle of it for the fish
1/2 cup homemade bread crumbs
2 tablespoons parsley chopped
2 tablespoons tarragon chopped
1 tablespoon shallot chopped
Salt, pepper

Preheat oven to 370 degrees and prepare baking pan with a sheet of parchment paper.

Season fish with a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper and place on parchment paper.

In a blender, combine bread crumbs, herbs, shallot, salt and pepper. Pulse until crumbs are very fine. Remove from blender and stir in lemon juice and olive oil. Using your hands, mold the herb mixture onto the top of each piece of fish, forming a 1/2 inch layer. (This layer keeps the fish moist and helps it cook evenly.) Roast the fish at 370 degrees for 10-12 minutes or until fish is just done.

Serve immediately. (And I served it with steamed red potatoes and a broccoli salad.)

Tips

This week, something, somewhere, over some bite to eat made me think about my blog. Not the fodder du jour per se, but the platform itself. And the 'why do I do it?' behind it. Why have I invested more than 120,000 words, hundreds of hours and thousands of thoughts into this site? Why didn't I instead, say, write two books? Or work more? Or just slept in?

Was it worth it? Better yet, will it continue to be worth it?
My answer remains, a resounding yes.

Why? Because without this space, I don't think my writing would have progressed from where it was (it was bad) to where it is now (better.) I don't think the conversations I'm having offline would be as rich and meaningful. And I think I would still be courting a populous female following, instead of engaging a core group of consumers who I care most about. 

Without this outlet, I also don't think I would have challenged myself in the kitchen everyday, accepted new adventures, calmed worries and fears, defeated enemies, learned new skills or strove to be the best version of myself. Above all, I don't think I would have the same joie de vivre. Having a place where I determine what's newsworthy or not helps me see a day or a dinner as something other than routine - there is always an opportunity for it to make headlines.

For instance, the aptly scheduled pre-Tip Day tritip, the asparagus, the conversation, and the laughter that we shared last night were so great, that they made a dreary, Perrier-sipping evening in Naperville grand. So the meal made my blog.

I have honestly thought about that entry called 'The End.' But for now, it's still far away. To me, approaching life with an editorial eye and voice, makes you appreciate every last image, story, and memory. And I want to hold onto that for as long as possible.

In other news: It's Tip Day. Meaning I'm rich. (Not really, but my bank account looks a little better.) And yes, I will be spending my 'tip' all in one place. If only the sellers would make a counter offer. Let's get 'er done. 

Lo.

White Asparagus with St. Andre Cream Sauce

1 Tablespoon Butter
2 ounces St. Andre Cheese (or another triple cream cheese)
3 Tablespoons water
Bundle of white asaparagus
Salt and pepper
1 teaspoon tarragon, chopped

On medium heat, in a 2-inch saute pan, melt butter. Add cheese and fold in. Add asparagus and cook for one minute, coating it with cream sauce. Add water and let steam for 3-4 minutes, until the asparagus is just done. Season with salt and pepper. Remove from pan, serve with chopped tarragon.
(Dip bread in remaining sauce. Amazing.)