Adult Language

I remember sitting about fifteen rows deep in the orchestra section of the Byham Theater. Mom was out of town - it was just the four of us. I was wearing one of my Laura Ashleys - the less formal one - the one more appropriate for a straight play - for Neil Simon's, Laughter on the 23rd Floor. I had cozied up in my seat with a box of Junior Mints. Looking around, I noticed a general absence of children. I was used to being minority status in theaters, but not this much of a minority. I started to think perhaps it was a Miss Saigon sign, but I pushed it aside, and popped another mint into my mouth.

The curtain opened, the white ooze of the candy splayed across my tongue, and it started - a verbal ambush on the audience. F bombs exploding from stage left to stage right. I gulped. Oh no. It was happening. The chance meeting of an inappropriate play for children with a family who stuck to G-ratings.

The majority of the audience had their armor on - the assault didn't seem to bruise their spirits - they laughed along with the rhythmic curse words. But we were in a different, far less prepared camp. My brother and sister awkwardly slumped lower and lower into their seats, my Dad hemmed and hawed at the ebbs and flows of crude language, and I started to get that terrible nervous feeling that burns from esophagus to stomach - minty acid not going down right - the same kind of feeling that I experienced when watching Captain Ron with my Mom.

Act I ended when they revealed that the fat guy's sudden heart attack was actually really bad gas. The theater erupted with laughter, the actors harmonized in an exiting hymn of F words, the curtain went down, the lights went up, and my Dad said we were leaving. On the way home, my Dad turned it into a teaching moment. We learned that yes, some people do talk that way. But we, as a family, do not.


Last night, in a small community theater in Wheaton, Illinois, I got another dose of adult language during a play. But this time, I was fairly warned. One of the lead actors, a friend from work, said there would be an F bomb or two or ten - that it had actually offended one theater goer to the point of walking out. (I thought back on my family's grand exit in the 90s.) However, hardened by the language that flies with the ball up and down a lacrosse field, and the language used to express burns, gashes, and thirty-minute ticket times on the line of a restaurant's kitchen, an F bomb doesn't have nearly the same effect as it did when I was in grade school.

So, from the second row, of a three-row, 75-person theater, I heard the other words in the play between whatever vulgarity was used. And they were well written, well orated, well acted, and very entertaining.

I made it through both acts. And I left thinking not about the curse words, but about joining a community theater as well. Great job Jackie - you might just have inspired this retired thespian!

Lo.

Easter Love

On Sunday, my brother-in-law Trent took the helm of the Tahoe and people-moved the seven of us from the Western Suburbs of Chicago, down I-55, along Lake Shore Drive, and into Old Town, where we parked and moseyed up the aisle of St. Michael's Church to stake our claim on one of the ten pews with kneelers.

I was beaming. It was the magnificent weather, Ellie's watermelon hat, and my little green shoes from Paris that produce the best sound when I walk down the street. It was the colors and beauty of the Church where Trent and Claire were married almost three years ago. And it was joyous occasion - Easter Sunday - Jesus' big day set to Alleluia melodies, sweetly bellowing from choir lofts across the world.

Midway through mass, Father Tommy ascended the dramatic antique pulpit, read the Gospel, and delivered his homily. With a whimsical smirk, he opened by saying that he was in a position where he could apply a lot of guilt. He chuckled to himself, loosening up the crowd, and continued:
"Every year after Easter Mass, I get it from the regulars. They come up to me and say,
'Someone took my pew. Someone that I've never seen before. Where are all these people during the other 52 Sundays of the year?! Huh? The nerve!' I tend to tell those folks, maybe you should try staying away a bit as well - coming here every week obviously isn't doing you much good."
He chuckled again, and as if the joke had a timed release, individual snickers started going off pew by pew, easing the whole Church and drawing the Chreasters and faithful followers together with their undivided attention on Father Tommy's words.

He went on, "No matter if you come once a year, or every day, there is no doubt that everyone in this Church today is filled with love."

We nodded in agreement. And continued bobbing our heads as he described that kind of Easter love with a portrait of his parents - his Mom tenderly taking care of his father as he fought cancer, saying that she loved him so much, carefully buttoning up his sweater to prepare for a walk outside, and buttoning it just the way he liked it, with the two at the bottom undone. It's the kind of absolute love that inspires us to protect another, to give up our lives for another. He didn't need to harp on the analogy - we all got it. We each saw a little bit of Jesus' love in us. And it felt great. 

After Mass, after I beat out Ellie to make a mint on a banker's version of an Easter egg hunt. (Fabulous!)

After an Easter promenade around the sunny blocks of La Grange Park, after the potatoes au gratin were done, the ham was carved, and the champagne poured, we gathered around the dinner table. The conversation ebbed and flowed from different corners of the table, but one anecdote brought everyone together.

It was Father Tommy's homily - the approachable, humorous, and deeply meaningful words that were shared with us in the morning - words that we wanted Aunt Jeannie, Oma and Dorothy to hear as well I guess. And I couldn't help but think, it was the exact kind of word of mouth marketing that the Church needed.

This Easter, I felt so blessed to be part of the portraits of love that characterize my amazing, ever growing family.

 

Lo.

Bee's Bunnies

Growing up, Easter meant bonnets and little white gloves; clipping a big branch of the budding vibernum in our yard and decorating it with miniature Easter ornaments.

Easter meant chocolate bunnies, chocolate eggs and a filled-to-the-brim Jelly Bean machine - confections that I was urged to eat over the course of a couple days, but couldn't help but devour before we had even arrived at Mass.

It meant a trip out to Grandma and Grandpa's house in the afternoon; acre wide Easter egg hunts in their yard; hopefully finding the winning black egg with a potato inside; and then sitting down to a dinner of Grandma's ham with raisin sauce, a square of Jello to my left, an iced bunny roll to my right, and a very hungry me in the middle. Dessert would be nut rolls, apricot nut bars, and a big chocolate cross for each of the grand kids. The cross was essential Easter candy - not so much for its symbolism, but for its surface area. It was huge, dense, and made of the sweetest milk chocolate that Sarris could possibly produce.

As a grown up, Easter celebrations have been dispersed and varied; the holiday traditions haven't transferred into adulthood the same way Thanksgiving or Christmas traditions have. In the past decade, I've had lacrosse games on Easter; I've politely prayed and brunched from Pittsburgh, to South Bend, to Chicago; and I've engaged in the ultimate revelry at Tia and Tom's Las Vegas wedding.

But this year, as I watched Peggy and Jan set out Easter decorations, plan the ham menu complete with Jello, asparagus, and potatoes au gratin, stuff Easter eggs for the big hunt, and make sure each person had a little serving of Jelly Beans by their place setting this week, I felt like I was a kid again. And that Easter was finally going to return to the celebration that I remember.

So, I thought I should pitch in, and add a little bit of Barry to the festivities. I penciled in iced bunny rolls and apricot nut bars to the menu. And today, I baked some of my favorite parts of Easter -  Grandma Barry's specialties that take me right back to her kitchen table, and bond me with a couple of my Aunts in Pittsburgh who I'm pretty sure were baking the same things at the same time.

Exhausted from a day of baking, a 20-mile run and just about the busiest, most sober Lent ever, I'm really looking forward to a fabulous, kid-friendly, sweet, and memorable Easter celebration tomorrow.

Lo.

The Bee's Bunnies

• 4 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 package active dry yeast
• 3/4 tsp allspice
• 1 1/4 cups milk
• 1/2 cup unsalted butter
• 1/3 cup sugar
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 2 eggs  

Orange Icing

• 2 cups sifted powder sugar
• 1 tablespoons orange zest
• 2 tablespoons orange juice 
• 2 tablespoons milk

Directions

Combine 3 cups of the flour, yeast, and allspice. Set aside.

In a medium saucepan, over low heat, melt butter, stir in milk, sugar, and salt. Heat till just warm. 

Add milk mixture to dry mixture along with eggs. Stir to combine, add remaining flour bit by bit. Use hands to combine, then knead 3 to 5 minutes. Shape dough into a ball, place in a lightly greased bowl, cover, and let rise in a warm place for 1 hour. 

Punch dough down. Then divide in half. Cover and let rest 10 minutes.

Lightly grease two cookie sheets. 

Roll out half of dough into a 14x10-inch rectangle. Cut into 6 10-inch strips. Roll each strip into a snake shape, about 14 inches long. Form a loop with each roll, leaving extra room at the ends for the ears. Twist and turn over, so you have ears, a head, and open loop. Place on baking sheet. There should be some extra dough. Roll little balls with extra dough and place into open part of loop. Repeat with other half of dough.

After shaping, cover and let rise for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat oven to 375 degrees. Bake small bunnies 11 to 12 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from cookie sheets; cool on wire racks. Frost while warm with Orange Icing. Makes 12 small bunnies.

Icing

In a small bowl combine powdered sugar, orange zest, milk and orange juice. Stir till smooth.

The Ranch is Closed

I wonder if they miss me. Or at least recognize that I'm gone, most likely for good. I wonder if they are whispering about our whereabouts up and down the River Walk.

I bet the squirrel lady, who so begrudgingly gave me the evil eye every morning as I counteracted her friendly feedings by spastic, yes I'm scared of squirrels, shewings, has one too many squirrels on her hand.

I'm afraid the dog walkers from thin to pudgy, old to young, grumpy to friendly, mute to gossipy will think that I've been injured and forced to give up my methodical, paced runs every morning.

I imagine the butchers at Casey's have assumed that the Bee finally got her way - that the clearly delineated orders of a porterhouse and a piece of salmon have gone to one side, making us migrate to Succulent Seafood.

I think Bud already misses talking to Peter and living vicariously through the aromas steaming out of our retro kitchen.

I bet the Trick or Treaters will worry, scoff and complain when the girl with the silver tray of full size Hershey bars doesn't come to the door this Halloween.

I can just see the Starbuck's employees speculating and brewing about their favorite regular deciding to cut loyalties and go to the new Caribou instead.

I think the Ushers in Church will be happy to have two extra seats for the standing room only crowd.

I can see the stock piles of Kim Crawford at Binny's waiting and waiting for the faithful fan who won't come.

And I wonder if there is talk around town about the sudden disappearance of the (relatively) young couple with too many hobbies.

Yes, I'm giving our impact on the Naperville community too much credit. Though we pounded its pavement, swam in its quarry, prayed at its church, and frequented its shops, our Naperville experience was largely defined by the Ranch. Which as of today, closed, and shifted from us to another owner.

We turned over the key, the wall paper, the double showers, Grandma Barry's floor, the side yard and the chipmunks in the gutters to someone I only know by name. And further claimed our status as two-suitcase vagabonds, living in just about the most perfect little yellow room in La Grange Park.

Whether or not we made an impression on Naperville, I believe the Ranch will forever be changed. And I just have a few parting words to the house, to the memories it created and to its new home owners.

Ranchers - It may not seem like much. It may be just your investment property. But please feel the wall paper, do all the dishes by hand, bring good food and wine to the table every evening, play music loudly, dance, plant vegetables and flowers and watch them grow, give good morning and good night kisses to your special someone, and give the house all the love it deserves. It'll treat you very well in return. Just please, please don't tare it down.

To the Ranch. Thank you for being the best first home, sweet home ever.

Lo.

Fragile

Oh I had big plans this weekend. There was to be a packing party at the Ranch. A weekend's worth of a fete - the final send off for the home sweet home that has treated us so well. 

There was going to be champagne and my grandma's bear claws. Perhaps a 'My Week with Marilyn' viewing while we wrapped and stashed. We'd listen to Bon Iver and commence 'remember when' stories as we wrapped up scrapbooks, photo albums, snips and clips. We'd remember each thoughtful, generous, well-wishing wedding guest as we carefully bubble-encased our registry. We'd break for mass, perhaps a Red Mango too. Then we'd start right back up again, dusting off great memories, thinking about where the collection of scuba gear would go in the new house, planning THE outfit for the house warming party on the other end of the move, and relishing the addition of a dish washer to our kitchen. 

Then we'd do a cookout. The perfect spring weather would make the Eleven burgers, corn on the cob, and onion rings even better. And as the sun set, we'd wash our hands of the newspaper smudges, have a home brew, and anticipate the fun that the future holds.

Ha! I April fooled myself. 

Packing.

F-ing.

Sucks. 

There was no party. There was no champagne paired with iced pastries. There was no last supper. Or cookout. And the newspaper smudges aren't isolated on my hands, they are all over my aching, ornery body. I'm filthy, and tired, and completely paranoid that the movers are going to come tomorrow, break my China, smash my crystal and drink my alcohol, even after reading the detailed notes I left them.

I'm on my break. I'm not eating a bear claw, and I'm sure as hell not watching a movie, because the Internet isn't connected and the TV is dismounted. My rosy, posey optimism is tapped. So I will instead document lessons learned during my 48-hour non stop packing hell.

Start early. Don't wait till the weekend before.
Don't run 14 miles the morning before you start packing. 
Yes, that registry item looks amazing, and it's just what you want, and it'll make all the food you cook taste better. But it's really, really heavy. And really, really fragile. And really, really not meant to move once it's opened and in your house.
In that spirit, brides, keep every single box that your wedding gifts arrived in.
Buy more packing material. You can never have enough. Ever. 
Get a dumpster. Or if you are so inclined start removing the crap you are storing for no particular reason from your house immediately. 
Play loud music. It drowns out the annoying noise that your packing partner is making by crinkling paper, ripping tape, clacking hangers, and dropping stuff. 
Don't pack near your significant other. You will end up fighting about the way you overstuffed all of your boxes.
Forget about any ideas that translate into making the process of moving fun. It's not. It never will be. I'm not moving ever, ever again. Why did I pack that last wine glass?!

Lo. 

Ranching

Thursday night has always been a favorite.

In grade school, many Thursday nights promised the chance to put on a Laura Ashley dress, attend a Civic Light Opera performance, and eat Junior Mints at Intermission. In high school, Thursday night meant NBC's prime time line-up - Friends, Seinfeld, and ER - which never under-promised. In college it meant putting on your tank top and black pants in the dead of winter so you could be one of the hot, sweaty, underage revelers squeezed onto the dance floor of Boat Club. And in MBA school, without classes on Friday, Thursday evenings could mean a short ride to New Buffalo for a sunset cruise on the boat. 

In the working world, a productive Friday lies on the other side of Thursday night, so my days of Boat Clubbing are definitely not an option. But there's something about tweeting #TGIF the following morning, that makes a Thursday night relaxing and great.

On this particular Thursday night, last night, we most definitely should have dismissed the idea of fun. We'd already had our big night out for the week, getting my boots shines, eating Smokin' Joes, sitting court side at the McDonald's All-American Basketball Games on Wednesday. So we should have had one activity in mind -  packing. With a mere three days left in the Ranch there is a ton to do: china to wrap, crystal to carefully tuck back into boxes, clothes to fold, books to organize, and junk to toss. We should have steamed the leftover tamales, unloaded the boxes from the monster truck, and packed. But we didn't. And our house is still in perfect order.

Instead, we sat in our Adirondack chairs; we read, grilled, and watched the little world we have called home for the past three years go by.

Last night, we just Ranched - the thing we've done best for the past three years. And although we'll most likely do just about the same thing, minus a decade, at our new house, there is something about this place that I don't want to let go of - that I will miss dearly. So until we hit a breaking point where we really need to start packing, probably shortly after my run on Saturday, we will keep on giving the Ranch the love and time it deserves. 

It was a great Thursday night in Naperville - one that would make my other favorite Thursdays proud. And one that would make the Ranch happy to have had the brewer and the bee as its residents.

 

Lo. 

Grilled Pork Chops with Leftover Tamale Sauce

2 bone-in pork chops
Leftover tamale sauce
(I made tamales on Tuesday night with chicken instead of pork. The sauce that I braised the chicken in makes about 1-2 cups too much. Reserve the pureed sauce and use as a marinade.)

Marinate the chops in the tamale sauce for 45 minutes to an hour.

Heat up the grill. Cook chops 10 minutes per side, or for thicker cuts (which we had), 15 minutes per side.

In a small sauce pan, bring the leftover marinade to a boil. Boil for three minutes, then reduce heat to medium low and simmer for 10-15 minutes. Drizzle over grilled pork chops.

Serve the chops with a blue cheese chopped salad and corn bread. And you've got a meal for the Rancher in you.  

Black and Bloody

After more than ten days down under my stomach lost its bloat. My restrictive diet of roughage and fiber had most likely puffed it out, but somehow by the time we checked into the Palazzo Versace on the Gold Coast of Australia, it deflated, enabling me to finally see my toes when gazing south instead of a convex, globular hump.

In celebration of the incredible shrinking abdomen, I put on my blue strapless sundress and joined my parents for dinner at Vanitas, the hotel's signature restaurant, where we sat on, dined with, smelled like, and wished we were dressed in Versace.

Afraid that my stomach would return to its former glory, I played it safe. 'The red pepper soup and the sea bass, please. Except what is the black pudding in the soup? Can I have that removed?'
The waitress courteously, yet zestfully dared me to keep the soup as is and use my senses to deduce the pudding's composition. My boastful palette accepted her challenge, eager to flex my food knowledge.

The soup was delivered in a Versace bowl; there was a round black disk in the middle and the smoothest, silkiest puree of sweet red peppers all around it. I took a spoonful - more pudding, than soup - and I tasted fire and smoke, the crispy part of a Filet mixed with the inner juices it secreted, bacon and crispy hash browns, and then the delicate sweetness of a perfect sun-ripened red pepper. Before my parents had taken so much as three bites of their salads, I had consumed all of my soup, pudding and all, and raised my hand to tell the waitress what I tasted. As I described my experience her smile went from a smirk to a toothy grin.
'It's blood sausage.'
The 'Noooooooo.... Ewwwwww.... Groooooooss!' ringing through my head and stomach came out in a blank, emotionless expression. I sat there stupefied. I had just eaten a whole patty of sausage made up of pig blood and pig fat. And I loved it. Every last bite of it. What had I become?    


This past Saturday, I made my way downtown to fill my long-distance run induced starving stomach, unsuspecting that I would have a reunion with one of my most storied food memories.

The first stop was Abby's house. On my agenda was saying, 'welcome to the world,' to her beautiful baby girl. So I sipped some seltzer, snapped some photos, and feasted on some good old fashioned lacrosse girl laughs.

From there I made my way up to Lincoln Park to a cafe called Floriole where I helped shower my friend, Teresa. We noshed on cucumber and moroccan carrot sandwiches, reveled at the tastefully chosen presents, and gushed over my new house.

Then I headed back downtown, to Publican, feeding ground for the carnivores. I sat down, tried Peter's beer, and cut off a hunk of the country ribs, shaking my head with approval at their tenderness and ability to fill a still very present void.

After the last of the ribs were licked clean, I think Peter caught my wandering eye, scouting out food remnants, and pointed out the little brown bag under his chair. Inside were the first of his Publican Meat Market butchered prizes: salami, bacon and blood sausage. My eyes popped wide open when I heard the last two words and the sentence that followed. 'Let's make them for dinner tomorrow night.' 

My vampire-like memory surfaced. Could I do it again? Especially knowing what they are. I'm blaming the Champagne, but I found myself agreeing to fulfill the request.

On Sunday, I made a grilled red pepper soup, topped it with black pudding, and served it with a watercress and poached egg salad. I presented dinner on some Versace. And cautiously consumed the unnerving. 

Once again, I ate it all. And once again, my blood sausage dinner wasn't followed by an ever-expanding stomach. It sat just right. My challenge to you, try some black pudding. 

Grilled Red Pepper Soup with Black Pudding

2 red bell peppers

1 tablespoon bacon fat

1 tablespoon butter

1 shallot minced

3 cloves of garlic, minced

1 1/2 cups chicken stock

14 ounce can of whole tomatoes with juices

1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes  

Salt 

2 links blood sausage

Directions

Grill red peppers until blackened, about 20-25 minutes. Remove, core and set aside. Grill blood sausage until done, about 8-10 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a medium pot, melt bacon fat and butter over medium heat. Add shallot and garlic and cook till aromatic, about 2-3 minutes. Add chicken stock, tomatoes, red pepper flakes and a dash of salt. Simmer for 15 minutes until flavors meld.

In a blender, puree tomato mixture and red peppers. Pulse till the soup is smooth. Return to pot and to low heat. For a thinner soup, add a little water. For a richer soup, add a little cream.

Serve with slices of blood sausage.

Hungry

On Friday night, equipped with our pre-purchased tickets, excited by the start of a weekend's liberation from work, and surrounded by one of Naperville's loudest and giddiest assembly of tweens, Peter and I took our seats in one of Regal Cantera's big theaters. We were squeezed in between a row of athletic tweens, a row of nerdy tweens, and two rows of hormonally charged tweens, counting down the minutes till The Hunger Games started - till the unveiling of whether or not Hollywood had the same vision for a world so vividly impressed on our minds.

From the time the movie started at 5:20 until it ended around 8:00, I went through just about every emotion: I blushed amorously with the rest of the girls when Gale first appeared. I felt pain and anguish as we toured the poverty, starvation, and duress stricken District 12. My heart burned when Katniss volunteered as Tribute and when Peeta was called to the stage; and then developed ticks of annoyance when I realized that the casting of Peeta was all wrong. I felt a very similar kind of nausea during the blood bath at the Cornucopia as I felt when Piggy was killed in Lord of the Flies. Huge tears streamed down my face for Rue and District 11. I laughed from the comic relief provided by Caesar Flickerman, Haymitch and Effie. I was charged with excitement and happiness when the odds became more in Katniss' favor. And I felt a whole mixture of emotions churning through my stomach as Cato made his last stand.

But around 6:30 say, I felt angry. Right as Katniss appeared in front of the Gamemakers to rank her, I got really, really mad. It wasn't directed toward the themes of authoritarian rule, slavery, injustice, or corruption in the story. It wasn't directed at the Hunger Games skeptics who are incapable of seeing the projection of human history that Suzanne Collins' so accurately nails in her dystopian world. Instead it was directed at the row of tweens to my right and their chatter. In particular, one unbelievable comment.

 

"She's kind of fat."

I could not believe what I heard. I wanted to stand up and slap some sense into each one of their awkward, self-conscious bodies. Really? 'Not that skinny?' 'Fat?' You have got to be kidding me.

With all that Hollywood got wrong about Peeta's casting, they got right with Katniss'. Jennifer Lawrence doesn't only play the part perfectly, she looks just as I imagined Katniss to appear. Strong, beautiful, and feminine. And the scrawny girly girls next to me were scrutinizing her for being a size or two bigger than they them.

Well, tweens, here's what I thinkt:

• Katniss' emaciated Twilight counterpart, Bella, would have been one of the first to go in the Hunger Games.
• Gale, Peeta, and the rest of the male population staring at the cover of Glamour Magazine this month, really, really like Katniss' curves. 
• There is a reason why Katniss has amazing hair and skin, it's her diet. And it includes food. 
• And in the real world, it's the strong, confident women who know how to hunt that are capable of beating the odds, taking over the top spot of the career men, and winning the games that life throws at us.

Overall, I liked the movie a lot. And it was a very entertaining way to spend a Friday night. But I've got to say, as scary as the post-apocalyptic world of Panem may be, the distortion of the ideal female image in our world, is equally scary. And I'm really hoping that beyond entertain, this film helps show female tweens, teens, and adults that strong and curvy looks a hell of a lot better than a size 0, wallowing, stick figure.

Lo.   

The Missing Season

Hidden Valley boasted four seasons to their resort life. Vivaldi composed concertos that corresponded to each of the changing seasons. Poussin painted them; Franki Valli named his band after them; And businesses galore, ranging from tanning, to furniture, to heating and cooling certify their products will work through each of the four seasons.

The thing is, I feel like I only know three seasons well - that at least recently, I'm not very familiar with the Earthly Paradise that Poussin painted or the subtle, cheerful, awakening of the world that Vivaldi orchestrated. Instead, I've been living in a place where one only needs to acclimate to three and sometimes only two seasons. A place where winter burns away into summer almost instantaneously around Memorial Day weekend. And where Indian summers get extinguished by the first snow fall on Halloween. In Chicago, and for that matter in South Bend and Pittsburgh too, I have seen very little of spring in the past twenty years.

But this year, oh, this year, something magical happened. About ten days ago, a week before the first official day of spring, the temperatures rose, the sky went from overcast to crystal clear, the sunrises and sunsets became ethereal, the birds commenced a set of sweeter melodies drowning out the obnoxious geese, the buds popped out of the trees and bushes, and then, just as Vivaldi's introduction swelled into the familiar chorus we know well, the colors of spring started blossoming, turning every inch of the Midwest into something spectacular.

Flowers I hadn't seen since looking around the wild strawberry patch, up the bank or under the Magnolia tree on Bartlett Street started appearing. Violets, buttercups, crocuses, and other delicate varietals produced by only the perfect spring climate finally had the chance to perk up and say hello.

While the dormant flora awakened and slowly, gently, miraculously added their beautiful pigments and fragrances to my suburban landscape this week, I felt that dinner needed to have a spring-like palette and aroma as well. So on Monday, we grilled citrus marinated sea scallops, served them over a pea puree, tossed up a beet and feta salad, and sat down to a meal that tasted as wonderful as spring looked. 

But while reveling in spring wonderment, one of my co-workers commented that she was nervous about what the weather meant, hinting at the effects of global warming. While it dampened my mood, I couldn't help but think that if so many people before us staked their masterpieces, businesses and namesakes on the four seasons, why isn't a real spring in Chicago the most natural thing? I think Double G's asparagus are all for it at least. 

Lo.

English Pea Puree

• 3/4 cup chicken stock
• 1 cup English peas, shucked from their pods
• 2 teaspoons butter
• 5 mint leaves
• 1 tablespoon of a triple cream cheese, like St. Andre
• Salt and pepper

In a small sauce pan, heat chicken stock and butter. Bring to a boil, add peas, then reduce to a simmer.  Cook for about 5 minutes, until peas are bright green and tender. Add cheese, melting it into mixture.

Put peas and stock in a blender, along with the mint, salt and pepper. Puree into a smooth mixture. Serve warm under chicken, lamb, or seafood. Sure, it looks like baby food, but it's fantastic!