The Scarier than Scariest Suburb

I love our community.
I love the big trees that line the parkways and the village service department responsible for picking up all their leaves in the fall.
I love the good Midwestern soil and the tomatoes, peppers and butternut squash that it gave to us all summer long.
I love the butcher, the baker, and the Fruit Store purveyor and that cash is the preferred method of transaction.
I love that no matter which way I run in the morning, there is always a port-a-john in a park within a two mile radius from our house (huge for a pregnant person.)
And I love how families subtly celebrate the changing of seasons in festive ways. It's kind of a nice departure from the way Naperville used to ring in spring, summer, fall, and winter with grandiose parades, fests, and fairs.

But then Halloween arrived. Within the first couple weeks of October, just as the leaves were donning their most spectacular hues, the most scary creatures started crawling out of attics all over the Western Suburbs, positioning themselves in the most freakish ways primed to draw fear from the innocent passerby.

There is a more subtle, psychological, and expensive scare in the Western Suburbs - different from what we saw with Naperville's large scale Halloween installations. From the houses in La Grange to the mansions in Hinsdale the type A, Gen X moms typically responsible for transporting their children around all day in over sized SUVs, staying in shape, and keeping score with the Joneses, have decorated their lawns with acute statements of fear that honestly make me run a little faster every day.

There are scenes depicting severe cases of arachnophobia, demonic clowns and even 'circuses of death' throughout our community. There is a grim reaper, reaping in epic proportions from at least one house on just about every block. There is a silhouette of a murdered man in the window of one house, graveyards polished with every last detail from raven, to rat, to grim tombstone inscription set up on lawns, and lifelike goblins, ghosts and ghouls hanging from trees, porches and doorways. (I'll post more pictures later) Everything is downright frightening.

Because I'm a scaredy cat and welcoming anything like what I have seen into the storage spaces of my home is absolutely out of the question, Peter and I will continue to settle for traditional carved decorations, which ironically there doesn't seem to be much of around here.

Well that and several other seasonally delicious menu items to decorate my dining room table. Last night, it was a roasted butternut squash soup and grilled Gouda and apple sandwiches.

Happy Halloween from the scarier that scariest suburb! And look for one more little update later this evening.

Lo.

Roasted Butternut Squash Soup with Sage Cream 
Serves 2


Ingredients
1 small butternut squash, cubed
2 tablespoons butter
Salt
1/2 shallot, minced
2 1/2 cups vegetable stock
1/2 cup water 
2 tablespoons sour cream 
1/4 teaspoon dried sage
White pepper
1/4 cup Gruyere cheese
Sage leaf, for garnish

Directions
In a small roasting pan, melt 1 tablespoon butter. Toss butternut squash in butter and salt generously. Roast at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Remove.

In a medium pot, melt the other tablespoon of butter. Add shallot and saute for 2-3 minutes. Add butternut squash cubes, stir. Add vegetable stock and water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and let simmer for about 15 minutes, until squash is very tender.

In a very small sauce pan, heat sour cream. Add dried sage and Gruyere cheese. Let simmer, keeping warm and melted until you will add it into the soup.
Put the contents of the pot into a food processor and blend till smooth. Return to the pot on low heat. Add the sage cream, stir until well incorporated. Season to taste with white pepper and salt. (I found that I didn't need to add anymore salt.) Garnish with a sage leaf.


Grilled Smoked Gouda and Apple Sandwiches

Ingredients
Four slices good French bread
Smoked Gouda slices
Braeburn apple, thinly sliced
Butter

Directions
Thinly slice the bread. Stack with one layer of Gouda and one layer of apples.
Melt a tab of butter onto a griddle. Lay down each sandwich and cook over medium low heat, about 10 minutes per side. This way the inside get nice and melty without burning the outside.

8-0

Last night, Pete - IT, class of '88, Greg - development, class of '98, Lo - marketing, class of '04, and Mike - security, sub alum class of '64, gathered at the very back of the auction floor, in the electronics section lined with Apple's newest products and the bigger than big, big screen TVs to sneak peaks of a very pivotal Notre Dame game.

Together, we checked ourselves to see if we were making any social faux pas or worse yet, shirking our duties as volunteers. Together, we shared stories about Notre Dame's glory days. And together, we nervously anticipated the outcome of judgment day, quietly dreading that Oklahoma would uncover mediocrity.

When the lights flickered and the announcer told us to take our seats in the Ballroom, we each reluctantly said some parting words and resumed our roles for the evening. Some of us sneaked back into the auction room to watch a couple downs, others relied on under the table text messages from friends with far better seats, and I followed the slow progression of a miniature football on Gamecast, jolting and jeering as my iPhone unlocked one delayed play after the next.

Throughout the game, I kept thinking of my brother. With each nail biting play, as we took the lead, lost it, then regained it, and as the Irish, working as a team, pulled away and convinced the nation that yes, indeed, they were relevant, I thought back on him as a little boy, back in 1988.

Yes, I was only six. And yes, he was only three. But we had already been indoctrinated into the deep rooted passion and defining culture that characterized Notre Dame fans. From a very early age, whether we were gathered around the television in the sun room or watching the game live in South Bend, Fighting Irish football was ritualistic. We wore, sang, argued, and even drew our pride.

At the age of three, my brother started taking creative liberties with the team's starting lineup. By the age of five, he knew the contours of every face mask, the various dimensions that a running back's or quarterback's pads would add, the perfect crayon to shade in the luster of the gold helmets, the number of every player, their key stats, and the color of their eyes, hair, and skin. Every fall our family's refrigerator would be covered in the team's likeness. From Tim Brown and the Rocket, to Chris Zorich and Todd Lyght; from Rick Mirer and Jerome Bettis, to Derrick Mayes and Lake Dawson, he loved and looked up to them all.

But over the years, as the team's losses started to add up, and as my brother's idolizing and cartooning was replaced with the need to make a name for himself on his own team, my Irish enthusiasm started to wane. Ironically enough, it faded even more when I went to school at Notre Dame and then again when I returned to get my MBA. But throughout, my brother remained optimistically loyal. With each new recruiting season, with every coaching change, and with every glimmer of hope my brother went against the odds and saw a national championship in the future.

Last night, as an Irish win was confirmed with a late fourth quarter field goal, I was excited for the players and for a long-suffering ND nation. But I was more excited for my brother, and all the little boys who back in the 80s and early 90s dreamed of putting on a golden helmet and taking the field with their favorite players.


This morning, as I ran seven miles through the suburbs, up into Hinsdale and back through Western Springs, I saw at least 20 Notre Dame flags draped from people's homes. (Not only does my community have the highest concentration of Irish Americans in Chicago, it apparently has the highest concentration of Fighting Irish fans too.) Within each of these flag flying households, I imagined that there might be little boys, like my brother, drawing pictures of Manti Te'o, Louis Nix, Theo Riddick, Everett Golson, Tyler Eifert, Cierre Wood, and heck, even Mike Golic Jr. And I thought, how great it was that these kids could look up to a team that not only knows how to hit hard, run, pass, score and swagger; but also how to speak eloquently, study, give back and graduate. 

After my run and after Mass, I sketched and sifted my own version of Irish pride into brunch.

And it tasted as sweet as last night's victory.
8-0.
Lo.

Boozy French Toast

Five pieces stale Italian bread
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1 tablespoon Grand Marnier
Powdered sugar

Whisk together eggs, milk, allspice and Grand Marnier. Dip each slice of bread into the egg mixture until well coated and soaked through. Over medium heat, melt a little butter on a griddle. Brown each slice of French toast (about 3-5 minutes per side.) Dust with powdered sugar.

Kids in the Kitchen

Before I moved up to high school, and then before I was packing my bags to go off to college; before I landed my first job, leased my first apartment, or got my first car; even before I got married and bought my first house, I never remember hearing ominous warnings about the big steps I was about to take in my life. There were many 'congratulations!' There were people that wanted to pack their bags and move on out or in with me. There were well wishes and lots of champagne toasts. I drank to all of them.

On the other hand, everyday as I anticipate the arrival of our little one, I hear more and more caveats to the congratulations. I can't tell you how many times I have heard people say, 'Wow, that's great. BUT just so you know, life as you know it is about to change.' If that comment was said with the same kind of game show enthusiasm that Bob Barker used to share before he revealed a new car,  I wouldn't mind. But the admonition embedded within everyone's tone of voice, tends to get on my nerves.

The first part of life as I know it that tends to hit the chopping black are my evening hours dedicated to grocery shopping, cooking, serving and lingering over dinner every night. The women wise in the ways of child rearing scoff and say, 'just wait, you won't be doing that five months from now.' While I understand their point of view and appreciate that babies are difficult, time-consuming and life-changing, I'm not ready to believe their somewhat unfriendly heeding in entirety.

In fact, I'm taking steps to counteract what the soothsayers tell me. I'll get around to baby proofing, buying scary baby gadgets like breast pumps, and attending the breath-in, breath-out part of a birthing class, but the biggest priority I have right now is prepping my culinary existence for baby. That is, figuring out how to continue to cook, bake, and shake up cocktails with a kid in my kitchen. 

So. This past week, I rented my one and a half year-old niece, Ellie, for a night. Well, I babysat her while Peter, Claire and Trent went to a meeting after work. Ellie made her grand entrance to my kitchen around 5:30 PM on Thursday, right after I rushed out of work, into Whole Foods, up and down two aisles, and back home. Claire gave me a couple instructions and then scurried out the door. It was just me, Ellie, four chicken breasts ... and ... tears. No sobs. Mom was gone. Ellie was devastated. 

So before I was able to create cutlets out of the breasts and pound them into submission, I had to dry a pair of eyes. Which as the wife of a marine aquarium enthusiast is easy to do. The magic words - 'you wanna see the fishes?'
Feeshe? 
Yep - let's go see the fishes. 
FEESHE!
No more tears. So we moved back upstairs, because I was already ten minutes off my timeline. Without toys to play with, we improvised with a set of silver coasters, which Ellie happily stacked, unstacked and stacked again while I chopped, meat malleted chicken, did some dredging and browning, and brought the makings of a sauce to a simmer. 

By this time, Ellie and her coasters had left the kitchen and were now crashing around the reading room. So I figured it was time for another aquarium visit. We waved to Omega and Aquaman, fed them dinner, and then I had the idea that there might be something on our cable-less television. Ah, polar bears. Perfect. She loved the big white fuzzy bears. That is, until one snatched a humpback whale from the ocean and proceeded to kill and eat it. I moved her away from the bear and back to the kitchen to check on dinner. I pureed the sauce, added the chicken, asked Ellie to stay. Stay. STAY. Grabbed Ellie before she descended the staircase again, and asked her to count chicken cutlets with me. But she didn't seem to understand the cutlet counting game.

Two more trips downstairs to see the fish, one outdoor adventure to pick basil and parsley, a trip upstairs to get the only children's book I own, followed by my improvised story about why Ellie couldn't play with my Teddy, a messy snack of crackers and hummus, two hand washes, and a couple more segments of Mr. polar bear surviving in the arctic later, I was able to make a salad, set the table and put the rest of the chicken Parmesan dinner together for the hungry and appreciative meeting makers who arrived home around 8:00. Although the noodles were one minute overdone and my presentation wasn't as appealing as usual, it tasted good and I had made it happen, Ellie and all.

Concessions on attempt one: I got it - life in and around the kitchen will change.
Comments on attempt one:

• Children have a very low attention span. 
• Counting 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 only seems to apply to the cookie counting game, not to counting fried chicken cutlets, returning to the big pot. 
• Food processors are alarming / scary to children. 
• Making tomato sauce to the rhythms of the Jersey Boys soundtrack just seemed to confuse Ellie.
• Investing in a couple toys for the kitchen is a must. 
• Thinking we should move the aquarium upstairs? 

Conclusion: Bring on attempt number two.

This weekend, I went back to a kiddo-less kitchen. I was able to pay attention to every last detail leading up to a hunter's brunch on Saturday and a French supper on Sunday. From the layering of strata, to the toast service, to the even coloring of hash browns. From the potato scaling of the halibut, to the timely searing of each piece of fish, to the perfect thickness of the spinach in its broth.

From patiently attending to each step in apple tart prep, to making sure that 1/8 inch meant 1/8 inch for each apple slice, to evenly covering the almond filling with interlocking concentric circles, slice by slice, I didn't miss a trick. 

However, I've got to say, I had a lot more fun cooking in the kitchen and everywhere else with Ellie on Thursday night. And seeing a handful of noodles streaming out of her smiley mouth was the best compliment I could have received. 

Lo.

Apple Tart

Crust 

2 egg yolks
2 tablespoons brandy
3 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt 
1 1/4 cup flour
9 tablespoons butter, chilled and cut into1/2 inch pieces

Filling
1 1/4 cup almonds
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1/4 teaspoon vanilla

2 tablespoons brandy
4 tablespoons butter, softened
3 apples, peeled, cored, and sliced into 1/8 inch wedges

Directions
Make the crust. In a small bowl, whisk together egg yolks and Brandy. Set aside. In a large bowl, combine flour, sugar, and salt. Using a pastry blender incorporate the butter into dry ingredients, until small pea like crumbs form. Add the egg mixture and knead dough until it just comes together. Wrap in cellophane and chill in the refrigerator for at least one hour or up to one day. When the dough is ready, roll it out, and press it into an 11-inch tart pan, trimming off the excess from the edges. Chill while making the filling.

Make the filling. In a food processor, pulse almonds, sugar, extracts and brandy until a paste starts to form. Add butter and blend for a couple seconds until the paste become thicker. Spread the paste into the tart shell and chill for 45 minutes, until the filling starts to harden.

Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, toss apple slices with two tablespoons sugar, one tablespoon water and one tablespoon brandy. (Yes, there is a lot of brandy in this recipe!) Let them sit for 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Remove the tart shell and filling from the refrigerator and splay apples around the tart in concentric circles. Melt two tablespoons of butter and brush the top with it.

Bake at 400 for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees and bake for an additional 45. Let cool and serve with a little vanilla ice cream.

A Reflection

On my graduation day, I should have been in Baltimore, playing Loyola in the NCAA Women's Lacrosse National Championships. But we had lost to Northwestern a couple days before, so I was in South Bend with everyone else. I was continually drifting off, concerned about the jobless road that lay ahead. I honestly don't remember much of my commencement, not even the keynote speaker. I do remember that my cap didn't fit - I by no means have a size small head. I remember standing up with the rest of the liberal minded students in the JACC to accept my degree from the College of Arts and Letters. And I remember our valedictorian, Keri, and her remarks.

The summer before her junior year, Keri had traveled to India to do service work with the Missionaries of Charity, the congregation started by Mother Teresa in Calcutta. She had passed the whole summer without a mirror, because Mother Teresa and her missionaries believed that you didn't need one - that you should look for your reflection every day in the people that you served. Keri then asked us how we wanted to reflect ourselves to the world after we left the cradle of Notre Dame's campus.

I started drifting off again, not contemplating the deeper meanings of my personal imaging, but stuck on this notion of a world without mirrors. Seriously? How did she cope? Sure, she delivered a nice, feel good message, but come on.

I've always had a bit of a mirror addiction - a polar attraction to vanity mirrors, full length mirrors, those magnifying mirrors that give you disturbing close ups of your pores, highly reflective windows, I've even used other people's sunglasses, puddles, and the flip side of my iPhone camera to sneak a peak at my look of the minute. My girlfriends in college used to call me out for it all the time. 

However, last year, when I moved into Peter's house and now, settled into our new house, the prevalence of mirrors has drastically decreased. Currently, we have two mirrors - both in the bathrooms - both only about 10 by 20 inches big. It's enough space to analyze my face, but I leave the house everyday with only a vague understanding of my appearance from the neck down.

My greatest opportunities for full length reflections are in the bathroom at work and along the storefronts of the Western Suburbs during my morning runs. This weekend though, something happened. Bounding down the sidewalk, dotted by yummy mummies holding a stroller in one hand and a frappucino in the other, I turned my head and saw my worst reflection yet. It wasn't so much me, but a Humpty Dumpty-esque figure. Little legs. Rotund chest and belly. Big head. I was totally disturbed. I ran a little faster home.

The thing is, when I got home, I was still greeted with the same admiring smile of my husband. He apparently didn't see the story book character I had become. He perhaps saw a runner, a bundle of energy, a 'little chef'', a writer, a wife, a best friend, a mommy to be? I thought back on Keri's graduation speech. Suddenly, Humpty went away, and I saw my real reflection in Peter's eyes.

I am honestly perplexed at how wise Keri was at the age of 22. I thought I knew all the answers - the ins and the outs of myself by the time I went back to school to get my MBA. However, over these last five months, I've been realizing how much more room there is to grow.

On Monday, my understanding of image matured a little more as Peter and I saw the best reflection of all - my belly wasn't so much Humpty's hump it was our little baby dancing, somersaulting, and I swear running inside my belly.

Lo.

A Saturday Routine

Yesterday, Livia was showing me how she could stand in first position, do plies, pose in an arabesque and leap across the carpet with a grand jete. Her aunt had given her some of ballet's fundamentals, but in a couple months she would be able start taking classes in her neighborhood. I could sense her excitement about the upcoming opportunity to take the steps she had learned and weave them into a routine that she could perform in living rooms across the Western Suburbs. 

It made me think about my experience dancing - the first steps that I learned - the anticipation I felt as my teacher started piecing them together - the thrill I found when my movements started to make sense - and my pride in knowing with absolute certainty all the fancy footwork and armwork to match. After a while, improvisation and swaying from my prescribed routines started to confuse me. I needed the precise rhythms, measured spaces and calculated cues. Without them, I felt lost.

This notion of strict choreography started to seed itself in my day to day activities as well. I embraced knowing what came next. But when I met Peter, all the solo acts that I had memorized and perfected, were no longer relevant. I needed to start developing duets.

However, trying to establish a new routine with a partner who prefers improvisation is quite difficult. While he thrived on the riffs, scats, and jam sessions in life, I tried to tame the dissonance with structure. There were times when we just flopped.

In the end, we learned to compromise and take turns leading. Some days, we used my choreography, but set to songs that I knew Peter would like. Other days, we would wing it, constantly changing keys, tempos, and direction all in the name of creating something different. To my surprise, both ways worked and both ways made the performers and spectators happy.  

Peter and I tend to be really good together on the weekends, and yesterday was no exception. I must say it was one of our most successful routines - one that combined both of our styles and possessed all the right elements. Sure, there were some trials leading up to its execution: a steady rain that made us soggy; a cheese shipment delay, detouring us from one theme to Peter's love affair with the pig; a goal line stand controversy; and a cider press conundrum. But the show, good food, cheers, and juices went on - another little thing I taught Peter about show business.

And it went a little something like this. 

5,6,7,8 ...
A good read. 
Followed by a good run.
A special frittered breakfast.

 

Then a couple chores and some stokes of the smoker. 

Quick chasse into the shower. 
Chopping, slicing, pestling, chilling.
Brendan, enter stage right. Stoke, stoke.  
Brises or jumps, followed by plies to the beat of hole finding, pass grabbing, quarterback scrambling, helmet hitting, fumble recovering, field goal kicking, touch down scoring, and goal line standing.
Bill and Meghan, enter stage left. Mira and Livia scurry in. 
Slicing, smashing, pressing, apple foam tasting, bottling. 

 

 Shredding, eager forks noshing, stacking, Carnitas consuming, stomach satisfying. 

Little bow. 
Bravo!

The crowd wanted an encore of apple fritters, so I've included it below. 

Lo. 

Apple Fritters (makes about 8 fritters)
Adapted from Pioneer Woman

1 apple, cored and sliced into 1/8 inch rings
1 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Pinch of salt
1 egg
1/2 cup milk
1 tablespoon melted butter
Vegetable or canola oil
Powdered sugar, for dusting

In a medium bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and almond extract.

In another medium bowl, beat eggs. Then add milk and melted butter. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients.

Heat oil over medium high heat until about 375 degrees. Keep this temperature consistent. Drop each apple slice into the batter to create a thin coat. You made need to coax the batter along to stick on the apple slices evenly.

Drop battered apple slices into oil, perhaps three per batch. Fry for 1-2 minute per side until golden brown. Keep a careful watch over them as they can quickly burn. Remove from oil and set on a paper towel lined plate to dry. Repeat process with remaining apple slices. Serve immediately with sifted powdered sugar.

Date Night

Last week, an Early Riser reader and good friend asked me to write a recipe for her. Something easy, something good, something that she could make for the guy that she was seeing. Cute. As a sober pregnant woman I jumped at the opportunity to live vicariously through the novelty, glamor, surprise, and seduction that cooking dinner for someone for the first time can bring.

This week, I set out to produce an ideal recipe for her. I thought I had nailed it on day 1 though. It was the most obvious solution. I thought back on the most romantic food scene in movie history -  when Lady and Tramp share a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs outside of Tramp's favorite Italian bistro. An accordionist is playing Bella Notte, Lady is cautiously, politely eating her side of the plate as Tramp chows on his side with a little more vigor. From opposite ends, they mistakenly slurp up the same thread of spaghetti, leading them closer together and ultimately into the cutest, little puppy smooch.   

Since I was little, spaghetti and meatballs has always had an aura of romance. As I was making my grocery list though, my friend texted, saying that her date didn't eat red meat. So that option was out and instead I shopped and prepared another Italian favorite - linguini with clam sauce. I imagined the pasta lip lock would still occur, even with seafood all over it.

As we sat down for dinner and I snapped a photo of what we were about to consume - my play on one of my childhood favorites, I started telling Peter about my assignment. He informed me that pasta should never be ordered, prepared or served on date night. It was a rule that he had learned long ago. The premise: no one looks good eating pasta. I denied the remark, but about two bites in, I realized that the inevitable noodle chase, slurping and dire need to sop up the remaining sauce with my bread wasn't very attractive. So I went back to the drawing board.

 

Wednesday night, I looked for the solution in tacos - the essence of dinnertime happiness for my husband. I swear he loves me a little more when I'm orchestrating our own little fiesta over the stove. Taco night has a major flaw though. To really unleash the power of it, you have to encourage the option of going back for fourths or even fifths. Which means you are only at the table together for two or three bites at a time. Soon enough, you and your date are back in the kitchen, grabbing a shell, strategically stacking up the meat, beans, onions and peppers, and then going around the condiment bar to finish off your masterpieces with cheese, lettuce, guacamole and salsa. Taco night also brings a high probability of hiccups, heart burn, or worse.  

Last night, I think I finally nailed it though. I came up with a delicious, non-carnivorous, easy to eat, lingering dinner for date night: bouillabaisse or fish stew from the south of France. 
 
The melding of stock, fennel, saffron, and vegetables produced a sexy aroma that filled the house. It was easy to chat with Peter while prepping it and there was a nice off hour while the soup was stewing, letting us both relax and read together.

All you need to set the table with is a spoon and a little mussel fork, so as long as you don't slurp, demure consumption is inevitable. It pairs beautifully with a white blend, like Conundrum or if you want to be authentic, I would put a Provencal Rose with it. And the best part, it's not too filling. Your jeans will still sit nicely around your waist when you're done, even if you go back for seconds, which both Peter and I did.

So happy date night to my single ladies from the 312 to the 412.

Lo.

Bouillabaisse
Adapted from the New York Times
Serves 2 as a main course, serves 4 as an appetizer

Olive oil, a generous amount
1 small bulb fennel, chopped
1/2 an onion, chopped
1 small carrot, chopped
1 rib celery, chopped
1 new potato, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, chopped
2 cups prepared lobster or fish stock (you can buy it at Whole Foods or make your own.)
3 smaller tomatoes, chopped (try to reserve as much of their juice as possible) 
Salt, pepper
1/2 pound white fish (I used Alaskan Cod) 
2 calamari tubes, sliced to make rings
10 mussels
2 U-10 sea scallops, quartered
Parsley and fennel fronds for garnish

Line the bottom of a large dutch oven or soup pot with olive oil. The NY Times said not to skimp, so I didn't. Over medium heat, saute fennel, onion, carrot, celery, garlic and potato until translucent (about 7-8 minutes.) Add stock, tomatoes, salt and pepper. Let simmer over medium low to low heat for 45 minutes until the soup becomes more of a stew. 

In the order of how fast it cooks, add the fish to the stew. In my case, I added the white fish first, let is cook one minute, then I added the calamari rings and let everything cook for another 2-3 minutes. Then I added the mussels and sea scallops together. It is done when the mussels open. If any mussels didn't open in the pot, discard them.

Serve with croutons (spread olive oil on bread, sprinkle with parsley and a pinch of salt, toast in the oven for 10 minutes or so.)

Cheer

I have a knack for remembering the random, seemingly forgettable moment. Take for instance, a scene that unfolded in my parents living room circa 1994. It was my Aunt Joyce's wedding shower and the group of guests was being led in a game of what would Joyce say trivia. I vividly remember one question and its corresponding answer.

What is Joyce's pet peeve?

I turned to my sister and asked, 'what is a pet peeve?' She enhanced my vocabulary, but I left my answer blank - I had no clue what really bothered my Aunt.

And the answer is ... Returns and refunds.

Joyce nodded her head in agreement and there was an eruption of laughter from those that knew the horrors of working in retail. About half of the room marked their answer 'correct.'

I didn't really get the punch line, but I did understand that there was one, specific thing in this world that really ticked off my Aunt Joyce, and I thought it was kind of cool. I started thinking about my pet peeve. What would be? The whole activity of reading? The judgmental look that my pediatrician gave me when I stepped on his scale? The inevitable explosion that the Pillsbury bread sticks package made every time I opened it. Or worse yet, the fact that Pillsbury stopped making the long bread sticks, replacing them with a shorter, stubbier variety that didn't go with my heaping portion of linguini and clam sauce quite as well.  

To this day, I haven't been able to nail down a catch-all pet peeve. Instead, there seem to be a lot of things that can sound a chord of ire in me. 

Say, when people can't discriminate against food - when their response to every meal is that it was delicious. 
Screaming children.
Unmade beds.
All the things I'm not supposed to eat, drink, or do because I'm pregnant.
Redundancy.
People that fill in the end of another person's sentence.
Not so whispered chatter in Church or at the movie theater.  
And one that has popped up more and more recently, people that can't do something, telling the world that they can and better than the person already doing it. 

Like the typical colorful can't doer male at a football game, seated right behind you, who wants to call in every play, reveal who is triple covered, punish every penalty-committing player, and over assert his miscalculated understanding of the game from the safety of his seat. I can't stand those kind of spectators.

I never liked the saying, 'those that can't do, teach.' So I've rewritten it as a panacea for my latest pet peeve. 'Those that can't do, should cheer for those that can.' And this weekend, I led by example.

Fully knowledgeable that I'll never be able to play, coach or cheer lead, I tailgated, danced, bounced around, and cheered for the Irish during a surprisingly cold game on Saturday night at Soldier Field.

Then unable to run this year's Chicago Marathon because 26.2 is a little too much for baby, I stepped up and cheered like a champion at Mile 14 for the 438 runners with Team Ronald McDonald House Charities emblazoned on their chest. I even recruited a whole cheering section.

And then on Sunday night, at a little restaurant in Wicker Park called Taxim, I joined my family to cheer for my 22-year old cousin doing something that I definitely can't. That is, teach physics to high school seniors in a vulnerable community in the South Side of Chicago. 

I believe that my Aunt kicked her pet peeve to the curb by exiting the retail industry back in the latter half of the 90s. While there is no easy solution to quiet the negative loud mouths in stadiums, along courses, in front of televisions, or around dinner tables across the country, I think I'll continue to drown out the nay-sayers around me, by cheering loudly, encouraging the people that are doing something I can't, to do it even better.

Lo.