The Fireside Book Club

Three doors up, the 400 hundred block, all of Peck and the sole rep from the 200 block of our street all seemed to know Peter. Oh yeah, we've seen you raking - yard looks nice. His wife however, they didn't so much recognize. Maybe it was the puffy face or the belly. Regardless, I had an impression to make.

I easily slipped into comfort conversations - those that tend to spark some interest: McDonald's (great company, beautiful campus, so do you get a discount?), Manti (should have one the Heisman), marathons (I'm normally not this fat), and my status as mama-to-be (have any day care recommendations?). I found a rhythm. I miraculously evaded awkward remarks or silent pauses. And soon enough, my bedtime had slipped by.

Sans alcohol, I rationalized: I had a birthing class in the morning, I had been tired all week, I had to pull the plug - Peter could hold down the fort. Around 10:15, I grabbed my coat from the front hall closet and told the neighborhood goodnight. I turned to Sue, one of the neighbors that I had just met, sweet, bubbly, down to Earth Sue, and said,"well I better sally forth, I'm feeling really tired."
Oh no. Did I just say, 'sally forth?!'
I heard the statement ringing through my mind, over and over again. I blamed Tolstoy. It was something Levin or Stepan or one of those other Russians would have said.
The look on Sue's face was somewhere in between perplexed and pitying - confused at my statement, but sympathizing with my pregnant, sober state of affairs.

During my 50 meter walk back to our house, I felt the after shocks of my verbal bomb over and over again. There went the cool, hip impression that I had wanted to convey.

Over the past three months or so, I've become increasingly removed from the party circuit and initiated deeper and deeper into a little fireside book club that can boast only two members: Peter and I. Weekend cocktail hours have been replaced with sparkling water, a crackling birch fire, and many good novels. I've been paging through book after book, escaping into worlds with characters who have far greater problems than my current self image - that of an inverted, two-humped camel. And I've effectively found a way to completely relax through this more tiring stage of pregnancy.

In the past three months or so, I've made it through eight books, and am midway through the ninth.
 
Perks of Being a Wallflower. Pittsburgh, the Fort Pitt Tunnel, and great characters. Winning combination.
Gone Girl. Started off good, then took a turn for the worse. I started to find it annoying around page 300.
Fifty Shades of Grey. The writing is awful. The sex isn't sexy. And frankly Mr. Grey bored me. 
Tess of the D'Urbervilles. So that's what happened. I should have read this book sophomore year of high school, but obviously I had done one of those fake reading jobs that I was quite good at.
In the Garden of Beasts. I had bad dreams about Nazis every night while reading this book.   
A Tale of Two Cities. Again I had an epiphany as I had skimmed this book in eighth grade. It's awesome.
The Family Fang. Weird. And I now hate performance art. 
Fountainhead. Howard Roarke is the reason I like to work in a silo, and he's convinced me to stick with it.
I'm now deep within the rich Russian landscape of Anna Karenina. The pages turn a little slower in this novel, but it gives me more time to warm up by the fire.

Peter makes fun of me for morphing into various characters from the novels I read. Apparently, I take cues from their behavior and language, adopting certain affectations. He calls me out for it. I immediately deny the accusation, and quickly slip into something more colloquial. And apparently, that's what happened last night. I'm now stripping 'sally forth' from my word bank.

What Peter does like about book club though is the dinner inspiration that comes from reading. For instance, on Friday, as Anna and Vronsky escaped into Italy, we had bowls of pasta e fagiole. 

And despite not having a glass of Barolo to go with it, I was quite satisfied playing the role of Anna to Peter's Vronsky, minus the whole affair thing.

Lo.

Pasta e Fagioli 
Serves Four (or two with leftovers for lunch the next day)
Every recipe that I read on Friday required dried beans, that needed to be soaked overnight. I didn't have the time to soak beans on Friday after work, so I turned to John for some advice on using canned beans. Mixing inspiration from him and others, I came up with the following recipe. 



Ingredients 
6 cups water 
2 cans cannelini beans
Two celery stalks
1 carrot, unpeeled and cut into four piece
1 carrot, pealed and chopped
1 onion, quartered
2 sprigs Italian parsley
1 bay leaf
2 sage leaves 
6 cloves of garlic
Salt, pepper
3 pieces of pancetta, diced
Olive oil
1/4 cup tomato paste
1 - 1 1/2 cups water
1 cup Macaroni or another kind of smaller noodle
1 tablespoon Italian parsley
Grated Haystack Queso de Mano or another kind of salty, hard cheese

Directions: 
In a medium soup pot bring water to a boil with one can of beans (with liquid), celery stalks, carrot pieces, 2 quarters of onion, 3 cloves of garlic, parsley, bay leaf, sage, salt and pepper. Reduce heat to medium and let the stock continue to cook for an hour or so.

Drain the liquid, reserving the solid vegetables and beans, into another medium pot and keep warm over low heat. Take out the celery, carrots and herbs from the remaining solids and place everything else in food processor. Pulse till smooth. Set aside bean mixture.

Drizzle a couple teaspoons of olive oil in a large soup pot, and over medium heat, brown the pancetta pieces until crispy, about 7 minutes. Dice remaining quarters of onions and garlic cloves and add to pot. Saute until tender, about 4 minutes. Add tomato paste and stir until incorporated. Add stock and water (depending on how much the stock reduced while cooking and how thick you like your pasta fagiole, you should add more or less water.) Add pureed bean mixture, whole beans, salt and pepper. Let simmer over medium low heat for 30 minutes. 

Meanwhile, cook macaroni in salted, boiling water for about 7 minutes, until very al dente. Drain and then add to the soup. Let the soup cook for another 5 - 10 minutes over medium low heat. Add another dash of salt to taste.

Serve topped with Italian parsley, freshly grated Haystack Queso de Mano, and (a couple) hunks of crusty Italian bread.

St. Nick

There is a little more to my love of shoes than the average female aficionado. Growing up, a pair of shoes became the catalyst for a soled cornucopia worth of gifts on the eve of December 5th every year. In the middle of the night, because we were German (not Irish), St. Nicholas would stop by our house to fill up the pair of shoes we each left outside of our room with presents.

They were always the most thoughtful little gifts too: A Christmas CD to complement our burgeoning collection (such treasures as Peabo's, Mariah's and Celine's Christmases were all unwrapped on the morning of December 6), St. Moritz chocolates (St. Nick must have swung by the store near my Mom's office), an ornament that was meant especially for us, a novel for Erin, a pair of wide receiver gloves for my brother, and a little piece of jewelry for me. St. Nick was also kind enough to leave two oranges in my parents shoes. I loved that.

I can still remember sitting outside my room in our Bartlett Street house, doing a quick benchmark of the number of chocolates in Erin's shoe. Then Adam's shoe. Okay, even. Feeling a little bad that all my parents received were pieces of citrus fruit. And knowing that there was something extra special about my family in this moment that we all shared in close proximity to each other in the hallway at the top of the stairs.     

This morning, I woke up and realized that I had forgotten to put my shoes out. I thought how terrible - St. Nicholas must have passed right over our house - he was going to think that we didn't believe.

But when I walked downstairs and looked around, I saw him everywhere.

There was something for the Brewer ...

And something more for the Bee.

There was something for our little one ...

There was something for Peter.

And something for me.

And on a whim, when I set out our little lady's first pair of shoes today, just to see what would happen, St. Nick brought her an ornament - her very first one.  

Today, I'm reminded that whether its in a caring friend, a loving Aunt, a hearty lumberjack or a merry crossing guard, St. Nicholas exists all year long in all the wonderful people that touch your life. And it's my job, to follow their thoughtful and generous lead and be a little St. Nick to the people that I love as well.

Lo.

Say Cheese

Remember our very first house guest? If not, meet John: roommate of Peter, purveyor of pork products, filler of our freezer, reader at our wedding, (self-proclaimed) goat cheese ninja, chef, and great friend.

After paying us a visit on his way across the country, trailer and all, he sent me an email asking if I would be willing to sample and write about some cheese. The obvious and obligatory answer in this household: 'Of course!'

About seven months ago, John started working at Haystack Mountain Goat Dairy in Boulder, Colorado. Founded in 1989, it's one of the country's first artisanal goat cheese producers and they've won all sorts of awards. This fall, the company was doing some blogger outreach as part of their marketing efforts, and John made me a cheese for words proposal that I couldn't refuse. 

John and his coworker, Laurel, didn't give me a lot of ground rules for the sampling. They wanted to know how the cheese was served, what beer or wine paired well with it, and what people said about the cheese. Naturally, this would all come out by throwing a party for it. So I did.

I set the date - one that perfectly coincided with family being in town. I coordinated and confirmed the cheese shipment. And on Sunday, I spent much of the afternoon getting six cheeses ready for their debut. At 5:00 PM, in came my panel of testers.

Bob. The satirist
Melissa. His sweet counterbalance
Kevin. The Packers fan
Jane. The cute cheerleader
Ann. The beet lover
Barb. The apricot lover
Peter. The brewer
Me. The bee

First things, first. They got a tour of the white house. Then they were corralled into the cocktail room, which was renamed the cheese room for the night.

There, they met the cheeses and their pairings:
Haystack Peak, dried apricot and Grand Ballon Sauvignon Blanc, Loire Valley, 2010
Red Cloud and New Glarus Wisconsin Belgian Red
Camembert, cherry jalapeno chutney and Amalaya Malbec, Argentina, 2010
Garlic and Dill Chevre, cucumber and Grand Ballon Sauvignon Blanc, Loire Valley, 2010
Applewood Smoked Chevre, roasted golden beets and the Brewer's home brewed Rauchbier

With the opening of the sampling, this commentary followed, most likely in a less logical order. 
Let's try the Camembert first. Spread it on a crouton and top with a little of the cherry chutney, then take a sip of the Malbec. Okay, what do you think? What do you taste?  
It's good, but cheese always tastes better when the Packer's win.
Um, it's mild.
It brings out the flavors of the wine. This is good wine. Kevin, snap a photo of the wine label.
[Click]
It's very smooth.
It's good, but I taste the wine more.  
Are any of these cheeses from Wisconsin?
Look at the bunny in the window.
Oh, remember when Uncle Dick caught the rabbit for Don?
It was the cutest, bunny. I have a picture of my Dad with the bunny actually.
Like a wild rabbit? How did he do that?
I don't know.
No, this was like a domesticated white rabbit.
So what, he caught it from a cage?
I heard a cat ate the bunny the next day.
It was a couple months after, but yeah. It was a nasty yellow Tom cat. I've been afraid of yellow cats ever since.  
Okay, let's move on to the Applewood Smoked Chevre. It's served with roasted yellow beets and Peter's very own Rauchbier.
Oh, I love this one.
Why?
The beet tastes really good.
You can taste the beet more than the cheese, I think.
Yeah, I really like the beet.
Bob, you're wearing the same sweater as Peter tonight.  
It's very creamy.
Can I have a pickle? 
Sure.
Can I go back to a cheese? I know I'm not supposed to move forward, but can I go back?
Sure. 
Subtle smoke flavor, but the beer is smokier. The beer is amazing.
Okay, next. The Haystack Peak. This goes with the dried apricot and the Sauvignon Blanc.
Oh this is good.
This is the best so far!
I get a lot of that earthy taste.
Minerals.
The apricot is really good.
The balance of the cheese, wine and fruit here is perfect. Best pairing yet.
This is the best.
Team favorite!
Wait, I liked the one with the beet.
That's just because you liked the beet.
Oh, you're right. 
I'll have another apricot. 
I like that one.
The Camembert? Why?
It's close to me.
And ...
I don't know - it keeps getting better.
You're right. It is better after it warms up a bit. 
Oh my, look at the neighbor's Christmas display going up across the street ...
When are you putting up your Christmas tree?
Well, Bob is going out of town, so I can't put it up this week.
Kevin can do it.
Huh? 
Worst day of the year: the day the tree goes up. Best day of the year: the day I take the tree to the curb.
Oh you're terrible. 
Okay, two more left. This is the garlic and dill chevre on a cucumber, in your glass keep the Sauvignon Blanc.
This is my favorite. It tastes like a really good appetizer.
It's creamy, almost like cream cheese.
I made a mistake and had the beer afterward. It was good though.
The dill is overpowering.
I'm going to have another apricot.
Alright, last one. This will be the strongest of the cheeses. The most powerful. This is the Red Cloud and its paired with New Glarus' Belgian Red.
I got this beer when Lyla was born by the way. We had time to kill while we waited to meet her, so naturally I took the opportunity to stock up on Wisconsin beers.
Did I already tell you the Packers won and the Bears lost today? Great day.
Whoa. It's pungent.
It's supposed to have hints of barnyard.
Yes, this cheese has lots of power. So powerful. So strong.
Stop, Bob.
Wow, the beer is good. Almost tastes like champagne.
You aren't supposed to eat a pickle.
Lo said you can have a pickle whenever. You don't have to wait for a pickle.
I've been eating the apricots the whole time.
Wow, the cheese is salty.
Really salty. 
It's smelly, but it doesn't taste that smelly.
Yeah, it tastes a lot better than it smells. 
The rind is gritty - kind of tastes like sand on the outside. Reminds me of the ocean. 
Wow, they were all delicious.
And such beautiful presentation.
I'm definitely going to buy some of these ...

My discriminating tasters were promised dinner, so from the cheese room we headed into the dining room, and finished the tastings with the Queso de Mano, which provided the topping for David Lebovitz' spinach cake. Next to the spinach was Thomas Keller's rack of lamb from his Ad Hoc at Home cookbook and roasted fingerlings. 

And the perfectly fitting finale - Aunt Ann's cheesecake.

So what did I learn from this experience? Well, I believe that cheese, great cheese, has an infectious kind of magic on a crowd. One doesn't have to be a verbose foodie with the most discriminating palette to find it and appreciate it. In fact sometimes, it actually takes the more down to earth person to bring a cheese tasting out of its shell and turn it into something more. The magic of Haystack's cheese and the process of tasting and enjoying it, piece by piece, smear by smear, slowed us down. It created the most lively conversation and sparked some of the best family stories. In all, the abridged dialogue captured above lasted about two hours, one anecdote wove into another, laughter compounded, and whatever stress was brought to the table, quickly disappeared. In my opinion, the best pairing to each of Haystack's cheeses is a group of great people to share them with. 
 
But for my foodie readers, the team would certainly recommend the Haystack peak, at room temperature, served with some dried apricots and a subtle Loire Valley Sauvignon Blanc. That was heaven.

Thank you for this wonderful experience, Haystack Mountain, Laurel and John. Netti, you never disappoint.

Lo.

Counting Down

Yesterday, Peter and I made a stop at the neighborhood Hallmark store. With the slow, methodical scan of a stubborn bar code by one of the card shop's most aged employees and the swipe of my card, I felt much better equipped for the holiday season. Mission Advent calendar was successful. And while the two day late selection was rather pitiful, I did return home with the bonus of getting to open two doors worth of prayerful words in a row.

In my lifetime, I've opened about 700 windows on little paper Advent calendars.  And at the age of 30, I still love the process: the slow reveal of sacred scripture, the private ritual, and the sweet anticipation of my favorite day of the year. 

This year though, I feel like I've been unlocking window after window of a seemingly never-ending Advent calendar for the past six months. TheBump.com as well as other click-here-for-all-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-pregnancy sites, invite women to count down, week by week with them, to their due date. From week one to week 40, the so-called experts at The Bump give you the opportunity to open a new page that corresponds with your baby's maturation. But instead of a prayer, piece of chocolate, or cartoon of something I might find under the Christmas tree, each page contains a fruit or vegetable, representing the approximate weight and size of baby Lo. Along with this visual, are facts and figures related to her development and the side effects for me. 

Last Wednesday, I opened window number 26. What started as a poppy seed, and progressed to a kiwi, pear, then cantaloupe, is now the size of a head of lettuce - about 14 inches; 2 pounds. She is getting cuter, growing eyelashes, batting those eyelashes, starting to take breaths, and kicking (in my case, a lot.) Good news for baby meant more unpleasant perks for me: headaches, trouble sleeping, and minor to major swelling. Awesome. 

Next week, I'll be turning the corner and opening the last window of my second trimester. While I've been pretty patient thus far, I'm thinking this next phase of the count down will be a lot like those last ten days of Advent. The days when excitement is building, when you just want to rip open every last window left in the calendar, when the Santa-induced insomnia escalates, and when you try to make each day as fun and busy as possible so Christmas comes a little faster.

So through this Advent portion of my nine-month countdown, from week 27 to week 31, my plan is to curb the restlessness with a day-by-day countdown of project and party ideas, recipe and restaurant tastings, and the moments and memories that make the month of December so amazing. 

As a preview, tomorrow brings a Haystack Mountain Goat Cheese tasting, aunts, cousins, and a full dining room table.

Lo.

Onward to Victory

On Monday night, we had pizza for dinner.

These personalized, prosciutto topped portions were actually supposed to be the finale of a celebratory brew and bake day in honor of Notre Dame's historic 12-0 season on Sunday. However, there was a delay of game.

About three quarters of the way into brewing Peter's Irish Stout, I checked on my blanketed dough. I had kneaded, divided it, shaped it into little balls, and covered them about four hours ago, so by now, they should have been pretty puffy. But they hadn't moved - not even an inch. Each of the little balls looked lazy, lethargic, and stubborn. I got mad at them, opened up the garbage, and threatened to end their existence. But Peter stopped me. He told me to give them a chance - maybe they just needed more time to grow. So I tucked in the little balls of dough for a good night sleep, hoping they would work their magic by morning.    
 
In the meantime, we called in reinforcements from Baldinelli's Pizza in Hinsdale. Pizza was on my mind - pizza was for dinner. It just wasn't as good as the homemade kind, especially at their Hinsdalian price point. 

The next morning, I woke up to the pleasant surprise of expanding dough. And when I got home from work, those little balls had reached a perfect consistency. I had never seen this happen before. Perhaps it had something to do with the aging packet that I drew a 1/4 teaspoon of yeast from, but in the end, against all the odds, those little strains worked. The spotlight was now on me to toss and top the dough, shaping each ball into an edible masterpiece. I went with an unlikely combination of prosciutto, frisee, spicy tomato sauce, jardiniere and mozzarella. The results were back to back wins. And a very happy crowd.

In a way, the delayed satisfaction of this pizza dinner on Monday night was a more fitting way to celebrate the Fighting Irish. All season long, it took a certain formula for them to win - the same kind of formula that Peter and I used to design a winning pizza play. It took outstanding coaching and decision making at critical moments. It took teamwork - even the unlikely kind. It took a will and a determination to get it done. And it took a very patient fan base, who after 23 years can tout their team as not only relevant, but dominant and on their way to the National Championship Game in Miami.

Our Irish household is so proud of this amazing team and their amazing season.
Go Irish, beat the SEC.

Lo. 

Prosciutto Pizza
(Makes four personal pizzas) 

Ingredients:
Pizza Dough
28 ounce can whole tomatoes, crushed with your hands
1/4 cup yellow onion, chopped
4 cloves of garlic, chopped
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon sugar
Salt
Crushed red pepper
16 slices prosciutto
Several bundles of frisee
3 big balls of fresh mozzarella, sliced 
1/4 cup jardiniere in olive oil  

Directions:
In a medium sauce pan, saute onions and garlic until tender, about three minutes. Add tomatoes in their sauce and seasoning. Let simmer on low heat for 45 minutes or until most of the juice has steamed off. Puree into a smooth sauce using a food processor. Set aside.

Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Place a pizza stone in the oven and heat through.

Spread out a ball of dough and assemble your pizza. Sauce first, then about four prosciutto slices, then frisee, then mozzarella, and top with jardiniere. Use some of the olive oil in the jar and brush the edges of the crust.

Place pizza on stone and bake for 10-15 minutes or until golden brown. Repeat this process with the remaining balls of dough.

Thanksgiving - Part Two

A year ago, I took the liberty of bragging about Thanksgiving at my parents' house. While my Mom irons the tablecloth and napkins, sets the tables and scrutinizes over seating arrangements, my Dad prepares a meal over a 28 hour time frame that is quite nearly perfection: turkey, dressing, and giblet enhanced gravy; cloud-like mashed potatoes, peas, and jewel-like cranberry molds that proudly assert themselves on silver platters; a basket full of Parker House rolls (and cornbread), Aunt Dee's pumpkin pies, Aunt Joyce's signature turkey cookies, and a happy, hungry family spread around the perimeter of three tables.

After volunteering to host the holiday this year, I started to get a little nervous. Sure, I'd been helping my Dad in the kitchen all my life. But I'm a perfectionist. The bar that's been set is sky high; I have one of the smallest kitchens in the Western Suburbs; and my Dad wouldn't be here to coach and assist.

It started with a Sunday evening phone call. I told my Dad that I was going to host Thanksgiving and pleaded for the tricks to his masterful performance. While much of it comes from 30 years of practice - getting the timing, tuning and trimming just right; the recipes and recommendations that make up this supper are in a letter that my Grandma wrote to my Dad back in November of 1982. I would have been eight months old at the time. My Dad made a copy of the letter and sent it to me.

In about seven pages, my Grandma details her methodology for the perfect turkey dinner. From making a rich stock the night before using the turkey neck and giblets, to drying cubed bread in the oven overnight, to using the stock and minced giblets to moisten and season the stuffing before carefully filling the bird. Her beautiful handwriting taught me the finer points of buttering, basting, and baking. And through her words, I was able to recreate flavorful gravy and carefully, gently remove her pure cranberry mold onto a silver platter.

Having her handwritten words at my side, brought her and my Dad to the kitchen with me. I could particularly hear her in the side comments throughout her instructions.
'We use the neck for snacking the day before.'
'Baste every 45 minutes. Careful, it's hot! Keep Erin and Lauren away.'
And when I came to the end, I wanted to hear more. Mostly because it was unfinished. The last page or so of the letter was lost a long time ago.

She writes, 'I always get excited about the holiday season. I love it. I have our turkey. I had one planned while you were here last summer, but you had to leave too soon. Really this is easy. I know ...'  
I know what?
... that my Dad would make her proud in the kitchen?
... that he would ultimately start playing host year after to year to a growing family that branches into three rooms of seating?
... that he would one day pass on her notes to his daughter, who wanted to carry on her Grandma's traditions in her own small Midwestern kitchen?
... that her granddaughter would one day show her great granddaughter how to create the same feast?
... that ultimately, she would reach hundreds through her recipes?

I don't know. I wish I did.

What I hope though, is that over the past couple days, I made my Grandma and Dad proud of their turkey, stuffing, gravy and cranberries.

I hope I made my Mom proud of my starched linens, place cards, and table settings.

I hope I made Peggy, Jan, Claire, Trent, and Ellie proud to have come over. 

And I hope they all would have been proud of my own sweet addition to the table.

Just a couple words of wisdom to the first time holiday hosts out there. Start small - a party of seven was manageable. Get some helpers involved. Try not to be six months pregnant. And make sure there is a host to your hostess. The guy pouring the drinks, passing the pistachios, carving the turkey, and taking Ellie to see the feeeesh(!) is invaluable.

Lo.

Poached Pear Tart  (Adapted from Bon Appetit) 
 

















Ingredients: 
Pears
2 large Bartlett pears, peeled
4 cups water
Half of a lemon, juiced
1 cup sugar

Crust
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/4 cup slivered almonds
1/4 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons butter, cut into pieces
1 large egg yolk
1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1/4 cup ice water

Filling
2/3 cup slivered almonds
1 tablespoon all purpose flour
7 tablespoons sugar
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, but cooled
1 large egg
1/4 teaspoon almond extract

Directions: 
Each of these steps can be made up to two days ahead of time. I would recommend doing this as the flavors build this way.

For the pears: Bring water, sugar and lemon juice to a boil, until sugar is dissolved. Add whole pears. Simmer on medium to medium high heat for 20 minutes. Let the pears cool in their juice. Refrigerate.

For the crust: In a food processor, pulse almonds and powered sugar until fine. In a large bowl, mix together with flour and salt. Using a pastry blender, mix in butter until the mixture looks like pea-size crumbs. Add egg yolk and water a tablespoon at a time, just until the dough comes together. Cover and chill in refrigerator.

For the filling: In a food processor, combine almonds and flour. Add sugar, butter, egg and almond extract. Pulse until smooth. Chill in refrigerator.

When you are ready to bake, preheat oven to 375 degrees. Roll out the dough to fill a large tart pan and press inside the bottom of the pan. (Bon Appetit recommends leaving a 1/2 inch around the edges, then folding it back into the pan to make the crust double thick. I didn't do this, but I think it would have made for a richer crust.) Cover inside with aluminum foil and fill with beans or a couple pie weights. Bake in the oven for 25 minutes. Remove and let cool. Reduce temperature of oven to 350 degrees.

Meanwhile, take out pears. Take off stems, core, and cut into eight equal quarters. Then cut 1/2 inch indentations into the pear parts, horizontally. Carefully splay them a bit. (They will splay more in the oven though, so don't get concerned if they don't look like the picture at this point.)

Fill tart shell with almond filling and gently arrange each pear part. Bake at 350 degrees for 50 - 55 minutes until filling is golden brown. Let cool and set out until you serve. Top with sifted powered sugar. 

Thanksgiving - Part One

When I was in Kindergarten, my class was given a very important Thanksgiving Day assignment. We were asked to create a special, personalized place mat that could be used for dinner with our respective families. We each got a big manilla piece of paper with a paper plate on it. The plate read, 'I'm thankful for.' Our task was to fill in the blank. One of our teachers said she would help with writing and spelling, the other was on lamination duty. This was a big deal project - this was going to be a keeper.

I thought long and hard about what I would write. My Mom? My Dad? Nah, everyone was going to say that. My brother or sister? Same. Didn't have a dog, cat or goldfish. Do, do, do ... it hit me! I started to sound it out. 'Cah' C. C was definitely first. 'Ohh' O. Next was an O. I carefully practiced printing each letter, but started doubting myself when it came to the next ones. I called over Miss Gleason for reinforcement.
"Oh. Hmm. Okay. That's interesting. Well, you'll need an R. N. B. R. E. A. D." 
My chubby hands drummed with excitement at the table as she helped me sound out the word and print the one thing in the world I was most thankful for. Cornbread.

When I got home, I proudly showed my parents my plastic wrapped project. Their response probably fell somewhere in between shock and utter amusement. I don't remember. What I do know is that the lamination job came in handy. My parents are still in possession of that place mat.

***

About a month ago, I met up with a little core planning team in Clarendon Hills to discuss Thanksgiving. As Peggy, Claire and I noshed on some of Scapa's specialties, we started to assemble a plan for an intimate family feast. The first order of business was deciding the locale. Peggy looked to Claire. Claire looked to me. I looked to Peggy. Then I did it - I volunteered the white house with the red door as the backdrop. The motion was seconded. And approved. I couldn't believe it. Was I really going to get to host Thanksgiving? THE meal of the year. I was elated. 

With the setting selected, we started splitting up food and beverage duties. My role was to make sure the turkey, stuffing, gravy, and cranberries were on the table, and I said I could make a tart for dessert. Claire and Peggy took the potatoes, pies, bread basket, vegetables, and wine pairings (just about the most important part.)  

With help from my Dad and my Grandma (more on that tomorrow) I made my shopping lists, created a rough schedule, and as of last night, started my prep work. First up, were a pair of pastries. A poached pear and almond tart to go with the pumpkin and pecan pies. And a little something special for our post-run, pre-Mass, just in time for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade breakfast. A little something or should I say someone inside of me has been craving. I made a traditional Danish Kringle - that flaky, almond pastry that my Aunt Kay used to send my Dad every Christmas. It is the best.  

And yes, I already had a little bite.

This afternoon, the turkey got a pat down, the cranberries slid into their molds, the giblets and turkey neck started simmering, and the bread for the stuffing primed itself for a good, long staling session.

As I cooked, washed dishes, and soaked up the intoxicating seasonal aromas, I thought about all the things I had to be thankful for this year. My wonderful husband, my loving family, my fun-loving friends, my team at work, the little lady inside of me bouncing from one side of my uterus to the other right now, our home, happiness, and health. But on this Thanksgiving eve, I want to say a special thank you to my mother-in-law, Peggy. For all her love, help and support. For welcoming me so dearly into her family. And for letting me host this very special holiday. It really means so much. Oh, and how can I forget - she's the bearer of homemade corn bread tomorrow evening. Definitely thankful for that.

Lo. 

Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Kringle  (Adapted from the Food Network)

Makes Two Kringles - one for the parade, one for the freezer

Ingredients:

For the dough:
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 package dry yeast
1/4 cup lukewarm water
1/4 cup lukewarm milk
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon of salt
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1 egg
2 cups flour

For the Filling:
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened (or even melted)
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1/2 cup confectioners sugar
1/2 cup of chopped almonds

For the Glaze:
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 tablespoon milk

Directions: 
Spread softened butter on a piece of waxed paper to a rectangle about 8x16 inches big. Refrigerate for about 2 hours until it is firm again.

Dissolve yeast in water. Let sit 10 minutes. Add milk, sugar, salt, extract, and egg. Mix well. Add flour and user a wooden spoon or your hands until the mixture comes together to form a dough. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least one hour or until the butter is ready

When both the butter and the dough are ready, remove from refrigerator. Roll out the dough nto a rectangle about 8x12 inches.Cut the sheet of butter in half and lay one piece of it over the middle third of the dough.

Fold one of the thirds of dough without butter over top of the butter layer, then fold the other end over the top of that. (Like you are folding an envelop.) Chill it again for at least two hours or up to overnight.

Remove the dough again and gently roll it into an 8x12 inch rectangle again. Grab the remaining piece of chilled butter, lay it on the dough just like before and fold up like an envelop again. Roll out the dough carefully again into an 8x16 inch rectangle and fold into thirds once more. Refrigerate for another hour or so.

Combine the filling ingredients into a smooth mixture using a food processor.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator and cut it in half width wise. Carefully roll the first half of the dough to a 6x20 inch size. Spread the filling down the middle of your dough and fold inward again like an envelop. Seal the fold with a little water. Place the kringle on a parchment lined baking sheet and form into an oval joining the two ends together. Flatten the whole thing down gently with your hands, sealing the ends with water if need be. Repeat this process with the second half of the dough.

Heat oven to 350 degrees and bake both kringles for 20 to 25 minutes.

Make the glaze by combining the three ingredients into a smooth paste. Remove kringle from the oven, let cool completely, then glaze.

Weighing In

I'm an optimist - possessive of a joie de vivre nearly impossible to extinguish - infectiously excited about the potential of each and every day. With that said though, when I was growing up there were always a couple days that I didn't eagerly anticipate.

First, the day of my annual fitness test in Gym class. Every year, we had to go through a small circuit of physical challenges: sit-ups, rope climb, shuttle run, and the dreaded chin up bar. I remember being able to do a lot of sit-ups and I don't think I was that bad at the shuttle run. But the whole day was plagued with the sad image of me hanging from the chin up bar without the slightest chance of raising my lower body higher than an inch from the ground. I would release my grip, grounded again just in time to see my teacher write a big zero next to my name on the paper and the incredulous faces of my classmates who could all pull themselves up at least one time.

Second, the day of my yearly check-up with my pediatrician was not a favorite. Don't get me wrong, I loved acing the eye test, waiting in the exam room with my Mom while she made me tongue depressor dolls, and the pretzel rods at check-out. But it was the weigh-in that I hated - the mean scale, the number that was just a little too high, and the ensuing lecture about fruits, vegetables and more exercise. Despite being a happy and healthy girl who was quite able to do anything she put her mind to, these two days always chipped away at my developing self esteem. 

Later in life, I found ways to conquer my chin up and weigh-in phobias. That is, absolute avoidance of the unassisted exercise; in college, I always made sure my strength coach or lifting partner was there to give me a much needed boost. And a scientific control of my weight using the calculation of calories in minus calories out with exactitude. Throughout my 20s I found myself proud to step on the scale at the doctor's office, knowing the precision point of balance on the counter. 

Then I turned 29. Then 30, maturing past the need to associate my person with a weight. Then I got pregnant, and at six weeks weighed in at the OB. For the first time in a long time I saw the number rise above my comfort zone. And then I learned that pregnancy demanded a weigh-in every month, and with it, I started seeing that number move farther and farther to the right. 

Last Thursday, I had another weigh in at the doctor's office. It was historic. Horrific. The most I had ever weighed. Even worse than what Natty Ice and Papa John's did to me freshman year of college. Wide eyed, I watched the weight slide to the farthest point on the beam, teetering on the edge of needing to move from the 100-pound weight to the 150-pound one. I took off all my bracelets and shoes to tame it. I stepped off the scale feeling enormous and immediately started to rationalize to the doctor.

'Honestly, it's all in my chest - I've progressed another letter deeper into the alphabet according to Victoria's Secret. This is a really heavy dress, you know? I have a lot more muscle weight than most.'

He just kind of laughed, then actually applauded my weight gain, saying I was right on target. And his prognosis was so satisfyingly easy.
'Just keep on doing what you're doing.'
 
I started to feel better. And on the way home, began to think of the benefits to my compounding weight gain.  

• Pregnancy pants - literally, the best kept secret in women's clothing. Did you know there is a whole line of slacks, including jeans, topped with wide elastic bands. No buttons, no zipper, no girdling yourself into a pair of pants, just pure comfort. I honestly don't know why I didn't discover these before. They could just as easily be my Thanksgiving Day pants, period pants, or went over board on the coleslaw pants.
• People have started to tell me that I look beautiful - that my gut is cute - that I have a glow. It's quite nice, even if I think it's partially a lie.
• I feel like I've become a much more fruitful apple cider presser - last weekend, I was able to put a lot more oomph into the wheel as we juiced 112 pounds of apples into 5 gallons of cider. 
• Because Peter feels bad that my back is bothering me given the new weight that is gathering up front, he's been offering many more back rubs.
• That one extra cookie that I always want isn't going to do any harm at this point. So I'm eating it.
• And most importantly, with every pound I gain the little girl inside of me grows stronger. In fact, she's strong enough now, that I've been feeling her wiggling around inside of me all day long. And I think she may even be using her new found arm strength to practice some chin ups. 

Lo.

A Better Seat in the House

Last weekend, I watched the Notre Dame game from section 32, row 30, seat 1. Along with about 30 other people in front of and behind me, I had THE best seat in the house, perfectly positioned on the fifty yard line, behind the ND bench, in beautiful Notre Dame stadium.

As we settled in for the afternoon, we started to meet our neighbors. To the left - New Yorkers. To our right - middle-aged men on their annual mancation. Behind us - season-ticket holding alums who have held their golden tickets for decades. And in front of us - a family of six, book-ended by a jovial mom and dad. However, the seat right in front of me was still open when the game started.

On perhaps the first down of the second series, a vocal 60-something woman laid claim to her spectacular seat. As she moseyed closer to seat 1, row 29, she yelled, 'Everyone up! We didn't beat Oklahoma because we sat down all game. EVERYBODY UP!'

No one stood up.
Someone said sit down.
I raised my arms in perplexity, and just started laughing. Was she seriously going to stand the whole game?
She continued her diatribe, coaxing the section to rise and cheer. But to no avail. The seasoned crowd of sitters remained glued to their number on their bench.

This whole scenario put me in an uncomfortable position. I couldn't see a thing. I didn't want to stand, because then I would be blocking the view for more people. So I ended up spending the majority of the first quarter straining my neck to peak around the woman, as the Fighting Irish and the Panthers moved up and down the field.

Then the 'best' seat in the house got even worse. My sister got tense. The New Yorkers joined her cause. The sedentary season ticket holders prepped their Irish tempers. And the campaign to tame the woman commenced. My sister reached over me and tapped her on the back, 'excuse me, Ma'am, please sit down. My sister is pregnant and can't stand the whole game.'
Oh geez. Really? Blame it on me?
The woman turned directly around to face me and scoffed, 'I was there in Oklahoma when we won. I stood the whole time, along with everyone else! That's how we win. Stand up!'
I shuttered in humiliation as the New Yorkers joined in, weaving a colorful tapestry of commentary about the woman and her need to stand. 
She came back with an all too familiar rationale, 'I was at Oklahoma for the win. You weren't there.'
With that the whole section erupted.
'You had nothing to do with it!'
'Sit down you old bag.'
'You're f-ing selfish'
'You bitch'
'You're f-ing selfish.'
'Please, my oldest is 13 years old and we never use that kind of language.'
'STAND UP!'
'SIT DOWN!' 
'STAND UP!'
'SIT DOWN!'
I honestly found the whole thing hysterical. And to my amazement, through all of that, the woman continued to stand, feat firmly planted on her piece of cement 29 rows above the fifty yard line, making everyone else with the best seat in the house want to move into the peanut gallery.

***

Last night, we were at home for the game. And even though I was 1000 miles removed from the action, in our basement, and sitting next to a Super Fan who was all to eager to cheer for his Alma Mater to upset ND like they did in '93, I felt like I had a better seat than my best seat in the House that Rock Built. It had a little to do with the Italian Beef sandwich in my hand, and a lot to do with my completely stress-free, obstruction-less view. 

With Alabama's big loss and another good win, the Irish are closing in on #1.

Lo.

Italian Beef Sandwiches 
Serves 4 with leftovers


(With the exception of a constant desire to carbo load, I haven't really had any cravings during my pregnancy, otherwise known as a steady weight gain. However, when I eat something that I really like, I really want to have it again soon. On Thursday night, on a buffet table at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Springfield, I discovered a crock pot full of Italian Beef, and proceeded to go to town on it. I knew then and there that a Casey's roast would be taking an 8-hour plunge in my Dutch oven on Saturday.

This is literally the easiest recipe I've made in a long time. And yes, I cheated and used a spice packet. But let me tell you, this meal is melt in your mouth delicious. Slow roasted beef on French rolls, stacked with gardinier and some melted provolone, served with a side of cole slaw and homemade applesauce is heavenly. )
 
2 pound round roast, cut in half (I trimmed some of the thicker pieces of fat too)
1 onion, sliced
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup water
Louie's Italian Beef Seasoning (I used 2/3s of 1 packet)
Hot Gardinier
French rolls
Provolone cheese, sliced

Season roast with salt and pepper. Heat oil in a medium Dutch oven and brown roast on all sides. Add onions, pushing to the bottom and sauteing for 3-4 minutes. Add water and seasoning packet. Let simmer on low for 7-8 hours, until the beef shreds very easily.

After 7-8 hours, the liquid should be reduced significantly, shred the beef in the same pot, and stir to incorporate everything. Serve on toasted rolls, top with gardinier and provolone. 

Hall of Famer

Just about every summer, my family spent ten days in Illinois. There were always two stops on the itinerary: first, Quincy, to visit my grandparents and second, Springfield, to visit my Aunt Ann and Uncle Dick.

When it came time to go back to school in the fall, my 'what did you do this summer?' speech always touched on the fun my family and I had in the Land of Lincoln. With a descriptor of just about the smallest kind of dot on the map, it took stories of Spring Lake, the best lunches in the world, and Maid Rites to help pronounce the stature of Quincy. Although Springfield got a star instead of a dot and although most of my classmates knew it was the Capitol, I was the only one who knew what made Illinois' star shine. It was this little white house and the two people that lived in it.

There, you could find a freezer in the basement lined with the most perfectly shaped miniature chocolate chip and snickerdoodle cookies. In the morning, there was homemade coffee cake - and I always got just the slice that I wanted - one with a pecan on it instead of one with a cherry. In the house, you felt like you were surrounded by all-stars. My cousins, Bob, Dan and Ted, who had all grown up in this house, had been city and then state champions year after year. There were baseball trophies lining shelf after shelf in the room where my brother stayed. This was also the home of my cousin, Jane, a ballerina, gymnast, and cheerleader. My idol. I dreamed of the day when I could be as light as a feather so a cheerman could throw me up in the air on the Marquette basketball court just like her.
   
Everyday, Aunt Ann and Uncle Dick would take us to their pool which had a sky high diving board. And with their encouragement and support, I gained the courage to dive off. When we went to mass, they always got up before Communion to help the priest pass out of the hosts. They were big time. And everyone knew them. And outside in their yard, was a field of dreams - a perfectly manicured lawn where everyone had a chance to bat, where my Uncle Dick, the announcer called every play, and where sister, brother and I were coached to be champions. 

I remember stepping up to bat - the big red bat that is. Uncle Dick would say, 'here comes the slugger.' I just loved that. He would call every ball until I made contact, slamming the little wiffle ball as far as I could. 'Oh my - there it goes.' My sister would run after it to try to prevent a home run, throw it into the plate, where my brother and I would collide League of their Own style, waiting for Uncle Dick's call. 'Safe!' I felt like I was on my way toward becoming the best Sacred Heart Softball player the league had ever seen.

When the game came to end in my mind, I would run inside to help Aunt Ann with dinner or play a game with my sister. But for my brother and Uncle Dick, the game went on. This is when it got serious. The Cardinals and Pirates were in extra innings, and my Uncle Dick would continue calling every play as he pitched and my brother swung the bat, hoping to hit it over the house, into the street. As much as it probably hurt him, he would always give the Pirates the win, and they would come in for dinner, congratulating each other on a game well played.


In a little bit I'll be heading back to Springfield to say goodbye to my Uncle Dick. He passed away last weekend after a long fight against strokes and ensuing medical complications. 

Beyond being a highlight of every one of my summers growing up, my Uncle Dick was a mathematician, an educator, a leader, and manager. He was a brother, husband, father, grandfather, and friend. He was a comedian and an avid sports fan. And he was one of the best coaches that the great state of Illinois has ever seen. Simply put, he brought the best of out of people. And he leaves a legacy of amazing players - a roster full of all-star Meckes' behind. A team that in my mind will always be unbeatable.

Heaven's Hall of Fame is waiting, Uncle Dick.

Lo.