The Fabulous Food Babe: Suburban New York Living, Eating, Cooking, and Cussing

New Yorkers are the best.  After mr. Foodbabe’s experience today, I’m sure that they perpetrate the “mean New Yorkers” stereotype to keep up appearances.

Mr. Foodbabe is “that guy” I always grumble about — the one whose car dies in a very bad place at a very bad time.  This is generally during a real rush hour or my own personal time crunch, usually on a bridge.  The cars are generally old and the people, generally befuddled.  Both describe Mr. FB and his mode of transportation (ahem; he’s not old but he is befuddled, to be honest).

He decided to take the old Saab to work so he could drive over to a meeting mid-day, blah blahblah.  As soon as he got on the FDR, the clutch on that wonderful old machine just stopped working which means the car stopped, um, working.  Augh, he was that guy!  But it appears that other New Yorkers are more charitable than I — someone helped him move his car out of the traffic,and someone else helped him push it to a service station.

The good news:  All the car needs is a new clutch cable (I keep typing, “clutch cargo” :-D).

The best news:  Thanks to the other commuters, his discomfort was held to a minimum.

So, thank you, all who helped my sweet husband.   I sure wish I could put it up on a billboard.  And honestly, it takes — what — five minutes to make someone’s day go from lousy to “not so bad.” Thank you, everyone.

***

As for my eating — hah.  Can you say “blender”?   I have braces, and I am ready to have them off.  Ever since the last wire was put into place, I immediately craved apples, caramel pretzels and focaccia.  this is going to be a long nine months.

***

Blogstats:  Friends on the beach in Florida:  1 (100% of Scottsdale, AZ friends).

For the first time ever, a Zappo’s box arrived at our house with nothing in it for moi.

I’m very disappointed in myself — I forgot, until I saw the news, and even there, it was an afterthought.

July 20, 1969: the moon landing. I remember watching it on television … One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. We all ran outside and looked up at the moon, certain we could see the astronauts planting a flag. We thought that if we were still alive in the year 2000, we’d be living there. Just for reference, I was 12 in 1969. I assumed that my grandchildren would be living on the moon in the year 2000 and that, at the age of 43, I’d probably be dead or senile (half of that is right!).

Among other things we assumed we’d be doing in the year 2000: riding around in space cars a la the Jetsons, having robots clean our houses (does the Roomba count?), eating food from packets (part of that is on the mark).

I sure didn’t think I’d be living in Westchester, with kids still in school, a cool kitchen, and on the internet, blabbing away for anyone to see.

Domino sugar has a new product — Brownulated sugar. (I’m not sure how new this product is — no doubt I’m a little, um, behind the times. Edited to add: Um, it’s really been around a long time, just not anywhere I’ve been.) New to me, at least. Anyway, apparently *someone* found it far too difficult to firmly pack brown sugar in a cup, and keep it sealed in a plastic bag when not in use, so it doesn’t harden. rumor has it, that it’s white sugar spray-painted with molasses and left to dry on sheets. I tried rubbing some off on a towel and it stayed brownulated.)

The Brown(ulated) sugar promises a clean pour and to be equally interchyangeable with regular, packed, un-ulated brown sugar. It costs about $1.70 for a 14-oz bag, which translates to $2.10/lb — ouch.
Yeah, it pours. It’s brownish. But three batches of chocolate chip cookies later, I wouldn’t use it again. The baked products have a different texture, and the flavor is not as deep and interesting. We’ll keep it around for the odd houseguest who still believes that anything brown is healthier than anything white. And we won’t go into the “marijuana better than tobacco?” discussion with them,either.
***
So el Secondo brings me a gift the other day — raspberries. Okay, five of them. He picked them from a random bush that just appeared next to our driveway.


as you can see, they’re tiny, and very, um, red. Not the deep purplish color on the berries I got from a roadside stand in Sag Harbor last week, and certainly not as sweet, but still — raspberries. How cool is that? Last year, we had some random cherry tomatoes appear in a planter. they, too, were beauties and tasted just fine.
***
Blogstats:
-Percentage of my friend Lois’s grandsons who are gorgeous and smart: 100% (2) they are only four, but have a great sense of humor, too.
-Percentage of FoodBabe automobiles that are Saab convertibles: 50% (2), up from 33% (1). We buy a new one every 11 years whether we need it or not.
-Degree of my infatuation with the new car: off the charts. Got a feel for my automobile.

Twenty years ago today, Firstie arrived.  Okay, he didn’t *just* arrive, we had ample warning.  We lived in Cincinnati, Ohio, where I was born and raised — until then,my major life change had been moving from the West Side to the East Side (long-timers and lifers will understand how huge that was).

Two weeks after he was born, I arrived in Modesto, California, in a big white Caddy that Mr.Foodbabe’s new company had rented for us, with a drugged-out Basset Hound named Bogart.  Firstie didn’t scream for the flight from Cincinnati to SanFrancisco, but he screamed the rest of his first two months of life.  Oy.

But I digress.  Birthday dinners, I promised.  When I was a kid, I didn’t get birthday parties, but I did get a whole day without chores and the dinner and cake of my choice.  I always chose t-bone steak and marble cake.  I can’t remember the ice cream, but I’m sure it came from the United Dairy Farmer store down the block.  Chocolate chip, perhaps.

Firstie informed me yesterday that, while there will be NO singing to him, he would like to dine en famille tonight before going off to whoop it up with his friends (”some whooping.  Twenty is a lame age.  Now, twenty-one …”  Some things Moms don’t need to know, eh.).  He requested, for his birthday dinner:

Grilled chicken from Pizza Station, sushi rice with Pearl River light soy sauce, caesar salad, and Funfetti cake.  Happy Birthday, my firstie.   How could it have gone so fast?

***

I’ve noticed a new trend on television that makes me miss the horrifying, yet fascinating, view of Dennis Franz’s naked butt from NYPD blue.   On camera barfing!  Whose idea was that, anyway?  what group of suits sat at a great big table and said to themselves, “well, we still can’t show boobies but we need to shock people.  What can we do?”  It’s not fake-barfing, either (like in “The Great Santini”) but people barfing on camera, with stuffcoming out of their mouths.  Bleah.  I’d rather see a** any day, even Dennis Franz’s.

Besides theobvious*, I just ordered a new charcoal grill.   Our house in Atlanta had a wonderful built-in grill, but we have always had a charcoal grill on the side.  I think our little Weber was held together with duct tape by the time Jean-Luc destroyed it by dragging it down the steps.

Coupled with my reignited passion for grilling, we decide to get a new one. The indoor grill on the BlueStar is wonderful, but we needs us some charcoal and a place to smoke stuff outside.

I know what I want.  I know where I’m supposed to be able to buy it.  My options are simple:

A.  Retail, bricks’n'mortar stores.  To shop there, I have to drive around (with gas at $4.85/gal) to see if the stores do, in fact, have what I want because no stores answer their phones any more and just because *they* say they have it doesn’t exactly mean they DO have it (and if they do, who says you’re going to get it?  At one large chain, employees run the other way when customers approach).  then, you get to see if the damned thing will fit in the back of the car.  Generally, it won’t, because you have to bring extra people to help wrestle with the box

-or, my ever-increasing purchasing place of choice -

B.  amazon.com.

I chose B.  I went online, plugged what I wanted into their search engine, chose what I wanted, and pointed-n-click’ed.  And best of all:  Since I’m an Amazon Prime customer, I get next-day delivery for $3.99 (and i’ll get to see my favorite UPS guy!).

Have I said “woo hoo” lately?

(*disclaimer:  I bought Amazon stock at $24, when the Mad Money guy said it was a bad idea.  Who’s your daddy, Mr. C.?)

just got back from a week at the Cuinary Institute of America at Greystone. I,and 14 others, took a class called “Fire and Spice” where — you got it — we grilled spicy foods. Well, that’s kind of simplified, but I think you get it. I am full of new ideas, have no hair on my forearms from putting bread in the tandoori, and fat and hoarse from eating and laughing with three of the craziest women out there.

Chef Lars Kronmark: the best. The school, the town, the weather: Gorgeous. I’ve done these professional CE courses before and have always enjoyed them, but this time we had the big four: Great chef, great class, great surroundings …and great classmates. We had a diverse, professional group who knew how to have fun while staying focused. We cooked, listened, talked, shared, about work, food, family, dogs, and kids… It was terrific.

A few snaps:

On our last day, we spent a few hours at the Farmers Market in St. Helena. there is nothing, absolutely nothing, like a nectarine straight from the tree. or tomatoes and herbs from the field.

My favorite stand: pastries (these nice people sell from Bouchon and Sweetie Pie’s). See the adorable child in front of the case? he acquainted me with Chet the Rooster in the cage. (I think his name was Chet. He *looks* like a Chet, doesn’t he?)

:

I managed to snag a few non-food essentials, as mementos:

Chile peppers, pumpkins, monkeys … and weird dancing people.

What a great week. Thank you, Chef Lars, and my classmates. See you soon, I hope?

***
Shout outs:
-Mr. Foodbabe and the amazing Gene M., for kicking heinie at the club Member-guest and bringing home the $$ (and placing second gross).
-El Secondo for finishing his exams and kicking heinie at them, as well.
-Firstie, for picking me up at the airport at the bright hour of 5 a.m.
-heyAnnette, for successfully surprising her ‘rents in Illinois

***

Kid of the week: Secondo, who called me on Sunday to ask for a favor. I said, “I might consider it, if I weren’t just leaving the Oakland Airport!” Yeesh!

Yanno, it might occur to McDonald’s and BurgerKing that, instead of halting all tomato use in the restaurant, they maybe, I dunno, it’s crazy, but — they maybe should just freaking train and/or manage their employees?  Junk gets from food to customers when the employees aren’t taught to wash their hands, or keep the raw food away from the food that will be cooked.

I can’t get a head of steam up over it right now.  Tim Russert is dead, and I am so sorry for his family first, and for the rest of us.  There aren’t many real reporters out there these days — we have lots of windbags, news babes (news ‘hos), guys who get tingles when Barama speaks, and such.   He will be missed.

I love softshell crabs. I love their little twitching eyes and the way the eyes stay open after you remove them. I really love telling the fish guys “no thanks, I’ll clean them myself.” they always look funny at me and start to ask if I know what the h*ll I’m doing, but then they just shake their heads and give me the suckers. I love eating them whole, with my hands. I love their little legs poking out of the sandwich buns. I love them on salads. I love how it disgusts my family.

I don’t do anything horrible like save the eyes and put them on my husband’s plate. Yet. Here’s what I did with them last night:

Mix some Old Bay seasoning with some buttermilk. put the crabs into the buttermilk for an hour or two. Pull ‘em out, shake off some of the buttermilk, and dredge them in a little flour. Pan-fry for a few minutes. Set aside until the shrimp you’re grilling is done, because your husband won’t eat the softshells. he just … can’t. SIGH.

I had these with a little bit of orzo cooked in stock and shallots, and some really good Romesco’ish sauce.

-A great, big tomato. About a half-pounder, roasted and peeled and chopped. (Live dangerously — go ahead!) A couple of sun-dried tomatoes with the oil. A red pepper, about 1/4 pound, roasted and peeled and chopped. Three or four garlic cloves, smashed and peeled (and little green shoots removed, if they’re there). About a 1/4 cup of almonds and hazelnuts, toasted and skinned. An ancho chile, soaked for a half-hour in warm water, seeded. Red pepper flakes, like the kind Pizza Hut puts in the little shakers on their table. All of the above put into smoking hot olive oil and cooked for a while. Cooled and put into a food processor, along with …

-Some capers, fresh parsley (from my garden), red wine vinegar, and white bread cut into cubes.

Whirl it all together until it’s the consistency you want. Taste and season, add stock if you want to thin it a bit.

It’s great immediately, but even better the next day.

Now then. Foods that look like a**, because this blog is about cussin’, too. My younger son refused to eat apricots, peaches and nectarines the moment he saw them, for one reason: “they look like butts.” They do, don’t they?

So on Friday night Mr.Foodbabe and I joined some friends for a little golf outing.  By the convoluted calculations of the golf staff, we were not the winners.  As a tribute to Senator C., we declared our opponents “selected,” and suspended play.  We received no recognition or prizes but had a heck of a party.

what is it about golf and food?  Both are easy to do badly.  both can never be perfected.  World-class golfers and chefs have off days, but they keep coming back for more.  People who golf or cook well, even with enthusiasm and some skill, think they can go pro.  But like anything, it all changes when you have to make money at it.  I’m reminded of this as someone I know well, who I’m rooting for all the time, missed the cut for the Open by one stroke.  ONE.   One day it’ll happen for him and until then, he keeps playing, and teaching, and practicing.

The rest of the weekend was all about food and cooking.  El Secondo called me from his date and said that he and his friend were in need of my pork ribs, so I made some.  Mr. Foodbabe and I had a jones for fish tacos — and hit on an amazing sauce for them (recipe follows).  Jean-Luc and Nigel were sick because of something nasty that they ate, but no one else seemed ill affected by my cooking, thank god.

So:  Friday was YoYo* night for the boys.  Saturday, I made omelettes with cheese, K-Paul’s blackening spice, and Caribbean Condiment.  Then I made made barbecued pork ribs with my version of Saratoga Chips (mmmMontgomery Inn), a batch of soft rolls for sandwiches, grilled fish tacos with a really good sauce, and a pound cake.  On Sunday, I made honey wheat bread, cheeseburgers, and potato salad that Mr. Foodbabe did not like at all, and biscuits for strawberry shortcake.  And then the strawberry shortcake. 

I considered, but did not make, creme brulee, strawberry ice cream, skirt steak fajitas, shrimp with romesco sauce, popovers, bagels, and pork dumplings.

Smoky Chile Citrus Sauce

Makes  about 1 1/4 cups

1 cup Mayonnaise (your own or Hellman’s)

1 Tablespoon orange juice or lime juice, or some of each

1 Tablespoon of that sludy stuff in the bottom of the Chiles in Adobo, or 1 tablespoon of the pureed chiles themselves.

A little salt, a little white pepper, and blend well.  It’ll taste even better if you let it stand in the refrigerator for a half-hour or so.

Tacos were consumed in front of another episode of the late, great HBO series — The Wire. What a great show — Mr.Foodbabe and I started watching this on DVD during the writer’s strike and we’re addicted.  We’re almost done with Season three.  anyway,  I know Jimmy McNulty is not his real name, and someone said he’s not really a detective but plays one on TV.   It’s usually not my style to dump one TV boyfriend for another so quickly, but I had no choice.  Hugh hasn’t shaved since last summer, and Jimmy McN shows his heinie on screen.  Yeah, I’m easy.

(*) YoYo:  You’re On Your Own.

Or should that be, “walksabout?”  Any Aussies out there?

The schedule for Marissa’s Kitchen, summer 2008, is up and running.  We’ve been doing a few smallish classes and are finally ready to run with this thing.   Go to www.MarissasKitchen.com for more details. And if you have a suggestion about classes, or want to schedule something private or for a group — let me know.

I’ve decided that when I start a cooking school for kids, it’ll be called Marissa’s Marmitons.  I like the scullery connotation, to be sure, but Marmiton can be a boy or a girl, and I like it.  I had a chef at the CIA who had Marmiton for his license plate, and I wanted it.  Still do. So, Chef Coyac, when you’re ready — I’ll take it off your hands.

The first Walkabout is scheduled for June — I’ll be at the CIA’s Greystone campus for a week of professional Continuing Education.   I’ve taken such classes at the Hyde Park campus and always came out of them with some new professional buddies and a lesson or two.  Should be interesting.

I have added a Hound Blog to my repertoire, though the dogs won’t sit still long enough for me to shoot an adorable photo of them.  and I can’t sit still long enough to photoshop the photos I do have. SIGH.  But I’ll get there.