I voted for goat and shumai

Thursday marked the start of the Lunar New Year, and like many other people sitting in the bathroom that morning, I heard the lighthearted story on NPR about the varying English translations of this year's animal.

I, of course, would have left it there, but in the comments on that story, there was a link to a super cool website that is having people vote for the representative animal candidate of their choice.

I voted for Goat.  He's a rebel*.  The creators of the site are making donations on all behalf of all the animals to Heifer International, so every vote really does count.  Go vote, and let me know who you picked!

So I'm now fully in the spirit of the whole thing, and had some time on my hands because it was raining in Los Angeles and we were all confined to our homes**.  I decided to celebrate the Lunar New Year by making homemade Chinese shu mai dumplings and potstickers.***



Ram they were good.
In fact, they were baaaaaaantastic.
Goat thing this celebration only happens once a year.

I think my husband is going to take the radio out of the bathroom now****.

For a truly hype night, bring on the Onion Dip

New Year's Eve is one of those nights that is supposed to be a really big deal, full of champagne and fancy parties and being dressed up and fabulous.   Friends will make clever toasts, everyone in the ballroom will laugh a lot, and there is an off chance that your best friend will show up and propose.

In reality, I find it's a night that rarely lives up to the hype*. Restaurants jack up prices. Bars are slammed with desperately eager fun-seekers. The amateur drunks hit the roads. Hundreds of thousands of crazy people deliberately stand around freezing their collective asses off to watch the clock strike twelve with strangers.

I don't get it.

My kind of New Years Eve involves very little hype. I've had wonderful celebrations that ended at 9:30 pm so our toddlers could turn in, cozy nights at a local bistro with my husband, evenings with cracked crab and vintage wine in a friend's home, pajama parties with my cousin and my sister listening to Casey Kasem counting down the biggest hits of the year, and a memorable turn-of-the-millennium getaway where all but one of the guests came down with the plague at the same time. It was a like a bad British farce, with vomiting, and we still talk about it to this day with some degree of fondness.

Truly, you don't need a glittering disco ball falling from the sky or a big band in tuxedos to usher in the new year. Just grab your friends, open a good bottle of booze, share a great meal, then curl up on the couch or play a rousing game of Celebrity. Toast each other, reflect a bit, vow to be better, and kiss someone you love as the night grows quiet.

Of course, if you still need it to feel like a big, hyped up party, kick the evening off with a bowl of chips and this killer onion dip.

All the truly hype parties come with onion dip.

Best Buds

Ever since my son left elementary school, he and his friends from those days have had an annual tradition of gathering at our house on Superbowl Sunday.  In the early years, the parents came and hung out, too.  We'd be in the kitchen catching up, and the kids would be piled onto couches down the hall. Later on, the boys would be dropped off, clutching a two liter bottle of Sprite and a bag of Doritos to contribute.  They'd cheer and yell at the game and the commercials, run out every once in a a while to refill their bowl from the snack table, play a massive game of touch football at halftime, and generally have a total ball.

Some of the crew, in 5th grade.

At first, the boys were still seeing each other fairly frequently despite being spread out over the city at different middle schools, but as time went on, this became the one day each year that everyone would get together.  Despite each and every one of them towering over me, with their deep voices and facial hair, come February, it was like no time had passed at all for me, or for them.

Six years later

Knowing that almost all of them are now seniors, and will soon be scattering even father apart, I assumed this year's event would be even more of a memorable reunion.   I began pestering my son for details.

Me:  So, have you sent out the invite for your Superbowl party yet?  

Him:  No.

Me:  Oh. OK.  Well, we've been invited somewhere else but I said no.  I was thinking of making you guys some homemade soft pretzels, since everyone loved the pretzel dogs so much that time.  Do you think we should bring back the cookie dough dip, too?  And the wings?  They plowed through the wings last year.

Him:  Um...

Me:  I can't believe this'll be the last one. Wow. 

Him:  Can we talk about this later?

Later:

Me:  OK, what is going on?

Him:  Mom, my friends are all mostly 18 now.  They want to go to parties where they can drink and watch the game, and I don't want them doing that here.  So, let's just skip it, OK?

Me: [Dying a little inside] Oh. Right. Got it.

[Pause]

Good choice, good choice.

So, when I was hanging out with the parents in the kitchen at someone else's house, and the beer commercials came on, I got choked up and more than a little teary as the lyrics played:

'Cause you only need the light when it's burning low

Only miss the sun when it starts to snow

Only know you love her when you let her go

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low

Only hate the road when you're missing home

Only know you love her when you let her go

Not because of the adorable puppy crawling through the fence*, but because of how the brand behind those gloriously maned horses, and all of its brethren, impacted what were supposed to be lifelong friendships.

Best Buds, indeed.

You don't even need the cocktail part

Shriveled up baby sausages floating in warm barbecue sauce from a jar?
Ew.

But, add a jaunty frilled toothpick, and call 'em Cocktail Weenies?

Now they are adorable, slightly naughty, and imply I will soon be having a frosty martini.
Sold.*

That's the power of marketing**.

These delectable, sweet-savory cookies, on the other hand, did not even need to be called Cocktail Shortbread. They could have been called Shriveled Up Baby Sausages in Warm Barbecue Sauce From a Jar with A Side of Tepid Tap Water and the stack would still have flown off the tray.  They are that delicious.

The implied frosty martini is just a lovely bonus.

Possibly over-reacting

Him:  Hey, Mom, I need your credit card so I can pay for my college applications.
Me:

I may have also threatened to impale myself on these skewers.

Carpool Wars: Cease Fire!

WE INTERRUPT OUR NORMALLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING TO BRING YOU THIS IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.

Anchor:  There has been a startling development in the long-running South of the Boulevard Carpool War hostilities.  For more details, we go live to our reporter on the ground.  Are you there?

Field Reporter:  Indeed, I'm here in Encino, where we have learned that a cease fire has been declared by the warring Carpool Moms.  The impetus for this radical shift in the tenor of the dispute was, I am told by my sources, bacon.

Anchor:  Would that be Kevin Bacon? I had heard that both John Kerry and Hillary Clinton have Bacon Numbers of 2 . Given his relatively close connection to those diplomats, is it possible he was involved?

Reporter:  They are not ruling that out, but for the moment, it appears that regular, smoked bacon is responsible.



Anchor:  Can you give us some background here?  How did things reach this critical juncture?

Reporter:  If you will recall, during the most recent skirmish over the braising title, the combatants vowed to take up their oven mitts again, waistlines and livers be damned. Ensnared by the spatula-wielding women and the promise of yet another outstanding meal, innocent children and husbands chose to remain in the thick of the conflict as well. It certainly seemed that there was no end in sight to this dire situation.  In fact, the stakes were raised even higher when it was suggested by a bystander that the next confrontation be focused, not on a particular dish, like bolognese, steak, or tacos, the type of meal, or even a proscribed preparation method, but on just one, single ingredient.  That ingredient? Bacon.

Anchor:   There is precedent for this on the Food Network, I believe, but that battle is massively edited for television, and they have trained staff with them in the arena. These brave women probably had no idea of the danger they were setting themselves up for.

Reporter:  That's exactly right. The whole plan was fraught with peril.  But, as we know, bacon does exert an uncanny power over the human brain.  Experts now believe that just the idea of a bacon-based meal somehow created a unity of purpose in the minds of these former enemies. Instead of pitting their bacon creations against each other, in an unprecedented step, they agreed to collaborate on the dinner.

Anchor: What about the coveted "taste" prize? This is one of the most divisive issues of the whole campaign, is it not?

Reporter:  Stunningly, that was thrown out completely. There was no vote. I repeat, there was no vote, rigged or otherwise. They just happily stuffed themselves and went home.  I spoke with one of the diners on condition of anonymity, and she said it was a tremendous relief not to feel disloyal for voting against her mother, and also that the bacon potato things were really good. Apparently, the new mantra here at Carpool headquarters is, "Everybody wins when dinner is full of bacon."

Anchor:  Incredible. How long can this cease fire possibly hold?

Reporter:  I have it on good authority that Carpool Wars, as we know it, is no more, but that we can expect many more Carpool Truce dinners in the months and years to come.

Anchor:  I think I speak for all of us when I say, "Phew." Thank you.  We'll be following this story closely, very closely, in case they have leftovers, and will bring you updates as we have them.

THIS HAS BEEN A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.



Carpool Wars:  The Bacon Accords

We did, indeed, come together and lay our Le Crueset cookware down for greater glory of an entire meal honoring bacon.  It was a moment for the ages.

The appetizer course was Christy D.'s drool-worthy and addictive Bacon Wrapped Potato Bites with Spicy Sour Cream Dip.  Recipe from The Kitchn.

Christy F.'s tender, smoky bacon-braised chicken dish.   Find the recipe from Fine Cooking here.

Christy D's spectacular BLT salad with Feta, Candied Bacon and Cherry Tomatoes. 

My Mac & Cheese with Bacon, after two teenagers had been through and helped themselves.  

And yes, there was bacon dessert.

Maple Bacon Sugar Cookies 

And the over-the-top Vanilla Ice Cream Sundaes with Pecan Bacon Crunch* and Fleur de Sel Caramel Sauce.

Peace out.

Cherry Blossom Picnics - A memory for Mother's Day

My birthday is in the springtime, mostly. Sometimes it is a cold, chilly day, or a hot blue one, but more often than not the afternoon is barely but definitely warm. We are in the blue Volvo, braids tight and socks folded down over our matching Mary Jane shoes…the white ones, because summer is coming. Dad is driving, and Mom is quiet but smiling a little, because we are almost there and she has a plan in her mind that is coming true.

The car is parked, somehow (I don’t remember that part), and we are on bicycles. Mine wobbles a bit, and I am trying my best to avoid steering myself into the water, the way the bike wants to go. Dad has the picnic on the back of his bike, keeping an eye on my sister with training wheels scooting along. Mom is walking across the grass in another direction, but she is not lost.

We circle the path, and above us are millions of petals, an impossible shade of pink-white, bursting from gnarled branches in a riotous, splendid show. It’s amazing and yet it is exactly what I expect, because my birthday is when the cherry blossoms come out, every year.

It is crowded here. Tourists are taking pictures, people are walking home from work, other children and parents are playing, and cyclists are passing through. A memorial in marble, usually the main attraction, is the backdrop. And all of us are reflected again in the shiny surface of the basin that we are riding around.

Mom has laid out the scratchy wool blanket. I put my kickstand down and run to see, the dirt from my shoes getting onto the blanket. It’s there. The small, round bowl with the Saran wrap on top, next to the big wooden bowl full of Ruffles (it is always Ruffles) waiting for me to go first. We surround it, us four, but my chip is ready and in there before anyone else’s.

Clam dip. Smooth and cream cheesy and slightly fishy, in an oddly approachable way, and tangy-onion-lemony. My mom’s recipe. My favorite. Made just for me, always, on my birthday.

I’m 48 now. My mother is gone. I make the dip on ordinary days. And yet, at the first taste on my chip (it is almost always Ruffles), I feel my mom loving how happy I am.  I see cherry blossoms, the back of my Dad’s bike ahead of me, and my sister’s small Mary Janes furiously pedaling along under a fluffy pink-white sky.

Making a Fort

When we were little, my sister and I used to make forts under the dining table and living room couches.  Only we didn't really call them forts, we called them houses.  We would drape bathroom towels over upside down dining chairs, drag cushions in to make furniture, set up our little china tea sets and populate the various "rooms" with accessories.  Then we'd visit each other, crawling on our hands and knees through makeshift entry ways, comparing notes on the decor and inviting each other over again soon.  We'd have snacks, sometimes pretend ones and sometimes real ones.  Other times, we'd have our guinea pigs join us.  I can't quite remember how old we were then, or when we stopped giggling and started bickering and slamming doors instead.

We're back to being friends again now.

Sadly, my kids never really made forts.
But I still do.
Forts are good things.  Especially the cheese kind.

Keeping the pounds on for you

Humor via George Takei's facebook page

Crispy little chicken wings, via my oven

Given what we ate on Sunday*, next year's Super Bowl will be watched at the gym.  Meanwhile, I just hope the lights go out when I have to put on my jeans.

Do as I say, not as I do

In May, I'm going to be co-hosting a cooking class called "The DIY Dinner Party"*. In the school auction brochure, the tagline for the event is, "Impress without Stress!"**

During the class, I plan to give the attendees some helpful tips for making that simple but compelling statement a reality:

1. Don't use a dinner party as a place to experiment with a new recipe.  Go with something tried and true, so you have confidence in your food.
2. Keep the guest list manageable for your menu.  If you are planning a series of plated courses, for example, make sure you have elbow room and comfortable seating for the group around a dining table.  For larger groups, go with a buffet and allow the guests to spread out among several tables.
3. Expect people to offer to help, and have simple jobs ready for them to do.
4. Pour plenty of wine and cocktails for the guests, but keep your own consumption to a minimum until the dinner is firmly under way.
5. Above all, prepare as much as you can ahead of time, so you can enjoy the festivities yourself.  Sitting down and eating with your guests is the most impressive entertaining accomplishment of them all!

I should totally take that class.

On Monday, I sent my husband an email.

To:  myunsuspectinghusband@gmail.com
From:  youroverambitiouswife@gmail.com
Re:  Birthday dinner party

Can I throw you one on Sunday night? Was going to invite [list of six people].
xxoo

From: myunsuspectinghusband@gmail.com
To: youroverambitiouswife@gmail.com
Re: Birthday dinner party

That sounds nice.  Are you cooking or catering?

From: youroverambitiouswife@gmail.com
To: myhusbandwhoasksgoodbutsillyquestions@gmail.com
Re: Birthday dinner party

Cooking!

[Silence]

On Tuesday, I sent out an evite.

I meant to invite those six people, but then I remembered a few more people he really likes and that we hadn't seen in a while and I thought how it was actually really short notice and a holiday weekend so most people would probably say no so it would be better to ask a few too many than not have anyone show up because how sad would THAT be for a birthday party, right?  So I emailed 16 people instead of 6.

On Wednesday, I pulled out a bunch of cookbooks and spent hours drooling over photos and recipes. I literally had stacks of them all over the family room. I jotted down ideas for a multi-course gourmet meal, complete with passed appetizers.  My husband had requested a whole fish be in there somewhere, even though I'd never cooked a whole fish for him in my life.  No problem!  In fact, that could be, like, the theme of the dinner:

On Thursday, I checked on attendance.
10 people had said yes, four had not replied and two said no.  I texted another couple and invited them, too.  Note: our dining table seats 8.

On Friday, I went to the liquor store.
Because of course, the only recipe I bothered to test ahead of time was the cocktail one.

On Saturday, I was on a roll.  I shopped. I made dip, salad dressing, and Parmesan crisps. I made the vanilla ice cream, the caramel sauce, and the puddings. We had carrot cake and presents and celebrated my husband's birthday as a family until the kids ditched us.

On Sunday, I realized I was about to serve bacon-wrapped fish to an observant Jew and a vegan.

I had another, much larger, test version of the cocktail, opened up some wine, put out the appetizers, answered the door, and hoped for the best.

The Mixed Tuna Carpaccio

The (fortunately) vegan-friendly mixed green salad

The salmon was good, but the mashed potatoes were AMAZING!

They loved it all. My daughter, bribed to be my sous chef, turned out to be a master of carpaccio creation and a plating genius. We squeezed into 15 folding chairs around the dining table, and no one seemed to mind the bumped elbows and interludes between courses.  Food disappeared and glasses were filled, then filled again.  Once the party started, I was too busy to take photos****, but not too busy to catch up with old friends.  We told stories and laughed and mocked my husband a little before wishing him happy birthday with a single red candle in a bowl of hot, molten chocolate decadence.

And somehow, even though I pretty much ignored all my own advice, I did manage to impress.  The stress part still needs some work.

The River Wild

In 1994, the scariest thing on the river was Kevin Bacon.

In 2012, it was my daughter in the front of the raft singing "Mr. Cellophane" at the top of her lungs. Deer fled in terror. Salmon stopped spawning.

And our vacation had just started.
Four days. Thirty five miles down the Rogue River.
Roaring rapids.

Wildlife.

Rustic lodgings.

Time on the water.

Time to just chill.

Hearty, delicious food.

Zero cell service. No wifi. Not even a pay phone*.

Even so, we loved it.

Go**.

Or, to get a taste of our experience at home, try the following.

Wrap everything you own in thick, waterproof rubber bags, then jump in the bathtub fully clothed.
Look for bald eagles.
Climb rocks.
Have some wine.
Hang out with your family.
Make new friends.
Eat.
Turn off all the lights at 10pm.
Sleep better than you have in a long time.
Repeat.

Here are some recipes, one from each lodge we visited, to get you started with the eating part.