The power of the parental lie

When I was little, like maybe 7 or 8 years old, my parents went away on vacation.

To Hawaii.
Without us.

My sister and I were very confused.  Our family always went places together.  This was beyond mystifying. We pestered them with questions.

Where is Hawaii?  
How are you going to get there? 
How long are you going to be gone?

And most importantly,

Why can't we go, too?

Our parents patiently answered every one.

Hawaii is in the middle of the ocean, on the other side of California.
We are going on an airplane.
Seven days.

And then they told the world's greatest whopper.

We're going to go by ourselves first, to make sure Hawaii is fun for kids.

Well, that makes total sense, we agreed contentedly. As children who'd been subjected to many adult-oriented Washington dinner parties and boring work events, we knew all about stuff that was no fun for kids. Mom and Dad were doing us a favor by leaving us behind.  We cheerfully waved good-bye and waited for their report.

A week later, they returned home, literally glowing with happiness.  It turns out that when they landed in Hawaii, beautiful ladies gave them wreaths of flowers.  The beach was right in front of their hotel, they gushed.  The water was as warm as a bathtub, with little colorful fish swimming and swirling around their toes.  There were hula dancers and drinks with umbrellas and a swimming pool with a huge curvy water slide. They ate pineapple every single morning and it was spectacularly delicious.

We stared at them in awe.

Then, they opened up the luggage, and gave each of us a giant lei made entirely of candy bars.

Awe turned to skeptical disbelief*.

Hawaii seems like A LOT of fun for kids.

Our suspicions were well founded. My parents never did take us there**. But when I finally got to go as a grown up, one of the best things about the trip was indeed having pineapple for breakfast every single morning.

It is spectacularly delicious.

Flaming Bananas

When we were growing up, my parents threw a lot of dinner parties.  My dad would spend hours making special mix tapes for the reel-to-reel player, usually with a lot of Al Green on them, and my mom would dress up in these fabulous form-fitting pantsuits*.  Our cupboards were full of artsy plates, hand-crafted ramekins, individual bread boards, mini paella pots, and tons of Marimekko placemats for setting the dining table.  Her speciality, though, was making the meal itself an event.

Her secret weapon?

The electric frying pan**.

The guests would be seated in their own polyester finery, and mom would emerge from the kitchen with a tray and the pan.  She'd plug it in, drop in a stick of butter, and the show would begin.

Smiling as she added the brown sugar, bouffant hair not moving an inch, all conversation among the group would grind to a halt.  The smell was intoxicating.

The perfectly sliced bananas tumbled in. Around went the wooden spoon, then she'd pick up the canister of fireplace matches.  Fireplace matches!!!

My sister and I peeked from the kitchen, shivering with repressed excitement, knowing what was coming.

The bottle of rum was opened with a flourish.  The lights dimmed.  Then came the unmistakable sound of a single long match being struck.  All eyes upon her.

Woosh!  The pan erupted in gorgeous blue and orange flames.  Mouths dropped.

She fearlessly stirred on, chatting amiably as though this was nothing special.  Just an ordinary night.

An ordinary night with my magical, marvelous mom.

She died three years ago today, so this will never be an ordinary time for me.
In her honor, dear guests, may I treat you to some flaming bananas?

Hoping I'll be wiser, now that I'm older

The night before our brief spring break getaway, I had literally done nothing to get ready for the trip.   

I hadn't packed.  

I hadn't checked the weather to know what I ought to have packed.  

In fact, I hadn't bothered to go through the laundry to see if there were clean clothes of any kind for me to pack, regardless of the weather forecast.

There was no gas in the car.

This, by the way, is not a clever metaphor for my state of mind that evening. 

The tank of the car was empty FOR REAL.

I did not have a to do list.

For example:  1. Get Gas. 2. Pack.

Not even a mental game plan that would have involved making such a list as a first step.

Essentially, I had no idea what I hadn't planned to do and therefore had not yet done.

I was 100% blowing it off.

Instead, that evening I hung out with my brother in law, eating salami and cheese, leftover soup, and an ad hoc salad, commiserating about the lousy job market and watching our respective NCAA brackets implode over a big bottle of red wine.  A friend and her daughter arrived, tired, hungry and eager to catch up.  We obliged them on all counts.

Mid-sip and mid-chat, I looked up at the clock, and all of a sudden it was almost eleven. Wow. It was time to head to the airport and pick up my son.

Only when he was home, really home, safe and exhausted and sound, did it hit me.  

Oh crap, I thought.  I'm supposed to bring dessert*.

Better make three.  Apparently I've got to stay up doing laundry anyway.

NOTE TO SELF.  This may have seemed like the logical thing to do at the time, but you were wrong.  Your family will not be impressed by the extra plum tart** or the chocolate chip cookies you baked fresh that morning, mostly because no one has shampoo.  And it's just plain embarrassing to have to admit to your kids that you have no idea where your wallet is***.  Now that you are, at least on paper, a year older than you were that night, you'll know better.  You can have the wine and cheese, and friends, and brothers-in-law, but make the damn list.

And only make one dessert.

My kind of birthday cake

When you are little (or really old), you don't have a choice.  It's a sheet cake with buttercream frosting, swirly decorations, and writing on it.

If you are a fortunate child, the cake comes from somewhere yummy, like The Baker or Hansen's, or even Costco, or if you are especially fortunate, your aunt makes you a Yo Baby Cake* by hand.

If you are an unfortunate child, you might get something like this:

Did I mention that CakeWrecks is potentially the funniest site on the web?

Anyway.

As you get older (like 5), you start to have an opinion about your birthday cake:

"Can it be an ice cream cake?"

"Or cupcakes?"

"Or a coffee cake?"

"How about if we don't have cake at all?"

Well...sure. It is your birthday**!

Then, as you get even older (like 40-something***), you not only have an opinion, you have A Birthday Cake.  The cake that you have every year.  The one that that someone makes for you or buys for you or orders especially for you. Because that's the cake you like, and it wouldn't be your birthday without it.  The "Don't even think about messing around and trying any of that fancy stuff you saw in Bon Appetit magazine, Missy. Not on my birthday you don't!" cake.

For my husband, it's carrot cake.
For my dad, it's lemon cake.
For me, it'd be this cake.

Unfortunately, I'm rarely in charge of my own birthday cake.
Fortunately, there are 364 other days in the year.
Happy Not-Birthday to me!****

What's your Birthday Cake?

I like my fruit tart

Ever since I was a kid, I've liked my fruit tart.  As in really super sour.

There we would be, in front of a pile of fresh apricots at the market.   "Apricots!!  My favorite*!!" I would say, squirming in anticipation. My mom would select a handful, carefully choosing the best of the bunch.  The flesh would be a magnificent orange color, soft and just barely fuzzy.  There was enough give to the touch to know the stone pit was slightly loose, and you could tell by the smell alone that the inside would be juicy and sweet and perfectly ripe.  She knew how to pick fruit, my mom did, and she was passing this important knowledge down to her daughter.  "Try this," she'd say.

I'd wrinkle up my whole face and frown. "Mom! You know better!"

Mom would sigh and start picking through the pile again, this time looking for the ones that were hard as rocks. Still orange, so they tasted like an apricot, but with none of that sun-kissed lush sweetness so beloved by normal people.  "It is hard to find the good ones," I'd say happily, falling in right beside her and reaching for an acidic little nugget.  "Yes, it is," she'd agree.  Eventually she'd just hand me the bag and move on to get lettuce for the guinea pigs**.

Ditto with the the nectarines. And the plums. Especially the plums.  If I didn't hear a satisfying, apple-like crunch and feel my entire mouth pucker up when I bit into a piece of stone fruit, I was sorely disappointed  On the other hand, eating a crispy, tart, nearly-but-not-actually ripe peach could (and still does) make my day, and I ate myself silly every summer.

The whole family eventually started to get into the swing of things.  My little sister would run up to me with a pear,  "Try this one! It feels like metal!"  My mom waited almost eagerly for my stomach to sieze up from all of the acid (which it did, regularly) so she could say, "I told you so!" But my dad, god love him, actually ate that sour fruit right along with me.

He likes his tart, too.

Fresh Stone Fruit Tart
I made this with some gorgeous pluots I got at the farmers' market.  The original recipe (from Ina Garten) used plums, and I bet subbing in peaches or nectarines would be fantastic, too.  However you go on the fruit side of things, the tart part could not be easier.  The dough forms a rich shortbread cookie crust and a delectable buttery topping at the same time, and the fruit in between is straight up summertime.  This is a great way to use up that icky ripe, very flavorful, sweet fruit.  Save the nice, crunchy sour fruit to eat while you're waiting for this to bake.

2 1/2 c., plus 2 Tbs., flour
1 c. finely chopped pecans
1 c. brown sugar, packed
1 c. (2 sticks) butter, diced
1 egg yolk
1 tsp. vanilla
2 lbs. plums, pluots, nectarines or apricots, sliced into small wedges
About 1/3 c. sugar, depending on the sweetness of your fruit
Splash of almond extract

Combine flour, pecans, and brown sugar in the bowl of a food processor, and run for about 30 seconds to make sure ingredients are well blended and the nuts are finely chopped.  Add butter and pulse until mixture resembles coarse crumbs.  Add egg yolk and vanilla, and process until ingredients come together and the mixture looks similar to cookie dough.

Pre heat oven to 375.  Press 1 1/2 c. of the dough over the bottom and sides of a 9 inch tart pan with removable sides.  Refrigerate for at least an hour, or place into the freezer for a few minutes.  

In a medium sized bowl, combine the fruit with the sugar and almond extract.  Allow to sit for 15 minutes or so. Working in concentric circles, arrange fruit in a pattern on the tart shell.   Crumble the remaining dough on top.

Bake for 10 minutes, then lower the oven temperature to 325.  Bake for an additional 25-35 minutes, or until topping is deep golden brown and you can see some of the fruit juices bubbling up from the tart.

Cool for a few minutes, then carefully remove sides from tart pan and place tart on a flat plate.  Serve warm or at room temperature.  Amazing with vanilla ice cream or fresh whipped cream***.

Click to print this recipe!

* My favorite at that specific moment in time.  The day before I would have inhaled a couple of pounds of fresh cherries, swearing eternal allegiance, and five minutes after the apricot incident I'd go on and on about a particularly great batch of blueberries I'd found.
** Who are, pretty much, the opposite of picky.  The lettuce could practically have rotted and they'd still be in ecstasy.  She loved buying produce for the guinea pigs.
*** If you are feeling truly decadent, throw on some warm brown sugar butterscotch sauce, too.  Why not? It's fruit.  It's good for you.  That's what my mom always told me.

A six pack of chicken

It's a vicious circle.

Me:  Hey, can you fill up a tub of drinks for the party?  There's practically a case of beer in the fridge from last time.  Let's try to get rid of it.

My husband:  Amen to that.  All that Heineken is taking up valuable tonic space.

Guests (a few hours later):  Hi!  Thank you so much for having us. We brought you some beer.  Hope you like Heineken...Ooh! Did you make margaritas?

At the end of the party, we rinse out the empty marg pitcher, dump a case of red wine bottles in the recycling bin, and pour the dregs of exactly three partially full beers down the sink.   

My husband: (sighing heavily as he tries to find space for the net gain of two and a half six packs) When is your dad coming over?  He's good for a couple at least.

My dad doesn't come over that often.  

Beer-Basted Chicken with Asian Flavors

I clipped this recipe years ago from Bon Appetit, based solely on the tantalizing list of ingredients:   Ginger, garlic, lemon, scallions...and a whole bottle of beer*.  It turns out that this is the juiciest, most flavorful roast chicken that has ever come out of my oven.   It's perfect for an easy weeknight supper.  All you need is a side of rice or mashed potatoes to soak up the tangy sauce, a green salad, and a nice cold glass.  Of white wine.  

1 12 oz. bottle of beer (whatever brand is left after the party)

6 green onions, chopped

1/2 c. soy sauce

1/4 c. fresh lemon juice

2 Tbs. brown sugar, packed

2 Tbs. peeled fresh ginger, chopped

1 Tbs. chopped garlic

1 Tbs. sesame oil

1 3 1/2 to 4 lb. chicken, butterflied**

kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

Combine all ingredients except chicken in a bowl, and whisk to combine.   Place chicken in a non-reactive container***, and pour marinade over.  Lift chicken to make sure some of the marinade is underneath, and all the little nooks and crannies are submerged.   Cover the container, and refrigerate for at least an hour or as long as overnight.

Preheat oven to 375.  Place chicken, skin side up, in a 13x9 roasting pan, and pour marinade around the chicken.  Season the chicken liberally with salt and pepper, and roast for 15 minutes.  Baste, then reduce oven temperature to 350.  Continue roasting until juices run clear when a thigh is pierced, about 35-40 more minutes.   Baste every 15 to 20 minutes, but allow chicken to roast without basting for the final 15 minutes to allow skin to get crisp.

Transfer chicken to a platter.  Pour pan juices into a medium saucepan.   Spoon off as much fat as you can, then boil until sauce is reduced and slightly thickened, about 5 minutes.   Serve the chicken with the sauce alongside.

* Other dents in the collection have been made, thanks to these tacos, these carnitas, and a boatload of beer-battered fish & chips, which I'll post about another time.

** The original recipe did not specify that the chicken should be butterflied, but I was hoping to shorten the roasting time and decided to try this method. It worked! It's not hard to do. First, remove the neck and giblets from the cavity. Rinse the chicken and trim any excess fat.  Using sharp kitchen shears, cut out the backbone.   Then, you can either remove the breast bone completely by pulling it out carefully, or turn the chicken over, so the skin side is up, then break the breast bone in half with your hand or a kitchen mallet.  Either way, the chicken should now lie completely flat. Rinse the chicken, and pat dry.  You are now ready to go!  To see a video how-to, click here.
*** BTW, "non-reactive container" is just a code word for "Tupperware(R)".

Why I don't write about my Dad

There are several key reasons why my father does not make regular appearances here on my blog.  Let me lay them out for you as follows:

1. He tends to communicate via extensive, enumerated lists to make his point*.   While his logic is inevitably irrefutable, this doesn't make for good sound bites**.
2. He's been a very successful bureaucrat for most of his professional life.  Meaning he's diplomatic, even tempered, detail-oriented, authoritative and thoughtful.  But not funny.
3. He's had both hips replaced, his back hurts a lot, and he should be retired.  But he goes to work every day, cooks and cares for his wife when she's ill, and supports my mom financially.   He's devoted to his dog.   Making him a shining example of nobility and selflessness, but not exactly riveting copy.
4. He taught me to love reading, puzzles, George of the Jungle cartoons and Monty Python movies.  He put me and my sister through college, raised two strong, confident women, and is inordinately proud of both of us.  And he adores his crop of rapidly growing grandchildren enormously.   We are beyond lucky to have him, but this is more of a personal benefit than a public one.
5. Perhaps most relevant of all, he's got an iron grip***, is really tall and intimidating, and may actually read this someday.  

Dad with his grandkids and the characters from South Park at his 70th birthday party****.

So, instead of blogging about my Dad on Father's Day, I'm going to blog about what I cooked for my Dad on Father's Day.   It's much safer.  

Warm Grilled Potato Salad
This was an experiment I tried as an accompaniment to our Father's Day mixed grill, and we all loved it. 

About 2 lbs. of red rose or other waxy potatoes, washed and cut into 1/3 inch slices
3 cloves of garlic, peeled and minced
1/2 c. of olive oil
2-3 Tbs. Dijon mustard
1/2 c. of chopped green onions
grated zest of 1 orange
3 Tbs. balsamic vinegar
Another 1/2 c. olive oil
Plenty of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
3-4 cups of arugula

Put a pot of salted water on to boil, and add the potatoes.  Cook for 6-8 minutes, or until potatoes are nearly done but not quite.  To check, look for them to opaque at the edges but still crisp in the middle.

Remove from water and drain well on a towel.

Meanwhile, whisk the garlic, 1/2 c. of olive oil, and mustard together in a small bowl, and season liberally with salt and pepper.  Brush one side of the potato rounds with this mixture, and hold onto the rest.   Mix green onions, orange zest, vinegar and the other 1/2 c. of olive oil in a large mixing bowl until well blended.  Set aside.   Arrange arugula in a shallow serving bowl and keep in the fridge until you need it.

Place potato slices, oiled side down, onto a hot grill.   Brush the tops with the remaining mustard/garlic mixture.   If you have any of the mustard mixture left, stir it into the large bowl with the balsamic dressing.  Close grill and cook potatoes for 6 minutes.   Flip over and continue grilling for another 6 minutes.   The potatoes should be nice and brown and crispy looking when they're done.   Immediately transfer to the bowl with the dressing and toss, seasoning with salt and pepper to taste.  Get out your serving dish, and spoon the potatoes over the arugula, drizzling with any extra dressing.  Serve immediately.

Bonus! The trick to great grilled steak

When you put the steak on the grill, place a few thin slices of cold butter on top.   It will melt into the meat slowly.  When you flip the steaks, put another few slices of butter on the steak.  This will melt quickly.  When you eat the steak, it will literally melt in your mouth.   You will never grill any other way again!

* I suppose I have made use of this methodology here from time to time, so perhaps he has had an impact after all.
** What it does make for are long, drawn out conversations that have a strong tinge of the old college lecture about them.
*** Those of you who have met my dad know what I'm talking about.
**** He may not be that funny himself, but he has a great appreciation for comedy (which he passed on to me) and for campy Godzilla movies (which he thankfully did not).