Breakfast In A Time Of Sorrow

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When things are terrible, I find it helps to seek beauty in small places. This morning I toasted a blue corn tortilla over the open flame of a gas stove, laid a slice of pepperjack cheese over it, poached one of Betty Lou's eggs and chopped a fragrant golden tomato. Then I drizzled the whole thing with olive oil and sprinkled it with rough sea salt. I made good coffee.
Sometimes, this is enough.

A Tale of Two Chickens, 1

Dear reader, I am a newlywed.

The main thing I've learned about marriage so far is that I don't know anything about marriage. I think it falls into the category of something you only learn by doing. And there are lots of surprises...

Recently, my lovely husband Adam came home at lunchtime. "Baby, I got you a present! It's in the car." he said. "We can build it together!"
Aww man, I thought. That doesn't sound like earrings. "Can I eat lunch before we build anything?" I asked.
"Well come to the car and see it!" He was lit up with little boy excitement so I walked to the car and he opened the passenger side. On the floor were two very tall paper bags, closed at the top, with little slits on the side.
"What is it?" I asked. "Listen," he replied. I leaned in and as I got closer one of the bags began to shake, which got the other one shaking and then I heard it: bwak bwak bwak. Bwak bwaaaak, bwak bwak.
Oh God, I thought. Not chickens. "Are they chickens?" I asked.
"Yes!" So jubilant. "My mom had chickens when I was growing up, they're great! I like the sounds they make, and baby I wanted you to have fresh eggs. The coop is in the back, we can build it together!"
I was very suspicious about this turn of events, but tried to focus on the greater good. And I did like the idea of fresh eggs. My fantastic Great-Grandma Pat had neighbors who gave her eggs from their chickens, and I remembered the bright orange yolks and better taste. Ok, I'm in.
Plus, I got to name them. Dear reader, meet Betty Lou and Tiina Fey.
Betty Lou is the lighter one. They're Rhode Island Reds and were raised together. According to Adam they're pretty friendly chickens. We decided they'd be free range. Though their coop is nice, all living creatures prefer to run around, stretch their wings. We'll probably have to get their wings clipped so they don't fly over the fence. I hope it doesn't hurt them.
We were worried about Sam the Dog, but it looks like he's too old to catch them. He growled as they first walked by and tried to lunge at them, but by the time he stood up they were three feet away. Then Tiina Fey jumped on his head and pecked at him and he barked and ran off. I think they'll be fine.
So please join us on our fowl adventure! Oh lord, here we go...

The Perfect Omelette

Dear readers, check it out: a three minute dinner with class... and my small screen debut as a Kitchen Coach! Please, tell your friends and fellow eaters :)



Many thanks to the ever-talented LJ: director, producer, dear friend and omelette-lover rolled into one!

What a Cook Wants, 20

The Way To Cook
I spent a summer on Nantucket as a personal chef for a grumpy, demanding woman named Mrs. Bingham who had a marvelous house~ with an untouched tricked-out kitchen!~ tucked deep into the sand dunes with its own private beach. Our neighbor was the Kennedy compound (if only they'd dropped by!), and my housemates were two very spoiled but sweet Scottish terriers.
The only problem? I didn't really know how to cook. Sure, I'd worked as a short order cook at college, waitressed at a place where we made Caesar salad tableside (I still make the best, baby!), and I'd nearly perfected the microwave Egg McMuffin, but it turned out this lady was able to get tables at NY's most luscious restaurants and loved poached salmon and crème brûlée.

I had no idea what crème brûlée was.

I had never poached a salmon.

After we discussed the first menu I stood in the kitchen alone, my heart clanging against my ribs. I knew I was a good cook, knew I could channel my Pop-Pop's palette and read a recipe as well as anyone else, but I was beyond my skills. I was screwed. My throat began to tighten, but then I noticed the shelf. There were books on it, and one of them was Julia Child's The Way to Cook. That title held promise, and Julia delivered. She was precisely what I needed, and as the summer continued I grew more ambitious with homemade tarragon mayonnaise (there's a reason the French call it a sauce!) and an apple crisp that made Mrs. Bingham the toast of the dinner party circuit.
Her style was so accessible and friendly, she was fearless as she dismantled raw ducks and shucked oysters; she wasn't intimidated by the thought of poaching a huge 4 pound salmon fillet. I borrowed her courage.
I suppose I borrowed it again when I started this blog. My title is an homage, even though no one gets it. I realized I could help people find the joy and fearless pleasure in eating, just like Julia did for me with cooking.
Which is all a very long-winded way of saying this cookbook would make a great gift. For anyone.
$26 for this 512-page tome. It changed my life. How many books do that?

What a Cook Wants, 18

Her Very Own Egg McMuffin Machine!!!
We didn't eat a lot of fast food growing up. My mom realized it was crap with no nutritional value so it was Cheerios with wheat germ for us! However, once or twice a year when we went on vacation there would be so much pandemonium getting 3 kids ready and 5 people's stuff packed in 1 small red car that my folks kept it simple: we'd hit the drive-thru on our way out of town. Egg McMuffins taste like freedom to me, the promise of adventure mingled with the delectable saltiness of orange American cheese and rubbery egg white. Yum.
My sisters and I devoted a lot of after-school time to microwaving eggs in the small bunny dish (we had no ramekins, sigh) and carefully toasting English muffins in our attempts to recreate that masterpiece. It was tasty, but we only had white cheese and finding Canadian bacon in the fridge was rare. We managed to gobble down the results though.
In my fancy grown-up foodie life I still like a drive-by at the golden arches on my way to the airport, but today I discovered this ingenius product that might be even better. The Back to Basics Egg & Muffin toaster and egg poacher times it so the toast pops precisely when the egg finishes steaming. There's a compartment for heating up sausage and bacon, and I read a veggie burger will fit there too (ewww). Hmm, Canadian bacon is already cooked so it would only require a quick reheat...
$30 for the Back to Basics Egg & Muffin toaster/poacher (though technically it steams). Apparently it also boils eggs, do you think it does the dishes, too? I haven't had a chance to try it yet, but Amazon readers gave it rave reviews.

Happy Spring!

I celebrated Easter (named after the Anglo-Saxon Goddess of Dawn, Eastre) by having my friend Ruth over for brunch. Because in my heart is a magical 7-year-old girl, we also dyed Easter eggs. Here are mine:


I enjoy making art that serves no purpose. The last month and a half I've been in achieve-mode, not a state I recommend. It's exhausting. Sunday was truly a day of rest, what a treat to eat homemade waffles with sliced strawberries, drink lavendar tea, zone out with pretty colors and hang with one of my peeps... heck, I even ate some Peeps. But not Ruth.

And I like eggs, they're an innately hopeful food. Eggs symbolize the promise of new life, purity and innocence, and an elegant dinner in about three minutes (omelet, anyone?). I can get into that holiday.

Eggs Foo Young

Growing up I loved the one Chinese restaurant in town. The red walls, soy-salty air, and (no joke) backlit moving waterfull artwork seemed magical to my wide blue eyes. I loved that the owners talked differently, that the names of the food held promise and mystery. General Tso's Chicken- who was this general? Why did he care so much about chicken? Did he eat it before battle and emerge victorious because it warmed his belly? Egg Drop Soup sounded so friendly: in my house if I dropped an egg I'd be in big trouble, but at Lotus Chinese that same mistake turned into delicious soup.
And I loved that every time I ate there, the owners brought me strawberry ice cream for dessert, whether or not I ordered it. Even when my mother protested, they wouldn't take the dish away until a scant spoonful of ice cream soup was left.
I will tell you a secret: I didn't like strawberry ice cream. I don't care for it now, just give me chocolate. But I'd eat it and say thank you while they smiled and nodded at me. I felt we were friends in a way. I like to think they noticed the goofy little white girl who was really into their food, who gobbled up everything (even broccoli). Actually, my love of their broccoli got me into trouble many times.
"Why do you eat their broccoli but turn your nose up at mine," my mother asked whenever we ate there. I'd shrug helplessly. It wasn't until years later I figured out it was a texture issue. In traditional Chinese cooking, veggies are generally cooked until they're crisp-tender, not a second more. This keeps them delicous (plus they retain more nutrients). My mother's background was English, German, and Donna Reed Casserole. All that history was an unstoppable force: she couldn't help but boil broccoli for a solid ten minutes. I'd smush it with a fork just because I could; obscene amounts of butter and salt still didn't make it edible. My dog wouldn't touch it. But oh, the beef and broccoli with its hearty crunch and sweet, salty sauce. Powerful.
After I learned to read I started pointing at the menu, What's that? And that? By the second grade I had mastered chopsticks, much to everyone's surprise (a story for another day). I took great pleasure in trading in my fork for two rough wooden sticks and consuming slippery lo mein noodles and eggs foo young with aplomb.

Today if we were to dine, I'd take you out to the heart of Chinatown. There hardly anybody looks like me, and the food is a clever symphony of funky and mellow, bitter and sweet, crisp and soft. I'd show off my affection for jellyfish and chicken feet, and probably act confused if you asked about moo go gai pan (a dish my father loves that I suspect only the white man eats). I might even wrangle you an invite to my pal Vanessa's Chinese New Year feast (sweet Jesus it's amazing). And I'd certainly deny ever eating at a little spot on Santa Monica where forks are on the table, moo go gai pan is on the menu, and everything needs more soy sauce to give it flavor... but I recommend their eggs foo young.