Ladies musn't whip each other

Check out this darling Austen/Palahniuk mashup.

Lives, distractions, cakes

Allora, mi dispiace che io non vi scriva di più. I must come clean, my friends. It wasn't a fatal case of blogophobia that's kept me from my laptop recently, but a series of interesting events ranging from summertime pastry-making, to acid indigestion (unrealted to said pastry), to a life-changing reunion.

• One of the ongoing projects in my life at the moment is finishing Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. When I told an officemate last week that I was getting near the end of it, he asked me what it was about--and that was an unexpectedly difficult question to answer.
  Here's how I would put it: Pollan takes us on a personal journey through the production of four different meals from the "ground" up: (1) a trip to McDonald's featuring a brief history of factory-farmed protein; (2) an industrial organic meal purchased entirely at Whole Foods, including asparagus grown in South America and a broiler chicken named "Rosie", raised on a certified organic farm; (3) a roasted chicken dinner (chicken is one of the main characters of the book) procured from Joel Salatin's alternative/chemical-free/non-industrial farm in Virginia; and finally (4) a feast of wild boar that Pollan personally hunts down in Sonoma, CA. The book opens with an enlightening and LENGTHY discussion on everything you might want to know about corn: it's ancestry, biology, sex, chemical breakdown, and effect on human life (corn is in everything, so corn might be God?). The book has a comfortable narrative to it, even while describing the slaughter of a factory-farmed cow. I highly recommend it.

• A couple of weeks ago, I had an iced coffee from a Dunkin' Donuts, and four hours later I felt the icy grip of death upon my abdomen. It really sucked. The next few days I felt pains in my lower chest that came in waves, that were worst during the night. It hurt to breathe, I was dizzy, and plain fucking miserable. I took off from work to go the doctor, and when I explained my symptoms to the receptionist, she told me to go to the hospital. "It's really not that bad!" I protested. She told me to go anyway, immediately, so I freaked, and called Dan.
• After an EKG, some blood work, a chest X-ray, and the obligatory preggo-test, the ER doctor (Edward Amores, or Dr. LOVE), determined that I was fine, un-pregnant, and in fact, too young and healthy to have a heart attack (though I maintain that a bloodclot could have been a possibility). At one point he told me I looked great (I didn't even have makeup on--swoon!). Dr. Love narrowed it down to acid reflux, and told me to start taking the wonder drug of our century: Pepcid AC. And since then I've been fucking fine.

• I've come upon several farmer's market temptations such as Jersey peaches and blueberries (Jersey being an ambiguous term), that I bring home, decide I don't particularly enjoy eating fresh, and bake in a cake. I based my blueberry peach crumb cake off this Peach Cake recipe from southernfood.about.com. Delicious, please! Make sure you have 2-3 ripe peaches and about a cup of blueberries (Jersey or not). Despite the heat, a girl must bake, so I proudly crank the A/C, KitchenAid mixer, and oven, in that order!

• And finally, Dan and dad are back together. Charlie and Dan hadn't seen each other in twenty-some years, until their nailbitingly long-awaited reunion last weekend. Dan also got to see his sisters, the gorgeous Stephanie and Laura, and Carolyn, Charlie's gracious wife. It might have been the most beautiful thing I've seen, ever. And I've seen a thing or two. Father and son are both thrilled to finally know each other again, and we inititated the reunion with, of course, a barbeque (the theme was chicken wings!), where we also got to meet Frank and Mike, the girls' adorable boyfriends. I look forward to more family gatherings with our new awesome family! An aside: to my chagrin, Dan is still not Italian. Instead, he's just more Irish and Scottish than we'd thought. Congrats.
  
  

I fell in love with an eggplant...

...at our farmer's market, DePiero's Farm in Montvale, a short drive from Westwood. It was one of many, yes, but I couldn't resist its taught, indigo skin and sublime symmetry. I also haven't yet taken advantage of the eggplant season, which is now nearing its end.

What better activity during a heat-wave than to crank the A/C, bake cookies (oatmeal chocolate-chip) and cook up some fresh veggies? I guess one could conserve electricity...

Stewed eggplant and cannellini beans with tomato and spinach:
1 small eggplant, diced
1 can cannellinni beans, rinsed
1 15oz can diced tomatoes
2-3 handfuls baby spinach
1/2 white onion, diced
1 large garlic clove, diced
Olive oil
Butter
salt, pepper, red cayenne pepper, basil

Brown the diced eggplant in a frying pan over medium/low heat, with a goood amount of olive oil. Push around the pieces with a wooden spoon (preferably) so that they cook evenly, and don't overcook to mush. Set aside when done.


Add oil and butter in a medium saucepan and set to medium heat. Add onion and garlic when hot. Sauté for about 3 minutes, then add beans and diced tomatoes. Cover and let stew for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add eggplant and mix together. Lower the heat, but let the mixture stew for another 5-10 minutes. Add baby spinach one handful at a time, and cover while each batch cooks down. Mix everything together and add spices to taste. Turn off heat, cover and let sit for 5-10 minutes.

Serve with crusty bread, pasta (I suggest rigatoni), or rice.

The novelistic dog diversion

Check out this darling piece published by Slate last week, that my co-worker sent to me. It's on the role of the obligatory dog bark in a moment of great tension in the modern novel. As a lover of both barks and books, I do appreciate the recognition the dog's voice gains here for its purpose in contemporary fiction, albeit brief.

3 hours, 5 glasses of wine, and a short drive home

Last week, I cashed in on my birthday gift from Dan and choose to make reservations for the both of us at a wine pairing dinner at A Mano, a pizzeria Napolitano in suburban-swanky Ridgewood, NJ. I read an ad in The Record that advertised a five-course meal with pairings from Alba Vineyard (located in Milford, NJ) for only $35, which included tax & tip. We had been to A Mano a few years ago to sample their Napolitano style pizza (they import the flour from Napoli and make the mozzarella on site), and I was thrilled to see that they served my favorite: mozzarella di buffala (buffalo mozz pizza).

The dinner was on Tuesday night at 7:00, and when we arrived we were seated in a private room at the back of the restaurant. As I twiddled our thumbs in anticipation and eyed the evening's menu, Tiziano Ferro, my current pop-music obsession, came on the stereo and I FLIPPED (though very discretely)! Dan rolled his eyes while I squealed--it was a perfect start to the evening.

The first item they brought out was a small pizza (plain without toppings - a typical appetizer) with olives, which I didn't see on our menu, but was delighted to see on our table. I had to use a good amount of self-control not to wolf it down. Shortly after, they brought out a white Mansail wine, which I've never tried before. It was citrusy and light, and within minutes I wolfed that down. With the wine they served a pinwheel of mozz, prosciutto and veggies, which was a bit soggy and flavorless. After that came the insalata di mare, which I never thoroughly enjoyed in Italy (even in Sicily I was weary), but this was a refreshing dish. A chilled bowl of shrimp, conch, scallops and meaty mussels with olive oil and red onion was so uncomplicated and enjoyable. The Chardonnay, however, was not (I'm generally not a fan). It was pretty much chilled torture in a glass.

Forgive me, but oh did I eat some meat that night: tasty ground beef blanketing the lasagna bolognese. It had a great texture and a succulent red sauce, but I, for the life of me, could not find a single lasagna noodle within. The dish should simply have been called "bolognese" as there was no evidence of any pasta. It was served with a godly Merlot, which I stupidly gulped and then fought Dan for his. Again, I was discrete about it.

To, quite literally, pile it on, we were then served a pecorino and porcini pizza, which our waiter placed on our table and told us to "dig in" because it's best fresh out of the oven. We could barely move at this point, but we did, just for the sake of the pizza. The creamy tang of the pecorino, which I've never had before on a pizza, was delicious. Sidenote: this would NEVER happen in Italy! When you're done with the second course, you move onto the fruit and cheese and basta, not another second course. This was served with a rich Cabernet Sauvignon, which was decent and not too dry. I felt guilty asking our waiter to box the rest of our pizza for us - I knew it wouldn't taste the same ever again, and that's the point of Italian cooking: you eat it now, no leftovers. Tupperware doesn't exist in Italy (even Rome)!

For dessert was a creamy tiramisu and a hazelnut gelato. Both were fantastic, and I craved more despite my seriously topped-off stomach. Dessert came with a white, dry Riesling, which I'm sure I drank, but can't recall a thing about. By this time, I had the giggles and trouble finding the bathroom (ah, what it means to be wined-up).

The only setback was our bill, which we were told would include tax and tip, when it included neither. Despite that, it was well worth a little extra since $35 was such a reasonable price in the first place.

We headed out the door at around 10:00, thanking the helpful wait staff and some guy in white, who I would image was the head chef (?). The rest of the crowd seemed pleased: parties of women perhaps having a "girls night out", other older couples, and us (the kids of the group).

Oh, mother.

It's as if she's never encountered an answering machine before, despite her years of telephone (and, can you believe it?) cellphone usage.

This shit is gold.

Meeting the Man

On Tuesday, my friend (and trusty co-worker) Maegan and I walked into the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, and right behind us was Tony himself. As I squealed and ran to a safe spot, poor Maegan got to see why you really can't take me anywhere. I FREAKED, and we spent the next two hours musing over what clever, provocative, utterly amazing words to spout at him during the precious seconds we had in his presence. What are you expected to say to a magnanimous personality of his almost cultish fame, who's traveled to every country, met every person, and eaten every kind of delicacy I don't even have the ability to dream of?

Maegan and I stood with bated breath in the standing-room-only section (yes, amongst the bookcases), while Anthony read a few pages from his new book, and then took on an obligatory Q&A session. We darted to the "Line forms here" sign, only to discover we were in the secondary line. We were not discouraged by a hair. Instead, we took advantage of the extra time to brainstorm a few lines. Maegan settled on mentioning her boyfriend's aspirations (he's a professional chef), while I thought it would be nice to say something like, "So when are you coming back to Jersey?" (Bourdain was born and raised in Leonia). By the time we were ushered toward the stage, I looked around: those remaining were swooning, twenty-something females, just like us. How could we possible stand out?

Short answer: we didn't. I said, "Hi Tony." The music (Rolling Stones) was loud. His publicist (certainly a female Asian kickboxer) was intimidating. He scribbled our names in our spanking-new hardcovers, and I told him I might throw up. Then we said thanks and walked away. "Mission accomplished!" Maegan chirped. "I hate myself", I groaned.

In retrospect, I'm over it. I doubt he even heard my vomitacious threat, and you know how he is about hum drum book signings--who fucking cares? ...my God I love him.

From Medium Raw (Ecco, 2010):
There is no debating that it's "better" to cook at home whenever--and as often as--possible.

It's cheaper, for sure. It's almost always healthier than what you might otherwise be ordering as takeout--or eating at a restaurant. And it is probably better for society.

We know, for instance, that there is a direct, inverse relationship between frequency of family meals and social problems. Bluntly stated, members of families who eat together regularly are statistically less likely to stick up liquor stores, blow up meth labs, give birth to crack babies, commit suicide, or make donkey porn. If Little Timmy had just had more meatloaf, he might not have grown up to fill chest freezers with Cub Scout parts.