I tried to hate Texas de Brazil, I really and truly did, but I just ended up drooling all over myself. To witness the unsightly spectacle in print, read today's review in Style Weekly (and hey, it's the fabulous 25th anniversary issue--pick up your commemorative copy today!).
My postcard is winging its way across the skies for Blogger Postcards Around the World #2, organized by Meeta of What's For Lunch Honey? Who can resist the lure of foreign stamps and exotic mail from lands far, far away?
Big Night is one of my favorite movies. In it, two brothers, with opposing views on how to run their faltering restaurant (the eternal struggle of art vs. commerce), pin all of their hopes of saving the business on a visit from the famous bandleader, singer, and showman Louis Prima (and the publicity the visit would generate). At the climax of the film, Primo, the chef, brings out an enormous timpano di maccheroni , a giant dome of pasta filled layers and layers of tomato sauce, meatballs, and pasta shapes. I've never even considered making it--but S'kat has. She's come up with a recipe for a trio of smaller timpani that is breathtakingly brilliant. I haven't been this inspired in years.
It wasn't a surprise, given that I was in last place (although there was an exciting moment when I was second to last), not to win 2006 Food Blog Award for Best Writing, but isn't it kind of amazing I was nominated in the first place?
We're back on our diet, piglets, back on track for the new year. Remember the diet we all started in the fall? It fell by the wayside somehow, derailed by cranberries and eggnog and pumpkin pie. I don't know how I allowed it to occur but that is the past, friends, and we don't live there. Nor do we live in the future perfect; it's all present tense from now on. We're going back to basics and again, I'll test out recipes from some of the most popular diet books and share the best of the bunch with all of you. The Washington Post had exactly the same idea yesterday, though a little smaller in scale--isn't amazing how great minds think alike?
Before we launch the great diet experiment, we need to have a little bit of a blow-out first. One of the best new dishes I made this fall was a savory bread pudding from November's Bon Appetit. Although I served it as a side, it really makes a fantastic vegetarian entree you can make ahead of time for either brunch or dinner. I said "ahead of time," piglets, and those are three little words that enable me to find the courage to invite others over and socialize a little in my own home. I've almost recovered from my Christmas party, and I think it might be time for both you and me to start to consider finding some convivial, low-maintenance, easily impressed company with which to raise a fork, so that these long dark nights of winter might pass a little more pleasantly.
I felt the floor rock beneath my feet when my husband said that he thought, upon reflection, that we might be able to shoehorn a Wolf cook top and oven into our kitchen renovation budget. Some women get diamonds, and others (the luckier ones) find husbands who understand the greater value of a high-end appliance.
And yet, I miss my old kitchen. When we first moved into our house ten years ago, nothing had been updated, except for the furnace. Remarkable really for a house built in 1916--the power ran on the original wiring, the floors had never been refinished, and the lack of outlets meant we had extension cords wrapping every room. The kitchen was a history lesson in interior design. There were no fixtures at all; the estate’s inheritors had removed freestanding cupboards and tables and all that was left was a Magic Chef stove from the sixties, the hot water heater in the corner, and a sink.
With pressing matters like electricity, insulation, and plumbing to deal with, we didn’t have a lot of money left over for luxuries like cabinets, so for $100, we bought a set of metal cabinets, a chest of drawers, and a table dating from the fifties at a mid-century antiques store. They fit in seamlessly. We painted and added a counter leftover from a contracting job, and we stuck cleaner-looking flooring tiles of top of the truly nasty linoleum. Finally, we had the hot water heater moved to the basement so that my daughter, who was a toddler at the time, wouldn’t scald herself to death in a tragic household accident.
Over the years, the knickknacks and children’s projects accumulated on the shelves, and my passion for small appliances became unwise for someone with so little storage. The stove was temperamental and even an oven thermometer failed to compensate for all of the cold and hot spots too numerous to map inside of the oven. Charming as it appeared on the outside, that range had to go.
At first I just wanted to update the kitchen’s infrastructure while preserving the vintage feel of its look. Then I stopped by a European kitchen design store and fell for all of its clean lines and smooth wood and brushed steel and, and, and . . . you could pull the drawers in and out smoothly, and when you opened a cabinet door, it actually opened instead of sticking shut. Everything was so very, very clean. There weren’t any cracks or crevices to catch dirt or dust; there was no rust and no ancient grease build-up.
I was forty and I wanted something new—not “new to me,” but a brand-new space designed with only me in mind. When you write and think and read about food as much as I do, your kitchen becomes the equivalent of a studio in the same way a converted garage or attic functions for a painter or sculptor. Cooking meals for your family is a lowly, domestic task most of the time, but over the years I spent in my kitchen, it had transformed into my primary creative outlet and pushed me back to writing where I’d originally started out.
I wanted a grown-up kitchen instead of the ad hoc, post-adolescent (think of your college kitchen and add babies to it) place that had sprung up around me. I spent more hours than I liked to count there every day of my life and I wanted the new one to be a real kitchen like my mother’s was (or how I felt it was as a child), instead of the shabby, velveteen rabbit of room it actually was. I was the mother now and I, at forty, was undeniably an adult as well. The velveteen rabbit in the story is transformed by love into a real one, but I couldn’t muster that kind of affection for a kitchen bursting at the seams and malevolently dominated by an ancient, cranky stove.
So after ripping out all the walls and the windows, and then putting it back together again, and cooking in the back room and gaining unnecessary weight from take-out, AND surviving marital disagreements over highly charged design points (trim can be crucial), I find myself . . . nostalgic? For the stove we couldn’t use for two weeks prior to the start of renovation because a large, wily family of mice had move in underneath? For the rusty cabinets? Or the grease-enrobed tchotchkes? Or was it the horrifically large beehive we found when we took down the pantry ceiling?
Now that I had my new and beautiful kitchen, I realized I’d let go of that whole part of my life that existed in between high school and well, forty. Now I really was an adult. Like most people my age, despite marriage and children and even the death of my parents, I carefully nurtured the illusion that I wasn’t entirely, completely grown-up yet. Of course, this past year, another much more significant event challenged that well-protected myth. When the Harvey family died on New Year’s day, my last little shred of childhood innocence was permanently ripped away. When I saw their faces in the paper the next morning, reflected back was a picture of my family--and me. Mortality. I saw either Katherine or Bryan most days since our children started elementary school, and before that, I saw them most days when we all were younger, waiting tables or ordering coffee, before and after college. Just people I knew and liked, in the wider circle of our mutual friends and acquaintances.
When all of us are children, we believe in monsters because we can’t articulate our fear. And it’s a relief to be reassured by our parents that monsters don’t exist, couldn’t exist, and we grow up fervently believing both in our parents and monsters’ non-existence. Adolescence usually diminishes our view of our parents so that we can take those first steps towards independence, but it isn’t until mortality smacks us in the face that we realize that those monsters under the bed are just our fear of death—and that we will die, someday.
When my parents died, I felt like an orphan (a very old orphan) but when the Harveys died, my younger self died along with them. As I mourned them, I also wept for that illusory safety in which I once so deeply believed. My new kitchen is still alien to me, just like my newly acquired adulthood—a little colder, and a little darker than my old one, and not yet entirely familiar. I long for the old comforts of the place I had before, even though I’m forgetting the sheer frustration and extra work it engendered at every step. Soon, after a break and a rest from the work of the renovation, we’ll add another window to let in a little more light, and perhaps I’ll allow my Wolf range to complete the seduction it so passionately wages every time I turn it on. Although finally growing up is a relief in many ways, and I can save the knickknacks on the top shelves of my many cupboards, I’ll have to learn to love the new kitchen I chose, just as I’ll have to try to love this less familiar world of adulthood.
I'm honored to have been nominated for the "Best Food Blog Writing" award sponsored by the Well Fed Network. And honored I'll remain, because amongst such exalted company, I'm truly just lucky to be there.