Kobe Pizza

It’s hard to be a Laker fan around my husband. Especially during the finals. Especially when it’s the do or die game for Kobe and the gang. Unfortunately for Jason’s aunt she’s not only a Laker fan, she had to watch the Celtics demolish the Lakers…in front of Kisa. She was a good sport, though. She didn’t have to be - it was her house. She could have kicked us out. Instead, she donned her Red Sox gear and yelled at the tv almost as loud as her nephew. Whenever the Celtics scored she yelled, “Go Red Sox!” cracking everyone up. But, that didn’t last long. As soon as it was obvious the Lakers were giving up the fight she was cursing Kobe instead. We had pizza and alcohol and the Lakers for dinner. I can’t say much for the Lakers, but when it comes to food Californians are different. Californians are cool about their cuisine. Their pizza comes on whole wheat crust with a fresh, lovely green, healthy salad on the side. Yummy.

The Celtics had the Lakers for dinner, but I had something better. I will miss California pizza!

 

Forest Gump Stumped

How many times have you seen the movie Forest Gump? How well do you know the story? How about the details? Well, if you ever go to Bubba Gump’s for lunch, you better bone up on your Gump trivia. As soon as we sat down our waiter pounced on us with “What were the name of Forest’s friends? What sports were played in the movie? What actress played his mother?…” All we wanted was to read the menu.
Here’s another thing. If you are trying to eat clean, Bubba’s is not the place to go. Almost every item on the menu was fried-fried-fried. Either that or it was drowning in mayo and disguised as a “salad.” The healthiest thing on the menu didn’t even have shrimp in it and sounded incredibly boring and tastless (I don’t even remember what was in it except the main ingredient was “iceburg lettuce”) so I went for the only nonfried, nonmayo’ed shrimp dish - the dipping pot. Crusty bread (white) and sweet, nutty Jasmine rice served with a pot of steaming hot shrimp “soup.” The shrimp were swimming in a stew of butter, garlic, fresh herbs, and seafood broth. The concept of the dish was to have fun with this very interactive meal. I needed to fish out the shrimp from the broth and eat it with a scoop of rice. The bread was for the dipping pot. Very entertaining.
When the meal was first placed in front of me I was impressed with its presentation. So much so that I took the above picture. What I didn’t know was that the lid to the “soup” was roasting hot. As I was innocently snapping my pic our flamboyant waiter approached and demanded to know who brought us our meals. Guy or girl? he snapped? Red shirt or blue? Bewildered, we told him what we knew and without another word took a dishtowel to remove the lid of my pot. “Seriously hot” he snarled as he walked away. Woah. We all looked at the pot in amazement. That would have hurt. Seriously. I snapped another picture.

 

Orgasmic Mesa

This could also be called Ode To Bobby Flay or Where are the Damn Statues?! We went to Caesar’s Palace four times. Not for the gambling. Not for the shopping. For the statues. When my mother visited Vegas she had all these great stories of moving statues. I wanted to see them for myself. I had always told myself that if I ever made it to sin city I was going to find the statues in Caesar’s Palace.
The first time we went it was early morning. Nothing was really opened yet. Spotless and quiet, even the slot machines seemed muted. We didn’t find the statues.
The second time we passed through Caesar’s it was mid-afternoon. We followed signs to the moving statues and came up empty. So empty I felt lost. Where were the statues?
The third time we deliberately went to Caesar’s we asked someone for directions and were led to a cheesy, theatrical fountain show with mechanical puppets and lots of fire. Not what I was picturing. Not at all. Rather than wasting a trip I convinced Kisa to have lunch at Mesa, one of Bobby Flay’s restaurants.
Never before have I eaten at a place where the food is so good my eyes literally rolled back in my head. I ordered the southwest breakfast burrito with chorizo, scrambled egg, goat cheese, cilantro and three kinds of sauces.
On our fourth trip to Caesars I found the statues my mother had been talking about. Finally. I recognized them from the pictures she took. I was surprised to discover they are not LIVING statues but rather, moving mechanical statues. Just like the ones I found the day before. Admitting defeat I finally moved on from Caesars but I will never forget Mesa.

 

Mercy Me Mocha

I wanted to wait a little while before writing about Sean’s gig because, well, because I needed to take it all in. It’s funny how music works that way on me. Sometimes it just reaches out and takes hold and won’t let go. Sometimes it thieves my heart away and other times it just leaves me silent.
In the past I wanted to drag as many people as possible to see shows. Promote, promote, promote! It got to the point where I had exhausted the friend list and got nothing in return. It got to that been-there, done-that, same ole-same ole routine. Some fans didn’t stick while others have stuck around to this day. It use to stress me out - that line of lovers and haters. These days I go where I want to go and don’t worry about the fan base, the fanfare. It’s gotten simpler. Much.
So, seeing Sean started out as something unexpected. Back when I first heard his music I froze in the middle of the floor. I must have looked ridiculous and I’m sure I got laughed at. I’m going to skip the oft-mentioned review of how his voice sounds and tell you what really grabbed me. I hear drums in this one-man, one-guitar show. I hear a beat so loud and solid I can do nothing more than stop and stare; barely breathe. Combine that with absolutely amazing lyrics and I have been hooked ever since.

So, the four of us made the tiny trek north. We wandered around town, peering into shop windows, our minds tasting the menus plastered there, lazily looking for the best place for a bite. We settled on a new place - first night open to the public. Good food, better atmosphere, great service. I made a mental note to come back. I know someone who would think it perfect.
Mocha Maya’s. Just in time for music. Sean Rowe (Speaking of perfect). 

I have to admit I had to ask Sean for a set list because a) he has new music I haven’t heard before & new(er) ones I have yet to commit to memory. Here’s what he remembers:
Surprise
Jonathan (the song I called ‘creepy’. I don’t expect anyone to understand that…It’s why I love Halloween). 
Wet
Rock me baby
Shorty
why i sing the blues

I also think In the Diamonds was in there somewhere, but I have no idea why. We did listen to Sean on the way up to the gig…

My new favorite song: Wet. Beyond beautiful. Sean doesn’t have it on his website as a free listen-to, but it will be on the new album due out Sept 4th, 2008 (hopefully)…

My next gig: July 4th!

ps~ I’m including Mocha Maya’s website because the people there are really super cool. They”ve let me know they loved Sean and will get him back as soon as they can. As soon as they do, I’m there!

 

Homeward Not

I have lost my way home. In every sense of the word it is gone. Let’s start with the obvious. No trek to Maine. No boat ride. No getting back to good. Not this time. I will mourn a Memorial Day not on Monhegan. A junkie without her fix, no cure for the homesick. I don’t know what to make of this.

My current address is slipping away. My days there are numbered and all of a sudden I have this urge to be a homebody in this home. Soon, what I call mine will be someone else’s rent. I spent the weekend cleaning closets and scrubbing floors. Like visiting a dying friend I wanted time with my kitchen. For a mid~morning brunch I made a Maine inspired stratta. Homemade bread from the weekend before, spicy vegetarian sausage, crisp green broccoli, sweet Vidalias, creamy eggs+Tabasco+milk, a sprinkling of sharp cheddar cheese. Baked until golden and puffy. More hot sauce for me. For dinner I explored Mexico with a pan-sauteed mix of shredded golden potatoes, spicy Mexican sausage, shiitakes, cilantro and Vidalias. Served with homemade roasted tomatillo and garlic salsa. From scratch flour tortillas. I’m learning to control steam, if there is such a trick. And just to get ahead on the weekday dinners, roasted (skin-on) chicken, smoked with oak chips and cloves of garlic. I’m imagining that will be added to a white bean chili (served with the leftover salsa, of course) and maybe a twisted chicken salad…something smoky and sultry. Trying to reclaim something that isn’t mine. Is not.

The Other Home doesn’t exist yet we sat in front of a loan officer just the same. We spoke the language of calculations. Questions in the form of dollars were answered with quotes. Bank statements and pay stubs. Numbers spilled from our lips easily, as if we memorized our speeches and imagined our lasting impressions.

At the same time we gathered up the dollars to downpay our vacation. Home away from Home. To look forward to the date is to wish summer away, and yet - yet I cannot wait. We’ll start in the cottage of our honeymoon and end in Big Brother just across the way. I’m already tasting lobster and luna.

Such an odd place to be. I’m laying down the disappointment of missing homehome while prepaying on a later visit; I’m turning away from our here and now while it’s still our address and planning payments on an unknown one. We haven’t gone anywhere but I have lost my way home.  

 

Spider Woman?

A month ago I developed a weird spot on my thigh. A nursing student took one look and said basal cell carcinoma. Freak Me. For a month I held denial’s hand and didn’t do anything about it. Nothing except stare at the spot and watch it mutate. I didn’t WebMD it, didn’t do anything. This river in Egypt ran deep. Finally I went to someone a little more professional. Someone with an actual degree and not just in training for one. She took one look and said arachnid. Whaa? Come again? Bug bite, possibly spider-ish. Maybe tick-ish. Either way I’m having a reaction to the saliva. I’m allergic to bug spit of all things.

Whatever. All I know is that Friday (after the bug appointment) I decided to hit the Gerbil cage. 45 minutes. 4.26 miles. Felt freakin’ great. My new tempo pace is 10.2. I can sing while moving that speed. Love it. Then, last night I decided to hit it again. Chicken thighs were in the smoker getting happy with the alder chips(can’t call it smoked chicken chili without the chips…) and I had the time for a sweet 20 minute run. At first I wanted to really kick it. See if I could get more than two miles in. But, my knee gently reminded me it hadn’t even been 24 hours since the 4.26…I’m supposed to “take a day” between runs, remember? Oh yeah. So, I decided to crank the incline and work on hills. Run slow…but UP-up-UP. Bottom line: 1.8 miles in 20 minutes. I’m happy with my energy. I’m in love with my knee. I’m feeling better than ever. Could it be the spider spit? Just call me spider woman!

 

Glad You Think It’s So Funny

I had another one of those failed restaurant meet-ups a few weeks ago. I was supposed to meet someone for dinner. He thought 7:30pm. I thought 5:30pm. I sat there wondering if he was waiting outside while I was inside doing the exact same thing. Toying with my wine glass, fiddling with the silverware, smoothing the tablecloth with my fingertips, reading the menu until I had it memorized, staring at the artwork on the walls. I’m sure the waiters thought I either had a kidney problem or I was having an affair as they filled my water glass for the eighth time. My friend never came. Until 7:30pm

This week we were able to connect and I’m almost wishing we hadn’t. Before me sat a BBQ burger with BrianFries and crunchy pickles. I was ready to dig in. Before I could take a single bite my friend eyed me and asked the WhatsNewQ. I knew I should have started eating first. After I told him my latest he threw his head back and laughed. Laughed and laughed. Laughed so loud other diners turned with curious looks. Laughed and laughed until he was crying. When he was finally finished and had swallowed the last chuckle he managed to ask, “how in God’s name do you get yourself into these messes?” A tear hung in the corner of his eye and a giggle escaped. I could feel another bout of uncontrolable laughter coming my way. Through gritted teeth I admitted I had no idea. And added it wasn’t funny. Burger aside I had to explain. Or at least try to. My life is one big soap opera minus the orphaned surgeon who never knew he was sleeping with his sister and actually died 3 episodes ago but still managed to seduce the bull fighter’s CIA wife in Africa last week. When I said I was done with drama I should have said I’d like to be done with drama. I’m dreaming if I think I can ever fully escape it.
I never did finish the burger…or even touch the fries.

 

Forgive Me

I have been hiding behind book reviews and poetry for days on end. Two poems for every one book. Reading like a fiend seems to suit me. Sorry.
I’ve started to tell you about the weirdest things ~ Kisa murdering the ladybugs in the bathroom, the end of N&ZY, my heartbreak over a breakup, the amazing work I’ve done with MSR, the crap I’ve been handed at AIC, how homesick I am, how little I’ve run, the need to hear my music again (go where we haven’t I don’t dare), Natalie, Germany, Sin City, Taka Tak, being stood up, being letdown, sex in my city, Comic Book Tattoo, Darfur, Boston Celtics, wine, angry black man, gun to my heart, arthritis and friends too far away.

I’ve started to tell you about all these things. Yet, I can’t. Instead I tell you about what I’ve read and read and read.
Forgive me.

 

Rockin’ It Mexi Style

We didn’t end up where we haven’t been so I ran. I promised I would. (thanks for messing with me). Truth is, the running thing is seeping back into my blood. I can feel it becoming as natural as time ticking. Except for this - it’s really hard to run on a full belly of burritos! Seriously. There is this small Mexi place right by where I used to work. Everything is authentic and good, good, good. I pity the person who is afraid to bite adventurously because there isn’t a bad thing on the menu. I could stand in front of that menu, drool coming off my chin, taking forever to decide just how hungry I am. I’m always biting off more than I can chew, more than my stomach can hold. In my greed for great food I gorge.
Last night was no different. We ate and ate. Later, I literally waddled up to the gerbil cage and said a prayer before rocking 3.4 miles in 35 minutes with warm-up. I’m proud of the pace. A month ago I was barely hitting 2.5 miles in that same time. I prefered a 12 minute mile over anything faster. Now, I’m comfortable with 10.5. What a scary thought. What a great feeling. So, B~ I didn’t get the 3.5 I promised you, but I came damn close - so damn close!
Someone pissed me off today and made me shut off my phone. The anger is enough to get me running again but I have to be smart. Last night I heard my hip gnash it’s teeth in pain when I climbed the stairs. Last night I ran hard and I ran happy. I never run stupid. I’ll wait a day. The anger will still be there, but the Mexi won’t. I wonder how far I’ll get?

 

Bring Home the Bacon

Don’t get me wrong. I love to cook. I absolutely adore being in the kitchen, making my own meals, creating my own plates of goodness. But, but, but. There is something to be said for the man who can bring it to the table himself. I’m not talking about the guy who blah, blah, blah brags about how great his meals are. I’m not talking about the guy who sounds positively gay discussing his creme brulee, knife skills or turducken. I’m talking about the quiet guy…the guy who sheepishly says, “yeah… I guess I can try” when I mention starting up the pasta or pan searing the sausage or something. I have a soft spot for the man who, despite being scared, somehow serves something special. I love, love, love the humble guy cook. The guy closet chef who has no clue what he’s doing…but tries anyway.
Over the course of one Sunday I served up International servings: Swedish meatballs with smooth sour cream and bright current jelly, Polish kielbasa -cooked long with spicy-sweet BBQ sauce, and Thai chicken bites with lime, cilantro and vibrant green curry. The time before that I was exploring the ocean with garlicky, clilantro-y, citrusy salmon (my first time taking a pair of pliers to a fish). None of these dishes compared to the meal already made for me. Ready for my mouth the moment I walk in the door. He says he can’t cook. He says he has no clue what he’s doing. He tastes good to me.

 

Cookbook Trouble

For Christmas I got this book…or cookbook…or whatever. It’s both and actually perfect for me. Cooking and books. Books and cooking. That combination is just as perfect as running and yoga, knitting and meditation, pickles and peanut butter. Never mind. So, where’s the trouble you might ask? Here’s the deal: I’ve decided to read every book mentioned in The Book Lover’s Cookbook in addition to Book Lust and More Book Lust. Am I crazy? Quite possibly. Luckily, quite a few of them are on my list already thanks to Pearl’s list(s). I’ve also decided to try to cook every recipe in the book as well. I think I’ve lost it.

A morning this week, despite wanting craving heuvos rancheros I actually made “Behold! Ichabod’s Slapjacks” (Wenger, Shaundra Kennedy and Janet Kay Jenson. The Book Lover’s Cookbook. New York: Ballantine, 2003.) while reading the excerpt from Washington Irving’s Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The “slapjacks” came out sweet and cake-like thanks to sifting and sugar. I instantly regretted pouring maple syrup on them. They would have been perfect with just a light dusting of powdered sugar, a small smear of jelly, or even nothing at all. In fact, their sweetness and lightness would have made a great pairing with something salty and crunchy like turkey bacon or thinly sliced grilled ham. I’m even thinking these slapjacks could be sandwich material… I made a note in the margin, reminding myself to try that next time. A twist on a monte cristo maybe?

 

Stew Luxury

Not many people like change. Very few people actually want to live outside of their comfort zone…at least not on a regular basis. Tonight’s dinner was all about reaching beyond the comfortable; moving beyond the typical. I don’t know what made me do it, but I wanted to make stew for dinner. I don’t make many soups or stews of any kind and I’m not exactly best friends with red meat. Like I said - way out of my comfort zone with this recipe. In addition, I did not want to make just any stew, but chunky, healthy, yummy beef stew since I haven’t been feeling well. No pressure! Thanks to the food network I made something I could dress up or down (read- make expensive or cheaper). Here is the luxury version and in parenthesis, the cheaper version. I went for a combination of the two. Kisa had seconds despite the fact he is a self-proclaimed squash hater.
Stew for You

• olive oil
• fresh, fragrant rosemary (dried)
• flour
• Spanish onion
• fresh thyme (dried)
• marsala wine
• garlic, minced fine
• butternut squash
• sundried tomatoes, chopped (diced tomatoes)
• beef broth (water)
• stew beef cut into 2″ cubes, dredged in s&p and flour (cut into 1″ cubes)
• portabella mushrooms, chopped (white button mushrooms)
• parsley - fresh, chopped (fresh no matter what)
• garlic bread

Butternut squash was an interesting twist, but you could go for standard-stew-inclusions like potatoes. I would like to try sweet potatoes in addition, or a combination of everything. I added the mushrooms even though they weren’t called for in the recipe. One other note - I would omit the salt in the beef dredge because the beef broth is salty enough (even if you use low sodium, which I prefer). Sop up the extra stew juice with the crusty garlic bread and enjoy a winter’s feast!

 

Wish You Were Here

If I could sit beside you in a worn down diner, I would. We would sit at the cracked counter, balancing on wobbly, spinning stools and peer at the menu, already knowing what we want. Nowhere to put our coats and hats, we’d drape them over our knees. Before the day is over I would lose a glove, dropped to the snow-melted wet floor, trampled on before it’s even missing and missed. But, before then we would order plates of runny eggs and almost burnt toast. We’d let steaming cups of coffee sit untouched at our elbows, too hot to sip. Conversation would be silent because enjoying each others unusual company would be all we need. You would eavesdrop on the couple behind us, nodding knowingly; wise to their hushed argument about buying a bigger truck. The exclamation, an outburst of sorts, “but, it’s New England!” would make you smile small. The corners of your mouth would barely move, but the barely contained laughter would still show in your eyes. You want to say something, but would busy yourself with fixing my coffee the way I like it instead. You would even stop to test its temperature, your tongue knowing exactly how I can take it. “It’s cool enough” you would indicate with a small nod, pushing the cup towards me, eyes still laughing. Thank you, I would acknowledge you are right. Again. 
Getting up to pay the bill. That’s when I’d lose the glove. I wouldn’t notice it slide off my lap, bounce off the stool leg and land soundly in the cold puddle of slush created by my too-big black boots. Instead I would trudge my way to the cashier, my coat bunched under an arm. You hand over the check and wait for change. “Ready?” you would ask with your smiling eyes. Yes. And out of the diner we would go. If I could, I would.

 

Chourico Content

For three months now I haven’t wanted to cook. I have come home feeling exhausted, worn down and depressed. Kisa asks a one-word question “pizza?” and my only response is another question “order out or make in?” I’m not feeling guilty about the laziness. We got a pizza stone and peel for our wedding and I truly enjoy making fresh pizza at home. But, but, but. It’s not what I consider cooking. I’m not really making anything when I lay down a crust with sauce and cheese.
Tonight, all that ended. I shook off the blues and I’m back in the kitchen. My first recipe to ring out the old year is chourico/turkey sub sandwiches in honor of the Saturday night Patriots game.
Ingredients:

• chourico, red and spicy, stripped of casing and chopped small
• ground turkey
• sweet vidalia, chopped tiny
• zesty tomato sauce
• ruby red tomatoes, diced
• crunchy, bright jalapenos (I cheated with jarred because I prefer my friend, Mrs ‘Fro), chopped smaller than small
• dried oregano
• sugar
• black pepper (fresh cracked, of course)
• tapioca
• big black olives, sliced
• monterey jack cheese, shredded
• fresh, fresh, fresh rolls, guts taken out
• crunchy tortilla chips (I like red hot blues)

I prefer to cook the turkey and chourico in batches, alternating between the two. End with a batch of turkey so it can soak up the crusty bits of chourico left behind. This method also gives the otherwise grayish turkey a deeper color. The whole thing stews for 6-12 hours so the flavors can have a lasting relationship and not just a one night stand. Serve with plenty of napkins and water for the wimps.

 

Virgin Party

This was my first time hosting something trivial, something small. The parties I have thrown in my life can be counted on one hand: a shower for my sister, my own wedding, my post race party and mom’s surprise party this past summer. Last night was different. It was the first time I had an intimate tv party for no reason at all.
Just the right amount of people came (the perfect people for such a party, I must add). It was fun to snack and laugh, saving the serious conversations for later. Just the right amount of food (although the meatballs with Parmesan crisps ran out). I loved making the pecan pie (my first) and Freezer Pie, but the sun-dried tomato/feta cheese ball was my favorite. Just the right amount of Merlot with beautiful but mismatched long stemmed wine glasses. Just the right amount of room in the cedar/pine scented living room (although we always have room for just one more). Just the right amount of coziness with the candles, candy and twinkle lights on the tree decorated with holiday cheer.
My mother-in-law brought her Brenda bag and I, my YouLookGuilty tee shirt (pic coming soon). We all hushed for the show but cheered for the Patriots (thank someone they won). As the night winded down, everyone was ushered out with a hug, chocolate covered pretzels and Mama’s Southern Pecan Pie recipe. Indy hid upstairs until every last guest was gone.
Finally, it was just kisa and I in the quiet. We cleaned the kitchen in tandem, taking turns opening and closing the dishwasher door; wiping down counters and hand-washing wine glasses.
As we turned off the Christmas lights, blew out the candles and turned down the heat I thought of Brenda when she said, “I don’t like it when I’m ordered to be festive.” Me neither so I’m glad last night was so much fun…naturally.