tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47695640309364962762024-02-06T20:34:20.700-06:00High Heels in the KitchenCooking is as new to me as marriage.Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-34568085729518873922010-03-21T14:32:00.007-05:002011-01-08T09:10:46.548-06:00Follow Me!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.afb.org/blog/images/Emailer_Header_Art.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 104px;" src="http://www.afb.org/blog/images/Emailer_Header_Art.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Hello, and thank you for stopping by. I've still got my heels, and I still love my kitchen, but I've moved </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" href="http://laraehrlich.com/">here</a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">. Come check out my new blog.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">See you there!<br /></span></span><span style="display: block;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" id="formatbar_Buttons" ><span class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Link" class="gl_link" border="0" /></span></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-41686620026828709722010-01-28T16:56:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:48:19.114-06:00From Prunes to Parsnips, a Palate Awakened<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSnPUZAtRgIxR8q-ha7zDJj5sMSHz9vj-Eu-nkT202ng1r_pnPzJhod1cdZmlnnekuD3Un45u22PR6K341pzZVvMbKS1zmGO92hz9EdnFwtZ92kDqV_iNMrvkblRw_mMe8yFCFT14_ls/s1600-h/Vegetables.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSnPUZAtRgIxR8q-ha7zDJj5sMSHz9vj-Eu-nkT202ng1r_pnPzJhod1cdZmlnnekuD3Un45u22PR6K341pzZVvMbKS1zmGO92hz9EdnFwtZ92kDqV_iNMrvkblRw_mMe8yFCFT14_ls/s200/Vegetables.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294258042675591490" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><b style="">Prunes<o:p></o:p></b></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><o:p></o:p></b>When I was growing up, I had a lengthy list of dislikes based primarily on the <i style="">idea</i> of a food rather than the actual taste. I did not take into consideration the variety of methods for preparing an ingredient, and declared something awful after just one bad experience—and very often, no experience at all. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I had harbored a loathing for green beans since at the age of seven I sampled one at my uncle’s annual pool party. It was brownish green, cold, and rubbery after sitting on a platter under a beach umbrella all day. I gagged, spit it out, and never touched green beans again—until last year. Last Thanksgiving, I decided to try a simple recipe for green beans sautéed with salt, pepper, and garlic. And to my great surprise, green beans weren’t the rubbery bits I had recalled with horror for more than twenty years. They were bright green and had a little crunch to them. What a revelation! It led me to wonder: What other foods have I always “hated” without due cause? What surprises does the grocery store hold for my emerging palate?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Most of my revelations have been about vegetables: carrots are all right after all and broccoli is divine. And there are hitherto unimagined varieties of lettuce. I had always thought salad was resigned to wilted bits of leaf and chunks of bitter tomato. But the leafy varieties! The textures that can be incorporated with walnuts, pears, dried cranberries, seeds, red—or green or yellow—peppers! Even the humble, earthy beet lends a distinctive character to a bowl of what I had previously considered mere roughage. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>With my mind newly opened to the wonders of the culinary world, it was time to give prunes another try.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Owing to an embarrassing childhood ailment, I was forced—once a morning for months—to down a full glass of prune juice. My grandmother challenged me to prune juice races, which she always let me win. I still remember the bitter, cloying syrup and its awful aftertaste and I vowed, once I had weathered my ailment, never to let a prune or its foul juice touch my lips again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I broke my vow last month. I was making a recipe for non-fat gingerbread that called for prune purée in place of butter, so I bought a full tub of prunes. When I opened the lid, the prunes glistened in a moist heap and smelled sickly sweet, just the way I remembered their juice. As I puréed the shining, sticky fruit, I became curious. Would prunes live up to my most distressing gastronomic memory? I unglued one from the mound, and bit into it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>In what was perhaps the most shocking moment in my life, I enjoyed the prune. With finality, that one taste devastated the entire foundation on which I had based my appetites. If I liked prunes, what wouldn’t I like? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;">Parsnips</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p>I don’t like parsnips. I am pleased to discover this fact because after the prunes, I realized with equal measures pride and dismay that I might just like eating anything and everything. Where once I couldn’t think of a vegetable I liked, now I couldn’t imagine a food I <i>didn’t</i> like. Until Monday, when I made parsnip soup. </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I had tried parsnips roasted and crisped and whipped, and they had left me unimpressed. I thought I just hadn’t yet discovered the ideal method for preparing them. Soup seemed like a logical progression in my parsnip experiment, so I found a lovely seasonal soup recipe that paired the parsnips with potato, celery, salt, pepper, and paprika—a combination that sounds creamy, sweet and a little spicy. I made eight servings, so I would have enough soup to keep me warm for nearly two weeks in my chilly cubicle. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I tasted the soup while it simmered on the stove and added more seasoning. And a little more. And more salt. And a dash or two of extra paprika. And a few more pinches of salt, until the soup was as good as it was likely to get. I thought it might improve by resting overnight in the fridge. So with hope and good intentions, I divided the soup into eight Tupperware bowls and put it to sleep.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>When I heated my lunch in the office microwave the next day, a pungent, bitter scent filled the kitchen and clung to me as I headed down the hall back to my cube, which immediately filled with the aroma. I hadn’t even removed the lid.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>The soup was sickeningly bittersweet. I liberally added Parmesan and crackers. The cheese helped to mask the bitterness and make the soup barely edible. The crackers added texture to the otherwise watery mixture, but they didn’t stay crispy for long, and drowned in the mess. I nearly cried when I emptied seven Tupperware bowls into the sink that night. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I say <i style="">never again</i> to parsnip soup.</span></p>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-1816497813782694792010-01-18T08:22:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:53:06.402-06:00A Pat on the Back<span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeCznJnTkJiYvP8VUGNFnCK5_zhEvZ7hKUMe7iArqts1AIO_HALDAB_e4DXji0q2MwRx6D9IEjJp_Y2OyN_VgzSs86T_OLZGVO7Iui3QjaUjFcUcDisAlfSBdsT4CwFb_kt8Y61pcU-85/s400/Julia%2520child%2520sans%2520chicken.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeCznJnTkJiYvP8VUGNFnCK5_zhEvZ7hKUMe7iArqts1AIO_HALDAB_e4DXji0q2MwRx6D9IEjJp_Y2OyN_VgzSs86T_OLZGVO7Iui3QjaUjFcUcDisAlfSBdsT4CwFb_kt8Y61pcU-85/s400/Julia%2520child%2520sans%2520chicken.png" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p>“Did you have a relaxing weekend?” J asked on Monday. </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“I did! At least, I <span style="font-style: italic;">tried </span>to relax, but I ended up baking bread all day on Sunday.” I replied,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> arranging slices of challah next to the office kitchen sink. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“That sounds relaxing. Wasn’t it?” she asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Not really.” I sighed. “I must have done something wrong, because the dough was so runny that it spread across the counter and started dripping on the floor.” A motherly sort of person, J would sympathize with my culinary crises. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Maybe I used the wrong flour.” I pondered.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“<span style="font-style: italic;">Is </span>there a wrong flour?” she asked. I didn’t know. The recipe calls for “strong white flour,” but I have five different types of flour, and I wasn’t sure which was the strongest.</span></p> <span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbqd7MO2Qwr6p_SUUKYXgomwe_dStsF9h7g6DHqokIsvzAMGKJqNpxv2urgh9BQBRhLZlbEglKm75o3Q1F-NIAIJyZhcgEqDbSzBVOQ0CzpEaVW29OO201P3RXM0IQGtIDJ4q7TxIXfg/s1600-h/IMG_0541.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbqd7MO2Qwr6p_SUUKYXgomwe_dStsF9h7g6DHqokIsvzAMGKJqNpxv2urgh9BQBRhLZlbEglKm75o3Q1F-NIAIJyZhcgEqDbSzBVOQ0CzpEaVW29OO201P3RXM0IQGtIDJ4q7TxIXfg/s400/IMG_0541.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323054324732808130" border="0" /></a></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I chose bread flour, since I was making bread. But perhaps I should have used all-purpose. Then again, maybe my kitchen scale is defective.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZc-XzHfjX80Gg-XEvSHq080E0rOupqlcAteLWUJVzLOiJeXd1lcTuVUsLzzgVZKOUQJuuE64ByQHL3aAmTf5d8-e1C5ccCYIl513i2JDO_e-vTXeg_yOY9J24iKVocfRo31MXSNmZva0/s1600-h/IMG_0505.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZc-XzHfjX80Gg-XEvSHq080E0rOupqlcAteLWUJVzLOiJeXd1lcTuVUsLzzgVZKOUQJuuE64ByQHL3aAmTf5d8-e1C5ccCYIl513i2JDO_e-vTXeg_yOY9J24iKVocfRo31MXSNmZva0/s400/IMG_0505.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323053661438364674" border="0" /></a></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Or maybe I shouldn't have used my hand-held electric mixer to mix the ingredients. <a href="http://www.mrsbeeton.com/">Mrs. Beeton</a> instructs us to “Rub in the butter or margarine. Beat the eggs into the yeast mixture and stir in the flour mixture. Mix to a soft dough.” As I mixed and beat the ingredients, the flour clumped into pebbles and the runny dough splashed the cabinets. It was at this point that I began to panic. </span></p> <span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jHOTm91MEHcVPI-gLjIWaSHaxPXu9PMowvqtwILbzxvUlyQhbjH8mgjFtC7RwrEQ_5XSajkK7L_rPesc-hKWzJizwfJNlSJ2BgsoczppsnmVDv77aWwE6xc-p_xM8Zbo3CYC9urWWi0/s1600-h/IMG_0517.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jHOTm91MEHcVPI-gLjIWaSHaxPXu9PMowvqtwILbzxvUlyQhbjH8mgjFtC7RwrEQ_5XSajkK7L_rPesc-hKWzJizwfJNlSJ2BgsoczppsnmVDv77aWwE6xc-p_xM8Zbo3CYC9urWWi0/s400/IMG_0517.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323053679606656258" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >I gave up the mixer and began squishing flour clumps with my hands. This was truly a labor of love. </span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >I mixed and mixed and mixed with my hands, the mixer, a spoon—but the liquid never transformed into “a soft dough.” I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to turn it out onto a floured surface. But I did. And that’s when the dough made a run for it across the counter. </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Did you start over again?” J asked. I paused. I had never considered that option. I finish what I start. That’s how I ended up with a C+ in Latin my freshman year of college. If only I had dropped that class when my professor said, “I know you’re trying very hard, but I don’t think this language is for you.” But it never occurred to me to give up.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>So, approaching hysteria on Sunday afternoon, I tore F from his book and made him cup his hands around the quickly spreading dough as I added handful after handful of flour, kneading and patting the dough, scooping flour until I had added a good cup and a half to the mix, moaning all the while, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >My challah!</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" > My challah!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“I probably should have started over,” I answered J, “But I just added more flour until the dough held together.”<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:12;">When the dough had finally risen for the second time, I divided it into two equal</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:12;"> portions and rolled them into strands for braiding.<br /></span></span></p> <span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglgLLRpDcWrxIrHVejFEdGANMOQKcnkbJyoIlJ97ctC_QHi0XrjtlBP8GDh0WBgNDFGxsK_NPj-12DqJ8kf0GjRyWCIJ_QmK0xeohsyXE5NAzMoGyacyMB3e67YoYP7iFsMtoSTtd611M/s1600-h/IMG_0528.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglgLLRpDcWrxIrHVejFEdGANMOQKcnkbJyoIlJ97ctC_QHi0XrjtlBP8GDh0WBgNDFGxsK_NPj-12DqJ8kf0GjRyWCIJ_QmK0xeohsyXE5NAzMoGyacyMB3e67YoYP7iFsMtoSTtd611M/s400/IMG_0528.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323053682564336210" border="0" /></a></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:12;">The dough was still so soft that the strands melted into each other as I wove them together. I added a few more heaps of</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:12;"> flour until the strands rested against each other without melding. I carefully transferred the loaf to a baking pan and</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:12;"> brushed with egg. I let it rest for 30 minutes before baking.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“But the bread turned out OK in the end?” J asked.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Yes." I replied sheepishly, "It’s actually pretty good.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:12;">To my great surprise, the bread turned out beautifully, after all.</span><br /></span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7T7yiG2_Wz1GiCBJSqCCEFIOnXEFRfLSwsr3GE2E0tu6aXOu0Ulvb1A2JZodSWfgPwiJBqlC5xn5NL4n3-XHwbw7iMDjjQIPxCiMuUH_YAy9OSHlgtbDmgNKUiWNX0gHpgjbtbiauIM/s1600-h/IMG_0535.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7T7yiG2_Wz1GiCBJSqCCEFIOnXEFRfLSwsr3GE2E0tu6aXOu0Ulvb1A2JZodSWfgPwiJBqlC5xn5NL4n3-XHwbw7iMDjjQIPxCiMuUH_YAy9OSHlgtbDmgNKUiWNX0gHpgjbtbiauIM/s400/IMG_0535.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324122734940297586" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“So you saved it! That’s impressive.” J squeezed my shoulder and I smiled self-consciously. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Did you pat yourself on the back?” J asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Um… no.” I replied. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“You should pat yourself on the back more often.” J said as she took a slice of challah and ambled back to her desk.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>As J turned away, I remembered something another J<span style="font-size:12;">—</span>Julia Child<span style="font-size:12;">—</span>once said, “The measure of achievement is not winning awards. It's doing something that you appreciate, something you believe is worthwhile. I think of my strawberry souffl<span style="font-size:12;">é</span>. I did that at least twenty-eight times before I finally conquered it.”</span></p><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Feeling just a little bit silly, I quickly patted myself on the back and smiled.</span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I’ve got twenty-seven loaves to go!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p><br /><b style="">Challah<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>From <a href="http://www.mrsbeeton.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Baking</span></a><b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Fat for greasing<br />800g / 1 ¾lb strong white flour<br />10ml / 2tsp sugar<br />25g / 1oz butter or margarine<br />2 eggs<br />Flour for kneading<br />Beaten egg for glazing</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Grease 2 baking sheets. Sift about 75g / 3oz of the four and all the sugar into a large bowl. Measure 400ml / 14fl oz lukewarm water. Blend the fresh yeast into the water or stir in the dried yeast. Pour the yeast liquid into the flour and sugar and beat well. Leave the bowl in a warm place for 20 minutes. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Sift the remaining flour and the salt into a bowl. Rub in the butter or margarine. Beat the eggs into the yeast mixture and stir in the flour mixture. Mix to a soft dough. Turn on to a lightly floured surface and knead for about 6 minutes or until the dough is smooth and no longer sticky. Return to the bowl and cover with cling film. Leave in a warm place until the dough has doubled in volume—this will take up to 2 hours, or longer. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Knead the dough again until firm. Cut into 2 equal portions. Cut one of these into 2 equal pieces and roll these into long strands 30-35 cm / 12-14 inches in length. Arrange the 2 strands in a cross on a flat surface. Take the 2 opposite ends of the bottom strand and cross them over the top strand in the center. Repeat this, using the other strand. Cross each strand alternately, building up the plait vertically, until all the dough is used up. Gather the short ends together and pinch firmly. Lay the challah on its side and place on the prepared baking sheet. Brush with beaten egg. Repeat, using the second portion. Cover with lightly oiled polythene. Leave in a warm place for about 30 minutes or until the dough has doubled in volume. Set the oven at 220 degrees C / 425 degrees F / gas 7.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Bake for 35-40 minutes, until the loaves are golden brown and sound hollow when tapped on the bottom. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Makes two 1 ¾ lb loaves.</span></p>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-17266877014510214432010-01-14T18:19:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:42:33.849-06:00A Good Woman<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpPGZZfixbLw5q46MbHl-5qNZ6i1x3cg8ergmXEstX0eWyKyfIeFktop43Zr_HWSN89Jmo1v61MDaihJ8RCnjOicvyRbYaydHBSommmSLde8TLRwaX_le57XNr9t4sPk-DJ34bKO9ASs/s1600-h/IMG_0786.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpPGZZfixbLw5q46MbHl-5qNZ6i1x3cg8ergmXEstX0eWyKyfIeFktop43Zr_HWSN89Jmo1v61MDaihJ8RCnjOicvyRbYaydHBSommmSLde8TLRwaX_le57XNr9t4sPk-DJ34bKO9ASs/s400/IMG_0786.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348816341784916802" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >F has to work late tonight. While I will miss him, I am also excited to have the house to myself. I shall sit on the couch with a bottle of wine and watch a girlie movie with a kitty on each thigh. And I shall make myself something for dinner that F does not enjoy.<br /></span><br /><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >And then I will make something that F </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >does </span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >enjoy, so he can come home from work to a nice snack. I shall make him cupcakes. From a box. With icing from a tub.<br /><br />When F and I first started dating, Moist Deluxe Duncan Hines Classic Yellow Cake Cupcakes were the extent of my baking expertise. I wooed him with cupcakes. I seduced him with Betty Crocker Whipped Chocolate Frosting. He would leave my littl</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >e Hyde Park apartment with a cupcake in each hand--and he always came back for more.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOZ644I3GEH1XAJ7sqNzIHTbwqfD4oI5OUgPHPlSJ9Y2jRVK5lu2zoOoAehASMDDkI-qhsIJjPdApZjk0wNJv3xbK0ngT3w-oa6BxzDNnuLneF7cQriHOr4AwbFIV8-qgt9bnBSBSNWc/s1600-h/IMG_0811.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOZ644I3GEH1XAJ7sqNzIHTbwqfD4oI5OUgPHPlSJ9Y2jRVK5lu2zoOoAehASMDDkI-qhsIJjPdApZjk0wNJv3xbK0ngT3w-oa6BxzDNnuLneF7cQriHOr4AwbFIV8-qgt9bnBSBSNWc/s400/IMG_0811.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349985238947544018" border="0" /></a>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-55250472299404449342010-01-11T08:20:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:41:57.666-06:00A Good ManI haven't written in awhile because I've been in Scranton, PA, renowned for <span style="font-style: italic;">The Office</span> and not much else. More to come on that. In short, I saw my best friend become an Elder of the church and spent a glorious few days at home with my parents. When I finally got back to Chicago on a chilly June night, homesick and smelling like airplane, F greeted me from the kitchen where he was making me dinner.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigBbVhOgZHB1KCNEw4K21M7QZ-ggCiVfA86OdbxvKPM2g8F9Z8vZDYMXJqw45tttTk_HYMZk6cU4zHak4tZUP8ONKVWT5VXIbpkGih_X-zaxy9dNqhGgYtqbSNsa6gPqsXvOC3Q_x_a5Y/s1600-h/IMG_0784_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 382px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigBbVhOgZHB1KCNEw4K21M7QZ-ggCiVfA86OdbxvKPM2g8F9Z8vZDYMXJqw45tttTk_HYMZk6cU4zHak4tZUP8ONKVWT5VXIbpkGih_X-zaxy9dNqhGgYtqbSNsa6gPqsXvOC3Q_x_a5Y/s400/IMG_0784_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345688658219177426" border="0" /></a><a href="http://find.myrecipes.com/recipes/recipefinder.dyn?action=displayRecipe&recipe_id=614000">Salmon with White Wine Mustard Sauce</a> and asparagus:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmVuFv8DAQfIAMQgtPWVhds-shmR-U8vBCmgfWzYyfTEM5J5-19HV5Vt3Q0I62tsAPnHtnsZLFFSb-zmr5lHdE-bJhMZiUzoRZ0FR2jCgT31sUsBjThTl4Or5kGLrrWQbtF2vE4rU14E/s1600-h/IMG_0785.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 363px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmVuFv8DAQfIAMQgtPWVhds-shmR-U8vBCmgfWzYyfTEM5J5-19HV5Vt3Q0I62tsAPnHtnsZLFFSb-zmr5lHdE-bJhMZiUzoRZ0FR2jCgT31sUsBjThTl4Or5kGLrrWQbtF2vE4rU14E/s400/IMG_0785.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345688665878951666" border="0" /></a>I've got a good man, indeed.Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-10036017829868886462010-01-03T16:44:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:50:15.790-06:00A Disastrous Feast of Figs<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2o6EPgftnybMVLRFgbTJ8To2xOo8rQX4edZg6NuHX6ahsK8Dt21F7vvfZCBGUApcEqiNgCG79OA97qBIYVD0zP0Doge6TbUgkhKS9Wf7hPkJTAYqTlTG4gq-ul053Sver2FBUawW2Zg/s1600-h/figs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 119px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2o6EPgftnybMVLRFgbTJ8To2xOo8rQX4edZg6NuHX6ahsK8Dt21F7vvfZCBGUApcEqiNgCG79OA97qBIYVD0zP0Doge6TbUgkhKS9Wf7hPkJTAYqTlTG4gq-ul053Sver2FBUawW2Zg/s200/figs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296853905362967922" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Last night I made a disgusting dessert. It sounded good, it had good ingredients, but something went terribly wrong in the execution.<br /><br />The figs at the grocery store had intrigued me for weeks. Although fresh figs are no longer in season, the dried figs resting side-by-side in a snug little wheel promised to impart the essence of a warm, spiced Middle-Eastern desert breeze to my cold Chicago apartment. So, in what might have been an ill-advised decision, I made an entirely fig-themed dinner.</span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>The <a href="http://find.myrecipes.com/recipes/recipefinder.dyn?action=displayRecipe&recipe_id=1185373">Chicken with Balsamic-Fig Sauce</a> was fine. I tried to convince myself throughout the meal that I didn’t mind—and even appreciated—the gritty texture of the fig seeds in the sauce. But on the whole, I found this recipe a little strange and unappetizing. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>And for dessert—<a href="http://find.myrecipes.com/recipes/recipefinder.dyn?action=displayRecipe&recipe_id=404144">Spiced Figs in Red Wine</a>. I chopped three dried figs in half and dumped them in a saucepan with a cup of red wine, 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract, a dash of cinnamon, a sprig of rosemary, a spring of thyme, three peppercorns, 2 tablespoons of lemon juice, 1 tablespoon of honey, and 1/3 cup sugar and brought the mixture to a boil. I left it to simmer for 35 minutes, as directed. It smelled wonderful—much like I would imagine the inside of a desert caravan would smell as it trundled across the desert on a hot night.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I will pause here to say that <i style="">Cooking Light</i> should in no way be held responsible for the utter failure of this dessert. I assume all responsibility for the recipe’s disastrous consequences because I made two very silly mistakes: <i style="">Cooking Light </i>tells us to let the spiced fig syrup cool and then chill for an hour. I thought this dessert might be nice warm—and I didn’t want to wait for my dessert. So when the 35 minutes were up, I strained the solids and filled two ramekins with vanilla frozen yogurt. Then I poured the steaming wine mixture over the yogurt and placed three chunks of fig on top of each. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Upon further reflection, I should have let the syrup cool. And I should have followed the instructions to scoop the yogurt over the syrup, instead of pouring the syrup over the yogurt. Before I even reached the living room to present this dish to F, the frozen yogurt had melted into a lukewarm, pinkish soup garnished with half-submerged fig chunks. The figs, balancing between the hot liquid and the cold yogurt, had hardened. My glorious, Middle-Eastern desert dessert was overwhelmingly winy, spicy, and gritty—and barely edible.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>F politely declared himself full after two bites. But I had made this elegant, delectable dessert and by God, I was going to finish it.</span></p> <span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >And I ate it all.</span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-61900687878002769432009-12-28T09:30:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:43:27.224-06:00MIA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://grorg.org/blorg/uploads/mia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 362px; height: 269px;" src="http://grorg.org/blorg/uploads/mia.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">MIA image courtesy of <a href="http://grorg.org/blorg/mia/">grorg.org/blorg/mia/</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I have to apologize for being MIA. F always teases that when I become interested in something (like food, for instance), I devote my every waking hour to it, to the exclusion of everything else. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">This is true.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I have been writing a Big Project (BF) for the last few months, and I am committed to finishing it, no matter what else suffers. I may forget to eat, my marriage may fail, I may lose my job, and worst of all, I may forget to post on High Heels. But by God, I will finish BF!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">BF has nothing to do with food, so I can't really share much about it here. But I can say that much of my time has been dominated by writing. I write at lunch. I write on the bus. I write while walking down the sidewalk. I write at the gym. I write while sauteeing chicken. I've taken a few workshops, I went to a conference, I've been reading related books and magazines, I've been applying to contests and requesting grants.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I think F is correct in saying that I commit to things.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">But don't worry. I'm around.</span></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-59278114227123268932009-11-15T14:54:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:45:13.442-06:00"Fine" Dining<span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cab.u-szeged.hu/wm/paint/auth/vermeer/kitchen-maid/kitchen-maid.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 289px;" src="http://www.cab.u-szeged.hu/wm/paint/auth/vermeer/kitchen-maid/kitchen-maid.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">When you make a meal for your spouse, you expect him to savor it with gratitude and exclamations of delight. </span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Once I finish a dish and have arranged the parts on the plate in a pleasing display, I bring it steaming from the kitchen and place it gently on the cushion in F’s lap (yes, we eat on the couch). I expect him to begin eating immediately while his dinner is still hot and at its best. I join him on the couch and await his praise. He eats quickly. I wait, chewing very slowly to make my dinner last at least a quarter of the time it took to prepare. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Finally, I prompt him with practiced nonchalance,<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Is it ok?”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">“It’s fine.” He says. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>F is spoiled by home-cooked meals now. When we began dating, he dined every week on ramen noodles and frozen chicken patties. He grew up on meat and potatoes and had never had Chinese food or Mexican food or rice—or a bagel—until college. Until he met me, he had never tasted lamb, lobster, duck, pork tenderloin, tofu, salmon, quinoa, turnips, tiramisu, parsnips, cilantro, pesto, cumin, cucumbers, or a wealth of other culinary delights. Nor had I cooked them. My cooking had been limited to one or two chicken dishes and a failed French fry experiment. I’m still learning—which is why my recipes still sometimes fail miserably.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>On our walk home the other night, O and I commiserated about the fact that men do not understand why we get upset when our cooking fails. “It’s just food,” F says when my sauce doesn’t thicken, while I hover over the pan, tears thinning already watery and smoking tomatoes. And they don’t understand why we get upset when, in response to the tentative question, “How’s your dinner?” they reply, “It’s fine.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Fine” is not the word we’re after. If we spend an hour chopping onions and peeling carrots, skinning fish and stirring sauce, we want our work to be considered “Fabulous,” or “Better than my steak at Morton’s” or “an exquisite blend of flavors and textures.” </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Not </span><span style="font-size:100%;">“fine.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>One recent rainy Sunday, I tried to make F a stack of divine pancakes. I always use the same recipe from my favorite cookbook, <i style="">The Best of Cooking Light 1999</i>. Apparently 1999 was a good year for <i style="">Cooking Light</i>, because absolutely every single recipe I’ve ever made from this cookbook has been perfect, and the recipe for Buttermilk Oatmeal Pancakes is no exception. But I get bored with perfection, so I cheated on </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Cooking Light</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> with <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/magazine/2000s/2009/03/cookbook-review-the-breakfast-book"><span style="font-style: italic;">Gourmet</span></a>, who recently highlighted this recipe: </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Bridge Creek Heavenly Hots</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >(fifty to sixty dollar-size pancakes)</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>From <i style="">The Breakfast Book </i>by Marion Cunningham </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><o:p></o:p>These are the lightest sour cream silver-dollar-size hotcakes I’ve ever had—they seem to hover over the plate. They are heavenly and certainly should be served hot.</em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span><span class="name" style="font-size:100%;">4 eggs</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span class="quantity" style="font-size:100%;">1/2</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="unit" style="font-size:100%;">teaspoon</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="name" style="font-size:100%;">salt</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span class="quantity" style="font-size:100%;">1/2</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="unit" style="font-size:100%;">teaspoon</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="name" style="font-size:100%;">baking soda</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span class="quantity" style="font-size:100%;">1/4</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="unit" style="font-size:100%;">cup</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="name" style="font-size:100%;">cake flour</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span class="quantity" style="font-size:100%;">2</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="unit" style="font-size:100%;">cups</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="text" style="font-size:100%;">sour cream</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span class="quantity" style="font-size:100%;">3</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="unit" style="font-size:100%;">tablespoons</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="name" style="font-size:100%;">sugar</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">1. Put the eggs in a mixing bowl and stir until well blended. Add the salt, baking soda, flour, sour cream, and sugar, and mix well. All of this can be done in a blender, if you prefer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">2. Heat a griddle or frying pan until it is good and hot, film with grease, and drop small spoonfuls of batter onto the griddle—just enough to spread to an approximately 2 1/2-inch round. When a few bubbles appear on top of the pancakes, turn them over and cook briefly.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In an effort to make these slightly healthier, and because I have a mistaken confidence in my ability to adapt recipes, I used fat-free sour cream and egg whites. I’m convinced this must have been the problem with my hotcakes, which were certainly not heavenly. Nor did they hover over the plate. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Instead, the batter leaked across the pan and burned immediately. I turned down the heat, added some flour to the mix, and tried again. The pancakes refused to bubble and the bottom scorched. I added a little more flour. By this time, my mix was lumpy and my pan was coated with burned batter. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I swore and dumped the rest of the mix into the garbage, startling F, who should be used to this by now.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“What’s wrong?” he cried, thinking I had burned myself, so uncharacteristic was my profanity.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I burned your hotcakes!” I wailed in despair. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Don’t worry,” he said, “It’s just food.” This was the wrong thing to say.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“It’s NOT just food!” I sobbed. “It’s your breakfast. I was trying to make you a nice breakfast from <i style="">The Breakfast Book</i>. It’s supposed to be simple and delicious. You were supposed to have a nice breakfast!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I’ll still have a nice breakfast,” he said. “Just make the other pancakes.” I was immediately filled with loathing for my beloved <i style="">The Best of</i> <i style="">Cooking Light 1999.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I can’t now.” I said, fully aware of how petulant I sounded, “I used up all the eggs.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Well let’s have oatmeal.” He suggested.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Fine. That’s all I can really make right, anyway.” I huffed, and turned back to the stove. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Granted, I make a mean bowl of oatmeal, so my agony over the hotcakes soon abated. But the complete failure of my adapted recipe still rankles. I’m gathering the courage to try those hotcakes again—this time with full-fat sour cream and whole eggs. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>And I’ll have F to comfort me if they burn again. Poor F still just doesn’t understand why I get so upset. It may sound silly, but cooking is more than just making food. It’s creating something. And after a long day in my cubicle, marketing things that other people create, I savor my hour in the kitchen when I get to make something for myself—and for F. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>You can’t frame a pancake and hang it on the wall. You can’t put a loaf of bread on stage and expect an audience to applaud. And you can’t display a fish fillet on a pedestal for all of eternity. Food is fleeting. It only looks pretty for so long. You eat it, and it’s gone. And if you don’t eat it, it rots. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>A meal is created just the once for a specific person to enjoy, whether that person is a customer in a restaurant, a son or daughter, or a husband. Cooking is an expression of creativity and of love. It’s more than food, and it should be more than “fine.” </span></p>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-37408904129945037602009-11-03T11:59:00.000-06:002010-01-28T15:53:58.016-06:00Cubicle Lunch: Leftover Fish<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://redfishemergingmarkets.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/stinky-fish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 401px; height: 327px;" src="http://redfishemergingmarkets.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/stinky-fish.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Image courtesy of </span><span style="color:green;"><span style="font-size:78%;">redfishemergingmarkets.com</span><br /><br /></span>Today, I'm the annoying girl who brings fish for lunch.<br />I hate that girl.<br /><br />The fish is left over from last night's experimental dinner. To truly understand and appreciate this experiment, you must know that F <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>loves </span>Cheez-Its and barely tolerates fish.<br /><br />I thought that by crusting a cod fillet in his favorite snack, I could trick F into changing his mind. I crushed a bunch of Cheez-Its, coated the fillet, and baked. Sounded like a flawless plan.<br /><br />It didn't work too well, honestly<span style="font-size:11;">—<o:p></o:p></span>which is why there are leftovers for my lunch.<br /></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-82058042407339291382009-10-20T12:49:00.000-05:002010-01-28T15:49:32.852-06:00Becoming More Like Julia<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.superchefblog.com/images/juliachildbread_72dpi336pxl.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 336px; height: 336px;" src="http://www.superchefblog.com/images/juliachildbread_72dpi336pxl.png" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Julia Child dedicated <i style="">Mastering the Art of French Cooking </i>to "the servantless American cook who can be unconcerned on occasion with budgets, waistlines, time schedules, children's meals, the parent-chauffeur-den-mother syndrome or anything else which might interfere with the enjoyment of producing something wonderful to eat."</span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>This is the woman I want to be. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Unfortunately, I’m not sure there is such a woman. I’m not sure there is a woman alive who can put aside all of these concerns at one time and simply enjoy the act of eating. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>On the rare occasion, we can splurge on a feast without counting our pennies. On the rare occasion, the stars align and we have the time to enjoy a long meal with friends. On the rare occasion, children will eat what is presented to them without complaint. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>But I wonder if there’s ever an occasion when a woman can disregard her waistline and dive into a chocolate soufflé without a trace of guilt. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I will admit I don’t know much about children or the parent-chauffeur-den-mother syndrome, but I can say that I wish I could be more like Julia and liberally pour cream into my soups, blend whole sticks of butter into my cookies, and beat dozens of eggs into my cakes without worrying that they will later convert into jiggly bits.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I began to cook because I had gained ten pounds. I had gained ten pounds from blithely enjoying my food in large portions and forgoing physical activity. This was not a rational decision, mind you, but an accidental, creeping phenomenon caused by a cubicle job and a long drive to and from work. In short, ten hours a day of sitting in a small space, grazing on Starbucks and snacks from the vending machine, coming home to large portions of noodles and meat. I didn’t notice the ten extra pounds I was lugging around until I visited the doctor for a yearly checkup, and the fact that it had arrived silently and stealthily filled me with horror and shame. How had I let this happen, I lamented. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I panicked. I joined the gym and Weight Watchers. I read articles about nutrients and took classes in spinning, boot camp, yoga, and weight lifting. I turned down any and all desserts, except for Weight Watchers ice cream. I gave up pizza, pasta, and French bread and turned to apples, oatmeal, and Splenda. When F came home with a steaming, crusty loaf of bread, I heated up one of my frozen wheat rolls and ate it slowly, savoring its spongy texture and cardboard tang. It was almost bread, but not quite. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I lost the weight pretty quickly, and was in better shape than I’d ever been. After all, Weight Watchers is about learning to eat right. I learned about portion sizes, I decided to give vegetables a try, and I was getting exercise. But I wasn’t happy. I counted my points and worried constantly.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I wasn’t happy because I no longer enjoyed eating. Food had become the enemy and the act of eating was accompanied by fear. When you fear something you must do at least three times a day to stay alive, it makes for a pretty miserable existence. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Cooking made me brave. When cooking for myself, I can control portion sizes and ingredients, while making dinners that I actually enjoy. I can make my own wheat rolls that actually taste like bread. I can grill my own marinated chicken that is tender and flavorful. I can make cakes and brownies that taste like dessert. I found that I when I enjoy cooking a meal, I enjoy eating it, too.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Slowly, as I learned to love cooking and to appreciate food, I started to reintroduce the dishes I loved into my menu, and to find new foods to love. I started to eat French bread again, and now I also love oatmeal. I reintroduced pasta, and have now discovered quinoa. I found that I really like vegetables and love fruits. And I realized that I can have a full-fat feast once in awhile, and it tastes all the better because I don’t do it every day. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Julia had the right idea. Life is too short to regulate our food while closely monitoring the fluctuating girth of our thighs. Life is too short to allow a fear of food to “interfere with the enjoyment of producing something wonderful to eat."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>But I still think about my waistline. Even while enjoying a <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/02/old-fogies-out-on-town-restaurant-week.html">fancy dessert</a> or a <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/04/very-special-pig.html">Pig Dinner</a>, I can’t help but consider how many points I’m packing away. And that’s pretty sad. I wonder if there exists a woman who is able to snuff out these fears and completely give in to the simple enjoyment of food. Are we capable of turning off that little niggling voice in the back of our skulls that says, “That may taste good now, but you’ll be sorry later”?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I like to think so. I like to think that Julia Child was just one such woman. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>And I want to be another. Here’s to becoming more like Julia. </span></p> <span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-79510922250362483332009-09-02T07:56:00.010-05:002009-09-17T16:05:53.867-05:00Gotta Love the Pig<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Somehow, F and I have acquired reputations as pig lovers. I don’t know how this happened.<br /><br />Maybe it was <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/03/offal-experience.html">this.</a><br /><br />Or <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/04/very-special-pig.html">this.</a><br /><br />Or <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/bristle-gristle-and-snout-cochon-555.html">this</a>.<br /><br />Or it could be this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAH4zQ0n-clmx62nmlJ14pao9iG97eqnMul1qCI2qCzNJWzfr9ZadkEY_WCtPA6eU3JWicun9Y5cYhku24fwI2qiPjkIZBQgDv3OLhZzvleLmZg_8yOTIYZh-Fa6hhvo0qejZmC14ODKQ/s1600-h/IMG_0937.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAH4zQ0n-clmx62nmlJ14pao9iG97eqnMul1qCI2qCzNJWzfr9ZadkEY_WCtPA6eU3JWicun9Y5cYhku24fwI2qiPjkIZBQgDv3OLhZzvleLmZg_8yOTIYZh-Fa6hhvo0qejZmC14ODKQ/s400/IMG_0937.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376856510866745106" border="0" /></a>Or this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6RKlIR2bUCOuUSkC3fswJGWDUmU0aJJBhk8pmj_Yoz1Qkrbg5mz77sToCfk2oqmyOiLFZkembRW-6YTpCFTnoB0efIV58VK_vqj7JQPm6lIdbm3Bau0uFzInIdIhExQT4NtALXlAyJ8/s1600-h/IMG_0939.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6RKlIR2bUCOuUSkC3fswJGWDUmU0aJJBhk8pmj_Yoz1Qkrbg5mz77sToCfk2oqmyOiLFZkembRW-6YTpCFTnoB0efIV58VK_vqj7JQPm6lIdbm3Bau0uFzInIdIhExQT4NtALXlAyJ8/s400/IMG_0939.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376856523141082242" border="0" /></a>Or this:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6d1bkc4vJAd4EVTf0Ywp5AfkbiOr2lAOYmcHNWU8zzz8q6K6hMu0ktS80_73v1hUJP1uSzfcRR2nNxqNuU9TQDviX2GvuENeKaECiJc_o-75FIrBd6K_o8FSALX3paTp-Vei81B5AQW4/s1600-h/IMG_0940.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6d1bkc4vJAd4EVTf0Ywp5AfkbiOr2lAOYmcHNWU8zzz8q6K6hMu0ktS80_73v1hUJP1uSzfcRR2nNxqNuU9TQDviX2GvuENeKaECiJc_o-75FIrBd6K_o8FSALX3paTp-Vei81B5AQW4/s400/IMG_0940.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376856532683037202" border="0" /></a>There’s no denying we love the pork. Tenderloin, bacon, belly, butt. Hocks, snout, shoulder, skin. It’s all good.<br /><br />Which is why when I saw an ad for a "Pig Gig" at <a href="http://www.hpmfarm.com/">Heritage Prairie Farm</a> in upstate Illinois, we invited our friends L and J to come along and sped off in the little yellow jeep.<br /><br />The menu:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz36THfXiPdEQGXi9dTlepTKYrgsKpGX99ChFdVjGuOjuWJjiu-Bnk1m6uv4cOZNA_t_ZCwFBMsLg_QWib2LGocb1__HcwS4dcxXtYdNT8GIYP22x5mxP8ckVkO1PTZjMIhPE2sf1gnE/s1600-h/IMG_0876.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz36THfXiPdEQGXi9dTlepTKYrgsKpGX99ChFdVjGuOjuWJjiu-Bnk1m6uv4cOZNA_t_ZCwFBMsLg_QWib2LGocb1__HcwS4dcxXtYdNT8GIYP22x5mxP8ckVkO1PTZjMIhPE2sf1gnE/s400/IMG_0876.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376856484618603458" border="0" /></a>The spread:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyO7lOtBCnkrEXArLC71dElFfxvZ_3iOfCcHLpbA2AOzQ52eaWVoIbAu_7Hg89zm5G8rU3Be8-wq89fsje6Bv6VuC-2Uf4S2vf7Lqr3RkG640BhAAf9RZUz2BlfN09EZvKBMZPeekS2zA/s1600-h/IMG_0871.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyO7lOtBCnkrEXArLC71dElFfxvZ_3iOfCcHLpbA2AOzQ52eaWVoIbAu_7Hg89zm5G8rU3Be8-wq89fsje6Bv6VuC-2Uf4S2vf7Lqr3RkG640BhAAf9RZUz2BlfN09EZvKBMZPeekS2zA/s400/IMG_0871.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376855490194383570" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLwF2I87MhgeBa9wg7rQNbaeA-k8pt0TzMnG_HtMB8_mS_vu6E38Rgrrsqf-QewDGkmKIFTZ3lsD8QPZMdqutTtiFVx58jr8bNPImXEiATiNSTSrKbMWWFE82CEO_g-8fXDnLz2rp62I/s1600-h/IMG_0877.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLwF2I87MhgeBa9wg7rQNbaeA-k8pt0TzMnG_HtMB8_mS_vu6E38Rgrrsqf-QewDGkmKIFTZ3lsD8QPZMdqutTtiFVx58jr8bNPImXEiATiNSTSrKbMWWFE82CEO_g-8fXDnLz2rp62I/s400/IMG_0877.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376855497258482578" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfGZa2pJEe88gYL4xy-8oEvUaxKLpspEAQ73vcH7ygNxJ45q_eyeJ2t2XwxL34_PY__rwVi-eI0wlvIjJ9Druyk6mKfkNB9p5AOjdXM_yVAls3ElLfeyJBmphA8LzAVK4iFiNFdrNHgc/s1600-h/IMG_0873.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfGZa2pJEe88gYL4xy-8oEvUaxKLpspEAQ73vcH7ygNxJ45q_eyeJ2t2XwxL34_PY__rwVi-eI0wlvIjJ9Druyk6mKfkNB9p5AOjdXM_yVAls3ElLfeyJBmphA8LzAVK4iFiNFdrNHgc/s400/IMG_0873.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376855507135299298" border="0" /></a>The pork enthusiasts (F, me, L, J):<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWB3ApZcBfl5kMXk4d19JCJrxD9b1y15mwCt1XJeC4Op6ulXNUgOcI6D5hqI1_046lWUHH0ZR3iNfXgF88CMPkehYNX7i6OHJmrl025EztscEj9nYc7U8dTgBd42QYL-5rJ2AqKyPb7jw/s1600-h/IMG_0864_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWB3ApZcBfl5kMXk4d19JCJrxD9b1y15mwCt1XJeC4Op6ulXNUgOcI6D5hqI1_046lWUHH0ZR3iNfXgF88CMPkehYNX7i6OHJmrl025EztscEj9nYc7U8dTgBd42QYL-5rJ2AqKyPb7jw/s400/IMG_0864_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376855479538115490" border="0" /></a>F's favorite part:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqvQHhwgTmXz95x7sEXfD-m9VFaCW1o3KHoKg-qn5_2WyB1ibG4h0Bjz4vqZ9OvXI-y5NTbpsW_SLdIpomIyUryXTRAqMZTZPLLyadVXA3IbGemH9SoW9tApFFmtobBLXqE3Iohk5M-Q/s1600-h/IMG_0862.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqvQHhwgTmXz95x7sEXfD-m9VFaCW1o3KHoKg-qn5_2WyB1ibG4h0Bjz4vqZ9OvXI-y5NTbpsW_SLdIpomIyUryXTRAqMZTZPLLyadVXA3IbGemH9SoW9tApFFmtobBLXqE3Iohk5M-Q/s400/IMG_0862.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376855471905373346" border="0" /></a>And the best part of all...<br /><br />We discovered there is at least one person who loves pigs more than we do:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbQGXy6QCfe2uHLZauXlD9APLv-1cpzmueqOo1e4HPNaNTB30kzesczy0rHZdl2Sr9lMSE0i94jTUpwUbDBqPxOLrpNcqbOOujwKo1kPvcTICoNuuxKWUsuAZOeAe4RbusEWU_HQuB5A/s1600-h/IMG_0879.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbQGXy6QCfe2uHLZauXlD9APLv-1cpzmueqOo1e4HPNaNTB30kzesczy0rHZdl2Sr9lMSE0i94jTUpwUbDBqPxOLrpNcqbOOujwKo1kPvcTICoNuuxKWUsuAZOeAe4RbusEWU_HQuB5A/s400/IMG_0879.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376856499006118738" border="0" /></a><br /></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-63587633525998901312009-08-15T08:01:00.000-05:002010-01-28T15:37:15.933-06:00Scary Dinners From the Deep<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Up next in <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/06/fish-and-flowers.html">scary dinners from the deep</a>...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjMhbsFt-7nQ2vbRgfTh7BqfonbEiHhJFcmIkSBFgCzMqniGVxSolNUoiwY2csrWmnsp6aNOlABpLDTSALjsxHxbSI8wkRV9IqMR70gXbaHg5ddZy6zzzrU3qXm1eYU7JiK36i8_faE0/s1600-h/IMG_0838.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjMhbsFt-7nQ2vbRgfTh7BqfonbEiHhJFcmIkSBFgCzMqniGVxSolNUoiwY2csrWmnsp6aNOlABpLDTSALjsxHxbSI8wkRV9IqMR70gXbaHg5ddZy6zzzrU3qXm1eYU7JiK36i8_faE0/s400/IMG_0838.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358671868458647634" border="0" /></a>Soft shell crabs!<br /><br />One of our favorite dishes is the Soft Shell Crab at <a href="http://sushiluxe.com/">New Tokyo</a> on Broadway, which is deeply fried and delicious. </span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >These little crustaceans were just hanging out at <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/02/grocery-shopping-redefined.html">Treasure Island</a> the other day and, on a whim, F and I decided to give it a shot. </span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >How hard could it be, we figured. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZhLARl2rHQ5co2hl8jWaJu9NkHawlW6KeV9il11O5RYzt9iExUQnRl_6XJNCV4_X52KIse4lLFxGfcaeGK7FUizLChcNL1UThPXci20xvnmLxvUfbldy9lJg04iKDCxyD2kb9CliHIM/s1600-h/IMG_0840.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 339px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZhLARl2rHQ5co2hl8jWaJu9NkHawlW6KeV9il11O5RYzt9iExUQnRl_6XJNCV4_X52KIse4lLFxGfcaeGK7FUizLChcNL1UThPXci20xvnmLxvUfbldy9lJg04iKDCxyD2kb9CliHIM/s400/IMG_0840.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358671876446673666" border="0" /></a>Turns out it's not hard at all. A little salt and pepper, a little flour, then a quick sizzle in some butter.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPItOgx-8yQw5yy-xb9RTokBqsTofX6zMZ0fk76jfdD0gDHjgcEVdfzpGtOIZTCNf1-_VfGmp2i_Fiolz5HBMyv-4IGPhcoMn_PxBOu7eiKSrmD0KbIUNk8c30nsJWlBCeiTxwE4g6NGE/s1600-h/IMG_0842.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 386px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPItOgx-8yQw5yy-xb9RTokBqsTofX6zMZ0fk76jfdD0gDHjgcEVdfzpGtOIZTCNf1-_VfGmp2i_Fiolz5HBMyv-4IGPhcoMn_PxBOu7eiKSrmD0KbIUNk8c30nsJWlBCeiTxwE4g6NGE/s400/IMG_0842.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358671882200242098" border="0" /></a>We took our crabs out to the back patio, which seems to be the setting for our stranger experiments with sea creatures. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5T1Uf2HZtmp3qtGLVS-grMf3MheYfqmvXTezQv0GMoCm1CPJfHmP_gy06eGOyUSHumnh2OFG8HEkLO7mdsW9otL82dof1vgMiJkHFpgZnpUvcbhVSItVRggaxGPUwFumQfNw7pFeEHo/s1600-h/IMG_0843.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5T1Uf2HZtmp3qtGLVS-grMf3MheYfqmvXTezQv0GMoCm1CPJfHmP_gy06eGOyUSHumnh2OFG8HEkLO7mdsW9otL82dof1vgMiJkHFpgZnpUvcbhVSItVRggaxGPUwFumQfNw7pFeEHo/s400/IMG_0843.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358671890034782418" border="0" /></a></span> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">They were crisp and salty and surprisingly rich. When I broke into the back of mine, however, I unearthed a pocket of grainy green ooze. I figured that our fish man missed something when he cleaned our crabs, and that this mysterious slime was probably some undigested crab food. Although I knew it likely wasn't poisonous, it put me off my dinner just a little. I guess I'm not really as adventurous as I'd like to think.<br /><br /><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >I definitely recommend this recipe--just make sure your crabs are clean!</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sauteed Soft Shell Crabs</span><br />From Cooking Light, April 2003<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yield</span><br />4 servings (serving size: 1 crab)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ingredients</span><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;">4 (3 1/2-ounce) soft-shell crabs, cleaned<font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;">1/2 teaspoon salt<font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;">1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper<font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;">1/4 cup all-purpose flour</span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;">1 tablespoon butter<font-family:lucida><br /></font-family:lucida></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-weight: bold;">Preparation</span><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></font-family:lucida></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;">Sprinkle each crab with salt and pepper. Place flour in a shallow bowl. Dredge each crab in flour, turning to coat; shake off excess flour.<font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></font-family:lucida></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-weight: lucida=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;"><font-family:lucida><span style="font-size:100%;">Melt butter in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add crabs to pan, top sides down; cook 3 minutes. Turn crabs over; cook an additional 2 minutes.</span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></font-family:lucida></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-weight:></span></font-family:lucida></span></font-family:lucida></p></span></span></span></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-58987032881361599352009-07-19T16:46:00.009-05:002009-07-21T15:05:58.873-05:00Like a Crabby Old Woman<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://pochettescd.free.fr/images/m/Madonna_-_Like_A_Virgin-front.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 375px;" src="http://pochettescd.free.fr/images/m/Madonna_-_Like_A_Virgin-front.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>When we were little, B and I danced in the living room for our babysitter, flourishing hairbrushes and belting out "Material Girl" and "Like a Virgin" with abandon.<br /><br />Many years have passed since we were that unselfconscious.<br /><br />B arrived from New York City late Thursday night with two colleagues from the Jewish hipster magazine where she is associate editor. They're here in Chicago until tomorrow, ostensibly to cover <a href="http://www.pitchforkmusicfestival.com/">Pitchfork</a> and drum up some magazine subscribers.<br /><br />She arrived on my doorstep wearing a denim jumper with suspenders, high-heeled suede boots, and a plaid blouse, and assured me she is at the height of a bizarre fashion the kids are calling "hobo-chic." Perhaps embarrassed that at the early hour of 11pm, I was wearing a matronly robe and my husband's slippers, B paused a moment before flinging her arms around me. Then she pointed to her shoulder, which bore a freshly peeling tattoo of her initials in Sanford font.<br /><br />In one of our rare moments together in the last few days, my formerly shy and nerdy sister clicked through the angst-filled photos of her 987 Facebook friends to point out who among them she has dated in the last month: a bartender, a photographer, a journalist, and a documentary maker. For my belated-birthday gift, she brought me earrings made of bullet casings.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Although B's visit is technically "a business trip," </span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >I was looking forward to a weekend of getting to know this strange, tattooed person and finding my little sister again behind her navy nail polish and loops of gold chains.<br /><br />This has not happened.<br /><br />First, her colleague D found himself unexpectedly homeless for the weekend, so he ended up on our floor. Then, "for the sake of journalism" B had to attend random all-night parties with Pitchfork band members, so she has left the house early each morning and returned home around 2am, by which time F and I, fuddy-duddies that we are, have already been asleep for approximately five hours.<br /><br />Since Thursday, our apartment has been overrun with suitcases, bedding, and boxes of magazines. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-WH4K5X84Ask2t07ixmLxcM7pWF5nS6XA2dMXcGpE9gq00aMSczi_RjPwNnAOn3OM2ZHzbgv4s6nkbVRcmNUVyABM2XHzIT1wqWl46WTmSZnmKgNWQ2MdD-q1Iz8eivUGK5zyyD-Di5o/s1600-h/IMG_0848.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-WH4K5X84Ask2t07ixmLxcM7pWF5nS6XA2dMXcGpE9gq00aMSczi_RjPwNnAOn3OM2ZHzbgv4s6nkbVRcmNUVyABM2XHzIT1wqWl46WTmSZnmKgNWQ2MdD-q1Iz8eivUGK5zyyD-Di5o/s400/IMG_0848.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360307752758770002" border="0" /></a>I could not help feeling put-out and put-upon as I handed over my house keys and told B to have a good time at the second late-night party in two days. Our robust, OCD cat Barry kept me up all weekend because he doesn't like when strangers invade his living-room, and I spent yesterday in the waiting room of Marvin's auto repair while the car's electrical grid was re-wired--only to have it die again at 9:30 (half an hour past my bedtime!), just as I squeezed between two mac trucks in Pitchfork's VIP parking section.<br /><br />As I waited for B and her colleagues, a man toting a cart of kegs yelled at me for parking the defunct jeep in front of his mac truck. So, running on little sleep and a lot of stress, I wallowed in self-pity and looked forward to this evening, when I would have the apartment to myself.<br /><br />B and F will be at Pitchfork until 10 tonight. So far, I rented two movies, bought a parsley plant, visited the grocery store, and put in a load of laundry. Now begins the relaxation. I exchanged one of F's punk CDs for </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Like a Virgin</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" > and whipped up some banana bread.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioDs3V1gfQxypvI_X1l_i84DwX4SO2eHSqp1clA13NsYWvfV450e888RVw1oyped7zOeoc6p2tcXuZxY0myNqqxZ3pKaPZ7qQSL2r5VeO_L0LP81OE57VARvqPmdpB5zRxWr8PYWsVkI/s1600-h/IMG_0844.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 358px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioDs3V1gfQxypvI_X1l_i84DwX4SO2eHSqp1clA13NsYWvfV450e888RVw1oyped7zOeoc6p2tcXuZxY0myNqqxZ3pKaPZ7qQSL2r5VeO_L0LP81OE57VARvqPmdpB5zRxWr8PYWsVkI/s400/IMG_0844.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360299729367112050" border="0" /></a>Note my new parsley plant and the requisite whiskey bottle among my banana bread clutter.<br /><br />After such a hectic weekend--before the start of an even more hectic week--I thought I would be relieved to have the apartment to myself for a little while. But as the apartment throbs to the first unmistakable beats of "Material Girl," I can't help wishing B were here so we could dance together in our pajamas, once more with abandon.<br /><br />At least she'll have some banana bread to take with her on the plane.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Mom’s Banana Bread</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br />From <span style="font-style: italic;">Cooking Light</span>, November 1996<br /><br />Yield<br />4 loaves, 4 servings per loaf (serving size: 1 slice)<br /><br />Ingredients<br /> * 1 cup sugar<br /> * 1/4 cup light butter, softened<br /> * 1 2/3 cups mashed ripe banana (about 3 bananas)<br /> * 1/4 cup skim milk<br /> * 1/4 cup low-fat sour cream<br /> * 2 large egg whites<br /> * 2 cups all-purpose flour<br /> * 1 teaspoon baking soda<br /> * 1/2 teaspoon salt<br /> * Cooking spray<br /><br />Preparation<br /><br />Preheat oven to 350°.<br /><br />Combine sugar and butter in a bowl; beat at medium speed of a mixer until well-blended. Add banana, milk, sour cream, and egg whites; beat well, and set aside.<br /><br />Combine flour, baking soda, and salt; stir well. Add dry ingredients to creamed mixture, beating until blended.<br /><br />Spoon batter into 4 (5 x 2 1/2-inch) miniature loaf pans coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 45 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pans 10 minutes on a wire rack; remove from pans. Let cool completely on wire racks.<br /><br />Note: To make one 9-inch loaf, spoon batter into a 9 x 5-inch loaf pan coated with cooking spray; bake at 350º for 1 hour and 10 minutes. Yield: 1 loaf, 20 servings (serving size: 1 slice).</span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-23665012791553781172009-07-08T09:29:00.005-05:002009-07-08T09:39:37.349-05:00Quiz in the Kitchen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL9gPOLemfBjm436lJyDqlhQFKK_rGF6fYndVcIX-uLN77bl5PjoR4qez5YLgwsktKJ5QMv_wP7QGKEyExZb6KDIgCcXMWNVDwiNvQCYbn12glHWiv1LI1knNKzNvQKtDLzzg3IOz80Uc/s1600-h/food_quiz2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL9gPOLemfBjm436lJyDqlhQFKK_rGF6fYndVcIX-uLN77bl5PjoR4qez5YLgwsktKJ5QMv_wP7QGKEyExZb6KDIgCcXMWNVDwiNvQCYbn12glHWiv1LI1knNKzNvQKtDLzzg3IOz80Uc/s400/food_quiz2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356097517377841602" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:78%;" >Weird head image courtesy of <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.sph.umich.edu/news_events/findings/spring09/images/food_quiz.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.sph.umich.edu/news_events/findings/spring09/food/quiz.htm&usg=__VFhCHrLJ8c4ncsVPNGsJg5yWYs4=&h=293&w=511&sz=210&hl=en&start=15&sig2=JxgnTk6Th1hzgYnTTglnyQ&tbnid=ogMQPxMO3rF-gM:&tbnh=75&tbnw=131&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dfood%2Bquiz%26gbv%3D2%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DG&ei=Iq5USp_1HM3bmQft6ZylCQ">University of Michigan School of Public Health.</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"> Ganache. Ceviche. Panna cotta.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> If you watch cooking shows such as Bravo's "Top Chef" and "Top Chef Masters," you've probably heard these and other 50-cent food words tossed around like croutons in a summer salad. But--hands off the keyboard!--do you know what they mean without looking them up?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Liar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Oh, you might know a few on this list. But unless you work in a restaurant, you'll probably be stumped by the rest.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> See how many of these food words you can correctly match with their definitions.</span><br /><br /><i>--James A. Fussell, McClatchy/Tribune News</i><br /><br /></span> <br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Hey James, you've got to try a lot harder to stump High Heels in the Kitchen!</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> I got 24 out of 25 correct (I guess I know less about raw meat than I thought I did...)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Beat that!<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/food/chi-food-words-quiz,0,3799092.triviaquiz">Click here</a> to see if you can do better.<br /></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-27768107152716749692009-07-02T22:07:00.002-05:002009-07-02T14:43:42.954-05:00Fish and Flowers<span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2GKDW4qxawsRi1K0v5YKHCDi8kfuGcm-PPtt0f-T0NLBZZIpK45Tuqp7RQFn2sEdpf98FS_MDO-olZ-Xn_juz6Bz8ytZg6DHqODVAEYz8qUM6a7zXEV2XXODb1UP_ccRdLnaVSNzxOY/s1600-h/IMG_0788.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2GKDW4qxawsRi1K0v5YKHCDi8kfuGcm-PPtt0f-T0NLBZZIpK45Tuqp7RQFn2sEdpf98FS_MDO-olZ-Xn_juz6Bz8ytZg6DHqODVAEYz8qUM6a7zXEV2XXODb1UP_ccRdLnaVSNzxOY/s400/IMG_0788.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349984387648051794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">This is my first time making whole fish. As advised by various fish-focused websites, I looked for trout with unclouded eyes and shiny scales. These two were bright and glistening, which I found mildly intimidating. I'm used to fillets without skin or eyes--or teeth. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Although these trout did have eyes and teeth, they came all clean and gutted so it wasn't nearly as traumatic as it could have been. When the fish man handed my trout packet over the counter, however, I admit that I did have to fight the urge to gag. I could feel the fish body through the butcher paper, and the packet flopped with a rubbery heft.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Worse than the flopping was the tingle under my fingertips as I massaged gritty rosemary mixture into its moist scales.</span><br /><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XPTTXwanVEfYEPwfxXMqWqf70oOg1Mf23wES_FpV20b7ex6adoe9KXgJY7wOZZ96iTd58l3J0EQmStF8Y7IlF9cWgS2Vn7lR_WNwMLPN-YCxSbv0rmA9ksFBRF6mKqWQkLmxVLg6DR8/s1600-h/IMG_0792.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XPTTXwanVEfYEPwfxXMqWqf70oOg1Mf23wES_FpV20b7ex6adoe9KXgJY7wOZZ96iTd58l3J0EQmStF8Y7IlF9cWgS2Vn7lR_WNwMLPN-YCxSbv0rmA9ksFBRF6mKqWQkLmxVLg6DR8/s400/IMG_0792.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349984209829845074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">He watched me as I rubbed.</span><br /><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zV8q5QFSQIGou8RmacV9TNiQZmamwpdfS141cZXJFQsejNW_tEOtikwpvgUYDZgw6us4oPvxyr5V5i2_SfMZkLgs0WxGF-MrYklip2P66Uc7gl7CxuZaPk9hQ_zsqcOxcPRDbsCV2Y4/s1600-h/IMG_0795.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zV8q5QFSQIGou8RmacV9TNiQZmamwpdfS141cZXJFQsejNW_tEOtikwpvgUYDZgw6us4oPvxyr5V5i2_SfMZkLgs0WxGF-MrYklip2P66Uc7gl7CxuZaPk9hQ_zsqcOxcPRDbsCV2Y4/s400/IMG_0795.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349984208935991890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">But after a mere eight minutes on the grill pan (on which you can see he got a little ragged), we had ourselves some flaky, tender trout with a side of roasted potatoes and asparagus. It tasted much better than it looks. F and I partook of our delectable dinner on the back patio, which we really ought to use more often. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">A special thank you to S, who gave us the beautiful glass-blown wine glasses in celebration of our nuptials. We toasted S, each other, and our trout. Then F ate the eyeballs.</span><br /><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfc-8VmjlIXCpkwg5fCuVWhfXmZutfCANJIJk_cs0Qm2YBPZP-GlhI55hAUf55o86T4HnaAX1GBepWp8QLBPGaS3-bhrXbcJ_r4ZvBaM-pTfHYymRQcFxL0PFIDiC0IikKADVvUIaSlaQ/s1600-h/IMG_0804_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfc-8VmjlIXCpkwg5fCuVWhfXmZutfCANJIJk_cs0Qm2YBPZP-GlhI55hAUf55o86T4HnaAX1GBepWp8QLBPGaS3-bhrXbcJ_r4ZvBaM-pTfHYymRQcFxL0PFIDiC0IikKADVvUIaSlaQ/s400/IMG_0804_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349984191023882786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Since I can't end bear to end this post with a photo of trout eyes, I'll wrap this up instead with some lovely nature photos of our back patio:</span><br /><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboOojaXYQ4YjQ4g0WrVV__KGLkO7Zc2NMprbsDrk4MsLhBHt0BMyNUoiwW90JFhv-ujSHl24z37XCV1YUZbo_-7DGDQDgIzndxBMhjR-aeE0svZKsbbbeXs1cwkiXD8AdLbXiYDc4PZo/s1600-h/IMG_0799.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboOojaXYQ4YjQ4g0WrVV__KGLkO7Zc2NMprbsDrk4MsLhBHt0BMyNUoiwW90JFhv-ujSHl24z37XCV1YUZbo_-7DGDQDgIzndxBMhjR-aeE0svZKsbbbeXs1cwkiXD8AdLbXiYDc4PZo/s400/IMG_0799.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349984201417106194" border="0" /></a><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBeP-L2wVnx5H0rQBf0FpokEKfiQsABLbuYsNRwlWN-UrltNi2GI5JT22Wz_malrdSDLmyWhkrzCBtYFl4nj0IOyxuBH9rWNCrvJcETrJSjPAMMcBFqiN7Tk6ENklIa_MREvbZ6v1UD4/s1600-h/IMG_0800.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBeP-L2wVnx5H0rQBf0FpokEKfiQsABLbuYsNRwlWN-UrltNi2GI5JT22Wz_malrdSDLmyWhkrzCBtYFl4nj0IOyxuBH9rWNCrvJcETrJSjPAMMcBFqiN7Tk6ENklIa_MREvbZ6v1UD4/s400/IMG_0800.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349984198221843874" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:lucida grande;" >Recipe for Grilled Trout with Rosemary and Garlic</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">From Cooking Light</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">This simple presentation is a go-to summer recipe that allows the flavor of the fish to shine. If you like, substitute thyme for rosemary.<br /><br /></span></span> <div style="font-family: lucida grande;" class="rcpdetail" id="prepWork"> </div><!-- end class="rcpdetail" --> <div class="rcpdetail" id="yield" style="font-family:lucida grande;"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Yield</span> <p><span style="font-size:100%;">4 servings (serving size: 1 trout)</span></p> </div><!-- end class="rcpdetail" --> <div class="rcpdetail" id="ingredients" style="font-family:lucida grande;"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Ingredients</span> <ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;"> 1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary</span></li><li><span style="font-size:100%;"> 1 tablespoon minced garlic</span></li><li><span style="font-size:100%;"> 1 teaspoon olive oil</span></li><li><span style="font-size:100%;"> 1/2 teaspoon salt</span></li><li><span style="font-size:100%;"> 4 (8-ounce) dressed whole trout</span></li><li><span style="font-size:100%;"> 4 (6-inch) rosemary sprigs</span></li><li><span style="font-size:100%;"> Cooking spray</span></li></ul> </div><!-- end class="rcpdetail" --> <div class="rcpdetail" id="preparation" style="font-family:lucida grande;"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Preparation</span> <p><span style="font-size:100%;">1. Prepare grill to medium-high heat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">2. Combine first 4 ingredients in a small bowl.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">3. Cut 3 diagonal slits on each side of fish; rub rosemary mixture evenly over fish. Place 1 rosemary sprig in cavity of each fish. Place the fish on grill rack coated with cooking spray; grill 4 minutes on each side or until fish flakes easily when tested with a fork or until desired degree of doneness.</span></p> </div>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-10232087009297986902009-06-24T12:16:00.005-05:002009-06-25T12:55:56.629-05:00The Saddest Lunch Ever<a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i.walmartimages.com/i/p/00/04/17/16/23/0004171623110_150X150.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 189px; height: 189px;" src="http://i.walmartimages.com/i/p/00/04/17/16/23/0004171623110_150X150.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-size:78%;" >Image courtesy of Walmart.com.</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;">It's sad when the only thing left in your kitchen to bring for your cubicle lunch is a single stick of Frigo Cheese Heads Light String Cheese.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;"></span> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;">I think I need to go grocery shopping.</span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-56102042098079075332009-06-24T09:22:00.008-05:002009-06-24T13:01:05.457-05:00Drink, Don't Drool<span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images4.cafepress.com/product/373140574v4_350x350_Front.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 294px;" src="http://images4.cafepress.com/product/373140574v4_350x350_Front.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Drool bib (complete with glaring grammatical error) courtesy of </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" href="http://clothing.cafepress.com/item/2-cool-4-drool-bib/373140574">clothing.cafepress.com/.../<wbr>373140574.</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"How many glasses of wine did you have last night?" My dad asked when I called with the details of my <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/06/bravery.html">open mic triumph</a>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Just one before reading my essay. Then I had one waiting for me when I got back to the table," I said. He laughed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"That was a good idea. A lot of performers have a drink to help them relax before going up on stage. Even Barbra Streisand has to take benzodiazepine for stage fright. When's the audition?" he asked, referring to my audition for <a href="http://2ndstory.serendipitytheatre.org/">2nd Story</a>--the reason I had subjected myself to the nerve-wracking open mic night in the first place.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Tuesday at 7:30."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"You'll do great," he said. "They already like your story. The audition is just to make sure you're not some weird, enormous person who drools."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Yeah, I guess so," I replied.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Just do your best," he said. "And don't drool."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">From this conversation, I mined two important pearls of wisdom: drink and don't drool. Ever a Daddy's Girl, I tried my best to follow his advice. The drooling part was easy. I have never been a drooler. Check!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The drinking was a little more difficult. F and I were meeting after work at <a href="http://www.storystudiochicago.com/">Story Studio</a>, a writing center tucked away on the second floor of a renovated factory building in Irving Park. We planned to hang out there until my audition, which was conveniently located in the room next door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">F and I recently became Story Studio members, which includes discounts on writing classes and unlimited access to the writing center's comfy lounge. So we have been going at least once a week to sit on the couch and write. There's no TV, no Internet access, no snacks or cats to distract us from our Important Work. We bring the bare minimum: sandwich fixins and bottled water.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">It's probably not cool to bring alcohol to the writing center. But I didn't care. My father had prescribed a glass of wine. And Sunday's open mic experience was so successful that I thought it most prudent to recreate the essentials. I wore the same outfit. I arranged my hair the same way. And I bought some wine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I felt very classy waiting in line at the 7-Eleven after work with my $2.49 mini bottle of Pinot Grigio. Behind me stood an obese man from whose unbuttoned shirt his massive, grimy stomach protruded. He didn't smell very nice, and he repeated in a guttural whine, "Someone stole my cigarette rollers! Someone stole my cigarette rollers!" I paid, stowed my wine in my lunch box with the turkey, dinner rolls, and bottled water, and stepped out into the 95-degree heat of downtown Chicago.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I was sweating before I even reached the L stop, where I shoved into a train car that was at least ten degrees hotter than the sidewalk. Wedged against the doors of the train in the sweltering heat, I clutched in one hand a horrifically heavy bag filled with my laptop, two books, a notebook, my executive planner, and God knows what else--and in the other hand, my lunch box filled with cheap wine and Butterball deli meat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">An inauspicious start.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">But once I got to Story Studio and set up my laptop on the couch in the cool lounge with F, I started to feel much better. I sneaked sips of wine from the brown paper bag hidden in my lunch box, and felt almost relaxed. Almost.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Although I wasn't nearly as sickeningly anxious as I had been before the open mic, I was still nervous.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I shouldn't have been. The audition went smoothly. Sitting on a comfortable, overstuffed couch with two attentive girls, I read the essay even better than I had on Sunday. They laughed, they nodded, they made the appropriate listening noises. And when I finished, they clapped.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Then they asked questions. After countless interviews for countless jobs, I consider myself a pro at fielding questions like, "What is your greatest strength?" and "Why do you want to work here?" and "What is your proudest accomplishment?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I realized last night, however, that I am not at all a pro at answering questions like, "What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to you?" Which is what one of the girls asked, leaning toward me with an engaging smile like a best girlfriend craving gossip.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I will freely admit that at times--most times, really--I tend to think too much. Immediately, my overheated brain crowded with all the possible implications of this seemingly casual question:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Does she mean the craziest thing I've DONE? or The craziest thing that has ever happened TO me? What does she mean by "crazy"? Does she mean "strange and unexpected" or "wild and kinky" or just "insane"?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Besides the fact that I'm not really the wild-and-crazy type, my mind instantly cleared of any and all fascinating tidbits to share about myself. I won't tell you what I finally came up with. Anything you imagine is sure to be crazier than what I actually said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Other than the fact that I'm not interesting on demand, I think the audition went splendidly. I did the best I possibly could. I breathed. I talked. I laughed. I was confident and personable.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And my dad will be proud because I did not drool.</span><br /></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-55259411302669853362009-06-22T07:00:00.003-05:002009-06-23T09:59:29.807-05:00Baby Got Balls<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNb3fmLsMpNL88FxWX3bqBxLLNWxon3YtYtTDZbClGfUAL_3NjBPrV_8t1-KOBr6agOGFuEUOFqtmT3mzzmocFU2WfvNTGtVQ36UXYADqP2f5RfwdCooo80D2PD97MDTSGtb8g3xl3sww/s1600-h/IMG_0808.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNb3fmLsMpNL88FxWX3bqBxLLNWxon3YtYtTDZbClGfUAL_3NjBPrV_8t1-KOBr6agOGFuEUOFqtmT3mzzmocFU2WfvNTGtVQ36UXYADqP2f5RfwdCooo80D2PD97MDTSGtb8g3xl3sww/s400/IMG_0808.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349983065591284402" border="0" /></a></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I worried it would be humiliating. I worried my throat would close up, or I would pass out, or burp into the mic.<br /><br />I am not a good public speaker. The last time I read my writing out loud—in a short story class a few months ago—I couldn't breathe. I gasped through my two pages of handwritten scrawl, sounding like I was on the verge of tears. When I finished reading, the teacher comforted me.<br /><br />The first and only time I sang in public was even worse. I thought that if I took the private singing lessons offered in high school, I might get over my fear of public speaking and become a more confident, sparkly person. Although I couldn't breathe—much less sing—in front of the teacher for the first week, I warmed up to her and was belting out folk songs by the end of our time together. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p>And then she said, "So what will you sing at the recital?" Um. I hadn't known there would be a recital. Had I known I would end my private tutorial with public singing, I surely would not have signed up for this. But once I’ve committed to something, I don’t quit. I couldn't back out. And I only knew one song: "I Have Twelve Oxen."<br /><br />I got up on stage in an old church in front of the entire school chorus and their parents, and I sang a twelve-verse song about cows. For your edification I have found the lyrics:<br /><br /><i style="">I have twelve oxen, they be fair and white,<br />And they go a-grazing down by the dyke.<br />With hey! with how! with hey!<br />Sawest not you mine oxen, you little pretty boy?</i><br /><br />It doesn’t even rhyme. And the other verses are just as bad. There’s one for each color of cow. I sang in a high, warbling, gaspy voice, and when I finished, my teacher comforted me.<br /><br />Last night, for reasons I will soon explain, I voluntarily signed up to read a personal essay in front of a microphone in front of a room full of strangers. In the middle of my essay is a rap song. Not only was I planning to read in public, but I was going to rap—two nightmares rolled into one ten-minute performance.<br /><br />What does an open mic have to do with food, you may well ask. Not much, if truth be told. Except that the essay I read aloud to strangers last night was adapted from my blog post "<a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/worst-meal-of-my-life.html">The Worst Meal of My Life.</a>" I reworked this post into a personal narrative that I submitted to <a href="http://2ndstory.serendipitytheatre.org/">2<sup>nd </sup></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><a href="http://2ndstory.serendipitytheatre.org/">Story</a>, a </st1:place></st1:city></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city> writing group composed of thirty writers who perform personal narratives in bars around the city. There's an application and audition process, and if you're accepted into the group, you meet three or four times a month to workshop, rehearse, and perform in public. It's intense and difficult to get into. I thought that if I could get into this group, the workshops might make me a better writer, and the performances might turn me into a more confident, sparkly person.<br /><br />Long story short, I submitted my essay to 2<sup>nd</sup> Story and they called me in for an audition. Which is tomorrow. Which is why I decided to try out my essay on an audience first. Auditions are scary. But an open mic is scarier. If I can get through an open mic, I reasoned, the audition will be a piece of cake.<br /><br />So last night F accompanied me to Story Club at <a href="http://www.uncommonground.com/">Uncommon Ground</a>, a coffee shop/restaurant/wine bar. We were ushered into the back room, all brick with funky art on the walls, cozy tables for two, and window seats with pillows. Another door led to an outdoor patio. If I hadn’t felt like throwing up, I would have really appreciated the ambiance.<br /><br />We were an hour early, so we ordered drinks. I tried to pace myself, but downed the first glass of wine while sneaking wide-eyed peeks at the mic. No podium. No chair. Just a microphone standing naked against the brick wall in front of an entire room full of tables. At the moment, the tables were empty.<br /><br />As 8:00 rolled around, the tables began to fill up. And I began to panic.<br /><br />“Why am I doing this again?” I squeaked to F.<br /><br />“Because you’re great,” he said, patting my hand.<br /><br />“But what if I embarrass you? Will you still love me if I stink?”<br /><br />“Absolutely. But you won’t stink. You’ll be great, babe!” he said. “Don’t forget to breathe.<br /><br />“OK,” I said, hyperventilating.<br /><br />The organizer of the event, D, came over to introduce herself and handed me a clipboard to sign in. I was the first and only name on the list.<br /><br />“I’m so glad you came!” she said. “You can go first.”<br /><br />Then, suddenly, it was 8:30. D took the mic.<br /><br />“Welcome to the first-ever Story Club. Tonight we have three featured storytellers, and one guest writer. So let’s get started with our guest writer L, who will be reading her story ‘Baby Got Stock.’”<br /><br />Without further ado, I wobbled to my feet and strode with assumed confidence to the front of the room. There was a stool tucked back against the wall, and I dragged it into the center of the makeshift stage. D helped me lower the microphone a full foot then sat down at a nearby table. I was alone.<br /><br />I heard myself say, very loudly into the microphone, “Wow. I didn’t know I’d be the only guest writer...” A few people tittered, and I began to read.<br /><br />I wasn’t nervous! My hands didn’t shake, my heart didn’t race, I didn’t sound like I was on the verge of hysterics. I actually sounded pretty good. And people were laughing in all the right places. Like a baby bird testing the air with its wings, I lifted my eyes from the page and directed them out into the audience. I was reading without looking! I turned my head a little to sweep the room with my confident gaze. I imagined this is what flying feels like.<br /><br />“Hey, this isn’t so bad! I kind of like this!” I thought as I made eye contact with various audience members, all looking up at me, all listening intently to what I had to say. It was exhilarating to have the floor to myself for a full ten minutes. I don’t talk all that much, in real life. So it was a novel experience.<br /><br />And then I came to the part I had been dreading. The part of the essay that—if I could pull off—would be really funny, and if I couldn’t, would just be humiliating. I rapped. To the tune of “Baby Got Back.” About stock.<br /><br />The crowd didn’t quite get it. They were slightly older than the intended audience, so perhaps they didn’t know the song and thought I was just crazy. But there were a few nervous laughs, and I just kept on trucking.<br /><br />The time seemed to speed by, and before I knew it, I had come to the end. I had done it! I wasn’t humiliated. My throat didn’t close up, I didn’t pass out, and I didn’t burp into the mic. The crowd clapped and cheered, and I sat down to F’s huge grin. I hadn’t embarrassed my husband, after all.<br /><br />I tried to listen attentively to the three “featured storytellers” who followed me, but I was too full of adrenaline to make sense of the words. I’m sure they were great, but I couldn’t tell you what their stories were about.<br /><br />As we were leaving, an older gentleman stopped by our table to share his own story about cooking in college:<br /><br />“My roommate was going to make us his mother’s famous meatloaf. He talked about it all day, and we were all really excited. When I went into the kitchen that afternoon to see what he was up to, I found him heating up a frying pan. Then he plopped in two big scoops of mayonnaise. It started smoking and running all over the pan, and I took a look at the recipe. ‘Um, Bob,’ I said, ‘You were supposed to use margarine.’”<br /><br />Then a guy at the next table leaned across the aisle,<br /><br />“That was fiction, right?” he asked. “You didn’t really eat that stock, did you?”<br /><br />“Oh yes,” I said.<br /><br />“Ugh! What a great description.” He said, and smiled.<br /><br />When I got home, I treated myself to a <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/06/good-woman.html">cupcake</a>. After the open mic, reading my story to a handful of people tomorrow night should be much easier. I’m looking forward to it, whether I get into 2<sup>nd</sup> Story or not. And if you catch me now, while I’m still feeling triumphant, I may even sing you a few verses of “I Have Twelve Oxen.”</span></p>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-13585643618705314212009-06-21T22:15:00.005-05:002009-06-21T22:26:11.366-05:00An Act of Bravery, or Public Humiliation<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://dylanbrody.com/blogs/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/microphone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 285px;" src="http://dylanbrody.com/blogs/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/microphone.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Microphone image courtesy of http://dylanbrody.com/blogs/?page_id=15</span><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Tonight I rapped in front of strangers.<br /><br />And I LIKED it!<br /><br />I'll let that sink in. Check back tomorrow for the whole story.</span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-962463998066542202009-06-04T09:55:00.006-05:002009-06-04T14:42:26.652-05:00Ahead of the Curve<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNi2zZDfhnhDtNEy51-Ag5CSRu5L0q1UYB1VYmlYJKtwWK-jvsFq88AmCaBl8QgXbhg-0LES_HYFxfE64IStShw11ddD_7SAU3KvAUyd-Mh6VLDPU85DRL_B3MQyHisRYX8LkPEdQLTg/s1600-h/venue-mado-egg395.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNi2zZDfhnhDtNEy51-Ag5CSRu5L0q1UYB1VYmlYJKtwWK-jvsFq88AmCaBl8QgXbhg-0LES_HYFxfE64IStShw11ddD_7SAU3KvAUyd-Mh6VLDPU85DRL_B3MQyHisRYX8LkPEdQLTg/s400/venue-mado-egg395.1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343515412116336866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Image of asparagus with fried farm egg courtesy of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" >The New York Times.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Mado was just reviewed in </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande; font-style: italic;" href="http://events.nytimes.com/2009/05/31/travel/31bites.html">The New York Times</a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">! I'm officially ahead of the curve.</span> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />After enjoying one of the best meals of my life at <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-met-my-supper-club-for-dinner-last.html">Mado with my supper club</a> in March, I took F for dinner last month, and he finally understood what I had been raving about. He has been talking about his hanger steak ever since, and chose to celebrate his 30th birthday there last night. </span> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />Our good friends and fellow </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" >Top Chef</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> devotees joined us for dinner. A group of talented cooks and shrewd epicures, they were smitten with the buttery pate, somehow spicy and reminiscent of Christmas; the asparagus with fried farm egg; the crisp trout that tasted like camp fire; the Gorgonzola polenta; the wood-smoked chicken that fell off the bone—the list goes on and on. We each ordered a different dish, and tried them all. </span> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />Our friend J, especially, knows food. He sends me articles about how to make homemade pasta sauce and what to do with <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/ramps-ramps.html">ramps</a>. He bakes the best scones I've ever tasted and knows everything about kitchen knives. As our waiter cleared the last plate from our table, J asked, "Can I work here?" Our genial waiter (who, in answer to our questions about the menu, earnestly mapped the cuts of pork on his own body) took J's question in jest.<br /><br />But J was absolutely serious about donning an apron and heading back to the kitchen. And in that moment, I knew the dinner was a success.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">In her extremely positive review, Monica Davey of <span style="font-style: italic;">The New York Times </span>captures the mood of Mado perfectly:</span> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"On a cold, rainy spring evening, Mado offered escape without effort, the smell of a wood grill... a momentary journey to some quiet farm while still sitting in the city’s chaos."</span> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />After my third visit to Mado, I can safely say it's my favorite restaurant. I can't wait to go back.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span> </span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-5160466719722423092009-05-14T05:11:00.003-05:002009-05-14T10:49:54.477-05:00Ramps! Ramps!<span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7UtkxcTWhThhaIApB4jidQt5sjgfDkYUEjhzXwgbXo-nxVHX_4nah2sshSaTY_2u5kan4j6R8nxm-o1jfxnhm5l2yQN0cwCAVv8gVBD73ln7ghafSTHJOXy-A_oW592bD3KZIwTCj6pM/s1600-h/IMG_0685.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7UtkxcTWhThhaIApB4jidQt5sjgfDkYUEjhzXwgbXo-nxVHX_4nah2sshSaTY_2u5kan4j6R8nxm-o1jfxnhm5l2yQN0cwCAVv8gVBD73ln7ghafSTHJOXy-A_oW592bD3KZIwTCj6pM/s400/IMG_0685.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335622670258485954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">This week's </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/flirtation-in-aisle-6.html">CSA shipment</a><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> arrived yesterday in its forbidding gray crate. This huge, horrible plastic monstrosity will squat in our tiny apartment until next Wednesday when, for a brief morning, it will wait like a stocky raincloud on our front steps for the CSA delivery man who will toss it into his truck and leave its twin, belly full of produce, in its place.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">What was inside the belly of this particular crate? </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx48wBBsMgMI4OptzY0i4ac8H9QGAQMIObzcLbFX4P0lvYmA_tBRCB_KuPSg07ei1uTXv5kk0wrFVPiZf4JaagBEebj0v5UOb49uOPngTZJ2beh4FeFUwb3ntsYomJg1BRuEBHyK9PQSE/s1600-h/IMG_0689.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx48wBBsMgMI4OptzY0i4ac8H9QGAQMIObzcLbFX4P0lvYmA_tBRCB_KuPSg07ei1uTXv5kk0wrFVPiZf4JaagBEebj0v5UOb49uOPngTZJ2beh4FeFUwb3ntsYomJg1BRuEBHyK9PQSE/s400/IMG_0689.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335622669461060178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">1 green pepper, bunch of oregano, radish sprouts, 3 yellow onions, 2 zucchini, rhubarb, cherry tomatoes, 3 bananas, 2 lemons, AND MORE RAMPS!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">What on earth will I do with more ramps? I still have three ramps left over from last week. I tried to use them, I really did. I made </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/csa-thursday-dinner.html">ramp biscuits</a><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> and a </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/kitchen-of-ones-own.html">ramp omelet</a><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">. Both were perfectly lovely, but I'm afraid I have discovered that I'm not the biggest fan of ramps (except for their delightful name, which I have been startling F by randomly shouting in the voice of little Danny Torrance from </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >The Shining</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">: "Ramps! Ramps!")</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">For now, the ramps are banished to the freezer, where they will remain until I figure out what to do with them. Anyone want some ramps? If you provide postage and refrigerated crate, I'll send them to you.</span></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-4786019631716437482009-05-13T12:52:00.011-05:002009-05-13T16:28:25.771-05:00The Worst Meal of My Life<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_uRqeI4Ao34c/Ruj_sBdIV7I/AAAAAAAAAm8/u6Vgb-1JF4c/The-Last-Supper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 395px; height: 296px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_uRqeI4Ao34c/Ruj_sBdIV7I/AAAAAAAAAm8/u6Vgb-1JF4c/The-Last-Supper.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Every supper can’t be gourmet. Every dish can’t come out just right. And every so often, we find ourselves presented with a meal so revolting, so nauseating, so horrifically memorable that it stays with us for the rest of our lives—like a foul aftertaste that won’t rinse away. I still recall with dismay a neighbor’s damp tuna casserole I was too polite to turn down. I haven’t eaten tuna casserole since. </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>When faced with a truly ghastly dish like tuna casserole, I remember with an involuntary shudder a description of a meal so repulsive it scarred me as much as if I had eaten it myself. If you’ve read <st1:place st="on">Yorkshire</st1:place> veterinarian James Herriot’s memoir <i style="">All Things Bright and Beautiful</i>, you will undoubtedly recall the moment when James—who had a “pathological loathing of fat”—was offered a tea-time snack by one of his favorite farmers: </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p><i style="">…my toes curled into a tight ball as I found two huge slices of pure white fat lying on my plate…I knew beyond all doubt that there was no way I could eat what lay in front of me. Maybe I could have managed a tiny piece if it had been hot and fried crisp, but cold, boiled and clammy…never. And there was an enormous quantity; two slices about six inches by four and at least half an inch thick with the golden border of crumbs down one side. The thing was impossible.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style=""><o:p></o:p>Mrs. Horner sat down opposite me. She was wearing a flowered mob cap over her white hair and for a moment she reached out, bent her head to one side and turned the dish with the slab of bacon a little to the left to show it off better. Then she turned to me and smiled. It was a kind, proud smile. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style=""><o:p></o:p>…I took a deep breath, seized knife and fork and made a bold incision in one of the slices, but as I began to transport the greasy white segment to my mouth I began to shudder and my hand stayed frozen in space.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>In spite of his roiling stomach, James ate every last lump of that bacon—and “never knowingly ate fat again.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Adam was my Mrs. Horner, so to speak. I shared an apartment with Adam and our friends Mark and Felix during our senior year of college and after a few months of take-out pizza and mooching off of our friends’ dining hall cards, we figured it was about time we learned how to cook. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" lucida="" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Felix was already an accomplished chef. I often awoke on Saturdays to find him in the kitchen in his pajamas making crepes. Mark and I had no cooking experience, so we stuck with variations on chicken. But Adam was adventurous. His shopping strategy was to buy whatever looked interesting—or was on sale—even if he didn’t know what it was.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" lucida="" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hey LNE, should I get borscht?” he called me one afternoon. “I’m at the grocery store and there’s a big jar for 99 cents.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" lucida="" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Um, sure Adam.” I said. If I had known what borscht was, I would have talked him out of it. For those of you who don’t know, borscht is a bright red Eastern European soup made primarily from pure, undiluted, dirt-flavored beetroot juice.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" lucida="" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">That evening, Adam set the table with a bowl for each of us. We watched with mounting apprehension as he poured borscht into our bowls straight from the jar. It streamed, pinkish-purple, into our green salad bowls and the color contrast turned the juice to a dull brown. As we stared down into the murky depths, Adam expounded with pride on our authentic Ashkenazi repast.<br /><br />I discovered many years later that borscht can be quite nice with the addition of ingredients—like vegetables, sour cream, meat, salt, and pepper. It can be served cold or hot, and the hot-style Ukrainian and Russian borscht is a delicious hearty stew often served with thick brown bread. But Adam’s borscht had no such ingredients. It tasted like fresh, dark dirt. It was thin and watery and gritty all at the same time—and cold. And there was no bread.<br /><o:p><br /></o:p>But that wasn’t the worst meal of my life.<br /><br />To make kitchen clean-up more fun, Adam encouraged spontaneous rapping. On any given weeknight, you’d enter our apartment to find four dorky Jews in a tiny kitchen, rhyming in fits and starts about chicken or girls or Hegel.<br /><br />Adam's penchant for improv carried into his cooking; he claimed that recipes were for the unimaginative. One night after dinner he collected the chicken bones from our plates, bits of skin and meat clinging between the ribs. Rapping to the tune of “Big Stompin’ in My Air Force Ones,” Adam filled a pot with water and threw in the bones.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Boilin’ some bones for some tasty stock,<br />This is one dinner you won’t want to hock.”<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The bones floated grotesquely in the boiling water, bits of tattered gristle and fat swirling in their wake as they made their rounds in the churning water, bobbing, spinning, dunking in the current.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Adding some kale,<br />’cuz it was on sale” he beat-boxed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He tossed in whole leaves of kale, which spread over the water’s surface like the wings of a drowned bat. He dumped in rough-hewn chunks of onion, a palmful of salt, thick slabs of carrot and half a head of cabbage. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“This stock’s gonna simmer,<br />For tomorrow night’s dinna’.” He rapped, stirring blissfully.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Most people consider stock the basis for a soup. But to Adam, it was a complete meal. With glee, he checked on his simmering stock throughout the night and the next morning and afternoon, updating us on the progress of our impending supper. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I thought I could escape. I had an evening sculpture class and I planned to grab dinner at the dining hall during a break. But when I told Adam that I would be leaving for class soon, he insisted that I fill up on a good meal first. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“It’s ready just in time.” He exclaimed, and set a lone place at the head of the table with the biggest bowl we had—a giant mixing bowl—and filled it to the brim with stock. He sat down across from me with his economics book to keep me company—and hostage. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I stared into my mixing bowl with horror that I hoped didn’t show on my face. Adam had fished out the chicken breast carcasses, but the smaller rib bones had softened and detached and now swirled on the oily surface, butting up against my spoon. Bits of gristle and congealed chicken fat bobbed among the shreds of soggy kale in the broth beaded with grease. The carrot had all but disintegrated into sodden chunks, imbuing the mess with a delicate orange hue. It smelled like rotten cabbage.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Under Adam’s benevolent gaze, I lifted the spoon and held my breath, using every one of my facial muscles to keep my lips from twisting into a grimace of agony as I took the first bite. My throat closed with that rush of heat that starts behind the tongue signaling the first faint tug of nausea. I forced myself to swallow and scooped up another spoonful. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>The broth was the easy part. I tipped the spoon straight down my throat so the oily water touched as little of my tongue as possible as it made its descent. But the leaves of kale and chunks of onion were too big. There was no way around it—I had to chew. The sharp, bitter onion had a grainy crunch and the greasy strips of kale stuck in my throat. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I ate the entire bowlful. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>When all that remained were the bits of chicken bone and gristle, Adam saw me to the door. Full and queasy, I thanked him very much for dinner. He smiled, like Mrs. Horner, <i style="">a kind, proud smile.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>After six hours of sculpting scrawny naked men with yellow toenails—which did nothing to settle my stomach—I came home to find my three roommates clearing the table of Chinese take-out cartons and fortune cookie wrappers. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“Hey!” I cried, “What happened to the soup?” Mark and Felix exchanged a look and hurried to the kitchen. Adam handed me a fortune cookie and laughed sheepishly.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>“It was disgusting.” He said, and put his arm around my shoulders, “I can’t believe you ate the whole bowl.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>It took me a few years to get over my fear of stock. I’ve considered making it a few times, but have been thwarted by the memory of what can go wrong. I finally mustered the courage last fall and attempted to make stock with the Thanksgiving turkey carcass, and ended up with a pot full of solidified fat. But at least I didn’t feed it to anyone. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>I will admit, however, that there have been times when I have made <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/01/disastrous-feast-of-figs.html">disastrous meals</a>, and my loved ones have eaten them anyway. That’s just what you do when a beloved friend—whether a little old farmer, a gentle roomie, or a newlywed new to cooking—cooks something special just for you.<br /><b style=""><br />Adam’s Stock <o:p></o:p></b><br />Serves 4</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Ingredients:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />30 cups water, divided<br />4 chicken breast carcasses<br />1 bunch of kale, un-chopped<br />1 onion, quartered<br />1 carrot, sliced<br />½ head cabbage<br />¼ cup salt</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Bring 6 cups of water to boil<br />Add next 6 ingredients (through salt)<br />Boil for 10 minutes, then reduce heat to low simmer</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Allow to simmer for at least 24 hours, adding water as necessary</span></p>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-59417463171456818122009-05-11T09:50:00.002-05:002009-05-11T13:02:57.339-05:00Work Birthday Party<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cubiclethinktank.com/blog/wp-content/themes/church_30/images/cubicle-etiquette-tip-3-300by300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://cubiclethinktank.com/blog/wp-content/themes/church_30/images/cubicle-etiquette-tip-3-300by300.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo courtesy of <a href="http://cubiclethinktank.com/blog/tag/cubicle-manners">CubicleThinkTank.com</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Today is my birthday, and I know that there was a secret work party planned for 9:30. Since it's a breakfast party, I sacrificed my daily morning oatmeal in anticipation of a bagel or a donut.<br /><br />It's now 9:50 and no one has come to get me. Do you think they forgot about me and are eating my donuts? Oh, the perils of birthdays at work.</span></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-71439033270655679982009-05-11T05:35:00.011-05:002009-05-11T13:09:11.705-05:00A Kitchen of One's Own<span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i99.photobucket.com/albums/l307/Jade629/Jane/teabook.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 310px;" src="http://i99.photobucket.com/albums/l307/Jade629/Jane/teabook.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Image courtesy of </span><a style="font-family: lucida grande;" href="http://media.photobucket.com/image/jane%20austen%20reading/Jade629/Jane/teabook.jpg">Jade 629</a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">.</span></span><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >F and the boys went to <span style="font-style: italic;">Star Trek</span> Friday night, and I eagerly anticipated having the apartment all to myself. I love these infrequent nights alone because I can rent a movie F would have no interest in watching (<span>recent picks:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Shall We Dance?</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Jane Austen Book Club</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Monsoon Wedding</span>) and make a dinner F would hate, using ingredients he despises, like mushrooms, cheese, and cauliflower (not necessarily together).<br /><br />I did not have any of those ingredients, but I did have a bushel of ramps left over from our <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/flirtation-in-aisle-6.html">CSA box</a>. Since I did not want to waste one moment of my glorious night at the grocery store with the produce guys, I decided to make myself dinner using ramps and anything else I already ha</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >d at home.<br /><br />A search for ramp recipes online led to the discovery that they are most often used in omelets and soups. Ramp soup did not appeal to me, but an omelet was the perfect dish. We had received a whole carton of farm-fresh eggs in our box, and I hadn' t used any of them yet. We also had a lot of grape tomatoes left over from last night's dinner. </span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbGhF_NVk6qVY7Wbz-SB3k6q53MdUIwZG1egCHmmgohb4oEVkBdYSLzdGDR7tYIOLiF_u6PdNlKYqMh9ybFoidt8u3KYE-RFIwJzPy_W5Yyc7fxMg11Dpzqna2Tos5ZVb-NcORIjM0Sw/s1600-h/IMG_0651.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbGhF_NVk6qVY7Wbz-SB3k6q53MdUIwZG1egCHmmgohb4oEVkBdYSLzdGDR7tYIOLiF_u6PdNlKYqMh9ybFoidt8u3KYE-RFIwJzPy_W5Yyc7fxMg11Dpzqna2Tos5ZVb-NcORIjM0Sw/s400/IMG_0651.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334513551522556066" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >And so, I devised a Ramp and Roasted Grape Tomato Omelet. I was very proud to have come up with this recipe all by myself. I wonder if this is how Julia Child felt when she mastere<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">d </span></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><em><span style="">Mousse de Foies de Volaille.</span></em></span><p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" ></span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><b>Ramp and Roasted Grape Tomato Omelet</b></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><b>Ingredients:</b></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br />1 tsp butter</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" >1 egg, 2 egg whites (beaten together)</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br />1/8 cup thinly sliced trimmed ramp bulbs and slender stems plus 1/2 cup thinly sliced green tops </span><br /><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" >½ cup grape tomatoes (roasted)</span>:<span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br />* Preheat oven to 425</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br />* Place tomatoes in pan and season with salt and pepper</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" >* Drizzle with olive oil and toss</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br />* Roast until the smallest tomatoes begin to pop, about 15 minutes</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" >Melt butter in cast iron skillet over medium heat. Add ramp bulbs and stems to skillet; sauté 3 minutes.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" >Add green tops and sauté until ramps are soft, about 9 minutes.</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" >Transfer ramps to a bowl and mix in roasted tomatoes.</span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />Add eggs to skillet over medium heat; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Heat until eggs are almost set (about 2 minutes). Season to taste with salt and pepper. </span> <span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />Fold in ramp and tomato mixture.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" >Serves 1</span><div style="margin: 1ex; font-family: lucida grande;"><div> </div> </div><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlpwqq6DzW8R986EU-XJLiwqR3N3DFMWkffPN7LIj2hyphenhyphenDKf95h6x8_Fp-CW-lztTZAIqOKBqOMyphsoq69_UTMy1yEuOOXgSAyu_Kj7tgDaRZCO5V8G_lGHgip3WYL-B1JOHmZkVTaBM/s1600-h/IMG_0656.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlpwqq6DzW8R986EU-XJLiwqR3N3DFMWkffPN7LIj2hyphenhyphenDKf95h6x8_Fp-CW-lztTZAIqOKBqOMyphsoq69_UTMy1yEuOOXgSAyu_Kj7tgDaRZCO5V8G_lGHgip3WYL-B1JOHmZkVTaBM/s400/IMG_0656.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334513552746577378" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >It's a little on the messy side, but tasted pretty nice! I think some cheese would have gone a long way with this one, but I didn't have any.<br /><br /></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4769564030936496276.post-29356833880484405162009-05-09T11:37:00.000-05:002009-05-11T11:10:26.526-05:00Saturday Farmers Market<span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >Some photos of the <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/05/first-farmers-market.html">Farmers Market</a> on Saturday morning:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgna8i19K5javWNVyNjjXjcNZRCuUJup2ZyUXIkckysKROA3qdVJCaIwXlCak2FXvuPXXwMAG0cC9KjV5uckyvb67qTm_Y5gI8zopubhHLsN0sr25Tv_A2anc8C64d9krT1GFTVL1aGXE4/s1600-h/IMG_0659.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgna8i19K5javWNVyNjjXjcNZRCuUJup2ZyUXIkckysKROA3qdVJCaIwXlCak2FXvuPXXwMAG0cC9KjV5uckyvb67qTm_Y5gI8zopubhHLsN0sr25Tv_A2anc8C64d9krT1GFTVL1aGXE4/s400/IMG_0659.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334514549147645634" border="0" /></a>Tents at the end of the street.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3RTqFwt46yV1B2aVXAt3roaRF7ASbRskXch087sK_zoyQYNlMYVYR_4wZaHBOLh1j4kY_lWAGAJtPnHUiYUqoY0fYCFm-Sqlm75HVyn7wt4YUQPB4VxjElIrP8zYTxWJ4yaj3ZLXWIk/s1600-h/IMG_0677.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3RTqFwt46yV1B2aVXAt3roaRF7ASbRskXch087sK_zoyQYNlMYVYR_4wZaHBOLh1j4kY_lWAGAJtPnHUiYUqoY0fYCFm-Sqlm75HVyn7wt4YUQPB4VxjElIrP8zYTxWJ4yaj3ZLXWIk/s400/IMG_0677.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334514565736403490" border="0" /></a>Chef demonstration.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyue7u0YTSLyfJKSa6Z0-gIDyRLOQGx4RuywXYxxe66LI5cUM9jspVz0dT4Vtf8teFMbUhYfazGB3Pk9P3eF4Hq-icl0YB4r4-p89xAHbizMV66dSSmg6Yp8A2okah0UjQHDONb_EbarI/s1600-h/IMG_0672.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 313px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyue7u0YTSLyfJKSa6Z0-gIDyRLOQGx4RuywXYxxe66LI5cUM9jspVz0dT4Vtf8teFMbUhYfazGB3Pk9P3eF4Hq-icl0YB4r4-p89xAHbizMV66dSSmg6Yp8A2okah0UjQHDONb_EbarI/s400/IMG_0672.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334514554485797218" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxavYjNAOgdsTvVWOLkCoIWymDLlPArxuX3RZD9zcK6pEgYjXY__5_2gFQj6CcL1ScR2Rxd8MGVUbRtt7VbDCVnIQNMQu-FBkM5bhSdFZgSTGmAvO65HDDZ9eqFGNqFb6xbDXXfdoHNb8/s1600-h/IMG_0673.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxavYjNAOgdsTvVWOLkCoIWymDLlPArxuX3RZD9zcK6pEgYjXY__5_2gFQj6CcL1ScR2Rxd8MGVUbRtt7VbDCVnIQNMQu-FBkM5bhSdFZgSTGmAvO65HDDZ9eqFGNqFb6xbDXXfdoHNb8/s400/IMG_0673.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334514560545026690" border="0" /></a>The asparagus man was very confused when he asked, "Do you like asparagus?" and I replied, "Oh yes, it's beautiful!" <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZW5ZTJJrbwCrdjbE1w5nGEg9zcgObFagLnJ5goHHUhoNZj2DFUlnc6vZZA_OL8bhkObjZmTxtLe3JGpb0fQog1fPc03oqiZmN-5CthSuYAccv6VzOOLv4OC32da9BYLPna1iB5cC6-Uw/s1600-h/IMG_0680.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZW5ZTJJrbwCrdjbE1w5nGEg9zcgObFagLnJ5goHHUhoNZj2DFUlnc6vZZA_OL8bhkObjZmTxtLe3JGpb0fQog1fPc03oqiZmN-5CthSuYAccv6VzOOLv4OC32da9BYLPna1iB5cC6-Uw/s400/IMG_0680.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334514567460780002" border="0" /></a>My purchases: a big basil plant and a tub of dried pears. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRL_eMHznjkPRPR_qvdExBG_E1t8hR30FeDoAauLtLI3BRV_LN3BFt343YlDChk4SjMiPDyppM_F3DklmjWugtA4r1AEV8Kw6OKXyO6QS8rXYaZ8qPgoGbfux4SGwcGmv-_CoH3LOoZ0/s1600-h/IMG_0682.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRL_eMHznjkPRPR_qvdExBG_E1t8hR30FeDoAauLtLI3BRV_LN3BFt343YlDChk4SjMiPDyppM_F3DklmjWugtA4r1AEV8Kw6OKXyO6QS8rXYaZ8qPgoGbfux4SGwcGmv-_CoH3LOoZ0/s400/IMG_0682.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334514788729423858" border="0" /></a>Barry and the basil.<br /></span>Lara Ehrlichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04091986045705518357noreply@blogger.com0