Day 3: Braised Zucchini and Leeks

The summer of my senior year of college, I read Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don't Get Fat. I had just had to have my choir dress let out a little, and felt like emergency action was required.

What I remember from the book is the philosophy of thoughtfully eating what you like.  Guiliano doesn't frown on dessert, but she encourages eating one piece of quality bittersweet chocolate over eating a frosted Krispy Kreme doughnut or half a bag of M&Ms.  She writes about facing a craving for an apple pastry head on by eating slow roasted apples cooked in cabbage leaves.

(Who are we kidding?  Cabbage leaves instead of layer upon layer of crisp buttery pastry??  As I type this, I'm struck that she would likely support a cake that substitutes zucchini for Coca-Cola.)

But the concepts are good.  If you love the apple flavor, don't substitute a cheap, unsatisfying fiber bar - eat real apples.  Just limit yourself on the fats and sugars the majority of the time.

Guiliano also shares the diet plan that her family's doctor advised for her after she put on weight in the United States.  For the first 48 hours, she ate only what she deemed "Magical Leek Soup."  In glowing terms she describes how this was the catalyst of her life-long love for sweet, buttery leeks.  She drank the delicious and nourishing leek broth several times a day, and whenever she got hungry she would eat a boiled leek with a little olive oil and cracked pepper.  Not only were these leeks delectable, they filled her up; and she still lost some significant pounds (or kilos).

I was sold.

A Vacation from Vacation

"It's like Dillinger once told me: 'Remember, it's always the darkest just before they turn on the lights.' " - from Anything Goes

I have this theory about vacations: they are for children, resort towns and swimsuit retailers.  In fact, I suspect they were designed by swimsuit retailers exactly the same way Valentine's Day was cooked up by card companies.  The gym is probably in on it too.

It's pretty genius, actually.

Glossy posters and shiny TV ads tantalize with photoshopped beaches that are a sharp contrast to my gray cubicle walls.  Images of people carelessly flung across a padded lounge chair haunt me as I wake up at dawn to sleepily pull on work boots and feed chickens.  

I buy in, and plan a vacation.  It goes something like this:

1. Decide on time-off.
2. Hope Matt and I can get the same time-off.
3. Apply for time-off.
4. Change time off-because Matt couldn't get approved for the same time.
5. Breathe a sigh of relief because we finally got the days in sync.
6. Find a place to stay.*
7. E-mail approximately two dozen people to ask exactly "how handicapped friendly are you?"
8. Find a place for the dog to stay.
9. Find someone just crazy enough to want to take care of chickens and still be relied on to not let them become skunk bait. 
10. Convince Katie to keep four baby turkeys for a week.  "They've only flown out of their cage twice.  Very easy."  
11. Confirm beach rental.*
12. Confirm all animal keepers.  Use lots of flattery to butter them up and ensure the well-being of animals.  
13. Mulch garden in attempt to prevent jungle tendencies.
14. Use Round-Up on everything else.
15.  Do laundry.
16. Find all the pieces of all the bathing suits.  Surprisingly difficult.
17. Attempt to have the whole house clean at one time.  It's never been done, but why not try again?
18. Mow grass within an inch of its life - must be done within moments of leaving .  Obviously.
19. Cram two weeks worth of office work into one week.  But do it in a way that does not imply that I can be relied on to work at these speeds when I get back.
20.  Schedule and pay contractors working on inspection punch-sheet for the house we're selling five days after we return. 

After days weeks months of that any vacation would seem like the lap of luxury.  Seriously, to sit down anywhere right now, I would think, "Wait - I don't have to pack a suitcase today? How incredibly indulgent!  I'm done following up on a sheep-sitter?  Well, well, well, look who is going all lazy today."

At this point the ocean shines brighter, the sand feels sunnier, the beach house more charming.

It is in the preparing for a vacation that the need occurs.  This is how the resort towns guarantee they'll stay crowded, the swimsuit retailers sell ill-fitting spandex, and the gym gets money for exercise.   

I plan to go enjoy the pants off this vacation next week.  And not only because I couldn't find all the pieces of my bathing suits.   

For a more poetic, sentimental view of our annual vacation, you can read what I wrote last year.

* I actually didn't have to do those things this time around.  Thanks, Dad!

Christmas Ham for Every Occasion

Warning - this post does not contain a recipe.  If you legitimately want a Christmas ham recipe, I suggest you look elsewhere.  This is a about me, Christmas ham and a story that never gets old.

Two years ago, Matthew and I started contributing a ham to the extended-family dinner. Christmas is always extremely busy for Matthew and me between the increased work load at our respective jobs and travelling.  Buying a ham and delivering it to my mother-in-law is practical way for us to contribute to the family celebration.

Honey Baked Ham starts mailing out their coupons right after Halloween.  On glossy pages, impressive hams display ruffled spirals edged in a crystalized sugar glaze.  My mother-in-law gave me two coupons - one for $5 off and one for 10% off.  I took them both with me, just in case Honey Baked Ham would let me use them collectively. 

Now obviously, you can't just walk up to Honey Baked Ham the day before Christmas and walk out with a ham.  You have to call ahead and reserve your ham.  Then you have to go wait in line with twenty people in Christmas sweaters. 

Florida: A Tradition in Mayonnaise

It takes my breath away how a place almost 900 miles from where I grew up can hold such vivid, beautiful and heartbreaking memories.  Maybe it is the regularity of it.  As certainly as spring arrives, we make the trek to northern Florida.  Over sixteen years, our family has grown, we have spread out further and further across the country, and our schedules have diversified; but still, we meet at the Gulf with tenacity.

  

Years ago, I would spend the night before our trip making sandwiches.  The way I remember it is endless rows of rolls that needed to sawed in half, the crumbs going everywhere.  Armed with a large jar of Hellmans and a butter knife, I would slap mayonnaise on the top half of each roll.  Faced with such a mundane task, my imagination ran wild.  As I put mayonnaise on roll after roll after roll, I was struck that, "the mayonnaise quivered expectantly." 

So thrilled was I with this description of making sandwiches, that I put down my knife, ran to my room and wrote it down.  As though there was a chance someone might steal it.  I don't know what I thought the mayonnaise was expecting.  Perhaps the anticipation of sharing its existence with shaved turkey was almost more than it could take?

Summer Lasagna and Cupcakes

It's been a while since I've written. 

I've been spending some time with this:

Santa Rosa Beach, FL

And this:

R enjoyed Aunt Lizzie's raspberries.

But now I'm back. 

Leah's Coffee Confessions

My sisters, in addition to being beautiful, are the smartest and funniest women I know.  Lucky for me, they send me guest posts from time to time.  Here are some thoughts from Leah.  She is a junior speech pathology major at St. Mary's College. 

I thought I was the Queen of Starbucks.

In particular I thought I was the prime ruler of the one on 933. Everyone knows exactly what I want when I come in. They even know my caffeine cutoff time. I do not take money to Starbucks, I scan my cell phone. I have a phone app that tells me exactly where in the United States every single Starbucks is. As if I need an app, ha! My sixth sense, or Starbucks sense if you will, sends electrical impulses to every neuron in my body if I am within a 5 mile radius of Starbucks. I even know where the grocery store Starbucks’ are. I’ve been a gold member since 2009, when the rewards system began. I’ve cherished that very first reward card ever since I first purchased it. I could do a blind taste test and name each of the different roasts. I could smell the aroma of the roasts and declare which was which. For me it is not an obsession. It is a religion. None would disagree: If Starbucks were Egypt, I would be Cleopatra. If Starbucks were the Roman Empire, I would be Julius Caesar… I will boycott McDonalds, I will boycott Wal-mart, I will boycott Tyson, but Starbucks is my little corporate monster darling..

Handling Hospitality

Seven years ago, I would never have invited  friends over for a bucket of fried chicken.  I knew how to fry my own chicken, thank you very much! But let me tell you about the only time I ever tried to fry chicken for company. My grease caught fire, I poured a full bag of flour on it, and we all ended up in the front yard eating take-out pizza while the smoke cleared.  Thankfully, the man I was trying to impress didn't mind too much and now lets me burn food for him all the time.  So glad I went that homemade route!

I think that those of us that enjoy cooking and entertaining have the hardest time doing it. We are so full of ideas. When it comes to executing all these ideas under time constraints  and with an audience, things often unravel.  My inner Crazy-Hostess still haunts me, but I've learned some things that help me be more realistic and successful with entertaining.

Cloud Nine Banana Cream Pie

Homeschooling traditionally is hands-on learning.  My experience was no different.  For everything we studied, there was an accompanying hands-on project that generally included food.   A study of Jewish holidays would not have been complete without latkes.  When we were studying the Dark Ages, we all tried some cow tongue.  And I was extremely jealous of my sister Rebekah the year she decided to do a science fair project on leavening agents in brownies. 

Some of these experiences were of epic proportion.  When we studied Queen Victoria, we made queen cakes.  Mom mixed up the batter and let us fill the cupcake tins.  After about ten minutes in the oven, the cupcake tins overflowed and the bottom of the oven caught on fire.  

Army Day: The Celebration of Bad Puns

Mom

My mom and her father love puns.  They also play with their hair.  Naturally, my cousins, my sisters and I all play with our hair.  My sisters and cousins also indulge in the pun habit.  For the most part, puns elude me. 

I attribute it to being grounded in reality and far too literal, but I cannot effortlessly find alternative meanings in words.  At gatherings, over plates of brats and Grandpa's legendary potato salad, family would throw puns around like tennis balls.  I would sit quietly and muddle over a word in an attempt to come up with a tortured word play.  But before I could throw mine in the mix, someone else would use my word - only they'd use it better! The celebration of puns, however, is something I partake in with enthusiasm.

Grandpa started it.  On March 4th he and my mom would wish each other a "Happy Army Day!"  Do you get it?  March 4 = march forth = Army Day (I warned you it was bad).  After my mom moved out, she and Grandpa would call each other on March 4.  It became a joke between them to see who could call whom first.  When I was little, I thought March 4 was a nationally recognized holiday.  Obviously, one of the hazards benefits of homeschooling is growing up with your own holidays. 

Chicken Soup with Spinach and Orzo

A number of years ago, I called my mom and boasted, "I just roasted a chicken!" 


She was nonplussed.  "Anyone can roast a chicken.  It's taking the meat off the bones that is the hard part."


There is something to that.  Deboning a chicken is greasy, mindless work.  When we were kids, my parents would scare us into doing homework by regaling us with stories of chicken factories.  Now I pull meat off the pokey bones off a chicken and mutter, "I went to college...I went to college." 

Love Believes All

One Saturday morning my mom came in and sat at the edge of Rebekah’s bed.  She had gotten a call from the mother of some students we knew from our high school biology class.

“They say you were using a bad word.”  The creases in her forehead reflected the doubt in her voice. 

I watched from my side of the room as Rebekah, dumbfounded, searched her memory for any ideas of what they could be referencing.  In most high school biology labs, swearing might not be out of place, but in our tight-knit, home school community peers were pressured into conservatism.  My mom asked me, but neither of us could come up with what could have troubled this unknown accuser.

This put my mom in the unfortunate situation of having to tell us the word.  It is difficult to say who was most embarrassed.  We stared at her blankly.

"What does it mean?"  Rebekah asked

We had never heard it before, but it did clear up the mystery. 

Follow the jump to read more!

A Partridge in a Pear Tree

Large families are difficult to miss. One vacation my mother lined us all up to take a picture, and other tourists stopped and took pictures as well. Inquiring minds would want to know, “Are all these kids yours?” Those who were not as strong in mathematics would ask, “How many of you are there?” When we would tell them, they’d say, “You could be your own baseball team!” We’d smile and nod even though we didn’t know how many people were needed for a baseball team. What we did know was that we had enough people to sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

Like many of our traditions, it began with Shakespeare Club. More specifically, it began with our Shakespeare Club’s Dickens Christmas Party. Junior high and high school students wearing an assortment of crushed velvet ball gowns, bonnets, top hats, and false side whiskers sat around our living room caroling. Dawn, the only adult I’ve ever known willing to organize a Dickens Christmas party for twenty-five teenagers, divided us into twelve groups to sing the Twelve Days of Christmas. One brave soul sang “A partridge in a pear tree” solo. “Two calling birds” was sung as a duet by an aspiring soprano who stood up and enthusiastically belted it out and a reserved young man who looked down and mumbled it uncomfortably under her warbling.

This performance became epic in our house. It didn’t take us long to begin to perform it ourselves during car rides. Starting with the oldest we’d each take a line and all sing “five golden rings” as loudly as we could. Every verse ended with Mom singing “two turtle doves” and Dad bringing it home with “a partridge in a pear tree.” Once in a while Mom would surprise us and pay tribute to that Dickens party by belting her line out in a shaky vibrato.