How I manage to make dinner

These are the moments I live for lately: onions sauteing on the stove, good music in the background, surrounded by the girls playing peacefully.

The children's dreams come true

Chris was in the middle of prepping his famous fish and chips for dinner tonight, when there was a disaster with the cod. Don't ask what it was, because now that the girls are reading this blog I have to be careful, and I want them to stay enthusiastic fish lovers. It was bad, though, so although Chris was already halfway done with the french fries he baled on the fish and ordered pizza.

When the girls came up the stairs to discover a dinner of pizza and french fries, they were understandably stoked.

Katie eyed the table in surprise, "Are you sure Easter isn't tonight?" she asked.

Short Rib Sundays

I was about to comment on a favorite blog of mine, when I realized that what I was going to say is really better said here, where all of you (meaning: mom and mom-in-law) can appreciate it.

Working in the bakery has been going really well. I like what I'm doing (decorating cakes, mostly, with some proofing and baking thrown in. It's the hauling boxes in and out of freezers that I can do without.) My manager has been great about trying to accommodate me, scheduling me to only work three days out of the week so that I can be at home as much as possible. The only downside is that usually means I get the Sunday doughnut shift - starting at 4am (and soon to be 3am). I actually like doing the doughnuts, but the hours are a killer for a dyed-in-the-wool nightowl like myself.

Here's the thing, though, that makes it all just dandy. Chris has, for one, been bringing the girls in to see me around my lunch break (which, when you begin work at 4, ends up being around 10am.) I set aside doughnuts for them - which means they get to have as many of the coveted strawberry-frosted as they want (a rare thing, as finding 5 strawberry doughnuts at once is much harder than you would think.)

Also, Chris has been stepping up to the plate for Sunday dinners, making braised short ribs almost every weekend. Braised short ribs, if you don't know, is similar to a roast only.........well, much better. It is truly fall off the fork tender -that's not just an expression, you know! It is an actual phenomena that can be achieved if you have a way with meat. And Chris does. It is comforting, and warm, and aromatic, and delicious. It's the perfect fall/winter meal, and the perfect way to end a day that began elbow-deep in frosting hours before the birds are even thinking of waking up.

I see the effort he is making to help me out where he can. Sundays used to be his sacred, football-watching, lounging-around day, and I know it is a sacrifice to him to give that up. And I'm so grateful that he is willing to; it keeps me from becoming just a tired wife; instead I'm a happy wife, grateful for the chance to be a part of this amazing family.

Short ribs: soul-food in every sense of the term.

The reason I didn't mind turning 33

This is going back a few weeks now, but I have to talk about it. I can't not talk about it, and I can't not share these fuzzy, grainy photos.
Be glad if you don't live near us, because we are forcing everyone we encounter to scroll through the 30 or so pictures Chris has on his phone. We know it's obnoxious, but we can't stop ourselves.

The above picture is a covert shot of the guy who set the stage for the single most amazing meal we have ever had in our lives. For my birthday this year, Chris reserved two seats at the best table in this up and coming Frederick restaurant. It's called Table 21, and it is set right in the kitchen so that you can see all the action. Did I mention that it is called Table 21? Do you wanna guess why? They serve you 21 courses.

Heaven, man. Heaven has got to be at least a little something like this.

The food was amazing. Amazing! I have been very snobbish about the whole molecular gastronomy movement, but at Volt we were served some truly unique, inventive and delicious courses that rocked my preconceptions.

The couple sitting beside us (Table 21 serves four per night) were vegetarians, so it was especially interesting to see what they were getting as opposed to what we were getting. I'll tell you what, becoming a vegetarian never looked so good.

Carrot sphere with cardamom and ginger

But when this came, oh I thanked God for the wonder that is pig:
Iberico cross pork belly with cranberry beans, mostarda

If I were going to be executed tomorrow, this is what I would order for my last meal. I'd never had pork belly before, although I had heard about it, and let me tell you this: pork belly lives up to the hype.

This next one actually made Chris clap his hands and bounce in his seat:
Foie gras torchon, bing cherries, vanilla brioche, pistachio soil

I say the vegetarian dishes were awesome, and they were, but I can only put five pictures in this post and I couldn't resist throwing this one in:
Pineland farm beef strip loin, creamed corn, soy beans, garlic

Do you see that thin, papery sheet laying against the beef? That's the garlic. I don't know how they did it, I don't know why they thought of it, but it was delicious. It literally melted into the tenderly cooked, luscious beef as you took a bite and added a fun little kick of garlic, the perfect amount.

We had heard really good things about Volt since it opened last year, but we hadn't had the chance to get there yet. When we read that the chef was going to be a contestant on Top Chef, though, we started to worry. The chef seemed like the real deal, and we wanted a chance to get into his restaurant while the plebes still could...

I can't tell you how glad I am that we did. Top Chef has started now, and let me tell you.....this guy will knock your socks off. I think there is a really, really good chance that he will win. I think there is a really, really good chance that by this time next year you will need divine assistance to score a seat at Table 21.

There is an almost undefinable focus and humility that all the best chefs seem to have in common, and this guy has it in spades. The night we went to Volt was the night after the premiere of the TC season, and there was a steady stream of giggly women asking to talk to him He would smile and nod....and then go about his thing. At one point, there was a slight hitch in the rhythm of the kitchen and the chef brought our next course to us before our last plates had been cleared. This guy owns the restaurant, he is a burgeoning foodie rock-star; you'd think he'd call the bus-boy over to clear the plates. No. He set the hot plates down, came and cleared our dishes away himself, and then went back and got the next course.
That is humility, and dedication, and service. I was hooked. I loved the food, I liked the atmosphere, but I really respected the chef.

Watch Brian Voltaggio on Top Chef. Root for him! Meanwhile, I can't thank my husband enough. It was the best birthday gift ever. It's a rare and precious thing to have the opportunity to glimpse something really and truly special.

Back to School (or How Anne of Green Gables deceived me)

Sorry for the long silence. It has been a busy few weeks, but here I am to report that the first week back was a resounding success! The girls all seem to enjoy their respective teachers and classes, and we're off to a smooth start.

Yesterday, though....

Yesterday was a different story. It was the official Back-To-School Night, where the parents get to sit for hours listening to things that could be communicated in the span of three minutes, and the teachers get to learn where all the annoying habits of their students come from. I joined the "hospitality committee" this year, which is a fancy way of saying I bring food. Since all baking these days must be used as preparation for my sister's wedding cake in November, I decided to make cupcakes decorated in the school colors, with tiny roses on top.

This is where Anne of Green Gables let me down.

I grew up loving the series. Loving it. I loved the way Anne did things just like me, forgetting things and having crazy things happen to her....I was never responsible for having a mouse drown in cream, but I did once leave the garage door open, leaving me an easy scapegoat for the mouse that appeared a few days later. I also never fell through a roof, but I routinely ran out of gas while driving my grandparents' boat around Deep Creek, leaving me (and my passengers: Kelli, Julie, Shannon, Ange - I'm sorry) stranded at the mercy of strangers. The awesome thing about Anne, though, was that as she grew older she grew out of her ditsy ways. By the time she was a mother she was gracious, relaxed and serene. I felt confident that my future would be the same.

Fast forward to yesterday. I began decorating the cupcakes around noon, thinking that I could drop them off at the school right before classes let out and surprise the girls with a car-ride home. It wasn't to be, however, because I am incapable of gauging time correctly. By four o'clock I was frantic and the kitchen was covered in frosting, and I was still not done. To make things worse, Chris came into the kitchen and immediately burst into laughter. He was laughing so hard he couldn't tell me why, he just directed me to the bathroom mirror. I went in and looked at myself. I looked at my lips, then my teeth, then my tongue. They were all a deep, violent shade of blue. I should not have licked that spoon.

I brushed my teeth like mad, to no avail, then realized that I was just going to have to accept the fact that I was about to face an entire school full of judgemental parents...with a blue mouth.

I packed up the cupcakes and asked Katie to help me load them into the car. Despite my blue mouth (and, actually, green fingers -- the cupcakes were blue with yellow flowers), I felt proud of the cupcakes. They looked cute, and I congratulated myself on cleverly decorating them in the school colors. I said as much to Katie as she helped me out, and she looked at me with a puzzled expression.

"Um, Mom, " she said, "The school colors are blue and red."

Oh. So, as it turns out, I decorated the cupcakes in visually unappealing colors and covered myself in bizarre stains for no reason at all. I was all set to really impress the PTA crowd.

Anne Shirley would never have done that. Where did I go wrong? Is this my fault, or is it the fault of Mrs. Montgomery, who should have known that flighty little girls grow into flighty little adults? I'm going to blame Anne. And hope that the parents of my kids' friends don't hold it against them when their mother can't pull herself together.

Jam Manifesto

Have you heard the expression, "You can't bottle happiness"? It's true. I've looked into it.

I have a secret for you, though. A secret formula:

First, you need wake up early one summer morning (anything before 9 is early for us in the summer. Don't be jealous, I've paid my dues.) Then you need to meet your mother-in-law and head off to a farm.

(Look, it's okay if the morning doesn't go perfectly. This formula will work even if you have issues getting out of the house because your dog thinks he is entitled to come along. It will work even if you also stop for gas and end up, in some bizarro-spastic move, spraying yourself with the gasoline nozzle, Zoolander-style, and then needing to rush to the nearest Wal-Mart to grab a new outfit because you are uncomfortably close to spontaneously bursting into fire. Trust me on this one. If you end up in a similar scenario, don't let it deter you.)

You then need to spend a hour or so picking blueberries with your Mother-in-law and your indentured servants...I mean, your children. It's lots of fun, you'll love it! If you want, you can let your Mother-in-law treat you and the serfs, I mean children (sorry, I can't stop myself!) to fresh berry-topped ice cream. This step is not necessary, but I highly recommend it.

Then - listen carefully - you need to go home and put some of those fresh, ripe blueberries into a big pot. Heat it up and throw in an apple (a good source of pectin) for good measure, if you're so inclined, then add some sugar so that you can enjoy the fruit of your labors all winter long. Cook it until it's nice and gooey, until it coats your spoon and runs off of it slowly like molasses. Making jam is easy! Honest! Then you need to ladle that hot, tantalizingly sweet syrup into jars, and boil it like crazy for about ten minutes.

When you're done, you'll know the secret. You can't bottle happiness.....but it is absolutely possible to can it.

There it is. Happiness in a can.

I think my camera lens was smudged, but I was so high on jam that I didn't notice until it was too late. Sorry.

Guess what else?

You can also can sunshine.

Mine was more sunset-y sunshine, because I used brown sugar in the peach jam instead of white. It's not as iridescent, but it's delicious.

I'm all about the taste.

It that doesn't convince you, here are a few more reasons why you need to make jam:
1- Your kids will think you are super-cool
2-Your house will smell amazing all day long
3-Stirring the bubbling pot of goodness really does feel like magic. It's the one scenario in life where it is not only acceptable but fitting to mutter aloud, "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble..."
4-You will feel like Meg March, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Anne Shirley, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, and the Boxcar Children all at once.

And the most important point:
5-It's yummy.

The Zen of Pie

I had a Jonah day* yesterday.

I was cranky and irritable for no real reason; I snapped at the girls, I rolled my eyes at the dog, I sniped at Chris and huffed and puffed all over the house. I was unbearable.

I was driving myself crazy. Then, in the early evening, it was time to slip on my worn and flour-y apron and prepare to make pie dough.

As I cut the cold and creamy butter into little slices, I could feel it. My tensed hands began to relax. I sprinkled the butter, along with frozen bits of shortening, into the flour and my fingers slid along the pieces. My breathing began to slow as I cut the fat into the dough, focused on finding the exact right moment when it blended, secure in knowing when that moment would come. I added just the tiniest amount of cold liquid to hold it all together and then quickly incorporated the dry into the wet before pouring it all into the little squares of plastic I had prepared for it.

I could feel the back of my neck and my shoulders relaxing. The frantic flutter in my chest slowed, and for the first time that day I was aware of the quiet house around me. All of a sudden it was clear to me: I had been a colossal jerk! Why had I been so nasty? I couldn't remember.

I gingerly wrapped the dough in the plastic and slid it into the back of the fridge to chill. Then I took off my apron and searched out my family to give them a hug and apologize for being such a pill. They hugged me back and gave me forgiving smiles, and crowded into the kitchen to chat while I finished baking. All was right with the world.

And it was because of pastry dough.

Happy Fourth of July!


*Five points to anyone to catches that reference!
*Old picture of last year's cherry pie. This dough was destined for maple-blueberry. Mmm!

Yeah for me!

A friend of mine just had a baby (and by just, I mean the baby was born in February and I just now remembered to take her a meal) so I decided to try out a neat little trick with cupcakes that another friend recently showed me, and take the family the results.

I took a cake decorating class last month and I really loved it. The problem is that practice makes perfect but there are only so many cakes one can make, especially when one has given up desserts for Lent. So my skills are not exactly at the pro-level, but I have to say that I'm proud of what I made today. Here it is, a cupcake bouquet:


My results did not look as good as my friends, but I think the family I gave them to liked it. Really, though, my main goal is mostly just to impress the girls and I think I've got that locked up.