Simon's school has a dance tonight. And the memories come flooding back to the gymnasiums at the junior high school and the Masonic Temple and the Elks' Club, sites of many teen-hormone charged affairs. Youth dances, as I believe they were called back in the day, were huge in my hometown.
I loved school dances. The anticipation and preparation (curling iron and hair spray, jeans and a shirt shot with metallic thread). The smell of fear as one summoned courage to ask another to dance. Getting crazy excited when your favorite song was played. Feeling superior to the morons who were caught sneaking in shampoo bottles filled with schnapps.
Nothing beats 80s music for dancing, especially the hyper-frentic pogo-ing we used to do. It's no surprise then that on the rare occasion I go clubbing as an adult, I have no idea what to do with my hands and feet.
But, these are shades of the future. Tonight's event is a family dance, and it's rumored to be the funnest EXPO event of the year. On the drive to school this morning, Simon wondered if he would have to ask anyone to dance.
You can always ask me, little buddy.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
spring is springing (for the moment)
The weather has been obscenely warm for February with temperatures hovering near 40 degrees. Yesterday Simon noticed the Canadian geese on the C-D playing fields, and today in Lowertown I spotted a man prematurely sporting shorts. Minnesotans have been advised to enjoy the sunny, warm days while they last because snow is coming. A big, honking, authentic winter storm with piles and piles of snow is on its way!!! Provisions must be purchased (chili fixins and chocolate, for starters) and movies rented.
Sadly, though, unless the storm veers off-course—which could happen—I will have to reschedule a much anticipated lunch date with Caryl.
Highlights of the past week or more include the following:
Mice
Yes, we've been invaded. I awoke early two Fridays ago to a rustling noise in our bedroom, which sounded as if it were coming from inside a paper bag. John was so confused when I woke him that the only thing he could suggest was flight. So we trekked down to the guest bedroom—thank goodness for the extra bed—where I passed a restless night and had a dream about baby raccoons in our house. In case it has never happened to you, allow me to testify that a mouse in a paper bag sounds like an animal many times larger than itself. Later in the morning, Simon comments that he saw a tail go into our bathroom. After gathering what we needed from said bathroom, John and I decamped for the guest bathroom. On Saturday, an exterminator unearthed one mouse from a paper bag in our bedroom and two mice from the drain in our shower. Surreal. In addition to mice, Winston had a twenty-four hour bug (high fever and cold symptoms, but thankfully no barfing). Now we have bait boxes strategically located around our home, inside and out, as well as year-long service. Hopefully next fall/winter will be less eventful (seven is our grand total—and we still haven't caught mom or dad). Still, I'm totally on edge almost two weeks later.
Book groupA small but lively group met at the Chowgirls' lunch spot in Dinkytown, which is owned by book group member Amy B., to talk about Patricia Hampl's Blue Arabesque, which we all disliked for its pretentiouness and bad editing. Terry L. brought Alan T. as a "special" guest. He regaled us with a supreme arrogance that must be inculcated in all Random House reps. He was a terrible name-dropper, too.
Cooking
From my resolution list, I made gnocchi. John had requested a gravy to accompany these light as a feather dumplings so I made a ragu from Lund's meatloaf mix (veal, pork, chuck), white wine, stock, soffritto (minced carrots, celery, onions), tomato puree, and milk. The ragu was fantastic; the gnocchi needed more salt. Learning: I need to take my time forming the dumplings—it's not a difficult operation. Next time, I hope one or both of the kids will help, as I think they'd each have fun rolling the dough into "snakes", then rolling the dough nuggets on a fork.
Reading
Current fiction is Fieldwork by Mischa Berlinski, a novel aboutmissionaries in Thailand, demonic possession, taboo sex, and a murder. So far, a confident writing style has sucked me in, as has the exotic setting. Current nonfiction is Heat by Bill Buford, an account of the author's stint in Mario Batali's kitchen. I'm also listening to Cormac McCarthy's The Road, a father-son novel set in the bleak aftermath of a global catastrophe. A real unnerving tension runs through this novel, enhanced by road warriors and cannibalism. To ameliorate the effects of McCarthy's creepy book, I have just read aloud Henry Huggins to Simon and Winston. When I was a kid, I absolutely adored Beverly Cleary. Reading HH as an adult reminds me of how different being a kid in a small Midwestern town during the 1970s was from being a kid in a large Midwestern metropolitan area in the 2000s. We had free reign of our "neighborhood". I road my bike almost everywhere around the lake I wanted to go. And, my parents even turned us loose to run around "downtown" Winner, SoDak when we were in junior high school. Anyway, Henry Higgins's childhood seems a lot more "aw shucks" than I imagine Simon and Winston's will be. Times change. Even so, Henry's adventures pleased my kids—we had a lot of good laughs.
Skiing
The boys had their last skiing lesson at Mount Como last Saturday. On Sunday, we took advantage of reduced price lift tickets at Afton Alps and skiied. Well, to be perfectly honest, John skiied with the boys because my flabby body couldn't support me on skis. My calves were stretched to the pulling point (they're still sore four days later), and I felt so claustrophobic in ski boots, especially since I couldn't give my muscles a good deep stretch. John—bless him—taught the boys how to ride the chair life (Simon rode by himself). They had so much fun, they now want to ski every day. I vow to rehabilitate my muscles and lose weight so that I can join them. I also want to take lessons and improve my skills so we can go ski big mountains, like the Rockies or the Alps, during Christmas breaks.
Sadly, though, unless the storm veers off-course—which could happen—I will have to reschedule a much anticipated lunch date with Caryl.
Highlights of the past week or more include the following:
Mice
Yes, we've been invaded. I awoke early two Fridays ago to a rustling noise in our bedroom, which sounded as if it were coming from inside a paper bag. John was so confused when I woke him that the only thing he could suggest was flight. So we trekked down to the guest bedroom—thank goodness for the extra bed—where I passed a restless night and had a dream about baby raccoons in our house. In case it has never happened to you, allow me to testify that a mouse in a paper bag sounds like an animal many times larger than itself. Later in the morning, Simon comments that he saw a tail go into our bathroom. After gathering what we needed from said bathroom, John and I decamped for the guest bathroom. On Saturday, an exterminator unearthed one mouse from a paper bag in our bedroom and two mice from the drain in our shower. Surreal. In addition to mice, Winston had a twenty-four hour bug (high fever and cold symptoms, but thankfully no barfing). Now we have bait boxes strategically located around our home, inside and out, as well as year-long service. Hopefully next fall/winter will be less eventful (seven is our grand total—and we still haven't caught mom or dad). Still, I'm totally on edge almost two weeks later.
Book groupA small but lively group met at the Chowgirls' lunch spot in Dinkytown, which is owned by book group member Amy B., to talk about Patricia Hampl's Blue Arabesque, which we all disliked for its pretentiouness and bad editing. Terry L. brought Alan T. as a "special" guest. He regaled us with a supreme arrogance that must be inculcated in all Random House reps. He was a terrible name-dropper, too.
Cooking
From my resolution list, I made gnocchi. John had requested a gravy to accompany these light as a feather dumplings so I made a ragu from Lund's meatloaf mix (veal, pork, chuck), white wine, stock, soffritto (minced carrots, celery, onions), tomato puree, and milk. The ragu was fantastic; the gnocchi needed more salt. Learning: I need to take my time forming the dumplings—it's not a difficult operation. Next time, I hope one or both of the kids will help, as I think they'd each have fun rolling the dough into "snakes", then rolling the dough nuggets on a fork.
Reading
Current fiction is Fieldwork by Mischa Berlinski, a novel aboutmissionaries in Thailand, demonic possession, taboo sex, and a murder. So far, a confident writing style has sucked me in, as has the exotic setting. Current nonfiction is Heat by Bill Buford, an account of the author's stint in Mario Batali's kitchen. I'm also listening to Cormac McCarthy's The Road, a father-son novel set in the bleak aftermath of a global catastrophe. A real unnerving tension runs through this novel, enhanced by road warriors and cannibalism. To ameliorate the effects of McCarthy's creepy book, I have just read aloud Henry Huggins to Simon and Winston. When I was a kid, I absolutely adored Beverly Cleary. Reading HH as an adult reminds me of how different being a kid in a small Midwestern town during the 1970s was from being a kid in a large Midwestern metropolitan area in the 2000s. We had free reign of our "neighborhood". I road my bike almost everywhere around the lake I wanted to go. And, my parents even turned us loose to run around "downtown" Winner, SoDak when we were in junior high school. Anyway, Henry Higgins's childhood seems a lot more "aw shucks" than I imagine Simon and Winston's will be. Times change. Even so, Henry's adventures pleased my kids—we had a lot of good laughs.
Skiing
The boys had their last skiing lesson at Mount Como last Saturday. On Sunday, we took advantage of reduced price lift tickets at Afton Alps and skiied. Well, to be perfectly honest, John skiied with the boys because my flabby body couldn't support me on skis. My calves were stretched to the pulling point (they're still sore four days later), and I felt so claustrophobic in ski boots, especially since I couldn't give my muscles a good deep stretch. John—bless him—taught the boys how to ride the chair life (Simon rode by himself). They had so much fun, they now want to ski every day. I vow to rehabilitate my muscles and lose weight so that I can join them. I also want to take lessons and improve my skills so we can go ski big mountains, like the Rockies or the Alps, during Christmas breaks.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
stay up late: reading
Yesterday, my coworker Barb mentioned to me that she had stayed up real late, until 2 a.m., reading a book. I think she was sort of gloating, too, because she prefaced her comment with a "guess what I did last night?" And I guess I was kind of jealous because I couldn't remember the last time I had stayed up stupid-late reading a book. I occasionally stay up stupid-late for other reasons—blogging, blog reading, watching TV, knitting, parenting. But, rest assured, if I try to read after 9 p.m., I am certain to fall asleep. Comatose sleep too, not just a little cat nap that energizes me so I can read a little more when I awake.
So, last night, after I had gorged myself on all the food programs banked on the DVR, I muted the TV and tucked into my book, The Shadow of the Wind. I have been reading this novel off and on since August, and I really wanted to finish it before I lost interest and never picked it up again. Besides, I have set aside another semi-hulking, semi-dense novel to which I must return, and many other books are calling my name.
The first 250 pages are rich and dense, lusciously establishing the literary intrigue at the center of this novel, as well as a sense of place in post-war Barcelona. Often I'd get that sinking feeling that I was missing something and contemplate starting over. Then, near page 275, the book became utterly gripping. Although it took me three hours to read the last 100 pages, I could not put it down. Before the storylines were wrapped up, one of the secondary characters gave her perspective of the events, which neatly served as a review of those chapters I read back in August.
After reading the last page at 12:30 a.m., I felt totally energized and wanted to start another book immediately, especially something that might be consumed in a few sittings. I feel a renewed faith in my ability to read, and I want to devour every book in sight!
bikes: a little slice of sunshine
Orbea's Orca, updated for 2007, is about the sexiest bike I have ever seen. The spectacular frame geometry is so modern. You have no choice but to go fast on this bike. Last year's model was a deeper orange, the color of the Basque Euskatel team, which I prefer to the newer, slightly anemic colors highlighting the mostly black frames. That said, I wouldn't turn these wheels down if offered.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Weekend Report: February 4
It's a good thing I fell asleep right after cooking and eating a large dinner on Saturday. That way I could be well rested when Simon woke me up at 5:30 a.m. Confused initially, I eventually made out that he was sitting just outside my bedroom door, in a little hallway by the bath, in a pool of technicolor vomit. The stench was unbearable as was the thought about cleaning it up. Simon was a bit stunned too. Poor thing. He was so apologetic as he climbed into our bed, requiring lots of comfort.
John got up to help me and was such a sport about wiping sick off the walls, which is pretty unprecedented. And he fixed us all a lovely breakfast of the best pancakes I have ever eaten, graced by a sides of sausage patties and fluffy scrambled eggs.
For the most part, John and I spent our day cleaning up after each of Simon's episodes. I lost track at some point. Simon was depleted, but he did manage to watch the entire Super Bowl from his "nest" on the couch. At some point, we took advantage of my parents' generosity. They offered to watch the boys while John and I snuck off to Lund's.
While negotiating the very busy parking lot at the grocery store, I noticed one of my car's wheels made a horrible noise. Thinking it was ice, I made a note to check when we finally found a parking spot. But, it was worse than ice. I had a big flat tire. On, it bears mentioning, the second coldest day of the year. Could the day get any worse?
John and I did our grocery shopping, planning the week's menu as we combed each aisle. Then, John—my hero—removed the flat and installed the very meager spare tire. On our drive home, we noticed Tires Plus was open so we dropped off the car to be repaired. My dad picked us and the groceries up. Safe at home, my mother—because she is so caring and thoughtful (read sarcasm)—said, "Aren't you thankful it didn't happen with the boys in the car?" The thought never occured to me. Don't get me wrong—I'm glad they were safe at home! Why does she say things like that? Things that I can't help but read as less than subtle digs at me and my character and my ability to function as an adult and a mother. Why can't my mother say, "How awful for you. I'm so sorry these things are happening to you today. Is there anything I can do to help make your crappy day better?" And if I tell her how much her comment bothers me and on how many different levels, she'll get defensive or accuse me of pitying myself.
She makes me very angry.
And, I warned you. This is my therapy blog.
Because I was wrung out from wiping up vomit and doing endless loads of laundry just to stay ahead of the next vomit load, and because my mother demanded so much of my attention that I had a hard time giving my attention to my sick child, all I wanted to do was hide. No longer feeling on top of the world as I had the day before, zipping around my kitchen cooking great food for my family, I started to spiral downward emotionally. John and I begged out of the Super Bowl party I had been anticipating for a month and hunkered down with the kids, which isn't a half-bad way to spend a Sunday. Surrounded by those who truly love and don't judge you.
I love my John and my Simon and my Winston.
Speaking of Winston. He's become quite a card shark. Someone at DC taught him "Garbage," an easy and fun game to learn. Thank goodness for his abiding passion though. As long as someone played cards with him, he didn't seem to notice that Simon was barfing all over the house or getting tons of attention.
Some cardinals are at play outside the window where I'm blogging. Three males, who appear to be chasing each other, and a female. You go, girl!
John got up to help me and was such a sport about wiping sick off the walls, which is pretty unprecedented. And he fixed us all a lovely breakfast of the best pancakes I have ever eaten, graced by a sides of sausage patties and fluffy scrambled eggs.
For the most part, John and I spent our day cleaning up after each of Simon's episodes. I lost track at some point. Simon was depleted, but he did manage to watch the entire Super Bowl from his "nest" on the couch. At some point, we took advantage of my parents' generosity. They offered to watch the boys while John and I snuck off to Lund's.
While negotiating the very busy parking lot at the grocery store, I noticed one of my car's wheels made a horrible noise. Thinking it was ice, I made a note to check when we finally found a parking spot. But, it was worse than ice. I had a big flat tire. On, it bears mentioning, the second coldest day of the year. Could the day get any worse?
John and I did our grocery shopping, planning the week's menu as we combed each aisle. Then, John—my hero—removed the flat and installed the very meager spare tire. On our drive home, we noticed Tires Plus was open so we dropped off the car to be repaired. My dad picked us and the groceries up. Safe at home, my mother—because she is so caring and thoughtful (read sarcasm)—said, "Aren't you thankful it didn't happen with the boys in the car?" The thought never occured to me. Don't get me wrong—I'm glad they were safe at home! Why does she say things like that? Things that I can't help but read as less than subtle digs at me and my character and my ability to function as an adult and a mother. Why can't my mother say, "How awful for you. I'm so sorry these things are happening to you today. Is there anything I can do to help make your crappy day better?" And if I tell her how much her comment bothers me and on how many different levels, she'll get defensive or accuse me of pitying myself.
She makes me very angry.
And, I warned you. This is my therapy blog.
Because I was wrung out from wiping up vomit and doing endless loads of laundry just to stay ahead of the next vomit load, and because my mother demanded so much of my attention that I had a hard time giving my attention to my sick child, all I wanted to do was hide. No longer feeling on top of the world as I had the day before, zipping around my kitchen cooking great food for my family, I started to spiral downward emotionally. John and I begged out of the Super Bowl party I had been anticipating for a month and hunkered down with the kids, which isn't a half-bad way to spend a Sunday. Surrounded by those who truly love and don't judge you.
I love my John and my Simon and my Winston.
Speaking of Winston. He's become quite a card shark. Someone at DC taught him "Garbage," an easy and fun game to learn. Thank goodness for his abiding passion though. As long as someone played cards with him, he didn't seem to notice that Simon was barfing all over the house or getting tons of attention.
Some cardinals are at play outside the window where I'm blogging. Three males, who appear to be chasing each other, and a female. You go, girl!
Weekend Report: February 3
My parents visited this weekend, and I must admit that it was one of their best visits yet. On Friday evening after I picked up the boys from DC, we met my parents at the Ramada, formerly the Thunderbird, near the MOA, which played host to the Minnesota Decoy show. Collectors and carvers of decoys (duck, goose, fish) had assembled in a cramped meeting room to display their wares. Once your eyes adjusted to a room filled with middle-aged men dressed in plaid flannel shirts and vests sporting pockets for shells and game, you then had an opportunity to work your way through a minefield of decoys, most of which carried outrageous price tags (anywhere from a couple hundred to a few thousand dollars). I have no idea how one looks at a decoy and decides if the price is fair. I asked my father, and he said, "Collectors know."
After an hour with the DU crowd we headed to Fuddrucker's for large, impeccably cooked burgers. Seriously. I don't know how they maintain the "quality" control with the volume of cooking the kitchen does on a Friday night, but the burgers really are better than those served by many more upscale joints.
Saturday: The temperature was prohibitively cold. Reports vary, but it's safe to say that windchill was involved and that temps hovered around zero, at best. Instead of taking the boys to ski school, I made a big breakfast: Dorothy's grits souffle with lots of butter and cheese. John doctored up some thick-cut, hickory smoked bacon with a brown sugar/cayenne/black pepper concoction, which we then baked. And, since we had a bottle of sparkling wine kicking around from New Year's Eve, we enjoyed mimosas.
After breakfast, my mother and I braved the elements to do some shopping. First stop: The Bead Monkey where my mother scoured the store for unique beads (she has the singular goal of making a necklace to go with each of the outfits in her wardrobe). She treated me to a pendant crafted from a square piece of quartz with striations in purple, smoky brown, and clear. It's beautiful, and initially I thought I'd hang it from a black leather cord, but now I'm thinking I might also pick up a length of sheer brown ribbon for a more ethereal look.
Next stop: Coastal Seafoods, where I had a fishmonger help me select fishes for the evening's Mediterranean stew. And, I received a special treat. After inquiring about a particular fish—wahoo—the fishmonger asked if I liked raw fish, then gave me a sliver of this buttery fish from the tuna family, which pretty much melted in my mouth.
Then, we picked up Grandpa Ron, John, and the little boys and convoyed to Lakeville where we visited brother Nik. He was souping up a stock motorcycle and wanted to show it off to us. It's pretty awesome to see my baby brother happy and proud in his element. Finally, we drove from Lakeville to St. Louis Park—covering the far reaches of the Twin Cities in one fell swoop, on the coldest day of the year to make my inaugural visit to Trader Joe's.
I get the fuss about Trader Joe's, especially if one's diet is restricted to prepared foods or snacks. You can get any manner of wonderful seasoned nuts or chocolate-dipped items, including but not limited to sunflower seeds. You can also find frozen meals in bulk—lobster ravioli and other exotic pastas to name a few. But, the produce section is pathetic, and there's no meat counter. And, I think it would all be perfect for a student or if you were single. But, I don't think the chain's constituency is limited to students or singles. And, while it's fine to stop in for a special nibble—say for a party or to treat the office, which is what we do at Whole Foods—there's no way we could do our weekly shopping here.
The store was packed on a Saturday with cranky yuppies and grups, maybe because it was cold or impossible to find parking (this location has, seemingly, fewer than 50 spots). I also think the shopping experience is rancid because the store's shoppers are so very important and busy and they're all in a rush so they're always jostling past you, who are in the way. And, I'll likely never really get a bead on Joe's because I promised John I wouldn't insist we trek across the city to visit again. He might change his mind, though, after he tries the milk chocolate-dipped banana chips. The chocolate-covered pretzels were tasty enough (though not as good as Nestle's), but I can't stop eating the banana chips and I normally loathe banana chips, picking them out of granola and trail mixes when they deign to appear.
Once we arrived home, I spent the remainder of the afternoon cooking, blissfully. First I chopped the vegetables (celery, onions, carrots, garlic) and peeled the shrimp to make my own fish stock. When the vegetables and shrimp shells had browned in olive oil, I added white wine, water, tomato paste, and thyme sprigs, then simmered it all for an hour. As the mixture cooked, the flavors concentrated into an amazing crimson stock that looked, smelled, and tasted so much more substantial than the fish stock I've purchased from Coastal.
I set out a cutting board with Spanish cheeses—Mahon, drunken goat, Cabrales, and Manchego—and a log of saucisson sec, as well as a bottle of wine so that my "helpers" might fortify themselves while I prepped the ingredients for the fish stew. The recipe came from Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa. We've taken a lot of inspiration lately from her show and cookbooks this winter. She has converted a lot of traditional French dishes into uncomplicated, delicious recipes. We've made pork loin stuffed with fennel and onions; cauliflower gratin with gruyere; croque monsieur; and moules marinieres, to name a few.
This fish stew is a riff on bouillabaise. Diced potatoes, fennel, and onions were sauteed in olive oil for about 15 minutes; then saffron, two cups of good white wine (I happened to have an albarino in the fridge) and one quart of fish stock were added. After a short time, the fish went in. I used halibut and striped bass, as well as a pound of shrimp and 25 mussels, which then steamed for 15 minutes. Basically, in very little time we had this amazing, rich fish stew, which was a serious improvement over the one I made in June (from Nigel Slater's Appetites). Rather than a riesling or a rose, which more traditionally accompany fish stew, my wine guy at Thomas Liquor recommended an Italian red—Solane Santi Valpolicella Classico '04, which turned out to be an all-around good wine.
For dessert, we made chocolate fondue, which, for a few weeks, the kids had been requesting. Strawberries, bananas, excellent sweet pears, and pound cake all found their way into semi-sweet chocolate chips melted into organic half-and-half. Amazingly, Winston ate little fondue. Even dipped in chocolate, my youngest, and most adventurous eater, will not let fruit pass his lips.
Needless to say, I fell asleep watching TV afterward.
After an hour with the DU crowd we headed to Fuddrucker's for large, impeccably cooked burgers. Seriously. I don't know how they maintain the "quality" control with the volume of cooking the kitchen does on a Friday night, but the burgers really are better than those served by many more upscale joints.
Saturday: The temperature was prohibitively cold. Reports vary, but it's safe to say that windchill was involved and that temps hovered around zero, at best. Instead of taking the boys to ski school, I made a big breakfast: Dorothy's grits souffle with lots of butter and cheese. John doctored up some thick-cut, hickory smoked bacon with a brown sugar/cayenne/black pepper concoction, which we then baked. And, since we had a bottle of sparkling wine kicking around from New Year's Eve, we enjoyed mimosas.
After breakfast, my mother and I braved the elements to do some shopping. First stop: The Bead Monkey where my mother scoured the store for unique beads (she has the singular goal of making a necklace to go with each of the outfits in her wardrobe). She treated me to a pendant crafted from a square piece of quartz with striations in purple, smoky brown, and clear. It's beautiful, and initially I thought I'd hang it from a black leather cord, but now I'm thinking I might also pick up a length of sheer brown ribbon for a more ethereal look.
Next stop: Coastal Seafoods, where I had a fishmonger help me select fishes for the evening's Mediterranean stew. And, I received a special treat. After inquiring about a particular fish—wahoo—the fishmonger asked if I liked raw fish, then gave me a sliver of this buttery fish from the tuna family, which pretty much melted in my mouth.
Then, we picked up Grandpa Ron, John, and the little boys and convoyed to Lakeville where we visited brother Nik. He was souping up a stock motorcycle and wanted to show it off to us. It's pretty awesome to see my baby brother happy and proud in his element. Finally, we drove from Lakeville to St. Louis Park—covering the far reaches of the Twin Cities in one fell swoop, on the coldest day of the year to make my inaugural visit to Trader Joe's.
I get the fuss about Trader Joe's, especially if one's diet is restricted to prepared foods or snacks. You can get any manner of wonderful seasoned nuts or chocolate-dipped items, including but not limited to sunflower seeds. You can also find frozen meals in bulk—lobster ravioli and other exotic pastas to name a few. But, the produce section is pathetic, and there's no meat counter. And, I think it would all be perfect for a student or if you were single. But, I don't think the chain's constituency is limited to students or singles. And, while it's fine to stop in for a special nibble—say for a party or to treat the office, which is what we do at Whole Foods—there's no way we could do our weekly shopping here.
The store was packed on a Saturday with cranky yuppies and grups, maybe because it was cold or impossible to find parking (this location has, seemingly, fewer than 50 spots). I also think the shopping experience is rancid because the store's shoppers are so very important and busy and they're all in a rush so they're always jostling past you, who are in the way. And, I'll likely never really get a bead on Joe's because I promised John I wouldn't insist we trek across the city to visit again. He might change his mind, though, after he tries the milk chocolate-dipped banana chips. The chocolate-covered pretzels were tasty enough (though not as good as Nestle's), but I can't stop eating the banana chips and I normally loathe banana chips, picking them out of granola and trail mixes when they deign to appear.
Once we arrived home, I spent the remainder of the afternoon cooking, blissfully. First I chopped the vegetables (celery, onions, carrots, garlic) and peeled the shrimp to make my own fish stock. When the vegetables and shrimp shells had browned in olive oil, I added white wine, water, tomato paste, and thyme sprigs, then simmered it all for an hour. As the mixture cooked, the flavors concentrated into an amazing crimson stock that looked, smelled, and tasted so much more substantial than the fish stock I've purchased from Coastal.
I set out a cutting board with Spanish cheeses—Mahon, drunken goat, Cabrales, and Manchego—and a log of saucisson sec, as well as a bottle of wine so that my "helpers" might fortify themselves while I prepped the ingredients for the fish stew. The recipe came from Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa. We've taken a lot of inspiration lately from her show and cookbooks this winter. She has converted a lot of traditional French dishes into uncomplicated, delicious recipes. We've made pork loin stuffed with fennel and onions; cauliflower gratin with gruyere; croque monsieur; and moules marinieres, to name a few.
This fish stew is a riff on bouillabaise. Diced potatoes, fennel, and onions were sauteed in olive oil for about 15 minutes; then saffron, two cups of good white wine (I happened to have an albarino in the fridge) and one quart of fish stock were added. After a short time, the fish went in. I used halibut and striped bass, as well as a pound of shrimp and 25 mussels, which then steamed for 15 minutes. Basically, in very little time we had this amazing, rich fish stew, which was a serious improvement over the one I made in June (from Nigel Slater's Appetites). Rather than a riesling or a rose, which more traditionally accompany fish stew, my wine guy at Thomas Liquor recommended an Italian red—Solane Santi Valpolicella Classico '04, which turned out to be an all-around good wine.
For dessert, we made chocolate fondue, which, for a few weeks, the kids had been requesting. Strawberries, bananas, excellent sweet pears, and pound cake all found their way into semi-sweet chocolate chips melted into organic half-and-half. Amazingly, Winston ate little fondue. Even dipped in chocolate, my youngest, and most adventurous eater, will not let fruit pass his lips.
Needless to say, I fell asleep watching TV afterward.
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