​​I’m tucked away in my office nook, mid-afternoon sunshine spilling in through the window, my copy of the cookbook, Molto Italiano, by Mario Batali at my elbow. Mario is staring at me out of the radiant orange cover, and I notice that wherever I move, his eyes follow me. He’s leaning on a monster-sized wheel of cheese, that’s producing some saliva in my cheeks. He looks friendly, and confident. He looks fun. He kind of looks like me. Separated at birth just a few days short of a year, Mario and I are a couple of gingers who love to cook, and have overcome I believe, at least for the most part, some anger issues.
 
Yesterday when I pulled this book off the shelf, and gathered my ingredients for the following chanterelle recipe  – yes! Chanterelles, those meaty exotic morsels that appear for a limited time here in the Pacific Northwest, gathered by an elite group of mushroom hunters that spread like ninjas across the forests – I entertained this Foodie fantasy of hanging out with Mario.
 
We’re working side by side in a kitchen preparing a simple Italian lunch, both of us in Chuck Taylor high-tops – his orange, mine black – a bottle of wine open on the counter, flipping each other shit, or bashing each other playfully with a well-seasoned frying pan. After lunch we hop on our scooters, racing each other to this little café that Mario tells me has the best espressos. As we sit at our table on the sidewalk in the sun, sipping coffee and talking food, books, and music, people walk by nodding at him, and acknowledging his food god presence, and I bask in the glory of being his sidekick for the day, one of the cool kids at last.

​Grilled Marinated Chanterelles
Funghi Marinati
 
¼ cup plus 3 Tbsp. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon (separated)
½ medium red onion thinly sliced
5 large yellow, red, or green Anaheim chilies,
stems, seeds, and ribs removed, cut into 1/8-inch-wide julienne,
4 cups wild greens, such as mizuna or field cress, washed and spun dry (or substitute baby spinach)
1 lb. chanterelles, brushed clean
1 Tbsp. freshly ground black pepper
Salt
 
Preheat the grill or broiler.
 
In a 10- to 12-inch sauté pan, heat ¼ cup of the olive oil over medium heat until hot. Add the lemon zest and onion and cook until the onion is soft and translucent. Add the chilies and sauté for 1 minute. Toss in the wild greens and lemon juice and remove from heat.
 
In a large bowl, toss the chanterelles with the remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil and the black pepper to thoroughly coat. Spread out on the grill rack (use a wire mesh rack if necessary so the mushrooms don’t fall through the grill grate) or on a baking sheet and grill or broil, turning often, for 8 to 10 minutes, until softened and lightly browned.
 
Add the chanterelles to the greens, place over high heat, and stir gently with tongs to wilt the greens. (I used spinach and found they wilted as soon as I threw them in with the onion and chilies, so this was irrelevant.) Season with salt, transfer to a serving bowl, and enjoy.
 
Makes 4 servings.
 
I served this with an entrée of plump pork medallions, which I topped with dollops of a sauce made of about ½ cup of gorgonzola, a tablespoon or so of butter, and two fat garlic cloves, chopped, and melted together for 30 seconds in the microwave.

Before the creation of Notes from Shorelandia, I got out my writing ya yas by posting overly long, most likely overly descriptive entries on Facebook. While my friends were all very appreciative, I felt guilty taking up their time with more than a picture, or couple of quick sentences, and have since moved on. Now they have the choice of if, and when, they want to continue to read.
 
Following are a couple of those entries from last year, as I think they aptly describe the beginning of a neighborly friendship here in Shorelandia:

-Nesting in the love seat, with the cat vying for space with my book on the pillow balanced on my belly, iPhone, water and Kleenex at arm's length, drowsily watching steam from the laundry vent dispersing into the gray, drizzly day outside the window, trying to decide if I should nap or forage for food, nap or forage, nap or forage? And there is a knock at the door. Blanket, book and cat fly off me and I stumble to open the door, rumpled and mussed in Joe's sweats and polar fleece, mouth-breathing all the while. "Tamales?" It's the enterprising Spanish-only speaking lady who lives down the street, holding out a cooler filled with steaming pollo y puerco tamales, and I buy two of each and I try to tell her  – Filomena is her name, hereafter known to me as Saint Filomena, Patroness of Tamales – I'm sick and yes I can get my own plate and my name is Lori, and I want to cry I love her so much, but all I can manage is a very sincere and heartfelt "gracias."
 
-Filomena, Patron Saint of Tamales has re-entered our lives! (Are there Matron Saints?) She has been noticeably absent for months, but with the return of the blessed rain, she appeared on our doorstep again tonight. I have successfully arranged to have nine tamales, in a mix of chicken and pork, delivered from her loving, skilled hands to our door tomorrow night. My mouth drools already in anticipation of that first bite through the steamy, smooth outer cornmeal layer to the spicy meat hidden within. I am saddened though, that neither one of us has improved our language skills enough to converse without our fingers waggling, and sweat appearing on our raised brows as we search desperately for the right Spanish/English word. I'm pretty sure I got the price, time, and quantity correct though, and that I thanked her properly, told her daughter she was beautiful and to have a good night. De nada, baby.

​Our relationship has progressed since then; I’ve given her some goodies of my own that I’ve made, (like Mexican wedding cakes and spicy chocolate cakes in the shape of sugar skulls for Dia de los Muertos) and she likes Joe’s homemade hard cider (sidra de alcohol). Hugs, smiles and good food go a long way to break the language barrier. She popped by today bearing a foil-wrapped platter laden with tamales, leaving a few behind for us even though our emergency tamale fund had not been replenished since last she was by, some time ago. (I never have cash in my wallet anymore, so try to keep a couple five dollar bills tucked in some books just in case of Filomena visits.) Mañana. I love the element of surprise in not knowing when she’ll show up – it’s an unexpected gift.
 
I don’t recall my mother ever making tamales for us when we were kids – I have my doubts whether the Navy Commissary carried corn husks – but I do remember her tamale casserole. Simple, hearty and filled with the spicy warmth of chili powder, which at the time probably seemed quite exotic to me. A couple days ago I wanted to make something with chicken, and looking for inspiration picked up one of a dozen James McNair cookbooks I have, Chicken. The man is awesome. His cookbooks are gorgeous, with plenty of photos of artfully styled food accompanying the recipes. (I forgot to take a picture of my finished dish, so have used the one from the cookbook below.) I don’t believe I’ve ever made a recipe from any of his cookbooks we haven’t raved about. Some I return to again and again. This recipe for Chicken Tamale Pie is going to be one of them.
 
Let me say that “pie” is a fancy word here for casserole. (James McNair says that he got the recipe from a friend of his who entertained Richard Nixon during the early days of his political career in California, calling it President’s Pie, as it was one of his favorites.) McNair added the cheese, and I added a couple of chipotle chilies from a can I’ve had sitting in the fridge for a while. If you don’t have a Patron Saint of Tamales in your neighborhood, and are too (lazy) busy to make your own, this is an excellent alternative. 

Chicken Tamale Pie
4 cups chopped fresh tomatoes,
or 1 can (28 oz.) Italian-style plum tomatoes, with their juices
1 can (16 oz.) cream-style corn
3 – 4 tsp. salt
1 medium-sized onion, chopped
½ cup olive oil
1 ½ Tbsp. chili powder, or to taste
(and/or 1-2 canned chipotles chilies with sauce)
1 cup milk
½ cup yellow cornmeal
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup pitted ripe olives
2 cups coarsely chopped, cooked chicken
1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese, mixed with
1 cup shredded sharp Cheddar cheese
Olive oil for drizzling
 
Combine tomatoes, corn, salt, onion, olive oil and chili powder in a large saucepan and cook over medium heat for 15 minutes.
 
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
 
In a mixing bowl, stir together the milk, cornmeal, and eggs; add to the tomato mixture and cook, stirring constantly to prevent scorching, until thick, about 15 minutes.  Remove from heat and stir in the olives and chicken.
 
Pour mixture into a lightly greased shallow ovenproof dish. Top with the cheeses, drizzle with oil, and bake until the pie is firm and the cheese is crusty, 35 – 45 minutes. Serve piping hot.
 
Serves 6.

​When I was a kid, Veterans Day was a mix of somber acknowledgment and celebration, filled with parades and accolades. Growing up as a Navy Brat it was more than a day off of school, when the banks were closed and the mail didn’t arrive. More than the purchase of a red paper poppy from the increasingly older folks wearing Navy blue aircraft carrier ball-caps and a smile stationed at little tables outside your grocery store. On one military base where we lived, it was climbing up onto a gigantic amphibious vehicle with the aid of a strong man in green along with hordes of other wriggling kids for a ride around the base, flags waving at every light post. Gathering at the football stadium to watch the Marine color guard in full dress uniform bearing flags, swords at their hips, the only sound the solemn click, click, click of the drummer keeping pace behind them.  When the flags were in place the band would march out, again, all in full dress uniform, instruments and spotless white gloves shining in the tropical sun, John Philip Sousa blasting its way into the very core of our beings, filling us with pride and strength, excitement.
 
When my father was stationed in Vietnam I was in first and second grades, with probably not much of a clue as to what was going on, except for maybe a nagging feeling of fear for my father, angst at his absence, resulting in a lot of drama from a certain spoiled 7-year old Daddy’s girl.  With shame, I remember how I would howl with pain at missing him, crawl into my mom’s bed, (where apparently I kicked her in my sleep,) in retrospect feeling awful that I was so selfish and unable to imagine what my poor mother was feeling. We’d get letters from him and he’d tell me he’d give me a dollar for every A I got on my report cards, (I opened my first bank account with those dollars), to be a good girl for my mom, and to remember to brush my teeth, because the little kids over there didn’t brush well enough and had black teeth! (Something like that you remember 45 years later, I tell you!) At Christmas he sent silk pajamas for us all, my mom looking sexy and statuesque in the Vietnamese styling.  Mine were pink and shiny, with a luxurious foreign feeling to them. To this day whenever my father starts to tell us a tale from back then, I sit enthralled and filled with wonder. Just by chance, he helped a woman deliver a baby in the shanties of Saigon.  He went off on some secret mission that he wasn’t really supposed to be on, bringing back a Soviet rifle as a souvenir. He was living in a hotel that was bombed.  And he wasn’t even a soldier—he was a behind-the-scenes man. I can’t even conceive the things he doesn’t tell us.
 
So, on this day, Veterans Day, I thank my father, my brother and brother-in-law, and all the other fathers, mothers, brothers, sister, sons and daughters who have served and are serving our country, whether by choice or not.  Wartime or peacetime, I am grateful for your presence.  From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

The phone pulls me out of a dream, and I fumble around, limbs and hair everywhere, extricating myself from flannel sheets and feline, yanking out my earplugs (apparently not adequate enough to drown out my full volume ring tone of “What is love? Baby don’t hurt me…”) and locate the source of interruption. I throw myself onto the mobile grenade to silence it – company is sleeping in the other room. I tap something green to answer: “slllllgggghhhello?” Dead pause as I slurp on my night guard, then take it out. “Hello?”
 
“Hi, this is Dan from blah blah blah. This call is recorded for….”
 
“This is not a good time,” I say. “To call.” Somehow I feel it needs clarification. Thirty seconds ago was a really great time, all warm and DEAD ASLEEP in my bed, thank you very much.
 
“Okay. I’ll call back at a better time.”
 
I hang up and wonder how he’ll know when a better time will be. (My recent call log tells me 2:17 PM was a better time for Dan.)
 
I’ve been getting a lot of these calls lately, from unknown numbers, and a flood of emails of biblical proportion. I know it’s my fault. In a curious, and I must say in my own defense, frugal state of mind, in the Spirit of Saving Money, I clicked on one of those ads proclaiming if I just answered a couple of questions I could get free samples mailed to me, and choose the products I want to try. I start answering the first survey, and about halfway through, realize this is all a terrible mistake and try to back out. But somewhere along the line I gave them my email and phone number. (Did I just hear a huge collective intake of breath and No, Lori, no!?) The Hell Gate has been opened and all the call center demons are on my tail.
 
I get a call the next day, from Jerome, who is really friendly, and maybe I’m well-rested and in a Polly Anna mood, because I talk to him a minute because he wants to send me some free money-saving coupons, $300 worth, and yadda yadda yadda, $19.95, yadda yadda yadda, magazines. 
 
I stop him.  “Magazines?  We stopped all our subscriptions a couple years ago...we just had too many to deal with…everything’s on the Internet.”  He then pauses, then downgrades me to “up to $100 worth of coupons” (I feel like I’ve just lost $200) and to hang on so I can talk to his supervisor to verify. I talk to the supervisor, who says everything Jerome just did, blah blah blah, all sugar, no spice, and then I come to what senses I may have left, and tell her you, know, I’m really just not interested.
 
“Did Jerome not do a good job of telling you about our program?” She’s arching an evil brow on the other end of the line, eyes smoldering, whip twitching by her thigh, nostrils flaring as she sniffs out Jerome.
 
Oh, man, lady! I don’t want to get poor Jerome in trouble! Jerome was great, really, love the guy, want to hang out with him over beers and burgers, I just changed my mind somewhere between yadda yadda and blah blah blah.  I hang up quickly.

Over the last two weeks I’ve been dealing with my foolhardiness and unsubscribing to emails and deals (edeals? That should be a word, if it isn’t already). The demons have gone underground. I imagine the freebies and coupons are working for someone, and they’re saving tons of money, which is wonderful – no judgment here. I’m just a little worried about Jerome.

​A year and a half ago Joe and I attended a home-cured bacon workshop. While we were camping. At a nudist resort. I know, what are the odds? And to ease your mind, to push out all those disturbing pictures that just popped up in your head, or health concerns about hairnets and such, I was fully clothed as a Steampunk cowgirl and Joe was a sort of tribal creature, with a Mohawk made of crow feathers. (He might not have been wearing a shirt, but a fringed leather vest. But that’s okay, he was mostly just watching.)  I, however, jumped right in helping to mix the cure with my bare hands, and rubbing those pork bellies with a passion. When the workshop was over we had a couple pounds of pork each in plastic zip-locked gallon bags, which we placed in our cooler for the next few days. A week later when we were back home, Joe smoked it, we cooked some up and we were hooked! Once you’ve home-cured your own, you won’t want to go back to store-bought. Any recipe you make that has bacon involved goes to an entirely new level when you use your own home-cured bacon. Trust me.

Don, the host and teacher of our workshop, is now our good friend, and local All Things Meat guru. He’s a big man, with a bigger heart, full of life and a passion for food – my kind of people. For those who don’t have a local source, check out Michael Ruhlman. The following recipe is adapted from his, with a little of my own spin. The first batch we made on our own ended up being too salty (it will happen, I’m told), but mostly because I didn’t measure properly, and used too much cure for the meat. An ounce per pound is a good rule to follow.
​
If you do end up with super salty bacon on your hands, don’t waste it – improvise! I salvaged ours by chopping up the cooked bacon and creating a new recipe: Bacon Basil Salsa. It’s a sanctified salsa sensation in your mouth. Once you take a bite you’ll be doing the Happy Dance in your seat. If you have home-grown tomatoes, onions and basil, it’s even better. If you make your own Cotija, let me know. You would rock my world if you showed me how. 

Home-Cured Bacon
(Makes 5 oz. of cure)
​
¼ cup (2 oz.) coarse kosher salt
2 tsp. pink curing salt #1
4 Tbsp. *coarsely ground black pepper
4 bay leaves, crumbled
1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 cup brown sugar or honey or maple syrup
5 cloves of garlic, smashed with the flat side of a chef’s knife
2 Tbsp. juniper berries, lightly crushed (optional)
5 to 10 sprigs fresh thyme (optional)
 
5 pounds pork belly, skin off
(I like to cut into five 1-lb. pieces for more cure-to-surface action)
2-gallon, or 1-gallon zip-top bags if you don’t have a container big enough to hold the belly(ies).
 
Mix salt and spices together.
 
Put your pork in the zip-top bag(s) or on a sheet tray or in a plastic container.  Rub the salt and spice mixture all over the belly.  Close the bag or cover it with plastic wrap, and stick it in the refrigerator for seven days (get your hands in there and give the spices another good rubbing around midway through, or if you’re really hands-on, flip it and rub every day).
 
After seven days, take the pork out of the fridge, rinse off all the seasonings under cold water and pat dry. Put meat on a rack on a sheet tray and place in a 200 degrees F oven. Leave it in the oven for 90 minutes (or, if you want to measure the internal temperature, until it reaches 150 degrees F). If you have a smoker, by all means smoke it!
 
Let it cool and refrigerate until you’re ready to cook it. (It’s easier to slice after it’s been refrigerated.)
 
*If you have a battery-operated pepper mill, or a coffee bean grinder you use for spices, by all means use it for the pepper! Manually grinding those peppercorns will (seemingly) take forever. And tire-out your wrists and forearms like you’ve been wringing chicken necks all day. Not that I know, but I can certainly imagine. 

Bacon Basil Salsa
Tomatoes, preferably homegrown (say 2-3)
Basil (about a cup, chopped)
Onion (half a large one)
Home-cured bacon (to taste)
Cotija cheese (3-4 oz., crumbled)
 
Chop, mix, devour.
As you can see, quantities are flexible…