​Asparagus in Vinaigrette
2 ½ pounds thin, tender fresh asparagus
2/3 cup olive oil
½ cup white wine vinegar
½ tsp. Dijon mustard
½ tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 – 2 Tbsp. minced shallot
1 – 2 Tbsp. minced garlic chives
 
Wash and trim asparagus, then steam over boiling water just until tender (about 10 minutes). Drain, rinse with cold water, and drain again.  Arrange in a glass dish.
Whisk remaining ingredients in a small bowl, and pour over asparagus. Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or up to 1 week.
 
Makes 8 servings.

Lemon-soy Carrots
4 carrots, peeled and sliced into rounds
¾ cup soy sauce
4 lemons, juiced
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
2 Tbsp. olive oil
 
Gently boil carrots for 2 to 3 minutes.  Immerse in cold water.  Drain.
 
Combine remaining ingredients.  Pour sauce over carrots and refrigerate in a large covered container.  Carrots will keep for 10 to 14 days.

Cumin-Spiced Pumpkin Seeds
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3/4 cup shelled raw pumpkin seeds (pepitas)
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
Kosher salt
 
Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add pumpkin seeds and toast, shaking pan often, until seeds are brown, about 4 minutes. Add cumin seeds, then gradually add sugar, then lime juice, tossing constantly to coat seeds with melted sugar and juice. Transfer pumpkin seed mixture to a foil-lined baking sheet; spread out and let cool. Season with salt.

Fusilli with Lemon Pesto Sauce
2 cups fresh basil leaves (1 ounce), rinsed, patted dry, chopped
4 tsp. sesame oil
6 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
¼ cup gluten-free soy sauce
2 tsp. finely chopped fresh ginger
2 tsp. sugar
10 oz. fusilli (corkscrew), or some type of gluten-free pasta
 
In a blender, combine basil with oil. Blend until puréed. With blender running, add remaining ingredients, except pasta, and blend until smooth.
 
Following package instructions, cook fusilli; drain well. Pour sauce over hot pasta; toss to mix. For picnics, tastes best at room temperature.
 
Makes 8 servings

Vegan Meringues
Liquid from one 15-ounce can of chickpeas (about ¾ cup)
¾ cup granulated sugar
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
Pinch of cream of tartar
Dribbles of beet juice
 
Heat the oven to 250°F and line one or more baking sheets with parchment paper. Pour the chickpea liquid (aquafaba) into the bowl of a stand mixer and beat with the whisk attachment until stiff peaks form, about 15 minutes. Gradually beat in the sugar and cream of tartar, then the vanilla and dribbles of beet juice until it reaches a pink tinge you like.
 
Scoop or pipe the aquafaba mixture into mounds onto the baking sheet(s) and bake for 90 minutes. (The meringues will be hard to the touch.) Let meringues cool on the baking sheet for 10 minutes, then serve. (Meringues can be stored in an airtight container for up to three days.)
 
Yield: 30 to 35 meringues
Time: About 2 hours, almost entirely unattended

​

​ 
While preparing the following dish I felt like a medieval sorceress conjuring a different physical sensation with each step. The Mushroom Essence was simmering away for hours, tantalizing earthy steam heavy on the garlic clearing the sinuses. When the shallot, garlic, white wine, and garlic chives (plucked from my herb pot on the back porch while cackling with joy – Harbingers of Spring!) were cooking-down, mouths were watering uncontrollably. While the Portobello mushrooms roasted, slick with olive oil and garlic, stomachs were growling, cheeks were flushing with heat, and anticipation. 

​
​My attention was brought recently to my Café Flora cookbook (where this recipe hails from, with a couple minor variations) sitting on the shelf demurely in its sort-of lonely vegetarian slot. This restaurant has been serving up creative and delicious vegetarian and vegan dishes since 1991, and is not only renowned in Seattle, but the entire US! They’ve got an eco-conscious philosophy from the organic, local menu to the building itself, using reclaimed wood from local farms and soy-based stains on the floors. If you’re in the area go there. Meat-eater or not it will delight you. If you don’t or can’t go, and like a beefy-tasting-yet-vegetarian sandwich, make this. Dip a corner into the steaming magical mushroom concoction, roll your eyes upward and grin. Spring is on its way.

​Starting on January 1st each year I transform into an annoying organizational fiend, whisking all traces of Christmas away into the basement storage area (or, as is more often the case, supervising less-clumsy and much taller husband of said whisking — I like to do the cleaning afterward) where they will lie dormant until next December. Then my eyes rove around the house looking for something that might be improved, say the pantry that could really benefit from some faux-brick on one wall and a purge of seldom-used appliances. Or the ‘recipe bench’ which is one section of our chaparral table seating bench where I’ve stuffed cut-out and original hand-written recipes for years and is wasting away of neglect and begging a muffled-paper plea to be transferred into a computer file for much easier access.
 
On this rainy January day I have swaddled myself in sweats and my husband’s polar-fleece pullover, and have come up with a dinner plan that does not involve going out into the chill damp to grocery shop, but only padding in my socks over to same-said sans faux-brick pantry mentioned above. Unfortunately the recipe I have in mind had to be unearthed from that messy bench, with only the clue of remembrance; I knew I was looking for a 3x3-inch purple Post-it note written in my hand with a, perhaps magical, silver-inked pen. I scrawled it down some years ago after eating a wonderful black bean soup in a local upscale Mexican-style restaurant. From the menu description, and a highly-developed sense of taste and smell, (my heretofore unacknowledged superhero power), I ciphered out the ingredients, and worked out an acceptably similar homemade version.
 
I did not have jalapeños in-house for the mild mouth-tingling bite of pleasurable heat, so used freshly grated ginger, instead, for a new variation. Enjoy!

Black Bean Coconut Soup
1 cup onion, chopped
1 ½ Tbsp. olive oil
1 small green jalapeño, seeded and finely chopped
1 small red jalapeño, seeded and finely chopped
3 large garlic cloves, minced
2 15-oz. cans black beans, drained
1 15-oz. can coconut milk
1 cup or so of water
​Vegetable bouillon, for seasoning
 
In a large, heavy saucepan, heat olive oil over medium heat and sauté onions until softened. Add jalapeño and garlic, stirring for a minute.

Add beans,  coconut milk and water to cover beans, and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce heat and cover partially. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until flavors are melded — about 20 minutes.

Using an immersion blender, puree the soup either until smooth, or about half-way so you get some nice chunks of texture. (If using a traditional blender, puree in two batches.) Thin with additional water, if desired. Stir in veggie bouillon to taste.

Ladle soup into bowl, and garnish with chopped cilantro (optional).

Serves about 2.
 

I was going to be in the neighborhood, so it was with great excitement that I made the trip to the current cat craze coffeehouse, the first in Seattle, nay, Washington State, the Meowtropolitan Cat Cafe. (As the name suggests, the venue itself is begging for puns, so pardon my jumping in on the pun fun.) I envisioned having a leisure cuppa while being charmed by alternately lazy or playful cats of all colors and sizes, endorphins oozing out of my pores. I’d read the articles and hype leading up to the opening recently, and was surprised to see it required reservations. Now they are open and their website is up, I understand the rationale  – only 10 people at a time are allowed into the separate cat lounge to interact so they don’t get over-stimulated. The website suggests placing reservations two weeks in advance, and the $10 cover charge includes a drink and 50 minutes of feline fun time. The cats wear g-strings so you can stuff in a tip when they are particularly cute. (Okay, that’s a total lie.)

​The cat area is nicely done, a glorious cat haven, with high ceilings, scratching posts, wooden cubicles lined in burlap they can chill in, ramps and high spots to climb nearly out of petting reach, and a bridge I kept hoping one would venture across, but alas, was not meant for my peeking eyes. After sanitizing your hands in a double-door area between the café and the cat zone you can bring in your beverage and torment the kitties with feathers on sticks and pet to your furry heart’s content – if they deem you worthy of their attention. Unless you rub yourself with catnip before you go in, (oh my, isn’t that a brilliant idea that has the potential to go horribly awry!) I would say you should keep your expectations low. They are cats, after all. They sleep two-thirds of the day, and there are nine other people in their room vying for their blessed attention all day long.

​

​Of course you can also walk in simply for coffee and pastries; they have some adorable trendy cat-faced macarons, that were frankly too cute to eat. I had a “Death by Turtle” bar, which I managed to survive. They offer your usual beverage choices – including a “catpuccino” plus a mocha cleverly named the “meowca,” which looks good in writing, but when the barista called it out everyone shared the same perplexed expression trying to cipher out what he was actually saying. Like, sorry dude, I don’t speak that jive cat language! I had my 8-ounce latte in a porcelain cup on a saucer, which gets a thumbs-up in my book, though when I placed my order after several scrambled minutes of waiting  – in a jagged queue that wasn’t designated as either an order or pick-up line – I wasn’t asked my choice of “here or to-go?” and noticed every other customer had the sadly universal wasteful paper cup. (Come on, Seattle! Haven’t you got with the program yet?!) Seating consists of a few rustic wood tables and a bar top area at the counter as well as one with four stools at the window looking into the cats – the prized area for those of us too cheap to pay for cat time. There is also a full-length window next to the front door, two-people wide, which was usually occupied while I was there, so I spent most of my time head-bobbing back and forth to catch sight of the promised cats. Other than that, the best place to get your voyeur on is looking through the window from outside.

Considering they booked over 800 reservations in the first few days of opening, I suspect they’ll do well. They need to work some bugs out on the coffee front, but I imagine they’ll be successful at adopting cats out, and providing a feline-fix for those sad folks who don’t have the pleasure of a cat at home. My cat café curiosity is quenched. Meow I know. 
​

Part 3
I’m in a low-income psychiatric clinic waiting room today. It smells like smoke, wet coats, and hopelessness. It’s a sad indication of our current society that I’m thinking this would be the type of place someone would come in and start shooting. I spend a few minutes figuring out the best way to save the most people and stop the gunman, because I’m sorry but I couldn’t just let it happen. My 20-pound purse could possibly disarm him, and I know my MacBook could probably cause some damage. I dropped it on my lap last week and the starship-shaped bruise is still on my thigh. The woman sitting next to me looks normal enough, but she’s chewing her gum and I can hear her breathing, the teeth chomping away, her slurping up of the saliva squirting up out of her glands. I type harder and faster to counteract. Crazed Christmas music is playing – Trans Siberian Orchestra – and it’s making me tense. I overhear a patient saying she had to stop taking her medication because she was low on money, that she’d start taking it again at the beginning of the year, and I want to help, to pay for this month’s meds as a gift, but we’re low on money, too. The temperature is pleasant enough but the heating system has a high-pitched whine like someone relentlessly trying to start a car on a cold morning with no success. Whitney Houston has taken over the airwaves and she sounds crazed as well. Maybe it’s me. I’m wearing a sheepskin vest that’s quite cozy and bohemian looking, but I find it hard to get comfortable in these plastic chairs. It’s bringing back unpleasant flashbacks of parent-teacher conferences. The horrible whining has stopped; turns out it was someone’s car. I find it ironic that I have considerably relaxed when Mr. Grinch comes on. Am I a Grinch this year? A Scrooge? I’m just getting sapped being strong for others. I want to let myself be sad, but you just have to keep going on, don’t you? 

Part 2
​In the waiting room at the clinic again, fourth time in two weeks – I’m the driver. My health is fine except for a gnarly cold that has been producing Blue Ribbon-sized googies – like I could take these babies on tour. Step right up, ladies and gents, behold the amazing two-pound gunk! I’m sitting in the upstairs area, a few empty chairs well lit by windows, yet I can hear a vet on the phone downstairs who has a very clear, loud, frustrated voice that’s projecting up the stairwell, trying to illicit help from some type of legal authority by the sounds of it. I know he’s a vet, because he mentions it a lot, just in case we forget for a second. The entire time I’m there staff from the clinic attired in assorted ugly Christmas sweaters walk back and forth with decorations, crockpots streaming trails of tantalizing meat smells, salad bowls, trays of goodies, for their company party while this man accompanies the jingling bells of their festive jewelry and the parade of cross-eyed snowmen leering out at me from their sweaters with his complaining, berating, negative attitude, heavily sprinkled with “eviction.” I’m trying to feel empathy for the man, yet can’t help wondering how it feels to be on the other end of the phone – you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, dude – and how the staff party will be able to shrug off the heaviness of their jobs for a moment of lightness while the guy’s endless futile phone calls are being broadcast into their room while they bite into a bittersweet Christmas sugar cookie.

Part 1
A man steps into the waiting room filling the door with his frame, proceeds to take off his puffy green coat, followed by the ceremonious unwinding of a colorful fleece blanket from around his substantial girth, where it gets caught on his tonsured, sweaty head, his face broad and red-weathered, his eyes intelligent, though I’m trying not to make eye contact, because I don’t want to get drawn into his crazy, but then my interest is piqued when he starts mumbling poetry like Whitman, Kerouac, Morrison, sprinkled with lyrical flowing biblical references, and when a name is called “Christine is an angel” barely audible under his breath as he waits for the nurse to call him in for his appointment, only when she does comes out she tells him they can’t help him today, and he politely asks for a clean bandage and a pair of scissors, and gently schools her on how he does it and she nods, and says a few canned words that make it seem like she’s listening as she backs away, “a huh, a huh,” dismissing herself to get back to her other more important duties stepping backward cautiously and never returning  with a bandage, so the man struggles to lean over and pull up his pant leg, jeans folded up so 6 inches of pale denim are exposed, revealing worn tennis shoes too narrow for his feet, the shoe strings wrapped around and around the bottom and over the top of his foot, and grunts as he finds the end of the Scotch-taped Ace bandage, and breathlessly begs pardon from the two women sitting across from him, saying he would do this at home, but he doesn’t have one.

 
Every year after Thanksgiving it seems as though December pops up like a Jack-in-the-box, momentarily terrorizing me, and then making me laugh in embarrassment; I knew it was coming all along, but it still surprises me. Life has been challenging the last couple of weeks, and instead of embracing December, I feel like putting on some boxing gloves and pummeling that Jack-head until it rolls off its spring. Instead though, I shall grin and bear it, and cheerily share a recipe with you that would be a great host gift, one they can put aside and dig into the morning after the party, as is, or warmed.
 
This recipe comes from my James McNair cookbook collection, breakfast. I made it with cranberries to get into that holiday groove, and the tart pop of the warm berry bursting in your mouth balances the rich sweetness of the cake most pleasantly. I also have to note that any recipe that has the instruction to “lightly beat” or “crush” or “smash” is always an extra point in its favor with me. If you’ve ever wondered what that means, simply loosen your grip on the implement of the moment, whether it be a fork, whisk, back of your chef’s knife or pestle, rock your head back and forth and sing “la la la.”  Light of hand, light of heart.

Upside-Down Breakfast Cake
11/2 cup (1 stick) plus 2 Tbsp. unsalted butter,
at room temperature
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2 ½ cups fresh blueberries, blackberries, or cranberries
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 ½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
¾ cup sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature, lightly beaten
¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice,
or ½ cup freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbsp. grated or minced fresh lemon zest,
or 2 Tbsp. grated or minced fresh orange zest
(If you use blueberries or blackberries,
add lemon juice and zest;
if cranberries, use the orange juice and zest.)
½ tsp. pure vanilla extract
1/3 cup milk (not nonfat), at room temperature
 
Preheat an oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter a 9-inch round cake pan (or 8x8-inch square), and set aside.

In a bowl, combine 2 tablespoons of the butter and the brown sugar and mix well. Spread the mixture evenly in the bottom of the prepared pan. Spread the berries evenly over the mixture and set aside.
 
Place the flour, baking powder, and salt together into a sifter or fine sieve and sift onto a sheet of waxed paper or into a bowl. Set aside.
 
In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with a flat beater, or in a bowl using a hand mixer, beat the remaining ½ cup butter at medium speed until soft and creamy, about 45 seconds. With the mixer still running, slowly add the sugar, then stop the mixer and scrape the mixture that clings to the sides of the bowl into the center. Continue beating until very light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Slowly pour in the eggs and beat until smooth, about 2 minutes. Stir in the lemon or orange juice and zest and vanilla.
 
Using the mixer on low speed or a rubber spatula, fold in about half of the flour mixture, then the milk, and finally the remaining flour mixture.
 
Spoon the batter over the berries. Bake until the top is golden and a wooden skewer inserted in the center comes out clean, 50 – 55 minutes. Remove from the oven, run a knife around the inside edge of the pan, cover the cake with a serving plate, and invert the cake onto the plate, fruit side up. Cool slightly before serving warm.
 
Serves 8 -12.
 

After two-and-a-half Thanksgiving-type food gatherings I am left wondering: is December 1st the worst time of the year to start eating right and exercising again, or the best time? Will I be setting myself up for failure?
 
I’m overweight. I’m fighting genetic obesity, and a fierce love of food, and enjoy curling up and reading, or writing, sitting stationary for hours at a time, which is not conducive to anything near svelte. Every year starting with Halloween, (those little fun size Reese’s peanut butter cups and Butterfingers made by the devil himself, in particular), it’s one big food fest until the end of the year. There’s this sexy pagan god running around with an enticing platter of food I can’t resist and I follow him for a couple of months, grabbing whatever I can and stuffing it into my eager gob. And every year a little more weight decides to stick around. But right now, I want to pull on some sweats (for exercise, not cozy-pants comfort) and start hitting a punching bag marked with different areas I feel really happy about punching: fat, money, crazy world, sadness, frustration. 
 
This recent glutton-fest started with an entirely vegan and gluten-free dinner last Wednesday, with hummus, homemade gluten-free pita, (which was like a rich mochi cake, all gooey and not very pita-like, but served its scooping purpose well), green cilantro chutney, cucumber raita, Moroccan carrot salad, dolmas with chanterelles instead of meat and a spicy tahini dipping sauce. I made everything myself (with Joe saving my impatient patootie from the sticky pita dough just before I hurled the entire globby mess across the room, which would also have been unsuccessful as it was sticking to my hands making me look like a rice-flour covered zombie). Regardless of the starchy pitas, the meal was a success, filled with vibrant lemon, garlic and spices. When our guest bit into her first dolma she covered her mouth, closed her eyes in what looked like pain and emitted a low moan that increased in volume to a wail. I was worried she had bitten her tongue, and asked if she was all right, but it turned out to be a food-gasm. Now I know.
 
Thanksgiving itself consisted of the half-meal. I had one bite of turkey. It’s kind of complicated, but even when family is falling into a hole, I’m grateful that I can be there to lend a hand and a hug. Or give a hard loving push, depending on the situation.
 
Saturday we had what I christened Our Big Fat Italian Thanksgiving with my side of the family. Classic lasagna, fettuccine, panzanella salad, spinach salad, red wine, decadent desserts (recipes to follow in separate post when I’m not talking about how fat I am) —it was heavenly! And we’re not even Italian. I just wanted something other than turkey and potatoes. Cheese, that’s what I wanted, and it was delivered!
 
 My dad took my family out for breakfast the following morning for one last hoorah, (spellcheck suggested 'hookah' here, which I thought was very humorous...) and though I had resolved to select a simple, healthy meal, the bacon, tomato, avocado Benedict started batting her eyelashes on the menu at me in all it’s creamy, salty, saucy glory and I had to order it. To my credit I saved half of it for this morning’s breakfast, but walking out of the restaurant I waddled like a penguin to the car, tummy leading. The post-holiday walk of shame. When we got back to my parent’s house we stepped through the door into a cloud of lethargy, each retreating to a couch or chair and nodding off. I took myself back to my old bedroom, now an odd mixture of sewing-room and guest room, with only a couple of hints of my past existence – a smiley-faced candle, a cat candle with enormous eyes, a Japanese doll – and rolled my sausage body onto the bed. The trip home was a haze of sleepy.
 
So, determined not to go through the next month in a food stupor, I made a wellness appointment with my doctor for two weeks from now, so I have a little time to start taking my calcium supplement again, and exercise away my food sins. Wish me luck!
 
 

​​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…

​To me, the kitchen has always been the warm, throbbing heart of the home. It’s the first fuel-stop for the day, a place I can center myself cooking dinner after a work day, and on nights of insomnia sneak into under cover of darkness, lit only by the refrigerator light, for a solid bite of calm. How many times have you witnessed the Kitchen Migration phenomenon during a large gathering? You know, where everybody always ends up in the kitchen? It’s a buzzing hive of activity, and each bee has its duty: You’ve got your Doers there, your Helpers, and your Entertainers, and that one bee just wondering when the food will be ready, antennae lazily bobbing about, bottle cradled protectively against their chest looking for a bottle-opener.  

The kitchen doesn’t necessarily have to be all about the food, either. I remember dressing in front of an open oven door on chilly mornings in Florida, when I was four-years-old, turning around to warm every side of my little body equally, like a well-toasted marshmallow. And later in life, pulling all the pots and pans out of my mother-in-law’s cupboard so my toddler son could beat on them with a wooden spoon—instant entertainment center for a visiting child.

In her small house in Greenacres, Washington (at that time just as country as it sounds) my grandma lived in the kitchen, phone stretched from the wall, the receiver cradled at her neck yak yak yakking, while she vigorously peeled vegetables at the sink, stirred a bubbling pot at the stove, canned her garden’s bounty to be added to the rows of gleaming glass jars lining the basement walls, and baking pure and heavenly bread.  One snowy night on the slow and cautious drive home from her house, I sat in the back seat with a freshly baked loaf, snuggly wrapped in a tea towel. I was pleasantly drowsy, the bundle warming my lap, and the smell lured me into sliding off my mitten and fumbling my hand inside the towel until my knuckles thumped hollowly against the heel of the bread. I straightened my fingers and gently pushed through the crust, opening a steamy doorway that wafted out the tantalizing aroma of yeast, flour, and cozy kitchen. I closed my fingers around some of the bread and brought it up to my mouth – chewy, comforting, tasty goodness filled me to the core; fed my very soul. I went in for more. My soul was insatiable. Tunneling my way into the loaf, tearing off chunks from the sides, the top, scraping at the bottom with my nails, I filled my lungs with the earthy vapors, marveled at the warm, fluffy texture as I balled it into small Lori-fist-shaped pieces and chewed blissfully away. When we arrived home I brought in the swaddled shell of a loaf and placed it lightly on the counter. (In hindsight, I imagine this was a moment when it became apparent that my hungry soul had absolutely no willpower and was even kind of sneaky.)

As a young wife and mother, I carried on the tradition and made my own bread. It was economical, tasted great, and kneading was a pleasant, productive way to work out the stress that came along with those same roles of wife and mother, as well as being a student in college. Even during lean times the motions of making and baking bread filled the house with quiet contentment, which was picked up by my not-even two-year-old son, when one day he tiptoed into the kitchen to see a loaf cooling on the counter covered in a towel, and turned to me, finger to his lips, and whispered “Bread sleeping.”
​
It was during this time that my mother-in-law, always a steadfast encourager of all my creative endeavors, gave me a set of four clay baking tiles, and a clipping from a magazine on how to make pita bread. The flying saucer-shaped individual loaves turned out to be easy, and fun to make. Rolling little balls, and flattening them into discs, and watching them balloon in the oven was a simple and satisfying treat. When I came across the tiles in the pantry last week in a narrowly-dodged notion of reorganization, I was inspired to bake pita to go with our lentil soup. Have some flour, salt, yeast and water? Then you can do it, too. If you don’t have a mixer with a dough-hook, get your hands in there and knead for 10 minutes. It’s messier, but with a little flour on your nose, you’ll look like a bread-making warrior, and can punch and pull all your worries away for a little while. 

Pita Bread
1 Tbsp. yeast

1 ¼ cups warm water

1 tsp. salt

3 to 3 ½ cups flour
 
Dissolve yeast in warm, not hot, water in the bowl of a mixer until bubbly (about 5 minutes). Add salt and 1 ½ cups flour and with the dough hook, beat to make a batter. Add additional 1 ½ cups of flour until it's a rough, shaggy blob. Knead 8 minutes until dough is smooth and elastic. Add more flour if it is too sticky.
 
Turn dough onto a lightly-floured surface and divide into six pieces for standard-sized pitas. Roll dough into balls, then flatten with a rolling pin into even (this helps with future-puff), ¼-inch thick discs. Let rest on the floured surface 30-40 minutes until slightly puffy.
 
Preheat oven to 425F.
 With a large spatula, flip the rounds of dough upside down onto a baking sheet, (or pre-heated waiting-in-the-oven clay baking tiles). Bake 10-15 minutes until lightly golden and hopefully puffy. (Even if they don’t balloon you can split them open for stuffing use.)

(Recipe borrowed and adapted from this site, because I have no idea where that original magazine clipping is hiding...)