GourmandeMom™

Considering Valentine's Day

I have been thinking much these past few days on Valentine's Day: specifically, the fact that the romantic dinner is so the thing to do on Valentine's Day with a Significant Other a/k/a boyfriend or girlfriend, and the angst that this ritual can pose to the outsiders, those in a rut of singlehood, and to even the most seemingly successful, together, and hip of single women.  The day is just a big in-your-face reminder that, yes, you're on your own - go get your own flowers and artisanal chocolate - and you're, yes, in a state of being that is contrary to the societal inclinations toward considering "normal" as the couple and not the Table for One person.  

(Spread at Mollie's Annual Pink Tea)

For many years, this holiday, or whatever it is, conjured up for me about the same level of warm fuzzies as do memories of P.E. class at my small Catholic grade school and my being inevitably among the last dregs of the class to be picked for whatever awesome team sport was on tap for that day.  (To this day just hearing "dodge ball" makes me flinch.)  

But this year is different.  I wonder what on earth I would actually want from a beloved Significant Other, if I had one, on such a day.  I realize I don't know.  If I don't know, I wonder how on earth a guy in this equation is supposed to know.  (As it seems to me, again from observation only, that it is typically the female in the equation that has the expectations about this day along the same lines as daydreams about the gorgeous trimmings of The Wedding Day and the Dress but not so much the realities of Marriage.)

I guess the ideal is that the SO would know you so well he could come up with something interesting.  [You know, in my case it would be easy. I could be surprised with, for example, an order of a case of a certain wine that I loved somewhere, sometime, and Tweeted about.  (Except I would perhaps note the fact it is wrong for an ordinary busy single mom to have so much red wine in her house at one time.)  Or I could be surprised with a certain outrageously decadent salted caramel chocolate bar over $10 at Antonelli's (wrapped up and presented very nicely of course), which I cannot bring myself to buy for myself but would not turn down if someone else showed up with it. (But for the fact it is Lent and that outrageously decadent chocolate at this price is a bad choice for a time of year when decadence avoidance is more the norm....See?  It's complicated.  Even for me thinking of my own appropriate token of thoughtfulness.)]  

But does one really want this forced thinking on what an appropriate sign of affection would be on this particular day just because everyone else, so it seems, is on that bandwagon?   Seems like one would gladly trade a bust on this one overcommercialized day for a healthy, fun relationship the 364 other days of the year.

One big problem I have these days, as 50 looms closer than I like to think (and I still haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up), is that because my food-centric life has recently been so, well, fulfilling in terms of going to great places and being with great people, that a non-spontaneous going out again for Valentine's Day almost sounds like a chore.  Indeed, it has been a fantastic food week already leading up to 14 February:

1)    Friends from Angers, France arrived to prep for the SxSW indie rock bands they are bringing for SxSW.  Had lunch with them at Second and their P.R. agent. I of course wanted to use this as an excuse of having wine with lunch.  (Only one other person joined me.)  And on Wednesday we visited with (1) Iliana de le Vega at El Naranjo - she truly is a lovely person in addition to being a spectacular cook - and (2) Valerie Broussard at the W Hotel, as a "forager" or scout of the best of the best produce for the restaurant, Trace, and so in touch with local produce, local farms, and game for future collaborations with our sister city Angers.  

2)    Had dinner with new or putative potential friends at Winflo Osteria who just wrote me here, on the blog, and thought it would be neat to get together with me for dinner.   Yes, that definitely counts as pretty dang awesome (though if Hugo (Desnoyer) wanted to track me down this way, sure, that may be a few degrees cooler in the cool things column).  

3)    Party-giver extraordinare neighbor had her annual Pink Tea on Saturday, and continues the streak with a small dinner party on Saturday.

(Mollie's Pink Tea spread...I'm not a sweets person really, but these cupcakes...not sure what she put in them.  Delish.)

3)    Gratitude is front and center this week:  I am grateful that after much away time the past few weeks, it just feels so right to be (mostly) at home and cooking (sort of) real meals for the son, whose smile on his face when I walk in the door from a long trip, despite his best efforts to hide it, he cannot suppress because it is so involuntarily genuine and spontaneous.  

In light of the blessings of friends and family, I wonder why we (i.e., some womenfolk) persist in thinking this one day is the barometer of our lives in general -- in terms of "success" or "failure," even though most of the single moms (mostly lawyers) I know do not have the energy left, if they were honest with themselves (which I am on this front), to even entertain the option of a relationship beyond a few dates. 

In short, I am looking forward to thoroughly enjoying Thursday evening at home, making something perhaps with my overload of turnips from my Greenling Local Box, drinking a lot of water given the wine and great food overload these past few days, making sure the son has finished his note cards for chemistry class, and - if I'm really lucky - I'll catch an NCIS marathon.

And I will have no one else to blame for what is this year, for me, the perfect Valentine's Day. 

 

Thanksgiving Recap: Splurging, Exploring, Finding - in San Angelo. And Now Cleansing.

(somewhere in Sonora, Texas; November 2012)

Thankgiving Day in San Angelo has come and gone.   The gravy war ended in a truce. Dad made two gravies:  gravy his style and gravy Cathy's style.  We also had two dressings: a cornbread one a la Paula Deen and mom's traditional New Orleans Oyster dressing.  We had two pies: the sugar-free diabetic version Pecan Pie, best pecan pie I have ever had - really - ; and, again with the Paula Deen, that extremely decadent Paula Deen pumpkin pie recipe I had been eyeing but just could not bring self to make.  Cream cheese AND half-and-half?!   Good thing mom made it.  My son had two slices.  With whip cream on top.  

We had two turkeys.  One roasted per the traditional method but with some tweaks because of course you've got to tweak the system aiming toward perfection (letting it rest a long time before carving and serving was key to best roasted turkey ever - that and the optimal size).  And another one smoked, by a friend of the family, who knew my parents would have plenty of people in the house and thought we needed more food.  They must not know my parents well.  But both turkeys were seriously the best ever.  No overdone-ness, anywhere.  No dryness.  Just moist and tender all over turkey meat.

There also was a small squirmish over red versus white wine.  Dad hates Bordeaux.  I don't like Cabernet Sauvignon as a pre-meal wine.  I pined for a Cotes du Rhone, and Dad let me break out a nice bottle of one he had nearby, before the French Chardonnay planned for the meal.  We made it through all of them.  

But because of the extensive "apertif" time before finally sitting down, we almost burned those Sister Schubert rolls placed in the oven at the last minute.  Cathy noticed their absence.  The rolls were rescued.  And we learned that a little extra time in the oven makes those ridiculously tasty carbs even better.  Builds up a little crust on that bottom of all that buttery tender crusty stuff.

And before that food day, there was finding out that my little home town of San Angelo is growing up.  It has great new restaurants.  Like blow me away good food restaurants.  Cork and Pig Tavern.  Friendly service but not consistent.  Not a huge deal as the food had some serious standouts: Deviled Eggs with Bacon; Roasted Pork Chop with Cinnamon Butter and Asian Cole Slaw with Peanuts.  And some type of broccoli that left me speechless in wonder.  This?  In San Angelo?  

And then there was the old-fashioned soda shop, Stango's Coffee Shop, with ice cream soda classics in a very well done, not overdone, nicely finished-out old building on South Chadbourne.  Added bonus: nice font styles on a graphically pleasing menu.  I had the "Black Cow":  chocolate syrup, root beer syrup, seltzer, vanilla ice cream.  

Again, all this...in San Angelo?  

(San Angelo Visitor Center, from the Concho River side)

(My favorite piece in the public art sculpture garden, in San Angelo's Sunken Garden Park on Abe Street)

Thanksgiving, though a major food and other types of consumption holiday, compels us to be thankful for the non-material things.  As we all get older, we are clearly more grateful to be together at all for the holidays.  Sharing bathrooms and arguing over whether the house is too hot or too cold are all part of the gratefulness package.  For me, that gratefulness comes in the form of loving the raucously rowdy holiday dinner table conversation with my family that makes my son laugh like I never see him laugh elsewhere.

Some people think me crazy for doing this as we drag our full, red wine-laden tummies (speaking for myself) into an intense holiday party time, but I started in on a 21-day "cleanse" to detox the year's indulgences.  On the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Today is Day 3.  

No caffeine.  No alcohol.  Supplements.  Nothing but protein shakes (to replace meals) in the first 11 days.  All the vegetables one could want (some better choices than others), and fats are ok. Grilling asparagus in butter (in moderation) and garlic is not too big of a sacrifice.   Looks like I may finally use that kale in the refrigerator after all.  Kale chips totally on the menu. 

As ugly as these early days are - cold turkey no Starbucks dark roast coffee is no picnic - I'm finding it's really just another way of making Thanksgiving last a little longer.  Less focus on the self.  More attention to conversations, not looking  around longingly for the waiter to get another glass of wine.  More really being with the people who make up the great food experiences of our lives. 

Tomorrow is Day 4.  Day 21 is December 15.  Not that I'm counting.  

Pensive mediations on food notwithstanding, I already know the first substance I will have on re-entry.  A glass of Cotes du Rhone.  Among friends.

 

 

 

Lessons in Swiss Chard / Onion Creek Kitchens at Juniper Hills Farm

(view from my Casita Roja, one of the cabins on site at Juniper HIlls Farm, over the fire pit and bocce court; the Casita Roja is the only one on a second floor and ergo these types of views)

As much as I love food -- food per se, and food as a family and friends event, and food as source of nostalgia and general warm fuzzies -- I am not all that super creative or gregarious when it comes to cooking at home.  It is just the son and I, and there are only so many hours in the day with work and momhood.  I have purchased so much kale, with the best of intentions but that I have never used, it only pushes me deeper into my child-rearing-related food guilt.

(view from my Casita Roja looking down on another nearby casita; yes there are "cabins" to rent on the property; really, really recommend this)

So along with the shocking food facts and revelations about me that I do not like olives or oysters, it may come as no surprise that I'm a little late to the party when it comes to greens.  And swiss chard in particular.  

At the Fall Menu cooking "class" this weekend at Onion Creek Kitchens at the oh-so-very charming rustically scenic Juniper Hills Farm out near Dripping Springs, the list of dishes looked daunting:  

But we should have known, from the last visit there, that Sibby the cook/owner runs a tight ship in terms of timing, resources, dish-washing, and keeping (some) increasingly tipsy guest cooks from falling behind on the job.  

Forgot to set that iPhone timer for toasting those almonds in the convection oven?  Not to worry - someone magically appeared just in time to take them out and leave them on one of many stainless steel prep areas for you.  Going a little slow on the making the sliver in the 2 dozen large dried figs to insert the gorgonzola/goat cheese mixture topped with pecan then wrapped in strips of prosciutto?  Sibby appears and diplomatically offers up some tips to show you a more, ahem, efficient way of getting that important appetizer dish done in time.

It's not really a "cooking class," but you will learn some great new recipes and great prepping and cooking tips from consummate hostess and cook Sibby.  This night we were divided into two "teams," with each team executing the same menu.  Then individuals on each team decide on what they want to make.

We are not ones to stand idly by while others pondered what to make.  Mollie grabbed fast and grabbed well.  Recipes I mean.  She scored the Rosemary Almond Crackers recipe (does not nearly describe how delicious these delicate "crackers" are, infused with rosemary-rubbed sugar and shortbread-esque texture for the finished product). She also scored the swiss chard recipe that I had been eyeing:  "Swiss Chard with Creme Fraiche."  What's not to love about eating a good-for-you vegetable with creme fraiche.  Easy to make. Gorgeous to look at. It screams Christmas.

Start with 1.5 pounds of swiss chard that someone has already washed for you. 

Start tearing the leafy part off of the stems and ribs.  I loved this part.  I was a little more meticulous than Mollie...ahem...did it matter in the end?  Of course not.  A rib with a little leaf (or a lot) does not matter at all.

Off they go to boiling water.  The chopped ribs and stems first (4 minutes).

Then the leaves (2 minutes).  Drain.   Cool.  Squeeze out water. 

Heat oil in pan.  Add the well-drained swiss chard, which won't look like much at all by now after squeezing as much liquid as possible out of them.  Add globs of creme fraiche.  Add salt.  Add pepper.

Done.

Set it to rest and/or keep warm until the rest of the meal is done and it is time to serve yourself up a plate.  

In the meantime, enjoy lovely red wine - thank goodness Mollie brought some La Crema Pinot Noir along - and enjoy meeting lots of great new people (can't wait to try the wine bar in Bulverde we learned about!) while others continue to slave away in the kitchen.

Eat.  Drink more.  Vow to wake up early and swim the next morning at the lovely pool on the property near the "cabins" (assuming you are staying overnight).  

Or just look at the pool while walking around the cabins the next morning while drinking coffee made in your Casita.  Which is what I did.

I am back in Austin now after this soul-satisfying getaway.  And I am thankful, again, for friends who get me out and about and out of work mode.  I brought my laptop there to work, but I never even glanced at it.  (Tip: Don't bring the laptop.)  

I get back to Austin only to learn a dear, dear friend will have a portion of her lung removed on Thursday.  Even if not cancer, the lung has to go.  She will be in the hospital for a week.

More deep breathing and more living - without the laptop - are definitely the life lessons from this weekend.  

Sunday Night Supper a/k/a Leftover Night in Paris - not your ordinary leftovers

For my last night in Paris, a Sunday, friend Maureen had wanted to treat me to a cocktail at the Plaza Athenee, which any other time would have sounded fantastic. But on this exhausting trip, and on this last night staying with a family in their large, elegant home tucked between the Quai de Montebello and the Boulevard St. Germain, what sounded fantastic to my tired self was the Sunday night dinner invitation the family had extended to me.  

Don't expect anything fancy, Anne (the multi-lingual matriarch of la Maison d'Anne) warned.  It is Sunday after all :  Sundays are very simple she said.  We'll have "une salade, des tomates...."  That sounded good to me, with my jeans almost too tight now from too much foie gras and three too many attempts (three attempts) to find the quintessential tarte tatin.  

So instead of the Plaza Athenee, friend Maureen joined me for one last glass of wine sitting on the family's terrace, crowded with potted succulents and ivy, overlooking Notre Dame.  Night fell.  Then it was time to tell Maureen good-bye. She would go to her favorite cafe down the street over on the Ile St. Louis.  I would go start packing.

At last, it is dinner time on the 4th floor.

In the kitchen there is much activity despite the alleged simplicity of this simple spread for dinner.   Anne announces what there is spread out, making herself heard over the din of her sons and her husband watching the soccer match between Paris and Marseille.  This was no ordinary leftover night.  

• Blanquette de Veau (classic French dish: veal stew; this Food and Wine recipe may be the one I try...someday)
• A dish - something like a parmentier - made with "marcassins" - which I figured out had something to do with a sanglier (boar) - and indeed it is a young (baby) wild boar.  One of the girl's boyfriend's father had shot one, and they (Anne) had made this nice casserole type dish.  Think Shepherd's Pie.  Such as this recipe here.
• Soupe de courgettes (zucchini)
• Soupe de potiron (a/k/a soupe au potiron) (pumpkin)

I had already been given the royal treatment Thursday night at dinner.  Anne tells me on this night, leftover night, to take whatever I feel like and re-heat it.   I go for the zucchini soup.  It is already nice and hot in a huge stock pot.   As I am happily slurping up soup, and using some Eric Kayser baguette chunks I had pulled off to help with that, Jean-Louis, the dad reminds me: "Sers-toi, Liz" - no one waiting on you tonight.  

I loved it.   

But those were just the main courses.  

There was also a large apple tart, still partially wrapped and mostly uneaten from the week.  One of the sons took two slices.  

And then I saw it.  Something wrapped up in that hallmark elegant grey paper of prestigious fromagier Laurent Dubois.  I unwrapped it.  I may have been too intimidated to figure out how to reheat the baby boar casserole without interrupting the menfolk watching the big game, but I had no qualms unwrapping the beautifully packaged cheese treasure within the Laurent Dubois paper.  I sliced off a piece.  I taste.  I slice off a bigger slice, and a few more slices, and include them around my second bowl of zucchini soup.  Soup, cheese, bread.   Anne insisted that the white Burgundy that night was really quite nice.  So, yes, I had that.  Just a tad.  I figure out this cheese from L. Dubois must be the well-aged Comté from the other night.

That cheese was a revelation.  Jean-Louis explained to me Thursday night that Comte could come in very much older, aged versions - this was one three years old.  See Wikipedia Entry ("Most Comté cheeses are aged from 12 to 18 months, though some are aged as little as four months and as long as 24 months. Some places, especially high-class restaurants, can carry Comtés aged for a longer time. The restaurant L'Arpège in Paris, France, is known to carry a four-year-old Comté.). It was nuttier and sharper than a more usual Gruyere, yet more subtle and interesting. And it has such an addictive quality.

They ask if I have enough: please, help yourself, Liz.  Oh, no, I am so very happy with this cheese.  I say, this is the aged Comte, yes? 

Surprised faces.  How did you know??  Did you have it here??   I think I earned some points.   I think this because Jean-Louis had carefully preserved from a previous night a certain red wine.  I tried so hard to remember exactly what it was.  I do know it was a grand cru classe from Bordeaux.  I think I saw the Chateau Margaux verbiage on there.  This was so the big time.  That I know.  He asked if I would like some [of this very special, extraordinary Bordeaux].

Uh. Yes.  

He went to get special wine glasses. Three-year-old Comté.  A fine, no great, as in grand, Bordeaux.  This is the life.  And this is leftover night?

But there was more.  Dessert.

In addition to the apple tarte, there were a couple of chocolate pots de creme left from the Thursday night dinner.  And there also was what would become my favorite: a platter of special traditional desserts of Bordeaux: "Canneles de Bourdeaux." So Anne told me.  She said they did not turn out so great.  They were so great to me.  They have a carmelized outer shell then a custardy tender soft not too sweet inside.  The contrast of that crunch on the outside and the tender inside - this too, addicting.

Before I ate 4 more of those things, I called it.  I was done.  Time to finish packing. Anne and I arrange for my timing in the morning to get to the airport.  She orders a cab for me.  Before heading back downstairs in the elevator, I thank Jean-Louis for letting me in on that extraordinary red wine.

The next morning, I tell Anne good-bye over a quick espresso - there would be les bises - and then a good-bye, until the next time. 

The following Sunday night, I am back home in Austin, Texas. I have my own leftover night, with my smaller family of two: my son and I.  We have ESPN on.  We are most definitely not watching soccer.  I make tortilla soup with some of the leftover grilled chicken from this week of my back-to-reality food life.  

And to go with it, it may not have been a legendary Bordeaux, but it was as good as I remembered: a wine I had at Barley Swine back in December and so loved I bought a bottle eventually.  Figured no good just staring at the label admiringly waiting for a special occasion.  Time to dig in. 

It was not a blanquette de veau or artisanal bread and cheese from some of the most reknowned masters of their craft: cheese and bread, from Laurent and Eric in Paris.

But I was home, reminded that leftover night really is just a good reminder of family nights and simple food. And a good enough reason to open up a new bottle of wine.

 

(His) Pioneer Woman Sour Cream Pancakes and (Hers/My) Salad, Again.

The son had to experience the ultimate humiliation for a 15-year-old boy.   He had to go out in public, at a public event, and be seen in public, with not just his mom, but also his gregarious and really funny Aunt/Godmother, her two kids, the Aunt's good friend visiting from out of town and her four-year-old "cowboy" - who apparently every day dresses himself in full cowboy regalia.  Hat and boots.  The works.  He is adorable.  Cowboy Boy was I think the only highlight for the son to make this event not the complete kiss of death he expected it to be.  

Knowing full well what his reaction would be, I waited until late in the day on Saturday to mention.  "Uh, yea, well, we're all going out to dinner and then we're all going out after to a play.  Like a musical."   (And there was a University of Texas football game on that night too.)

I will not tell him, but I did see him crack a smile a few times during the performance.  It's too bad the full gamut of Olivia Newton John schmaltzy 1980s stuff was lost on him (it was Xanadu at Zachary Scott Theatre).   But he's lucky my sister/his aunt  and her friend were not on their A game.  We neglected to wear any sort of costume at all.  Sequined headbands would have been just the right subtle thing.

As a thank you for him, for tolerating the event (He: "Did I have a choice?"), I said I would actually cook.  Something real.   I almost went for the Pioneer Woman Lasagna .... but then, because Sunday was an all-day rainy day, breakfast for dinner sounded right.  He nodded pretty enthusastically at that option.   Pioneer Woman has a Sour Cream Pancakes recipe that would accomplish two purposes for me (i) get the son to eat something he loves with an ingredient he generally hates (sour cream); and (ii) try another recipe out of this really great cookbook.

Ingredients: mostly sour cream;  2 eggs, some vanilla, just 7 T of flour.  Seriously very little.  The kicker though is to cook them on a griddle with sizzling melted butter.   Just like she says.

I set out on the son's white plate, these three beautiful pancakes, a light crust from the butter on the outside.  I said: "They look a little dark just from the sizzling around the edges in the butter."  He nodded.  As if to say, yea, right. 

On the hard core Garden of Eden salad eating regime these days, I could not help it. Right before he made his appearance, I had to have a bite.  Just a bite of the smallest of those 3 still remaining crispy-on-the-outside-slightly tart/tender/very fluffy-on-the-inside pancakes.  

The one bite was so good I had to grab the closest bottle of open red wine for a quick pour and gulp to erase forever the memory of how amazing that one bite of the sour cream pancake was.  I told the son I was pretty sure he was going to like these.

He dug in.  His eyes went wide open - like in shock - and he looked up and said to me, amazed, and loudly, while the pancakes were like still in transit in quick succession for bites two and three:  "These are REALLY GOOD."   And then he asked if there were more before he was even done.   I could only imagine how they tasted bathed lovingly in a coating of just warm enough (fake) maple syrup.

Me, I had a salad.

I added grilled chicken to it. 

The next day, at Whole Foods downtown at the intersection of death at 5th and Lamar, I had a salad that could have fed a family of 8.  If only I could have such an array of vegetables available at every meal: beets, shredded carrots and cabbage and zucchini, curried cauliflower, green beans, edamame, eggs, cheese, toasted chicken--protein of all kinds--and everything bright and shiny and shredded already.  A salad bar at home.  That's what I need.

As the Internet was out at the office, I went mobile office for the day.  So in the two hours I had to kill/work there at Whole Foods, after I had been at the Starbucks on the other corner for an hour previously, I slowly worked my way through this not petite salad.   It was not as great as it looks, I have to say.  A little too much curried cauliflower, my fault, but doing without dressing meant I needed something to save the day. 

I should get out more.  Though I guess leaving for France in a week counts.  But Whole Foods now has this Artisan Cookie Bar.  Right next to the Salad Bar(s). 

That is just wrong. 

 

 

Teen, unprompted, declares steak at Hopfields "really good."

It was a magic moment.

But to appreciate it, you need to understand the son's grading scale for food, which, as his mother, I have nailed down to interpret his level of "excitement" (albeit nonchalant) about a food item I am trying out on him.   The response always comes after I ask first:  "So, what do you think?"    Here's the guide to this food-rating system.

"Good." 

This is the response to such events as - oh, mom did a nice job on the new flavor of marinated chicken breasts from Central Market as paired with a new exotic side dish (e.g., curry couscous, or pine nut rice pilaf, or saffron jasmine rice (from a box)).  Or like when I set out some charcuterie on a large white platter with peppered (Central Market) crackers, to entice him into something exotic in the meat realm.  When he asked "what's this for" I said, "oh, it's something like pepperoni - you might like it - something to tide you over before dinner...."  (In fact was training him for aperitif rituals).

My prompting question followed:   "So, what do you think?"   "Good."   Satisfying response.  A new food experience.  Done.

"Pretty good."  

This is reserved for the misses, like he knows I'm trying to get him to eat something new, and hoping he'll like it, but he's just not digging it.  The "pretty good" is really not good at all.  He is trying to be nice.   I am pleased he has this quality as an American male, to prepare him for what to answer to questions from females in his life such as: "Does this dress make me look fat?"   [I just hope to that his answer is a little more positive than "pretty good."]

I got a "pretty good" for an answer to "so, what do you think?" when I casually set out for him those outrageously priced chocolate-dipped madeleines that I bought during "Passport to France" at Central Market.  I should have tasted them first. They were no bueno at all.  He did not know any better to say "pretty bad," which they were.  

"Really good."

I do not remember ever hearing this.  Maybe, probably, I got a "really good" that one year, Christmas Eve, for that outrageously complicated 10-hours-in-the-making and $75 worth of ingredients, multi-layer homemade chocolate cake with white chocolate filling and chocolate-peppermint glaze over chocolate ganache frosting.  But I just really don't hear this answer much in ordinary daily life (which is how about 99% of our lives is spent).

----------------------------

My mom had already promised the son a steak for dinner tonight - out somewhere.   I was about to head to Central Market for a paleo/"Garden of Eden" regime salad, but figured maybe I should stick around for family dinner.  I had a feeling the son might appreciate the steak at Hopfields (about which I have written kind of a lot), that sort of new French-themed gastropub so close to our house, on Guadalupe.   He actually said "ok" to going there, probably because mom was here.

I place our order at the bar.  I decide what to do about the iced tea order for mom (they have several selections in bottles).  A nice young man sitting at the bar helps the server figure out which tea is best for my mom.  I commend this nice young man on being so well-informed about the tea options.   He said, "well, I'm the owner." 

Which of course led to all sorts of "Oh My God" by me because I just love that place.  The French-vibe thing.  And he said he knew I loved it because he had read that first post I did about Hopfields about my being transported back to France upon tasting that vinaigrette dressing, with so many shallots, which I learn is the recipe of his Parisian mother-in-law, whom I had just missed as she had just left. Sigh. 

The two orders of steak frites, for mom and for the son, are brought to the table.  They are of course lovely to look at, that nice cut of steak, on that plate with that smear of mustard.

I was minding my own business with the very green and lovely Salade Nicoise.  All of a sudden, before I could even ask the son, "so, what do you think,"  I hear the son say:

"The steak is really good."

Mom let me have some of hers.  So I had some steak as well, and ran it through the son's smear of Dijon mustard remaining on his plate (and maybe some butter and a couple of frites made it into that bite[s]).

And it is.  Really good. 

And to add to the really good list:  Hopfields is expanding. 

They're doing great he says. 

That Justine's is always throbbing with people and noise and jazz, and now that Hopfields has been so warmly welcomed - thanks to great food and vibe/concept - I'm just glad that France is (finally) working its way into Austin's food soul. 

 

GourmandeMom: This Week's Food Failures and Successes

First, the Failure(s).

It has been a very busy week.  Like barely-time-for-a-meal busy.  This is tricky when there is a child involved (ok, he's 15) whose well-being, as in meal provision, is your responsibility.  Yesterday I rolled out of bed and went straight to the computer to finish draft to get to client who is one hour ahead of Texas time.  I was very distracted: I noticed child was out of bed at least and inquired (yelled from office) to make sure he had some breakfast.  Child leaves for school.  I finish work.  At dinner last night (from office, working to turn around another draft), I remind him (when he asks me what's for dinner) that there is leftover pizza for dinner to tide him over until I can get away from the office.

He tells me he had said pizza for breakfast.

Oh.

Today, same drill: another round of drafts to edit, revise, finalize before circulating by 9h30 Texas time.  I hear child get up, go downstairs, then return upstairs.  I assume breakfast is managed, and although I generally manage breakfast, ensuring there is proper set-up and placemat, beverage, cloth napkin ritual -- our usual - I'm just kind of not with the program with work product deadline being on East Coast timing.   I notice though, when I make appearance in kitchen later on, that his breakfast dishes consist of a blue bowl, typically used for cereal, and a juice glass, which has residual chocolate milk in there.  I am puzzled.  I know we are out of milk (again).  Dry cereal? 

Later this morning as child and I were in car driving to doctor appointment (after getting draft out to client), I ponder aloud with him:

"So, what did you have for breakfast this morning?"

"Leftover macaroni and cheese."  [and obviously chocolate milk].

He smiles.   I cannot help but laugh.  So that means, he says, obviously kind of pleased with himself and his resourcefulness in the kitchen: "I had pizza for breakfast yesterday and [Kraft] macaroni and cheese for today."  I am laughing because the idea of the mac and cheese, as much as we love that stuff, is really disgusting as a leftover food used as breakfast item.  I tell him this.   We debate which one is more disgusting/bad for you--as the macaroni and cheese (as much as we love it) is all carbs and no redeeming value I am pretty sure in the protein area. I think I won the debate with my final point that at least the pizza has protein and is sort of recognized in some circles and in popular culture as being a prime breakfast food.  

This is clearly a food failure on my part.  And part of the healing process is admitting that this happened in my household.  I will need to cook some bacon this weekend or something.

Second, the Success.

I had those GM Olympics a while back.  Yea, that was fun. While it lasted.   

I have been punished for that activity in two ways: first, I gained weight that my low-level pneumonia-recovery training regime was not intense enough to handle; second, I think the universe reacted in this bad way to me (the weight gain) because of my dissing Guy Fieri here of late.   Now, I have a greater appreciation for what he has to go through taking bites of all the specialty items at all those diners drive-ins and dives all across America.   Now, I really do appreciate that this is hard work, all that checking out restaurants, and it takes a toll on a person.  And I like Guy a lot more after seeing him being a groomsman at Chef Robert's wedding to the Asian wrestler gal.  They (Robert and Kim) are a pretty darn cute couple.  See the episode here. 

But the GM Olympics had one big success.  As prelude to that week I had tried Hopfields, and I was blown away by the vinaigrette on the lovely butter lettuce salade verte.  And then I went again soon thereafter, at which visit a friend had the steak frites.  It looked rather amazing: juices dripping into the frites, mustard splatter artistically on one side of the plate, was that of chunk of herb butter atop le steak, slowly melting into the meat and running onto the plate to mix in with the succulent meat juices and all of that getting into the fries?  

And so it was that when a bunch of girlfriends and I reunited for new-school-year-schedule musings post summer this past Tuesday night, it was up to me to pick a spot.

I picked Hopfields, for all the reasons I had come to love it pretty immediately:  It's close.  It's good. It's sort-of French.  It's not too expensive.  It's got some minimalist vintage decor vibe going on.  And it has a common table in the middle of the small room, similar to Lenoir.

The venue was a hit.  So much so that I was called the next day by friend to tell me she was going back there again, that very night, for dinner to have the exact same thing:  salade verte; steak frites.   Voilà!  Un succès!    Not sure it makes up for me falling down on the job on the mom/meal provider front, but un succès nonetheless.

 

 

 

 

 

Austin Forum Night Tomorrow - Technology and Food - and Inchoate Food Startup Musings

Just as I was starting to ponder the food startup community, and how France "stuff" is going to work out, in some still amorphous way notwithstanding the lack of a business model of any kind (going for that "lean startup" deal anyway), I stumble across startup "Event Farm" as part of my following "Startup Texas" and "Startup America."  

The word startup is about to get, if it's not already, as overused and stripped of meaningful meaning just like "postmodern" was back in the 1980s, back in my literary theory days in graduate school at UT.  Nevertheless, Event Farm seems just about right, no, perfect, for a startup about global community, food, environment - and community gatherings around fresh local food. Alas, it is just an event organizer deal/thing/application/site.  Waste of a good name. 

Anyway, as a nice change from all the exploratory wining and dining - and exercising - this past week, Tuesday August 7 is a food/technology/community event at this month's Austin Forum: "From Sous Vide to Social Search, How Technology is Changing How We Cook and Eat." 

Looking forward to hearing more about how I should be following Austin food writer/blogger Addie Broyles and her writing at TheFeministKitchen.com.   There is another speaker - re cooking for engineers - but the main event from my perspective is Addie.  I wonder if she will address food polarization issues:  such as my undue and profound enjoyment of escargots dripping in garlic and butter (Justine's) versus our many Kraft macaroni and cheese nights at home, combined with intermittent waves of maternal guilt about not enough real cooking for my son out of Giada's cookbook.   Or maybe I will learn that this is just an ordinary, mundane aspect of postmodern Feminist modern life - my own FeministKitchen culture. 

Bay Fishing, Taco Night, and Fried Fresh Snapper

To my family's surprise, I was game for the 4-hour bay fishing excursion on our
family vacation on the Texas coast. This is a big change from the last outdoorsy thing I had to do/did on a family vacation: when I was in fifth grade my parents had to pay me ($5) to ride a horse just so all of us could go on the sunrise chuck wagon trail ride and breakfast at a dude ranch somewhere in Texas.  

I did not have to be bribed to do this fishing excursion, but nevertheless I am not
sure what I was thinking in being all gung-ho for as I had come completely unprepared when we arrived at Woody’s Sports Center with 40 minutes to spare (dad’s budgeting 20 minutes for an 8-minute drive into town put us ahead of schedule).  So I bought some sunglasses.  Bought a hat.  The kids are indulged in the iconic beach vacation food: bags of nacho cheese Doritos.

Finally, it was time to make our way down the docks in the marina with all the other
early birds to board the Island Queen. 

After a safety talk, and instructions from the crew on where one should relieve oneself in the event of sea sickness (overboard, not in the restrooms), the boat, at the helm of which was Captain Tom, edges out of the marina, building speed, slowly but surely.  The gulls are squawking, and the sun is streaming out from behind the clouds. 

I say to myself: well, hey this is all right.  I am glad for the 6 a.m. wake-up call for being out on the water in the morning sun at 8 a.m.  This is not so bad at all.

We go further, and further, and further.  Into bumpy waters.  Huge waves come splashing up in to the boat.  I love it, but I am soaked.  The son goes back up for more of a soaking as the boat rocks up and then down into the waves.  We drop anchor way, way out there where, though we are only still in the bay, it feels like land is very far away.

“Rods in!” the crew yells.  Huh?  

The rod and reel thing were beyond me.  And of course no way I’m touching that shrimp much less impaling them on the hook for bait.  But a nice man helped me with all that.  We all stand around with our rods in the water.  This is it?  But it’s a beautiful day. 

Uh oh:  20 minutes into the fishing out here there is the beginning of an almost-epidemic of motion sickness among the under-10 group.  A couple of them forget those crew instructions.... Just in the nick of time, the crew calls out “rods up.”  The anchor is pulled up.

Wow, really?   We’re done?  Whew!  Awesome!  That was not so bad.  I can say I did this and check it off the list. 

But no.  Not finished.  We had only been out for like 39 minutes of the 4-hour tour.

Apparently the drill is that Captain Tom moves the boat moved around to try for different fish.  From the mildly rough waters we moved around to calmer waters, near the jetty.   The son was one of the first ones to claim what was then the biggest fish of the day: a gorgeous 15-inch red snapper.

Others would catch their own red snapper.  But I did not care about them.  I cared only that Mom caught her first fish - ever -  the son caught a really awesome red snapper, and that for about 30 blissful minutes I had the entire top deck of the boat to myself to lie down in the sun, see nothing but water all around, and note with relief we only had 40 minutes left of the 4-hour tour….

Back into the marina and at the dock, the son’s fish is retrieved from where it had
been strung up.  We stop by the lean-to next to Woody’s and get the catch of the day filleted.  For $5.  We consider how to cook it....over lunch back at the condo and then later over dinner that night at the worst restaurant choice of the trip (I'll say for the time being that there was no artisanal pizza at the pizza place, but a pizza buffet and an 80s salad bar).

We finally had the family catch – last night. 

To get everyone at the table at the same time – and not have the day’s dining be just a series of snack times – and get all the kids interested in dinner at the same time, we opted for the family favorite sure-fire kid-pleaser: Taco Night.  We even set the table for it.  We even used real plates.

As everything else was just about done (the taco shells, the refried beans, the
taco meat (my sister Cathy’s special recipe: spicy Ranch dressing and regular Ranch dressing mix mixed into the taco seasoning mix), the queso, the chopped onions, tomatoes, avocados), it was time to fry up the red snapper catch. 

There was only one prize fish - did I mention my son caught that fish? -  but there were two gorgeous fillets out of it.

Recipe for Fried Fish

1. Make do with whatever random items your vacation condo has on hand to get the Fish Fry poured out onto a flat surface in which the beautiful fresh fish fillets may be dredged. 

2. For us, this step required using a grill pan/skillet for the (every other bowl, plate, etc. had been used to set the table and hold the Taco Night Fixins).

[Note leftover bacon grease in the bowl. 

We cook a LOT of bacon on family vacations.]

 

3.    While you were having some leftover Edna Valley Chardonnay (I can only handle Chardonnay at the beach for some reason), you should have been heating up the pan (the one in which the bacon was fried that morning) with a hefty quantity of vegetable oil.  

Fill the pan up high enough to get the fish all covered up once the oil is really, really hot.  Do not put the fish in too soon, i.e., before the oil is really hot. 

4.  Lay the beautiful fish fillets (caught by the son) in the really hot oil.

Do not turn too soon.

Do not turn too much.

Do not burn. 

Do not get impatient and take out because the gorgeous fillets look about done.

5.  Wait until the fillets of fresh fish are crispy golden brown, then take out the fillets with whatever implement you can find at the vacation condo and drain them on a paper towel. 

6.  Serve on paper plate (because all the other plates were taken...we set the table that night).   [Thanks to Mom for the lemon garnish here.  It really does make a huge difference.]

Good thing we had Fish Fry on hand from the trip to Port "A" Seafood Co. where we got the 1.5 pounds of shrimp the other day, thinking I would fry those up and try for my own best version (a la Tyler Florence) of a fried shrimp po-boy, which remains elusive for me.  

What is no longer elusive, however, is the best fried fish ever. 

We had it on Taco Night. 

Did I mention the son caught that fish?

 

 

 

Hruska’s: Ranger Cookies, Lamps, Kitsch, and Kolaches

After a week of baseball games, practices, scrimmages—not to mention driver’s ed classes every day for the son and a really lousy week of subpar food items at GM’s house because of all this (“Mom, do you realize I had donuts for breakfast [“hey, they were Krispy Kreme”], nachos for lunch [“hey, I browned the meat myself for that taco meat topping”], and now pizza for dinner” [“now wait a minute…that was a superb thin crust on the Napoletana-style pizza at Salvation Pizza”]--it is now the weekend again.  And that means a baseball tournament—in Houston. 

I love a road trip to Houston.  Far better than road trips to Dallas, which are a living hell because of just the way I-35 is all the way from Dallas to San Antonio. 

People are divided on the best route from Austin to Houston.  Some people swear by taking 290 through Giddings and Brenham.  Others would go no way but by Highway 71 through Bastrop and catching I-10 at Columbus.  I’m a 71/I-10 person.  I would rather stick a needle in my eye than wade through all those stoplights in Giddings, Brenham, etc. taking 290.

But the best part of the 71/I-10 route is a small stretch of road on Highway 71 between Columbus and La Grange where the speed limit drops suddenly to 55 mph.  It has to drop down precipitously because you need to slow down to take the left turn (coming from Austin) into Hruska’s.    And you need to slow down also to deal with all the traffic of folks just finishing their own stop at Hruska’s and getting back on the road to Austin or Houston.

I’ve been stopping at Hruska’s as my Austin/Houston rest stop for close to a decade now.  It is a Chevron station, yes, and therefore a very good strategic stopping point to get gas before hitting the racetrack that is I-10.  And it has always been a good potty break.  But there are a couple of other gas stations nearby – such as a Shell, which I don’t know how it stays in business with Hruska’s next door.  I think it only gets business when Hruska’s is jam packed and not a single parking place is left.

Which does happen. 

HRUSKAS’S THEN

Hruska’s was a super quirky place back then, and by back then I mean just a few years ago, but it was founded in 1947 actually.  It was a little dark in there, as in low, low-end lighting.  Seating to stay and eat some sandwiches you could pick up there was maybe nothing more than picnic tables.  It was a great bathroom stop, even then.  But it also had this crazy good bakery inside with insanely good kolaches – far better than tough doughy outsides and icky sweet insides I typically think of when I think kolache (leaving aside for the moment the bacon kolache). 

But the really crazy part is that it also had a home furnishings and scrapbooking section back in the back.  Even more crazy is that they had some really great stuff.  I should know.  I bought a lot of it.  

There was a time when I could not escape Hruska’s without getting a new set of lamps.  You could get a really darling little lamp for like $40 or far less. I have in my bedroom some cute black lamps with black and white polka-dot shades. I have this verdigris one that should be in the living room.  And the two little lamps on the buffet in my dining room are from Hruska’s. 

In addition to the kolaches, homemade bread, homemade egg noodles, and of course University of Texas Longhorn and Texas A&M  paraphernalia and ample kitsch and camo and “gone-fishin’ themed koozies, there were a few other specialty food items – some interesting sauces to pour over cream cheese to which you could add a few crackers and voila –instant tasty appetizer—and maybe some candles.  And of course the array of off-brand country western CDs up near the register and some cookbooks from the local ladies guild of one sort or another.

Hruska’s back then also had what were then (and now) the highlight of my visit there:  their specialty cookies.  They were packaged in a tidy little stack of 5 in plastic, tied with a twist tie, and labeled and piled high in square baskets – all along the top of the counter for self-serve purposes:  Ranger Cookies, Coconut Pecan Cookies, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Peanut Butter Cookies, etc. 

One day several years ago – during the weekly Houston-Austin treks with the son to check on house-building progress in Austin – the son, way young then, happened to pick out the Ranger Cookies.  I had never heard of them, but they quickly became addicting.  I noticed the ingredients: corn flakes, coconut, brown sugar, pecans – and that combo alone says something.  And they also must use my secret baking tip of extra vanilla.   Whatever it is, they became a staple and a ritual for me – for years –to stop at Hruska’s and get Ranger Cookies for the son.  I don’t know if he cares anymore, but the cookies still manage to disappear after I get them home.

Hruska’s Now

A few weeks ago I had to get to Houston - World Malbec Day at the Houston Polo Fields! - and it had been way too long since I had had a Hruska’s fix.  This time the traffic was insane coming up on Hruska’s– cars pulling in and out, into the middle lane to head east to Houston, pulling into traffic to head west to Austin.  Every gas pump had a car at it.  The parking lot was full and parking could be had only all along the curb and way down the street.  What on earth??

Well, Hruska’s was being renovated and expanded.  This I knew from the signage I’d been seeing during the past year.  But now, wow.  Hruska’s is on steroids.  It is all tricked out.  There are more and more specialty food items:  preserves and sauces and marmalades, candies, chocolate covered blueberries and coffee beans, gourmet coffees, and an express lane for cookies – for those wanting to just grab and go, those not waiting in the long line, to get a kolache or 5 or 10 and get them all warmed up to golden buttery goodness such that the tang of the cream cheese (for example) contrasts even more dramatically and deliciously with the warm tender buttery outside part… And there are rows upon rows of check-out lanes and lines of people – at all of them! 

I’m happy for the entrepreneurial spirit at work here, and love especially the mural they’ve done to warm up what is now a cavernous space, all light and bright now.

But I miss the old Hruska’s.  The people who work there are just as nice and efficient, but the quirky charm is gone.  As is the oddly good lamp selection from years past.  But, yea, I still stopped and got the Ranger Cookies today.   

In case you've been living under a rock as I had been, as I had never heard of these cookies until the son picked them out of the line up, there are recipes galore out there for Ranger Cookies -- but a recipe with corn flakes would be more true to the Hruska’s version and give it that funky texture of crunchy chewy.

I would never, ever try to make these myself. Just no point in ruining a good thing of picking up a warm stack of Ranger Cookies during a road trip to Houston.  And I'm pretty sure they are a better heart-healthy option than a stack of warm cream cheese kolaches.

Giada, PW (Pioneer Woman) & Prosecco

I’m still agog that Giada was on Chealsea Lately.  But moving on – I have the cookbook now, weeknights with Giada, and I have to say the array of recipes is quite nice.  Nice in the sense that they are just different enough, just easy enough, and written well enough in a nice choice of font, that it made me want to start cooking again.  What’s not to love about these recipes with titles like “risotto with currants, pine nuts, and feta cheese” and the first dish I cooked out of it for the son, my first meal post-Paris and that aftermath: “whole wheat linguine with bacon, shrimp, and basil”-- And the pictures of Todd, Giada in cleavage, and their adorable little girl are not over the top.  

The one cookbook inspired two forays back into cooking:  dinner for the son, for whom I had not really cooked in weeks – out of Giada’s cookbook - and the son’s birthday cake, out of Pioneer Woman’s (“PW”) cookbook.   Both forays were accompanied by one of my absolutely favorite pastimes of all time, drinking while cooking.  I prefer to call it however the hour of the apéro.  I know the aperitif experience is not supposed to be done by oneself – because that’s just drinking alone, and doesn’t sound as nice as an aperitif ritual.  But what’s not to love about a holiday weekend of cooking in the kitchen, French radio on the iPhone, a good first draft done of a brief – and a nice crisp and cool Argentinean white wine and almonds with light dusting of sea salt. 

But there are hazards to drinking while baking. 

First, baking requires precise measurements.  They should be precise even for such a rough-hewn and simple but rich and decadent recipe as Pioneer Woman’s recipe: a classic chocolate sheet cake.  The kind with that dense moist cakey part, not too sweet, and the thick (chocolate) confectioner’s sugar frosting loaded up with vanilla and nuts and more dark cocoa powder and all of that poured over the cake while it is still hot.  All it took was half a glass of wine and I could not keep track of the flour measurement.  All I could find that was clean was the one-third cup measure: that meant I needed six (6) of those for two (2) cups.  I started, stopped, started over – twice.  It Is hard to count to 6 with certainty when over 45 and having a classy apéro/drinking alone in the kitchen.

Second, because I am not a spatial relationships or math person, I did not so great when I opted to go it alone and not follow the PW’s instructions and pour the batter into a baking sheet – used the old reliable baking pan.  I did some “rough math” in my head to increase the cooking time appropriately.   This would end up, I realized, most likely, with a molten lava cake in the middle.  But I figured once it cooled, then sat in fridge overnight, then came out for party time, it would be like a chocolate molten lava cake but with no running lava.  It was.  (See below finished product.)

Third, I had 3 partially full 2-pound bags of confectioner’s sugar.   The PW recipe calls for 1 pound of confectioner’s sugar for that frosting, which cooks up quickly while the cake is baking (which is a mere 20 minutes if you used the correct baking equipment, which I had not).   And no, I do not have a scale.  I just had to eyeball the amount (after 1 glass of wine) while pouring it into the butter and cocoa powder mixture.   As this all occurred, including my usual baking secret (add extra vanilla and nuts—always) into glass no. 2 of wine.  This occurred not only on glass no. 2 but also after serious sugar overload from taking walnut halves and dragging them through the thick chocolate batter in the big metal bowl and eating them.  Seriatim.  

This simple sheet cake.  I am seeing everywhere now, and it is touted as some secret delicious hip and groovy new dessert trend.  It is nothing new though.  It has been in my family – as in my growing-up family – since like forever.  It was our specially requested birthday cake for many years when we were growing up, and mostly when we were grown up (i.e., after age 35).  When I announced to mom and dad this would be the birthday cake choice for the son, and that it was from PW’s cookbook, they both had a critical eye to how she did hers.  Lard or oil, they asked.  Neither, I said.  Huh, they said. 

I did not fully appreciate the cake until after the party.  During the party there was too much self-analysis going on and monitoring of conversation with and among former spouse, his parents, the son, my parents – and making sure someone else, anyone, was having Prosecco besides just me.   

After the party though, after everyone had gone, and the son nowhere to be seen, ensconced back in the boy cave again, there was just me and the cake and the Prosecco and the French lounge music.  The cake I noticed had some odd, uneven edges based on the haphazard cutting and serving ritual (mine).  They were very annoying.  They were therefore evened out, little by little, with a fork and knife, by me (and remnants consumed also by me), into nice 90-degree angles and/or straight lines.  

Cooking tips – which I rarely have: 

(1)    Undercook the cake;

(2)    Add more vanilla and more pecans/walnuts than the recipe calls for; and

(3)    Save a square, or sliver or two or three, for when you can really focus on how simple yet good and complex this cake is (i.e., by yourself).  If you must enjoy this experience with a friend, I would refer you to Mr. Prosecco.

Ode to My Getting Okay with Mother’s Day: Tuiles by Night for Spanish Class, HEB Wine + French chansons, Samuel Barber.

Thursday afternoon my parents had just come back to town to help me with household management in my post-Paris pneumonia recovery phase.   It is surprising how much energy is required for everyday life and parenting, even to a low-maintenance (almost) 15-year-old, and I was ready for reinforcements, especially because I was facing 4 days straight of baseball activities.  And of course my regular job. 

Thursday 7:15 pm

S:         “Mom, could you go to Santa Rita tonight and order some food to bring to school tomorrow?

Me:       “What?  What for?  Why?  For the whole class??”

S:         “Don’t freak out. Why do you always have to freak out??  It’s no big deal.” 

We finally get out of him that he has not done any other option for the big project due the next day – in, oh, 12 hours -  for Spanish class – so we’re down to the “bring a food of Mexico” option.  And it can’t be queso and chips or guacamole.  And well, yea, it is a big deal. 

I grab from the cookbook shelf a lovely but never-used cookbook to peruse during son’s baseball clinic, which we are racing to with my mom as a storm is coming in.   The book is Patricia Quintana’s Feasts of Mexico.  A cookie recipe looks promising in terms of authenticity and ingredients list.  We debate whether to do flan.  That would be simple.  Classic, but not trite.   My son rolls his eyes.  He does not understand what the big deal is.   A consultation with Mexican cuisine expert and friend Melissa leads to her also suggesting that we just get a flan at this point, given the hour.   But neither Fonda San Miguel nor Central Market sells a whole flan.  And we weren’t driving down south to La Mexicana, even if they might have a flan, as a staff person at Fonda San Miguel nicely suggests, as the skies had turned black and the wind was picking up and lightening was everywhere in the distance as we drove home from baseball clinic, which turned out to be not happening at all.  Logistics kill the flan idea: no way the son is going to get a flan to school in one piece in the morning.

So these “tejas” – which look like French “tuiles” cookies as they are thin, crispy, dainty  -  but are redolent of walnuts and almonds - will have to do.  Labor would be a challenge I feared.  It was.

There was first the ingredient of clarified butter.  This required melting the butter, skimming the foam, then pouring off the butter leaving the solids at the bottom to have just now what is the nice and clear, “clarified,” butter.  

It needed to be cooled. 

It is 9:00 pm now. 

We can’t move on until the clarified butter is cooled for fear of what will happen to the egg whites beaten up to a certain firmness and glistening with the added sugar once we slowly add to them the (cooled) clarified butter.  I come back to kitchen from working in my office on edits to brief due that night.  We put our clarified butter, in its own bowl, into a larger bowl of ice. 

Must butter 4 baking sheets.  Can only cook 2 or 3 tuiles at a time per baking sheet.   Must have limited quantities to work with them quickly as they exit the oven, for they can only be molded into the half-moon crescent shapes around a buttered rolling pin while they are hot out of the oven.

I go upstairs to finish edits to brief.  I go back downstairs.   The clarified butter is cooled.  We start adding it, alternating with the toasted ground almonds and ground walnuts.   Something is very wrong about the consistency of this “dough.”   It is far from being remotely dry.   “Add more butter if dry” the recipe says – no need here, and nowhere near using the minimum amount of clarified butter called for.  Busted recipe?   

Executive decision: add more almonds, which requires toasting another 1 cup of blanched almonds gently before pulverizing them in the Cuisinart.

It is 9:45 pm now. 

The son comes downstairs.  He stands in the doorway of the disaster zone that is my kitchen where my mom and I are sweating it out, literally, over the texture of the dough, rolling pins, and buttered glasses of various sizes everywhere and a mass of kitchen equipment: pans for toasting almonds, buttered baking sheets, bowl of ice, the Cuisinart food processor, the Kitchen Aid mixer…   

“Thank you,” he says.    

By the next morning, the crispy tuiles, not finished until 11 pm, have held their shape but gone moist.  There is nothing crispy about them at all.   I have since read that humidity is bad for making tuiles (so named, at least in French, this is the word for “tile” - because when you have nicely molded them around a dowel or rolling pin and stack them up they resemble tiles for a tile roof).   I also have since found recipes  -- at least for the French version (tuiles)  -- that do not require clarified butter. And, in fact, they do not require toasting almonds and grinding to a powder those walnuts and almonds. 

In the morning, Mom and I clean out small plastic bins that have been storing nails and picture hangers and wash them out with scalding hot water and soap.  We place the cookies delicately into the two bins.  Son manifests embarrassment to bring two such bins.  We consolidate our best examples into one bin.   He refuses to have his name written on the bin with a Sharpie.  I am ok with never seeing this bin again.  Time for me to do the carpool.   As we arrive at school, I see him jam the entire bin into the backpack.  I wince.  I am surprised how at this moment though, once I am done wincing, I am noting to self how much I love this kid. 

Late Friday afternoon another great mom shows up for comic relief to the exhaustion setting in from late night tuile-making.   This is my friend Maureen, born and raised in Boston, former professional ballerina and mother of 7, splitting her time and work/career between Paris and Houston now — also known as the best hostess ever when I stayed with her in February in the tiny studio Ile St. Louis.  She is in Austin for this one night during her Houston stay to make sure I am alive and well.

She is bearing gifts of 2 bottles of French wine, flowers, and 3 cards: one for Mother’s Day, one for my birthday, and a get well card with a cat in crutches and bandages on the front, signed by her and our Paris cat friend “Oliver” – from Le Tresor, our favorite work café in the Marais.

Maureen begins to talk, and talk, as only she can.  With what she says is not a Boston accent but, uh, yea.

We marvel at this wonderful red wine she has brought.   Where, where did you get this?  HEB, she says.  We like this red wine as much, if not more so, than the nice Côtes du Rhone Mom and Dad and I had at Gusto the night before, where I also so very much enjoyed my favorite dish of late, hanger steak.  Mom begins setting out, quickly before we’re done with the wine, all the makings for apéritifhour: almonds, smoked gouda, some Middle Eastern crackers.   A bottle of Argentinean white, a nice Torrontes, is found in the fridge.   (Hard to find with so many bottles of holiday champagne still taking up all the room in the produce drawers.)   

Musician friend implored to arrive for entertainment purposes arrived just in time for the aperitif hour to discuss obscure movies, arcane historical matters — and to be maneuvered subtly into my surprise Mother’s Day treat for my mom – jazz piano on the Steinway.  Mom gets teary-eyed when I play, so I knew she might be overwhelmed at having a real musician person play some New Orleans improv-type jazz on this beautiful piano. When he started, she pulled up a chair right next to the piano with her glass of wine in hand, with that dreamy look she gets, or used to get, when I play.  I tried to play like I could accompany the vocals on a round of lovely French chansons.  This was unwise on my part.  I think Mom lost the dreamy look about then.  So I just sang and/or did the spoken word thing with the French.  

By Saturday night music is still on the mind.  Based on the lovely Friday night salon experience, we break out of our Austin rut and find some music.  The Austin Civic Orchestra is at Bates Recital Hall – and piano is on the program: Franck’s Symphonic Variations.  I worry about the first piece though, Samuel Barber, Overture to the School for Scandal.   Too mod for mom?   By her smiling the entire time, that dreamy look again, from first notes to the finish, I’d say no. 

At the intermission we are researching Samuel Barber on the iPad for her.   And she starts to tell me stories.  She tells me how by hearing me play piano, and having music in the house like that, it was a whole new world, one that she was so proud and pleased to be a part of – and all because of her daughters.    She tells me, for the first time, that on that mother-daughter trip to Paris way back when, when I managed to get us in at the last minute with some tickets to the performance of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons in Sainte Chapelle, that music, in that place, was transforming for her. I had no idea.

After Sunday morning mass at the Cathedral downtown, on Mother’s Day, we are all sitting outside at Starbucks, and I hear more of my parents’ stories:  New Orleans memories of school, church, and, of course food.  I hear of breakfasts of chocolate and bread for my dad’s mom that the French nuns would serve at her boarding school in New Orleans.  I hear my mom’s memories of how after the Friday morning mass at school there would be a cart serving hot, fresh doughnuts: two doughnuts, in a waxed paper bag, per student.

Back in the day, when my marital status was different, I was told that I should not expect both a birthday and a mother’s day event.  That was too much – they came too close together: just one week apart more or less.   It may have been a joke, but after that I never really thought much about Mother’s Day, never enjoyed it or got it. 

But now I get it. And I kind of like it, this holiday of sorts.

It must have happened, this change of heart, some time around the late-night cookie-making with my mom; the sheepish, sincere thank you from my son; spending so much convalescence time with my parents so I get those quiet times for story-telling; my son and my dad mowing my lawn; and the family dinner late afternoon on Mother's Day, on the upper deck of an Austin restaurant overlooking Lake Austin -- when no one, not even Dad, noted that it was less than ideal, theoretically, with the din of Foreigner and Styx blaring on the speakers making it hard to hear.  

When Dad said: "You know, you don't even notice it (the din of the annoying bad background music) after a while," I figured he had it about right. 

As we close in on the one month anniversary of my getting back from Paris and getting admitted to the hospital two days later, I'm grateful on this Mother's Day for the real family stuff.  That good stuff gets lost sometimes amidst the background noise of everyday tedious stuff.  

My family pretty much dropped everything to take care of me and has now hung in there this long time of a slow but steady recovery.  But in that time they've met and entertained my wonderful friends who have come by with gifts of food and cards and flowers - and wine and more food - and piano playing.  That's all good stuff - and good stuff for Mother's Day. 

But even though I'm ok with Mother's Day now, I'm never going to be ok with the rote Mother's Day Brunch thing.   Unless it's at The Four Seasons.  Or maybe in Paris.   

Santé! 

 

Favorite Foods....Mexican Breakfast

My son from time to time, knowing my obsession over food stuff and food activities, thinks to ask me what my favorite food is.   Of course, at that very moment, it is impossible to think of just one thing.  Favorite foods, like picking a favorite restaurant, are so subjective, based on such things as the time of day and how carb-deprived you may be right then when asked the question, as to be completely arbitrary. 

For example, a great restaurant experience, such as I had at Barley Swine last week, could be so spectacular because of a number of reasons: a bad day made good, the unexpectedness of it, the really cute male wait staff in their jeans and black shirts and the loving way in which they described the kick ass, gorgeous food (such as those paper-thin sliced watermelon radishes....oh....see below), and the timing of the seating at the bar.  Whatever.  Yet, that same experience, my guy friend who had gone with me one week later would not even remember where we ate.  There are many problems with this, but we won't go there.

Note the lovely "watermelon radish."    It's the thing that looks like a watermelon.

Yet on New Year's Day, I would, after an exhilarating bike ride on a chilly day in Austin under icy blue skies and a wind that made the hills really hurt, join my friend Melissa and her husband for (late) breakfast. The choices were Peruvian brunch or "Mexican Dive."  

I hoped they would pick the spaceship restaurant on a freeway frontage road.  They did.   Los Jalisciences, Taqueria No. 3.   And there, amidst the spectacular hot sauce and another spicy green avocado like sauce, and a basket of those thick chips, not the flimsy flaky lightweight chips, and the Christmas glitter, shiny decorations and posters, and the jukebox playing a tune every now and then, I recalled one of my favorite foods of all time:  Mexican Breakfast.

(Now, when you drive up to this type of building, you just know you are in for a good food time.

The pool for the motel is just off to the right.

The fact that Melissa, teacher of global cuisines and master of all things Mexican cuisine related (or maybe Oaxaca-related is more accurate), approves (at least when the kitchen as their A game on), and says that the hot sauce is "really good," well, I'm in.)

 

 

The only really hard question was what to order of the classics:

Migas, Chilaquiles, or Huevos Mexicanos.

There were plenty of other choices, but for me these are the only real options if you're having Mexican Breakfast. 

Which reminds me that this love is longstanding and well-documented - way back to the late 1980s.  Much like my French family in Tours for my Junior Year in France program introductory phase to Paris - who first called me "gourmande" - the family I stayed with in Cuernavaca, Mexico when getting some extra help for Spanish proficiency for my M.A. in Latin American Studies, found my love for Mexican Breakfast very endearing.   I don't recall the Spanish word for "gourmande" being used.  I do recall an extra helping of tortillas and maybe more huevos being put on my plate....I think they just loved how much I loved breakfast. And love it, enthusiastically and vocally, I did.

The ladies from Ohio staying there with me at this house for our study program were aghast at the spiciness.  They spooned on the homemade salsa very, very carefully, if at all.  Me?  I was over the moon.  The purpose of chips and of these eggs was, seriously, just to soak up this treat of homemade Mexican salsa, in Mexico, in this house of great generosity and kindness - and great food.  So when Ohio Ladies said "No more, no mas," I said "Si si, me gusta muchisimo. More please!" 

At Los Jalisciences, I ordered the chilaquiles, recalling another M.A. culinary experience in the late 1980s of having chilaquiles, with chicken, at a journalism professor's house.  What's not to love about thick, homemade strips of tortillas, soaking up tomatillo salsa, for, like hours, and then cheese and chicken layered in there.  Melissa enlightens me that although I ordered huevos for my chilaquiles, the classic chilaquiles dish is just using leftover tortilla strips and mixing in the salsa, over and over, until the tortilla strips have soaked up the sauce. 

Really, could I have ordered anything worse when I had just hidden the bread knife to keep me away from the Poilane bread in my recommitment to low-carb?   No.   But order them I did, enjoyed them I did, and then much enjoyed reminiscing with Melissa about the late 1980s when I first met her and all the great food memories since.

I did not eat for the rest of the day.