How to Make the Perfect Gazpacho

At its best, gazpacho is an improvisational dish.

The first time I tasted it was at a swanky garden party, decades ago -- served in a big crystal square punch bowl and ladled into little square shot glasses. I immediately asked the host for the recipe, and he said, "oh, I don't have one. I just know what goes in gazpacho, and I put it all in, until it's done." I didn't have that level of confidence as a cook or a host, so I spent years (and years) looking for the perfect recipe (Moosewood, Martha Stewart, Barefoot Contessa), and none of them tasted as good as his did.

He was right. It's better without a recipe, but that isn't helpful to someone who's a novice like I was when he told me that. I spent years of trial and error perfecting my version.

Here's the how-to of the batch I made last weekend, including a few secrets I've learned along the way.

Start with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers in about a two-to-one tomato-to-cucumber ratio. I go for tomato varieties with high acid, and a lot of tang, not sweet. (Sometimes I will use all-yellow tomatoes and peppers and make Golden Gazpacho; it's a little sweeter.)

A lot of recipes suggest insane amounts of tomato prep (peeling, seeding, dicing, etc). I don't do any of that. I core them, and cut them into rough wedges (no precision necessary.)

I do peel the cucumbers, and I scrape a few of the seeds out with a spoon (I certainly don't exert myself though.) They get a rough chop.

Here is secret number one: in the Summer, I always have cucumbers prepped  in the fridge, in a little bit of white vinegar, salt, whole (tellicherry) peppercorns, and a sprig of fresh dill. We call them table pickles. This is no place for fancy balsamics -- the plainer and whiter the better. (Fresh vinegar-soaked cucumbers in orange Tupperware were a staple on my grandmother's summer kitchen table my entire childhood, and I've stuck with this tradition -- they are the perfect base for a lot of chilled summer soups, which would likely strike her as a waste of a perfectly good cucumber.)

I chop everything on a big plate -- not a cutting board -- and then dump everything, juice and all, into a giant Tupperware pitcher as I go.

Whatever peppers I have on hand, I seed and rough chop a few, but nothing of any real substantial heat -- poblanos or anaheims are good. Key Largos are the best. Bananas will do too. I chop and add a stalk or two of celery. If a guest says they don't like celery, I chop and add a stalk or two of celery. Gazpacho does not have the right consistency, or flavor, without it.

For herbs, I assemble about a handful of whatever I'm growing in any given summer (and I have small hands; you might need less or more):

basil (I have lemon basil; lime basil; and regular basil -- any or all will work; I also have Thai basil and cinnamon basil, and those would not work)

cilantro
cutting celery (I grow it; celery leaves will work fine if you can't find it)
garlic chives
flat-leaf parsley

To this handful, I add scallions -- then I hold the handful over the pitcher and snip it all up with scissors (no fancy chiffonade or anything). When I get down to the stems, I stop snipping.

I zest a lime over the pitcher (with a wood rasp).Then I roll the lime on the counter, quarter it, and squeeze in all the juice. (Cut the lime vertically, not horizontally, and you'll get more juice.)

Secret Number Two: I use an entire bulb of garlic in about a one-gallon pitcher, BUT I roast off the garlic ahead of time (one bulb, olive oil, salt, pepper, in foil, about an hour in a low oven, until it squeezes out like butter) -- like the table pickles, this is something I tend to prep on the weekends so I can use it all week. If you want to use raw garlic... well, I wouldn't. Not in this. But if you did, for God's sake don't use a bulb. Maybe less than a clove.

If I have it on hand, I add a drop or two of fancy honey (no more), and a drop or two of fancy olive oil. If I don't have the fancy stuff, I leave it out. The flavors here are pretty delicate.

Secret Number Three: I blend the pitcher with an immersion blender. There's no setting on the regular blender or a food processor that will get it to perfect gazpacho consistency -- when it turns pink and foamy on top, it's done, and is ready for salt and pepper. Tomatoes eat an insane amount of salt; it has to be done to taste.

If it needs thinned at all (it probably won't), Secret Number Four is, I add a drizzle of vodka. This is not like the Celery. If I have guests who are alcoholics, I absolutely leave this step out. A little club soda is fine. Then into the fridge.

Secret Number Five isn't a secret at all; it's clearly visible in the pictures. I rim glasses in lime juice and dip those in herbed salt and pepper.
The herbed salt and pepper is: any fancy finishing salt or kosher salt; fresh ground pepper; lime zest; any leftover herbs and cutting celery; celery salt.

I garnish with anything I'd use to garnish a bloody Mary (a lime slice, a Rick's Pick, mean beans, an English cucumber spear, etc).

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Why I Hate Paula Deen 

Why I Hate Paula Deen

"If you're comforting yourself with the dictum 'Never trust a thin chef,' don't. Because no stupider thing has ever been said. Look at the crews of any really high-end restaurants and you'll see a group of mostly whippet-thin, under-rested young pups with dark circles under their eyes: they look like escapees from a Japanese prison camp -- and are expected to perform like the Green Berets."

--Anthony Bourdain, Medium Raw

I have never eaten in a Paula Deen restaurant and have no plans to. I have never bought a Paula Deen cookbook, or prepared a Paula Deen recipe. (I have eaten Paula Deen pies prepared by others, and they were delicious.) I have certainly seen her shows, and I cringe every time I hear her food referred to as "Southern," as I have noted her fond over-reliance on Southern cuisine's trashier cousins, Velveeta and canned soup.

My mother (a virtual prototype of her target demographic) despises her, because when she and my stepdad ate at her Savannah restaurant, a staffer there told them that whenever a meal had to be comped (for whatever errors or complaints), that comp ticket came out of the staff's paychecks. Now, that might or might not even be true. That could've been a rogue employee who was just mouthing off about his boss. But it left a sour taste in my Mom's mouth; screw with the help at your peril.

Little Cuba

Tonight, BFF94 invited me out to dinner with a group of her friends I mostly hadn't met, but had heard great things about. They were all going to meet up at this little Cuban sandwich shop I've been hearing about for years, but had never gotten around to trying. It's in the suburbs, so nobody ever invites me.

Hold the Mayo

"[He] brought me to his apartment, and without even inquiring, set to work frying in olive oil two eggs with the darkest orange yolks I had ever seen, then sprinkled them with a coarse sea salt and cut a slice from a thick, crusty loaf of bread...I was craving salt and starch. Eggs and bread. In the evening, we walked to a restaurant near the Acropolis. Without wasting a moment on that awkward and tedious conversation that will unhappily precede so many hundreds and hundreds of future restaurant meals in all of our lives -- whether to share or not to share and whether or not there are food phobias and dietary restrictions among us -- [he] simply ordered food for the table without even consulting a menu, and so set the standard for me for all time of excellent hospitality: Just take care of everything....I forever want to arrive somewhere hungry and thirsty and tired and be taken care of..." 

--Gabrielle Hamilton, Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef

I am the farthest thing from a picky eater. It's not just a culinary position, but an ethical and cultural one. Even if I had a real food allergy, I would probably willingly die of anaphylactic shock before I would ever insult a host's offer of, say, Strawberry Nut pie.  If someone goes to the trouble of making something for me, by and large, I will eat it.  If somebody orders something for me, I'll eat that too. 

I've always hated green peppers, but I would never pick them off a pizza. Still, lots of people cook with them. The net result is, I eat a lot of green peppers. Big deal. At this age, I'm probably never going to cultivate any affection for them, but so what. I hate beets too, but hardly anyone cooks with them so it rarely comes up. Again, I wouldn't pick them off a salad. I file this under being "a Good Sport," (and I pride myself on being A Good Sport). About the only thing I will not eat is mayonnaise. If it's sneaked into some potato salad or something, and I don't have to taste it, fine. It's not a religion. But I do not like it. Everyone knows this. In its unadulterated state, it's culinary kryptonite to me.

Like anybody, I have tastes and preferences, but I generally never let them impede anyone's impulse or prerogative to feed me, which is what I love more than anything in the world (second only to: feeding everybody else). I make decisions all day, every day. I'm not working in a steel mill, but at the end of that day, I will still be hot and thirsty and hungry and tired. I do not always want to be the food boss.

Last weekend, the electronics husband was in town and inevitably wanted me to decide about dinner. The first decision was an easy one -- an absolute veto on going out. I would wither, dehydrate, and hook up my own IV before I'd stand in line with a crowd anywhere on a Friday night. This was followed by a flurry of texts and calls about what he could order and then pick up. Again, this would've involved a line (a line he'd have had to stand in -- not me -- but I'd have still had to make up my mind, and then wait on it).

The last time he picked up dinner, I wanted a Big Salad, so of course he brought home BLTs. Fine. I love BLTs. But these had mayonnaise on them. They usually come with mayo unless you tell them to leave it off, but they asked him, and he instructed them to leave it on. It was months ago, but I was mad then and I'm mad now. In the spirit of being A Good Sport at the time, I even tried to separate out the bacon, lettuce, and tomato and just make it into a Big Salad, but the mayo had touched (and polluted) every crevice. They really slathered it on. I ended up throwing it all in the trash, which he should've taken for the major Statement it was, because I am not someone who throws away food, let alone someone who throws away bacon.

His defense was that he had a vague memory that I had a thing about mayonnaise -- but he couldn't remember if it was pro or con. Then, he said, he remembered that he'd seen it in the fridge door, so, he reasoned, it must be ok. I had one response, which detailed, at great length, how many times in my writing career I've gone on the record about the only thing I will not eat. I had another response about how many years he has seen me go out of my way not to eat mayonnaise. And I had a third response, which was, "That. Is. Not. Even. Mine." He thought that was ridiculous, arguing, "What do you mean it's not YOURS?! This isn't college. We're not in a dorm. YOU are the only person living here." (That's just stupid. There's always Diet Coke in my fridge and I haven't had a Diet Coke in 25 years. Other people might get thirsty. And they might like a nice Diet Coke. I have it on hand because I am a Good Sport.)

So, when he called Friday, I had no faith in his ability to even procure anything edible. The whole process got so irritating, so fast, it was just easier to make dinner, with no input from him. In fairness, he would've picked up any dinner from any menu in town, or any ingredients from any venue I specified. I was just in no mood to direct.

All Spring, the gay husband and I have been undertaking endless date night culinary experiments based on whatever's fresh at the market. He doesn't care as much about cooking as the rest of us, but he has a fine appreciation for ingredients -- he hunts and gathers the most intricate flavor profiles he can find, then brings home the raw materials for me (or the husband-in-law) to transform into "food." His big finds last week were some unbelievably sweet watermelon (which became a watermelon/feta/baby arugula salad with balsamic vinaigrette) and Cipriani's pasta (which became a pretty interesting variation on bagels and lox when stirred into creme fraiche, capers, and salmon).  The consensus is, they're both dazzling, but easy dishes -- three ingredients each. The hard work (conceptualizing) was already done, so even factoring in a ten minute walk to and from disco Kroger for extra salmon and feta, it was maybe a 20-minute proposition to then come up with Friday dinner. In other words, no trouble at all. You'd think.

After dinner, we went upstairs and curled up to watch Fear. I spent the first half hour tossing and turning trying to get comfortable and just could not. My shoulder was all out of whack probably from a week of heavy digging in the garden, and by the time Marky Mark had gotten to second base with Reese Witherspoon on the rollercoaster, my whole right side had gone from a dull throbbing ache to searing pain. So, I turned off the movie and told him I needed to sleep off this horrible injury...and he had to get out. If I have to suffer, I have to do it in solitude. I need the room.

As he was getting dressed, he was obviously irritated with me -- not mean, but not exactly a Good Sport either. I told him I'd make it up to him, but I was otherwise unapologetic.

The next day, the BFF was appalled at my rudeness, and wondered aloud why I had to kick him out to get to sleep (there's a spare bed and sofa). The gay husband backed me up though, "yeah. I can see that," he said, as he gestured dramatically, "your pain would need to take up the entiiiiiiire house." It actually occupied more like a city block, but I didn't think I could plausibly get the neighbors to evacuate.

Now, consciously, I don't think my poor achy shoulder had anything to do with what was or wasn't for dinner. I certainly wasn't making it up, and it's still pretty throbby. I'm usually not the passive-aggressive type, I'm more the aggressive-aggressive type. Subconsciously, I make room for the possibility that maybe I just needed a Big Salad. 

On the Half Shell

photo courtesy ChefTom

Last night I ate my first raw oyster in thirty-odd years. The last time I had them was as a 12-year-old girl on one of our annual New Orleans family vacations, at either Messina's or Visco's (I think both are out of business now).

On this particular trip, we had already feasted on beignets at both Morning Call and Cafe du Monde, muffulettas at Central Grocery, and a crawfish boil at a roadside stand that also served cayenne-injected fried chicken. Despite our pre-teen status, we had all sipped Pat O'Brien's hurricanes out of boxes on Bourbon Street (just a taste). We had gone crabbing in the lake using shrimp for bait that was considerably nicer and fancier than any shrimp I'd ever eaten until then. And then we ate the crabs.

I bring all this up, somewhat defensively, by way of pointing out that I was not then -- nor have I ever been -- a fussy, or picky, eater. I was excited about going to an oyster bar for dinner. I wasn't exactly sure what one was, but I was certainly game.

I remember sitting in a row with our host family, pulled up to something like a trough. The "bartender" shucked the oysters and shoved them out to the waiting patrons as fast as he could. His name was Danny, and I was competing with my arch-nemesis (and host daughter), Laura, for his attention. I think the only garnish was lemons, though maybe there was cocktail sauce or even mignonette. Having sucked the heads of a countless abundance of crawfish at lunch, I was undeterred by their unfamiliar appearance and ready to have at it.

And then Laura threw me off, with a long-winded, complicated explanation of how to eat oysters ("you have to swallow them whole and whatever you do don't bite into it; slurp it, don't suck it" etc etc). She then slid one over that was about the size of the palm of my hand, and said, with more venom than good-hearted mischief, "cheers!"

I tipped up the shell and slurped for all I was worth, sucking down a few salty drops of ocean and the beginning of what would've been the oyster, when halfway through the operation, it became clear that its little valve (or whatever) was still attached -- about the time I bit down, despite the express instruction not to. It hurt my teeth so bad I saw stars, and that was nothing compared to the awkwardness of having my meal half in and half out of my mouth -- not going down, but not exactly coming up either. I was mortified. Bested by my dinner, I dropped the whole thing into the trough, and drank an entire glass of ginger ale to cover the tears of pain and embarrassment. I was slightly consoled when Danny shucked forth a practically microscopic little pearl and handed it to me later in the evening, though we'd been cautioned ahead of time that the oysters we eat are not the same oysters that make jewelry -- all I know is I got one, and more importantly, Laura did not.

Unfortunately, since I didn't get right back on the horse -- there were no more oyster bars that visit -- I never really got around to overcoming that initial incident. They don't show up on that many menus this far inland, so it's never been much of an issue.

So, when they appeared at last night's birthday dinner -- where I was surrounded by friends who wouldn't judge -- I had a taste from Chef Tom's oyster platter. They were salty and icy and spicy and slid right down with a slight clean taste of lemony ocean.

I think I'll have another!

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The Last Day of Summer

My Favorite Photo from This Summer

"I'm beginning to think that the secret to happiness is to befriend those who can cook and [who] enjoy entertaining."

--author Kyra Davis on Twitter

"Packing up. Summer officially over for us. All the things I said I'd do are left undone."

--Judy Blume on Twitter

As a kid, I would write at least ten times as much as the other kids when we were assigned "what I did on my summer vacation" essays. They would turn in a page each, maybe, whereas I would turn in a crudely-crafted book, subdivided into smudged makeshift chapters: Here is where I went; this is what I read;  these are the movies I saw; here's a list of my new records; and This is What I Ate. 

This summer, I did not finish the book  that was scheduled to come out October 1. It is highly unlike me to miss a deadline, but this is the year the hard drive crashed.  I'm trying to let that go.

I went to my first baseball game this summer. The pink bat is definitely the best part.

maybe a third of the books I read this summer

I read a lot of books this summer, I just didn't write any. Some I've mentioned, some still merit their own posts. About half of these would've been fine on Kindle. My two favorites, so far are, Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House and the "Off the Back of a Truck" chapter of How Did You Get This Number.

It was a terrible summer for movies. (See also: The American, or better yet: Don't.) I liked two: Please Give [Blu-ray] and The Kids Are All Right.

I moved.

I had a lot of company, which inspired me to be a little more socially organized. One houseguest insisted "just do what you would do if I wasn't here" -- but I had to admit that, left to my own social devices, that would consist entirely of a Closer marathon. 

I had a brief and minor summer Romance with a sweet guy where we both just sort of ...drifted off. He doesn't live in my neighborhood. He isn't on facebook or twitter, which I love -- but if it wasn't for a couple pictures in the blackberry, it means I would almost swear I hallucinated him. He said and did only nice things to and for me -- all things that made my life easier and not harder, without one second of drama (unless you count the time Lowe's was sold out of the particular garden hose we went shopping for) -- so I am counting him in the Success column. He was almost crazy-big and strong, and beyond good-natured -- repeatedly lifting very heavy things for me and putting them down right where I asked him to, so I will always remember him fondly ("Up, Guenther. Up!")

More significantly, I finally found a sofa, or more accurately, a sofa found me. That means, over the course of an entire summer, one room is finished at the new place. One. Still, if my cousin is to be believed, it is the sort of room straight men everywhere dream about.

I grew a decent tomato and basil crop, despite the drought. The tomatoes turned all of us into farmers this year. Harriette turned to me at a birthday dinner a few weekends ago and sighed, "I still have to pick tonight, do you?" Yes, I do too, I said. It's like we all agreed to take a second job this summer, and that job was tomatoes. Not that we take them for granted. It's a safe bet we'll all be reminiscing fondly about them at the next New Year's Potluck.

I killed off everything else, including the late great lemon thyme. R.I.P.

Despite ambitious plans, I did not accomplish one sprig of non-edible landscaping -- not one hosta, not one lily.

That makes it the summer of slack.

The Best BLT

BLT subbing in gorgonzola crumbles for mayo, and lettuce-leaf basil for lettuce. Plus heirloom tomatoes.

The Next Bourdain

 "He speaks as if not releasing an album is just laziness on her part, as if people just walk in off the street, lay down a dozen or so tracks, and hand them over to eager radio stations."

 --David Sedaris, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

I called my Dad today to wish him a Happy Birthday. I wanted to get him a copy of Anthony Bourdain's new book as a present -- but he refuses to read. Because he can't see the print...and refuses to wear reading glasses. New music is also out, because he can't hear either, but refuses to get a hearing aid.

He is, of course, surprised to be celebrating a birthday at all this year, as he spent most of the Spring planning his funeral.

It took a lot of probing to get to the root of that particular obsession with death, but after a long inquisition, he finally admitted that he thought he'd had another series of heart attacks. (None of which merited a visit to the e.r., or even the doctor, because, "what are they gonna do anyway?" I had to admit I didn't know, exactly, but that might be because I didn't go to medical school.) After a few dozen more questions and a couple hours of online research, the best diagnosis I could come up with was an inflamed phrenic nerve. The best treatment I could come up with for that was Advil -- which promptly cured the symptoms. He said he only kept his annual cardio appointment at all so he could tell the doctor he'd been "googled" (which apparently set off gales of hilarity and laughter among the nurses, if you can believe his account). 

I told him all about the new book, which seemed to set off a fit of initially inexplicable indignation on his part. "Do you think your baby brother's read this new book?" he demanded. I said I didn't know. Probably not. He hasn't said anything about it to me.

"Well," he said patiently, as if explaining something so obvious he couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to me, "don't you think that would be the perfect job for him?"

What would be the perfect job for who?

"The. Travel. Channel." (oh? well, duh?) "You know your brother's going to Budapest here in a few weeks, and he just got back from Turkey, and they need somebody besides just Bourdain. They don't have anybody else who knows anything about food. Just that dumbass who's always eating grubworms or some shit like that." (I've never seen Andrew Zimmern, or the show Bizarre Foods, but I know all about it from my dad -- he apparently watches it just to stay in rage-practice.)

His tone of righteous outrage makes it sound like he just can't believe my brother hasn't stopped at the airport to pick up a small camera crew on these trips -- as if maybe that was just negligence on his part... that he can't be bothered to broadcast his adventures on the appropriate network.

As if I'm opposing his case as to just how right my brother would be for the gig, he argues, "don't you think he has just as much cheffin' experience as Bourdain? And you know he can talk to anybody. You should see him whenever we go out to eat. The whole kitchen comes out to talk to him. Next thing you know he's behind the bar making everybody drinks." He adds admiringly, "That kid never met a stranger." (It's true. He's both an accomplished chef, and delightfully gregarious. I have no rebuttal argument for whatever is coming next.)

"So," he asks, finally warming up to his point, "couldn't you get him that job?" hesitating only slightly, clearly not wanting to doubt my powers of influence, "or maybe one like it?"

I started to formulate a lengthy response in my head, but thought better of it. Not wanting to disappoint him, or the land where he lives -- a land where my brother just hasn't gotten around to applying for a job hosting his own food travel show, and I just haven't gotten around to forwarding that application to the appropriate media overlords --  I say what any good daughter would on her father's birthday.

I tell him "I'll look into it."

Still More Things That Are in My Stomach

If it's Memorial Day weekend, it must be time to play Things That Are in My Stomach right now.

Are there any dark-chocolate pecans?

Yes.

How about Mingua Beef Jerky?

Of course.

Any Sour Apple SourPatch Straws?

You bet. 

Wasabi cashews?

I can't imagine why not.

That's just a small sampling of the Smugglies Rachel and I stuffed our purses with, prior to her hosting a girls and gays night out for Sex and the City 2 --attendance at which has become the sort of thing one has to justify and explain. (Though from what I read on Facebook, Paul Rieckhoff was seeing it at the exact same time I was, so I'm not apologizing.) A 40-something single woman writing about Sex & the City? Why not just slap some Cathy cartoons on the fridge and adopt a houseful of cats?

As reluctant as I am to devote space to it, the backstory  is pretty simple: I started writing a column around 1991 [here is where a click would indeed be helpful, and if anybody figures out a way to read those old floppies, I'll be sure to post it]. My column, then and now, wasn't really about anything, per se, but providing a "Single perspective" was one of the reasons I was asked to write it. Candace Bushnell started writing the Sex & the City column circa 1994 (no shortage of links there). I still occasionally get asked if her column inspired mine, and I always assert the timeline defensively.

Somewhere around 1998, HBO kicked off the series, hewing fairly close to the source material, and season one was abysmal -- self-conscious and contrived. By season two, the writers had switched from a "based on" to an "inspired by" approach, which is when the show sharpened up. (Favorite episode: Season 4, My Motherboard, Myself, not just because I lived through it. )

The first movie was not exactly Oscar-material, but the central theme of heartbreak and healing was at least a little beautiful -- Samantha spoon-feeding Carrie because she hasn't got the strength or will to eat is a universal moment in the lives of girlfriends. Everybody takes to their bed at some point; everybody recovers.

The sequel is more of a trainwreck. It's culturally insensitive and out-of-touch, but Michael Patrick King has always been those -- somebody has usually just been around to rein in his drag show tendencies. In this, nobody did. It's not always good to be King. What Sex & the City 2 misses most of all (in addition to an Editor) is The City. The series took road trips too -- to L.A. and at the end, to Paris -- and those episodes were jarring. You can take the girls out of the city but you should never take the City out of the girls, as those episodes did (and as the new movie does).

In the sequel, each one of them is written as a caricature that takes the character's limits to the most absurd conclusion. Always the most trying of the group, Samantha is now the saddest -- she's not amusingly outrageous, she's just crude and vulgar. The series used to know the difference. Poor Aidan is reduced to a plot device who no longer sounds (or acts) like himself. Carrie is the cliched defensive 40-something who doesn't want kids,  but has to preface every answer to that inevitable question with "oh we love children, butttt....." Why? It's perfectly ok to not want kids and to not like kids. At all. (A quick glance at Charlotte's crop is ample justification for admitting that a lot of children -- like a lot of grownups -- are just assholes. And usually, they're stickier.)

That said, a bad movie can still make for a fun night out. I met new girls and gays. I got quality time with my own girls and gays, and my BFF. The bar, as usual, ran out of most of the food we wanted (prompting one order revision along the lines of  "Crab cakes." "We're out of those." "Then I'll have a Woodford Manhattan.") Pink panties were passed around the table, and I'm relieved to report, they weren't mine (one Mom was returning them to another Mom, after her three-year-old son had apparently charmed the other one's daughter out of them). It was too hot and too crowded and my feet hurt, but I was still where I wanted to be -- which is the absolute best thing I can say about being single -- I usually am right where I want to be, right when I want to be there. I like it like that.

That's my unidentified thigh crammed into the booth.  What wine goes with watermelon sour patch kids? I don't know, but something about the salt in a margarita offsets the tang nicely.

In real life, of course I have my own Big and my own Aidan (probably every girl does), but I was happy to leave them both at home (separately) in favor of some all-too-rare girl time. In real life, the now ancient question -- "which Sex and the City character are you?" -- is as frayed and cheesy as the franchise, which is somehow showing an almost Vaudevillian, burlesque warp and wear. The long-held critical wisdom, going all the way back to The Simpsons, is that the four women really add up to four sides of one gay guy. The one guy happens to be Michael Patrick King, who apparently has an affinity for the old Bob Hope road movies, and "comedy" so dated it would make the borscht-belt circuit sound cutting edge. It's been described as farce and/or satire, but that's giving it too much credit for being in on the joke, when it doesn't seem to be.

The series (and now the movies) took a lot of criticism for lack of realism, but as far as I know, it was never meant to be a documentary. The size of the apartments?! The cost of that bag with those shoes?! Who cares.

The biggest fantasy element to me was the idea that four girls kept making time to be girlfriends even when marriage, kids, and careers intervened. I have not always been that lucky -- and when I am -- I try to take time to be appropriately appreciative.

We Eat Animals

"On the second, third, fourth, and fifth days, our friends Sam and Eleanor brought us food. Lots of food. Far more than we could eat: lentil salad, chocolate truffles, roasted vegetables, nuts and berries, mushroom risotto, potato pancakes, green beans, nachos, wild rice, oatmeal, dried mango, pasta primavera, chili -- all of it comfort food. We could have eaten in the cafeteria or ordered in. And they could have expressed their love with visits and kind words. But they brought all of that food, and it was a small good thing that was needed."

-- Jonathan Safran Foer, Eating Animals 

Every single time we have a potluck (today was the fifth this year), someone proclaims midway through the first plate, "THIS one is the best ever." And they are always right. Because we up the ante every time. I have had to stop saying anything about "THIS" being the "best bite of food I have EVER put in my mouth," because it is starting to sound like hyperbole (but it has been true every time I have said it this year).

So far, it's been my goal to just make something that would actually get eaten, and at least there was a dent in today's shrimp and grits. [Photo by Chef Tom.]

I've read three food books in the last few weeks: Elizabeth Bard's Lunch in Paris; Cathy Erway's The Art of Eating In (inspired by her blog, Not Eating Out in New York), and now I'm finishing up Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals -- the one that everyone says turned them vegetarian halfway through.

I'm still an omnivore -- but Foer's book came up a few times during today's potluck/housewarming brunch. Along with Hannah Arendt's Origins of Totalitarianism; Monsanto as thinly-veiled in Michael Clayton; "Hoarders;" and 52 Loaves: One Man's Relentless Pursuit of Truth, Meaning, and a Perfect Crust. (Here's the npr interview that came up -- I haven't read the book yet, but plan to.) The first guests arrived at 11 am and the last left at 9:15 pm, so there was a lot to cover.

We didn't have any vegetarians today (sometimes we do). We could probably best be characterized as Michael Pollan-Moderates, though I don't think any of us found anything new in Food, Inc. Factory farming is a disgusting, unhealthy, reprehensible business. We all know a lot about it and we all do our best not to subsidize it, to varying degrees. (Even if you could get beyond the bad politics, bad economics, and disease of factory farming, no one could doubt its culinary crimes -- it tastes like what it is: wretched and hateful). My Dad is a lifelong farmer and utterly committed carnivore (with the triple bypass scars to show for it) and he still won't eat chicken. He's fond of saying (with some drama) that if you opened a can of chicken soup in his kitchen and he "had to smell the stench of misery that went into that can," he would "throw up." I know people who gave up bacon after Food, Inc. -- but not chicken. Though I didn't learn anything I didn't already know, at least maybe Foer will school a few on what a joke most "free-range" labeling is. (He gives "organic" far more of a pass than I would.)

At any rate, our now-monthly gatherings have developed a set of rules -- all of them related to snobbery, and none of them sociopolitical. Non-Foodies are allowed to attend, but they are limited to contributions of ice and liquor. There are always a few offers to "pick something up" (presumably a Kroger pie), but no one is allowed to pollute our Food Religion. Every single thing on the table is homemade. Every single thing is a labor of love representing the best effort possible to outdo our neighbors and make everyone sick -- sick -- with envy. Oh sure, you can pick up dessert... if you want Rachel to have an aneurysm right in front of you.

It was an impressive turnout, given the epic -- nay Biblical -- rains. A few maybes stayed home to mop up their flooded basements (but Maybes don't get invited back anyway), but it was otherwise a full house and a full menu.

Mostly, I just spent the evening trying to think up stuff I could slice with my new deluxe $437,000 housewarming-present Williams-Sonoma mandoline from the FoodGays. (Now I can stop relentlessly borrowing theirs -- though I will always be a Special Occasion user, whereas I suspect theirs gets a routine workout.)

All I can say is: watch your fingers.

Bye Disco Kroger

Tonight's the last night I live at the Disco Kroger. And, to be honest, I am in a state, and furiously counting my Rainman toothpicks.

When my college pal Mary called a few minutes ago to volunteer a spare truck to tomorrow's moving process, she asked what I was doing, and when I told her I was saying goodbye to the DiscoKroger, she responded, without a moment's hesitation, "You are such a freak." (Not many people can say that to me, but we've known each other since we were 17, so she's grandfathered in.)

My BFF is a bit more restrained, but the implication's the same. I think what she said was that, while she often accuses me of having high-class problems, this is what she calls a No-Problem Problem.

As she points out (fairly enough), since I can still step into the road and see the DiscoKroger from the new place, it is not entirely accurate to suggest that I am abandoning it. True, but it's not the same as having Kroger in my pantry -- where I can walk anytime I want and get whatever I want, at 2 in the morning. When she asked what the last thing I bought at two in the morning was, my instant answer was: Limes. I run out of them all the time, and it's a source of singular comfort to me that I can just walk next door at any hour of the day or night and get more. You'd think I have scurvy or something. (She brought several bags to Easter brunch, which did ameliorate the panic somewhat.)

My gal Rachel also adds reassuringly that since the new kitchen has twice the cupboard space, maybe I won't need to go to the DiscoKroger 7 times a day. I hope she's right.

God I hope she's right.

Timing. Timing. Timing.

Right now, I'm a woman with no home -- wandering between the purgatory of not entirely moved in/not entirely moved out. The facelift isn't finished at the new place, but the old place is slowly migrating over. I split my time between the two.

Unfortunately, life moves on without my permission. People expect to drop by. They must be fed. The fact that you have no shelter to offer them is irrelevant. (All my parents have visited copiously in recent weeks.)

Socializing does not stop.

Boys keep asking me out, and the temptation is to say No, give me a week and I'll be all settled ..... then I notice how extravagantly tall some of them are and I reconsider. I already got burned in January by not gettin' while the gettin' was good and Bobby Donuts disappeared , only to turn up a week later Drinking-for-Charity with the girl who had enough sense to say Yes when he asked her out. (I am still mad about that.)

On the other hand, where do they pick me up? Where do I live? There is no operating kitchen. "May I offer you some raw meat and an Ale 8?"

As my gay husband points out, our lives are based on the ILLUSION of spontaneity and unpreparedness (while neither one of us is capable of either).

What on earth do I put in the fridge of a largely empty house that doesn't seem contrived? I've asked this several times lately.

There were a LOT of recommendations.

Chef Tom's response was "chic, or homey?" My answer was "Marxist." His instant return text was: "pellegrino, white wine, a good block of cheese, Mexican coke, baquette strewn haphazardly on the counter, thrown there as if bored with it."

Yes. I  have been able to plausibly pretend that's how the new and empty kitchen looks --- just as soon as I threw away the moldy pitcher of Sangria leftover from Easter (triple bagged and hidden at the bottom of the Herbie) -- which comprised the entire contents of the fridge before it was staged, aside from the Ale 8 (for the interns) and raw meat (that's mine).

Beverages? It was agreed that Beer's more butch, but I don't drink it so I don't know what to buy. I think I have interns who buy PBR, but I'm pretty sure they're being Ironic... I don't know what the proletariat drinks, and I am the proletariat. (I know it's not Crystal Lite. Not if you ask my mother.) There's copious amounts of bourbon, but it just doesn't seem quite ... casual enough. Most everybody who drinks bourbon drinks it like they mean it.

Chef Tom added, "Maybe a cured meat of some kind...as if an unplanned picnic on the Left Bank could occur."

I typically don't even let a prospective gentleman caller see where I live for months, much less mid-move, but sometimes it's unavoidable, and it's one of those insane game-changers where the chaos and accidental intimacy somehow vaults you past first date straight to the fourth month of living together. Underwear on the floor. Three stages of drying laundry stretched across two bathrooms. It's savage really.

It's been so overwhelming, I've barely had a spare second to even write any of this up -- for every date I've actually mentioned, there've been half dozen that have had to go unremarked (in fairness, I usually stop after first dates, before the material gets very entertaining)-- which, everybody has agreed, is a good thing.

As one of my girlfriends observed, at some length, "Don't blogiterate these guys prematurely!" When I point out that they're not avid readers and that I purposely keep it vague, she accused me of poking the word "Lucky" in the eye Three Stooges style, adding, "they will FIND your blog. Their GRANDMOTHERS will find your blog. And unless you start writing in Farsi about endangered marine mammals, you need to remember: it's the Internet, NOT an encrypted C.I.A. file."

In my experience, it's all a negotiation -- better begun early than late. My willingness to negotiate increases in direct proportion to the hotness of the prospect, along with the depth of my affection and/or attraction. If I'm not getting material, I must be getting something  better in return. Like, snow shoveling in the winter.... lawn mowing in the summer... Herbies hauled to the Curb.... that kinda thing. I am more shockingly easy than one might imagine.

Alpha/Beta Cooks? I think I'm both.

"True love is like a salesman at Home Depot. It only comes along once or twice in a lifetime so you gotta grab it. Acknowledging the power of love doesn't make me less of a rationalist, it makes me more of one. 

 --Bill Maher

Chatting with one of my college buddies today, she was commenting at first on how "normal people" respond to cute, cuddly things (I think it was babies).... and then she re-phrased it, probably out of sensititivity to not offending me, and modified, "I mean in general, well, mammals, except for you.... they just dissolve and go all gushy when they're confronted with the babies of any species...Unless they're a Predator... Or you.... Not that I think you're a predator." (I didn't think anybody suspected me of eating anyone's young, and I took the observations good-naturedly. I knew what they meant.)

It's a fair assessment and well-acknowledged truth that I'm not a very emotional or sentimental person -- part of it's the inner Rainman -- and part of it's just personality/nature/nurture. But there are exceptions and they manifest themselves in odd ways sometimes.

Tonight I started reading The Art of Eating In, Cathy Erway's blog-inspired book on "How I Learned to Stop Spending and Love the Stove."  In the book, she references a 2007 NYT article about alpha/beta couples in the kitchen. I was surprised to read about all the conflict those couples had, finding that I can flip fairly comfortably back and forth between alpha and beta, despite my usual control issues. Especially in the kitchen.

Like when my brother was here this past week, I was relegated solely to the role of sous chef. I washed and roasted tomatillas; buttered and toasted bread; that kinda thing.  You can read about our 2008 Christmas Dinner Collaboration here.-- where he taught me one does not exit the kitchen without calling out for permission first, "Bathroom Break, Chef?" (The Chef says "Aye.") I love my brother; he is a chef and I am a cook; and I am happy to take orders from him.

Maybe not everybody feels this way, but I am deliriously happy to be in the presence of people who are smarter than I am, or better than I am, at anything. I love to learn new things and the presence of excellence excites me. I do not feel threatened. I do not feel insecure. I feel elated. I don't even mind being told what to do. When the collaborations are instinctive, everyone's game gets elevated and it evolves into a fine-tuned power-ballet, with no conflict at all -- just everything stripped down to the best, raw components of art and architecture.

Food might be THE love of my life -- and I am  always happy when I run across someone who will love it with me, whether he's the boss or I am. Just like a regular mammal. (I'm keeping the Remote though.)

http://www.nataliedee.com/index.php?date=031710

Feed Me. (Please.)

I was not raised to be a woman who raises her voice. So I was none too proud of myself when I found myself yelling across a parking lot yesterday. "Mike! Miiiiiiiiiike! Mike: do you have a couple convicts I can use to move a fridge?!"

"Whaaaaaaat?"

"A Refrigerator! I need to use your convicts. To Move One," I screamed back. (Like a goddamn fishwife you might say, and you'd be right.)

Mike's one of my office neighbors, and he is always rushing somewhere. I don't know his number or anything; I just have to run him down where ever I find him. Sometimes that means chasing him down the street screaming. He is the source of anything and anyone worth knowing -- particularly, how to get convict labor to pick up heavy things and carry them. For not very much money. (I don't even know where they keep the convicts, but Mike does.) The conversation ended with him saying he'd find some of them, and then they'd come find me, and then they'd come move the fridge.

It's the spare Fridge that currently lives in the basement and needs to go live in the utility room at the new house. I could just leave it behind, but it's shocking how much and how often I use it for overflow cooking and freezing. The idea of having two kitchens in full-blown transition for two full weeks is crippling for my inner Rainman. Worse, I realized the contents of both fridges had severely deteriorated during "The Month I Took Nothing But Broth," and currently adds up to half a jar of XoChitl (so-cheel) salsa, a bottle of Sriracha, two limes, gorgonzola cheese, and three pounds of Amish butter (I'm not an animal) -- in short, stuff that I could put on food, if I ever got any food. I'm too paralyzed to re-stock, because which kitchen should I go to? Civilization as I knew it was clearly collapsing.

That's around the point that I came home, curled up in a ball, and began rocking myself while singing "Tis a Gift to be Simple." (Perhaps I was gently weaving a broom. I can't be sure.)

And then, I abdicated and delegated. I realized there's no reason for me to run my life when there are so many people close by who could do a much better job at it. So I put the word out that I was putting myself in their capable hands til after The Move (it took on capitalization this weekend). My BFF called this morning and asked for clarification. She thought (not without some justification) that it might be a metaphor. Once she realized it was real, she got on board and began asking around about condiments (she does not typically cook, nor would I expect her to), and luckily my cousin stepped up to remind everybody "thou shalt not mention mayonnaise."  (I hate to let a date order it on a burger across the table from me, because some of it might actually get on mine.) That's about it in terms of things I don't eat: mayonnaise. And Beets.

Today I came home from a day of plumber-wrangling (one step away from installing "FannyCam" at the new house) and found an amazing quart of Aztec Chicken Soup, accompanied by a text from my Publicist and FoodGay Michael Jansen Miller "ChefTom just dropped off Banjo Broth(-ish) at Deck Formerly Known as Relevant."

I hadn't thought of that, but it's true. We now have a new Deck of Depravity (and the new one has a View... directly into the third floor of the Swanky McSwankerton house behind us).

All I know is today, the Plumber made friends with the Painter. And now I have to hope they don't ally and oust me in a bloody coup. I sort of have visions of the two of them living there together. With my dogs.

So far so good. But if things get much more chaotic, I might have to activate the Guard. (Can I do that?)

Martha Stewart says: Dispatch the Cock.

"...Seconds later, Martha Stewart regains her composure, flashing the subtly supercilious grin that has helped her conquer the American bourgeoisie...To anyone that knows her work, the news that Martha Stewart is a domineering control freak will hardly come as a surprise -- control, after all, is what Stewart sells."
--Spy Magazine, July/August 1996

I am an out-of-the-closet Martha Stewart viewer for too many reasons to count (a long way from the days of my "Is Martha Stewart Living?" column). I love her cooking segments (of course they're derivative, as Spy Magazine charged in 1996; that's kinda the point); I love her imperiousness; I love her for returning from prison to grind her enemies' noses into the dirt. I love it when she gets all visibly uncomfortable with the huddled KMart Masses who built her empire and seeks refuge at Macy's. I love her inability to conceal her contempt of has-been food "personalities" like Emeril, which she barely bothers to disguise, because he is (at the moment) making her money. (I still think buying him was a bad business decision shoved down her throat by her irritating Chairman Charles Koppelman).

That being said,  I've gotten behind this season since she switched stations in this market and they exiled her over to a cable number, and I keep forgetting she's on. I usually don't watch the holiday shows anyway (I hate crafting), but I TiVo'd yesterday's episode because TooMuchSexy Thomas Keller was on. I had just read the new Esquire feature from Ryan D'Agostino who cooked from Ad Hoc the night Thomas Keller came to dinner and it's added considerably to my already-rich library of fantasies, culinary and ...otherwise. Keller told Martha he's never spatchcocked. He made leek bread pudding instead. But here is a very old Esquire link to a Thomas Keller Thanksgiving. It involves mayonnaise [my personal kryptonite], but Keller would never steer you wrong. He also showed Martha some of his "lightbulb moments," like how to spank a pomegranate (thank you, Chef...speaking of fantasy: otherwise).

But she kicked off the first segment by showing Meet the Press's David Gregory how to spatchcock a turkey:

"Now, you know what it is to spatchcock a piece of information, right? To interpose something unexpected? That's called spatchcocking...It's an 18th century term. It's said to be Irish in origin. The theory is that the word is an abbreviation of 'dispatch the cock... Which...is a Bird. You can say it...it's a word. [Not one giggle or titter. The audience has clearly been briefed.] It's a way of grilling a bird after you split it open, down the back, spread the wings, spread the legs, and put it in a rather compromising position."

The butchered product almost puts one in mind of her spineless husband Andy who left her for her 20-years-younger assistant. (Or, as Spy Magazine put it: "not to be confused with the famously well-hung Police guitarist of the same name.")

I love Spy almost as much as I love Martha, but their big 1996 beef with her seemed to be that she didn't actually do all the legwork she chronicled in her magazine and on her show:

"Without her downtrodden legion of assistants, people are beginning to realize, Martha Stewart would probably be as helpless around the home as the rest of us -- just a lot less fun to be with... 'She goes on TV and says, 'I found this,' when actually someone on her staff of 50 found it,' says a former Living employee."  [emphasis added]

Seriously? I don't think we're supposed to take "hands-on television" quite so literally. If Martha isn't out personally plowing the back-forty before breakfast, it's ok by me. Oprah hired a dog nanny to raise her puppies and nobody bitched (pardon the pun). Does anybody think she's hanging out in the greenroom backstage passing out the Gatorade? Oprah ended up in a lawsuit over her stupid "aHa moment" catchphrase. My Wildest Dream? Here's a hint: it is NOT a Pontiac. (You get a car! You get a car! Oh Please. You get a Commercial! YOU get a commercial! How's GM doing now, by the way?) I can't stand Oprah. I find her smug -- the very personification of Condescension masquerading as Warmth. Martha doesn't bother to fake it. I can get behind that. As Spy put it, "If you respect Martha Stewart, respect her because she knows there's a sucker born every minute. Don't respect her because you're one of them." That's A Good Thing. If Control is what she's selling, I'm buying, and it's a bull market.

I'm not cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year, but I don't want any readers to feel suckered out of a Thanksgiving column. The guys over at The Bitten Word have posted their rendition of Martha's spatchcocking, along with this helpful video:

In Vino Veritas

Last night was "nibbles" at my neighbor Kate's house where we all got to meet her childhood pal Wendy, and taste her her wines from Australia. "Hers," as in: Wendy made them. (I think her husband helped, but still....) She's a winemaker, and they have about 100 acres (or 30 something hectares, or 130-something hectares... I got kinda lost in translation).

I was especially impressed that Wendy managed to get our tasting supply into the country, because I recently saw Bottle Shock and had the impression you could only transport two bottles at a time. (Alan Rickman shoutout to Rachel -- I consider Alan Rickman to be Rachel's property, sorta the way Sam Shepard is mine.) I had the Pinot Noir and found it precocious, but not pretentious... sporty, yet insouciant... sardonic, but not smug -- much like me. All I know is it held up very well to the plateful of wasabi tenderloin biscuits I ate.

I am trying very hard to take up drinking. I don't wanna end up face-down in a gutter or anything, but I do consider wine to be culinarily significant and if you're gonna take food seriously, you oughtta know your way around a bottle or two.

A fellow guest at the party was trying to give up smoking, and I felt bad for her, because it's my understanding that wine makes you want to smoke (so I expect I'll be taking that up around 2010). She said it was getting easier with the help of ..."Vitamin X," to which I expressed inadvertently loud incredulity. "Really? Ecstacy helps you give up sssssmoooooking?" That stopped the conversation for a few minutes til she clarified that "Vitamin X" is just Xanax, and that I'd probably learn about that when I was her age. (She didn't know I woulda ground benzodiazapenes into my childhood Cheerios if I'd been allowed, but I really did think "X" and "E" was what "the kids today" called Ecstasy.) I also felt sad cause she can't watch Mad Men while she's trying to quit smoking. Then another lady said she can't watch Entourage cause she's trying to quit smoking pot. I assumed most people had given it up cause it got so douche-y.

There were about a dozen of us girls last night. Kate and Wendy are English, but if I'm remembering correctly went to Catholic school together in Bahrain. Wendy had a scholarship to Cambridge in the Classics, but got married and had 4 kids in Holland with her husband before moving to Australia. Another lady was Swedish; another married to a Brit... and so on.

The only thing I could think of to conversationally fall back on in such a transcontinental crowd was, "What do your roosters say?"

[I got that from David Sedaris, in Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim: "'What do your roosters say' is a good icebreaker, as every country has its own unique interpretation. In Germany, the rooster greets the dawn with a hearty 'kik-a-riki.' Greek roosters crow 'kiri-a-kee,' and in France they scream 'coco-rico,' which sounds like one of those horrible premixed cocktails with a pirate on the label. When told that an American rooster says 'cock-a-doodle-do' my hosts look at me with disbelief and pity."]

Now, I'm not a total dumbass -- I didn't ask this completely out of context. We were talking about one of the ladies at the party who raises chickens in her backyard downtown -- which I thought was illegal (awesome, but illegal)-- and it turns out it isn't. You can raise chickens downtown, but not roosters. (Everyone else was far more up to date on the city livestock ordinances than I was, which was kind of embarrassing.) The problem is, when you order up baby chicks, you can specify hens, but inevitably, a rooster or two sneaks in. When they're babies, they look pretty gender-indeterminate (now this, I did know, having been raised on a farm and been disappointed by many a crop that grew up to lay no eggs, which was just one of many of my failed brilliant get-rich-quick childhood schemes).

So, I thought "what do your roosters say?" was a perfectly natural conversational segue... but it was initially greeted with uncomfortable silence, as if I'd asked somebody how much money they make. I didn't know it was so personal, or maybe just stupid. And I was just starting to awkwardly explain about David Sedaris, when the Swedish lady gamely stepped right in and said, "Kookly-Oooo." I think there was maybe an umlaut or something in there somewhere, but you get the idea.

She also reported their dogs say "voof, voof." How great is that?

Dick and Julie

"I think the dozen people who click onto your website while they take their coffee breaks will manage to carry on if they don't get to read about your sauteing thorny vegetables in butter for one more day."
--Julie and Julia

One of the things I got for my birthday was the book, Julie and Julia, which I just started. And I'm far enough in to have read the part where she confesses to not knowing who Richard Hell is.

I know who Richard Hell is. I've even talked to him on the phone, during which I took cheesy delight in addressing him as Mr. Hell. (I knew his real name of course -- he's FROM here -- And it isn't Richard. And it isn't Hell.) I thought it was pretty funny, and I'm pretty sure he thought I was a dork, but the surprising thing to me was, either way, he was a good sport about it.

And either way, the book has made me think that there are probably A. people who know who Richard Hell is, B. people who don't, and then subsets of people who would admit to that, and then people who would not.

I figure I'm admitting to reading Julie and Julia, which is far more embarrassing than any of the above. But I wanted it, cause I love food and I love writing about food, and it's entertaining, even if it isn't well written. By and large, it reinforces the fact that there are often BIG differences between bloggers and writers -- some people are both (Dana Jennings is one of my favorites off the top of my head), but a lot of times they're the exceptions who prove the rule. This girl Julie, who wrote the book, doesn't pretend to be a writer -- she's actually an Actress -- employed as a Secretary.

(At my first job, I was a writer, employed as a "marketing assistant," which is the euphemism my Engineer Boss was kind enough to call me, because he felt bad about calling anyone with a master's degree his secretary. It was the 80s. I think he felt extra bad because his daughters both had liberal arts degrees like mine and I'm sure he was hoping someone would take pity on them someday and give THEM a job. All I know is, he worked harder than any other boss I've ever had. He was the BEST boss I have ever had. He is the Boss by whom I went on to measure every other Boss. And I was very, very glad to make his coffee. My time in carpetland with him was time well spent. At my next job, I had a real, old-school secretary, who knew actual shorthand and actually preferred to be called a Secretary and not an Assistant. I put in four years at that stop in carpetland and it was much, much harder. But I also made a lot more money.)

----
I was just thinking, on my last birthday, I didn't even know HOW to blog (I did sorta know how to MICRO-blog, which is what I was still calling Twitter at the time, and that's because I was doing it wrong).

I still think Writers and Bloggers have very different jobs, and I'm still sorting out the two. And by "writer" I don't mean "novelist" -- which is the kinda thing any Writer will be asked about sooner or later if they go into writing as a profession. (No, I don't write Fiction. At least not on purpose. I don't think it's any more or less legitimate, or interesting, or serious than non-fiction -- just different.)

I'm also not a Journalist -- they have schools for that, and I didn't go to one -- I'm just a writer who sometimes writes about the news.

I love to cook -- but it doesn't make me a chef. They have schools for that too. Again, I didn't go to one. Chef Baby Brother did. That's why we call him Chef Baby Brother.

The blogging thing? Eh. I'm still figuring it out as I go.

Thanksgiving's Best

"When I worked in a grocery store, I loved nothing more than watching last-minute shoppers panic. Sometimes even now, I'll pop into a grocery store, on a holiday, just for my own amusement. Thank you, lady trying to buy a turkey on Thanksgiving!"

--Amy Sedaris, I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence

I realize I am someone who is lucky to be invited ANYWHERE, and especially lucky to be invited anywhere for the holidays. Right now, I am on my way to Thanksgiving at my friend Kimmy's -- she has been up since "dark o'thirty" preparing our feast.

I don't have a lot of "holiday classics" in my culinary repertoire (frankly, I consider them a little beneath me), but dues must be paid, and I dusted off the two absolute BEST Thanksgiving menu items I could muster.

The first is an undisputed crowd favorite: "Maker's Mark Sweet Potato Souffle." The title pretty much says it all. The second, is more controversial: my Dad's dressing.

It's very traditional (again, an area where I'm outta my league): cornbread, sage, celery, onions... you get the idea. I have only made it a few times in my life, but I have honed it. It is (if I do say so myself) perfect.

It's controversial because EVERYONE has their OWN version of stuffing -- what we call dressing in my family (presumably, because we don't stuff it into the cavity of anything, lest we all spend the holiday weekend at the E.R.; we're A. alarmists, and B. hypochondriacs).

Some people use oysters, some people use fruit and walnuts (what we call "waldorf salad"). Some people use bread, and on Martha Stewart just this week, somebody used canned cling peaches.

Yeah, it takes all kinds. Except: I think it DOESN'T.

It isn't just that theirs is different, everyone has to concede that mine is BETTER. My college roommate suggests, diplomatically, that when it comes to classics (meatloaf, turkey, chili, etc.) EVERYONE assumes theirs is "best."

Well... Maybe they do.

But they would be what I would call: Wrong.

(They gotta know if it starts with opening a can of anything or includes "cheez" in the title, it's NOT RIGHT. They might LIKE it, but it's not RIGHT.)

When I get invited somewhere, I bring my "A" game. If my dressing wasn't the best (not "my" best, but THE best), I would bring something I was better at. There is no diplomacy in my kitchen. There is no diplomacy in my CD collection. Or on my bookshelves.

BEST is meant to convey something different than "favorite."

For example, I had a good time at "Mamma Mia" this summer (good company, good times, beautiful day, Kentucky Theatre), but the BEST movies I saw were Before the Devil Knows You're Dead and The Savages. I loooooved Death Race, but it wasn't the best anything except the "best chance to see Jason Statham without his shirt on before the next Transporter.

I could go on... And I will...

But dinner awaits one block away.

And they'd BETTER like this dressin'.