WRITTEN ON January 23rd, 2012 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Avocado, Beans, Beef, Chocolate, Dinner, Mexican, Soups, The Big Game, Tomatoes
Anyone who knows me knows that I am a purple-bleeding, jersey wearing, never-miss-a-game-watching, die hard Ravens fan. But it wasn’t always thus.
Growing up, Baltimore was a town without a team. Sure, we had the Orioles, but we were a football town at heart, and in the fall we had nothing but the Redskins and the shadow that the Colts had left behind. The stadium and training facilities were filled only with the ghosts of seasons past. Most of our parents and grandparents were still getting over the loss of said Colts, who up and left in the middle of the night in ‘84, leaving a town brokenhearted and confused. Indeed, I grew up regaled with stories of the good ‘ole days at Memorial Stadium. My grandfather had two season tickets. He never missed a game. He’d take with him my grandmother, mom or uncle for company, along with wool blankets to spread out on the bleachers, where they’d sit eating hot dogs and peanuts, and spend the day rooting for Johnny U and company. Father knew best, the Colts always won, and my mom, a daddy’s girl if there ever was one, basked in the glow of an afternoon spent watching her hero watch his heroes. It was a simpler time.
In high school, football was the sport that the guys played to keep in shape for lacrosse (soccer was a distant third). Sure, I went to the games and cheered on the current crush’s team, but I paid less attention to what was happening on the field and more to what the wind was doing to my hair. I have a distinct memory of David Freedlander (a childhood friend who was not on the team) trying to explain a fourth down to me at a Gilman/McDonough game. Let’s just say it took fifteen minutes and I still didn’t get it (nor was I listening.)
True, I did attend one of the Ravens first ever pre-season home games. It was August of 1996, at good old Memorial Stadium. They played the Packers, I lusted after Favre (my how the mighty fall), we all drank too many beers and payed little attention to what was actually happening on the field. I headed for college a couple weeks later, where I happily left behind the “all sports, all the time” mentality that I had grown up around in suburban Baltimore. I majored in Art History, got a weird haircut, smoked a lot of cigarettes, and skipped a lot of class.
The next Ravens game I attended was during my senior year of college, on Christmas Eve, dragged by my parents. It was a 1:00 game, freezing cold, and like most college aged girls I was not in the least bit prepared for it (what, like, wear a parka and snow boots? Please. What if I saw someone I knew?) In the first quarter I got a cold beer spilled on my head and nacho cheese on my coat. I left in a cab at halftime vowing never again to spend a second with these violent, boorish red-necks who were swathed in purple camo fatigues, flapping their arms like angry birds and yelling at the ref to “move those chains.”
So imagine my surprise when, upon moving to New York City the following fall, I found myself “watching” (or should I say ignoring) football on several Sundays, mostly as an excuse to swill beer and down wings at The Park Avenue Country Club or Mad River Bar and Grille.
It began in the fall of 2000 as an entirely social endeavor, a way to stay connected with those Baltimore-ons who were living in the city and an excuse to deter the Sunday blues (or drown them in Bud Light). Then, when I was least expecting it, the Ravens got good. So good, in fact, that we played in the Super Bowl against the New York Giants. All of a sudden, it was fun. I found myself organizing a group table at Brother Jimmy’s on the Upper West Side for the Baltimore crew to watch the Ravens hand it to the G-men. Damn, that felt good. We swarmed out into the night, caw-cawing our way through hordes of bitter Giants fans, bar hopping down Amsterdam dressed in purple and black. At that point, I’d only been living in New York City for four months.
I met my now husband that following summer and quickly realized that the fastest way to this man’s heart was not in fact through his stomach (damn, I totally had that one covered!) but through his sports addiction. Sure, I’d watched a few games and knew the difference between Ray Lewis and Jamal Lewis, but really, I was a strange girl in a strange land and completely, utterly screwed. Since I pretty much decided after our first date that this was the man I was going to marry, I knew I had to get this right.
For the first couple years, we watched football every Sunday, religiously, at The Firehouse on 85th and Columbus. We had a raucous bunch of stalwarts, fans from all over the map, from the Ravens (woot, woot!) to the Bucs, the Niners, the Packers, the Eagles and the local Jets and Giants. We met every week, dragging ourselves in from a late Saturday night, noshing on wings and nachos washed down with pitchers of beers and spicy Bloody Mary’s. This was my first real NYC “crew,” and I came to know and love them while watching hours of NFL games.
Over the years, people went their separate ways. Many of my Baltimore friends left the city to move back home. All of a sudden I found that I was the last man standing, a lone Raven among a sea of blue and green. I think this is when it really clicked. My devotion to my team was solidified not because I was immersed in hometown antics, going to every game, participating in purple Fridays and listening to the local Baltimore sportscasters. I fell in love with my Ravens because they provided a weekly link to a place that’s in my blood. I may live in New York, but my own personal roots will always furrow a little further south, and they are tinged with purple and gold.
It’s been eleven years since I started really watching the Ravens play every week. A lot has changed. I’m no longer a twenty-something boozing it up on Sundays in the city (these days I do my boozing in the ‘burbs.) My life is a lot more settled, and probably a lot more predictable than it was a decade ago, and I’m ok with that. Turns out my plan worked – all that football watching helped me snag the guy I knew I was going to marry. Sundays have become our favorite day of the week, and watching football is our “thing” that we do together, as a package deal, rooting for each others teams even when no one else will (he’s a Niner’s fan. Yeah. Bad day in the Shanley household.) I fell in love with my husband over a decade of football Sundays, and he supports me and my team and my right to watch, even when I’m the only girl in the room.
But I got a lot more than that. I also became a card carrying member of Ravens Nation, and it turns out I’m a particularly passionate one. I have had my heart broken more times than I can count over the last several years. I am a shameless Steelers hater, on principle alone (it has nothing to do with the fact that Rothlisberger is a dirty bum and Hines Ward smiles like the clown from a certain Steven King movie). I have more purple in my wardrobe than I care to admit. I have, on several occasions, worn my pajamas out of the house purely because they are covered in Ravens logos. I am proud to say that I wake up on many Sundays and reach for a Todd Heap jersey that I wear all day long, much to my husbands chagrin. I actually know how the game works. I know the players. I’ve learned about the league and about the other teams. I’ve had my own fantasy teams and done pretty well with them without help from a guy. I actually watch the games by myself when the hubster is away. In every single neighborhood I’ve haunted for the past decade I have found a watering hole where I show up every single Sunday to cheer on my team from afar, because they don’t show my game at home.
I do not miss a week. I do not like it when the other wives and girlfriends show up and try to talk to me while I’m watching my team, assuming I’m like all the other girls and just there to hang out. I do not like it when they aren’t showing my game on an acceptable screen in the bar. I do not like it when the Steelers beat us, and I often stalk out and go home alone to get in bed or stress eat.
And (ok, here goes) I cry when we lose in heartbreaking fashion.
Last night, through a flurry of sobs that lasted well into the second game, my love for my Ravens was reaffirmed. We outplayed the Patriots and should have won that game, God dammit. We played with the heart that we have always been known for. We are not a pretty team to watch. We do not have legions of supporters outside of the people of Baltimore. We don’t have GQ cover boys as our quarterbacks. We do not have an army of bandwagoners or fake “fans” who tune in a couple times a year or for championship games only. The commentators don’t ever wax poetic about our team, salivating like underfed dogs over the legacy or the dynasty or some such nonsense. We win ugly and we lose ugly. But we play with an uncrushable spirit. This has always been the Ravens style. It’s maddening, it’s hard to watch, it’s nail biting, and its infectious. To be a Ravens fan is to know that the calls don’t always go your way. That football, like life, is sloppy and can’t always be tied up with a neat little (purple!) bow. There aren’t always Hollywood agents and super models waiting for you when you get home.
Our team, like our city, is gritty and imperfect, and we love it that way. I’d rather be a Ravens fan than any other kind of fan in the world, today more than ever. They have allowed me, for over a decade, to tune into my hometown every Sunday from afar, to show my stripes and cheer for a place that I love and have not left behind, but where I probably will never live again. They have taught me the love of the game. They have taught me to Believe.
I’ll take my football, like my life, with a little dirt in the eye, and I’ll do it (mostly) without whining. Thanks for another great season, Ravens. I can’t wait for next year.
Chill-free Sunday
Sore loser, I mean, Slow Cooker Beef Chuck Chili (serves 6)
2 lbs beef chuck, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
2 cups unsalted beef stock
1 1/2 cups chopped tomatoes (fresh, canned or from a box such as Pomi)
1 dark lager beer
1 red onion, diced
1 fresh jalapeno, diced
2 cans chopped green chilies
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp chili powder
2 tsp cumin
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 cup freshly brewed coffee
1 small handful bittersweet chocolate chips
2 tbsp finely ground cornmeal or masa harina
1 can each pinto, black and kidney beans, drained and rinsed
Add all ingredients except for cornmeal and beans to slow cooker. Turn to high and cook 4 hours. Remove beef chunks to a large bowl, shred with two forks. Add shredded beef, beans and cornmeal to slow cooker, cook on low for another hour. Serve with sour cream, cilantro and diced avocado.
Stress eating, with avocado on top
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (0)
WRITTEN ON December 19th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Holiday
I spent the morning wrapping gifts and drinking coffee out of a Christmas mug that I inherited from my mother-in-law, Carol. This probably doesn’t sound significant to most people, but it was actually an incredibly emotional couple hours for me.
We lost Carol to colon cancer at the end of August. She was 63 years old. This will be my husband’s first Christmas without her, and I’m acutely aware of this. For months I’ve been doing the “I’m not hovering hover,” trying to gauge his emotions while also trying to keep things as routine and normal as possible. When the person you love most in the world loses a parent, you kind of go into overdrive. You do everything humanly possible to make it easier on them. You plan and host the memorial service lunch. You clean out their apartment and deal with the lawyers and the real estate agents so your dear one doesn’t have to. You keep the spirit of that lost person alive as much as you possibly can, even if it means decorating your house with a tacky Christmas village you’d never have imagined you’d actually care about the year before.
But in doing all of these things, I’ve found that I really haven’t thought that much at all about my own sadness. Until this morning.
I’ll come right out and say that my mother-in-law had a tendency to drive me nuts a lot of the time. This post would be completely disingenuous if I didn’t admit that up front. To me, a young woman raised in a time and in an environment that allowed me to believe that anything was possible for women, that confidence is a girls best friend, that I was smart and worthy and capable, Carol often seemed a victim in her own life. It irked me that she depended so much on her grown sons for her own happiness (how obtuse of me to presume to know anything about the complexities of motherhood.) That she often seemed scared of her own shadow. I felt like she was a bystander in her own life, waiting for other people to include her or make plans for her. Always doing what everyone else wanted to do. Too often it felt like she turned things down before really even trying them, sure she wouldn’t like it, positive that that’s not how she was supposed to do things, stymied by how it would look or what other people thought. She was as traditional as they come, and it often seemed as though she was from my grandparents generation, rather than the hippie culture to which my own parents subscribed.
When I met her, I was a 23 year old wild child just out of college, living out loud in New York City, millions of girl friends at my finger tips and the stories of Carrie Bradshaw and crew filing my head (a more shallow, vapid role model there never was.) She was a 53 year old mother of three “adult” boys, recently divorced and trying to make a new life for herself. Hindsight being 20/20, I now realize she was terrified, but at the time, and to my trumped up, impenetrable ego it came across as weakness and timidity, and it bugged the hell out of me. Looking back, I kick myself for being so insensitive to many of her greatest worries and fears. How could I have judged how she felt or acted, when our experiences had been so vastly different?
The bottom line is that she loved with a huge heart, and that she raised three boys who know how to love well and fully. A gift that cannot be overstated. Her gift to me, given before Kevin and I even met.
Over the decade that I knew Carol, I came to see she was a lot more layered than I first gave her credit for (isn’t everyone?) I like to think I did a little layering myself, as I grew up and into true adulthood. I came to see that despite our differences, we had a great many things in common. I used those things to form the basis of my relationship with her, and now I cherish them as fond memories of the woman who so lovingly raised the man that I couldn’t live without.
Carol loved Christmas and everything about it. She loved gift giving and making merry, celebrations and being surrounded by friends and family. We were much alike in this way. She loved nothing more than spending a day in the kitchen baking all kinds of sugary treats to lavish upon guests, especially her children and grandchildren. She wrapped Christmas gifts carefully and beautifully, often including some special touch like an ornament with the recipients name on it. And she made a mean Manhattan.
While cleaning out her apartment this fall, I came across her massive collection of Christmas wrapping and ribbon. To me, this is the true spirit of my mother-in-law, and looking through the huge boxes full of tissue, raffia, wired bows and 35 different kinds of cards this morning, I found myself longing to talk to her for the first time in many months. Turns out that in trying to make sure my husband was ok, I didn’t even realize that I missed her in my own right.
I want to sit with her and tell her all the gifts I got for hubster this year. I want to tell her about how her future grandson is kicking up a storm and making my bladder seem the size of a grain of sand. I want to snap a pic of all the gifts I just wrapped and text it to her, because I know only she would truly appreciate the symmetry of the massive green bow I tied, or my use of her red and green holly twine. I can picture her face lighting up at these little anecdotes. She loved nothing more than being kept in the loop, feeling in touch with the people she loved in her life.
As I wrapped this morning, drinking coffee out of her Vermont village Christmas mugs and listening to Perry Como (her favorite) crooning “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” I felt as though she were looking down on me, guiding my choice in matching bows and nodding in approval at my use of a snowman card here and there.
I suspect I will wrestle with guilt over her loss for a long time. While I tried my utmost to be there for her whenever she needed someone, I fear that I was never as emotionally available to her as she needed me to be. I will always wonder if I could have been more generous with my time, if I should have picked up the phone and called more, or included her more. These are the things we grapple with after losing a loved one. Did I do enough? Was I there in the right way?
I’m always inspired by stories of giving at this time of year. News reports of Kmart secret Santas, Toys for Tots bins over-flowing, a run on turkeys for the local food drive. Ever the optimist, I truly believe that Christmas puts people in the spirit of giving, and that the act of giving is what makes people so merry throughout the month of December. But this year, do me a favor, dear readers. Rethink generosity. Look around at the faces of the people closest to you and imagine how you could be more generous of spirit with those you see every day. Include the woman who has been trying to finagle her way into your coffee klatch – maybe she needs it more than you do. Smile at the family members that drive you to drink (come on, we all have them) and swallow the nasty comment that bubbles its way to the tip of your tongue. Be magnanimous when your mother calls you for the tenth time asking what you want for dinner a week from now, and let your dad drag your suitcases in from the car, even though you can perfectly well do it yourself. Try to recall what it was like being a teenager when your 15 year old niece or nephew sits sullenly in the corner playing on their new iPhone. Let your parents hug you even if you’re 45 years old. Lend your laugh to socially awkward Uncle Mel’s jokes, rather than rolling your eyes and looking for the door.
Be grateful for the people that you love in spite of themselves (and remember that they love you in spite of yourself, you brat). This year, give of your soul and your love and your time to those closest to you, because someday you’ll wish they’d call you to annoy you just one more time.
Merry Manhattan
Carol’s Christmas Manhattans
Carol would make these in a pitcher and chill for several hours in the fridge. Family legend has it she inherited the recipe from her brother-in-law Steve. Wherever it came from, it’s the only Manhattan I’ve ever liked, and boy do I like it a lot (not in my current state, however!). Sip it slowly in front of the tree, ice cold.
Mix equal parts Canadian Club Whiskey (this is important – other whiskeys and bourbons are too strong) and sweet vermouth (such as Martini and Rossi Rosso) in a small pitcher. Add three or four dashes of Angostura Bitters and several maraschino cherries, along with a healthy glug of the cherry juice. Muddle the cherries around in the pitcher to release their flavor. Chill for several hours, covered. To serve, pour over a lot of ice (crushed is better, if you have it), add a stemmed cherry and a small spoonful of extra cherry juice. Toast your loved ones and enjoy.
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (1)
WRITTEN ON December 14th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Uncategorized
A couple weeks ago I went to my doctor for a standard glucose tolerance test, which checks for gestational diabetes. Feeling lighthearted and utterly cocky, I had a late night snack of two mini-Snickers bars, the last vestiges of our Halloween stash, less than 9 hours before I was to get my blood taken. Big mistake.
Not so long story short, I ended up spending four hours last week in the Quest diagnostics lab, drinking ungodly amounts of syrupy sweet orange flavored swill and getting stuck in the arm five times. Honestly though, I think the worst part was that I was forced sit in the waiting room and listen to the drivel that is Fox News, followed by the Wendy Williams show (is “she” a woman or a man?)
This follow up test was ordered when I failed the first test by two measly points. Two points! Are you kidding me? I get that it’s better to be safe than sorry but come on. Two points? Even my doctor told me that he thought it was a bunch of bull. So, naturally, I made cookies in protest.
Now lets get one thing straight. I am not some goody two-shoes, gotta get an A, over achiever when it comes to test taking. In fact I’m pretty much the exact opposite. In college I was lucky enough to pass my classes and graduate in the requisite four years, but more often than not I was wholly unprepared, arriving at an exam having skipped the three classes beforehand, completely unaware that it was test day. Let’s just say there was a lot of winging it, and a natural talent for BS involved. You know that phrase never bull shit a bull shitter? I coined it. For real.
Having said that, when it comes to tests taken at the doctors office, I am a straight A student. HDL? Sky high. LDL? Lower than dirt. Blood Pressure? 110/70. Lungs? Clear. Cavities? None. So maybe I was a little cavalier about the damn glucose thing.
Alls well that ends well, I passed the second test with flying colors because I actually followed the directions and fasted for 12 hours prior to the test. My reward to myself was a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Not your average run of the mill chocolate chips. They’re made with vanilla soaked dried cherries, flakes of sweet coconut, lightly toasted walnuts and dark chocolate chunks. They’re the black tie version of your standard chocolate chip, and perfect for the holidays.
Growing up, my grandmother made the most insanely beautiful, impossibly delicate and incredibly labor intensive hand painted sugar cookies. She’d start the day after Thanksgiving; her kitchen and laundry room (storage and prep area) would turn into an all out cookie factory for the holiday season. They were treasured nuggets of buttery sweet Yuletide gold, and she earned herself quite a reputation as cookie maker extraordinaire. Those who were lucky enough to be on her list of recipients knew they had just received the holy grail of holiday cookies, not to be taken for granted. These cookies were to be savored, one at a time, slowly, and rationed with extreme care.
Sadly, when she passed, the tradition (mostly) passed with her. The cookies require so much work that my brave mother only makes a few dozen (still considered a Herculean effort) to be eaten on Christmas Eve and Christmas, because it just wouldn’t be the same without them. But gone are the days when we’d have an unlimited supply (Dot would make upwards of 100 dozen.)
When I first started dating that darling hubby of mine, I got the idea that I’d make Dot’s Christmas cookies for his family as gifts. We’d only been dating a short time, and it seemed weird to buy them gifts when I hardly knew them, but I wanted to show I’d remembered them in some way. Much to my chagrin, my grandmother rarely let anyone help, and my mom lives in Baltimore, so I was on my own. My teeny tiny New York City galley kitchen tuned into a veritable holiday mine-field. My poor roommates were banished entirely, for fear that they’d knock over the sprinkles, or spill the thin confectioners icing I’d use to paint the cookies into dozens of stained glass-like snowmen and wreathes.
Proudly, I presented the tins of cookies, tied with beautiful ribbon (I’m a sucker for big bows), to my then-boyfriends family members. My now-brother-in-law Brian accepted them graciously, and, I later learned, never even brought them in from the car, preferring to keep them to his sweet tooth-afflicted self. He apparently ate the entire tin of cookies while driving around the following day (he was a medical sales rep at the time, and spent most of the day in the car), one hand on the wheel, the other dipping into the tin and shoveling the cookies whole into his mouth, as if I had handed him a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Never bothering to look at or appreciate the beauty of a hand painted cookie. Sacrilege.
My father-in-law, who shall remain nameless seeing as he lives around these parts, accepted the holiday offering with a chuckle and the following comment “Great, as long as they’re not sugar cookies!” My heart shrank three sizes that day, and I slunk off, muttering “Bah, Humbug” and looking for a bowl of egg nog big enough to drown myself in.
Lesson learned. For better or for worse, I’d married into a family of chocolate chip men. Still, for years I tried to find a version of that venerated, All-American cookie that could be used for the holidays. To me, a chocolate chip cookie, while a thing of beauty in it’s own right, is an every day kind of treat. At Christmas, I want to make something a little more special, and I believe I’ve found it.
Ten years later, I’ve just about forgiven my beloved in-laws for their poor taste in Christmas cookies. Turns out I quite adore them, so it made swallowing my pride a lot easier. And hey, marriage is nothing if not a compromise. Besides, it’s the holidays. ‘Tis the season to be merry.
Christmas cookie redux
Christmas Chocolate Chip Cookies (makes 3 dozen)
Adapted from Epicurious.com
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 tbsp pure vanilla extract divided into 1/2 tsp and 1 tbsp + 1/2 tsp
3/4 cup dried cherries, roughly chopped
1 stick unsalted butter at room temperature
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1 large egg
1 cup semi sweet chocolate chunks
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 cup sweetened coconut
Preheat oven to 350. In a medium sized bowl, combine flour, baking soda and salt. In a small bowl, pour about 1 cup boiling water over cherries and add 1/2 tsp vanilla. Let stand 5 minutes. In the meantime, combine butter and sugars in a large bowl, mix on medium high speed until light and fluffy. Add the egg and the remaining vanilla, beat till combined. Set mixer to low, add in flour slowly. So not over mix- this should take no longer than 30 seconds. Once combined, gently stir in cherries, chocolate chunks, nuts and coconut. Drop dough by heaping teaspoons full onto a non-stick cookie sheet, 12-15 per sheet. Place cookie sheet on a rack in the middle of the oven, bake about 10 minutes until golden brown. Remove from oven, allow cookies to cool on tray about 5 minutes before moving them to a cooling rack. Bake rest of dough in the same way.
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (2)
WRITTEN ON November 20th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Holiday, Turkey
For any true food lover, Thanksgiving is the king of all holidays. The be all end all. The big dance. In short, it’s a game on, all out foodie bacchanalia, and the crown jewel is the turkey.
I’m not delusional. I realize that for most people, turkey is not actually their favorite part of the holiday meal. But Thanksgiving without a turkey would be like the Superbowl without a football. You simply must have it, and if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it well.
I’m a traditionalist when it comes to my bird. I’ve tried it all – brining, upside-down roasting, deep frying. Nothing says Normal Rockwellian Freedom From Want like a big breasted bird roasting in the oven for hours, emitting a pheromone-like fragrance that will have your family salivating and lining up for seconds (and offering to do the dishes later). It was how my grandmother did it. It’s how my mom does it. And that’s good enough for me.
Of course, long roasting can present quite a conundrum. The prized breast meat comes out dry as a bone, and the succulent dark meat (my personal favorite) is barely cooked through. So I’ve amassed some tips and tricks over the years that I’m now going to pass along to you.
My first foray into turkey roasting was during my senior year of college. My sorority (eeeeek, ok there, I said it) hosted a pre-Thanksgiving dinner for our senior sisters and all of the local alums. It was a 30 pound bird in a 10 pound oven, and it took about 8 hours and 15 phone calls to my mother. It also brought out the first hints of my control freak nature, dormant until then, when all the older alumnae showed up and immediately tried to swoop in and steal my gravy-making thunder. Narrowly avoiding an all out fisticuffs, I merely turned to the three women hovering over my shoulder and said in my most Dot-like tone (i.e. the tone you never mess with), “I’ve got this, thanks.”
Growing up, most of our Thanksgivings were spent on the road to New Jersey to be with my dad’s side of the family. So I had little prior turkey roasting experience when I took the plunge at Bucknell. But there were a few years after college when we stayed at home in Baltimore for the holiday, and I have warm memories of Thanksgiving morning with my mom, learning about stuffing and where to find the turkey innards that must come out pre-oven (hint, the innards are inside the turkey. Huh.) Once hubster and I were married, we started spending Turkey Day in the city, with his mom and brother. These were my first years of prepping and pulling off the dinner solo, and I’m glad these initial trial runs were only for four people. It allowed me to get creative with the bird, first brining, then roasting upside down. For our first Turkey Day in Huntington last year, we deep fried, which was a novelty. Of course, it rained, so we ended up setting up the fryer in the filthy garage, and stood around drinking beers and watching it fry like the good white trash that we really are. It was a complete and utter mess to clean up for an end result that was not really superior to the regular bird. I have to say I’ve never had a turkey disaster, but I honestly think some of these methods are just a whole lotta hoopla.
My main beef with all these new fangled poultry methods is that I’m a gravy junkie. If I could mainline it, I would. Most years I settle for drinking it from a glass. Seriously. There’s nothing you can’t fix with a good gravy, and if you brine or fry, you are severely limiting your ability to make just that. The brine ends up making the drippings too salty, and if you deep fry, you have no drippings at all. Case closed.
As for upside down roasting, it has its merits. Theoretically, it does keep the breast meat moist, that is if you don’t end up dropping the entire scalding hot, half cooked turkey on the floor as you try to flip the bird right side up. Consider this: I’ve jumped out of an airplane, but I think this method is a little risky. Nothing is more confidence shattering than mopping up splattered turkey with your tears of shame.
Remember that the turkey is actually the easiest part of the meal (unless you are a fan of canned cranberry sauce). Once you’ve got it all prepped and ready to go, you just pop it in the oven and hang out for 4 hours. With my tips I think you’ll be armed and ready for battle turkey. If all else fails, know that your family still loves you and keep a fully stocked bar…
1) Invest in a probe thermometer. Forget what your dear sweet granny told you about basting. It’s hogwash. The little amount of juice that actually makes it back up to the breast dribbles right off, if you’ve seared the meat properly, and the constant opening of the oven lowers the heat so that you’ll have to keep the bird in even longer. Longer cooking time equals drier meat. Aaaand, we’ve come full circle. A probe thermometer allows you to keep tabs on Tom without ever having to open the oven door, meaning the heat source stays constant and the turkey roasts for a shorter amount of time.
2) Prepare the gobbler the night before. Take said turkey out of his packaging, remove giblets and make stock Wednesday night. Rinse the bird, pat him dry, and leave him in a roasting pan uncovered overnight in the fridge. This will help dry the skin out, which comes back to searing 101. Dry meat gives you a better sear, thereby locking in the juices.
3) Remove the turkey from the fridge and let it come up in temperature for about an hour on your counter. Tuck the wings underneath the breast. Preheat your oven now to 425. Heating this early will ensure that it’s good and hot when you pop the bird in. In the meantime, prepare his massage oils. A stick of softened butter, and any combination of chopped herbs you like. I usually go with thyme, sage and parsley (so easy on the sage, it can get overpowering). Combine butter and herbs, and a few cracks of black pepper. Once the turkey has warmed up a bit, pat it dry again with paper towels. Season the inside cavity with salt and pepper. Then, very carefully, slide your fingers under the breast skin, without breaking the skin (if you break it, the melted butter will just run out of the hole). Rub half of the soft butter all over the breast meat, massaging it into the bird as lovingly as you would…well, fill in your own fantasy here. Rub the rest of the butter over the legs and thighs. Wash your hands and season the outside of the lubed up bird with salt and pepper.
4) No stuffing. The only thing that should be going into that cavity is a halved onion, some fresh herbs, celery, maybe a little garlic or some apple slices. The trick it that you don’t want to cram it too full. Pack it very loosely and come out with your hands up. Then, tie the legs together tightly and call it a day.
5) Put the bird in the oven. Roast at 425 for about 45 minutes to sear the outside of the meat and skin. Remove from the oven, close the oven door, cover the breast with tin foil and insert your fancy new probe thermometer into the thickest part of the thigh (think about where your thigh is the thickest and then look at the turkey. That’s right. The chub rub spot), making sure not to touch the bone. Then, turn the oven heat down to 325. Put turkey back into oven and roast until the alarm beeps (set it to 165). If you like crispy skin, remove the foil when the temperature reads 140. Figure on about 15 minutes per pound total cooking time.
6) Remember that just because the bird is out of the oven does not mean it’s done (also remember that when you are working on a project, you are not done, you’re finished. Only meat, fish or fowl can be done. Satisfied, Mom?). You have to let it rest to protect all of those juices you’ve worked so hard to retain. Remove the bird to a large cutting board and let him rest for 45 minutes to an hour. Check here for some easy carving tips. No one needs piping hot turkey meat, but if you want to warm it up (Kriss) before you serve, pour a little hot turkey stock over the top of the meat, and remember that all normal people with good taste will douse it in gravy anyway.
7) Think you messed something up? Make extra gravy and relax. It’s only food (at least that’s what Uncle Mel said when he screwed up the turkey. Funny, no one’s heard from him since…)
Full disclosure: this is a chicken
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (1)
WRITTEN ON November 13th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Breakfast, Eggs, Vegetables, Vegetarian
It’s been so long I hardly know where to begin.
My loyal readers (are there any left?) will remember that my last post, nearly three months ago, was on the eve of our family trip to Montauk. We were taking my mother-in-law Carol out east for a vacation. As I stated in the post, she had been battling stage IV colon cancer for two years, and it was becoming clearer to us that there would not be much time left. Little did we know how right we were.
Carol made it through the beach week, got to the family wedding, and passed away early the following week. Though we were able to get her to the beach a couple times in Montauk, and had some family dinners and one unforgettable sunset, most of us saw the writing on the wall by the end of the vacation. So, as the first trickles of rain from Hurricane Irene started clouding up the windows of an otherwise perfect weather week, we rushed back to Huntington to get Carol to the hospital. She fought for a few more days, through the huge storm that like some bizarrely timed metaphor swept through the town and left us damaged and powerless, and passed away two days later.
I think my hesitance to post here since then was due not only to grief and a sense that things just weren’t normal, but also because there was something so poetic about the fact that my last post, dated August 20th, was written in such a happy tone, and in my excitement to spend a week in a beautiful place with our family. I didn’t want to sully that image with what came next. I felt utterly uninspired.
And now here I am, three months later. Trying to help my husband through worlds of grief and still keep things as routine as possible. All the while, growing our first child in my belly, after so many years of wishing and hoping. The word juxtaposition doesn’t quite do it justice, to be sure. I’ve realized, especially in the last month or so, that there really is no normal. While we cling to loved ones and memories and hopes for the future, life goes on around us, waiting for us to chose to come back into it’s chaotic, dizzying, energizing fold. It’s there for the taking, as soon as we’re ready.
Last night we had dinner with good friends at our favorite restaurant in Huntington. Walking into Joanina, especially on a cold fall evening, feels like sinking deep into the warm folds of your favorite chair, only with better food that someone else cooks for you. It’s a Cheers kind of place, where everyone knows your name and they’ll magically conjure a table out of nowhere to make room for one more guest.
At dinner, we got into a rather existential discussion about organized religion versus spirituality. The hubster grew up in a very observant Catholic family, at 8:30 Mass every Sunday without fail, marking all the rites of passage with great celebration. I am the child of a lapsed Catholic (for good reason) and a relaxed Episcopalian (translation – C&E WASP). So, naturally, I myself was raised Presbyterian (until about the 6th grade when we stopped going to church all together, so now I’m just a heathen).
I have never begrudged my husband his faith. Indeed, I am proud of it. I know that he finds solace in attending Mass, the quiet and the rituals and the community. It will forever make him feel close to his mother, and it’s something I wouldn’t change about him. Ever.
I have always felt very spiritual in my own way. In my mind, Anne Shirley said it best when talking about where she’d most find God: “I’d go out into a great big field all alone or out into the deep deep woods, and look up into the sky…and then I’d just feel a prayer.” I’ve always felt that my God resides out of doors. I am overcome by a perfect beach day that smacks of briny air and glistening ocean, or on a lake in the mountains, the scent of pine tickling your nose and the only sounds coming from the fresh water lapping on the shore and the call of the loons. I have felt God on quiet snowy evening walks, listening to the flakes delicately fall to the ground as I come upon my house all lit up with candles in the windows, just waiting for me to come inside and get warm. I find Him in the face of my beloved husband and in the idea of this little baby boy whose February arrival is so eagerly anticipated.
This morning, I got up and walked to our local farmers market, my Sunday morning ritual. It’s very unlike my old haunt, New York City’s bustling Union Square Greenmarkets, but it suits me just fine. There is one small stall with 15 different kinds of local organic apples, one stall for the homemade pretzel guy, a fresh catch stall with gorgeous fish straight from Montauk’s baymen. An organic bakers stall, a free trade coffee place (perfect for chilly fall mornings), and a stall that sells just about the best strawberry jam I’ve ever tasted. And I always stop in at the last stall on the left, today filled with the dark leafy greens and squash and yams that are so abundant at this time of year. I loaded up my Cape Ann Farmers Market bag and made for home.
And as I trudged my way through the fallen leaves, weighed down by my loot, I realized that this is my church. The crunch, crunch of yellow and russet leaves underfoot, the halcyon blue sky overhead, the crisp fall air. The smiles of the other market goers, inspecting their kale and handing their rosy cheeked toddlers pink lady apples. The look of extreme concentration on the freckled face of the baker’s son as he diligently counted out my change. The sense of community I feel when I walk through these streets of old houses, some run down, some sparkling, all with their own unique history. The yelps of the kids across the street as they head out on their bikes, to destinations unknown, together and laughing. The bumps and nudges I’m feeling lately that let me know our own little guy is finding his way already, feeling out his surroundings and letting me know he’s ok with the gentle jab of an elbow, a toe. Coming up the walk to the home I’ve created with the person I love most on this great wide planet.
I know that things will be ok. I know that we will always remember Carol, and pass along her beloved traditions to our kids. We will keep her memory alive in these ways and so many others. I’ve realized over these last couple years that you cannot hide from life – it happens and it’s not always pretty and it’s certainly not always happy. But if you find that one thing, just one thing, that holds you steady, your port in any storm, you can and will be alright. I know that now. It feels good to be back.
Farmers Market Morning
Farmstand Eggs with Beet Greens and Toast (serves 2)
1 bunch fresh beet greens (green, leafy tops of beets), washed and sliced thin
4 farm fresh eggs
4 slices whole wheat toast, preferably fresh from the bakery
2 small cloves garlic, minced
1 pinch red pepper flakes
1 tbsp olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
In a medium sized saute pan, heat oil over medium heat till hot. Add garlic and red pepper flakes, saute about 30 seconds till fragrant. Add beet greens, season with salt and pepper, stir and saute till wilted. Divide beet greens between two small bowls, set aside. Put bread in toaster. Heat a non-stick egg pan over medium high heat till hot, coat with a bit of oil, butter or non-stick spray. Crack the four eggs into hot pan. Season lightly with salt and pepper. Cook to your desired temperature (I like over easy, which is about 1-2 minutes on the first side and then flipped for about 30 seconds, for a very runny yolk and whites that are just set). Slide eggs out of pan onto beet greens, two eggs op top of each pile of greens. Serve immediately with toast. Dip toast into beet green liquid and yunny yolks for the perfect bite.
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (4)
WRITTEN ON August 20th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Baking, Breakfast, Dessert, Fruit
I am headed to the east end of Long Island for one last summer trip. I have spent a decade of summers in Westhampton Beach, the first town in the Hamptons (and so un-Hampton-y that they actually don’t even list it on the map in most Hamptons publications). This year, hubby and I decided we’d like to venture further east, all the way out to Montauk, or, as the locals know it, The End.
Not being a native Long Islander, I’ve only been to Montauk twice, for afternoon trips. I have had the great good fortune to have other places to call home in the summers, but it’s always fun to try something new. Word around town is that Montauk is a pretty special place. I can’t wait to find out why.
Now that we live on Long Island, we wanted to try somewhere out east that truly felt far away. Westhampton is wonderful, but at just an hour from our house, it almost feels too close for a real vacation. The rest of the Hamptons were not on our radar. We wanted a laid back atmosphere, not the scene that Southampton, Bridgehampton and East Hampton provide. In my humble opinion, a beach vacation has no business mixing with fashion, nightlife, and $10 iced lattes.
Montauk is a vastly different place than the rest of the Hamptons. You can feel it the minute you cross over. All of a sudden the land goes from flat, sandy farmland to craggy, windswept cliffs and water on all sides, watched over by Montauk Light. The vibe is decidedly surfer meets bayman, a relaxed kind of place where you could easily head to dinner in shorts and flip flops, with sand still in your hair.
One of the things I’m most looking forward to is my annual hunt for east end farm stands. The produce in that area cannot be beat, and this is peak season. The north and south forks are littered with small farms, so the entire drive is dotted with family run farm stands brimming with tomatoes, corn, peaches, melons and blueberries. It’s a locavore’s dream come true, and yet another reason why it’s good to be a Long Islander.
I am always inspired to bake at this time of year, mainly due to the gorgeous fruit that only gets better with a little heat from the oven and a dusting of sugar. Perhaps I’ll try out this blueberry bread again. I made it last week and between my mother-in-law, my husband and myself, it was devoured in a day and a half.
This vacation is a special one. My mother-in-law has been valiantly battling stage IV colon cancer for two years, and we’ve decided she needs a break. So we’re packing up and heading east for a week of sun, fun, and most importantly, family. Arriving today will be a car full of five Syracuse Shanleys, three Shanleys from the city, and the hubster and I with the guest of honor. The week culminates in a much anticipated family wedding on Shelter Island, complete with cousins, aunts and uncles. Sounds like the perfect way to wrap up the summer.
Berry, berry good
Citrus Blueberry Bread
This recipe was adapted from a quick bread recipe in The Joy of Cooking
Preheat oven to 350. Lightly grease a 6 cup loaf pan
1 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup fresh squeezed orange juice
Zest of 1 lemon
6 tbsp unsalted butter
1/3 cup white sugar
1/3 cup light brown sugar
2 eggs
2/3 cup toasted pecan pieces
1/2 cup fresh blueberries
Whisk together flour, baking powder and salt in a medium sized bowl. In a small bowl, combine milk, oj, and zest. In a large bowl on high speed, mix together butter and sugars until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time. Alternating, add flour mixture and milk mixture, in 3 parts each. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold in blueberries and pecans. Pour batter into prepared pan, bake in oven about 50 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in pan 10 minutes, then turn out on a baking rack to finish cooling, about 1 hour.
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (2)
WRITTEN ON August 12th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Baking, Dessert, Fruit
I’ve just returned from a week in Rockport, Massachusetts, a little town on the edge of Cape Ann, about 45 minutes north of Boston. I’ve written about Rockport before, on several occasions. And for good reason.
I’ve spent every summer of my life in Rockport, in a house on a hill that was first purchased by my great-grandmother, Helena Meredith, as a fair weather escape from her home in Brookline. This original house was nothing more than a small cottage, unsuitable for winter, and had once been the blacksmith shop on a larger farm.
It’s since been rebuilt, but even now with four bedrooms and heat for the winter, it’s nothing fancy. Yet it houses the hallmarks of my youth, and for that, it is and always will be my favorite place on Earth.
Gone are the creaky old stairs, the dusty eves, the stinky gas range that had to be lit with a match – all major novelties when I was a kid. What remains are the objects that alone seem inconsequential, but together fill a house and make it so much more than four walls and a roof. Ancient, weathered novels occupy shelves with yellowed 70’s Jackie Collins trash and the ever resourceful Berenstain Bears. Mismatched bone china tea cups sit next to Roxbury Latin and Harvard cocktail glasses, both now forced to inhabit the same space as a New York Yankees plastic abomination, courtesy of my husband (oh, the indignity). Fraying, faded bath towels piled up in the linen closet still have my mother and uncles names on them from their camp days in Maine and New Hampshire. Dresser drawers that stick in the heat squeak loudly in protest every time they are opened, revealing loose change from who-knows-when and a musty summer house smell that cannot be replicated.
My great-grandmother’s guest book sits on the sideboard, documenting old addresses, the dates and details of decades of summer visits. It is filled with handwriting I love so well, my grandmother’s specifically, but also the 6 year old chicken scratch that later became my own mother’s hand. Still chicken scratch – indeed it is a family trait.
The flag presented to my mother at my grandfather’s funeral, thanks for service to his country during World War II, sits proudly on the mantle. His old “jackass pants” (the madras style pants that were his Rockport uniform) and a few cable knit golf sweaters still hang in the upstairs closet. I daresay they always will.
Across the dirt and pebble drive live my godparents, two of my most beloved family members. Their house sits on the slope that was once the chicken coop – though you’d never know it now – and is just about the most peaceful place I’ve ever been. Littered with knotted old apple and pear trees, a bench swing dripping with wisteria and complete with a Japanese style garden and pond, you can close your eyes and the only thing you will hear is the wind whispering in the trees, welcoming you home.
The barn and the original farmhouse are inhabited and have also been lovingly rehabbed, so the old Cleeves farm on Pigeon Hill is still brimming with life, these many years later.
From most vantage points on our hill you can see a scrap of water, the sparkling blue dotted with the white sails of the Sandy Bay Yacht Club sailing school. At night, you can hear the fog horn, its soft, low drone lulling you to sleep, calling you back from your brink and reminding you that you are safe here, at home.
Sweet Treat
Gregg’s Peach Kuchen
This is my godfather Gregg’s recipe. He is a fabulous baker and I am always stealing ideas from him. He taught me at the age of 9 not to be afraid of pastry, which has proved to be a valuable lesson in my life! He made this for one of several family dinners last week in Rockport. I have made a couple modifications, so here it is, “Dot” style.
2 cups flour
1/4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 stick butter
3/4 cup sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
5 ripe peaches, peeled and halved
2 egg yolks
1 cup heavy cream
Preheat oven to 400.
For pastry:
Sift together flour, baking powder, salt and 2 tbsp sugar. Cut in the butter until its crumbly and resembles wet sand. Press mixture firmly on bottom and up sides of a non-stick 11 inch tart pan.
For filling:
Arrange peach halves, cut side down, on pastry. Mix remaining sugar and cinnamon. Sprinkle over top peaches, bake for 15 minutes. In the meantime, beat together the egg yolks and the cream. After 15 minutes, remove kuchen from oven and pour cream mixture over tip. Bake for 30 more minutes.
Cool to room temp or chill. Can be made a few hours ahead.
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (3)
WRITTEN ON April 29th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Uncategorized
Like many Americans, I spent the morning in awe of the British royals. Everyone loves a wedding, and no one does pomp better than the Brits.
As it so happens, I’m working in the kitchen this morning on a bridesmaids luncheon I’m catering this afternoon. So it’s all wedding, all the time around here. As it also turns out, I’m feeling rather emotional today (nothing new). In fact, I’ve been welling up all morning. In a good way.
Kate (or Catherine, as they are now calling her) is the perfect princess. She displayed such incredible poise and grace today. I remember well the frenzy and pre-wedding jitters from my own big day, so I stand in awe of how beautifully she handled herself on such an incredibly large scale. Suffice it to say, she gained many new admirers today.
Underneath all the ceremony, I think what struck me most was the simple kindness that seems to run between the couple. William was dashing in red, but it was his deference to his new bride that had me riveted. There is such an obvious gentle concern for one another. I guess what I loved most of all was the simple fact that despite their royal stature, they’re really just two kids in love. Above all, it was a wedding, just like any other.
I was of course watching it on NBC (any excuse to hang with Matt and Meredith), and the whole thing was shamelessly sponsored by McDonalds. So the commercial that always makes me cry played incessantly all morning long. You know the one – the little kids looking for hope in their Happy Meals. “Hope’s good!”
On this morning, hope certainly is good. We live in precarious times. Storms ravaged much of the American south this week, and the images are shocking. It seems that every time we turn on the news, we’re bombarded by images of destruction, war, failing economies, or Donald Moron Trump making absurd statements that people actually seem to believe…
So it speaks volumes that so many people worldwide took such pride in a young couple getting hitched. Of course it’s Britain’s day. But this is a boy who we’ve all watched grow into a clearly very intelligent and gracious man (with fabulous taste in women), and today’s wedding provided a welcome distraction from our often dreary news. There will always be cynics and naysayers raining on the parade, but here on Dewey Street I choose hope.
Congrats to the Brits for giving us a reason to come together for a few hours and celebrate one of the purest joys in life – a good marriage. To Will and Kate I wish only what I myself have been so lucky to find. A true partner, and hope for the future.
I do
Shrimp Salad Puffs (makes 24 puffs)
1 recipe for pate a choux shells
1 lb steamed shrimp, chopped into small pieces
½ cup mayonnaise
3 stalks celery, chopped fine
¼ sweet onion, minced
2 tsp Old Bay seasoning
Make puff shells according to instructions. In the meantime, combine the other ingredients. Split puff shells and fill with a spoonful of shrimp salad.
BLT Tomato Bites (makes 20 bites)
10 grape tomatoes, halved and hollowed out with a melon baller
4 oz cream cheese, softened
2 tbsp mayonnaise
1 scallion, minced
5 strips cooked bacon
20 sprigs arugula
Chop 2 strips of bacon very fine and cut other 3 strips into small pieces. Combine with cream cheese, mayo, scallions, and black pepper. Fill halved tomatoes with cream cheese mixture, top with piece of bacon and a small sprig of arugula. Enjoy!
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (0)
WRITTEN ON April 12th, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Appetizer, Bacon, Fish and Shellfish, Holiday
Little Necks, Big Hearts
Looking out my window this morning at the about-to-burst magnolia tree in our yard, it dawned on me that it’s now been one full year since we bought our house on Dewey Street and moved to the ‘burbs from the big city.
The first few months were a frenzy of activity. Updates to the house (including a powder room under the stairs that I now refer to as the Harry Potter Head), combined with our normal grueling summer beach travel (life’s tough, isn’t it?) had us feeling a little less than settled.
But during that time I also had the great good fortune of finding myself included in a monthly book club (who are we kidding…wine club), meeting women who are now friends and neighbors. Through trial and error I discovered my favorite yoga studio in town, and my favorite yoga instructor. I planted my first flower garden (and learned the hard way what poison ivy looks like.) I nursed wounds that somehow refuse to heal.
Fall ushered in cooler weather and new family traditions. I joined the Y and got a library card. We threw a bitchin’ Halloween party. A Thanksgiving table laden with deep fried turkey and all the trimmings, around which shone the faces of our blended families. Our first Christmas season, our first tree, our first snow. Followed by our second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth snow. All of which brought us to spring, and the magnolia.
Through it all I have had a growing sense of what a warm and wonderful community this is. I was nervous about the fact that the hubster had grown up in this very town. Would I live my life here feeling like the third wheel, never in on the jokes, the old stories, the fond memories of a Huntington gone-by? Apparently not. I was not only immediately embraced by the people from hubby’s past, but I’ve also created my own routines, and am slowly carving my own niche.
This past weekend was the perfect example. At our regular Saturday morning spin class at the YMCA (where we saw no less than three people we know, including one new friend who met Kevin through me, not the other way around), we learned of a 5k the Y was sponsoring on Sunday morning and thought, why not? We came home to bagels and yard work, getting down and dirty in the first warm sun of the season. While out in the front yard, we were heckled by two neighbors and friends who just happened to be driving by (we live on a corner) and stopped to critique our work. Later that afternoon, I stopped in my favorite fish shack, Jeff’s Seafood, to pick up some local little neck clams for a private dinner I was doing that night. The guys behind the counter there are patient, funny, and super helpful. Much of the fish is local and they are champions of what comes out of the sea right here, on Long Island.
After work on Saturday night, I met hubs and his father, step-mom and a family friend at our Italian joint of choice, Joanina, where we chatted with the owner, sampled new wines they were pouring, and left with long stem roses (for the ladies), hugs, and promises to return soon. We woke up Sunday and headed over to the YMCA, ready to run. Jogging through our neighborhood, to the cheers of little kids on the side of the road yelling “Yay runners!” I felt suddenly overcome with emotion. It’s been a hard road, all things considered, over the last couple years. We are waging a constant war against not only our own fertility issues, but against my mother-in-law’s colon cancer. There are times when it feels as if the world is going to open up and swallow us whole. And yet…there are moments like those on Sunday morning, completely impromptu, crossing the finish line together surrounded by the community we are growing to love like a family member, that make everything else melt away.
Sitting at the counter of our local diner after the race, sharing a vanilla-chocolate milkshake (ahh, marriage and the art of compromise), felt like coming home to the embrace of an old friend.
As I write this, dear readers, the blooms on our 30 year old magnolia are just beginning to open. An old tree, a new beginning. I know how it feels.
One-Year-Down Long Island Little Neck Clams “Casino” (makes 12 clams)
12 little neck clams, scrubbed clean and shucked, on the half shell
½ cup panko bread crumbs
¼ cup soft bread crumbs (you can use a baguette for this, just chop it very fine)
4 strips bacon
1 handful fresh parsley, chopped fine
2 springs fresh oregano, chopped fine
1 garlic clove, minced
Zest of 1 lemon
Juice of 1 lemon
1 tbsp butter
Fresh cracked pepper
Preheat oven to 400. Arrange clams on a baking sheet, place in fridge uncovered. Chop bacon into small cubes. In a small sauté pan, melt butter. Cook bacon over medium heat in pan until crisp. In a medium sized bowl, combine both bread crumbs, herbs, lemon zest, garlic and a few cracks of pepper. Pour bacon, melted butter and bacon fat over, toss together to combine. Top each clam with a small mound of bread crumb mixture. Bake in oven about 8-10 minutes. Drizzle with lemon juice and serve hot.
CONTINUE READING - LEAVE A COMMENT (0)
WRITTEN ON April 1st, 2011 BY Meredith AND STORED IN Bacon, Beans, Dinner, Italian, Side Dish, Tomatoes
Tonight I’m going to the Huntington Book Revue for a book signing. Not just any signing. Tonight, I’m going to meet Bethenny.
Let me just say that I have been a Bethenny fan since the first episode of The Real Housewives of New York. Under the glitz and glam, there was something so immediately real about her. She was scrappy. A bit rough around the edges. Smart as a whip with a biting, acerbic sense of humor I instantly fell in love with. I could tell that underneath it all, she saw the absurdity in not only the other women, but in the show itself, and I got the sense that she was playing along because she knew what was good for her and she knew she could turn it into the pot of gold at the end of the Manolo-colored rainbow.
And did she ever. Now the star of her own show, she’s a business woman with a burgeoning empire and two New York Times best-sellers. No matter what your opinion of her brash, in your face way of telling it like it is, you gotta give a girl credit where credit is due. She seized a mediocre opportunity, put the NY Housewives on the map, worked like hell and graduated with honors. It’s her turn now.
Let me be clear by saying that my love for Bethenny is purely superficial. I’ve never read her books, nor do I plan to (I’m not big into self-help books. If I’m reading a book it’s because I want to get away from it all, not delve deeper into my problems. My self-help consists of two things: broom and rug). I don’t buy her products, though I have on occasion indulged in a SkinnyGirl Margarita and they are actually quite good. But I will be standing in line jostling for a space to meet her tonight with all the other Frankel fiends because I just can’t wait to hear what she has to say. I taped her on Ellen. Wendy Williams. The girl cracks me up, and I’m pretty damn proud of her. She’s got guts. She’s got chutzpah. But mostly, she’s human, and she’s not afraid to show it.
Lately I’ve also been listening a bit more closely regarding her tips on keeping control of your weight. To be perfectly honest, over the last year and a half I’ve gained a good bit of it myself. I’m an emotional eater, and have had plenty or reasons to dip back into the fridge over the last 18 months.
A few months ago I decided enough was enough. I started making a concerted effort to manage my caloric intake. I cut back on carbs. I hit the gym like it was going out of style. So far, so good. I’m 10 pounds down. I have about 5 to go.
In the midst of it all, Bethenny Ever After came back into my life. Between the premiere of her show and the launch of her book, “A Place of Yes,” Bethenny tidbits are everywhere I look. Her tips on diet and nutrition always seem to jump out at me when I’m feeling most vulnerable. Her motto “taste everything, eat nothing” flashes into my head when I’m at a cocktail party trying to curb the inclination to trail the waitress with the cocktail franks like a rabid dog. When I’m feeling uber-lazy, I remind myself to come from a place of yes-I-will-get-my-ass-on-the-treadmill. She’s been an unlikely inspiration, and for that, I will be forever faithful.
Speaking of saying yes, check out these Tuscan White Beans over the weekend. They’re hearty, healthy, and full of fiber (wink-wink). Try them with some toasted naan or whole wheat flat bread, a few chunks of parm and a peppery arugula salad. You won’t feel deprived in the least bit, you’ll wake up Monday without the weekend food hangover, and your inner SkinnyGirl will be so happy you just might spend your lunch hour buying bikini’s online.
Skinny Beans
Tuscan White Beans (serves 4 as a side dish)
2 cups cooked white beans, drained and rinsed (cannellini or navy)
1 14 oz can low-sodium diced tomatoes
3 thin slices pancetta, roughly chopped
1 shallot, sliced thin
1 garlic clove, minced
3 tbsp white wine
1 handful fresh basil, chopped
1 handful fresh parsley, chopped
1 tbsp olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
In a medium sized cast iron pan or saute pan, heal olive oil over medium high heat. Add pancetta, cook about two minutes until fat is rendered. Add shallot, cook about 2 minutes until softened. Add garlic, cook one minute more, season lightly with salt and pepper. Add wine, bring to a boil. Reduce by half, then add tomatoes with juices. Bring to a boil, add beans, then turn down to a simmer. Simmer on low for about 20 minutes until liquid is reduced and thick. Season with salt and pepper, add herbs and serve hot.