Holiday Shots with the Wilberts

So, we head over to the Wilbert's because Sam is turning 7, and we have some cool Star Wars Legos to deliver. After cake, ice cream and a whole lot of candle borning, including Shari wowing the kids with her "stick the lit candle in your mouth" trick, Glen offered us all shots. Tequila? Whiskey? Rum? Nah, just your standard flu shot.

A muff by any other name....

This is an entry from our dear friend, Whitney Hansen. This was originally posted on the UTA website.

Muffuletta sandwich 1906 Central Grocery New Orleans The tart smell of olives and lemon juice to me meant the long days of endless summer heat had arrived and that it was time to escape Arlington, Texas for a cooler destination. Signaling the rapid approach of a spontaneous trip to scenic Lake Ouachita, Arkansas, or any town nestled in the valleys of the southern Rocky Mountains, my parents would spend one night furiously assembling olives, cheese, lemon juice, peppers, and olive oil in vats of large plastic bowls. Affixed with sentiments verging on giddiness at the prospect of vacation, the tangy smells of marinating Muffuletta permeated throughout the entire house, aided of course by the overworked air conditioner on a hot August night. Eventually my sister and I would be compelled to join in on the festivities occurring in the kitchen and spend the next hour or so packing the marinated olives and veggies into slender glass jars not realizing at the time that we too were about to be packed into a different kind of jar. This jar of course would be our parents’ old Chevy Suburban, and we would be sharing it with coolers, luggage, books, cd players, and any number of combinations of childhood friends, due to the fact that we always traveled with at least two other families. One could almost say that the success of the entire trip depended on this critical night of cooking because relying on McDonald’s or Taco Bell entirely for sustenance on the road was simply out of the question. Our recipe for Muffuletta came from the loving cooking tradition of my father’s parents where they discovered the savory goodness of the sandwich in their New Orleans Church community. How then, could a fast food chain compete with two generations of parental care for the nourishment of our band of adventurers? It couldn’t, but Muffuletta could because one mouth watering bite of the colorful olive mix and I could hear my Nana’s sweet Southern accent telling me about the church potluck where she first had it, or I could see the bright smiles on my mom and dad’s faces as they worked on juicing the fifteen lemons that it takes to make Muffuletta. I wasn’t the only one who felt this connection too. A little olive filled sandwich would almost always incite questions from my parents’ friends pertaining to the well-being of my Nana and Pop Pop, or instigate amusing stories from previous vacations. So there it was, a simple recipe transformed into an event where adventure, comfort, and history melted together under a hot broiler, or between two cold buns to form my favorite sandwich of all time.

So you want to be a magnolia....

Some parents sit through interminable football games, baseball games, soccer games, and basketball games, but the Simmons are known to sit through plays, lots of plays. In high school Erin had the lead in Fiddler on the Roof, Joel was a freshman and had a few lines, and even Jack got recruited for a wee part. We sat through all the performances, every one. We knew the songs, the lines, the pauses, and the backstage drama. Recently in the Lamar high school auditorium, a rat fell out of the ceiling on to the audience members just to the right of Shari and Glen, so in the future we will wear closed in shoes and a hat.



We have had a few years off, so we were delighted when the faculty of Friendswood high school put on a production of Steel Magnolias. We all met in Galveston for a Saturday night in a high school auditorium. Erin played Shelby, a newlywed who loves pink and is known for her postive outlook on life. Not really much of a stretch for one Miss Erin Lynds. We all KNEW she wasn't going to make it to the last scene. We KNEW about the armadillo shaped groom's cake, we KNEW that Truvy wears a size 6 shoe, but a 7 is so comfortable she buys an 8. We KNEW time marches on, across your face. We KNEW Weezy wasn't mad, but had just been in a bad mood for 40 years. We KNEW about the diabetes. We KNEW she shouldn't put her body through a pregnancy. Did that stop the bucket of tears in our row? Not for a second.

Shooting the Bird

What a glorious fall we’ve had this year in Texas. Crisp mornings followed by sunny afternoons and just enough September rain to keep everything green until the leaves turned color a few weeks ago. Throw in one of the greatest college football seasons in recent memory, a few good backyard fires and it all adds up to perfect. But then, just as we were about to go all Robert Frost on everybody’s ass, it all came to a crashing halt. The first icy blast of winter? Hardly. We only have winter for about two weeks and normally schedule it between the division championships and the Super Bowl. Post election blahs, recession, dim prospects for the Mavericks? Heck no, those things are just minor annoyances. It takes a full blown disaster to ruin a great fall and the perfect storm began brewing last week with just one phone call.

Erin called and said they weren’t quite up to hosting Thanksgiving this year as they had only been back in their apartment for three days since being washed away by Ike back in September… As she rattled on we felt the winds begin to form a small tropical depression in the Caribbean… They would go to his parents which meant we were free to host everyone else here. We began making obscene gestures at the phone before we hung up. Thanksgiving at our house. Again. Awesome! The next afternoon Lori’s mother and sister just happened by and were overjoyed by the good news. Within five minutes the guest list had grown to 20, and the storm had been upgraded to a category 2 hurricane.

To say that my mother-in-law overdoes Thanksgiving is like saying that Bill Clinton had roaming eyes. She lives for it, and truth be told, she does an unbelievable job. Now the game was on. She came back later that evening to go over the menu and assignments. This is one of my favorite parts because in the 30 years I've known her, the menu has never changed. We actually have to speak aloud all of the names of all the dishes and write them down. How about turkey? Ooh, there’s a new one. Dressing? Yeah, I think I heard about that on E’meril. BAM! I usually throw her a silly curve, and she always takes the bait, “Instead of sweet potatoes, why don’t we try marinated artichokes with currants?” She’ll smile/frown and say something like,” Oh I don’t know. I’m afraid the kids would be disappointed.” So sweet potatoes it is. We then start assignments, which is an even bigger joke since she likes making everything herself and doesn’t trust anyone else other than us, and only us when she can supervise. Lori always suggests that Shari or Christina brings this or that and she usually says, “Oh, they can bring rolls or maybe the appetizer plate. That’s really a lot of work and they have their hands full.” We finally agree to do everything and she is happy. This year as we concluded the planning session, she dropped the hammer and informed us that Aunt Gail and Uncle Lloyd were coming from South Dakota. We were now officially at category 5.

The holiday attendance record for our modest, 1968, ranch house currently stands at 27, and in all fairness, some of them weren’t disasters. Several were though. Like the time I ran over Randy and Jane’s Golden Retriever on the way to the football game. Or when my niece slipped in the kitchen and broke her arm. Or the year we had to rush Jack to the emergency room with an asthma attack. Or the year I had surgery on the Tuesday before. Each a treasure in the memory chest, but what unites them all is the fact that all of the guests still expect to be fed their full blown, traditional, Norman Rockwell feast on time despite these little inconveniences, always in our house. It’s sort of like a bad government program, at first a good idea but now just another entitlement. But as I said earlier, it’s Carol’s favorite darned day of the whole year and we love her, so we’ll love Thanksgiving too. She will start cooking on Sunday and won't stop till we clean up the leftovers after the 10:00pm supplemental feeding Thursday night. Our pattern is pretty predictable as well. We will get up early Thursday morning and play the full version of Alice’s Restaurant while we drink Kahlua laced coffee and then cook like galley slaves. Hopefully Sam, our 2^nd grade nephew, will bring a homemade centerpiece. Once the table is set and Carol does her Betty Crocker curtsey, we will all begin passing and sighing and conversing and passing some more. During the course of the meal and day, Lori and I will occasionally slip out of the room towards the kitchen carrying a decoy platter or pitcher. We’ll end up in Erin’s old bedroom where in the closet our friends from the Sauza family, the Tres Generaciones, reside. I’ve glued some turkey feathers from my fly-tying kit to a couple of shot glasses and we’ll give thanks each time we feel the warm, agave nectar slide down our throats. Who knows, after the 4th or 5th trip, we might even hug Aunt Gail.

Au Revoir lovely fall. You were too beautiful for this world. Well, maybe just too beautiful for Grand Prairie

One Man Gathers What Another Man Spills

I used to be a big fan of garage sales and flea markets. As a child, I used to love going with my grandpa to the weekly cattle auction which was always preceded by a swap meet. Some of the farmers would fix up old appliances and farm implements, but mostly it was just old junk. Of course my 10-year-old eyes lacked the experience to know the difference between a bargain and a burden, so one time I bought 2 bald tires, a washing machine and broken television for seventy five cents. My grandpa yelled at me and ended up paying the scrap dealer a few dollars to haul it all away. I was sent to the car to learn my lesson, which was the undeniable fact that grandpa was totally loco passing up the huge bargain. Looking back, that was the moment that I actually began my pursuit of the American dream, the accumulation of unlimited stuff. Forty years, three kids and several moves later, I found myself on the other end of the spectrum, and began trying to rid myself of all the stuff in my life. I wish I could say it was a spiritual quest or self improvement plan, but the truth is, I finally just ran out room.

This process was accelerated by the recent decision to put in new floors. We had to move all of the old furniture out of the house and suddenly became aware of how ugly and stupid many of our treasures were sitting in the carport and how disgusting it would be to put them on our beautiful new floors. Most of the decisions were easy; some were a little more complicated. Our biggest dilemma was the old couch/hide-a-bed. It weighed about 25,000 lbs. and the cushions had become soiled to the point where the dry cleaners said “Sorry, we tried but failed.” After even the local mission said “No thanks,” we called the landfill and they said that the regular garbage truck would pick it up if we could get it out to the street. This brought up a whole new set of issues, the first being the fact that while I hated abusing the landfill, I hated having the couch in my carport even more. Secondly, I knew that the lady at the landfill, while convincing enough on the phone, had no real control over what the crews actually did on their route. Our trash day is Saturday, and if they decided to pass on the maroon, striped monster it would be Tuesday before we could take it to the landfill. We don’t spend a lot of time worrying about what the neighbors think, but it seemed kind of tacky to force everyone to experience a Sanford and Son moment every time they passed by. Joel and Lori were leaving for Austin Friday afternoon, so I grudgingly agreed to put it on the street and this where the miracle begins.

After hauling the couch out, Joel took a long look at his old, 7-headed, hydra lamp that seemed so cool in junior high and decided it had to go as well. As he set it by the couch, we noticed how it looked like an actual, tasteless, living room display. We thought it would be funny to add a junky end table beside it and placed an old magazine on the table along with a broken remote control. We stuck an old bicycle on the other side and our “room to go” package was completed. What started as a joke instantly became a clever marketing scheme, and by the time we made it back to the carport, the lamp was gone. I then saw a white Cherokee slow down for a look before moving on. By the time I got inside the house, a Malibu was parked in my driveway and the driver was running his hand over the end table, checking out the finish. He then popped his trunk and began making room for the new addition. As he placed the table into the trunk, the Cherokee circled back and after a brief conference, pulled into the neighbor’s driveway. Some money was exchanged, the men shook hands and the Cherokee driver took the table out of the Malibu and placed it in his own. When I checked back an hour later, the couch and bicycle had disappeared as well. Rarely have I experienced such a satisfying, multi layered experience.It was truly win-win. In one August afternoon, through an act of simple selflessness, we:

A) Improved our living quarters.

B) Saved the environment.

C) Stimulated the local economy and created jobs.

D) Created a spirit of community that transcended race and socioeconomic barriers.

E) Began to explore the possibilities of running for public office.

Women are from Venus: Men are from Mars: Douche bags drive Saturns in the left lane

One of the many elements that unites us as Americans is the earnest belief that our own local drivers are the worst in the world. Maslow identified this on his hierarchy of needs and labeled it Communal Bitching. He ranked it between Physiological/Safety which means basic food and shelter and Technological which includes cable, internet and cellular access with unlimited free texting. Having travelled a bit about our fair nation though, I believe that all drivers in all regions are equally awful but in unique and different ways. For instance, a New Englander will graciously signal, wave and then run you off the road, while the New Yorker generally honks and shoots the bird before doing the same thing. A few of our DFW subgroups include the less educated fundamentalists who believe turn signals are Satan’s tools and refuse to use them and the local racers who weave in and out of heavy traffic at high speeds. The latter group (Nasholes) appeared in the 90s shortly after the opening of Texas Motor Speedway. Each group holds their own special place on the road, as well as the ditch, and for the most part, we have learned to live with them much like one learns to live with a chronic medical condition like hemorrhoids or heartburn.

This weekend, however, we were introduced to a group we had never heard of. We left Grand Prairie about 11:00 AM to visit the kids in Galveston and ran into them just south of Corsicana. We first noted something amiss when I had to slam the brakes to avoid plowing into the Civic who was trying to avoid the SUV. Both lanes went from 80 to 35 in about 3 seconds and slowly creeped back up to 55. This lasted about 10 miles or so till we finally saw the late model Saturn in the left lane, completely oblivious to the 30 other cars and trucks passing her on the right. This happened 3 more times before we got to Houston, which by itself is not all that unusual anymore. What is unusual is that every one of the left lane parkers involved at least one Saturn (2 sedans, 1 sports model and another SUV). None of them looked particularly menacing or hateful either, just a bunch of ordinary dipsticks poking along at 50 or 60 in the left lane on a major, crowded freeway. It seemed like a strange coincidence, and we discounted any real conspiracy until our return trip. Just north of Conroe, we ran into another brake slamming bottleneck, and sure enough, a blue Saturn SUV was at the front of the pack in the left lane. This same SUV later passed me about 100 miles up the road. I was doing about 78 so he apparently discovered his gas pedal. And to be fair, he was in the left lane which I assume he never left.

So with all of this in mind, we thought it might be helpful to give all of our Saturn driving readers who want to be douche bags a quick refresher course for highway driving. First, pick a speed you are comfortable with between 55 and 60 and set your cruise control. Do not under any circumstances change your speed as this could use extra gas and make you part of the problem rather than the solution. Next, choose a nice, relaxing, totally hip CD like Neil Diamond or Barry Manilow and then breathe deeply from your diaphragm especially concentrating on your exhales. Now slowly move over into the left lane and feel yourself becoming one with the music and the endless ribbon of tarmac. You are not your body and your car is not a car and the road is not a road. You are the music and the road: the road is the music and you. Pay no attention to the other drivers for they are just part of the road and the music. Watch them flow around you on the right side in one continuous river of motion and sound. Feel the harmony of their horns as they blend into a symphony of the road. As they wave their one fingered greeting to you, think of a nice hot, soothing bath in your freshly tiled bathroom. Picture the medicine cabinet to your side and imagine the third row where the box with the pretty flowers resides. Open the box and inhale the aroma of the botanicals. Pay no attention to the other drivers, they do not matter, for you drive a Saturn in the left lane and are flowing with the traffic into the nice, pink bag and are truly one with the douche.

Chicken Cordon Blues

You’ll have to speak up quite a bit, because right now I can't understand you. We are having our floors replaced and between the noise and chemical fumes, everything seems a little fuzzy. We’ve only been planning it for five years, so really, the chaos is perfectly logical. The contractor told us we would lose our kitchen for a week, but somehow we never made the connection between that and needing to eat out. I suppose we just planned on either fasting, relying on our friends and relatives to host us or manna. Although option #1 would have been a good idea for the parents, we instead chose option #4 eating out and thought we’d offer a few critiques of the local culinary scene.

Jack suggested that we seek out a local Italian restaurant in Arlington as most are just chains. Our first choice was Angelo’s, located on 303 near Collins Street. Our first impression was a nursing home, but that soon gave way to the folksy friendliness of the waitresses and other five patrons who were nice enough not to sample our entrees when they were mistakenly delivered to their table. The food was actually pretty good, in a 1960s Italian sort of way, iceburg lettuce swimming in dressing, texas toast with garlic butter and heavy red sauce. The staff couldn’t have been nicer. In the end, we agreed that the ambience was “not too scary” but we do recommend going during daylight hours.

Our other forays are listed below.

Whataburger- best fast food burger, worst french fries, slowest drive through ever. Skip the fries, hit the burger with Tabasco and try to forget all about Grampa Farty Pants doing their ads. Note to all UT students: he is not Walter Cronkite.

Taco Bell- nothing has changed. Stick to the economy menu for dependable comfort. The new printed order board has boosted their average to about 5 out of 6 menu items correctly. The drinks are still lousy, but better than they used to be. Supplement with good hot sauce and you’re in business.

Schlotzky’s- getting better. The order was correct and fairly fast. Still too expensive but nice for a change. Their salt-n-vinegar chips are the best.

Kentucky Fried- losing a step or two as they go too creative with the menu. The regular chicken doesn’t seem to have any taste anymore. Crust good, chicken blah.

Jimmy Johns- pretty good sandwiches in a hurry. I love all the neo-philosophical/motivational, psycho babble homilies on the wall. They are the first sub shop to recognize it doesn’t have to take a long time.

El-Fenix-enchilada dinner special still the best deal in town. Great chips and hot sauce. We love El-Fenix about once every 6 weeks or so.

The list goes on and on and is fairly grim. It’s too hot to eat outside, so we just sit down on the blanket in the bedroom and dig in, fumes and all. Knowing the carpet is going to be replaced has been fun though. One of the boys spews and sputters their drink on the carpet at some point during every meal, and the other 2 guys laugh and laugh. So far Lori hasn’t gotten the joke. The best meal of the week has been the one brought to Gusto and Jose by their wives, homemade tamales, enchiladas, rice and beans. We all just stood there with our mouths open carrying in our sack-0-burgers while they dug in around our kitchen table in the carport. We can't wait to cook on our new tile floor.

Stirring the Curd...

Why is it that the more prepackaged and readily available food becomes, the more I want to go back to pioneer days and create my own?

Read This: Curd Mentality.

The Strait of Gibraltar

I have three fundamental beliefs about marriage. The first is that the couple who cooks together stays together. Every once in a while we become so low on groceries that it becomes a challenge to see if we can actually make a meal with what we have. This was one of those weeks. We had culinary masterpieces such as tuna salad with dinner rolls (out of bread), waffles and scrambled eggs (out of meat), and a surprisingly good casserole made of potatoes, leftover cheese, a few slices of bacon, and some half & half. So, after this kind of week, we decided to step it up for Friday and make the Paella that we've been planning to make for about a week. It was really nice to redeem our faith in America's Test Kitchens after last weeks pesto failure, as they provided an excellent paella recipe. The only things we changed from the recipe was the omission of mussels (the process of debearding and scrubbing kinda freaks us out) and 1/4 teaspoon of saffron threads - because we have no idea what those are. Since we had spent some time cleaning up earlier, one of the best things about the paella was that it all cooks in one skillet so you can enjoy your dinner in a clean kitchen (to me this is an automatic plus for a dish - minimal dishes :). Needless to say, after a week of weak dishes, it was nice to put a win in the books.


The paella was delicious and actually made it into the book. We decided to pair it with a new Chianti, Villa Vitale. We usually don't drink Chianti, but I felt like this was a great introduction as it was not too dry and tart. It was a good pair for the spicy paella and overall was quite enjoyable. The fact that it was $7 at World Market is also notable.

The rest of the evening brings me to my second fundamental belief about marriage: you and your spouse should share several similar embarrassing interests. Ross and I record Jeopardy AND Wheel of Fortune every single day. This week we have been busy (I now officially have graduate hours), so we actually spent our Friday night watching two recorded hours of game shows. Our Jeopardy skills vary based on how many categories deal with War and history versus how many deal with medicine and pop culture. On the other hand, my Wheel skills are directly related to how many glasses of wine I've had -- so much so that Ross decided if I ever go on Wheel of Fortune, he will make certain that I have at least half a bottle of wine first. After my two large glasses of Chianti, I was able to guess "The Strait of Gibraltar" with only the r's and t's. Needless to say, I do not have these skills when I've been drinking diet coke. My third fundamental belief is that if you're in a happy marriage you can be happy not going out and doing something, and sometimes prefer to watch game shows in your jammies and go to bed before midnight.

Here comes the story of the hurricane...

I'll be the first to admit that a year ago I was a firm believer that hurricanes were just a really big storm. Obviously, I knew there were exceptions to the rule, but I always thought that, of the natural disasters, hurricanes were low on my worry list. I mean, you get several days of advanced notice, you know it's coming, and often the darn things don't amount to anything.

Of course, this was before I moved to a tiny island that once hosted the deadliest hurricane of all time. One one hand, there's a certain attitude that comes with being a Galveston resident. You can't help but feel a little badass that you live two blocks from the projects, have to drive more than thirty miles to eat at a chain restaurant, and that your whole city could be (and once was) destroyed in a single day. Whenever I tell mainlanders that I reside on the island, the reaction is a combination of shock and horror, and I kind of like that. In general, I really love living here, but my affinity for the strange island takes a strange turn when a hurricane is in the gulf.

Our first weekend here, we were initiated to coastal living with our very first hurricane, appropriately named Erin. Logically, I am very concerned about hurricanes. When the weather channel shows our barely visible island covered in a gigantic red blob, I freak out a little. I dig through the closet to locate the "important stuff" box, and make sure I have gas in my tank. I watch the weather channel for absurd amounts of time, watching the same five-minute segment of unpredictable Doppler maps and I read all of the "severe weather warnings" in effect for my county. Then I start thinking about when, if necessary, we will evacuate and how long it will take, and what we will take, just like any island citizen should. Sometimes I'll even stock up on bottled water and make sure we have plenty of food for ourselves and the dogs. I keep flashlights and candles in every room of the house and I know where all of the lighters are. I charge my phone every single day, and I always say that as soon as we are to the voluntary evacuation stage, we are headed north.

I do EVERYTHING you're supposed to do to prepare for a hurricane and waste hours of my life thinking and planning, and yet every single time it turns out to be a big fat nothing. It's not like I want our whole neighborhood to be washed away, or that I want anyone's lives to be ruined, but just once I'd like to maybe loose power for a few hours, or have a few palm trees uproot, or even just enough impending danger so that they cancel school and work and we get to spend a long weekend in Dallas. Just once I'd like for a hurricane to amount to something, to be headed straight for us and in the last hour spin right out of reach or to hit as a Category 1, just so we can say we survived a hurricane (and we would, our building was one of very few to survive the 1900 hurricane). It just seems like for all of the hype and excitement, the whole thing is usually a big let down. Like with Dolly, as I was driving home from class on Monday, probably the hottest day yet this summer, I perked up on my normally boring drive when I saw the highway alert signs flashing "Hurricane forming in gulf, fill up your gas tank!" So Ross and I anxiously watched the weather channel all night, planning our escape, if necessary, and discussing under what conditions we would leave. We were ready! We were fearless and totally prepared to face this natural disaster. 24-hours later, it appears that we will get nothing more than a week of light drizzle, which will be just enough to revive the parched mosquito population.

During the last "hurricane" we decided to brave the storm and drive up the seawall to the grocery store. Sure, it was rainy, and windy, and we probably shouldn't have been driving ten yards from the ocean, but it just seems like if the Rainforest Cafe Volcano is still burning bright, we're probably going to make it.

Until all hope is lost, I guess I'll just cross my fingers that Dolly takes a nasty turn and my class will be canceled tomorrow. As much as I like to say I've grown up, I'm still a sucker for a snow (or hurricane) day.

The Lush Flush

Lush Flush (n.) - The glow one experiences when having one too many glasses of wine.

I am proud to report that we have overcome the meal we shall not mention and have made a few great dishes since then. This weekend, Ross' college roommate came to visit, so we ate out more than usual (seafood at Casey's, burgers at the Spot), but on Friday evening Ross prepared an excellent couscous stuffed chicken. The recipe was from the show "Guy's Big Bite". Admittedly, Guy is pretty annoying (you know him, he's on the TGIFriday's commercials), his shtick is self-described "man-food", he wears excessive jewelry, and he has a Nascar refrigerator. Somehow, Ross is able to overlook all of those flaws and watch the show, where, truthfully, I've never seen him make a dish I wouldn't eat.

After that, we really didn't cook much else other than baking a pan of enchiladas I had made earlier in the week, and whipping up some more raspberry cupcakes (I used strawberries on half of them- delicious!). Instead we spend many hours drinking and discovered two great wines: Cabulous (the way one feels after experiencing the perfect cab), and Rock Rabbit Shiraz. Because this is my first wine review, allow me to expound upon the Lynds Wine Scale. It should go without saying that we only drink red, except on my birthday, when we drink champagne. Wines in our place are judged over five basic categories:

1. Price. The wine preferably costs less than $8 (but we ARE willing to splurge on a $10 bottle for a special occasion or an especially neat bottle).
2. Neat bottle. We'd like to think that we've outgrown the typical college student theory that any bottle that once contained alcohol would make for quality decor (i.e. the "beer-amid"), but we do proudly display wine bottles above the cabinets in our kitchen, so interesting art is definitely a plus.
3. Cool name. Truthfully, I think this is why we can't drink Yellowtail or Beringer, it just sounds lame. We find that anything clever, foreign, or weird is great (thus our decision to buy such gems as "Veuve Cliquot", "Sweet Bitch", and "Bohemian Highway"). If you can drink wine with a sexy name, why wouldn't you?
4. Overall Drinkability. It's not like we're sommeliers or anything, so we just ask ourselves, "was it great or just good?" Let's face it, we're drinking wine, it can't be any worse than good!
5. Impressiveness Factor. We prefer a wine that lists some of the "elements" on the bottle, like cherries, chocolate, fruit, earthiness, etc. so that when we have someone over we can read the bottle ahead of time and, upon drinking, make really snobby comments like, "Oh wow, you can really taste the terra firma", or "I'm getting a soft hint of apples". We usually can't taste anything like that, so we like a wine that comes with a cheat sheet. The wine does get bonus points if we can have a glass and correctly guess things we're supposed to taste.

Both wines we sampled this weekend scored quite well and were a hit among our guests, but I would have to rate the Rock Rabbit as "best in show" for the weekend.

Unfortunately, this weekend totally depleted our wine supply, so an emergency trip to our supplier (World Market) was in order. Wines must first pass the first three elements in order to be considered for purchase at World Market. Typically, we go in with a predetermined number of wines we will buy (usually 4), split up and each pick up a few that meet the price requirement. We then share our choices, eliminating too many of the same varietal. We then make one final sweep together, which is usually where 4 turns into 8, as it did today. While I did feel like sort of a lush buying 8 bottles of wine, nothing pleases me more than looking at a fresh selection of new wines to choose from and knowing that very soon I will be reveling in the lush flush, except, perhaps, actually drinking some. Cheers!

Like a diaper filled with Indian food...

After being married for a little over a year, I feel like we've truly expanded our culinary horizons. We cook almost every night of the week, we've perfected some classic recipes, and we try to cook something new at least twice a week. In order to keep up with recipes we like, we began keeping up a notebook where we write down recipes we particularly enjoyed and would like to cook again. Of course, sometimes we make a meal and it is OK, but not something we would ever necessarily make again (this often happens with Rachael Ray recipes -- very hit or miss). Really, in our year of culinary adventures we had never made anything that was truly inedible, until last night.

Typically on Sunday afternoon we decide what we're going to cook for the week, looking at the usual references: Jamie Oliver, America's Test Kitchens, Cooking Light, and the occasional Martha Stewart or Food Network dish. I then neurotically make a grocery list, rewrite said grocery list based on which items we need from each section of the grocery store, and then go to said store.

It started out just like any evening at the loft. Ross and I both got home around 4, played with the dogs and decompressed for about an hour, watched the recorded episode of Jeopardy! from the day, and then decided to start dinner. The choices were an orzo-stuffed chicken, a shrimp paella, and a parsley-nut pesto from ATK. Seeing that the pesto took only 15 minutes to make, we opted for that. It seemed simple enough, you mix toasted pecans, parmesan cheese, roasted garlic, olive oil, and parsley in a food processor and use the sauce to dress pasta. This process would definitely be aided by a quality food processor, which we do not possess.

See, when we made our wedding registry, we saw that instead of buying a food processor and a blender, you can get a combination where they share the same base to save on storage space. We thought to ourselves, "How brilliant! Why doesn't everyone have one of these?" and the answer is because it sucks. The blender part is fine, but the food processor first of all only holds 3 cups, which is barely enough to make a bowl of hummus, and second the blade often spins so slow that I could stick my hand in and twist the blade myself faster than the obscenely loud machine. So I put the ingredients in, turned it on, and the blade wouldn't budge. Ross suggested that I take some out- perhaps it was just overloaded, so I took half of the stuff out. Still no movement. Finally I took everything out and tried to run the processor with nothing in it at all -- yet still the blade moved so slow that if you dropped something in the bowl, you could reach down and fish it out without worrying about losing a finger. Finally, we gave up and just mixed it up in the blender.

Determined that, after all of this hard work, our dish would be amazing, we dressed the pasta and each took a bite. It was disgusting. Not disgusting like, "gee, this isn't very good, we shouldn't make this again", but disgusting like, we both spat it out and brushed our teeth immediately.

We didn't bother washing out the food processor, we threw it in the dumpster as we headed to Taco Bell for dinner and to Target to buy a new food processor. While it was disappointing to make a meal exactly per the directions and have it be nasty, it did make for a humorous story and a good lesson, never make America's Test Kitchen's Parsley Nut Pesto - it's seriously gross.

Of course, I am sickly drawn to gross things, so I took a few pictures:

We tried adding Paul Newman Caesar, Tony Chachere's, and red wine vinegar (the go-to flavor enhancers), but it still tasted terrible.
A shame that so much grossness had to go to waste - the dogs wouldn't even eat it.
A picture of the mixture in the blender - it sort of resembled baby poop. A total culinary failure.

I'm Gonna Hire a Whin-O

So Saturday night was Wine Night for us. Wine Night is a ragtag group of neighbors and friends that we were orphaned into. We meet every month or so, each bring a pre-determined varietal, do blind tasting, taste them again, maybe one more try, and then decide on the winner. Rules are not part of the fun, but we generally keep the wine at less than $20 a bottle, while Billy has been known to keep the wine at less than $7 a bottle. After the wines have all had their initial tasting, the trouble starts. Everyone is very vocal about lobbying for their favorite as overall winner. Gamesmanship is important and the comments range from "barnyard," "Vicks," and "old catcher's mitt” to “fruity”, “silky”, and “this one has legs”.We've all been through the Wine Tasting class at TCU, so we’re pretty much experts.

It is interesting to note that the winner is often the most expensive, but the close 2nd is usually a $10-$12 bottle. This of course leads us into the debate on whether the #1 is 80% better than the #2, etc. but by this time many of our higher reasoning skills are in question, so we just leave it to Craig and Mike to hash out the numbers. The normal consensus is that the expensive bottle usually comes up short unless you’re out to eat with an important client or hoping to see your wine partner in their special underwear.

Anyway, we met this month at Paul and Denise Conner's house in Aledo. The wine du jour was merlot which is good since we all understand merlot. Denise made some killer hors doerves, the best of which was her sesame bacon wraps. When she said recipe by Paula Deen our eyes rolled John Belushi style and we made a mad dash. Paul got the last one after going into his 3 point stance. Buying the wines is half the fun. Mike tends to research a little more, and often comes up with the winner. The rest of us buy really cool and impressive labels at Costco, World Market and Kings, and often come up with some rare gems ourselves. Having personally been to Sonoma, Napa and Alvarado, this is hands down the best way to try new wines.

Denise’s Sesame Bacon Wraps, with inspiration from Paula Deen:
1 box of sesame bread sticks.
1 pound of bacon
1 green can of parmesan cheese. Don’t use the good stuff. It needs to be powdery.

Spiral wrap sesame sticks with bacon. Bake at 375˚ until bacon is done. Immediately roll in parmesan cheese. Make twice as many as you think you’ll need. Serve.

A First Time for Everything

After a week of shopping, baking, and general merriment with my sister-in-law Julia, we decided to end the wonderful week with a huge, blow-out meal on Friday. The plan started with making homemade pasta, since we haven't used our new-to-us pasta maker yet. After poring through my primary sources (America's Test Kitchens and Jamie Oliver) I decided on a ricotta and pine nut ravioli a la The Naked Chef. Ross decided that a Paul Newman Marinara just wouldn't cut it for this situation, so he decided to take on a Molto Mario Marinara. Since we thought the deliciousness couldn't end there, we decided to try a new cupcake recipe from my new favorite cupcake book (see post: Vegan with a Vengeance) paired with a strawberry sorbet.

We started the day making the desserts. The strawberry sorbet was embarrassingly easy to make, basically you puree strawberries, sugar, vodka, a little water and a pinch of salt, put it in the freezer for 30 minutes to chill, then run in the ice cream maker for 30 minutes and done. I typically get a little nervous working with ice cream due to consistency issues, but the sorbet came out with excellent texture and froze up nicely.

For cupcakes, we made a chocolate cupcake with a cookies and cream frosting, both contained a heavy amount of food-processed oreo cookies. The Vegan Cupcake surprised us again, as the cupcakes were outstanding. These were a little bit richer (you really could only eat one in a day), but again provided an aesthetic quality worthy of a faculty luncheon.

Then we began the pasta. Truthfully, Ross and I have watched mom and dad make pasta a million times and it seemed like all you had to do is put some flour and eggs in the Cuisinart and press go. Unfortunately, we have a small-scale food processor, so several cups of flour and a dozen eggs later, we finally got the dough well-mixed. Julia and I rolled out the dough and stuffed it with a mixture of toasted pine nuts, ricotta cheese, Parmesan and an egg while Ross and Jayne hand-crushed the tomatoes and made a delicious sauce.



Overall it was a very successful evening of "firsts" for us newlyweds. In the end, it was pretty exhausting, so we followed up the meal with the next night with another first: our first delivered pizza. All in all, a very delicious weekend.

Poor Le France

This is not a normal Saturday morning in July. Normally, I would be eating a lumberjack breakfast and watching the extended coverage of one of the world’s most unique and beautiful sports events, but this morning I’m ranting. I first became interested in the Tour De France in my late 20s. Just the sheer numbers involved staggered me: 130 riders, 2,000 miles, many of them over mountains, in 24 days. These were real men with real nicknames like “the cannibal”, Eddie Merckx who won 5 overall titles and 476 pro races. The fact that none of my friends had ever heard of them or the race really, made it all that much cooler to my twisted, little ego. My smugness factor seemed to climb in direct proportion to the obscurity of the event. Although I personally had never ridden a bike more than 2 or 3 miles, I knew all about the guys who did and they looked pretty cool in their odd uniforms swigging champagne and kissing the young, French hotties. The tour perfectly filled the black sports hole that exists between the end of basketball/hockey playoffs and the opening of the NFL training camps. That’s all over now though. This year I’m boycotting “le tour”, and my only July sports fix will be watching late night clips of baseballs disappearing into outfield crowds as muscle bound, TV wrestling look-alikes trot, slow motion, around the bases. Does anyone have a revolver?

When it comes to the tour this year, I’m officially out and couldn’t care less who wins, loses or if the whole peleton falls off a mountain. The thought police have taken over the tour, and they can have it. Doping and cheating are the topic de jour and frankly Scarlett, I don’t give a damn. Very few things are more repulsive to me than false outrage, and this year outrage is more important than the race itself. It seems as though the organizers and officials have decided to kill their own event to save it. The dumb guys have clearly won. Even Versus, the American network who pays a lot of deflated, American dollars for broadcast rights is on board. Their official theme for 2008 is “Taking Back the Tour” which initially confused me. At first I assumed they were rooting for another American, Levi Leipheimer maybe, to win the tour again. But no, they are “taking back the tour” from the blood dopers who have diminished the value of their pristine and noble sport. Each broadcast is interspersed with a recurring promo that features sappy, emo music and video clips of recent cheats Michael Rasmussen and Floyd Landis riding backwards. The announcers, normally delightful Englishman who say things like “that’s a cheeky move,” have now joined in the dirge and shake their dour faces while they talk about cleaning up the sport. It all made me nauseas, and after only 4 stages, I finally quit watching. Am I the only person tired of hearing about sports doping? Am I the only one not in shock?

The outrage is completely disingenuous. I would be hard pressed to name a celebrity actor or musician who hasn’t been caught up in scandalous, often felonious behavior, yet I continue to enjoy their performances and overlook their foibles. Why do we accept hard core drug abuse and addiction from Hollywood performers and yet condemn entertainers for lessor offenses who perform in the sporting arts. Many of the drugs banned by the governing athletic bodies are found in the average American’s medicine cabinet and greatly aid our activities of daily living. Even the notorious drugs such as steroids and EPO are routinely used to aid in the recovery period after surgery or cancer treatments. But if an athlete uses these substances to help recover from fatigue or injury, its cheating and cheaters must be banned. Aside from the obvious double standard, I suppose what upsets me the most is the assertion that the heroes of yesterday were all clean of body and pure of spirit. Every athlete who has ever performed at an elite level has constantly fought the twin battles of fatigue and injury. Steroids, testosterone and EPO are just modern versions of yesterday’s nicotine, caffeine, Dexedrine and Xylocaine. Do we really think Babe Ruth wouldn’t have used drugs? The truth is: he did use the drugs of his day and some of them, alcohol for instance, were illegal at the time.

So have it your way Versus Network and Le Tour officials. Tell us how much we should revere you for joining hands with the Lord and throwing the disgusting sinners from the glorious and holy ground of sport. Hallelujah, Amen! I wouldn’t wait around too long to count the offering though. Most of your members are leaving the building. You see, when we want to hear a real sermon, we’ll go to a real church with a real preacher. Maybe someday you’ll come down off the mountain and join us. Till then enjoy the pure and rarified air. The fact that you will be the only one breathing it should make it all that much sweeter. I think I’m going for a bike ride. Au revoir

IT TAKES A VILLAGE

I wanted to talk today about movies. One of my favorite genres is the English Village Movie. This week we net-flixed Calendar Girls. Inthe spirit of Waking Ned Devine, Saving Grace, and Kinky Boots, the movie embraces the English countryside, seashore, the local pub, and real life characters. The premise is wonderful for a girl staring down 50. It is based on a true story. "The Women of York are like flowers, beautiful at every stage, but the most glorious is near the end. Right before they go to seed." Brilliant.

Pesto is the Besto

We spent the last night of the 4th of July long weekend with our good friends, Billy and Becky. We did pizza with homemade crust, handmade mozarella, fresh garden tomatoes, and fresh garden basil made into a lively pesto. B&B brought a lovely salad with vegetables from both their garden and Lillian's garden (which is something to behold, we're told). The variety of fresh flavors totally rocked. Paired with a nice red, more ice cream with peach sauce, and photos of their trip to Sweden that left us hunting for our passports, the evening couldn't have been more delightful!

Curt and Billy pulling mozarella like taffy.
















Fresh Basil Pesto
2C fresh basil leaves, packed
1/2 C freshly grated parmesan-reggiano
1/2 C extra virgin olive oil
1/3 C pine nuts (toasted)
3 medium sized garlic cloves
Salt and pepper to taste
In a food processor, combine the pinenuts with the basil, for a few pulses. Slowly add the olive oil in a steady stream while the food processor is on. Stop and scrape down the sides of the processor with a rubber spatula. Add the grated cheese and pulse again until blended. Add a pinch of salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.

Keepin' it fresh!

Vegan with a Vengeance

I could never be a vegan. I like cheese, milk, and butter way to much to cut them out of my life forever. I even tried being a vegetarian for a few years in high school, but on a family vacation to California we stopped at an In-N-Out Burger and all bets were off (that's right, I ended a year-long red meat ban for a double-double and a strawberry milkshake). Regardless of how strong my love of meat and dairy may be, there is something so sexy about vegan to me. It screams healthy, green, and downright cool. Perhaps this desire to be vegan is what prompted me to buy Vegan Cupcakes. Aside from getting pretty good reviews and adding enough to my amazon.com cart for free shipping, I was enticed by the idea of vegan baking. This week, Julia is spending the week with us and it seemed like an idea time to bust out the vegan cupcakes.

We decided to try the "Sexy Low-Fat Vanilla" cupcakes with raspberry topping. Unfortunately, our spirits were crushed when the first pan came out looking like runny craters. We were so mad and slowly went through the recipe trying to figure out where we went wrong.
As it turns out, we added 1 2/3 c. milk instead of 2/3 cup, a mistake made more than once in my pyrex measuring cup (last time it resulted in watery, weak taco meat). Determined that we could do better, we tried another batch. This time everything came together and we ended up with perfectly cooked cupcakes.

As much as I love baking and art, ne'er the two shall meet in the form of cake decoration. I have no icing skills whatsoever and usually end up with the usual made from mix, canned icing, crummily iced cupcakes that the 2nd string room mother might bring to the valentine's party. I also hate frosting, so when the book suggested using a fruit topping, I thought it was brilliant! After the cupcakes cooled, we spread a thin layer of fruit preserves, then stuck raspberries on the top. We then drizzles a confectioner's sugar and soymilk glaze over the top and, voila! Beautiful cupcakes that wouldn't be too embarrassing to take to work!

Truthfully, if pressed for time, you could even make cupcakes from a mix and just decorate them with the fruit (I'm thinking kiwis and strawberries next time), but the vegan came through on flavor as well. The cupcakes were much moister and had more depth of flavor than a Betty Crocker could provide. Adding fresh fruit to the top also adds a really fresh, summery taste to the dessert. We're trying the Cookies and Cream cupcakes later this week :).

Product recommendations: Vegan Cupcakes

We'll drink ourselves to sleep... and thank you lambies!

While I'm used to the old school 4th of July BBQ at my parents house and would've loved to partake in the eating of the newly discovered grass-fed beef, we really couldn't stomach the thought of driving 10 hours again with two dogs, one of which is prone to car sickness, in the heat and traffic. Especially since we did this 4 days prior. We decided to stick it out and spend our first married 4th of July at home by ourselves. Since I'm off for the summer, my cooking has been fairly ambitious and Ross, being the medical school overachiever he is, shares my views. Being devout Jamie Oliverians, Ross decided to try his barbecued lamb complete with homemade BBQ sauce marinade. After reading a similar Martha Stewart Living recipe for roast lamb, I decided to use her recommended side dish of a cherry tomato couscous. Paired with Barton and Guestier's Bistro Pinot Noir, it made for a fantastic celebratory dinner.

Of course, we took pictures of the meal.

Here's Ross preparing the marinade:

The lamb shoulder marinated before they go in the oven, marinated:

Then we put them into the oven so they would be extra tender before a brief grilling, check out all that juice!
The finished product, complete with couscous and wine!

And, because Jamie Oliver's recipes are not always available, what you need for the marinade:
For the marinade:
1 heaped teaspoon cumin seeds
2 tablespoons fennel seeds
5 cloves
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Bunch fresh thyme or lemon thyme, leaves picked
Bunch fresh rosemary, leaves picked, a few whole sprigs reserved
1 orange, zested and juiced
1 bulb garlic, broken into cloves and peeled
4 heaped teaspoons sweet smoked paprika
6 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup organic tomato ketchup
8 tablespoons olive oil
10 bay leaves

And for the couscous (I substituted whole wheat couscous for Israeli and it was excellent!):

• Coarse salt
• 1 cup Israeli couscous
• 8 ounces cherry tomatoes, small ones halved, large ones quartered
• 1/2 cup fresh small basil leaves, plus more for garnish
• 2 tablespoons minced shallots
• 3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
• 3/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

We'll Never Pass on Grass

Well the first experiment with the grass raised beef is over, and the reviews thus far are two thumbs up. It really does taste better, just like we remembered. We were both worried that our memories of childhood flavors were colored with emotion as those hamburgers and roasts were always eaten with our grandparents and other loved ones who are no longer with us. How nice to relive a memory and find it just the same. Sometimes you can go back home.

We started out with burgers on the grill figuring things would go well even if there was no taste difference. In typical Simmons fashion, our seating list went from 5 to 8 to 9 to 11 to finally 13 an hour or so before we started. I used 5 pounds of the grass fed beef and 1 pound of my regular 85/15 from the store as a control group. The first difference was in color as the GFB (grass fed beef) was substantially darker in color, almost crimson. The SBB (store bought beef) was white to pink at best. The texture of the GFB was noticeably more substantial and seemed to be formed in chunks about twice the size of Orzo pasta. The SBB came out in spaghetti sized strands with a consistency of extruded Play Dough. The GFB held together better in raw patties but both did equally well on the grill. I noticed the GFB cooked a little slower and the juices seemed more viscous than the SBB which ran more towards the water end of the scale. I found it harder to cook the GFB medium rare. On the first batch the juices went from medium to well done in just moments. The 2^nd batch worked a little better and I was able to get them moist but not medium rare. The taste of the GFB was much richer and more flavorful. One person said it seemed almost gamy and I agree but would change “almost gamy” to “reminiscent of gaminess”. The GFB was chewier in texture which I like, but not overly grainy like buffalo.

Overall, we loved the GFB and its richer, heartier flavor and texture. It is well worth the $1.00-1.50 a pound cost difference. I can't wait to try it in chili, sloppy joes and runzas. Having said that, the GFB definitely isn't for everyone. It is considerably stronger and richer which is an acquired taste, and the texture does not melt in your mouth as the SBB does. The real test will be the roast later this week. If it comes off as well as the ground beef, the gravy should be a semi-religious experience.

INDEPENDENCE

Well, last night's 4th on the 5th celebration was on the verge of decadant, just how I like it. The pool is still refreshing, the yard is still mosquito free, and the grill is still smokin. Curt's burgers were stellar, especially topped with the garden fresh tomatoes. I lost the mayo/miracle whip vote on the potato salad, Vicki pulled a complete veto when she learned the MW was fat free, we used new potatoes, it was still awesome.

We did kick it up dessert-wise. We usually depend on Whitney and/or Erin to bust out a pan of brownies, but being that it was the day after a national holiday, all bets were off. Haley brought a killer banana creme pie with a layer of Nutella, Whitney brought a red/white/blue trifle with blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries, and I made homemade vanilla ice cream. I made an excellent fresh peach and rum compote to top the ice cream, as well as a chocolate sauce. We determined that the chocolate sauce was required on everything, a can't miss proposition.

Add 90s dance music, a mix of Curt's Herbal Fire, Coronas, and gin and tonic, and declare your own Independence.

Peaches in Rum sauce:

1/4 C butter
1/2 C brown sugar
1 t cinammon
6 ripe peaches, pitted and sliced.
1 T vanilla extract
1/4 C dark rum

Melt the butter in a heavy skillet over medium heat. Add sugar and cinnamon and cook, stirring often, until sugar begins to dissolve. Add peaches and vanilla. Saute until peaches are tender, stirring occasionally, about 4 minutes. Remove skillet from heat, stir in rum. Return skillet to heat and cook until sauce thickens, stirring frequently, about 2 minutes.

Let cool, and spoon over ice cream.

SLOW HAND

For the first time in my life, I have found myself to be ahead of a popular trend, the slow food movement. Of course I didn’t know it existed until 2 weeks ago, but now that I know, I feel completely validated and totally cool. Instead of retro, I’m finally now-tro. Slow food movement. Just saying the words aloud brings images of …assisted living? Crummy service? Both of the above plus constipation? No, no. Its much more civilized than that. I mean they say it on TV, so it must be really important. In case you’re like me and had never heard the term till now, slow food movement basically means people who enjoy cooking from scratch, just like Grandma and aunt Ethyl.

Since I've always been a big eater, it only made sense that I would enjoy cooking. I never considered it unusual to hang with the ladies in the kitchen while the guys were in the other room. Lori’s mother, grandmother and other relatives taught me a number of great German recipes when we were first married. We bought quite a few cookbooks in the 80s and 90s and I mastered a number of big lumberjack recipes such as gumbo, chile, chicken and dumplings and such. Even with our successes, most of our cooking was of the processed food variety. And what family didn’t and doesn’t go through this? The kids and career take up more time than you have to begin with, and cooking anything at all seemed like a victory. By necessity, our meals were quick and easy to clean up. We usually cooked for fun on the weekend but didn’t progress all that far.

But then Food TV came along and I became an instant addict. I think the one thing all guys have in common is loving to watch other guys work. Whether he’s pulling a transmission, building a cabinet or braising a roast, watching a pro wield his tools is just hypnotic. I’m sure somehow on some level it’s a sign of some psychosis or another, but I love it. Even now 15 years later, I still shake my head when Jamie Oliver starts chopping. The man is insane. The trouble starts when you shift from watching to actually trying it yourself, and most first efforts ain’t pretty. We never let that stop us though, even when something is pretty awful we still eat it and congratulate ourselves. Before long you go from baking bread and making pasta to brining pickles, curing meats and making cheese, our latest venture. And it is definitely slower but in the good way.

Once you become an official slow food practitioner, the next step is killing and processing your own meat, and several local ranches now offer this option. They set you up in a blind, run the different animals by until you see one you like and then kapow. Next thing you know, you’re up to neck in ribs and chops as the saws and grinders are whining. So far this option hasn’t appealed to me, at least with the big animals. Perhaps I could start with poultry though. In my youth I was quite a chicken choker.

Loco Yoko

As most of you probably know, our mid-year resolution was to eat more locally. We determined our local radius was 100 miles, or 2 hours. Ross pointed out that we could count California since we pretend we're local there for a week every year. In her book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, Barbara Kinsolver reports that if every U.S. citizen ate just one meal a week (any meal) composed of locally and organically raised meats and produce, we would reduce our country’s oil consumption by over 1.1 million barrels of oil every week. That’s not gallons, but barrels. Small changes in buying habits can make big differences. Becoming a less energy-dependent nation may just need to start with a good breakfast. So, the Simmons are up to the challenge.

We started this week with a visit to our local Grand Prairie farmer's market. This consisted of 2 potluck style tables with tomatoes, peppers, potatos, and cukes. Carol and I both tried some tomatoes, the farmers were apparently from Bowie (within our radius), but the produce boxes made us pretty suspicious. We tried a couple of different types of tomatoes, some cukes, some potatoes, as well as a watermelon and a canteloupe. We're doing our best to support the local farmers, but a part of me thinks they don't know a Celebrity from an Early Girl from a Roma.

I tracked down a local farm for meat, and this looks totally promising. Rehoboth Ranch in Greenville offers local pasture raised, pasture finished beef, chicken, lamb, pork, eggs, and goats milk (for feta). You order during the week and then pick it up at the Dallas Farmer's Market on Saturday morning. We ordered 10 lb. of chicken, 5 lb. of hamburger, a roast, and some beef breakfast sausage. It couldn't have been easier, and are planning our next couple of weeks of meals, starting with Woody burgers tonight. While we were there, we purused the produce. They now have signs stating which products are locally grown/produced, which amounted to about half-dozen stalls. It's a start for sure, we picked up some black eyed peas, new potatatoes, and peaches. There was a guy there selling salmon, with a sign that he had grown/produced it. When I questioned him about it, he explained that he was good friends with the guy who owned the salmon company in Seattle, far-fetched at best. After all I'm pretty good friends with Mrs. Baird, but didn't make the white bread on the shelf.

Green's Produce in Arlington offers a great selection of produce, so far every bit as fresh as either of the farmer's markets. Everything isn't local, but mostly Texas grown. They do carry a huge assortment of pickles, relishes, hot sauce, and honey that are locally produced. I think we'll stick to them for awhile since they are truly local.

So far the biggest lesson we've learned is that you have to use your head and your heart. Some of the local stuff is truly great, and sometimes the lokes on us.

Let's Do the Twist

Jack and I spent a lazy afternoon making soft Auntie Annes pretzels. Creating with the kids is just about top on my list of great ways to spend some time. Whether its baking, gardening, crafting, or cooking, the opportunity for laughs is huge. Who knew Jack would be a demon kneader?!?

America: The Idiotic

It’s hard to believe that one year ago, I learned that we would be moving to Galveston, a city I had never visited until July of 2007. The time that passed last year between July 3^rd (the day we found out) and August 14^th (the day we moved and I began work) went so fast and was so stressful and busy. To think that we found a place to live, I found a new job, and we moved 300 miles in a mere 5 weeks is truly unbelievable. I’m really glad we aren’t doing it again this year. It is nice to relax on this 4^th of July and know that I’m not moving anywhere for 3 years, especially since I have really started to love this weird Island. After all, not everyone gets to eat at exclusively local restaurants (no chains!), cross the ocean every morning on their way to work, have a festival in your backyard every month, and have the ability to be on a beach in less than ten minutes. Coming back after a month of vacation has reminded me that I live in a pretty cool little city.

Of course, with all of the great things Galveston has to offer a resident, there are some major negatives. The Fourth of July is one of them. Typically, I really love the Fourth of July – heck, it used to be my favorite holiday because it’s one of those days where you get to hang out with people you like (versus, say, Christmas, where you have to hang out with people you “love”, a group entirely different from the people you like), cook and eat a delicious summer meal, and hang out by the pool. Truthfully, if we hadn’t just made the 5 hour drive last Sunday, we’d probably have driven back up to Dallas for the holiday, but since we’re still unpacking, we decided to spend our first married Fourth alone. One of the positives of living on an island is permanent access to a beach, a negative is that everyone and their dog heads out on a holiday. So, this morning we had brunch at one of our favorite local bakeries, Speculoos, which is usually quiet and peaceful, but today was filled with screaming vacationing kids. We drove to the grocery store down the Seawall, where visitors will walk with their small children across the busy street, not bothering to use the crosswalk twenty yards up. Unfortunately, the weather is less than desirable for the holiday weekend – we are scheduled to have solid thunderstorms for the next 10 days. On the way to the grocery store the storm began and thus the slightly humorous mass exodus from the beach. Kids screaming, pissed parents, umbrellas blowing backwards in the gale force winds, sand blowing everywhere, and a traffic jam caused by jaywalkers, people who have no idea where they’re going, and the couple trying to get to the grocery store, laughing at all of the idiots who would actually go to Galveston on the Fourth of July. We bought a few groceries where tired parents with carts of coke, chips, and stuff to make spaghetti glared at us when we zipped around them to load our cart with enough wine and tonic water to get through the weekend without going out again.

Sometimes we complain about the dumb people who invade our city: the motorcycles zipping by at 3A.M. during the rally, the people who act like they don’t know any better and block our alley during Dicken’s, the huge families who think that Joe’s Crab Shack would be a great place to sample some local seafood, and even the parents with small children, who, on making their retreat from the stormy beach, load their kids up with all of the beach crap and drag them across a street where cars are flying because they are too stupid to use the crosswalk. The truth is, without tourists, Galveston in all of it’s bizarre glory, wouldn’t exist. Luckily, we have plenty of wine, gin, and tonic water to get us through this very long holiday weekend. Cheers!

Smoothie Love

How someone could live almost a half century without experiencing the daily magic that is a smoothie is beyond me. We are trying to become locovores, but draw the line at fresh fruits. Parker County peaches can only fulfill so much of our fruit requirements (although when Curt grills 'em with a little vanilla yogurt on top and a cinnamon sprinkling, one might think so).

Anyway, when I asked for a blender for Christmas I made it clear I wanted no variable settings, totally just on/off. Joel found the perfect one, a Waring Pro with 2 speeds, low and high. We commenced to enter Smoothie bliss.

We start with a basis of banana, V8 fusion, and fat free vanilla yogurt. Sometimes we remember to cut up and freeze the banana slices, but it doesn't really matter. On top of that, the fruit sky is the limit. Blackberries, peaches, mango, strawberries, blue berries, and pineapple have all found a place in the blender of serenity. We changed from fresh to frozen, it didn't seem to make a difference in the taste, and then you don't have to add ice. The 5 lb. frozen fruit bags from Costco seem to be the best all around. Curt will toss in some pecans occasionally as well. I am totally open to any smoothie addition ideas.

Smoothie Nirvana?

Recommended products: Waring Blender
Parker County Peaches

Chickpea Salad

I, Erin, am a magazine addict. Since I could learn to read, I have been reading magazines. When I was a kid, I would accompany whoever was going to the grocery store because I knew at the end, I could throw one in at the checkout line. I subscribe to insane amounts of magazines and still always pick one up at the grocery store. Being out of town for a month and collecting an actual calendar-month's worth of mail made me realize just how many magazines I subscribe to: 8. This puts me at about 2 mags per week, which I guess is about right. My addiction is so strong that I sometimes find myself subscribing to magazines that I have little interest in, which is why for some reason I subscribe to "Fitness" magazine. Regardless, I flipped through it last night and found a great recipe for a chickpea salad, which I made for lunch today. It was awesome, so I thought I'd share.

Chickpea Salad

Dressing:
1/4 cup olive oil
1T lime juice
1t dijon mustard
1 minced garlic clove

Salad:
2 cups chickpeas (I used canned)
4 artichoke hearts, peeled apart
4 sundried tomatoes, chopped
10 or so halved cherry tomatoes
handful of scallions
handful of basil
Parmesan cheese

Mix all dressing ingredients together in a medium-sized bowl. Then add chickpeas, artichokes, tomatoes, scallions, and basil and mix well. Top with a meager grating of Parmesan cheese. The recipe calls for 2 ounces, but I only used one.

And, if you're like me and counting calories:
Serves 4, 274 calories, 10g protein, 22g carbohydrates, 17g fat, 6 g fiber.

Bon Appetit!

*Edited to add: next time, I'd go light on the olive oil. The marinade from the artichokes adds quite a bit and we ended up with a big puddle of oil at the bottom of our bowl.

No Freakin' Whey

As an English teacher, few things delight me more than reading. Unfortunately, between To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies, Othello, et cetera, I am left with little time to read for fun. Starting in April I began making my list of books to read this summer. After spending hours poring over Amazon.com reviews, I made my decisions, placing Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle at the top of my list. I picked the book up at the cute bookstore across the street and packed it up in anticipation of our month-long June Journey. The book arrived at my parent's house before I did so, of course, both of my parents have read it and I still haven't. The book inspired my parents to do all kinds of crazy things (buy local meat, shop at farmer's markets, bake bread), but the most interesting thing they wanted to try was making cheese.
Truthfully, until last week, I had no idea that you could just "make cheese". I thought it was something that came from a factory with mysterious ingredients and expensive equipment. Wrong. It's basically milk with a few chemicals and you can easily make it in your own kitchen. Mom ordered some basic cheesemaking supplies and on Saturday we began our first project, mozzarella.
We began by heating a gallon of non-ultra pasteurized milk and a bit of citric acid to precisely 88 degrees. At that point we added the tiniest sliver of rennet, an enzyme that causes the milk to coagulate and let the mixture sit for 8 long minutes. Then it was time to cut the curd into a grid and then scoop out the curds. Mom mentioned in the previous post that she had the ideal hands for squeezing out the excess whey, so I scooped the curds into a bowl and mom squeezed them out. We later upgraded our technology and scooped the curds onto a splatter screen and pressed the curds into it, causing the excess whey to drip into a bowl. Unfortunately, curds and whey looks an awful lot like baby vomit. Fortunately, it doesn't smell that way and we were soon to the next step, heating and pulling.
To make mozzarella, you heat the curds in the microwave at 35 second increments, and between each heating, you knead and stretch the cheese. It's pretty amazing watching a blob of curds turn into a smooth, shiny ball of delicious mozzarella. During the last kneading you add plenty of salt and then pull the mozzarella like taffy one final time.
The cheese was fantastic. It tasted so fresh and, as with anything you make yourself, we thought it was truly awesome.
Hard cheeses like parmesean take months to age, while the soft cheeses like cream cheese, manchego, and mozzarella can be ready to eat in a matter of hours or days. I probably won't become a full time cheese maker, only eating my own cheese, as I would need a cheese-aging humidor and several hundred dollars' worth of cheese presses. I will, however, definitely be making more mozzarella.

Hands of Time

I have big hands. Vicki and Whitney came over yesterday to help with our first attempt at cheesemaking (more on that later). After the curds and whey separate (didn't know which was which before yesterday), it's time to "use a gentle hand" to press as much of the whey out of the curd as possible. The curd makes the cheese, the whey, well we aren't sure yet, but are considering it a great plant food. We older gals had the perfect hands for the process. We joked about our farm hands, both of us have a heritage of German farming, and were able to do the job perfectly. Our girls have petite, slender, soft, hands. Will they improve with age?

My hands have always been big. I write left-handed with the pen on my ring finger, so I have a large callous there. Rings and long nails make me look like a transvestite. When Curt and I got married, rings seemed silly, so we went with the kick-ass stero instead.

I have blisters from pulling weeds, scars from poor knife skills, burns from too hot mozarella, and crooked little fingers from too many softball catches. As I approach 50, this is something I am becoming comfortable with. I have started noticing broads with big hands. Martha Stewart has strong hands, so does Nigella, and Mario Batali's sous chef on Iron Chef America. I'm starting to like the look.

Recommended products: Burt's Bees Almond Milk Beeswax Hand Creme
Burt's Bees Lemon Butter Cuticle Creme

Truckin, Got Joel's Chips Cashed In...

While there may be someone in Texas that wanted a motorcycle more than Joel, it’s a pretty safe bet they don’t live in Grand Prairie. He had been looking and saving and saving and looking for 4 years until last week, when he finally pulled the trigger. It’s a sweet little machine, if you call a 650 little, and when we unloaded it, it was clear that all of our lives had changed. He made the first few short trips around town and his reports made both of parents feel quite a bit younger and maybe even slimmer. But while the first jaunts are exciting because of the newness, an official road trip was needed to achieve official biker/pirate credibility. It couldn’t be a lame-o, 1 hour jaunt to the country store and back either. No, this needed to be a regulation road trip that involved a minimum of 2 gas stops, twisty, windy roads with farm implements, two or three highway jerks with a close call or two and a great, hole in the wall cafe that hasn’t got the transfats memo yet. Luckily Mark knew the route that would surpass all of the requirements.

Mark has two motorcycles which allowed me to tag along and on Saturday morning we got our motors running and headed out on the highway about 7:00am. The air was cool and light as we wheeled out on 1187 skirting the filthy underbelly of Fort Worth. It was the best of guilty pleasures as we watched all of early morning joggers and bicycle riders getting in their workouts before the hot, Texas sun came out in earnest. Our aerobic duties were set on hold as we surrendered to the glory of internal combustion and loud pipes. Life just doesn’t get much better. Pretty soon we were in the country and running down roads most folks never see. The farmers around Stephenville were cutting silage and it stung our necks as it spilled over the side of the big, farm trucks. The organic smells of the fresh hay paired nicely with the dairy farm as we cruised into town for the first gas stop. We met a nice couple on a VTX 1300 from Wichita Falls who were riding to Hico and compared a few cafes and roads. A big gathering of 2-wheel Texans was in the works and was ending up at the “best barbecue joint in Texas” that afternoon. We bookmarked the address for future reference as we had already made our plans for fine dining.

Backroads have always held me in their tractor beams but riding behind my son on his yellow beast gave them an even stronger appeal. Although he was in front, I could feel the smile coming out of his exhaust which sounded happy. We met numerous other riders some slower, some faster and most all willing to wave, except for the Harley gang who seemed to be in their own world. We had one small SUV creep closer to my bumper until he eventually roared around and decided to pass all 5 bikes in our short convoy. The fact that the first two were turning left onto another highway did not deter him and he generously avoided killing both of them by punching in between them and forcing the 2^nd one off the road onto the shoulder. Luckily all five of us remembered how to shoot the bird and let him roar off in the distance with our curses of gut wrenching diarrhea upon his head. That’s just another bonus of being in the country though. In the city sometimes it’s hard to distinguish the dick-weeds, but in the country they stand out like a diamond in a goat’s ass.

After all that excitement we were hungry and tired, and as luck would have it, close to Mary’s in Strawn. Many places claim to have the best burger, steak, catfish, etc., but Mary’s holds the undisputed chicken fried steak crown. From the moment you step on the concrete floors and smell the cigarette smoke in the back room, you know you’ve arrived in culinary heaven. The exact millisecond your bike weary butt hits the naugahyde cushioned chairs, a giant iced tea appears on the formica table top. The waitresses are always the same, one too cute, one too fat and one too pregnant, but all of them sweeter than the pink saccharin packets they give if you ask for them cause everyone knows you use sugar for tea. Once your senses have recovered from their initial overload, you face your only real decisions, small, medium or large and choice of salad dressing which comes conveniently in multicolored squirt bottles. The small was perfect for Mark and I and even Joel remembered the large as being outrageous, so he settled for the medium. 10 minutes later giant cafeteria-beige, plastic platters of breaded, pan fried, round steak, Texas toast and thick cut french fries made their appearance along with a big bowl of gravy. The salad now comes in a tiny relish dish so it doesn’t ruin any of the gravy. Thirty minutes later we stumbled out in the hot sun and saddled up.

The ride home was uneventful in our gluttony induced torpor. We met a Harley rider at a gas station in Weatherford that actually spoke to us metric types and discussed the weather a little. When we pulled back into Mark’s driveway, the odometer was 267 clicks heavier than when we left. Mark and I were both so beaten down we had to drink several glasses of ice-water before we could stand back up. Apparently, Joel wasn’t quite as tired since he roared off to see his friends and show off the new machine. All in all, a damn fine day.