Friday, September 11, 2009
I Take Pictures of Food
I take pictures of food. Food doesn't ever blink or get red eye when you use a flash. It doesn't complain when it's posed in a awkward position and can hold it for hours without complaining. Food doesn't worry if it looks fat or stand over your shoulder while you look at proofs nor does it ever ask you to photoshop away wrinkles and lines. A picture of food can make you a little happier with out adding calories. A picture of food can make you dream of a chic little dinner party that you may or may not have in the future. A picture of food reminds you of something your Mom may of cooked and you hope to recreate someday. It might make you smile if it's a good picture. I take pictures of food.
Wedding Food
If you look at my wedding album you will see all of the obligatory wedding shots, me, looking awesome, my husband, white and hyperventilating with nerves, my parents, my in-laws, all the standard stuff. You will also see lots of pictures of food. Probably half of all the shots in the album are of food. When my husband proposed to me I was not immediately giddy with visions of a white princess gown but more of the visions of how beautiful the food would and should look.The first thing I did to plan my wedding was to make a major purchase in Martha Stewart's first book, Entertaining. I paid the full $35.00 for it (24 years ago) which I could ill afford, but it contained my very vision of the perfect wedding. When sitting down with the chef who would execute the day for me I pointed to pictures (pages 63, 65, 71, 293)Even the cake was directly from the book (page 275), made for me by my awesome friend, Susie Fagelson, fresh out of the Culinary Institute of America. Instead of typical plastic coloumn risers she used upside down cordial glasses from my gift registry. It was, of course, very visual. I hear it tasted really good. Jim and I only had a small bite but the guests were going back for 2nds and 3rds (they even ate the top).When people talked about the wedding they talked about the party, and the food. Tables of fruit, cheese, vegetables, pate, breads, all the works. Just what I envisioned. Maybe not the whole roasted pig paraded through the middle of the party but I married a Mexican and that wasn't up for negotiation. He got his pig.I remember everything clearly about that day. The beautiful weather, my loving family, my little brother and his band, Stately Wayne Manor, playing surf music. I remember Bethany Appleby dancing barefoot when she sang our song (Tequila). I remember my Uncle Piggy leading the Conga line with the incredible Steve and Maureen Murphy rocking out in the 2nd and 3rd position in that line.I can remember almost everyone who came that day, but mostly when I remember that day I remember how perfect the food looked. If I had been allowed I would have had my camera slung over my shoulder and I would have taken many more photos.
School Lunches
I never really minded the first day of school. I didn’t enjoy the return to the daily grind of learning but some part of me didn’t mind it either. Returning to school meant an opportunity to reinvent oneself, especially in high school. Summer was clearly enough time to become sophisticated and chic, maybe slightly Goth and dark, especially in the summer between one’s tenth grade and the repeat of that tenth grade.
Truly, that’s digressing. I was thinking of school lunches. At Point Beach Grammar school in Milford, Connecticut, brown bag lunches were full of glorious things like Olive Loaf sandwiches on Wonder bread and Twinkies. Those sandwiches were made with store bought mayonnaise and wrap in zip locked baggies. I really longed for those lunches, even craved them, never realizing that we, the DuCharme children had such chic and sophisticated lunches. My son who recently spent a summer working behind a deli counter asked me “Olive loaf, what the hell is up with that?”
We had crudités cut up and wrapped like a Christmas cracker in waxed paper, individual packets of salt and pepper, chunks of cheese, hunks of homemade sprouted wheat bread and occasional homemade oatmeal cookies. When there was a classic sandwich it was with homemade mayonnaise and grainy pommery mustard. The kind that comes with a waxed seal over the cork top. I remember once a cream cheese and olive sandwich…..secretly…this was awesome. But on the whole I never ever appreciated these lunches that my Mom and Dad put together with so much love and care. I wanted those square hot lunch pizzas that the kids who bought lunches got. I wanted the nasty ice cream sandwich that some kids with a dime in their pocket could buy. We bought our milk, six cents, two coins safely tucked into a mini yellow envelope that was always in plenty supply at our house for some reason. Now, at 45, I would do backflips (I’m watching the Olympics) to have a brown bag like that presented to me at lunchtime. A classic case of we didn’t know how good we had it.
Now I send my own daughter off to school for her senior year in high school. She has confidence and self esteem to spare. She knows who she is and is fine with it. Claire packs her own lunch each morning because she maintains that a lunch at Shawnee Mission East High School gives her a “tummy ache” for the rest of the day. She resents the mandatory “No drinks with real sugar because sugar is the source of evil” rule because she feels her right to not risk a case of cancer by eating sugar substitute is violated. She packs a smart nutritious lunch and is sure to put a protein bar in the side of her backpack in case her concentration wanes mid morning. She is a smart girl; we call her “the smart one” (look, Ma, a semi-colon, I know how you love those). I like to sneak in occasional piece of chocolate wrapped in a post-it with a silly Mommy type note on it so she know I’m thinking of her. Just like I am sure my parents were thinking of us when they packed our culinary fashion forward lunches for us.
The return of school also means the return of fall which also means “fall food”. Something that makes me happy. Something that makes me feel like the circle of life is intact. Something that makes me want to slice and dice and get going a big pot of soup.
Lentil and Butternut Squash Soup
(as inspired by the Jerusalem Café in KC, Mo)
1 tablespoon Olive oil
1 tablespoon Butter
1 medium Onion, diced
1 large potato diced
2 cloves of garlic, diced
About 2 cups butternut squash, diced
1 cup lentils (yellow ones would be cool but I could find were brown ones)
1 32 ounce box of chicken broth
1 teaspoon of curry
1 teaspoon cumin
Salt and pepper to taste
Light sour cream and toasted pita chips for garnish
Sautee first 6 ingredients until onions are slightly translucent
Add chicken broth, lentils, and spices, bring to a boil and turn down to low. Simmer, covered, for about an hour. Puree with immersion blender (or cool and do in batches in regular blender). Thin with water if soup is to thick for your taste, correct seasoning, warm back up and serve with dollop of sour cream in middle and pita chips on side.
Truly, that’s digressing. I was thinking of school lunches. At Point Beach Grammar school in Milford, Connecticut, brown bag lunches were full of glorious things like Olive Loaf sandwiches on Wonder bread and Twinkies. Those sandwiches were made with store bought mayonnaise and wrap in zip locked baggies. I really longed for those lunches, even craved them, never realizing that we, the DuCharme children had such chic and sophisticated lunches. My son who recently spent a summer working behind a deli counter asked me “Olive loaf, what the hell is up with that?”
We had crudités cut up and wrapped like a Christmas cracker in waxed paper, individual packets of salt and pepper, chunks of cheese, hunks of homemade sprouted wheat bread and occasional homemade oatmeal cookies. When there was a classic sandwich it was with homemade mayonnaise and grainy pommery mustard. The kind that comes with a waxed seal over the cork top. I remember once a cream cheese and olive sandwich…..secretly…this was awesome. But on the whole I never ever appreciated these lunches that my Mom and Dad put together with so much love and care. I wanted those square hot lunch pizzas that the kids who bought lunches got. I wanted the nasty ice cream sandwich that some kids with a dime in their pocket could buy. We bought our milk, six cents, two coins safely tucked into a mini yellow envelope that was always in plenty supply at our house for some reason. Now, at 45, I would do backflips (I’m watching the Olympics) to have a brown bag like that presented to me at lunchtime. A classic case of we didn’t know how good we had it.
Now I send my own daughter off to school for her senior year in high school. She has confidence and self esteem to spare. She knows who she is and is fine with it. Claire packs her own lunch each morning because she maintains that a lunch at Shawnee Mission East High School gives her a “tummy ache” for the rest of the day. She resents the mandatory “No drinks with real sugar because sugar is the source of evil” rule because she feels her right to not risk a case of cancer by eating sugar substitute is violated. She packs a smart nutritious lunch and is sure to put a protein bar in the side of her backpack in case her concentration wanes mid morning. She is a smart girl; we call her “the smart one” (look, Ma, a semi-colon, I know how you love those). I like to sneak in occasional piece of chocolate wrapped in a post-it with a silly Mommy type note on it so she know I’m thinking of her. Just like I am sure my parents were thinking of us when they packed our culinary fashion forward lunches for us.
The return of school also means the return of fall which also means “fall food”. Something that makes me happy. Something that makes me feel like the circle of life is intact. Something that makes me want to slice and dice and get going a big pot of soup.
Lentil and Butternut Squash Soup
(as inspired by the Jerusalem Café in KC, Mo)
1 tablespoon Olive oil
1 tablespoon Butter
1 medium Onion, diced
1 large potato diced
2 cloves of garlic, diced
About 2 cups butternut squash, diced
1 cup lentils (yellow ones would be cool but I could find were brown ones)
1 32 ounce box of chicken broth
1 teaspoon of curry
1 teaspoon cumin
Salt and pepper to taste
Light sour cream and toasted pita chips for garnish
Sautee first 6 ingredients until onions are slightly translucent
Add chicken broth, lentils, and spices, bring to a boil and turn down to low. Simmer, covered, for about an hour. Puree with immersion blender (or cool and do in batches in regular blender). Thin with water if soup is to thick for your taste, correct seasoning, warm back up and serve with dollop of sour cream in middle and pita chips on side.
My Book Idea
This is my fabulous idea for a book. I’m going to write a book about writing a blog about a woman who wrote a book about writing a blog about cooking her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Keep in mind my name on my birth certificate is Julia but only my Dad calls me that and everyone else calls me Julie. I’ll call the book Julia/Julie on Julie on Julia. I know, it’s genius.In the movie version Maggie Gyllenhaal will play me, Amy Adams will play the other Julie and Myrel Streep will play Julia Child.
How a Peach Pie Helped
Today is the day, 7 years ago my husband woke me up at 5:55 in the morning and said “I think you better come down and watch TV with me”, which was an odd request until I got downstairs and took in the devastation that was New York City. We sat there with my 12 year old daughter and my 14 year old son and I think we all had a “What the fuck?” expression on our faces. I friend who had been watching in Milwaukee called and said what hadn’t even crept into my mind “What about your brothers?” What about my brothers? Shit, what about my brothers! Bob and Peter. What about them? Couple of quick phone calls, phones don’t work, email? To slow, attempt a call to London for my sister? Of course that didn’t work.
Then I began to hear the rumbling over head. Large AWAC planes stationed at the military airport very near by started a parade east. Tiny Fighter jets almost seemed to pull ahead like a faster car passing a slow SUV on the highway. It was a sickening sound that went on for hours. Because of the bad weather they were flying disconcertingly low. That was the sound that made me feel like “do something, do something”. I told the kids to forget about school and we hopped in the car and went to the Catholic Church and … the doors were locked. All of them. "No, you can’t come inside and pray at a moment in the world where perhaps prayer would be very very important". So we got back in the car and I said to my husband that the Church lost me at that moment. I was kind of done with the Catholic Church. Buh-bye. My parents later tried to explained that the Priests were probably watching the T.V. also but I still thought at the time if you needed to pray and the world was kind of falling apart, the doors would be open. Just like they taught us in Sunday school. Reverting to the pagan side of me I thought how allot of cultures believe that prayer is strongest outside and not in a structure built by man, outside was God’s house so we went to a park and held our hands and hoped for the best. I dropped my kids off at school without a “please excuse their tardinest”note and went home to watch more T.V. like the rest of the country.
I was the closest thing to a New Yorker many of my Seattle friends have so they starting appearing at the door in the afternoon and I did what many Women, Moms, and Parents do best. I cooked.
I made peach pie, with a crust from scratch (not my forte). I peeled the peaches correctly, boiling water for a minute and ice water for another minute. I made spaghetti and meatballs, each meatball tiny and perfectly shaped. I made macaroni and cheese, drawing on my knowledge of the “Mother Sauces” to do it correctly. I cooked and cooked, it kept me busy, and then we ate and ate with all my friends on the front porch then I got an Email from Bob that he was O.K. and then the phones kicked in and my Dad said Peter was O.K. It was one of the crappiest day of my life, up there with “Honey, I’ve been laid off”, “Mrs. Fallone, your husband actually needs quintuple bypass surgery perhaps you should call family” and the ever popular “Julie, Jim has cancer” . I do acknowledge that, as shallow as it is, and it’s what we all do, that Peach Pie and Spaghetti and Meatballs (or what ever you choice is) can actually help a little.
Peter and Bob, I love you both.
Then I began to hear the rumbling over head. Large AWAC planes stationed at the military airport very near by started a parade east. Tiny Fighter jets almost seemed to pull ahead like a faster car passing a slow SUV on the highway. It was a sickening sound that went on for hours. Because of the bad weather they were flying disconcertingly low. That was the sound that made me feel like “do something, do something”. I told the kids to forget about school and we hopped in the car and went to the Catholic Church and … the doors were locked. All of them. "No, you can’t come inside and pray at a moment in the world where perhaps prayer would be very very important". So we got back in the car and I said to my husband that the Church lost me at that moment. I was kind of done with the Catholic Church. Buh-bye. My parents later tried to explained that the Priests were probably watching the T.V. also but I still thought at the time if you needed to pray and the world was kind of falling apart, the doors would be open. Just like they taught us in Sunday school. Reverting to the pagan side of me I thought how allot of cultures believe that prayer is strongest outside and not in a structure built by man, outside was God’s house so we went to a park and held our hands and hoped for the best. I dropped my kids off at school without a “please excuse their tardinest”note and went home to watch more T.V. like the rest of the country.
I was the closest thing to a New Yorker many of my Seattle friends have so they starting appearing at the door in the afternoon and I did what many Women, Moms, and Parents do best. I cooked.
I made peach pie, with a crust from scratch (not my forte). I peeled the peaches correctly, boiling water for a minute and ice water for another minute. I made spaghetti and meatballs, each meatball tiny and perfectly shaped. I made macaroni and cheese, drawing on my knowledge of the “Mother Sauces” to do it correctly. I cooked and cooked, it kept me busy, and then we ate and ate with all my friends on the front porch then I got an Email from Bob that he was O.K. and then the phones kicked in and my Dad said Peter was O.K. It was one of the crappiest day of my life, up there with “Honey, I’ve been laid off”, “Mrs. Fallone, your husband actually needs quintuple bypass surgery perhaps you should call family” and the ever popular “Julie, Jim has cancer” . I do acknowledge that, as shallow as it is, and it’s what we all do, that Peach Pie and Spaghetti and Meatballs (or what ever you choice is) can actually help a little.
Peter and Bob, I love you both.
Atticus Scones
For 25 years my husband has been after me to recreate a scone that he used to have at a bookstore in New Haven, Connecticut. Twenty five years ago there was the Atticus bookstore right on the edge of the Yale University Campus, I’d like to think it’s still there. We use to think it was edgy and cool because there was a coffee shop right in the middle of the bookstore. This was a bit of brilliance, imagine, looking at books while drinking coffee? This was something out of some crazy futuristic space movie. What brilliant mind thought this could work? (Get it? Sarcasm.)
I think coffee drinks were limited to “a cup of coffee” and for $1.25 it was bottomless but what was most appealing to us was the menu. I always ordered “French Bread”. It was a generous slice of a perfect baguette with a little pot of Jam and Butter. The bread was everything you can imagine a perfect piece of bread could be and the waitress would come around and replenish your jam. That was all I wanted out of life. My husband, however, was addicted to the scones. They were his idea of perfection. Down the street there was an uber groovy hippy chic restaurant called “Claire’s Cornucopia” and they had scones too but they were not the little bit of heaven on a plate they way that Atticus had achieved. (I liked the ones from Claire’s because sometimes they had chocolate chips in them).
Anytime I offered to make anything Jim wanted for breakfast he would ask for a scone, actually he wanted that scone. I would try and try and tweek and adjust but they never ever were they the excact scone of his memory. Too cakey, to much like shortbread, to moist, to dry, never ever quite right! I researched and studied, Joy of Cooking, Martha Stewart, Julie Child, Gourmet Magazine and thing I could find to compare and contrast. Finally I thought “google it” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, you never know. So I typed in exactly this “Atticus Café Scone Recipe” and there it was. Some blog/forum/ food group type thing and an article that began with “I was the chef at the Atticus café in the early 80’s and here is my scone recipe”. Unbelievable. Seriously, I felt a rush of adrenaline and I thought “this is it”. This is really it. Quest over.I pasted and clipped on to a blank word document and put it up on my refrigerator. It was way different then the path I had been searching. Cream of Tarter? I was not ever close. So I made them, infused with the love I have had for my husband since the day I met him in 1981. They were beautiful. Brushed with an eggwash and embedded with currants. This was it. They had arrived. I finally made THE SCONE.
I presented them to my husband with a cup of coffee; I even used the “nice plates” (as opposed to the everyday chipped ones). Here it is here is your scone. He took a bite, smiled, sipped some coffee, took another bite and said……….”close, these are very close”.
I give up, unless I can present them to him sitting in the middle of a book store in the early 80’s comparing The Specials with Madness and what place in history The Jam hold with my brother Peter. Unless there is classical music playing and we are surrounded with Yale students discussing Joyce versus Proust it will never ever be the Scone.
That’s O.K., he thinks my carrot cake is perfection and he brings me coffee in bed n Sunday mornings.
"Thank you Chef John Ryan from the Atticus Cafe Scones"
2 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 teaspoon baking soda
6 tablespoons cold butter
1/2 cup chopped walnuts or currants
2 eggs with milk added to total 1/2 cup
Turn your oven on to 375 degrees F and line a cookie sheet with parchment paper or aluminum foil. While your oven heats up, mix the dry ingredients in a bowl. Cut the shortening or butter into the dry ingredients until the fat is gravel-sized or smaller. Then quickly press/rub the lumps of butter between your palms--imagine flattening the butter into leaves. When the mixture resembles cornmeal, stir in the walnuts or currants.
Beat the eggs and milk together in a measuring cup, then pour that mixture over the dry ingredients and toss. Gather the mixture like a snowball and flatten it on the counter into a disc about 3/4 inch thick. Cut the disc into pie-shaped wedges and lay them on your cookie sheet. Bake until they are golden brown, 25 to 30 minutes
Jim’s Perfect Carrot Cake
3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
3 cups granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1 1/4 cups vegetable oil
4 large eggs (room temperatur), lightly beaten 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups shelled walnuts, chopped
1 cup Raisins soaked for several hours in ¾ cup of warm bourbon (we like Maker’s Mark)
1 1/3 cups pureed cooked carrots
Cream Cheese Frosting
Instructions
1. Preheat oven to 350F. Grease two 9-inch cake pans. 2. Sift flour, sugar, salt, baking soda and cinnamon into a bowl. Add oil, eggs and vanilla. Beat well. Fold in walnuts, raisins (with Liquid),and carrots mush. 3. Divide batter between prepared pans and smooth tops with a rubber spatula. Set on the middle rack of the oven and bake until edges have pulled away from sides and a cake tester inserted in center comes out clean, about 50 minutes. 4. Cool 15 minutes, then remove sides of pans and place layers still on pan bottoms on cake racks to cool completely, 3 hours. 5. Gently remove layers from pan bottoms and frost with your favorite Cream Cheese frosting (but for pete’s sake do not use premade from a can) Serves 10 to 12. (counts as breakfast food on Birthdays)
I think coffee drinks were limited to “a cup of coffee” and for $1.25 it was bottomless but what was most appealing to us was the menu. I always ordered “French Bread”. It was a generous slice of a perfect baguette with a little pot of Jam and Butter. The bread was everything you can imagine a perfect piece of bread could be and the waitress would come around and replenish your jam. That was all I wanted out of life. My husband, however, was addicted to the scones. They were his idea of perfection. Down the street there was an uber groovy hippy chic restaurant called “Claire’s Cornucopia” and they had scones too but they were not the little bit of heaven on a plate they way that Atticus had achieved. (I liked the ones from Claire’s because sometimes they had chocolate chips in them).
Anytime I offered to make anything Jim wanted for breakfast he would ask for a scone, actually he wanted that scone. I would try and try and tweek and adjust but they never ever were they the excact scone of his memory. Too cakey, to much like shortbread, to moist, to dry, never ever quite right! I researched and studied, Joy of Cooking, Martha Stewart, Julie Child, Gourmet Magazine and thing I could find to compare and contrast. Finally I thought “google it” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, you never know. So I typed in exactly this “Atticus Café Scone Recipe” and there it was. Some blog/forum/ food group type thing and an article that began with “I was the chef at the Atticus café in the early 80’s and here is my scone recipe”. Unbelievable. Seriously, I felt a rush of adrenaline and I thought “this is it”. This is really it. Quest over.I pasted and clipped on to a blank word document and put it up on my refrigerator. It was way different then the path I had been searching. Cream of Tarter? I was not ever close. So I made them, infused with the love I have had for my husband since the day I met him in 1981. They were beautiful. Brushed with an eggwash and embedded with currants. This was it. They had arrived. I finally made THE SCONE.
I presented them to my husband with a cup of coffee; I even used the “nice plates” (as opposed to the everyday chipped ones). Here it is here is your scone. He took a bite, smiled, sipped some coffee, took another bite and said……….”close, these are very close”.
I give up, unless I can present them to him sitting in the middle of a book store in the early 80’s comparing The Specials with Madness and what place in history The Jam hold with my brother Peter. Unless there is classical music playing and we are surrounded with Yale students discussing Joyce versus Proust it will never ever be the Scone.
That’s O.K., he thinks my carrot cake is perfection and he brings me coffee in bed n Sunday mornings.
"Thank you Chef John Ryan from the Atticus Cafe Scones"
2 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 teaspoon baking soda
6 tablespoons cold butter
1/2 cup chopped walnuts or currants
2 eggs with milk added to total 1/2 cup
Turn your oven on to 375 degrees F and line a cookie sheet with parchment paper or aluminum foil. While your oven heats up, mix the dry ingredients in a bowl. Cut the shortening or butter into the dry ingredients until the fat is gravel-sized or smaller. Then quickly press/rub the lumps of butter between your palms--imagine flattening the butter into leaves. When the mixture resembles cornmeal, stir in the walnuts or currants.
Beat the eggs and milk together in a measuring cup, then pour that mixture over the dry ingredients and toss. Gather the mixture like a snowball and flatten it on the counter into a disc about 3/4 inch thick. Cut the disc into pie-shaped wedges and lay them on your cookie sheet. Bake until they are golden brown, 25 to 30 minutes
Jim’s Perfect Carrot Cake
3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
3 cups granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1 1/4 cups vegetable oil
4 large eggs (room temperatur), lightly beaten 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups shelled walnuts, chopped
1 cup Raisins soaked for several hours in ¾ cup of warm bourbon (we like Maker’s Mark)
1 1/3 cups pureed cooked carrots
Cream Cheese Frosting
Instructions
1. Preheat oven to 350F. Grease two 9-inch cake pans. 2. Sift flour, sugar, salt, baking soda and cinnamon into a bowl. Add oil, eggs and vanilla. Beat well. Fold in walnuts, raisins (with Liquid),and carrots mush. 3. Divide batter between prepared pans and smooth tops with a rubber spatula. Set on the middle rack of the oven and bake until edges have pulled away from sides and a cake tester inserted in center comes out clean, about 50 minutes. 4. Cool 15 minutes, then remove sides of pans and place layers still on pan bottoms on cake racks to cool completely, 3 hours. 5. Gently remove layers from pan bottoms and frost with your favorite Cream Cheese frosting (but for pete’s sake do not use premade from a can) Serves 10 to 12. (counts as breakfast food on Birthdays)
Glop
Glop
(Jim would call this a free verse poem)
Every family has a recipe for one.
It’s only requirements are that it should be cheap, fast, flexible and able to be made by a confident teen so parents could go out without the children and know that they have been fed dinner.
DuCharme glop has orgins in a gifted class my brothers attended back in the days before it was common knowledge that “every child” is gifted.
It was made in an “Electric Frying Pan” (it is possible to still buy these, I’ve seen them at Kmart by Farberware).
One pound of ground beef (before we had a choice of percentage of fat content).
Cooked noodles, what you had, what was on sale, macaroni, shells, bow tie pasta if you’re feeling fancy.
Frozen vegetables like peas, corn, green beans, almost never ever mixed.
Tomato sauce or Cream of Mushroom soup.
You’ll know it’s done when it looks like glop.
Serve with parmesan cheese if you are feeling adventurous (must be the sawdust dry version that comes in a green shaker can)
This is glop.
It’s not gourmet or even “comfort food chic”. It’s glop.
If I have had a horrible day, cranky and snarling at the world, a bowl of glop, served in a bowl and eaten a spoon would take the edge off. Throw a class of red wine and a myriad of problems could be solved.
(Jim would call this a free verse poem)
Every family has a recipe for one.
It’s only requirements are that it should be cheap, fast, flexible and able to be made by a confident teen so parents could go out without the children and know that they have been fed dinner.
DuCharme glop has orgins in a gifted class my brothers attended back in the days before it was common knowledge that “every child” is gifted.
It was made in an “Electric Frying Pan” (it is possible to still buy these, I’ve seen them at Kmart by Farberware).
One pound of ground beef (before we had a choice of percentage of fat content).
Cooked noodles, what you had, what was on sale, macaroni, shells, bow tie pasta if you’re feeling fancy.
Frozen vegetables like peas, corn, green beans, almost never ever mixed.
Tomato sauce or Cream of Mushroom soup.
You’ll know it’s done when it looks like glop.
Serve with parmesan cheese if you are feeling adventurous (must be the sawdust dry version that comes in a green shaker can)
This is glop.
It’s not gourmet or even “comfort food chic”. It’s glop.
If I have had a horrible day, cranky and snarling at the world, a bowl of glop, served in a bowl and eaten a spoon would take the edge off. Throw a class of red wine and a myriad of problems could be solved.
Fancy Holiday Tables
It is very trendy to declare “you eat with your eyes too”. Like this is a new concept, and then one could throw around the phrase “platescape” to prove that you know what you are talking about. I have always known this because when I was young, any holiday table was set hours before the meal. A work of art, a blank canvas, an opportunity to express one’s inner artist.
I recently found a picture of myself sitting at a Thanksgiving table. This was before the mob scene that Thanksgiving in Connecticut turned into. The table is set for six people but I am in a highchair so it was B.P. (before Peter) and I imagine the sixth seat was for my Grandma or one of my Mother’s many brothers. It’s black and white and overexposed but I know everything on the table.
First a red table cloth, then a lace one on top of it. I know it was stained and had some holes in it because serving platters and decorations had to be artfully placed to cover them. Cloth napkins that were freshly pressed and I think gray in color and made of linen. Cloth napkins used to be the sign of a really fancy meal and now they are de rigueur (I know, it’s a really pretentious phrase). The silver and white “Good China” (I don’t think anyone has good china anymore, maybe my sister) is on the table and also the good silverware. It was usually a production a week before any holiday of polishing the “Good Silver”. The smell of Gorham silver polish is very sense memory for me.
I also see in the picture dark purple water goblets at every setting, even at mine regardless of the fact that I’m in a high chair. I thought everyone grew up with water goblets at family dinners. There are also wine glasses at 3 of the place settings. They are the wine glasses of mythic reputation because they have a band of platinum around the rim and were referred to as the “Bishop Glasses”. I never knew why but I knew it made them super special. There is a plate of crudités and although I can’t see it I know there is a plate of olives and fancy crystal salt and pepper shakers. There is a turkey, way outrageously to big for 6 people at the head of the table because we did the Norman Rockwell thing when my father carved at the head of the table (electric carving knife). There is an autumnal centerpiece and I think it’s in an actual wicker cornucopia and candlesticks also in some of that freshly polished silver. My favorite thing that I can make out on the table is the bottle of Leibfraumilch. It was the white wine that made my parents go all dreamy eyed as they thought back to their time in Germany.You can’t see it in the picture but I know just to the left is a side board was an apple, pumpkin, pecan and mincemeat pie. My Grandma made the mincemeat, which is a nasty mess of a dessert pie with meat and lard in it, and she always wrote a “T” and an “M” in the top pie crust (Tis’ Mince….go figure).
This little picture tells me so much and reminds me why I always feel compelled to capture any image of food. I hope that perhaps in 25-ish years, someone could look at a picture I took and get so much out of it (mine will be bigger and not overexposed).
I recently found a picture of myself sitting at a Thanksgiving table. This was before the mob scene that Thanksgiving in Connecticut turned into. The table is set for six people but I am in a highchair so it was B.P. (before Peter) and I imagine the sixth seat was for my Grandma or one of my Mother’s many brothers. It’s black and white and overexposed but I know everything on the table.
First a red table cloth, then a lace one on top of it. I know it was stained and had some holes in it because serving platters and decorations had to be artfully placed to cover them. Cloth napkins that were freshly pressed and I think gray in color and made of linen. Cloth napkins used to be the sign of a really fancy meal and now they are de rigueur (I know, it’s a really pretentious phrase). The silver and white “Good China” (I don’t think anyone has good china anymore, maybe my sister) is on the table and also the good silverware. It was usually a production a week before any holiday of polishing the “Good Silver”. The smell of Gorham silver polish is very sense memory for me.
I also see in the picture dark purple water goblets at every setting, even at mine regardless of the fact that I’m in a high chair. I thought everyone grew up with water goblets at family dinners. There are also wine glasses at 3 of the place settings. They are the wine glasses of mythic reputation because they have a band of platinum around the rim and were referred to as the “Bishop Glasses”. I never knew why but I knew it made them super special. There is a plate of crudités and although I can’t see it I know there is a plate of olives and fancy crystal salt and pepper shakers. There is a turkey, way outrageously to big for 6 people at the head of the table because we did the Norman Rockwell thing when my father carved at the head of the table (electric carving knife). There is an autumnal centerpiece and I think it’s in an actual wicker cornucopia and candlesticks also in some of that freshly polished silver. My favorite thing that I can make out on the table is the bottle of Leibfraumilch. It was the white wine that made my parents go all dreamy eyed as they thought back to their time in Germany.You can’t see it in the picture but I know just to the left is a side board was an apple, pumpkin, pecan and mincemeat pie. My Grandma made the mincemeat, which is a nasty mess of a dessert pie with meat and lard in it, and she always wrote a “T” and an “M” in the top pie crust (Tis’ Mince….go figure).
This little picture tells me so much and reminds me why I always feel compelled to capture any image of food. I hope that perhaps in 25-ish years, someone could look at a picture I took and get so much out of it (mine will be bigger and not overexposed).
Hostess Gift Pressure
There is a lot of pressure now when it comes to the perfect and “appropriate” hostess gift. I can remember when a bottle of wine, maybe $5.00 to $10.00 above what you would normally buy for yourself was a good choice. If you really wanted to show off, the liquor store sometimes sold long skinny paper bags in a festive print to slide that bottle of wine into. But now you can buy a Velvet or Satin wine bags from stores like Cost Plus World Imports (my favorite place in the world), Target, and even KMart. Once upon a time, during the holidays, you could always shine with a “Holiday Themed” plastic plate filled with Nestle Toll House cookies covered in plastic wrap and a pre-made bow on top.
Those days are gone, long gone (thanks partially to Martha Stewart). It is a lot more difficult to give a perfect, unique, and etiquette-ally correct gift. (I just made up that phrase) I know fresh flowers are wrong wrong wrong. That gift is saying “stop your hostessing duties and find a vase for my flowers”. Poinsettias can work during the holidays but for goodness sakes replace the nasty foil they come wrapped in with something classier. I think Martha would want us to craft something, a good thing, with our own hands (in our spare time). Perhaps a holiday ornament made from a Pinecone, Fairy Dust and reclaimed Vermont barnwood? (Martha would like that). You could also wander aimlessly up and down the aisles of Joann’s or Michaels looking for inspiration and attempt some craft that you know is way beyond your ability.
Also regarding your hostess, I know to never-ever forget the “Thank you note”. My sister, Ann says they are de rigeur. When I was first married my mother gave me “Personals”, they are note cards, 5 1/2 inch by 4 ¼. Cream colored, and just your name on the front, in black, simple script, or calligraphy if you want to be edgy. (Julia Shelton DuCharme, but those are long gone and I rather photoshop something cooler). You should write something along the lines of “Thank you for inviting us to you lovely party, your house is lovely, and it was lovely to meet your lovely family”
It’s kind of important to think about the Hostess and where they fit into you life. For a Christmas party with my bosses, I would bring beer, and wine, and maybe more beer. It’s always appropriate with them. But…a party with my husbands company in a private home has me perplexed (and a little freaked out). I have never met any of these people and the hostess gift (and outfit) has to be perfect. I need the kind of thing that says “Thank you for inviting us to your party and thank you for Jim’s continued employment”. I’m not sure what that is. I’m thinking of going with home made Fleur de Sel Chocolate caramels in a white box with outrageously expensive ribbon. Does that convey the thought?
I think anything would actually be thoughtful and considerate, as long as it is given with the “Holiday Spirit” and I don’t do tequila shots and sing The Holly and the Ivy standing barefoot on a table I should be fine.
Those days are gone, long gone (thanks partially to Martha Stewart). It is a lot more difficult to give a perfect, unique, and etiquette-ally correct gift. (I just made up that phrase) I know fresh flowers are wrong wrong wrong. That gift is saying “stop your hostessing duties and find a vase for my flowers”. Poinsettias can work during the holidays but for goodness sakes replace the nasty foil they come wrapped in with something classier. I think Martha would want us to craft something, a good thing, with our own hands (in our spare time). Perhaps a holiday ornament made from a Pinecone, Fairy Dust and reclaimed Vermont barnwood? (Martha would like that). You could also wander aimlessly up and down the aisles of Joann’s or Michaels looking for inspiration and attempt some craft that you know is way beyond your ability.
Also regarding your hostess, I know to never-ever forget the “Thank you note”. My sister, Ann says they are de rigeur. When I was first married my mother gave me “Personals”, they are note cards, 5 1/2 inch by 4 ¼. Cream colored, and just your name on the front, in black, simple script, or calligraphy if you want to be edgy. (Julia Shelton DuCharme, but those are long gone and I rather photoshop something cooler). You should write something along the lines of “Thank you for inviting us to you lovely party, your house is lovely, and it was lovely to meet your lovely family”
It’s kind of important to think about the Hostess and where they fit into you life. For a Christmas party with my bosses, I would bring beer, and wine, and maybe more beer. It’s always appropriate with them. But…a party with my husbands company in a private home has me perplexed (and a little freaked out). I have never met any of these people and the hostess gift (and outfit) has to be perfect. I need the kind of thing that says “Thank you for inviting us to your party and thank you for Jim’s continued employment”. I’m not sure what that is. I’m thinking of going with home made Fleur de Sel Chocolate caramels in a white box with outrageously expensive ribbon. Does that convey the thought?
I think anything would actually be thoughtful and considerate, as long as it is given with the “Holiday Spirit” and I don’t do tequila shots and sing The Holly and the Ivy standing barefoot on a table I should be fine.
The Other Grandma
I had a Grandma. We called her Grandma. She lived around the corner from the house I grew up in. She babysat us overnight sometimes. She was famous for her chocolate fudge and had bizarre theories on things like “why Elvis was so fat” (his fans crowded so close to him that he never had any exercise). She came to our house for holiday meals and while I know she was a good cook I don’t remember her as being known for her gourmet cooking. She could make an awesome piecrust and mincemeat from scratch, not that I ever ate mincemeat pie due to the fact that it is a dessert made with suet. Towards the end of her life she was known for making a chocolate mix-chocolate chips-walnuts-cool whip extravaganza of a birthday cake. That was Elsie; she was my Dad’s Mom.
I had another Grandma but I have almost no memories of my own of her. I think we called her Oma, because we called my Grandfather Opa (a German thing although none of us are German). I do know for sure however that she was an amazing cook, a gourmet before her time. She subscribed to Gourmet magazine probably more than 50 years ago. She always had emergency canapé ingredients in the cupboard and I like to imagine that she was known for chic cocktail parties where artistic and creative people held interesting and edgy conversations (I’m projecting the last part). My Mom once told me about a time Oma made strudel and demonstrated to my Mother that the dough is thin enough only when you can read a newspaper through it. It was an all day event and it feels like something I would definitely do.
My Mom recently let me have a notebook that her Mom had kept. It is a simple, classic, black and white composition notebook. It is not a record of her life, loves, and adventures, its more revealing. It is her grocery lists - the ones she used to check off the items when the groceries were delivered.
It is because of this notebook that I know we are kindred spirits. Looking at the lists, planned in 2 week increments, you can see if there was a party planned or a holiday dinner to serve. It is a guide to “how to feed 7 children and a demanding husband without going bankrupt”. Most of time the handwriting is neat and perfect, classic “palmer method” but sometimes I notice the handwriting gets messy and the lists are disorganized, no longer categorized, and you can tell there are no parties planned. After that you would see my Mom’s young handwriting taking over or my Grandfather’s handwriting - nothing interesting, no joy in the planning of food. Dry chipped beef is ordered. That would be the time my Oma would be gone, in a hospital, getting rest. Often more cigarettes are included in those lists. I use to hear about those times when I was little but I didn’t know what it meant to be getting rest. Time would pass, menus grey and bland and then suddenly her handwriting is back! Prime Rib, ingredients for Yorkshire pudding, the fun stuff like plum pudding when it’s not even Christmas - the list comes back to life.
But being a stellar cook isn’t the only thing I think I inherited from her, though I never had to go to a hospital to get rest. I have doses of Lamictal, and Seroquel instead andI get to always be with my family and always make the list. And though I choose graph paper over the black and white composition notebook but my lists are just as telling. Individual beef Wellington for Christmas dinner, Mimosas and Eggs Benedict for breakfast, it’s all there, all in my handwriting, in the grocery list. I think she would be proud, I think we could have hung out together, making strudel or something.
She was my other Grandma. The one I didn’t know at all but the one who gave me the gift of being confident, creative, and daunted by nothing in the kitchen, and also probably the gift of the “bipolar” on my medical charts. But that’s OK, I know in my heart, should I ever have a need to make strudel dough from scratch, it won’t be a problem. And you’ll be damn sure you can read the newspaper through it…
I had another Grandma but I have almost no memories of my own of her. I think we called her Oma, because we called my Grandfather Opa (a German thing although none of us are German). I do know for sure however that she was an amazing cook, a gourmet before her time. She subscribed to Gourmet magazine probably more than 50 years ago. She always had emergency canapé ingredients in the cupboard and I like to imagine that she was known for chic cocktail parties where artistic and creative people held interesting and edgy conversations (I’m projecting the last part). My Mom once told me about a time Oma made strudel and demonstrated to my Mother that the dough is thin enough only when you can read a newspaper through it. It was an all day event and it feels like something I would definitely do.
My Mom recently let me have a notebook that her Mom had kept. It is a simple, classic, black and white composition notebook. It is not a record of her life, loves, and adventures, its more revealing. It is her grocery lists - the ones she used to check off the items when the groceries were delivered.
It is because of this notebook that I know we are kindred spirits. Looking at the lists, planned in 2 week increments, you can see if there was a party planned or a holiday dinner to serve. It is a guide to “how to feed 7 children and a demanding husband without going bankrupt”. Most of time the handwriting is neat and perfect, classic “palmer method” but sometimes I notice the handwriting gets messy and the lists are disorganized, no longer categorized, and you can tell there are no parties planned. After that you would see my Mom’s young handwriting taking over or my Grandfather’s handwriting - nothing interesting, no joy in the planning of food. Dry chipped beef is ordered. That would be the time my Oma would be gone, in a hospital, getting rest. Often more cigarettes are included in those lists. I use to hear about those times when I was little but I didn’t know what it meant to be getting rest. Time would pass, menus grey and bland and then suddenly her handwriting is back! Prime Rib, ingredients for Yorkshire pudding, the fun stuff like plum pudding when it’s not even Christmas - the list comes back to life.
But being a stellar cook isn’t the only thing I think I inherited from her, though I never had to go to a hospital to get rest. I have doses of Lamictal, and Seroquel instead andI get to always be with my family and always make the list. And though I choose graph paper over the black and white composition notebook but my lists are just as telling. Individual beef Wellington for Christmas dinner, Mimosas and Eggs Benedict for breakfast, it’s all there, all in my handwriting, in the grocery list. I think she would be proud, I think we could have hung out together, making strudel or something.
She was my other Grandma. The one I didn’t know at all but the one who gave me the gift of being confident, creative, and daunted by nothing in the kitchen, and also probably the gift of the “bipolar” on my medical charts. But that’s OK, I know in my heart, should I ever have a need to make strudel dough from scratch, it won’t be a problem. And you’ll be damn sure you can read the newspaper through it…
The Myth of Comfort Food
I heard someone say on television yesterday that “In today’s economy, everyone wants to dive into some comfort food”. I think today’s economy is what is preventing me from diving into some comfort food. Comfort food is so trendy right now. But often the recipes will lean towards a Macaroni and Cheese or Beef Stew, simple things with affordable ingredients. That is what is supposed to comfort you; this is what we are told. That is not what comforts me and that’s where the “affordable” aspect clashes with the whole concept and has left me hanging when I was “laid off” from my job.
When all of a sudden a 2 income family loses half of their finances the grocery list is one of the things that suffer. As I continue to tweak and revise my resume looking for something to compliment the not always lucrative world of food photography and styling, I want to turn to my comfort food but it is never in the budget. It’s a true catch 22. I lost my job, I need comfort food. I can’t afford comfort food because I lost my job.
Here is some of what I turn to when I need an indulgence pick me up and even shore up my self-esteem (why, yes, I’m that shallow)
Champagne (not Andre)
Häagen-Dazs
Chocolate (the good stuff)
Fresh Figs and Honeydew Melon wrapped in Prosciutto
Sushi (not California rolls)
Terra Sweet Potato Chips
Good Croissants
Caviar on Toast Points
Anything with Chevre or Mascarpone cheese
“Farm to Market” Bread (if you’ve had it, you’ll know) dipped in good olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
Fresh Raspberries
And Eating anyplace that the food is brought to me and shortly there after a nice young person asks me if everything is O.K. and do I need anything? Perhaps another drink?
That is food that makes me feel better. I know there are people that would be comforted with a hot meal and a safe place to stay. I know this, my heart breaks for them. I’m just talking about my own selfish longings. I want to dive into some comfort food; I don’t have the money to indulge so I can’t comfort myself because I lost my stupid job.
On to changing the fonts in my resume….
When all of a sudden a 2 income family loses half of their finances the grocery list is one of the things that suffer. As I continue to tweak and revise my resume looking for something to compliment the not always lucrative world of food photography and styling, I want to turn to my comfort food but it is never in the budget. It’s a true catch 22. I lost my job, I need comfort food. I can’t afford comfort food because I lost my job.
Here is some of what I turn to when I need an indulgence pick me up and even shore up my self-esteem (why, yes, I’m that shallow)
Champagne (not Andre)
Häagen-Dazs
Chocolate (the good stuff)
Fresh Figs and Honeydew Melon wrapped in Prosciutto
Sushi (not California rolls)
Terra Sweet Potato Chips
Good Croissants
Caviar on Toast Points
Anything with Chevre or Mascarpone cheese
“Farm to Market” Bread (if you’ve had it, you’ll know) dipped in good olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
Fresh Raspberries
And Eating anyplace that the food is brought to me and shortly there after a nice young person asks me if everything is O.K. and do I need anything? Perhaps another drink?
That is food that makes me feel better. I know there are people that would be comforted with a hot meal and a safe place to stay. I know this, my heart breaks for them. I’m just talking about my own selfish longings. I want to dive into some comfort food; I don’t have the money to indulge so I can’t comfort myself because I lost my stupid job.
On to changing the fonts in my resume….
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)