Category Archives: Ocean of Flavors

Kitchen Tables

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Some of the best moments of my life have taken place with a mug of coffee or tea in my hand and my elbows propped on a kitchen table. The table I remember most vividly from childhood is my grandmother’s. I think I was twenty-one before I ever saw it without some kind of table cloth on it, but I remember that it seemed huge, even when the expansion leaves weren’t in place, and that no matter the number of people who showed up, there was never “not enough room.”

DrinkingCoffee400 from iStockPhoto.com

Summers of my childhood included so many gatherings around that table – breakfast served by my grandfather, who made the perfect poached eggs, the best cream of wheat, and used to sing “Sweet Adeline” while he cooked. Afternoons were punctuated by my grandmother’s need for “a little something,” often an Entenmann’s coffee cake, but sometimes just a Stella D’oro anisette toast cookie (like a sponge biscotti, laced with anise). That’s when cousins would drop by – my grandmother’s niece Ginny, born 31 years before me on the same day (she called me her birthday girl til the day she died), or her daughter, my cousin Cathy, who is the closest thing I ever had to an older sister.

Evenings would involve grilled burgers, slices of Jersey tomatoes, corn on the cob, and baked potatoes wrapped in foil. Sometimes there would be cousins, sometimes the friends who are really non-biological family – they know who they are. Conversation would rise and fall, kids would share the bench from the foyer, jammed into the far corner of the room, at the curve of the table, or sit on the piano stool (and be forbidden to spin it, though we all wanted to).

But that was years ago.

This morning, the kitchen table around which people gathered was mine, and instead of cousins and friends who’ve known me since before I was born, it was newer friends – two women who are part of my chosen family here in Texas, and one of their mothers. I served strong Caribou Obsidian blend coffee, and homemade banana nut bread and we spent a pleasant morning talking and laughing.

At one point, early in the visit, one of my friends said, “Sitting here at this table with a cup of coffee is like coming home.”

It’s the greatest compliment I’ve ever been paid.

Sweet and Spicy

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Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte

For many people, the fall season begins on the day after Labor Day. Growing up, it was when fall began for me, because it’s when school resumed after summer vacation. For the last eight years, however, Fuzzy and I have lived in Texas, where temperatures are still summer-hot at least mid-way through the month.

Nevertheless, today is when the Pumpkin Spice Latte returned to Starbucks, and so, even though the high temperature in my city was 104 today, we went to Starbucks after a lovely dinner at our favorite Asian bistro and a quick jaunt to the grocery store. (We were out of cheese and toothpaste. It was dire.)

My local Starbucks has gained a new barista this summer, not an unusual occurrence at a coffee shop, but this one is particularly awesome. Her name is Katherine (or some variant spelling of that name, but, to quote Anne Shirley, and with no disrespect meant to certain friends or relatives, “Katherine spelt with a K is so much more alluring than Catherine with a C”). She wears rainbow spikes in her ear lobes, which should be weird but somehow hers are both cool and tasteful. She has a lovely speaking voice (no Texas accent so I’m guessing she’s a student at one of the local colleges) and a great personality.

And tonight, she introduced me to a new drink customization.

Our conversation went like this:

“Hi, it’s good to see you!” Katherine greeted me.

“Thanks! I saw the sign that Pumpkin Spice Lattes were back when I was at Tom Thumb, but the kiosk closes at seven, and while they’re lovely people, they’re excruciatingly slow.” I said.

“The salted caramel mocha is back too, you know,” she said with a seductive tone in her voice.

“I know,” I said conspiratorially, “but it’s too hot for the salted caramel mocha. It is not, however, too hot for a grande Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

“Good point,” she agreed, beginning to mark my drink request onto the appropriately sized cardboard cup. Then she paused. “You know what I’ve been doing?” she asked.

“No,” I said, leaning over the counter. “Tell me!”

“I’ve been mixing chai with the Pumpkin Spice Latte. You’re a fan of chai, aren’t you.”

I confirmed that I was, in fact, a chai fan, and that I’d love to try her concoction, and so instead of a standard PSL, I walked out with a grande PSL enhanced by two pumps of chai.

It was sweet and spicy, and had a hint of tea underneath the coffee, and was a bit darker in tone than a standard PSL.

Katherine says the only thing better, in her opinion, is mixing chai with the Gingerbread Lattes when they come out in winter.

I can’t wait to find out.

Making Messes in the Kitchen

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In the novel Little Men, one of Louisa May Alcott’s sequels to Little Women there is a scene where Jo takes her niece Daisy into a special “toy” kitchen, albeit with a real working stove, so that she can “make messes” and learn to cook. I always wanted to be Jo, never Daisy, but I always wanted that kitchen.

I never had a functioning toy stove, but I always had adults around who were happy enough to let me make messes (of a sort) in their kitchens. One such person was my mother, who made aglia e olio every Christmas Eve when I was little, and taught me to measure the milk into her coffee by color.

Another kitchen supervisor was my grandfather, who loved to bake, and was a fan of James Beard. I remember watching him consult the volume Beard on Bread one summer morning, and then walking me through the steps of making the best raisin bread ever (and even better when paired with his homemade apple butter). It is his recipe, posted here last month, that defines Thanksgiving for me, and his voice in my head when I read recipes.

My grandmother, I am told, used to bake as well (by the time I came along she would stir herself to make meatballs or lasagne once in a while, but that’s about it), and had a tradition of baking date-nut bread for the holidays. I asked my mother and my aunts if they had her recipe, and none of them did, so I’ve spent the afternoon making date-nut messes in my own kitchen. I’ve found several recipes, and will be trying a few over the next week.

I also have a bunch of cookies to make. My grandmother taught us all that “a gift of the hand is a gift of the heart,” and while I’m not much for fiber arts, I love baking, so most of my friends – at least those I typically exchange gifts with – are getting edible gifts this year.

Of course, I also have a Super Sekrit Project, but I can’t talk about it.

And I really shouldn’t be writing this right now. Why? Because the oven timer is about to go off, and I smell dates and pecans wafting through my house, and I think it’s time to see how this first batch worked out.

Coffee’s on, if anyone wants a slice.

Kid Food and Personal Landmarks

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Technically, it’s been Autumn since the last week of September, even if “Autumn” and “Summer” are not all that different in Texas, but last night, standing on the deck, waiting for the dogs to do their business before bed, I exhaled into the darkness and saw my breath hanging in the crisp night air.

I live in a world of personal landmarks. It is not officially cold, or officially Fall, no matter what the calendar says, until I see that first visible breath. The Christmas season does not begin, in my house, until after the sighting of Santa Claus at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and weekends are measured not in what I’ve accomplished, but in how many books I’ve finished reading.

The onset of my personal Autumn, however, is the beginning of my favorite time of year, for while I do not enjoy serious winter, of the type experienced north of here, at all, I do like warm-ish days and chilly evenings. My ideal weather is when the mornings require a sweater, the afternoon is warm enough for shirt-sleeves when you’re in the sun, and the evenings are cool enough that comfy pajamas and a mostly-decorative fire are not uncomfortably warm.

Comfort weather.

Today, on the first day after the arrival of the first of this year’s Comfort Weather, I spend much of the day sleeping in a cool, dark room. A double-dose of Midrin killed the migraine that was brewing, but made me dizzy, and tired, and since I needed to mull over an article rewrite, spending a day with just myself and my dogs was definitely in order.

Although when, at 12:46 pm, I realized that Fuzzy had not, in fact gone into the office, but had chosen to work from home, I offered to make mac-n-cheese for lunch. I mix tuna in, for protein, and it doesn’t come from a box, and while it may be organic, it’s still unhealthy, but oh, so good. I sat outside in a warm breeze and listened to the birds chasing each other through the trees while I did so.

Then I did some email work, took another nap, did some more email work, took a bubble bath, and decided I was hungry, and that more comforting kid food was in order. I have a fridge full of gourmet food, including the makings of a lovely spinach and mushroom French pizza (which isn’t French at all, but feels that way – no tomato sauce, just grated gruyere, baby spinach, etc.) and what I wanted more than anything in the world was a peanut butter sandwich and chocolate milk.

And while, as a kid, it would have been Skippy and not organic peanut butter, the bread still would have been multi-grain, and the milk still would have been chocolatized with Hershey’s syrup.

Sometimes, like comfort weather, kid food is just what you need.

Sexual Tomato

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I should have grabbed the camera, and even commented off-handedly that it deserved a picture, but did I? No. Neither of us did.

My good friend Paula had just returned to town after another stint in our nation’s capitol, and she’d brought back agricultural contraband in the form of peaches and an heirloom tomato. The peaches, she kept, but I’m tickled to say that the tomato was shared at my house this evening.

As good friends can, she sensed that I needed company tonight. I was mopey yesterday because I knew the weekend was approaching, and work was more frustrating than usual, and grew ever more so until finally, around two this afternoon, I told the guy I contract for, “I just can’t deal with any more stupid people today. It’s not your fault, and I’m sorry, but I really need to just stop now, because I’m getting cranky and frustrated, and everything I write is going to SOUND cranky and frustrated.”

He must’ve been having a Fridayitis moment, because he laughed at me, in a non-patronizing way, and we agreed to call it a day.

So when PT called and said, “Hey, what are you doing tonight,” I was honest, and said, “I’d love to hang out, but I’m really not in the mood to GO out. But I have hamburger I’m planning to grill, and you’re welcome to come, if you give me enough time to vacuum my house.” (Vacuuming was not optional at that point, and had been on the agenda for today anyway – the pet-hair tumbleweeds were beginning to evolve into sentient creatures.)

Now, she’d texted me from the farmer’s market where the tomatoes were purchased, so I knew she’d found wonderful stuff, but the tomato she’d brought…it was deep emerald green on top, gradually merging with deeper maroon, and when we sliced into it the inside was a brilliant ruby red, and you could smell that wonderful tomato-y smell that wraps sun and vine into a lovely fleshy package. I arranged the slices on a black glass serving dish, and we sliced the top in half and ate it standing at the counter. It was perfect. It was sexual. It was total food porn. And it was DIVINE.

The rest of dinner was a simple summer supper: burgers on the grill, a salad, and baked potatoes, all accompanied by cosmos and chilled water, much laughter, and no talk of anything resembling work.

After dinner, we adjourned into the dining room I never use for actual dining, and had coffee, and noodled on our computers, but it was late, and neither of us was up to anything really taxing.

Better yet, she stopped at a tea store and brought me some frou-frou tea – 2 oz. each of Assam, Lapsang Souchong, and Golden Monkey, the last of which is $7/oz. I’ve been dying for non-bagged, interesting tea, and even though I really needed rest, brewed a pot of the Assam after Paula had gone home.

Plans for tomorrow include sleeping late, folding a metric assload of clean laundry, and washing several loads of towels.

And writing, of course, always writing.

I Smell Like Piña Colada…

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…that was caught in the rain.

It’s all Deb‘s fault, too, because she got me hooked on ULTA, so I bought shampoo there yesterday, because, even though I do love my Aveda products, every so often it’s nice to use something different.

I fell in love with Freeman/Aussie products 20 or so years ago, but our local grocery store shampoo aisle is distinctly lacking in them, so when I saw them at ULTA, I couldn’t refuse. I love the cheery purple bottles and snarky instructions. I love the fruity smells of the shampoo, and the piña-colada scent of the conditioner. When combined with my lovely citrus body wash, I’m a walking fruit salad. Or something.

The best thing about my visit to ULTA yesterday, is that it came with a free gift. A lovely green Calvin Klein tote bag with black leather straps, and some CK Eternity lotion, body wash, and cologne to try. Well, for some random guest in my house to try, because I sprayed the cologne and all I could smell was alcohol for ages. Or ten minutes. I’m so spoiled by the perfume oils I buy from Possets and BPAL that I can’t tolerate spray scents unless they’re amazing.

For the record: Coco & Coco Mademoiselle are amazing. Clinique’s Happy is delightful. CK Eternity? Not so much.

From ULTA we went to PetSmart or PetsMart (I never know how to interpret their name) to buy dog food. Funny thing about dogs – they like to eat regularly. I did not spend an extra fifteen minutes meeting all the dogs up for adoption. No, I really didn’t. Well, maybe ten. The rest of the time I was quietly chanting, “You have two already. Zorro will never forgive you if you bring home a third.”

I paid the extra $3 for the good dog food, though.

We went to the grocery store as well, for, you know, groceries. I was out of tea. Well, out of good tea. Well, out of good black tea. I have tons of herbal. Sadly, Tom Thumb, even in it’s new and improved upscale garb with a Starbucks about to open inside the store, does not have a great tea selection. (Translation: I was looking for Lapsang Souchong. They don’t carry this, even though I KNOW Twinings and Ceylon Teas both make it.) I opted for a Twinings sampler of English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Earl Grey and Lady Grey. The Lipton, which I had resorted to drinking, is now back in the cabinet, where it shall remain until the next time I’m ready for it’s intended use: ICED tea.

And now, on a fine Sunday afternoon, I’m going to go have tea and a muffin, because it may be nearly two, but we’re just getting up (oh, hush, we went to bed at four), and then I’m going to roast a chicken.

Have a great day.

Birthday Wrap-up

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Or maybe that should be “Unwrapped.” Whatever.

Thursday
I received a lovely bouquet of flowers that arrived sans card, but were from my friend Deb. This was the official beginning of my birthday weekend.

Friday
A lightning storm woke me around five, and scared the dogs, but we all went back to sleep. I’d stayed up late Thursday despite not feeling well (female stuff and a stomach bug that required me to send Fuzzy out for perrier and pepto that evening) so I wouldn’t have to work much on Friday.

I’d also been primed to be home to answer the door. My mother sent me a cake.

Saturday
We went to the Dallas Galleria despite it being a Tax Free Weekend, so that I could pick my present from Fuzzy. I’d been lusting after a new watch, and we found one at the Fossil store. We also had lunch at Cafe Brazil. I came home and went to sleep after that, because I still wasn’t feeling very peppy. In fact, I canceled the nail appt. I was supposed to have had that morning. It’s all good though, because Deb and I will bond over mani/pedi’s on Friday afternoon.

Sunday
My actual birthday was quiet but pleasant.

Today, we slept late. We’d gone to bed before one, but I’d been really dizzy the night before, to the point where I felt like the planet was spinning around me. We emerged from the cocoon of sleep, showered, dressed, and went into Dallas, to the Angelika (a lovely theater) to see Bottle Shock, about California wines beating French wines in a 1976 blind tasting. It starred Alan Rickman, Bill Pullman, and Chris Pine (among others), featured Eliza Dushku in a small but important part, and even had what amounted to a bit more than a cameo by Bradley Whitford, so it was pretty much the perfect birthday movie for me. It’s funny and sweet and really enjoyable, and I officially recommend it.

After the movie, we went to an Irish pub called Trinity Hall for dinner. I didn’t realize this until after we told our waitress that it was my birthday, but they have a Sunday Birthday Discount. If you go to their restaurant on the Sunday closest to your birthday (and you can’t get much closer than the actual day) you get a discount on food (but not alcohol) that equals your new age. I had the braised lamb chops. I’d initially wanted Irish Stew, and I kind of wish I’d stuck to that, but we’ll go back, and I don’t have lamb chops very often. Fuzzy had Shepherd’s Pie (really Peasant Pie, since there was only beef in it) and we shared a peach tart/cobbler/thing. I also had lovely hard pear cider during my meal, and an Irish coffee after.

We stayed for the first two rounds of trivia (it’s quiz night at the pub), but then Fuzzy got bored, and we knew the dogs were waiting.

So, now I’m home, with small cuddly creatures, watching Marilyn Hotchkiss Ballroom Dancing & Charm School which has the same director and much of the same cast as Bottle Shock, and is interesting and quirky so far.

How was your weekend?

So, My Mother Sent Me a Cake…

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I know, it sounds like the beginning of a joke, right? Or as Sky said, “It’s a great opening line.” She’s right of course. But the thing is, my mother, queen of birthday surprises, really did send me a cake.

Author Author

Yay! Cake!

We haven’t sliced it yet, but the delivery form says there’s chocolate underneath the buttercream frosting.

Oh! And the flowers from yesterday? They were from my good friend Deb.