There’s been shockingly little food on my food blog of late, which is disappointing I know. I have been cooking, just not as much as usual since there are cabinet doors covering every square inch of my kitchen floor, and the new light fixture hasn’t arrived, yet, so it’s pitch black in there when the thunderstorms roll through. And I keep reaching for drawers that aren't there. Same as five seconds ago. Back away from the non-existent drawers, Tammy.
Husband thought the salad might be improved by a little goat cheese, but we were out. It also crossed my mind that cubes of grilled bread wouldn’t hurt, either, panzanella-style. But I hate when I start doing this. Always trying to make something better when it’s perfectly lovely as it is. That’s not the right spirit.
So we ate. And it was lovely.
You’ve seen these before. They’re seven-layer cookies, also known as magic bars. I usually only make them around Christmastime because they seem too decadent otherwise, but I had another occasion come up this time.
Susan over at She’s Becoming DoughMESStic has started Operation Baking GALS, where people can send baked goods to support and boost the morale of our troops abroad. The first destination: Iraq. The mission: to bombard our soldiers with deliciousness. I can just hear you all saying, “Why do they need a morale boost? Aren’t things going great in Iraq?” The answer is no. They are not. Cookies probably won’t help, but it’s a start.
I come from a military family myself, and, in fact, represent the first generation that was too scared to join the armed forces (I like to take my jabs from a safe distance). So this is my way of saying thanks. I chose seven-layer cookies for three reasons: because they’re delicious, they travel well, and seemingly nothing can destroy them. Not bombs. Not anything. Maybe if we build a very tall wall of seven-layer cookies around our troops, we won’t lose any more.
I'm a little late getting these out since I was away last weekend, but something tells me we’ll still be over there. Want to send your own package of goodies? Find out how you can get involved here.
I’m just back from a family reunion weekend, which included way more Italians than there should probably ever be in one place, and a ton of food, including eggplant parmesan, crescia, and sausage and peppers.
Dora is my 90-year-old grandmother. It’s no big mystery who could be responsible for this. My dad. I’d know that handwriting anywhere.
The Toddler has developed his own code names for the two farms we frequent most. Drumlin is the “Owl Farm,” for its rehabilitated birds on display that the Toddler is so fond of. Codman is known as the “Donkey Farm” for reasons I think we’ve already covered. The two farms are close to each other and have a lot of the same animals, not to mention a lot of the same letters in their names and the same number of syllables. Frankly, I was getting them confused myself. This makes it easier.
Mmmmmmm, owlshare. What a great idea! They offer three different varieties of owl, no less. Hawk, too. I wonder if it would be PYO? If so, I would steer clear of the Great Horned Owl. He doesn’t let you out of his sight for even one second. (Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? It’s daytime.) The tiny, napping Screech Owl would be easier to catch, although it’s going to be slim pickings when he gets divided up 45 ways.
Owlshare. If only. Personally, I had my eye on the pheasant.
We had a really great time last week. This is actually the second year we’ve had a good vacation, so I think the karmic debt owed to us after the Great Vacation Disaster of 2006 has been settled at long last.
We rented a small cottage in Brewster, not far from where we got married, with just a short walk to the beach. The weather was perfect the whole time, raining only at night, and we never ran out of things to do with the kids: fishing at Nickerson State Park, mini-golf, checking the lobster traps on Grandpa P’s boat. And, of course, the beach.
Husband had fun building vast sandcastle compounds with serpentine waterways and canals. This is not the most elaborate one he made. The kids would then populate it with moon snails, hermit crabs, and little fish they found in the tidal pools. I particularly enjoyed the spectacle that would occur when we threw an empty snail shell into the hermit crab pool and they would squabble over the new real estate. As hermit crabs grow, they need bigger shells. Once one wins the epic battle for the trophy house of his dreams, he switches. Then, another shell becomes available and it’s chaos all over again. It was recycling at its most hilarious. Later, the tide would reclaim them all as it inched its way back in.
An oyster farm, only visible at low tide. It seemed like the folks at family-run Brewster Oyster were out there every day tending their charges. Oysters take about three years to reach market size. They sell locally to restaurants like the Brewster Fish House, a favorite spot where we got to have dinner one night without the kids.
This place only has about a dozen tables, but we try to come here every year despite the wait. Their lobster bisque is unlike any other: a little bit spicy, a little bit sweet, and chock full of meaty chunks of lobster instead of being puréed into oblivion. Now I’m spoiled forever. Thanks a lot, Brewster Fish House.
We caught frogs and polliwogs at Flax Pond at Nickerson. We did not eat them.
In Eastham, we noticed a sign for fresh-picked corn from Log Cabin Farm. Corn in Massachusetts in the second week of July? I don’t think so. I gave them the third degree despite my limited farm knowledge. They weren’t lying, though. Their farmer covers 15 acres of his corn with black plastic to create an outdoor greenhouse. The woman running the stand said they had corn on July 4th weekend.
So, of course, I had to buy some. What we didn’t eat that night, I stripped from the cob and made into a corn and bean salad to eat with grilled striper the next day.
I wonder how long it will be before this post-vacation glow disappears?
From now on, all of my showers will be taken in the great outdoors. How cold could winter be, anyway? There’s just something about the hot water and the cool breezes and the open skies above and, in a surprise twist this year, the lack of a door. I’m afraid I may have to give up showering altogether if I’m going to be limited to a tiny, airless room. I won't tell you how many outdoor showers I took over the course of one week, my green friends, but more than my share. Many more than my share.
I discovered that one of my sons is not mine. At breakfast one morning, the younger one said something to the effect of: turn off the bacon, I can’t hear the birds singing. Wha?
Drying your clothes on a clothesline isn’t always the best choice for the environment. Not when a midnight thunderstorm leaves your garments waterlogged, so you end up having to put them in the dryer in the morning anyway, but then you forget to take them out before you lock up at checkout time, and you only realize this after you’ve driven away. And you have to make two round trips over many miles, over several hours, wasting countless gallons of expensive gas, in the hopes of catching the cleaning crew so you don’t have to spend even more money paying Chinese children to sew you some new ones. Of course, you might not have this problem if you’re not a moron.
We’re not home yet, but en route. Which means those cats better not still be there when we get back. And do you know what I’m looking forward to most about returning home? All those cabinets I have to finish. Yaaaayyyyyy!!
But that’s not going to stop me from going on vacation tomorrow. On the contrary, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. My deadline for finishing the kitchen was today, and the only thing I succeeded at was fooling myself into believing it was actually possible up until the very last minute. In my next life, I will be a contractor.
Anyway, we’re going to the same place we always vacation because we’re boring. I’ve found that being boring is the very best way to avoid “surprises” and “excitement,” two things I no longer aim for in a vacation. It’s not foolproof, but it helps. All I’m really shooting for are a few of those elusive moments of quiet that I treasure so much. Oh, and fish. I'll be eating fish, too. I have my handy-dandy Monterey Bay Aquarium Sustainable Seafood Guide in my wallet to help me navigate the murky waters of responsible fish consumption. I perused it quickly, and I fear seawater is our best bet. We’ll be extra thirsty.
BTW, the same rules apply about breaking into our house as last year. If you’re going to take all of our worthless stuff, at least take the cats, too.
That’s what my dad would call this rhubarb cake. Girly. Suitable only for tea parties and baby showers. Nothing a real man would eat.
And that’s why there shan’t be any left when he arrives.
with more olive oil than anything else.
It was hard to justify doing anything to these cherries besides eating them out of hand, but it seemed even sillier not to make the dessert that inspired the whole trip in the first place. Stupid’s more like it.
So here it is: 2 cups of Port boiled down to a thick syrup (15 minutes or so). Add the pitted cherries. Let macerate for as long as you can stand it. Spoon over the best ricotta you can find (Russo’s carries ricotta from Purity in Quincy and sometimes Gigi’s Mozzarella House in Everett). A few generous cracks of black pepper made it 200% better, something I wish I had discovered before I snapped the photo. Oh well.
I loved this dessert, but I suspect that not everyone will. You have to pick your crowd. It tastes like actual cherries and wine, not cherry pie filling. It comes nowhere near the sweetness level that most Americans have come to expect when cherries are on the menu. Rather, it’s subtle in that beguiling way that leaves you wanting just a little bit more. Just a little.