C.S. Lewis: "The Weight of Glory"
"I am trying to rip open THE INCONSOLABLE SECRET in each one of you -- the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence."
Chris Ware: Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth
A perennial favorite, and one I re-read every year or so. This incredible, multilayered, seemingly inscrutable yet abundantly accessible work changed my mind about the graphic novel. This is a story that could not be told in words alone. His artwork is not standard overblown comic book fare at all; it is precise and architectural. Ware's artistry is not only visual, it is historical, narrative, deeply psychological and completely unique. He plays on the tropes of the old "comix" and the hyperbole of the back-page ads for X-Ray Specs, blends that with the voice of innocence and amazement of the Chicago Exposition of 1893, and then, in a perfect hat trick, adds our current post-modern nihilist, isolated and lonely existence of the 21st century to bring it home. I cannot describe the plot, because the plot, as cathartic as it is, is only one vehicle for what you experience. Be prepared to be confused and overwhelmed and moved to tears in this journey from son to father to generations past.
Dorothy Dunnett: The Game of Kings (Lymond Chronicles, 1)
It's about time for me to begin my decennial re-reading of the Lymond Chronicles. I've actually read this, the first volume of the six, so many times that I've worn out two paperback versions. I make it all the way through all six every ten years at least. This series is a splendid addition to any Desert Island Reading List. If you like your heroes tortured, your buckles swashed with erudition, romances long on intellect yet short on the formulaic ripping of bodices, and sagas so sweeping all beaches would be free of sand, this is your meat. Recommended companion: The Dorothy Dunnet Companion Vol. I & II -- a concordance for this and Niccolo, her other series, which I find less compelling. Yes, she's such a reference-intense, not to say dense, writer that two volumes of clarification ARE necessary.
Charlotte Brontë: Jane Eyre (Penguin Classics)
This has a post all its own. A brilliant, courageous work, shamefully relegated to the "gothic" or "romantic" pile. This is the work that started a thousand imitators, all of which pale in comparison to the language, the intelligence, and the iconoclastic bravery of the original.
Longest Night, Here in My Little Town: Sunrise, 6:59 am, Sunset, 4:51 pm. With my SADD, I should be terminally sad (read photon-deprived depressed) but life is good. The nightime low here is 42 degrees, and I'm bearing up wearing flannel pajamas so I can leave the window open as I sleep and hear the waves. Tomorrow will be sunny, even if shortest day of the year, with a 50 something high.
So, of course, like a fool, I am going to spend 12/23-1/2 in SW Minnesota, where prevailing temps are below zero. I am told that there will be a warm spell on my arrival, a daily high (projected) of 12 degrees. Woooh. Break out the aloha shirts and shorts. I'm a California girl. Even in cold damp SF, it never got below freezing. This is terrifically exotic. I'm spending the ten days with one of my favorite couples: art professors part time, artists and farmers full time. I will learn to milk a cow (machine assisted, thank God), feed chickens, make cheese, and lost-wax casting. I will teach my hosts the mysteries of hand bookbinding. They have entrusted me with expensive large photo prints of their work for binding. It is a true collaboration -- my host is going to hand-cast embellishments for the metal posts used in binding. I've let go of results and plan to have fun. Because I am a single-warrior army who travels on her stomach, I've already ordered and sent vast packages from Dean & Delucca of more specialized French cheeses, crabcakes, lobster bisque, maple syrup, and some vinegars they may find amusing. Also some packages from Napa holding some great reds and bubbly. And a few packages not to be opened until the 25th that should spread additional cheer.
I've also bound a special book for my hosts that I will carry next to my heart as I travel. By the way, I cashed in Frequent Flyer miles for this, and had (poor me) to go first class to make it work.
My first first-class flight. My first white Christmas. In a drafty 1903 farmhouse. I'm counting the minutes.
From here on out, guys, there will be more light. Let's pray that isn't simply literal. Happy Solstice, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year's, etc. I wish a year of love and joyous service for us all.
Glad Tubers of Comfort And Joy
Happy winter solstice and the holiday of your choice. As with Thanksgiving (we went to a movie), Mom and I are skipping the traditional trappings this year except for music. Have to have lots of blaring liturgical classics -- Verdi's Requiem is a must -- and for me, the Christmas Phil Spector and Elvis albums, and a couple of rock and country compilations ("Daddy, Please Don't Get Drunk This Christmas"), are essentials. Unfortunately, all my more, er, secular holidaytide music is packed with the seasonal decorations in the storage unit. Fortunately, Houston just sent not one, not two, but three of his annual and highly eclectic Christmas compilation CDs, so it will be a merry musical Christmas after all. I've sent Houston a pony, or so he thinks, for his present, arriving on Friday the 15th.
Christmas Eve, we're going for a potluck and service at my new church. It's the local MCC (the worldwide gay denomination, an anachronism in SF but necessary in the hinterlands, very ecumenical, worship style depends on pastor/minister/officiant.) In SF, the MCC is generic protestant with slightly campy services, a large churchy structure with a huge congregation and very active and out. Here in My Little Town, it's a nondescript storefront with about 25 members total, episcopalian-style services, active in charities, and a tight-knit warm group where only a couple of the lesbians would set off my gaydar. My Little Town is so far in the closet it reeks of mothballs. Toto, I am definitely not in Kansas anymore. The services are only one heartfelt hour long, so it's an easy demonstration of faith. I adore the pastor. I can confide in him. At the moment, he's beating the bushes to find a gay man to be my AA sponsor, my first choice. No chance of romance (a good thing) and almost certainly a sense of humor and aesthetics, so we'd get along.
Anyway, I've been assigned the yams for the potluck. This is very ironic. About 10 years ago, I prepared the Christmas Eve Feast To End All Pretentious Foodie Feasts, which included a yam souffle. In preparing the yams, I found one shaped just like the baby Jesus. Instead of calling the National Enquirer, I showed it to my ex. We laughed together as I peeled, boiled and mashed it with the rest. Over the next few hours, we had spun an entire quasi religion about Yam Baby. We even photoshopped a yam into the manger of an overly-sentimental nativity scene and stuck it on the front door of our loft unit. The title changed by whim: "The Adoration of Yam Baby", "What Yam Is This," "Yam Baby Died For Your Sins", "A Savior Yam is Born Unto Us," "Fa-La-Yam-La-La", etc. No one protested, but we did get strange looks.
I will try to avoid yam sacrilege this year, but as Popeye sez: I yam what I yam.
Watch Out, Thibedaux, LA
I'm not yet fully confirmed, but by the first of the year, I should know whether I'm set for a two-week stint in February with Habitat For Humanity as part of their Katrina rebuild effort. Thibedaux is Bayou Country, and I'm eager to go, especially as this will be Mardi Gras season. So I'm not entirely altruistic in this volunteerism. In my application, I tried to stress my construction ineptitude, and my legal/office expertise, so that I could spend my time indoors chasing down building permits or the like. No such luck. Volunteers do construction, period.
Hammers I know (all too well, some would say), screwdrivers hold no mystery as long as the bit is hardened at the tip to prevent stripping, I can handle paint on brush or roller, but that's it. I've never in my life used a drill; they scare me as do all power tools. An old family friend, the late Chet O'Brien, was an auto mechanic and amused me as a child by putting the tip of his severed index finger near his nostril, as if searching deeply. I thought he was a true wit, but the reality of cutting off your finger made a hell of an impression. Even the "minimal assembly required" by catalog furniture is a trial. After a week of fits and starts and profanity, I finally completed my lovely new CD shelves. It consisted of about a dozen structural pieces and a zillion itsy connective devices, with tiny differences (e.g. the dome-topped Phillips screw versus the flat-head Phillips), 3 kinds of nuts, and some stuff that defied explanation. I used all the structural bits, but ran short of some connectors and ended with a plethora of extras. The back panel is backwards and upside down, as is the center brace-shelf, but fuck it. It stands up, holds CDs, the doors close, and I count that as carpentry success.
So my hopes for Thibedaux are 1) to learn something, and 2) to not hurt anyone in the process, including myself and future homeowners. If you hear anything in the news about Bayou homes collapsing, forget you ever read this (as if anyone does, my Devoted Readership is now in the low two digits).
Here it is, Your Moment of Zen
(exerpted from: http://www.sattlers.org/mickey/site/archive/2004/08/index.html -- but so far down on page that I've saved you the trouble. I treasure my memories of Mitchell's Ice Cream in SF. More butterfat than in pure butter, and some wacky flavors):
"Lila really, really, really, really wanted dessert at Mitchell's Ice Cream, San Jose @ 27th Street. Here's Issac eating his favorite, ube (a Filipino purple yam)."
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I used to live on San Francisco's Fog Line. A completely sunny day was rare at our house. The Pacific's eastward flow of fog and bitter-cold wind would engulf us by late afternoon, if not earlier. The Mission District, a half-mile away, would bask in its warm microclimate while I, shivering, lit the fire and wrapped myself in sweats. On such afternoons, when considering dinner plans, my mind would turn to bubbling pots of stews and soups.
I have always loved to cook. An obvious reason to enjoy cooking is if one enjoys good food, which is certainly true for me. But more than that, I enjoy sharing food, especially cooked in quantity, even with total strangers. A bond is made when one breaks one's own bread with another. I had watched my mother, a very good cook, receive strokes from family and friends for her efforts and set out to become a great chef, with sometimes comic results. I prepared my first solo dinner when I was about 8 or 9 out of "The Betty Crocker Cookbook For Boys And Girls" (an early gender consciousness-raising title, considering this was the mid-60's) for my godfather and "uber-mench" figure, Hal.
I will have to write a separate post about Hal -- he was a good and beautiful man. He was watching me while my parents were out, and I rewarded him with (and I am not making this up) "Happy Face Dinner." It consisted of a meatloaf base baked in a pie tin with eyes, nose and mouth sculpted from mashed potatoes. I believe peas figured into the mix somewhere, too. I served this abomination to poor Hal, who consumed it with every indication of delight, and probably great lashings of catsup to get it down. Out of my hearing, my mother apologized to Hal when she returned. "But it was GOOD!" he said loyally. I had nowhere to go but up from "Happy Face Dinner."
Nearly forty years later, I still come a cropper sometimes. A few months back, I invited a friend for dinner. This was the first dinner I had prepared for him, and I wanted to set the proper gourmet tone. I knew he was vegetarian, with the occasional fish thrown in. No problem. I had been reading several books about Italy and its cuisine (Marcella Hazan's Complete Italian Cookbook, Italian Days, Under the Tuscan Sun) and conceived a meatless menu of Tuscan relish (featuring roasted garlic, olives and pimento, among other good things) to spread on baguette toasts as a starter, while I completed the polenta with wild mushrooms, and caprese salad (fresh mozarella, tomatoes, basil, with a dash of balsamic and fruity olive oil). My friend sampled the relish and politely put down the half-eaten appetizer. He asked about the main course. With some embarassment, he told me, "I don't think I gave you a clear idea about my food limitations. Not only do I not eat meat, there are three foods I loathe: olives, mushrooms and eggplant." Shit. If I had made the eggplant side dish I had considered, I would have hit the trifecta. "Oh, well, scratch plan A, now it's time for plan B," I said gaily, but inwardly I gnashed my teeth. I found some cheese to go with the baguettes, finished the polenta and set it aside, and put on a pot of water for pasta. Plan B involved Trader Joe's bottled Marinara sauce and linguine. Only the caprese salad was salvaged. I'm not sure, but dessert may have included coconut, which I now know is also on the Will Not Eat list. Henceforth, I check every ingredient before preparing food for my friend, and we have shared many successful meals since then.
What happened to the Tuscan Relish and mushroom polenta? It was served with much fanfare the next night to an appreciative audience. Like so much of provincial cuisine, it only improves by the next day. (Incidentally, that meal marked the Bubba's first understanding of the concept of wine pairing. The Bubba's idea of a good drink is lemonade or a Long Island Iced Tea, not wine. But I served a Chianti Classico in the old-fashioned straw-wrapped bottle and told the Bubba that it, too, was from Tuscany. The Bubba, eyes wide, cried, "Hey, this wine is GOOD with this food!" I saw a 40-watt bulb light over his head. He now also likes Pinot Grigio with fish. I feel like Annie Sullivan.)
So now it is fall, and even though I live in My Little Town on the California Coast, sunny and temperate year-round except for the occasional monsoon or landslide, I'm still dreaming of soups and stews. Last night I made a fabulous Salmon Chowder. It will be even more flavorful tonight after a day's rest in the refrigerator. This is safe for the lacto-ovo-fish vegetarians among us and is fabulously healthy, except for the butterfat (and what is life without butterfat?). As the cookbooks always say, serve with a crusty loaf or soup crackers (which I dislike, but to each her own) and a green leafy salad for a complete meal. Great for casual entertaining.
SALMON CHOWDER
In an 8-quart stockpot (non-stick is best), melt butter over medium heat. Add onions and bay leaves, stirring occasionally, until onions are tender but not browned. Stir in flour and cook and stir over low heat while it bubbles for a minute or two. Stir in vegetable broth, 1 cup at a time, mixing until smooth after each addition. Add potatoes, bell peppers and salmon skin and cook at a low simmer, covered, until potatoes are just tender, about 20 minutes. Remove skin carefully and discard. Add corn, milk and salmon. Mix well and heat just below a simmer for another 20 minutes, covered. Season to taste with salt and pepper. (Can be held and refrigerated at this point. Just remember not to let boil when reheating.) Serve garnished with a dash of paprika or minced chives. Makes about 4-5 quarts.
This is not a gluey-thick chowder, yet has a rich mouth-feel. If you like your chowders to double as wallpaper paste, increase the butter and flour accordingly in equal quantities, but I will not be held responsible.
I just tried to categorize this post before I wrote it and checked just about everything because I'm sitting at a desk in a gorgeous house in the Haight, overlooking Golden Gate Park, in San Francisco feeling the rising sun just blinding me through the window to my right, overlooking the Bay and the mysterious, Eastern land known to dedicated City dwellers as, erm, the East Bay. (OK, I wnt for something emotive, mysterious, yet accurate, damn those honest tendencies.) I have to admit, I love this city, "where Gay is like a spoken language," (see earlier poetry posts -- Ruth Somebody, Accordion Dancing . . . ) and there is something more evocative, hands down, about dawn in this City, over my current view over the condos in My Little Town. Maybe you can't be born in the region you come to love for no reasonable reason. There is one City where you know you will wake just as the skies are coming violet, and rush to that back staircase, the one that may not be safe, it was built long before accurate property records, but it faces east, so you sit until your eyes are dazzled by the firerim and shake your head and maybe even you breathe deep for a minute with your eyes closed. There is one place at a time where that happens. And there is that morning when you do that, maybe even make a point of doing that, when you realize that it is the Last Time you do it and it feels like home. And what a glorious time it was, and you kiss the City on both cheeks, and maybe feel a little naughty, but it is definitely goodnight and Good Morning. And you've rarely felt so awake.
I love it here. I love the pulse of this city and the perpendicular, not horizontal of this city, and the food (oh, god, the food........... am I staying with my soulmate or what, my dear hostess Anna has a WALL of wonderful old and new cookbooks, the palate of a New York Times food critic, and yet no foodie pretension preventing us from fabulous cheap neighborhood Indian curries for dinner last night).
I love it when it is showing off, on those three and three only days a year when the weather, throughout the City, is uniformly sunny and temperate (and I KNOW her tricks, I loved her and lived with her for seventeen years, so I am not tempted when the weather looks as it looks this past weekend.) I am having a glorious time, and I've figured out that I can get what I need one or two weeks a year. I am that most tiresome of tourists: I love this city, but I'd hate living here. I can see my opera and plays here just as I used to schedule for Manhattan -- and get the hell out of Dodge. It's wonderful and quirky and beautiful and seductive and I completely understand anyone who lives in San Francisco or Manhattan. I live somewhere else, and that's actually a lot of fun. There's something kind of bent and unknown about the future, but it's an acceptable trade for the light I'm looking at -- it really is better that the past. I find that I spend more time selling My Little Town to my friends than I'd expected. It compares, well, it doesn't matter. It's right for me now.
I'm going next door for a depth charge (while I'm still in the city that knows what that is) and a bagel with tomato. Good morning.
I have been reading "Under the Tuscan Sun," and craving a visit, perhaps lifelong, to Tuscany. As food is an integral part of the Italian experience, I feel very close to my childhood visits to my grandmother. Fennel was an essential ingredient around the kitchens of my father's family, I just didn't know what it was, or even its form. It was like the elephant as perceived by the blind men: a snake (the trunk) a column (the leg), a rope (the tail). Similarly, fennel seeds gave bread and Italian sausages their distinctive flavor, which bore little relation to the stalks and bulb when chopped into Grandma's garlicky olive salad, and the mild delicate fronds were something else again, sauteed with breadcrumbs and parmesean to top spaghetti and meatballs in the spring. I knew the latter dish as "finnocchio" (Italian for fennel) and had no idea where to find it when I wanted to recreate the traditional dinner for Daddy's birthday in late April. At that time, the early '80's, it was rarely available in the supermarket fresh. For that matter, I don't know where Grandma got it, but knowing her, she was not at all above pulling it out of someone's yard. Fennel grows like a weed in California, great bushes of it, reeking of anise. I do not like the strength of licorice, but fennel's flavor, though similar, is milder, particularly when cooked, and a little greener, grassier. It is as common in Italian cooking as celery is in America, an essential aromatic. Once I figured out the finnocchio-fennel connection, and that it was all one elephant, my kitchen was never again without the seed, and I use the bulb often in salads: red onion, fennel and orange is a classic, or a caponata (replace the celery, or add an equal amount diced fennel). It is heavenly with arugula, but so is everything. Carl, a reprehensible ex-boyfriend, once complained of our frequent breakups that when we were apart he couldn't bear seeing the fennel in his kitchen and would throw it out, only to buy it again when we tried to get back together. (May he choke on a fennel seed, bless his heart).
One of its most comforting preparations is in a simple soup. Its assertive flavor make it a poor choice for inclusion in an all-purpose broth, but it can marry well with some other root vegetables. This recipe is my version of one used at Greens in San Francisco, which blends it with celery root (also called celeriac). I think of it as a basic Tuscan peasant soup, capable of endless variation. Its richness can be enhanced by adding up to a cup of light cream, and/or the bread can then be omitted, so that it is entirely suitable for the first course of an elegant meal. Alternatively, it can be topped with chopped bitter greens, the sautee'd "finnocchio" of my childhood, or diced pimento.
Fennel and Celeriac Soup
Trim all green from leeks, and set aside white parts. Discard ragged outer greens. Slice and wash inner light green leaves well. Trim thick outer leaves and feathery parts from fennel. Set aside fennel bulb and about half the feathery greens, and chop outer leaves and remainder of greens. Trim top and bottom from celery root and pare skin. Put pared root in a bowl of water with a little lemon or vinegar to prevent from browning. Put in large saucepan or medium soup pot: the chopped inner leek greens, the outer leaves and half the greens from the fennel, and the top and bottom and parings from the celery root. Add:
Bring to a boil, simmer about half an hour, and strain. There should be about 6-7 cups. In the meantime:
Heat together in large saucepan or medium soup pot:
until butter melts. Slice the reserved leeks into thinnish rounds, quarter and slice the fennel bulb and the celery root. Add to butter and water, along with:
Stir and stew very slowly for about 20 minutes, adding moisture as necessary. Do not brown. Pour the strained stock over and simmer, covered for 15 minutes. Allow to cool slightly. Blend in batches until completely smooth. Allow to sit so foam settles out. Reheat for serving, do not allow to boil. Add
at this point, depending on consistency, if desired. Correct seasoning with salt and pepper.
While reheating, broil baguette slices, two per person, brushed with olive oil, until desired crispness. Place in bowls and pour soup over, piping hot. Garnish with chopped fennel greens and/or finely chopped arugula and/or watercress. Pass freshly grated Parmesean cheese.
A good dessert would be broiled figs drizzled with honey.
Serendipity seems to surround me, lately. Last Friday, in a bookstore, I walked in with my Holy Grail Book Search in mind: the perfect set of Dickens -- complete, new enough to be readable, old enough to have charm -- and three gorgeous volumes of such a set slept, resonating slightly, on the shelf just by my left elbow as I entered. Not complete *cries*, but I carry on bravely. While there, I picked up a book with a provocative title and it opened in my hands to a poem by Eloise Klein Healy, my poetry teacher and muse to my dearest late friend / psychic twin, Steve H., who deserves a post or three all to himself. So I bought the book. Today, when I realized I had missed Tuesday's recipe post, for very good reason, so don't shout at me (all 1.5 of you who read these things), I thought I'd feature picnic food, because the weather is heavenly, I'm going to a poetry festival on Friday, and hope to have a picnic beforehand. A classic picnic dish I've done before is cold poached salmon with cucumber sauce, but I do it out of my hip pocket, so to speak; I don't have a recipe. I picked up my threadbare Julia (French Chef Cookbook), and it fell open to "To Poach A Salmon", Show 94. I realized I learned from her, when I probably reached her elbow, during the old PBS series. I never reached the shoulder of that 6+ foot tall goddess, either physically or in skill, but I worship at her temple. Religion begins at home, and my mother was a slavish devotee from around 1970 onward. I already liked to cook, but, as with so many in America, Julia Child brought Mom and I the gospel of good French food, demystified. Not even, necessarily, French: the basic laws rested on the quality of the ingredients, and fearlessness in the kitchen. I remember the lusty joy of her "Bon Appetit!" at the close of each show. During my first marriage, I worked my way through "Joy of Cooking" and Julia, slavishly, learning. When she died last year I surprised myself and burst into tears. She was a friend of the family, a mentor, a personal icon for my favorite tribute to people I care for. To share food one has prepared is a communion.Now, to the salmon. I will not repeat Julia's recipe here; you can look it up yourself, buy the book, whatever. With Julia's usual panache, the recipe calls for an entire salmon in any event. A tad excessive for picnic fare a deux. Instead, I offer poached salmon steaks, the sauce, and directions on assembling a salmon mousse terrine, all of which can be enjoyed and transported alfresco, assuming temperate weather and enough ice to prevent botulism. I have made all of these for company, the terrine for several Oscar Parties, to enthusiastic reception.
Poached Salmon Steaks
Check salmon steaks for bones, pluck out any with tweezers. Set aside. Place enough water to cover salmon in wide, shallow pan(s), add wine, salt, herbs, and 3 or 4 each of peppercorns and coriander in each pan. Bring liquid to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to point where water is barely simmering, add salmon, and watch to make sure water does not boil, or even bubble, but "shivers." After 8 minutes, turn off heat (remove from electric stove -- the tool of Satan) and allow to rest in water for 3-5 minutes. Remove gently with large spatula, remove skin, and serve immediately or chilled.
Cucumber Sauce
The amounts above are approximate, play with until you have what you want. Tip: to avoid a runny sauce, grate the cucumber well ahead and drain on paper towels for at least half an hour before blending with other ingredients. Chill to allow flavors to blend.
Salmon Mousse
(Courtesy of Silver Palate Cookbook, Rosso and Lukins, with additions)
It's the Bubba's birthday. Since one of his unalloyed enthusiasms are all things edible, I've made 7:30 reservations for Suzanne's, the best restaurant in Ventura County. It's my first visit, but I know the Bubba will love it; he describes the food there as a "foodgasm." I'm excited. This is a present for me, too, no question. I've been on a dire food restriction for days now, only the "fat pants" zip lately. Perhaps it has something to do with my fondness for butterfat. Perhaps I was trying to eat for two in Texas. Evelyn, my dear friend, is frail and struggling to gain weight -- if only the transfer of adipose tissue were easier. So I'm drinking Crystal Light like Ponce de Leon discovered it after all, and doing the stationary bike for mile after fruitless mile and going to Pilates three times a week again. Days are easy. Nights, nights are hard. Fortunately, this is strawberry season, and I live in the midst of strawberry fields. Strawberries are God's perfect food.
Brief commercial interruption: I am blessed. I come out of my front door and the scent of jasmine assails me, the huge blooming hedges surround the pool just a few steps away. A bed of begonias, ruby pink, fleshy, between me and the mailbox. Spicy geraniums grow like some insane knitting beside the garage. I drive down the street and in less than a mile, the fields are on either side of me, the berries fragrant, the red-studded low shrubs surrounded by vibrant California poppies, blue cornflowers. For eight dollars, I buy more berries than I can possibly eat before they rot. Like jewels in their green plastic baskets, sweeter than a virgin's nipples, al dente fructose. Their color, their scent, conquer the kitchen. I make smoothies for breakfast, fruit salads for lunch, a simple bowl of sliced berries in milk for a midnight snack. I live with three cats I love (well, two, and one I endure), and can eat these miraculous berries. This is heaven, how dare I live on earth with such happiness, in the sunlight? Surely I will erupt in a rash from this orgy.
Happy late spring. The earth is abloom again and the sky is a heartbreaking blue. In June, the fog moves in, and the Bubba is likely to be unhappy. I have news for him, but not on his birthday. Today, though, today is just de-loverly, full of berries, and good food tonight.
<a href="http://www.technorati.com/tag/Food+and+Drink" rel=“tag”>Food and Drink</a>
For a year or so in the late 70's I worked with a high-end women's wear designer, Irene Tsu. (See Wiki Wiki II entry.) I was a college drop-out, drifting, learning the discipline of getting to a job each day and paying rent, if not much else. The work was largely physical and undemanding: shipping, inventory, help with shows and organizing for buyer's visits. I was able to dress myself and all my friends in cashmere and silk. It was, despite the prevalence of disco and the Hillside Strangler (but that's another post), a wonderful time. I took ludes and went dancing and did all the irresponsible things one must do at that age. One small highlight of my day was the appearance of the cute guy from Rainbow Kitchens, a door-to-door catering service in the West Hollywood area, selling lunches to office workers and rich women trapped under hair dryers. That Farrah Fawcett cut took ages to dry. I was more lazy (real reason), more feminist (cover story), and sported a wash-and-wear Jane Fonda shag. I kept my head down at work and within about six months had seniority in the place due to the voilatile tempers of Irene and her husband -- they fired people as often as they changed underwear.
But this is a food post, right? Rainbow Kitchens made incredible baked goods, and they were kind enough to share several of their simple recipes with me. This bread is lovely in the morning, or as a nice change from too-sweet cakes for dessert. I included this in a number of Christmas baskets I have given out.
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Blueberry-Orange Bread
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Sift together all dry ingredients. In separate bowl, beat together all remaining ingredients except blueberries until smooth. Mix dry and liquid ingredients. Do not overbeat. Fold in blueberries, until just incorporated (otherwise, you have purple bread).
I think this makes one smallish loaf, if I recall correctly. If baked as loaf, my directions say to bake for one hour, but do check it. This works for a muffins, too; start checking at about 12 minutes, depending on size.
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