Pumpkin Soup Recipe

Trick your children into eating more vegetables with this “pumpkin” soup recipe. You can use a combo of any winter squash available. I used acorn squash ( “green pumpkin”) and a red kuri squash, which I roasted for an hour then blended with coconut milk and a teaspoon of mellow curry paste. Curry paste can be replaced with the warm spice of cinnamon and nutmeg if your little ones veer towards the fussy.

1 small acorn squash
1 small red kuri squash or pumpkin
2 tbsp Olive Oil
Salt
1 can coconut milk (my mom tells me coconut oil is very beneficial for the skin and vital organs so I go with the full-fat kind)
1 tsp mild curry paste or curry powder to taste
OR 1/2 tsp cinnamon and a pinch of nutmeg
1/4 cup cilantro
Hot Sesame Oil


Preheat stove to 400 degrees.

Slice each squash in half. Scoop out seeds and discard or clean and roast pumpkin seeds for a pepita topping (I’m too lazy).

Sprinkle half a tbsp of oil into each cavity and spread with clean fingers. Sprinkle with as much salt as you can handle (I’m such a fan of salt) and then place them, skin side down, onto a roasting pan and bake for about an hour (check after 45 minutes if squash are small).

When done cooking, let cool for a few minutes on the counter while you heat up coconut milk and curry in a large soup pot. Carefully remove flesh from the skin of the squash and place into coconut milk mixture. Add about two cups of water for a smooth texture. Turn heat off and have your children help puree soup with a hand-blender if you have the patience. Ladle into bowls and top with chopped cilantro. Dot adult soups with hot sesame oil, found in the Asian food isle.

Serve with goat cheese or cheddar cheese quesadillas.

Dinner Party Update

"Hey Jean, How are your dinner parties going?" was how my former food studies professor Amy Bently, who happens to live in the same NYU faculty housing as we do, greeted me the other day. Bently was dressed in running attire, haired pulled back, headed back home after a jog.

"Ugh, well, I'm kind of taking a break for a little while." I stammered. I was slightly nervous, as book proposal on the same topic was part of my final thesis, and I had failed to sell the book.

"The other day I was cooking for friends and wondering how you managed to do it. It's completely exhausting"

"Yes, well, you should see what happens when you invite the heavy drinkers over," mainly referring to myself and my penchant for a nice Cotes du Rhone.

"Well, good luck with everything." She walked purposefully off to her next important meeting or event and I was left to think about my life on the street. Am I going to abandon the project?

Which of course got me thinking: why haven't I thrown any dinner parties since we got back from White Salmon, WA? Was is the weight gain, the wine, the three big dinners cooked for friends and family each week? Was it the transition to being home again after such an extended time? Getting back to real life now that both boys are in school?

Probably yes to all the above.

The good news is that the experiment worked. Cooking for other people at least twice a month, definately made me feel like I was a part of a larger community.

On the negative end, all of my pants are extremely tight and my self and my bank account are yearning to refocus my energies on my writing career. I feel like I need to be burried in a mudbath at Canyon Ranch, not elbow-deep in butter, preparing my next 3-course meal.

When I was in junior high I won two awards for my class: best dressed and most dramatic. And while my wardrobe may have suffered as the years have continued, certainly the drama label still applies. So how do I do dinner parties and at-home entertaining without feeling burned out and bloated?

Like any good self-help addict, I turn to the step system:

1. Do a 3-5 day cleanse recommended and lead by the acupuncturist to the beauty industry gals, Laura Kauffmann.

2. Lay off the wine and cheese.

3. Take it one dinner party at a time. We are throwing a large Halloween party this year. For now, that is enough.

Union Square Farmer's Market

How Did I Get Here?

One day you find yourself searching for something to make for dinner and the next thing you know you're whipping up some one-dish quick-fix meal that requires fish, condiments, ginger, snow pees, mushrooms and grated carrots...and a microwave oven.

You once thought microwaves were for losers. At one time not so long ago, you hardly ever used your stove, save for storing plates and other unused items.

There was a time you never took short cuts. Never fell asleep at 9:00. A time when you went out more than you stayed in.

Then you had two kids, credit card debt, New York City preschool tuition and Television became your friend. Next thing you know, you are cooking a recipe found on the Internet which calls for 6 minutes of high-powered nuking and a bunch of that brown sauce Chinese restaurants use for Moo Shui Pork.

And the worst part is: you like it.

A Day in the Life

The afternoon unfolds like this: finish up any freelance work I’ve been writing all morning in bed. Eat lunch (cold-cuts and a large salad), consider, then decline, taking a shower, change out of pajamas, make a list of things to do, half of which will never get done. Wait for bus on Housten while putting fingers in ears to block out the noise of workers tearing up the streets. Figure I have enough time to buy a coffee. Run back to bus stop just in time for the 2:29 bus. Fold stroller, struggle onto bus, spill coffee, get yelled at by bus driver. Fifteen minutes later, enter preschool where Sebastien is still asleep and Sydney is showing me the “house” they painted out of boxes.

Put kids in stroller and sing songs as we walk to Whole Foods to search for lavender and flax seed to make eye pillows for the school’s yoga classes. Don’t find lavender and only buy half the seed I need (too expensive), but kids convince me that we need two boxes of cereal, fruits bars and a couple of apples.

Walk home with groceries, lunchboxes, jackets and stroller for fifteen more blocks. Have a picnic with the boys on the living room carpet. Laugh and cuddle and try to get stories of their day from them. Give into endless begging for TV. Turn on Tivo’d episode of Scooby Doo and retreat to my bed to finish a pitch to O Magazine.

At 5:20, Steve comes home and we start our evening. I make Picadillo (a Cuban version of sloppy joes, without the bun) served with white rice and broccoli. Manage to feel guilt pangs that we are not eating brown rice. We sit down to dinner. Sebastien screams at us. We “excuse” him from the table. Time to make a collage about our family for school. We cut and paste words and photos and images from magazines. Steve and I make sure Sydney includes a bottle of wine on his portrait. Glue and tiny scraps of paper litter the floor. I leave it to put the kids in the bath while Steve does dishes. Sebastien and Sydney fight and scream over who gets to sit in the front.

I leave kids in bath to clean up the collage mess (I know, I should watch them, but who has time?) while Steve measures and cuts the fabric for the eye-pillows I signed us up to make. Both of us curse me for volunteering to do this.

Drink a half glass of wine, while reading to Sebastien in his bed. He starts yelling at me. I say, “Good night Seb. I love you but you may not scream at me.” Hand him a bottle of milk before running out the door. One down.

Sydney wants a bagel after he gets his pajamas on.

Set up sewing machine and sew eye pillows, leaving an opening for filling. Drink another half glass of wine. The thread doesn’t exactly match the bright orange poly-blend fabric donated by the school, but by now, I don’t care. Sydney and Steve fill eye pillows with flax seed infused with lavender oil. When we run out of flax seed, we use sushi rice. It smells nice but I hope it doesn’t sprout. The end product feels nice. But boy is it ugly.

Put Sydney to bed, after cajoling him to brush his teeth and take a pee.

Clean up flax and rice mess. Feel good about making something and contributing to preschool community. Go to bed. Start a New Yorker article, fall asleep after one paragraph.

Wake up and do it all again.

Chicken Broth and Other Distractions

Feeling like the ever-bitter writer these days. Having the defeated-what’s-the-point-want-to-quit-and-get-a-day-job-moment. Of course this is after day one of working on my novel, the one I started this summer and have been talking about for four years. Read over the chapter I worked on when we were in the Northwest. I go back and forth between feeling brilliant and worthless about the work, even though I’ve only completed thirteen pages and I have yet to see where the story takes me. But instead of writing, I piddled with it a bit—then start thinking about how messy the house is and whether or not I should take the fiction workshop or start a writing group and the next thing I knew I was skimming the fat off the chicken broth I made on Monday and pouring it into small containers to freeze. Somehow I always end up back in the kitchen.

The kids are at preschool and now I have to figure out what to do with my life, other than be a mom, throw ruckus dinner parties and get fat and into more debt than we already are ––start a small business? get a job? continue freelancing with evil and demeaning creative director at the beauty corporation? Said beauty corporation has offered me two days a week writing for the online division, but working from home, which is brilliant, except.. I’m not sure that being alone all day with my computer is a good idea, given that I’m prone to excessive brain picking and solipsistic over-thinking. My shrink says I should take the job and figure out how to see people more. Maybe I’ll join a gym! Teach a class! Start a meditation group! Go running with friends!

My weight since having kids, and then even more since I started cooking all the time, has ballooned. Mostly I've been feeling sorry for myself and looking at pictures of me as a skinny 20-year-old. With this as my torture, er, inspiration, I have signed up for a 5k in central park. I’ve got 5 weeks to train. And I’ll do more pilates! I’ll eat less fat! More fish! And more low-fat yogurt! And I’ll drink less wine! Even though I just want to go get a massage, then drown my sorrows in a bunch of $12 cocktails and eat grilled chicken livers over at Savoy. Instead I’ve got a one pm Pilates class and then I’ve got to pick up the boys from school and entertain them until daddy gets home. Usually their kooky sweetness breaks me out of whatever ails me. It’s hard being depressed around preschoolers, unless they are beating each other up or throwing a fit, which of course, my my two, is always a possibility.

Pregnancy Pasta

Kimberly is pregnant and living in a sweet West Village apartment with her dog Fanny. And brilliant for me, she's allowing me to be her labor coach instead of Luis, her personal trainer-cum-baby-daddy. It's probably a wise choice, although Luis might think otherwise––the first time he met me was the one night in the past four years that I've been out past 9:00 (it was Kimberly's 41st birthday)––and I drank one too many glasses of champagne and while dancing in my very tall heels in small apartment packed with people ala Breakfast at Tiffany's and, well, let's just say I had a rather large fall into the coffee table, knocking over at least twenty-five champagne glasses and causing quite a stir.

Labor coach may be too narrow of a term. I consider myself an all-around pregnancy-new mom-gestation advisor, consulting on things like whether or not she should drink a glass of wine (of course) and how not to get caught up in all the craziness surrounding baby-growing. Hint Number One: Don't read What to Expect When You're Expectingg. Hate that book; it's an anxiety-laden medical freak-out, detailing every single thing that could go wrong.

My other job, is to cook for her and keep her feeling loved. Saturday she came to dinner. Since tomato season is almost over, I bought a big bag of them from the farmer's market to enjoy before they're gone. With tomatoes as my starting point, I made whole wheat pasta with a sauce recipe from the patron saint of pasta, Marcella Hazen's. There's a lovely crunch to this sauce with the addition of little bits of carrots and celery that are simply simmered and finished with a bunch of super-fruity olive oil.

Tomato Sauce with Olive Oil & Chopped Vegetables
Adapted from Marcella Hazan

2 pounds fresh, ripe tomatoes, skins removed and hand-chopped
2/3 cup chopped carrots
2/3 cup chopped celery
2/3 cup chopped onion
Salt
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 to 1 1/2 pounds whole wheat spaghetti

Place vegetables in a sauce pan and simmer gently for twenty minutes without the top on. Add olive oil and cook for another fifteen. Toss with cooked pasta and Parmesan cheese.

Delicious.

Back Home & Busy: Calls for Simple Pleasure

It's actually wonderful to be back in NYC. The crowds, the excitement, the fashion. Walking everywhere. Picking up ingredients for dinner on the walk home from work. Wearing high heels and a good outfit to work. It's the little things, no?

We arrived home late Sunday evening and I went right to work, doing a freelance full-time writing gig for the next two weeks. I'm writing beauty copy for a fancy face cream and fragrance descriptions and online copy for a perfumery. I'm sad not to have time to go to the farmer's market, but I'm happy to have income.

Tonight Steve and I, both exhausted from work, threw together a quick meal--pan-fried pork tenderloin, which was frozen in a maple/mustard marinade, corn, stripped from the cob and sautéed in butter with salt and fresh pepper, and steamed broccoli with soy sauce. Simple food but the kind I love on a weeknight. I'm such a fan of the protein and two sides.

The wine, a french white crisp with a nice finish and lots of minerality, tasted so good when I sipped as I cooked, winding down from the day.

At dinner we raised a toast to my dear little Sebastien, who just started preschool. Steve and I dropped him off yesterday morning without a fuss and he's so proud of himself to be there. He is no longer my wee baby. Sigh.

Cheers!

Kid Food: A Recipe for Chicken Soup

Cooking for my children gives me more pleasure than is probably healthy. Like most things about parenthood, it's ultimately more about me than them, but still, I feel a deep satisfaction when I get them to eat something warm and full of veggies and I’m not afraid to admit I sometimes feel a bit smug about this. But then I feel them pizza three nights in a row and I’m humble again.

Over the four years since I’ve had children, I have developed some rather good recipes that appeal to little ones—plain, but flavorful, small bite-size pieces, and a large amount of veggies snuck into the mix. Oh, and ideally the recipe should be fast--nothing like starving children to give you a migraine or sending you hitting the booze harder than normal. This soup actually uses boxed chicken stock, but if I have time, I usually make my own from left over roast chicken bones and old veggies and then freeze it for soups whenever I need it. (See, I *am* a little smug). I also added an optional half-cup of leftover pasta, which I always seem to have in the back of the fridge, in this recipe, but you don't need it.

Ingredients
2 boxes organic chicken stock (Imagine brand is decent)
I large organic skinless, boneless chicken breast
5 carrots, chopped into small rounds
3 celery stocks, chopped into small pieces
1/2 onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, peeled but left whole
1 large handful of parsley, tied with kitchen string
1 cup of any or any combo of the following frozen peas, fresh or frozen corn, fresh or frozen broccoli chopped into bite-size pieces, zucchini chopped finely, or any other veggies you have on-hand that your kids might like.
1/2 cup of leftover plain pasta, any shape, already cooked (optional)
Salt and pepper
Time: 30 minutes, from start to finish

In a large saucepan, add chicken stock, chicken breast (no need to chopped in yet), carrots, celery, onion, garlic and parsley. Bring to a boil and simmer until chicken is fully poached, about 20 minutes.

Remove chicken breast with a slotted spoon and place on a cutting board. Remove parsley and discard. Chop chicken into very small pieces and return to pot with vegetables and pasta, if using. Simmer everything until veggies are cooked through. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Serves 4-6 kids. Especially good served with grilled cheese sandwiches.

More Smoker Photos

I just can't get enough...

Smoked Ribs and Italian Folk Songs

Dinner Party # 12
Smoked beef and pork Ribs
Purple and white cabbage coleslaw with apples and jalapenos
French-style potato salad with parsley and chives
Cherry tomato salad with parsley, salt and olive oil


I take full responsibility. I was fixated on finding an old door which I could turn into a table so we could eat outdoors. I’ve never understood why my in-laws, who have a large yard with an incredible view of the Columbia River and Mount Hood, have no real lawn furniture or outdoor tables. Where are the big lounge chair and the side table for holding magazines and cocktails? Where’s the picnic table and benches with the umbrella?

Apparently, in my search for a table-like substance, I had turned off the power source in the garage that was igniting the hot plate that was heating the wood chips that produce the smoke that would cook our pork and beef ribs. As I was nursing a beer and entertaining Sydney and Sebastien by letting them play naked with the water hose, Steve woke up from his nap and noticed there was no smoke coming from the smoker. Chaos ensued. Plans to pick up steak were made. The oven was heated.



The secret to understanding my husband is to know that once a problem enters his little WASP brain, he must, no matter how little or inconsequential or big and seemingly impossible, solve it. He paced around the burned-out lawn. The boys and I watched on as he moaned and groaned and went in the house and came out of the house. Finally he had the idea to test the electricity—and sure enough it was discovered there was nothing wrong with the smoker per se, but rather that I had shut off the power source. The switch was turned on, the power sparked up and the smoking continued. The delicious odor of the smoker filled the air—it smelled like one of those WPA lodges built in the depression, with four or five giant fireplaces going at the same time.

Meanwhile I searched for a table. We found something suitable that my father-in-law uses for a desk and set the table outside. We started smoking the ribs around noon, after they had sat in a dry rub of brown sugar, onion powder, garlic powder and chili powder over night. With power outages et al, they were ready to slice around 6:30.



Our guests were a couple we met at the hippy church where Steve’s dad is a pastor. Paolo is from Lucca, a tiny hill town in Tuscany. He met Jennifer, his wife, when she was teaching English in his village and, after six years in Italy and having two children Allesandro (1) and Jean Lucca (3), they decided to move out West to help Jennifer’s sister run a restaurant in Bingen called Solstice. We’ve met them two or three times and I just knew they’d be people I’d want to sit around the table with, so one day we stopped by their house and left an invite to come to our smoke out.

We greeted Paolo and Jennifer on the lawn with Prosecco, which I feel is the best thing to drink with Bar-B-Que. We set up the four boys with various cars and trucks and things that go while Steve and I made final dinner arrangements, slicing the ribs and putting everything on the table. Dinner was served!

Easy. There are some evenings that just flow. Jennifer and Paolo were gracious guests and they both ate heartily, which I especially appreciate in women. Paolo told us about his first marriage and child, about growing up in Italy. Jennifer and I analyzed cultural differences between Italians and Americans, particularly around domesticity. We compared notes on our lack of childproofing and willingness to drink wine while breastfeeding.



More wine and the conversation turned to writing. Like many mothers I know, Jennifer yearns for time to write, time for herself to be creative. She asked me how I do it. Unfortunately, I don’t have answers. I find it uncomfortable to be a writer and currently have no idea what I am doing. Steve is calling it my mid-life crisis. I’m just not sure how to handle the whole career thing, but mostly I am letting go of the whole fantasy of becoming a famous writer, where your career is handed to you on a silver…you know how the cliché goes.

Until I figure out the whole writing thing though, I’ll just keep cooking and having people over and talking and trying, in these extremely trying times, to be as decently human as I can be.



As the Northwest sky turned very black and I actually noticed stars, Paolo began singing Italian songs to the children. The boys each found a parent’s lap to sit on and the evening unfolded. I led everyone in “If I had a Hammer” and “I Had a Rooster.” The ended on a sweet note.

Coffee Daze

I was up until 4:30 this morning, buzzed out of my mind on Northwest coffee. The drive-thru latte shacks are dangerous to my sanity. Thankfully I had a good summer read—Marion Keye’s Is There Anybody Out There? to keep me company all night long.  I had checked it out from the local library and not just condemned myself to reading Ernest Hemmingway’s Complete Collection of Short Stories, which of course is incredible, but not exactly the kind of thing you want keeping you company while your mind is racing and you’re contemplating your career and questioning your goals and considering whether or not motherhood is perhaps reward enough and then you're thinking about whether or not you should spend the money to get a massage to undo the damage of a short bed with a-hundred year old mattress.  Hemmingway is definitely not the person to turn to at these sort of moments

Exhausted as I am today, I feel like it was such a treat to indulge like that—staying up all night to think about life, worry and read, cry a little, and dive into the drama of my own self indulgence. The consequences are small out here on the Gorge. We had no where to be the next day. Steve got the boys up and dressed, Christie, our babysitter we found at Steve’s Dad’s hippie church, came at 7:30 to mind the boys while I slept in and Steve went to our local café to get his writing done. At 10am, I drove the 3 blocks to Grounds, for the free wifi and more strong coffee (it’s a hopeless addiction). And in a not-so-strange coincidence—White Salmon where we stay out here is a small town and both the gay-loving/peace-making Christian church and the deer antler, 80’s rock playing, concrete-floored, local-wine/strong coffee café are within walking distance of our home-base––Christie, the babysitter works at the same café, so when she has to go to work, she drops our two boys off with us and starts her shift, and Steve and I, ostensibly end our writing days.

Food Update

I have invited the Italians, who moved here from Luca, one of those incredible hill towns in Tuscany, whom we met at the leftie church, along with their children Jean Luca (3) and Alessandro(1.5) to sample the American delicacy of smoked meat. Last summer, Steve and I made our own flower-pot smoker and besides a pork shoulder made just for the immediate family, we have not shown the Columbia River Gorge what we are really about.  As you can see from the images below, it’s a pretty simple contraption, our flower smoker is. Just a hot plate, a large flower pot and bottom, a meat thermometer and some wood chips.

This is the whole contraption...



Here's what it looks like when open. The grill is where you place the meat, underneath are the wood chips, and the hot plate slowly heats the chips so they smoke the meat.

Columbia River Gorge Guide Part 1

All day and all night, the sounds of trains—steel wheels along steel tracks, whistles loud and warning—fill the soundscape of the Columbia River Gorge, a little section of the Pacific Northwest at the border of Oregon and Washington. With its big skies and evergreen trees, framed by two enormous volcanos – Mt Hood and Mt. Adams, and a virile River—the Columbia—it’s one of those almost mythic Western locales that look almost too postcard-like to be real.

Hood River, the area’s epicenter, boasts some of the best wind surfing in the country and Mount Hood has snow all year long (read four season skiing and snowboarding), making it a sports-enthusiast’s mecca. But if you’re like me, taken more with reading and eating then careening across a river or down a mounatin, there is still plenty to enjoy. Like a brew pub/movie theater, a knitting shop, multiple cafes, wineries, and more than a few kid-friendly activities.

Things to do:

Drink Copious Amounts of Coffee
God, I love the Northwest. Even the gas stations sell espresso and cappucino and the tiniest towns sport drive-through latte shacks.

Dog River Coffee
Fantastic coffee, big couches, free WiFi and a big basket of toys for the wee ones.
411 Oak Street Hood River OR

Grounds Espresso
Great breakfast sandwiches for under $4, decent coffee, free wifi, it's the working cafe of choice for Steve and I during our stays.
166 East Jewett, White Salmon, WA

Eat

Fresh, local produce and a growing Mexican population means delicious food and reasonable prices throughout the Gorge.  (As I visit more restaurants, I'll update the site.)

El Riconcito Burritos
Huge, San Francisco style burritos, complete with rice and shredded cabbage – the only way to eat them.
Hood River. 541 386-9435

Skylight Theatre & Pub
Decent pizza, fantastic beer, plus a toddler play area, which means you can drink your Ice Ax Lager in peace. And for those without children, or with a babysitter, you can eat your pizza and drink your beer in the movie theater which features first run movies and ledges in front of all seat -- to hold your meal, of course.
109 Oak St, Hood River, OR
13 mi N - (541) 386-4888

Drink

The area is home to both small wineries and excellent breweries.  Keep checking back for more reviews.

Mt Hood Brew Company
To me, there are no kinder words in the English language than “family-style pub.” The Mt. Hood Brewery, located at 4000 ft., makes a great day trip, with an apres hike or nap to sober up before driving down the mountain.
87304 E. Government Camp Loop, Government Camp, Oregon 97028. 503-622-0724

Thrift
Check out nearby the Dalles for two great thriftstores (read: cowboy boots and great vintage finds) and a decidely Western vibe. The Salvation Army 623 E 3rd St The Dalles
St. Vincent de Paul. 505 West 9th Street The Dalles

Stay
Hood River Hotel
Right in town, this super-quaint hotel is relatively inexpensive and boasts a busteling lobby with live bands and a decent bar. 102 Oak Avenue, Hood River, Oregon 97031, Phone: 541-386-1900, Toll Free: 800-386-1859?Fax: 541-386-6090

North by Northwest

There is something about the Northwest––words that might seem empty anywhere else, like frontier, manifest destiny, new beginnings and ruggedness actually make sense here. Its very Westerness is so present, it’s almost shocking to my New York City self. It’s like when you go to Paris for the first time and you realize the songs and stories are right––it is romantic and sophisticated and lovely. Before you experience it firsthand, you would never believe the myth could be so accurate. That is how I feel about the Pacific Northwest. And although I don’t feel like a part of it, I find it intoxicating none-the-less.

For the past four years, Steve and I have come out to stay with his dad in an area an hour outside of Portland known as the Columbia River Gorge, a wonderful piece of America which lies between Mount Adams and Mount Hood, two enormous snow covered mountains. The Columbia River is the center of it all, with its wind surfers and kite boarders, creating a boundary between Washington State and Oregoon. It is, in a word, spectacular. Add to this about 30 small wineries and a burgeoning foodie scene, and you have something close to paradise.

Produce from Hood River Farmer's Market...

The Perfect Aperitif

When my husband Steve and I rented an apartment in Florence a few summers ago, we got in the habit of having this exquisite cocktail each night our local outdoor café. In my humble view, it is the season’s most sophisticated drink. Cold, sweet, bitter, a touch of sour—all add up to something beyond refreshing.

The Americano

Ice
One shot of Campari
One shot of sweet vermouth
Soda water
Slice of orange

Place lots of ice in a large glass. Add Campari and vermouth, fill the remainder of the glass with club soda. Stir. Add orange slice. I like to serve it with a straw.

Memorial Bliss and a Whole Lotta Hot Dogs

While most of my friends are out of town for Memorial Day weekend––Jo and her family are in Big Sur hot-tubing naked, Kimberly is upstate in the Catskills relaxing and Laura is sunbathing in Mexico’s Mayan Riveria––Steve, Sydney and Sebastien and I are having our own sort of holiday––the Stay-cation.

Too broke to travel but still adventurous, we have traveled near (our local keypark, which we visit at least once a day and see many neighbors who have become friends) and far (the Hudson River Parkway). We have eaten hot dogs handcrafted from local, organic, ethically raised hogs and cows, and we have eaten Nathan’s hot dogs from a vendor on the Christopher Street Pier. We have picnicked on triple crème got cheese, sopresseto and Sauvignon Blanc with our neighbors in the courtyard of our building, the kids running around on the grass that houses a giant Picasso sculpture and multiple “Keep off Grass!” signs. And we have served dinner at home on two occasions over one long, lazy Memorial Day weekend. Lovely.

Raising children in the city requires patience and perseverance. There is the crowded housing and the outrageous cost of living and the craziness of preschool admissions. And yet, there is also the possibility and, for us, the reality of community that is as easy and natural as breathing. Other than dinner invitations for a Friday night supper that went out a month or so ago, the entire weekend of plans and fun and hanging out were all spontaneously planned. Everyday, when we go to the park in the morning, we run into other families and from there we make plans for impromptu expeditions to the water-park or dinner at our house or lunch for 12 at a kid-friendly restaurant near-by. By design, humans are meant to be together, to share tasks and to live among each other. It’s in our DNA. How strange then that this happens so easily, so naturally, in such a man-made, cosmopolitan, very “unnatural” place like Manhattan.

There were two dinner this long weekend which I think count towards my goal of 25 dinner parties in 12 months. Friday night was spent with an old friend of mine from the San Fernando Valley. Ethan and I met at Teenage Drama Workshop when we were 12. Later, we found out, his mother was my mom’s boss; our mom’s are still friends. Ethan is a playwright and the bandleader/singer/songwriter of the Ethan Lipton Orchestra. His music is strange and wondrous and old timey but also a little dirty. I like it a whole bunch. You can listen online here. His wife Heather is a lovely photographer. Inspired by the new bounty of farmer’s market produce I cooked a simple dinner for them.

Spagettini with Fresh Local Scallops, Cilantro and Red Pepper
Frisee and Baby Greens with Feta, Grape Tomatoes, Asparagus and Mint
Sauvignon Blanc, Wellies, New Zealand 2004

Fresh Strawberries with Crème Fraiche
Blue Plum Brandy, Clear Creek Distillery, Portland, Oregon

Sunday evening we had Jan, one of Steve's NYU colleagues and his wife Allison and their two children Theo and Harlin to dinner. It was so hot that I ordered a roasted chicken from fresh direct and kept it simple and easy:

Roast Chicken
Saffron Rice
Steamed Broccoli
Sliced Avocado
Fresh Salsa (recipe follows)
Pinto Beans
Whole Wheat Tortillas
Prosecco

The children got along beautifully and Theo, age 4, ate broccoli for the first time since he gave up green veggies a year ago. I probably talked too much, but I always do that. Hopefully the food and conviviality compensated for my chatter. All in all, it was a weekend that more than made up for a terrible week of me fretting about my writing career and feeling like a bit of a loser. But let’s not get into all that now. It’s still Monday and I want to hold onto some of the weekend’s bliss.

Fresh Salsa

1 large Tomato or 2 small
1/2 white onion, chopped and rinsed under cold water (creates a more mild flavor)
1 jalapeno pepper, with seeds if you like it hot
1/2 lime squeezed
1 squirt of ketchip
1 handfull chopped cilantro

Mix together in a large bowl and serve as a condiment to any grilled or roasted meal.

Pregnancy Salad

Le Menu

Fresh watermelon margaritas
Guacamole and chips

Black Bean Soup with Crème Fraiche and Corn Tortillas
Watermelon, Ricotta Salata and Mint Salad

Strawberry Sorbet and Madeleine Cookies

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“I’m so bloated,” says Kimberly over the phone. “And my boobs are killing me.”

“I bet you’re pregnant!” I exclaim.

“No, I’m always late.”

“You never know….”

“Enough,” she says. “Stop trying to get me knocked up. I’ve only been dating the trainer for a few months. Besides, I’m 41, I live in a tiny apartment––and let’s face it, one high-needs pit bull is enough for me.” For three years now, I have been trying to talk Kimberly into having a baby. I think she would make an incredible mom. Plus, children bring so much to a life--they genuinely make you a better person in a very drastic, but necessary way. Kimberly has always seemed to me, someone open and available for that kind of commitment, man or no man.

I am a firm believer that you don’t really need a husband to have a baby. I know plenty of women who have to do it all, married or not. These women make money, clean and take care of the emotional health of the family. Yeah, yeah, there are a ton of great dads out there too. But still, I’d say there is a 50/50 ratio––guys who contribute equally and guys who are just dead weight. Luckily, my husband is part of the former, not the latter.

Anyways, after two weeks of being late, feeling big and perhaps a bit emotional, Kimberly rang me again from her office in Soho, where she works in the beauty industry as a writer.

“I think I’d better bring a pregnancy test when I come over for dinner Saturday night.”

And so my next dinner party, which was on Cinco de Mayo, began with me sending Steve and the boys to the park, while I made margaritas and Kimberly went to the bathroom to pee on a stick.

When the two minutes that the test requires to do its magic were up, I jumped up to get it. Kimberly looked at me strangely. Of course, I let her check it, even though it took everything in my willpower not to run into my urine-scented bathroom (ah the joys of toilet training little boys) and take a peek.

I took a gulp of margarita. She took another test.

Two tests in a row stated what I had hoped: Positive.

The boys came home. We all cheered. Steve and I drank to her happiness. Kimberly looked shell-shocked. The dinner was fantastic. Afterwards, we put the boys to sleep and Steve, Kimberly and I did something we rarely do. We watched TV. Nothing like five back-to-back episodes of Entourage, curled up on your best friends sofa, under the weight of an antique quilt and sipping herbal tea to take your mind off things for a while. Perhaps Kimberly was comforted.

Recipe for Watermelon Salad

Two cups of watermelon cut into bite-sized chunks
1/2 cup Ricotta Salata crumbled
1/2 bunch of mint leaves, torn

Place all ingredients into a bowl and toss.


Watermelon Margaritas

Two cups of cut watermelon
1/2 cup tequila
1/2 cup lime juice
1/4 simple syrup
Handful of ice
Mint garnish

Place all ingredients but mint into the blender. Serve immediately with mint garnish.

Makes 4 margaritas

$200 dinner

Here’s what I want to know: when did a night out in New York City become a two hundred dollar commitment?

Take for instance the other night. After a month of no dates, no time spent just the two of us out on the town, my husband Steve and I decided to get a babysitter and go to dinner. We chose Lupa, which is two blocks from our apartment in the village, mostly because it’s close and it has an excellent wine list with many decent bottles under $30. The chaos of Lupa, the brilliant music mix—from Elliot Smith to Beck to Aimee Mann, the great cocktails, the organ meats, the vegetables. OK, there is a lot to love about Lupa, even if it is owned by Mario Batali, who seems less like a chef these days and more like a franchise, but I digress.

We ordered a twenty dollar bottle of ice-cold Rose, Cerasuolo ‘Vigne Nuove’ Valle Reale 2005 ~ Abruzzo, which was one of the cheapest on the list, four appetizers-- the escarole and pecorino salad, Radichio with Anchovy, roasted Brussel Sprouts, Sweet Breads—deep-fried and served with lemon, and one primo- a pasta with pig jowels. We finished with one grappa each. The bill, with tip, was $150. Our babysitter, brilliant and all, charges $15 an hour. So $50 for her. In three hours we spend two hundred dollars. We laughed and said it was cheaper than couple’s therapy.

I remember a time when this was not true--working full time and eating out most nights. Before I was more schooled in fine-dining and the thrill of settling in for a night of performance—of great waiters and multi-courses and decent wine and after-dinner drinks. As a single New Yorker, part of my evenings revolved around meeting a friend or two for dinner at one of the cheaper restaurants of the East Village. I spend at least one night a week at Mee Noodle Shop, often alone with a book, slurping big fat noodles in duck broth, boney duck parts floating on top. I could eat for under ten dollars, tip included. Or I’d venture down to Chinatown for Vietnamese Pho for 3.99. Or up to Hell’s Kitchen for Peruvian. Somehow I could afford it all. And if a meal was bad or dissapointng, no problem. There was always tomorrow night.

Now, I rarely eat out. We don’t have the budget for either the babysitter or the check. So when we finally do get out, every couple of months, the need for a guaranteed experience always wins out. I want to feel taken care of. I want the food to be not just good, but perfect and exactly what I expect. I want a great bottle of wine, music that is good. I need nice lighting. And so we pay. Maybe we’ll never be one of those couples with a healthy nest egg, or a car or a country home. Maybe home ownership will never be ours, we’ll stay here in our rent-subsidezed apartment in the Silver Towers forever. We’ll hobble over to Salt or Balthazar or Babbo, sit down at a table for two and spend our social security check on something tasty and satisfying, if fleeting.


Here's the thing: I don't want a car, nor do I yearn to own a home. But I crave excitement and food and presentation and the unfolding of time spent around a table with someone I love. Maybe two hundred dollars is a bargain for all this. Even if I can only afford to do it once ever three months.

Most Recent Tally

I realize that I have not updated my count of dinner parties. My weekend of three dinners in a row has left me not only 3 pounds heavier and a bit bloated, but with a bit of a conundrum. Only one dinner was properly planned, and again it happened on a Saturday, not Sunday as my original quest had outlined. I am considering changing this part of the challenge. Entertaining with two little kids is hard enough; I don’t think a day of the week restriction is realistic. But the vibe of Sunday, the relaxed, shoes off, family aspect must remain. An almost religious attempt at community has to be central to this challenge, even though I don’t believe in god. If there is anything I do believe in, it’s the power of food, served any day of the week, in a thoughtful way and shared with others in an act of friendship. Sunday was merely a metaphor for this aspect of my quest. Screw Sunday.

The other issue I have in defining the parameters of this challenge is whether I am required to cook. My most recent dinner party fed four children and five adult––on a Sunday no less––but we ordered in Indian food. Although I am tempted to count this dinner, I think cooking must be a requisite for a dinner to count. So the ordered-in dinner will not count. This leaves my current count as the following:

Three dinners served
Twenty-two more to go

The Entertaining Trifecta

Thankfully, our weekend of back-to-back dinner parties, although exhausting, helped me feel reinvigorated about this crazy quest of mine. We didn't plan on entertaining non-stop, but simply forgot that Steve's sister Betsy, her husband Ladd and their 11-year-old daughter Elle, were coming to New York from Maine on Friday to stay with us for the night and we had already arranged to have our dear friends Stuart and Liz to dinner. It had taken no fewer than seven emails and three cancellations to make the dinner-date and there was no way we could reschedule. Then, to make matters more hectic, our best friends, who had recently moved from New York City to Charlotte, North Carolina, planned a last minute visit to the city, so we had no choice but to see them as well.

Betsy and family arrived Friday afternoon and we spent a few hours just laying around the house, catching up while we waited for Steve to get home from work. For dinner we ate family-style at our big table, kids and adults both. I made a huge batch of whole-wheat pasta with Portobello mushrooms and toasted hazelnuts and a mixed green salad tossed with super-fruity olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. The children ate plain pasta with broccoli and freshly grated parmesean. We finished the meal with cupcakes and brownies from Amy’s Breads. Lucky for us, our houseguests keep the same hours we do, so everyone was in bed and asleep by 9:00.



The next day, we said our goodbyes to Betsy, Ladd and Elle––and Steve and the boys went shopping in one direction, while I went in the other. From our butcher Pino, Steve bought six beautiful short ribs and from Grandaisy Bakery, chocolate tartlettes, barely sweet with a rustic density and a stirato baguette.

By the time I arrived around noon, Murray’s Cheese shop was packed with tourists and I could barely make my way through the store. I love living in New York City, but sometimes the hoards of people, both local and from out of town, can make me feel incredibly grumpy. I grabbed a Brie, some sliced salami and a Piave, paid, and then rolled my eyes at the people around me as I huffed out the door. At the overpriced quasi-ghetto grocery store next door I picked up a bag of mixed baby greens.

The menu ended up being:

Cheeses and Salami

Braised short ribs with gremolata of horseradish, parsley and lemon zest on top of pumpkin Orzo cribbed from Mario Batali

Salad

Chocolate Tartlettes



Stuart and Liz, our friends who, among other projects have co-written the book Typecasting: The Art and Science of Human Inequality and started the web site Rejected Letters to the Editor brought champagne, wine and cigarettes (Steve and I smoke very occasionally, but enjoy the rare cigarette.)

We had a fabulous time. We had them come over late, and had bathed and fed the kids first, so by the time we sat down to dinner, the children were already in bed dreaming about Thomas the Tank Engine. Over the next few hours, we ate—the short ribs were fantastic—and drank and gossiped about the academic who always wears a headband and dresses his model-perfect wife in crazy-miniskirts and Dick Hebdege, the cultural theorist who was stalked by Chris Kraus, who then documented the whole thing in her book I Love Dick. (The book, by the way, is one of the most intimate and revealing descriptions of women’s anger and I highly, highly recommend it for anyone who is the fan of memoir and/or feminist theory.) You can also listen to the This American Life story about how Chris Kraus's crush on Dick impacted her marriage here.

Although Stuart and Liz are decades older than Steve and I, as couples go, we get on remarkably well. We share a love of food and ideas––although our reference points are different. Stuart was Steve's mentor in graduate school and Liz gave him his first job at Suny Old Westbury, so they share an intellectual history. But all of them are more interested in being in the world of ideas than the reclusive world of academia, so I don't feel left out. The talk is easy and careens from pop culture to TV to wine to Lacan to the New York Times without pause.

At 11:30, we smoked our last cigarette and sent them off in the elevator, where they would fetch a cab on Housten street, headed back to their apartment on the upper west side. We went to sleep happy.

The next morning we lay low, watching TV with the kids while it poured rain outside, waiting for our tummies to settle from all the rich food and wine the night before. By 3:00, our house was once again full of people. Our friends from out of Charlotte —Perrin and Jim––came by with their two children, another family whose grandparents live upstairs from us stopped in and then Perrin’s sister called to see if she could drop by By 4:00, Steve was mixing a pitcher of Bloody Mary’s, the children were giggling and running about and it felt all warm and fuzzy. This is why I’m doing this, I thought, drinking my drink and watching Perrin breastfeed Levi as Clyde, Mason, Sydney and Sebastien started dancing to salsa music and Marcy announced she was pregnant again and the guys sat on the couch, engaged in deep conversation about what? Cars? Politics? I have no idea. But I felt full in the mix of people and chaos and friends and food and drink.

I thought of making pasta with a creamy vodka sauce, but was talked out of it by Perrin and Jim who insisted on order in Southern Indian food from Surya and paying for it.




We ate an early dinner and then Steve and I kicked everyone out––other families always understand. By 8:00 the house was empty, the dishes done, the kids asleep and Steve and I were curled up together with a Netflix DVD. Tired? Yes. But in a good way. Monday was hard, but it was worth it.