Was I There?

Is that Gingerbread House Really Real?

Today I made a gingerbread house with the kids.  This is not it. Instead, this lovely one is via the super-cool foodie blog, Globetrotter Diaries.

If you want the instructions, click here.  They use a template from Martha, but make sure you cut two rectangle-shaped roof pieces if you can't find them on the downloadable template.  The recipe for both the carmel glue and the glue-like icing is fabulous. I swear I could glue a car together with that stuff.

Anyway....this is what we created:

And here's how the twee scene was: me, hunched over and uptight, snarking at both of them not to eat the frosting OR gumdrops OR peppermints.  I think I even swore like a sailor under my breath as one of the walls started to topple and Theo tried to right it by throwing his whole body weight against it while Josephine wailed that he wasn't sharing.

Which brings me to a musing:  I started this blog almost a year ago because I have enjoyed so much the blogs of other people.  I have loved these blogs because their writers inspire me with their projects, their day to day energy, their photographs, or how they parent their kids.

And yet, as we put the finishing touches on our own gingerbread house and I took a romantic, dim-lit photo of it ("for the blog!"), I realized that I was falling prey to my own desire to make things seem too successful (think: a mommy and her two adoring children create a Martha-worthy gingerbread house with ease and no squabbling!)  

I was reminded that I want this blog to be (hopefully) inspirational, but also honest about our struggles.

The desire to make things too pretty, leave out the story of struggle, is close to another assumption I have particularly around the holiday season: that everyone else is like the fun-loving people you see in the catalogues, gathered  merrily around the hearth.

I should be wiser.  Those people are drinking egg nog.  Eating truffles, cookies, gingerbread.  And they are thin.

persimmon pudding

It's persimmon weather again.  Seven years ago, Gus and I discovered a tree full of ripe persimmons in an abandoned lot and so, on Thanksgiving night, we backed the truck up beneath the branches overhanging the road and picked a good bag full.  We then made persimmon pudding and sent a batch and the remaining persimmons to my dad in Colorado.  I even wrote out the recipe for him.  He said it was one of the best holiday gifts he had ever received and relished the pudding, complete with whiskey hard sauce.

Anyway, Josephine and I made persimmon pudding tonight from three ripe persimmons, which weren't enough for the recipe we got from my mom's 1976 Joy of Cooking, but we improvised with cream and butter and I tell you: it turned out beautifully.

Here is the recipe:

persimmon flesh, strained through a colander (usually 2 cups pulp)

Beat in: 

3 eggs

1 1/4 brown sugar

1 to 1 1/2 flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 cup melted butter

2 to 2 1/2 cups light cream

2 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp ginger

1/2 grated nutmeg

Bake at 325 in a 9X9 inch pan, or use individual pans (like I did).  Bake one hour or until firm. 

You could serve persimmon pudding with cream over it, a whiskey sauce, or sprinkled powdered sugar.  What I did was break out the Puderzucker Streuer, which some friends brought us from Austria.  It's basically a sieve through which to shake powered sugar.

I then tried to go all Martha and sprinkle the puderzucker over cut out paper leaves. 

Not bad!

Hunting for Morels and "Packin' Heat"

 One week ago, despite a bad back and child-suspicion of the word "adventure", we drove up the Greensprings Highway to hunt morel mushrooms. 

I don't really advocate randomly eating things from the woods, but morels are easy to spot.  They look like brains with good color. Creamy brown, as opposed to the "false morels" which, as my good pal J-- L-- said, "Look like brains that smoked too much."

This is an example of a healthy morel.  And don't worry, this photo is a close-up, because morels are only a few inches high and not, as this picture suggests, as gigantic as a redwood.

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It was a splendid morning.  We met some unnamed friends whom I used to teach with, and they showed one of their prime morel-hunting areas in the forest.

Whenever one of us spotted a morel, we would set off a verbal siren "woot, woot, woot...." and the others would come running, to admire, cut off the delicacy, and then scuff pine needles over the spot where it had grown.  (By the way, bring a knife so you can cut the morel off at the stem-- that way you don't have to "wash" the poor thing or have a gritty tasting experience.)

 I cannot tell you what a big gift my unnamed friends gave us.  It was as if leprechauns had decided to show us a pot of gold.

Then it got even better.  We went back to their house, fried those lovely morels in butter, and ate them for lunch.

 So here's what you should do: cut the morels in half and dip each one in

• milk (quickly! don't soak the thing)...
• flour (lightly!  so you don't get great flour gobs later)...
• egg...
• finely crushed saltine cracker crumbs (make sure you coat all sides)...

then, on medium heat, cook in butter, turning as you go.

(An alternative to this method that I discovered was to substitute ground up pine nuts instead of the cracker crumbs-- which makes the morels especially nutty and rich!)

 Now I need to give one more piece of advice and tell two funny stories.  Story #1 (while followed by the advice): I remember my mom getting all excited about picking wild mushrooms in northern Colorado where we had a cabin.  After she did painstaking research, we picked all sorts of mushrooms and dried them on great screens in the sun.  But then they began to look so horrid and gave off such a funky smell, that we threw them all away.  So. All this is to say that, if this is your first foray into morel hunting, take along someone who can guide you.

You also might enjoy having said guide along because, as my friends reminded me, there are some very avid mushroom hunters out there, picking to sell. (Can you blame them? Morels are 28 dollars a pound now.)  They are also, because this is America, packing guns.  In fact, my friends have had several firearms casually brandished at them....but they didn't freak (as I would have.)  They just shrugged and kept on hunting.  Morels taste that good.

Story #2 (of the epiphany variety.)  And how did the children do?  Well, both of them actually did better hunting morels than I did.  (You realize they are closer to the ground and have sharper vision.)  Theo enjoyed eating the morels so much he said at one point, "I wish the whole world was made out of morels!"  Still, imagine my shock, later in the day when Theo and I were crossing a street in the center of TOWN, far from any patch of open ground and there, in the gutter lay.....

"A MOREL!!!" Theo shouted.

 What kind of strange miracle was that?

The morel was too dirty to eat.  But we believed it had been given to us by the angels.

Madeleines: the nostalgic birthday cake

 We had a party here last week.  Well... it was just me and the kids, homemade party hats, and a wonky banner that said "Happy Birthday, Daddy."  While Josephine was napping, Theo and I made madeleines.  You know-- those weird cookie/cakes that are shaped like shells?

Think of the French writer Proust, whom I admit I have never read, but know the basic story of him eating a madeleine and having "an involuntary memory" of childhood.  (What is it about literary terms that they often start to sound a little seedy...?)

Anyway.  What I love about the madelelines is that they are all eggs and butter, and that we had to sprinkle the flour over the top of the egg/sugar mixture and then fold in gently.

We made ours with almond instead of vanilla extract, which was better in my opinion.

You can find the superb recipe here. 

 I joke with Gus that having children, no matter what age you are when you have them, seems a lot like being president.  You know how people say a president ages 5 or so years for every one year in office?  That's how I feel.

For Gus' present, I thought it appropriate to give him an Alice Waters cookbook and DVDs of Julia Child cooking.  

The rain parted, and it turned out to be a charming day.  One you want to remember...

...with all its happiness... 

 ...and torment. 

Pisces Party and the Clay Postcard - part 2

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 So I didn't end up doing the mermaid.  I'm talking about my grand plans to make clay postcards for the Pisces Party a few weeks ago.  For the first part of my process and to learn all about the annual Pisces Party, you should read part one.

I did get my act together enough to actually fire the clay postcards.  Then, the day of the party, while my back was in agony and my family were out grocery shopping, when I should have been organizing the rental house we just moved to....

 I instead sat at the kitchen table for an hour, frantically cutting out photocopies of Italian art and fish.  

 

I considered this blousy dame and her clamshell, but she just wasn't as funny with the fish...

...as David was.   

Yep, the carta postales made for great conversation.

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 Details about the carta postales:  So, even though I would do it all in clay next time, here's how I made these: clay background with pressed letters, then cut out images, all adhered with a wash of good old Elmer's Glue.  The blue sea is tissue paper.  The gold is gold acrylic.  The sparkles are just glitter with glue.  And the cards can be hung up (the blue beads in each of the upper corners act as anchors for the hanging string).

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Details about the dinner:  At noon that Saturday, Gus said to me, "I don't think I have the energy for this."  Which was fine.  So he stayed home with the kids while I took the carta postales and three different kinds of ravioli down to Dan and Joan's house.  I was sweating, and, again, in agony.  But the dinner was a smashing success.  I pretended the ravioli was handmade-- and the rest (except for Linda) totally bought this lie.  (I had actually purchased the ravioli a few hours earlier at Wiley's World, a local pasta cafe.  But I learned from Julia Child that, even if you are a failure in the kitchen, you don't apologize.  Just serve up what you attempted and smile.)  Here was the dinner:

costini and stuffed mushrooms (Joan and Dan)

butternut squash, smoked chicken and gorgonzola, Italian sausage ravioli (Julia Subterfuge)

lamb and roasted vegetables (Barry and Goldye)

roasted asparagus (Glenn)

arugula salad with sweet dressing and almonds (Linda)

strawberry tart (Marielynne and Lenny)

wine (Gus)

This is such a good idea.  Maybe it will inspire you to have a dinner party.  It was so fun for me, hopped up on muscle relaxants and eating good food.  And the carta postales were so appreciated, it makes me wonder if I should do some more....

 
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Fifi's Cookies

 One of the several nicknames we use for Josephine-- "Fifi."  I don't know what people in other countries imagine when they hear that name, but here one usually thinks of a fluffy poodle.  

 
 So how appropriate was it that a lot of our valentines cookies were pink and white Fifi?  With sprinkles. 

  

You can check out the great recipe here.