Each year around this time, restaurants in Minneapolis and St. Paul prepare pre-fixed, coursed menus for lower prices, as part of a wonderful event called Food Week. Maybe it is a way for restaurants to strut their stuff a little, to lure in customers who are normally Applebee's-goers, or simply to provide one bright moment at the end of a claustrophic winter.
Chef Matt and I used to attend Food Week, pre-kids, but have dropped off somewhat in the past few years. Nevertheless, we still like to peruse the Food Week menus online and sigh at little at the amazing concoctions chefs present for this fantastic week of local cuisine.
Although we cannot attend the official event anymore, we managed to create a Food Week of our own. Last week, as I acknowledged the passing of another year of my life, we scheduled a series of delicious meals, both restaurant-made and homemade, and decided that Food Week on your own terms can be almost as fabulous as the real thing.
We started with Valentine's Day, a holiday we do not usually celebrate. But other people do, so coupons for cheap food abound. With the kids at daycare, we split a giant plate of barbecue and a steamy bread pudding over lunch, because nothing says romance like "Hey, you have barbecue sauce all over your face."
Two days later, we called in a grandma and went to a local swanky steakhouse that, luckily for our checkbook, is in the same family of restaurants as Matt's. The server wheeled out the cuts of meat on a cart, including one actually named a "Bludgeon of Beef," and I sensed a small twinge of something feral deep inside as I ordered 24 ounces of steak, just for myself. I felt a little like a rich man's wife that night; that is, until I packaged up half of the food we ordered and silently began to plan how I could use the leftovers in several meals at home.
On my actual birthday, my parents made a February-Thanksgiving feast, with turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and encouragement to eat more. And finally, in a culmination that is becoming tradition at our house, Matt made homemade gnocchi, a pillowy potato dumpling with a hint of the potato-graininess amidst an otherwise smooth, chewy texture. He tossed the gnocchi in a cream sauce with lobster and peas, and for that moment of bliss, February in Minnesota melted away and we were eating four-cheese gnocchi at a dusky restaurant in Rome.
It is certainly not plausible, or healthy, to eat this way every week. But once, or twice, a year, a personal Food Week is a welcome getaway from the drudgery of the usual ... especially if you can get it for cheap, or free at your parents' house.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Second-Trimester Love Letter
Dear Baby,
It's your mommy again. By this time, you are more aware of me around you, and I have felt your little kicks and punches for weeks now, mostly when I am very still. It is always a comfort to me, every time I feel the little popcorn tumbles within.
Second trimester is somewhat of a honeymoon period for both of us. You still have room to swim, and I still have room to breathe. These are the months sandwiched between the sickness and dry cereal, and the swollen ankles and unsightly waddle. You are behaving more and more like you will in the outside world -- swallowing and blinking and sleeping for long periods -- and I can take great pleasure in this miracle, while still able to put on my own socks.
As your taste buds form, your little memory will begin to store away the flavors that you will later recognize while perched in your high chair. Sometimes I look at your sister and brother and wonder if their wild love of bananas stems from my daily intake of the lovely yellow fruit, or if their stubborn refusal to eat plain white rice was born of my preference for potatoes.
I hope that you will not only absorb a taste for all the foods that I love, but also a love for food in general. For your sake, I will eat a thousand different things so you will have an experienced palate coming into this world. The first time your sister tried lamb, wrapped in a warm pita and drizzled with tangy tzatziki sauce, she devoured it like she'd eaten it every day of her life. Your brother, first presented with scrambled eggs, could not get them in his chubby little hands fast enough.
It won't be long until I am too big to fit anything in but juice and applesauce. Until the third trimester arrives, though, your early culinary education will continue to include courses in French, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, Mediterranean and American. When you are old enough to eat such things on your own, when the days of rice cereal are over, I will be sure to look for the gleam of recognition in your eyes the first time you taste a spoonful of lamb ragout and hope, just maybe, that you will fall in love with it, too.
It's your mommy again. By this time, you are more aware of me around you, and I have felt your little kicks and punches for weeks now, mostly when I am very still. It is always a comfort to me, every time I feel the little popcorn tumbles within.
Second trimester is somewhat of a honeymoon period for both of us. You still have room to swim, and I still have room to breathe. These are the months sandwiched between the sickness and dry cereal, and the swollen ankles and unsightly waddle. You are behaving more and more like you will in the outside world -- swallowing and blinking and sleeping for long periods -- and I can take great pleasure in this miracle, while still able to put on my own socks.
As your taste buds form, your little memory will begin to store away the flavors that you will later recognize while perched in your high chair. Sometimes I look at your sister and brother and wonder if their wild love of bananas stems from my daily intake of the lovely yellow fruit, or if their stubborn refusal to eat plain white rice was born of my preference for potatoes.
I hope that you will not only absorb a taste for all the foods that I love, but also a love for food in general. For your sake, I will eat a thousand different things so you will have an experienced palate coming into this world. The first time your sister tried lamb, wrapped in a warm pita and drizzled with tangy tzatziki sauce, she devoured it like she'd eaten it every day of her life. Your brother, first presented with scrambled eggs, could not get them in his chubby little hands fast enough.
It won't be long until I am too big to fit anything in but juice and applesauce. Until the third trimester arrives, though, your early culinary education will continue to include courses in French, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, Mediterranean and American. When you are old enough to eat such things on your own, when the days of rice cereal are over, I will be sure to look for the gleam of recognition in your eyes the first time you taste a spoonful of lamb ragout and hope, just maybe, that you will fall in love with it, too.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Eating Our Way Through the Great Vacation Spots of the World
Last weekend, we flew to Phoenix for a family get-together and spent three days plucking fresh oranges from the trees and soaking up a bit of much-needed Vitamin D. In the depths of January, Arizona and its cerulean sky were a welcome distraction.
"Vacation" means something different to everyone, whether it is simply not being at work for a few days or a year's worth of planning for a grand three-week European tour. For us, most vacations involve some sort of family event, usually because we can crash in a guest room and spend the weekend digging through someone else's refrigerator. Any other type of vacation, as far as Chef Matt and I are concerned, should be driven by the local cuisine. Amazing landscapes and national monuments are a secondary perk, ranked behind the foods that lend cities their character and culture.
Before I met Matt, I traveled to New Orleans for a few days to visit friends. I spent a sunny morning sipping coffee and eating powdery beignets at Cafe du Monde, one of the treasures of the Big Easy. We ran the gamut that weekend, sampling decadent gravy cheese fries, hideous but delicious crawfish, spicy homemade jambalaya, and an amazing concoction called alligator cheesecake.
During our honeymoon in Italy, we tackled all the Italian classics: margarita pizza, caprese salad, fresh pasta with arrabiatta sauce, bolognese, gnocchi, tiramisu, gelato, and melty prosciutto and mozzarella paninis. We wore paths between restaurants and street vendors, pausing between to take in the David and St. Peter's before seeking out the next cheesy, saucy, creamy miracle of cooking.
Vacations will be few and far between in our future, but sometimes, when we sit and dream about the places we have not seen, our dreams begin and end with the menu. Boston will be a race to consume as much seafood as possible, Charleston will be plantation tours sandwiched between fried green tomatoes and spongy biscuits, Austin will be plates of barbecue eaten to a soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Paris will be a weeklong orgy of bordelaise, fine chocolate pastries, and boeuf bourguignon.
Cuisine is a defining characteristic of most places on earth, and reveals much about the people and history of those places, in ways far different than art and architecture and music. Food illuminates the soul of a city. Seeing the Eiffel Tower is a grand thing, but doesn't it look that much more incredible while clutching a crepe and anticipating a plate of ratatouille?
Friday, January 21, 2011
...As Visions of Steak and Lobster Danced in My Head
Like so many other couples, Chef Matt and I have lately been painstakingly trimming the fat from an already lean budget. We are relatively frugal people already, but the mildly depressing state of the economy has transformed us from a champagne taste on a beer budget to a champagne taste on a generic-juice-box budget. And inevitably, one of the first things to be shrink-wrapped is our food allocation.
Cutting back to one haircut a year and virtually eliminating anything that's not mortgage, fuel or student loans do not induce the sort of panic that a slashed grocery bill does. How many things can I do with a can of refried beans? Is it even possible to stretch a box of rice for four weeks? Can I convince the clerks at Target to give me a bulk discount if I buy them out of spaghetti sauce?
I think every family has times when they alternate between Hamburger Helper and scrambled eggs for dinner, when creativity reigns in the kitchen, and when crickets are practically audible in the pantry. It is just as frustrating to a college student living on work-study and bad beer as it is to parents who go to bed some nights feeling a little too much like Tommy and Gina.
But one of the things my dear husband has taught me, besides the proper way to roast a red pepper, is that allowing yourself to dream can be therapeutic and energizing. For instance, we have a very detailed plan for spending our lottery winnings (our own restaurant, a historic mansion with a batting cage, and a a Tuscan castle, in case you were interested). I figured, then, that it wouldn't hurt anyone, least of all me, to close my eyes to the stacks of canned tomatoes and boxes of penne and envision all the beautiful things I would buy, with a limitless budget, at a lovely neighborhood carpeted market instead of the jumbled mass of humanity that is the discount store.
First, we would never be without a half a dozen delicious fancy cheeses. Imagine a grilled cheese with gouda and gruyere and a fine sharp cheddar! Next, I would stock up on every kind of high-grade meat and seafood available: sirloins, scallops, and a peppery thick-cut bacon for that grilled cheese. I would buy artisan bread, smear it with the creamiest homemade butter I can find, drizzle it with 20-year balsamic vinegar, and follow it up with lobster ravioli from an Italian deli and a creme brulee. I would toss my Campbell's Soup cookbook out the back door, and we would recreate every recipe in The French Laundry cookbook while drinking expensive imported wine.
Perhaps such fantasies are counterproductive; they will not make scallops appear in my refrigerator. But they do make the hot dish taste a little more like an airy souffle, and make me feel a little less like we are livin' on a prayer and more like we are livin' on Summit Avenue with no canned tomatoes in sight.
Cutting back to one haircut a year and virtually eliminating anything that's not mortgage, fuel or student loans do not induce the sort of panic that a slashed grocery bill does. How many things can I do with a can of refried beans? Is it even possible to stretch a box of rice for four weeks? Can I convince the clerks at Target to give me a bulk discount if I buy them out of spaghetti sauce?
I think every family has times when they alternate between Hamburger Helper and scrambled eggs for dinner, when creativity reigns in the kitchen, and when crickets are practically audible in the pantry. It is just as frustrating to a college student living on work-study and bad beer as it is to parents who go to bed some nights feeling a little too much like Tommy and Gina.
But one of the things my dear husband has taught me, besides the proper way to roast a red pepper, is that allowing yourself to dream can be therapeutic and energizing. For instance, we have a very detailed plan for spending our lottery winnings (our own restaurant, a historic mansion with a batting cage, and a a Tuscan castle, in case you were interested). I figured, then, that it wouldn't hurt anyone, least of all me, to close my eyes to the stacks of canned tomatoes and boxes of penne and envision all the beautiful things I would buy, with a limitless budget, at a lovely neighborhood carpeted market instead of the jumbled mass of humanity that is the discount store.
First, we would never be without a half a dozen delicious fancy cheeses. Imagine a grilled cheese with gouda and gruyere and a fine sharp cheddar! Next, I would stock up on every kind of high-grade meat and seafood available: sirloins, scallops, and a peppery thick-cut bacon for that grilled cheese. I would buy artisan bread, smear it with the creamiest homemade butter I can find, drizzle it with 20-year balsamic vinegar, and follow it up with lobster ravioli from an Italian deli and a creme brulee. I would toss my Campbell's Soup cookbook out the back door, and we would recreate every recipe in The French Laundry cookbook while drinking expensive imported wine.
Perhaps such fantasies are counterproductive; they will not make scallops appear in my refrigerator. But they do make the hot dish taste a little more like an airy souffle, and make me feel a little less like we are livin' on a prayer and more like we are livin' on Summit Avenue with no canned tomatoes in sight.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Farewell, 2010. Thanks for the Recipes.
New Year's Eve is inevitably a day of reflection on the rapid passage of time, in the year past and the years before. For me, it's a particularly sentimental day of remembering, since I first met Chef Matt on New Year's Eve 2003. Each year on this day, it's both the sunset of a old year and an anniversary of a great new beginning in my life.
The first time I saw Chef Matt he was, of course, in a kitchen. He was making food for the New Year's party we were both attending, and although I do not remember talking to him much that night, I do remember my first thought about him when I saw him standing there by the stove: "Boy, that guy is really short."
In the seven years since that rather uncharitable thought, I have gone from a single graduate student living with my parents to a wife, mother of two (and one more on the way), history professional, living in our own home. I have also transformed my knowledge and use of food; I am not quite at "live to eat," but I know that I am no longer just "eat to live."
When I met Chef Matt, I did not own salt, pepper or any other spices or herbs. Why waste the money, I reasoned. Sometimes I splurged on grated parmesan cheese, but usually my shells with red sauce went without. I ate noodle and rice mixes a few times a week, and rarely kept unfrozen vegetables in the house. Looking back, it was a sad state of affairs.
In this year alone, however, I have learned to make homemade cherry pie, pizza, au gratin potatoes, zucchini bread and strawberry jam. I have not purchased a box of dehydrated mashed potatoes in five years, and I always make my french fries by hand. This is not meant to be especially impressive; I still use cream soups every week and eat a frozen pizza every Sunday.
It is the focus that has changed. When I was alone, meals were quick events, rarely fancier than something that proclaimed "Just add water!" on the box. But since I'm cooking for four, and since I am trying to consider the cultivation of my children's taste buds, meals have become an opportunity to learn, be creative and conquer the boxed entree. Plus, it is hard to argue that the potato flakes taste better than real mashed potatoes with chicken stock, sour cream and butter.
Overall, 2010 has been a good year in my food education. Our trip to the French Laundry was the shining moment of the year, but on a much less grand note, learning how to make new foods by hand, by way of much trial and error, has made me a more curious, adventurous and patient cook. And as 2011 dawns, a whole new year with my chef and our growing family, I am excited for the food possibilities -- maybe there are souffles and bisques in my future.
The first time I saw Chef Matt he was, of course, in a kitchen. He was making food for the New Year's party we were both attending, and although I do not remember talking to him much that night, I do remember my first thought about him when I saw him standing there by the stove: "Boy, that guy is really short."
In the seven years since that rather uncharitable thought, I have gone from a single graduate student living with my parents to a wife, mother of two (and one more on the way), history professional, living in our own home. I have also transformed my knowledge and use of food; I am not quite at "live to eat," but I know that I am no longer just "eat to live."
When I met Chef Matt, I did not own salt, pepper or any other spices or herbs. Why waste the money, I reasoned. Sometimes I splurged on grated parmesan cheese, but usually my shells with red sauce went without. I ate noodle and rice mixes a few times a week, and rarely kept unfrozen vegetables in the house. Looking back, it was a sad state of affairs.
In this year alone, however, I have learned to make homemade cherry pie, pizza, au gratin potatoes, zucchini bread and strawberry jam. I have not purchased a box of dehydrated mashed potatoes in five years, and I always make my french fries by hand. This is not meant to be especially impressive; I still use cream soups every week and eat a frozen pizza every Sunday.
It is the focus that has changed. When I was alone, meals were quick events, rarely fancier than something that proclaimed "Just add water!" on the box. But since I'm cooking for four, and since I am trying to consider the cultivation of my children's taste buds, meals have become an opportunity to learn, be creative and conquer the boxed entree. Plus, it is hard to argue that the potato flakes taste better than real mashed potatoes with chicken stock, sour cream and butter.
Overall, 2010 has been a good year in my food education. Our trip to the French Laundry was the shining moment of the year, but on a much less grand note, learning how to make new foods by hand, by way of much trial and error, has made me a more curious, adventurous and patient cook. And as 2011 dawns, a whole new year with my chef and our growing family, I am excited for the food possibilities -- maybe there are souffles and bisques in my future.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
It's the Holiday Season. Just Give Up Now.
It happens every year between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, from the minute the first turkey appears until the last bottle of champagne has been drunk. All my good habits, the usual absence of sweets in our house, the attempts at portion control and daily vegetables, swirl out of sight with the first snow.
It's not my fault, I argue with myself. What logical human being, faced with an onslaught of starchy, sugary, cheesy, chocolatey foods for five weeks, can raise the necessary willpower to fight back and declare: "I will stick to my diet. I will eat fruit not dipped in chocolate. I will eat vegetables not covered in crispy onions. I will turn my nose up at every treat that comes my way."
The answer is: No one. I challenge any person confronting a holiday season and multiple family gatherings to successfully combat the operatives of the Holiday Food Assault. Sometimes I find the will to turn down a fourth cookie or a third helping of roasted turkey, but it is not often. I have come to accept, then, that the weeks between the fourth Thursday of November and the last day of the year must simply be named a Bermuda Triangle of Healthful Eating.
It begins with Thanksgiving, when I strategically map out the coordinates of my plate to ensure maximum capacity. Normally, I would say "no" to a generous pour of gravy on everything, but little is as delectably comforting as a pillow of mashed potatoes, cradling melted butter and smothered in gravy.
From Thanksgiving, we roll straight into Christmastime, and although the actual holiday does not arrive for several weeks, it does not mean that those days need be absent of gooey fudge or coma-inducing workplace potlucks. I feel strangely compelled to keep my oven perpetually on and full of homemade cinnamon rolls, peanut butter crinkles or cherry pie. This year, even Chef Matt, normally not a baker, got into the indulgent spirit of things and made M&M cookies. Of course, his recipe was the child of the French Laundry chef, and mine are the product of Betty Crocker, but the point is that our house has been a nonstop bake shop since November.
For the record, I do ensure that my children continue to eat green things that are not Christmas-tree-shaped cookies. But I have long since given up feeling bad about my own overeating during the holidays. The last weeks of the year are so full of treats because they are also so full of family and celebrations and giving. And if spending time with my family, and baking with my daughter, and preparing meals in warm, bustling kitchens means that my jeans do not quite fit come January, then pass the fudge and bring on the gravy, because it's worth it.
It's not my fault, I argue with myself. What logical human being, faced with an onslaught of starchy, sugary, cheesy, chocolatey foods for five weeks, can raise the necessary willpower to fight back and declare: "I will stick to my diet. I will eat fruit not dipped in chocolate. I will eat vegetables not covered in crispy onions. I will turn my nose up at every treat that comes my way."
The answer is: No one. I challenge any person confronting a holiday season and multiple family gatherings to successfully combat the operatives of the Holiday Food Assault. Sometimes I find the will to turn down a fourth cookie or a third helping of roasted turkey, but it is not often. I have come to accept, then, that the weeks between the fourth Thursday of November and the last day of the year must simply be named a Bermuda Triangle of Healthful Eating.
It begins with Thanksgiving, when I strategically map out the coordinates of my plate to ensure maximum capacity. Normally, I would say "no" to a generous pour of gravy on everything, but little is as delectably comforting as a pillow of mashed potatoes, cradling melted butter and smothered in gravy.
From Thanksgiving, we roll straight into Christmastime, and although the actual holiday does not arrive for several weeks, it does not mean that those days need be absent of gooey fudge or coma-inducing workplace potlucks. I feel strangely compelled to keep my oven perpetually on and full of homemade cinnamon rolls, peanut butter crinkles or cherry pie. This year, even Chef Matt, normally not a baker, got into the indulgent spirit of things and made M&M cookies. Of course, his recipe was the child of the French Laundry chef, and mine are the product of Betty Crocker, but the point is that our house has been a nonstop bake shop since November.
For the record, I do ensure that my children continue to eat green things that are not Christmas-tree-shaped cookies. But I have long since given up feeling bad about my own overeating during the holidays. The last weeks of the year are so full of treats because they are also so full of family and celebrations and giving. And if spending time with my family, and baking with my daughter, and preparing meals in warm, bustling kitchens means that my jeans do not quite fit come January, then pass the fudge and bring on the gravy, because it's worth it.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Thanksgiving Comes Not Just Once a Year
On Thanksgiving morning this year, Chef Matt and the kids and I walked to end hunger at the Mall of America. We only made it about a mile before the walking toddler declared herself finished, so it was not, by any means, a rigorous race, but the idea was more of an installation of the value of helping people into our children's heads than anything else. It was a helpful reminder of what we have that others may not.
Because Thanksgiving is a holiday of indulgence. We give thanks for all our blessings, eat mounds of turkey and potatoes and stuffing, and then roll onto the couch for several hours of football. These are all things I love about Thanksgiving, but this year it also made me wonder, as I do every year on Valentine's Day when I am instructed by Hallmark to express my love, if we shouldn't remember to give thanks all year with the same vigor that we do on the fourth Thursday of November.
I am guilty of this. Life speeds by at a million miles an hour, and how often do I pause to show gratitude for the good things in my life? How often do I cease complaining and change my perspective? I have been thinking on this for a few weeks, slowly working on persistent gratitude for the things that, at first glance, might be more cause for complaint. Two things in particular have emerged from this reflection.
First, I am grateful that my husband has a job, and a job doing what he loves. Sometimes I get lost under self-pity and loneliness in those long nights and weekends when he is working. But I have reminded myself that he, unlike so many others these days, has a steady job to go to each week, and that while I am home with the kids, he is working long shifts to provide for his family.
And it is a business that he loves. When he describes the delicious nightly specials he has created or vents because he knows that something could be better, I know that we are lucky he is able to work every day in a job that elicits such passion. I remember six weeks when he was out of a job in 2009, and it was frightening and humbling. Now, every time I feel frustrated because he is not home, I shift gears and am thankful he is not home because he is working.
Second, I am grateful that I am able to feed my children. There are some nights that the toddler and I wage an epic battle of wills over dinner; I have come very close to a breaking point that involves me actually tossing food at her head. Other nights I feel an overwhelming guilt that I feed my children too much macaroni and cheese, simply because it is easy for me.
But despite the stubborn refusals to eat and the Mommy guilt, I know that my babies will never go to bed hungry, as long as I am alive. I strive to focus on the fact that we have macaroni and cheese to feed our kids, and that if they eat it two nights in a row, at least they are fed.
I think if we all took a closer look, we would see that our gifts are cleverly disguised as grievances. For me, it took a slow walk around a mall, past stacks of canned food for hungry people, to remind me that Thanksgiving is an everyday holiday, if we can only see past the irksome moments and find the blessings underneath.
Because Thanksgiving is a holiday of indulgence. We give thanks for all our blessings, eat mounds of turkey and potatoes and stuffing, and then roll onto the couch for several hours of football. These are all things I love about Thanksgiving, but this year it also made me wonder, as I do every year on Valentine's Day when I am instructed by Hallmark to express my love, if we shouldn't remember to give thanks all year with the same vigor that we do on the fourth Thursday of November.
I am guilty of this. Life speeds by at a million miles an hour, and how often do I pause to show gratitude for the good things in my life? How often do I cease complaining and change my perspective? I have been thinking on this for a few weeks, slowly working on persistent gratitude for the things that, at first glance, might be more cause for complaint. Two things in particular have emerged from this reflection.
First, I am grateful that my husband has a job, and a job doing what he loves. Sometimes I get lost under self-pity and loneliness in those long nights and weekends when he is working. But I have reminded myself that he, unlike so many others these days, has a steady job to go to each week, and that while I am home with the kids, he is working long shifts to provide for his family.
And it is a business that he loves. When he describes the delicious nightly specials he has created or vents because he knows that something could be better, I know that we are lucky he is able to work every day in a job that elicits such passion. I remember six weeks when he was out of a job in 2009, and it was frightening and humbling. Now, every time I feel frustrated because he is not home, I shift gears and am thankful he is not home because he is working.
Second, I am grateful that I am able to feed my children. There are some nights that the toddler and I wage an epic battle of wills over dinner; I have come very close to a breaking point that involves me actually tossing food at her head. Other nights I feel an overwhelming guilt that I feed my children too much macaroni and cheese, simply because it is easy for me.
But despite the stubborn refusals to eat and the Mommy guilt, I know that my babies will never go to bed hungry, as long as I am alive. I strive to focus on the fact that we have macaroni and cheese to feed our kids, and that if they eat it two nights in a row, at least they are fed.
I think if we all took a closer look, we would see that our gifts are cleverly disguised as grievances. For me, it took a slow walk around a mall, past stacks of canned food for hungry people, to remind me that Thanksgiving is an everyday holiday, if we can only see past the irksome moments and find the blessings underneath.
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