Stories

ImageI’m a middle-aged step-dad with a bad back. I’m unable to jog. But I have a better shot at qualifying for the one-hundred-yard dash in the next summer Olympics than I have at getting my thirteen-year-old to voluntarily eat a vegetable. Any vegetable. And the same can be said for fruit. “I hate them,” he insists, decrying, at one fell swoop, all means of natural nutrition. “Hate is a strong word, pal,” I tell him, trying to lend some perspective to this same conversation we repeat night in and night out. But if this isn’t hate, I think to myself, what is it? The smell of broccoli makes him nauseas. The sight of a mushroom incapacitates him with fear; one found its way on to his dinner plate a couple of weeks ago and he yelled out, panicked “Get it off of there!” as if it were some alien species about to attack him.

Complicating his life, not to mention mine, is his mother, who insists he eat, at the very least, one serving of a vegetable at dinner. After negotiations rivaling the Geneva Talks in intensity, we have agreed to let him eat the vegetable of his choosing – peas, peas, and occasionally some peas – at the very end of his meal, and on a separate plate – his vegetable plate. This is the only way he’ll consider, in his words, “giving it an honest attempt.”

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biscuits.jpgIt has recently come to our attention that in 90 days my husband may, or may not have a job. As the House Writer, I began immediately to work on resumés, cover letters, and all manner of beguiling a lifetime of hard and varied work into an irresistible nugget of information. No spinning or glossing is necessary in this case; the man has worked hard from the time he was driving a tractor illegally through the fields of the family farm. The work, the hard, complicated part of the thing is distilling the best of him using “action verbs” (as opposed to those other, non-action verbs) and using terms and jargon expected by the business world.

As I write about his work, and think again about the many things he knows, I think about how very odd, incomplete and schizophrenic my own resumé would appear at this time in my life. As of 7:30 or so last night, I might have said something like “well, I gave up law to be a cook, and I’m not trained professionally but I’m really good at it.” Having come directly from putting 25 pounds of flank steak to bed in sealed bags of fragrant marinade, knowing that I would get up this morning and make 100 impossibly fluffy biscuits for strawberry shortcake, I was feeling pretty cocky.

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pike noble pigxWhen it comes to serving wine with seafood, we want the wine to marry with the delicate flavors of the fish. In other words, the wine or the fish should not upstage each other in any way. Remaining complementary is key.

Retaining a refreshing palate with wine acidity and working with the flavors from rich and buttery sauces accompanying fish can be challenging.

Most dry white wines will work but it's good to keep some things in mind. Paying attention to the flavors of shellfish or fish you are serving will help guide you in your choice of varietal wine.

Overall, lots of fish have the same basic, gentle taste. A fish like tilapia comes to mind. So with tilapia or any other similar white fish there are lots wines to fit the bill. Choosing wines aged in steel rather than oak, wines like unoaked Chardonnay, Albarino, Pinot Gris, Sauvignon Blanc and Gruner Veltliner will reward you with a nice acidity, cutting through the heavy, buttery sauces commonly served with these types of fish.

When it comes to lobster, crab and scallops, the sweetness pairs nicely with the flavor profile of an oaked Chardonnay.

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turkey-guy.jpgOn Sundays, we stroll over to the farmers’ market along Columbus Avenue. It starts around the Museum of Natural History and meanders south a few blocks. The farmers set their stalls up on the sidewalk with their trucks parked along the avenue behind them.

It’s nice. All the healthy people are out shopping. I thought I’d pick up something fresh and farmy for dinner – maybe some turkey burgers from the turkey guy, some greens from the greens guy, some mushrooms from the mushroom guy – that kind of thing. Guy, by the way, being an all-encompassing term meaning human.

There are girl guys at the market, as well. The greens person had some bins on the table filled with various micro-greens that looked, frankly, fantastic. I asked for a taste of the sunflower and he fished out a single little sprout with his tongs and dropped it in my hand – delicious, as fresh as spring, succulent and sassy. I stuffed a couple of handfuls into a bag and a couple handfuls of the micro-buckwheat into another and handed them to the guy to weigh.

“That’ll be twenty-seven dollars.”

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