Guess what I made with buttermilk today?

Pear clafoutis. If the French had their way, I wouldn't even be allowed to call a dessert involving pears "clafoutis." Actually, if the French had their way, I wouldn't be allowed in the kitchen. According to the ultimate authority, Larousse Gastronomique, clafoutis is "a dessert from the Limousin region of France, consisting of black cherries arranged in a buttered dish and covered with fairly thick pancake batter." The pits of the cherries, incidentally, are not removed and you have to spit them out as you eat. This sort of thing is very typical of the French, who are required by law to suffer a little, even when eating something nice. My mother-in-law makes it the correct way and it's delicious. When I told her about my plan to make it with pears and buttermilk, she winced in a way that only the French can and quickly changed the subject. That was kinder than telling me exactly what she thought of my idea. But I digress.

Pear Clafoutis (With My Apologies to the French)

I waited until she was gone and I peeled, cored and sliced four pears. I sprinkled them with a quarter cup of sugar and put them in the fridge in a closed container. According to the true recipe, you should do this to the cherries and let them sit for at least thirty minutes, so that's what I did. To the pears.

In a bowl, I whisked the following:

• one heaping cup of flour.
• a pinch of salt. I hope I get credit for this: It was French sea salt.
• another quarter cup of sugar.
• 4 well beaten eggs.

Now add (quel horreur!) one and a quarter cups of buttermilk. And whisk a little more.

Butter a round baking dish. The Larousse says to use a baking tin, so you might want to try that.

Put the sweet pear slices in the dish, sugar and all, and sprinkle the zest of one lemon on top of the pears. Now pour the batter over the whole thing and cook it at 350° for 35-40 minutes. let it cool to lukewarm before serving. You can sprinkle it with confectioner's sugar to make it look pretty if you like.

Et maintenant, je vous présente... Le Clafoutis aux Poires avec Babeurre!


Namasté, y'all!

Onion Tart...with buttermilk. (Alternate Title: Do not fear the pâte brisée.)

Yesterday, I recommended saving the rest of an onion for an onion tart, or tarte à l'oignon, as we say en France. Guess what I couldn't stop thinking about? If you answered "a nice bottle of Sancerre accompanied by an onion tart", you would be right. The Sancerre was easy enough; I had to go to church last night to set up for a service*, but I didn't have to actually sit through the service and there was just enough time to slip out to the package store**.

Earlier in the day, I had made the pâte brisée, which was chilling in the fridge when I got home from church. I couldn't do it during Baby J's nap time, because I didn't want to risk waking him up with the Cuisinart. Now, my French mother in law can whip up a pâte brisée by hand. I'm sure I could, too, but it's much easier in the Cuisinart and the Larousse Gastronomique*** approves. Pâte brisée is a fancy name for basic pie crust. Don't be intimidated, it's easy. You will need a food processor, though. If you want a free one, I recommend going to someone's house who hates to cook but got married in the eighties. I guarantee they'll have an unused food processor. I personally burnt out the motors of three never-used, hand-me-down processors before my sweet husband bought me a Cuisinart. And don't be mad at him for giving me an appliance. I wanted it real bad and it flipping rocks. The cheap ones are fine, by the way, they just won't last long if you use them a lot.

Pâte brisée

In the food processor, dump the following:

• one heaping cup of all-purpose flour. By heaping, I mean don't skim across the top, just reach into your bag of flour with the measuring cup and take a big scoop.
• a pinch of salt. Using imprecise measurements will make you feel more French and your food will come out better.
• a heaping spoonful of sugar. The sugar is actually optional, so use as much or as little as you like.
  
• a stick of butter, cold and chopped into pieces. The pieces don't have to be very small, maybe 8-10 per stick.

Switch on your processor and pulse until all the ingredients are mixed. It should look crumbly, about the consistency of potting soil.

Now add two tablespoons of very cold water. Make yourself a glass of ice water and take it from there. If you're making the pastry for someone other than immediate family, spoon the water out before you take a sip. Or before anyone sees you take a sip.

Use the pulse button again. After a few seconds, the dough will bind and pull away from the walls of the processor. Take out your dough blob, make it into a ball, wrap it in tin foil and put it in the fridge for at least an hour.

Onion Tart

If your baby is still behaving, you can now caramelize the onions. In addition to the onion you saved from yesterday, you should slice two more onions. Red onions are best. It doesn't matter if your onion from the day before was red or white or yellow. Slice the onions very thin. If you have one, use a mandoline. I have one, but I forgot to use it and the onions were fine...but I almost sliced my finger. You should end up with about eight cups of sliced onion. Put them in a container and dump a small half cup of buttermilk over them. Cover the container and put it in the fridge. Go console your baby and read him that stupid Wheels on the Bus book for the fifty millionth time. Give him a dried fig to distract him so you can go cook the onions. He likes dried figs.

In a big frying pan, melt a chunk of butter and add a splash of olive oil. Dump the onions in, buttermilk and all. Sprinkle salt on the onions and cook them, stirring every so often, until they're translucent. That should take about ten minutes, enough time to read the stupid Wheels on the Bus book a couple more times. Lower the heat and cook them for a long time, until they're nice and brown. That's going to take about thirty minutes. You can read the stupid book twenty more times or you can distract the baby and waste some time read fascinating and informative blogs like this one on the internet.

When the onions are browned, splash in just a little balsamic vinegar, no more than a teaspoon or two. Continue cooking and stirring the onions for a few more minutes to distribute the vinegar. You'll probably have to just hold the baby while you do it, which you can count as your weight lifting for the day. Make sure you hold him away from the stove, though. The pan should be on the back burner. Duh.

Turn the heat off. Leave the onions on the stove (no need to dirty another container) while you go pick up your big kids from school. Bring them home and referee whatever fights they might have while simultaneously making them do their homework. Take them to their weekly Kid Yoga class, which seems to really mellow them out. While they're at Yoga, take the baby to the grocery store and buy a hunk of Gruyère cheese. And bananas. And olives. And milk. And a cookie for the baby, because he's darn cute. Pick up the kids from Yoga and take them home to do more homework, which they'll now do with pleasure, because they're all Yoga'd up.

For the next couple of hours, do whatever it is you do this time of day, until you're ready to make the tart.

Open the bottle of Sancerre and pour yourself a glass. Isn't that nice? Preheat the oven to 450°. Take your pâte brisée out of the fridge and leave it on the counter for about five minutes while you grate about a cup of the Gruyère. Eat some olives if you're hungry.

Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface to about a ten inch diameter. Put it on a baking sheet. Technically, you're supposed to put it on parchment paper on the baking sheet, but I didn't have any and my husband was still at work, so I couldn't go out and get any. According to the world wide internets, paper bags can catch on fire at 475°, so I decided not to use one of those. I just put the dough right on the cookie sheet, ungreased. I recommend heavy duty aluminum sheets, because that's what I like.

Sprinkle most of the cheese on the pastry, reserving a couple of spoonfuls. Put the caramelized onions on top of the cheese, leaving about two inches of pastry around the edge. Fold the extra pastry over the onions. You'll have a hole in the middle so the onions can peek out. Don't fold it too precisely, because you want it to look all French country cooking. Also, you've probably had a second glass of wine by now and you won't be able to be too precise anyway. Brush the pastry with buttermilk. When it's cooked, that'll give it a nice glazed look, kind of like your eyes are glazed from the wine. Sprinkle the rest of the cheese on top and put it in the preheated oven. Bake it for about ten minutes, enough time to clean the counter and eat some more olives. Lower the heat to 350° and cook for about 25 more minutes, until the crust is brown and looks just right. Make sure you let the finished tart sit for a few minutes on the counter to cool before you cut into it.

By the time it's ready, your husband should be home from work, the kids will be asleep and all will be right in the world.

Namasté, y'all!

* Yeah, I'm an old lady, in case you hadn't guessed that. I'm on Altar Guild at my church. As far as volunteer work goes, it's great, because you do it by yourself. Volunteer work with others can be very annoying for a control freak like me.

** Further evidence that I'm an old lady. Instead of liquor store, which is so boringly obvious, I call it the package store. Did you know that term originated in 1933, after the repeal of Prohibition? It was a small concession to the anti-liquor people. Liquor could be purchased, but had to be concealed in a package. Fascinating.

*** Please pardon all the footnotes. I stayed up too late. If you don't already own a copy of the Larousse, get one. I got mine when I was in college and I refer to it all the time. It's kind of a time suck, though, because looking up one thing always leads you to look up another. Kind of like the internet.

How cool is this?

The flowers I got two days ago at the All-Local Market bloomed. And now they look entirely different. It's like someone brought me flowers. I feel pretty!


Namasté, y'all!

More buttermilk!

Prepare to endure a week of buttermilk, because that's about how long the buttermilk in my fridge will keep and I want to use it all. I could freeze it in ice cube trays and save it for later, but I don't want to. It's a buttermilk kind of week, m'kay?

Last night, I made stuffed tomatoes with, you guessed it, BUTTERMILK! I think they'd make a nice side dish for just about anything. Veal comes to mind. Here you go.

Buttermilk Stuffed Tomatoes

This recipe can be multiplied by as many tomatoes as you need. I made two, but you could make fifty, if you're having fifty people over for stuffed tomatoes or you need to use up a lot of buttermilk.

First, hollow out your tomatoes. Cut the top off, making a little bowl. Rinse out all the seeds. It's just fine to leave a little of the tomato meat. When they're as hollow as you can get them, turn them upside down on the edge of the sink, so any remaining liquid will drain.

In a bowl or cup with a spout, mix the following, multiplied by the number of tomatoes you want to stuff:

• 1 tablespoon crumbled Gorgonzola.
• 1 tablespoon buttermilk.
• 1/3 cup frozen spinach, thawed and pressed between towels to remove the liquid. You'll end up with less than 1/3 cup after pressing.
• 1 egg.
• A healthy shake of crushed red pepper.
• Salt and pepper to taste. And don't start screaming at me about tasting raw egg. If you buy your eggs fresh, from the person who gathered them, you'll be fine*.
  

Slice an onion. Find a slice that will work as a stand for each tomato, so they don't tip over while cooking. The onion also adds a little bit of flavor. My brilliant French mother-in-law taught me to use onions as a roasting rack for fish. No more gluey fish yuck. Hooray! Now I use them for everything. Save the rest of the onion; you can use it for soup another day. Or maybe an onion tart...with buttermilk...hmmm...

Put each tomato on an onion slice on a baking sheet and fill with the egg mixture. I told you to use a bowl or cup with a spout and I hope you did, because that makes this step a lot easier.

Cook at 375° for thirty minutes. Let them cool for ten or fifteen minutes while they set.

One thing I didn't add that would have been nice was something crunchy and salty on top. Down heah, we love to add bread crumbs (good), crushed Ritz Crackers (better) or potato chips (best!) to the top of any dish. I say go for it.

Namasté, y'all!

* I got over any squeamishness I had about raw eggs when O. was a toddler. I really wanted to take a shower (trust me, this is going somewhere) and I could not distract the over-socialized O. I hate being cold and it's unacceptable to me to have a toddler pulling back the curtain and creating a draft while Princess Me is trying to shower. I'm not proud of this (well, maybe a little), but I let him play in the fridge while I took my shower. It was the only thing that would occupy him for any length of time. He was a very careful child and could spend twenty minutes rearranging things on the shelves without making a mess. When I finished, I went to the kitchen to assess the damage. He had bitten the top off of a raw egg and was drinking it. Yum!

Kids are weird and I'm immature.

"Mom," came the six year old voice from the back of the car, apropos of nothing, as usual, "If the whole world was made of bread, would you eat it all?"

"Why would you ask that question? That's so weird." And why am I even surprised any more?

"I just want to know, because I would eat it all. Would you?"

"No, probably not. It would depend on what kind of bread it was, I guess. Plus, if I ate it all, I'd just be floating in space." Just when did I become so desperate for human company that I started answering these questions?

"Well I could live on Uranus."

And this is where I had to bow out of the conversation. Uranus...hehehe...huh, huh, huh...

"No you couldn't!" from the sophisticated nine year old brother, "Nobody lives on Uranus."

*snort*

"How do you know? You can't even see Uranus!"

*snort* If you do enough Yoga, you can.

"X-Man, I just know."

"Nobody knows everything about Uranus!," cried the indignant six year old.

Except for your proctologist. *snicker*

"What's so funny, Mom?"

"Um...hehehe, huh, huh, huh...just a grown-up joke Daddy told me yesterday."

Will I ever outgrow this? Or have Beavis and Butt-Head permanently destroyed any chance I had of developing a sophisticated sense of humor?

Namasté, y'all!

Inspired by buttermilk.

Yesterday, we went to the last All-Local Farmers' Market at Yo Burrito. Starting the fourth Saturday of next month, it'll be at Rosewood Market. I've talked about it before, so I'll spare you, but you really, really shouldn't miss it. Really. See you there!

I've tried plenty of Happy Cow Creamery's* cheeses and we love them all and I couldn't live without their butter, but yesterday I felt compelled to buy buttermilk. It just seemed so...homey. My little pescetarians have been in the mountains with their grandparents this weekend, so I thought I'd make them some soup. They love soup and I love them. And I wanted to use the buttermilk, so here's what I did.

Soup for My Babies

Splash a little bit of olive oil in a soup pot. Heat it up and add:

• One chopped onion.
• About two cups of chopped cabbage.
• 3 medium zucchini, cut in half lengthwise and sliced into half-moons.

Sauté them for a few minutes, stirring every so often with a wooden spoon. I don't know why I like to sauté my veggies for soup. I just do. I think it tastes toastier.

Add a large can (28 ounces) of diced tomatoes or about a pound of chopped, fresh tomatoes.

Add a small (6 ounce) can of tomato paste.

Use the little can to add water. Add three cans worth.

Stir in the following:

• 1/4 teaspoon salt.
• 2 teaspoons coriander. I don't know why, but I'm obsessed with coriander in soup at the moment.
• 1 teaspoon Italian Seasoning.
• 1 teaspoon sugar.
• A few shakes cayenne pepper, depending on how hot you like it.

Bring everything to a boil, turn down the heat and let it simmer for a little bit, about enough time to get yourself a Diet Cheerwine** out of the fridge, open it and read a sweet email from your husband. Stir occasionally (the soup, that is, you should stir the husband more often).

Add a cup of frozen, shelled Edamame for protein.

Just before serving, stir in a half a cup of buttermilk.

And I'll leave you with a picture of the lovely flowers I got at the market from Donna of Floral and Hardy Farms. Her arrangements make me giddy.


Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have a second bowl of soup and wait for my little pescetarians.

Namasté, y'all!

* If you have a few minutes, I highly recommend clicking on the Happy Cow Creamery link above and reading more about the farm. It's a great story!

** Cheerwine, by the way, is made in North Carolina, pretty close to local. And it is so much better than the inferior Dr. Pepper. Blenheim's Ginger Ale, of course, is from right here in South Carolina and is arguably the best soda in the world. Try it with dark rum some time.

I swear I haven't discussed this with him!

In my quest for more Elmo, I came across a YouTube video of Elmo and Alicia Keys, which reminded me of a conversation I overheard between the X-Man and a friend of his, when they were about four years old. They were watching Alicia Keys sing with Elmo.

"That's one of those ladies who doesn't wear a bra," said the X-Man's friend with great authority, who I swear is from a very nice family.

"Well, you don't have to wear a bra, just if you're going to exercise or you have a baby in your tummy," was the X-Man's equally sure response.

I have no idea where he got that idea. For the record, I wear a bra all the time, thanks to three children and years of breastfeeding. And, although I can't claim that we're as nice as that other family, we're not too trashy, either. At least not around the kids.

"Well, she does have a baby in her tummy."

"No, she doesn't."

"Yes," argued the X-Man's friend, making a motion in front of his own tummy to show how round he thought the lovely and slender Ms. Keys' belly was, "She does!"

They argued back and forth and I felt very glad that Alicia didn't have to hear it. As most men, and some truly clueless ladies, have learned firsthand, no one likes being told they look pregnant. I never ask if some one's pregnant, unless I can see the baby crowning. Even then, I'd probably say something like,

"Oh, my goodness! Are you pregnant? I had NO IDEA!"

I would make a very annoying labor and delivery nurse, wouldn't I?

Most women with children have been asked the question when the answer was a definite "no." It's always awkward, probably more so for the asker. When our first child was born, he stayed in the hospital for a month, because he was born two months early. Given that I gained eighty pounds in the mere seven months I was pregnant and he weighed a measly three and a half pounds (Do the math. It's fairly horrifying.), I didn't quite look not pregnant for a while. That, combined with the fact that I was supposed to still be pregnant and didn't have a newborn to carry around, led to some awkward moments. I would see someone I knew coming towards me, ready to ask me how much longer I had to go. I'd try to interrupt them before they could ask and save them the embarrassment, but some people are determined to talk first. Serves them right*.

"You don't have much longer to go now, do you? Ha ha ha!"

Since I was so enormous and not due for two more months, I guess they felt safe. I was usually able to breeze past the moment without too much suffering by whipping out a stack of pictures of our cute little tree frog in his incubator. It sure was a relief when he made it to the magic four pound mark and got to come home. No more awkward moments! Hooray! And there are some advantages to having a baby that small. He looked like a newborn for about three months, so I was able to walk around like a whale without attracting too much attention**.

As for people who are determined to make a meal out of their feet, I have no pity. I have a friend who, by her own admission, stands a little sway-backed. She has three children and a perfectly nice figure. Like many of us, she's still rebelling against generations of older women telling her to, "Stand up straight!" She does not look pregnant. In my experience, once you've had one baby, if you're not wearing a skin-tight tube top and in possession of a perfect six pack (ab-type, not imported beer-type), the rumors start to fly about your impending birth. My friend was at the gym one day and some big toothed, grinning lady bounces up to her, squealing,

"Ooooh! Congratulations! Another one on the way!"

My friend, having experienced this before, stood up a little straighter and smiled politely.

"No, not me. Ha ha ha!"

The spandex-clad clod would not be deterred. Looking at her with one of those aw-I'll-keep-your-secret faces, she lowered her voice maybe one decibel.

"Yes, you are! How exciting!"

"No, I'm really not," said my too kind friend, "You must be thinking of my sister in law. She's pregnant."

I think this was a very kind thing to do. She gave that annoying twit the perfect out. But some people just won't take it, even when it's handed to them on fine china with a sterling dessert spoon and a perfectly starched linen napkin.

"You are too!"

With that, the most clueless woman ever made the same motion with her hand that my son's friend made to indicate a growing belly and pointed to my friend's belly. As if she was walking around in the dark, completely oblivious to her own condition. I can only imagine this woman thought she was doing her a favor. Wow. Some people...

I think there's only one response to the inappropriate, "Ahhh! Are you expecting?!", and I hereby give you all permission to use it:

"Why, yes! I'm expecting to see you hit the floor just as soon as I punch you in the head as hard as I can!"

Say it with a smile and give them about three seconds to run away, because that's only fair.

Namasté, y'all!

* My suggestion for those folks is, "Get a blog." It's all about you. I love it!

** Oh, the joys of being twenty five years old. I lost all eighty pounds in two or three months, mostly through breastfeeding and walking to the ice cream store four or five times a week with the baby in a sling. Three years later, at twenty eight, I smugly gained the same eighty pounds with baby number two and, to my surprise and dismay, had to actually exercise afterwards to keep from looking like Jabba the Hutt.

Television is a great babysitter.

Why do people have such a problem with television as a babysitter? Do they think parents shouldn't use babysitters? Should we be around our children all the time, with no breaks? Sometimes you don't want to hire a flesh and blood babysitter. Besides, what sitter would come to your house for fifteen minutes while you took a shower? I know they don't have a problem with television, because we are the only people I know who don't have one. I think the problem lies in fooling yourself into thinking that television is educational. By the way, I'm not in the least bit interested in hearing how much your children have learned from this or that show or that you only watch PBS. I don't care what you watch, really. I think I have a new motto:

Television is for entertainment. Books are for education.

I find television very entertaining, too entertaining in fact, which is one of the reasons we don't have one. We can, however, watch movies and television shows on our computer. Nothing is more relaxing than climbing into bed, popping a DVD of Fantasy Island into the laptop and being swept away into the mad, mad world of Ricardo Montalban*. I do not derive any intellectual stimulation whatsoever from it, nor do I want to. And that's not a bad thing in my world. Since when is it so awful to just chill and do nothing for a little bit?

The other day, the wild and crazy Baby J was being so annoying that he wouldn't even let me to go to the damn bathroom by my damn self keeping me from my housewifely duties, like cooking, cleaning and writing poetry about my dear husband. I had an idea. I was desperate. I remembered that when the X-Man was around the same age, we had an Elmo DVD. I don't know where it came from and I don't care. You see, Baby J is obsessed with Elmo. As far as I know, it was love at first sight. He saw Elmo on one of the disposable diapers he wears for the drop-in nursery and demanded, over and over, "WHO ZAT?! WHO ZAT?! WHO ZAT?!" After he finally stopped to breathe and I told him who it was, he sang, over and over, "AHH-MO! AHH-MO! AHH-MO!" He's, like, seriously into Elmo, m'kay? So I searched desperately for the DVD and, miracle of all miracles, actually found it.

I put it into the laptop and sat back to watch Baby J in Elmo heaven. He danced to the annoying songs. He cried, "AH-MO!" every time the little red guy was on the screen. He even liked the creepy Mr. Noodle. In my humble opinion, Mr. Noodle is one of the most disturbing characters ever, starting with his name. The segment where Elmo tells Mr. Noodle how to get dressed is just not right. But Baby J loves it, so I love it.

I don't leave Baby J in front of Elmo for hours on end. In fact, he's never made it through the whole thing. Today was the second time I've used Elmo as a baby sitter and it only worked for ten minutes before Baby J came to tell me all about it. And show me the cute little dance he does to the Elmo song. I'm already wondering what other Sesame Street character might be a good sitter for my little Elmo freak.

He's such a freak about Elmo, by the way, that it horrifies him to see Elmo come to any harm. Before I remembered the DVD, I did a search for the little red guy on YouTube, hoping to appease Baby J's craving. This one seemed harmless enough. It was a video of the newer Tickle Me Elmo Times Ten (aka TMX), introduced in 2006. It's basically a cute little Elmo being tortured by extreme tickling. He falls down, begs for mercy and gets tickled again as soon as he rights himself. I think I know what to get my new nail technician for Christmas. Poor Baby J watched for about five seconds, cried and buried his head in my neck while clinging to me and sobbing, "NOOOO!!! AH-MO!!" uncontrollably. I am not exagerating, really. I won't be getting one for his birthday, but I might just have to check EBay for a less tortured, old-school Elmo.

Gotta' run. Baby J wants me to come snuggle and watch AH-MO!

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, is it just me, or does the Polynesian Resort at Disney World remind everyone of Fantasy Island? I can't be the only one who kept waiting to be summoned to Ricardo Montalban's office. No wonder I love that place. I wish I could live there.

I'm a believer.

Apparently, my sister in law is not the only woman who's felt a bit molested after leaving the nail place beside the grocery store. After I wrote about it, several women came forward to laugh hysterically tell me in hushed tones filled with private shame about their similar experiences at the same place. But they do good work, molestation notwithstanding, and it's cheap, so everyone keeps going, employing various tactics to keep themselves safe, such as wearing skinny leg jeans to avoid the over-zealous leg massager. And there's always the chance that we hysterical women just have over-active imaginations, right? Not.

After hearing so many stories, I had to see for myself. That, and my mom could only keep the baby for a short time and the place is two blocks from my house, so away I went. All I needed was a pedicure, because I've given up on ever having time for my fingernails to dry before someone demands to be picked up or I have to cook something or open something or wipe something. I was directed to the last chair, right in front of the shower curtain, behind which all sorts of things get hot waxed and torn off. Apparently, the waxer was feeling claustrophobic that day and left the curtain open. I got to see a few mustaches disappear, along with some wild and crazy eyebrows and one client who appeared to be having her entire face waxed, probably after being threatened. Thankfully, there were no bikini waxes on the agenda. I would not have liked seeing that at all.

I was having kind of a stressful day. One of my children stayed home from school "sick" and I had realized that he might not have been exactly "sick"*. As a consequence, I couldn't do some of the things I normally do when everyone's away, like get my nails done, zone out on the computer, exercise, drink Diet Pepsi or clean for five minutes four or five hours. I made the child in question come with me to the nail place and do home work while he was there, which I think was punishment enough for a first offense. But I wasn't exactly relaxed. I grabbed a magazine, which is a good way to signal that you aren't feeling chatty. This nail technician, however, was not deterred. I kept my eyes on my magazine and tried to sound completely uninterested, without being too rude. I made a few "oh, "uh-huh," and "hmmm" type noises. Until I heard something that I couldn't ignore. While he was scrubbing the rough spots off of my feet, which always tickles a little, he said,

"I'll come to your house and tie you up and tickle you. Ha ha ha!"

I figured it was time to start paying attention and prayed that I hadn't already agreed to such a thing. I looked up and responded, laughing nervously,

"Oh! No, thank you! Ha ha ha!"

To which he responded,

"Ha ha ha!"

I really hope we didn't make a date. Just in case, I paid with cash instead of my debit card or a check.

My sister in law tells me she recently saw a sign there advertising "Full Day Spa Coming Soon!" I don't care how cheap it is. The risk of hidden cameras is just too high. Well, unless it's really cheap...

Namasté, y'all!

*Any advice on how to deal with that is welcome. Please Email Me if you have any.

Ladies, we work hard.

And we deserve to be greeted at the end of the day with a cocktail tray, stocked with a fancy drink, some chocolate and something every woman should have, a pair of Daniel Green house shoes. These are not mere slippers. Oh, no! They are high class. They are the ultimate in fashionable lounge footwear. They go with everything: your favorite mumu, jeans, a nice cocktail dress if you're entertaining, yoga pants*. You name it and Daniel Greens will complete the look.

My Grandmother was the first person I ever saw rock the Daniel Greens and I think my generation needs to take note. They are so stylish! They are more comfortable than you could possibly imagine! They offer so much support to the feet! After I was finished waxing rhapsodic about my new pair, my mother tried to burst my bubble of fabulousness.

"Main and Taylor doesn't even carry those any more. They're too expensive," she sniffed, implying that only someone as silly as myself would waste a vast fortune on slippers.

Au contraire, ma mère. Although it's true (and very sad!) that Main and Taylor no longer carries them, I wouldn't describe them as terribly pricey. I got mine for the very reasonable price of $24 from Endless.com. While that may be expensive for slippers, these are not, as I said before, mere slippers. They are lifestyle enhancing lounge shoes. Got it?

So, ladies, when your man gets home from a long day at work (or some other guy - your neighbor, the UPS guy, one of your kids), park your sweet self on the sofa, put your feet up and ring for your cocktail tray. You deserve it**!


And don't be content with just one pair. I'm loving the Cheetah Print Dormies for now, but I plan to invest in another pair soon. I'm pretty into the Glamour II Slipper in pewter...or maybe the Sky Pattern Slipper for summer... And here they are in action. Don't they look yummy?:


Namasté, y'all!

* Public Service Announcement: Please don't confuse Yoga pants with sweat pants. Sweat pants are gross. Yoga pants are equally comfortable, but more expensive. And they make you look healthy. Sweat pants make you look like you just got dumped, are hungover and have eaten an entire family size bag of potato chips, chased with the greater part of a Whitman's Sampler and a liter of Diet Coke. Mind you, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. We've all been there. Just do it in some nice Yoga pants and throw those nasty sweat pants away. Thank you!

** Well, not really. But who deserves anything besides food, shelter and love? And health care, depending on which side of the political fence you're on. You don't deserve a cocktail tray at the end of the day, but why not have one anyway? Get it for yourself if no one else will.

People are funny.

"I've searched for some strange things on the internet."

At least my husband admits it. By the way, darling, I already knew that from checking the history (and I was touched to see that you once searched for "belinda carlisle playboy." At least it was a woman in her forties, not some pre-pubescent looking pop star. And of course I had to look. She looked good, didn't she?)

He's not the only one who Googles things that are a bit odd. That's what's so great about the internet. You can be a freak in private like never before in history. These are some of the searches that have brought hapless surfers to The Daily Digress:

• Countless would-be chefs have come searching for "ruths chris filet recipe" or some variation. I hope they weren't too angry to read my completely uninformed opinion. I hope they made it to the end of the entry and the recipe for Best Filet Mignon. Just try it, you'll like it!

• Many women (and possibly men) are searching for "how to make a man" do various things, including, but not limited to, the following:


• want you for life
• want you back bad
• want you
• want to date you

For the record, I don't think you'll find that information here. I have no idea how to accomplish any of that. And, seriously, I suspect it isn't that hard, you just have to find the right sucker man. Bonne Chance!


• Someone out there wants to know "how to make a list of what you want in a man". Make the list however you want, but don't share. And...um...maybe just don't make the list. You'll know it when you see it.


• A lot of people search the web for "irritating husband". If you are looking to find an irritating husband, never fear, just get any old husband and, trust me on this one, he will become irritating soon enough. If you're looking for commiseration, you've come to the right place. Welcome!


• "my man won't listen to me" Yell louder. Or kick him.
  

• Only one person searched for "husband is passive aggressive Valentine's Day". Yeah, I hear you, sister!


• "eating the fish taco euphemism" Huh? What on earth could you be talking about?


• "grouper chowder" Apparently, my mother in law does leave pounds of Grouper in other people's fridges, because a lot of people search the web for this. Which is just fine, because I have an excellent recipe for Grouper Chowder.


• "leftover soup" The Daily Digress wholeheartedly endorses making soup out of leftovers.
  

• Oddly, there are a lot of searches for variations of "scary cat," which I wrote about exactly once.
  


• "scary staring cat" Yikes. I feel your pain.
• "scary cat room" Is this some kind of nursery decorating idea? That's sick. Or maybe you're trying to contain a scary cat in a specific room. That's wierd.
• "scary cat outside my window last night" It's your neighbor's cat. You know, the guy around the corner with the blue Camry. Just kidding. Did you really think an internet search would explain the scary cat outside your window?


• "baby raisins too many" I do not recommend giving your baby too many raisins. If you've already given him or her too many raisins and you don't know what to do, just make sure you have plently of baby wipes and don't plan any long car trips for a day or two.


• "pile of poop cake" and "reindeer poop cake" It would appear that I'm not as original as I thought. Cool.


• "best coconut cake" Yup, you can find that here. And it is, seriously, the best coconut cake. Ever.


• "Target stores lugoff SC sucks" Sorry to hear that. Our Target is pretty good.


• "Joe Francis naked" Why would you want to see that? Ew.


• "botox while pregnant" Nope, sorry. If you're like me though, your face will get so puffy that the wrinkles go away until you have the baby. Enjoy!


• "notes to kids in lunches" Yes! The Daily Digress totally endorses this! But you don't need to search the internet for ideas, just write from the heart. "Eat your fruit. I love you. Love, Mommy" is always good.


• "new rap album february" I was joking. I don't really have an album coming out, but I hope you find what you're looking for!


• "indian food after c-section" I'm not a doctor, but I say, "Go for it." I had three c-sections and ate Indian food (and everything else I could get my hands on) after every single one. Vaginal birth is great and all, but even people who have c-sections can eat whatever they want afterwards.


• I'm proud to announce that The Daily Digress is the only site that comes up if you Google, in quotation marks, "eggplant mush pizza". Check it out. I don't know why I'm so proud of that, but I am!

Namasté, y'all!

Ahhhh...Perfect Happiness.

There are times in life when I experience great, indescribable joy. Today, ladies and gentlemen, I experienced that joy. I've finally found the ultimate apple corer, and I didn't even know I was looking for it. It's always annoyed me that it's so hard to remove the core from an apple corer once the apple has been cored. By the way, why do we say "core" an apple when we actually mean "decore"? I guess it's the same as husking corn or pitting cherries. Must be a food thing. The other day, I went to the mall. I don't like the mall, because I do my best to shop local businesses. But my sister had to go to some big box store to get some sort of satellite radio thingy installed in my uncle's BMW and it's rude to order someone else to find someone local to do the job, especially if you once had someone local install some stereo thingy in your BMW and, in the process, they destroyed the air conditioning, which somehow ended up costing you three thousand dollars, but I digress.

Once at the mall (innocently, because it wasn't my idea!), I had to do a little bit of shopping. I needed some more dear john face cream, which I can only get at the mall, so I got that. While I was in the store, I happened to see a pair of high-heeled, eggplant-colored, patent leather Mary Janes, which I had to buy because they were on super clearance and, as far as I know, I only have one other pair of purple heels. And I had to go into Williams-Sonoma, even though I prefer the Gourmet Shop or Mary and Martha's, because they do cooking demonstrations and often have free samples and I'm always hungry. They didn't have any samples out, which irked me, but manners (and a tiny bit of shame) forced me to browse for a minute. Lo and behold, I saw an apple corer on the wall. It was like no apple corer I had ever seen before. It had a little plunger thingy to get the core out once the apple has been cored. No more sores from removing cores! Hooray! I introduce to you my brand new, Calphalon, ten dollar apple corer:

And tonight I made an apple spice cake, which is far less tedious now that I have my fancy apple corer. In fact, this recipe can now be called easy, so here it is.

Easy Apple Bundt Cake

In a big bowl, mix the following:

1 1/3 cups all purpose flour.

1 cup whole wheat flour.

1 1/4 cups sugar.

2 teaspoons baking soda.

1 teaspoon salt.

1 teaspoon cinnamon or nutmeg, if you're making it for my mother in law, who despises cinnamon.

6 cups peeled, cored(!) and chopped Granny Smith apples.

1/2 cup oil.

1/4 cup honey.

1 teaspoon vanilla.

2 eggs.

Mix it all together at low speed, just until all the dry ingredients are moistened. If your mixer is almost as old as my husband, which mine is, you may have to use medium speed. Now mix it a little bit more, maybe a minute or two. Let your kids lick the beaters while you stir in a half a cup of chopped walnuts or pecans. Make sure to unplug the mixer before you let your kids lick the beaters. Trust me on that one.

Grease a bundt pan. I mean an old school bundt pan, none of this new fangled, no-stick nonsense. Here's mine, with the cooked cake in it:


Dump the batter into the bundt pan and cook it at 350° for 50-60 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Let it cool for a while in the pan before you turn it out or it won't come out in one piece. It'll still taste good, but you might be sad. If you ignore my advice and dump it too soon and it comes out in chunks, all is not lost. Serve hunks of it warm, topped with vanilla (or butter pecan!) ice cream and caramel sauce. You could also serve it with some greenery and tea cups, like this:


Namasté, y'all!

Valentine's Day Advice. Take it or leave it.

My first piece of advice is this:

If you have to send sweets to your child's school, send Rice Krispie treats or those peanut butter kiss cookies. I'm not going to trouble you with either recipe, because the Rice Krispie Treat Recipe is right there on the box (do NOT screw this one up by buying some organic, fake version of Rice Krispies!) and the peanut butter kisses are too easy*. Adding holiday appropriate décor to the Rice Krispie Treats is a classy touch. May I suggest the following?

• Candy hearts or red hots for Valentine's Day.


• Christmas, Hanukkah or Kwanzaa colored sprinkles.


• Green food dye in the mix for St. Patrick's Day. Or peas.
  


• Chocolate sprinkles or chips for Groundhog Day.


• Little tiny candy Presidents for Presidents' Day.


• Red, White and Blue sprinkles for the Fourth of July. Sparklers would be nice, too, but you want to be careful about putting kids' eyes out.


• Little tiny licorice shovels for Labor Day.
  

And now, in honor of all the upcoming Spring and Summer weddings and super-cheesy Valentine's Day proposals, I'm offering helpful hints for marriage. I've only been married ten years, so take them with a grain of salt, because marriage can last a whole lot longer than that. And, oh yeah, I'm a bit nuts and so is my husband.

• Make sure your husband thinks you are funny, pretty and smart, not necessarily in that order. You should think he's funny, smart enough and good looking enough. If he's too good looking, that's kind of gross and not very manly. If he's too smart, his social skills might not be up to par. By the way, y'all don't have to be funny to other people, just to each other. I, for example, find it beyond hysterical when my husband does that thing where he stands behind a counter, says, "Honey, I'm going down to the basement to get something," and pretends to walk down the imaginary stairs. In fact, I laughed just typing that. He does it really well and I always ask him to do it again. Logically, I know that joke isn't all that funny, but you have to see it when he does it! Likewise, he always laughs when I imitate our mothers (Sorry, Mom! Sorry, Maman! Can you console yourselves by knowing that making fun of you is the glue that holds our marriage together?)


• Contrary to most relationship advice, I believe you can change the way your husband dresses, with one glaring exception. If he wears his pants too high, you will not be able to change that. If that's a deal breaker for you, as it is for me, don't marry him. Seriously, it will bother you more and more as the years go on.
  


• Get a King sized bed. Space is good. Even better, go hotel-style and get two Queens, side by side. That way, you both have plenty of space, even if you decide to share for a night.


• Don't share a toothbrush. Aside from the fact that it's gross, one or both of you will be bothered by the wear and tear inflicted on the communal toothbrush by the other person. I can tell if my husband uses mine even one time and it makes me crazy.


• Be very, very open with each other about finances. Most people don't want to be in the dark and, even if they do, that's not fair to the other partner. No one should have to have all the responsibility.


• Get rid of your television. You'll play more Scrabble. And you'll love staying in hotels, because they all have television. I think at least one of our children was conceived while we watched Law and Order in a hotel.
  


• Don't go to bed angry. Feel free to go to bed angry. If we never went to bed angry, we'd fight all the time, because we'd never get any sleep!


• Don't assume that unhappy times will be unhappy for your relationship. Some of those hard times have shown me a loving and strong side of my husband I had never seen before.


• Don't assume happy times will be good for your marriage.
• Pregnancy and child-rearing are not easy on a marriage. They can bring you closer and they can be very rewarding, but they can lead to a heck of a lot of fighting, too. With each child, we've gotten better at accepting that we'll be miserable at certain times, like when we haven't slept in days. Sucking it up and paying for a housekeeper and babysitters can help with some of the resentment, but not all of it. Just get through it.


• Moving to a new (bigger, better) house is awesome, but stressful. You'll still fight: about what couch to buy, how much to spend, etc. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, be happy about the new house and convince your husband to just let you make the decorating decisions. Really. As a compromise, let him keep wearing the nasty green Chuck Taylors he's had since college.


• Making more money is great, but you still won't agree on how to spend it. When we were first married, my husband once wailed, "If I just made $XXX a year, we'd never fight!" He makes double that now. Guess what we still do? After the fight, have a calm discussion and try to compromise.


• Sex is important. There was a rumor traveling the housewife grapevine in my neighborhood a while back that the secret to marriage is having sex every other day (or more, for you over-achievers). For you newlyweds and fiancés, that may not seem like a lot, and for you new parents, that may seem impossible. Whatever your feelings, try it. I've heard it works. Even if you can't stick with it, it helps to try.


• It's been said before, but remember that sex doesn't always have to be a certain way. Some days, you have seven minutes in the closet and some days, the kids are all at friends' houses and you have the house to yourself. Wheeee!


• This is from my Mom, paraphrased. You'll fall in love at different, unpredictable times in your marriage. There may be months (or even years) during which you don't feel "in love." It's already happened to us, more than once, and we've only been married ten years. Wait it out. It'll happen for you again, and you can't predict when. I fell madly in love with my husband all over again after I had a miscarriage. Go figure.


• When choosing your partner, go with your gut. Your first impression of someone's character is probably spot on. Don't let yourself be blinded by unimportant details, like wealth, good lucks, a glamorous job or popularity. Is he a good person? Yes or no. You'll know from the beginning.


• If you do find yourself in a bad marriage, cut your losses and get out. Life is too short. People make mistakes, so don't beat yourself up. I'm not going to list the reasons you should get divorced, because you need to go with your gut. No one thing is a deal breaker for all people.


• Know in your heart that your husband is the one person you can spend the rest of your life with. I can't really tell you how you'll know, but I hope you will!


• Something about living together is hard. Don't expect the first year of marriage to be all hearts and flowers. Or the second year.


• Be your husband's biggest fan and marry someone who is yours.
  


• Try to love your in laws. It's okay to love them like you love your own family, with a little bit of resentment. But love them because they made your husband who he is. And try not to be too mad at them when you hate who your husband is.


• Don't be afraid of counseling. Sometimes it helps simply because, by going, you show each other that you want to stay together. Knowing you're loved goes a long way.
  


• Don't break up. If you've determined that you're in the right marriage, just stick with it.

I'm sure there's more, but I can't think of anything else right now. Happy Valentine's Day! Which reminds me: Don't expect your husband to just know what you expect in terms of gifts and acknowledgment on your birthday, Valentine's Day or any other holiday. Tell him. Over and over. Don't be passive aggressive and pouty. One day he'll get it.

Namasté, y'all!

* Okay, here's the recipe: Buy some peanut butter cookie dough, or make it, I don't care. Roll it into balls and cook them. Now stick a Hershey's Kiss into the top of each one. Hooray! Cookies!

When you see Fair walking down the street, let me know.

When I was little, right around the age when children constantly claim,

"That's not faaaaaaaair!,"

I had a friend, who had a mom, as most of my friends did. This mom was a comedian, like most moms in the seventies were. When we would whine about the lack of fairness in the world, she would invite us to sit and look out of her living room window.

"You just sit right there, sweetie, and when you see Fair walking down the street, call me, because I sure would like to know what she looks like!"

Ha, ha, ha. So, while I understand the futility of trying to determine what's fair and what isn't, I still need to whine every now and then. You know what isn't fair? The fact that I don't get enough sleep. My husband snores, which he claims isn't his fault. I'm not so sure about that, but I can't prove it. The baby still wakes up at night, often in response to the husband's snoring. I've tried putting him (the baby) in another room, but he wakes up anyway and we just have to go farther to get him. I've also tried putting him (the husband) in another room, but his snoring is loud enough that distance doesn't really help. And, to be honest, I miss him. One of the reasons I got married is so I wouldn't have to sleep all by myself. I get lonely. The snoring keeps me awake and, as soon as that ends and I go to sleep, the baby wakes up. Gah! I swear, the two of them are in cahoots. They want me to be tired all the time. Must be because I'm so charming when I haven't had enough sleep. Not.

Sometimes, life is really unfair. Like when I can't sleep because of the snoring and I go into a panic because, for almost a minute, the snoring stops, along with the breathing of my irritating, but much-loved husband. Then he starts breathing again, with a barking whoop and a huge snort. Like, the hugest snort you've ever heard or imagined. It's the snort to end all snorts. I recorded it once and my tape recorder burst into flames*. The snort is so loud that it wakes him up (probably our neighbors, too, but that's not my problem.) And when it wakes him up, he rears his sleepy head, sits up in bed, glares at me and says,

"SHHHHHHHH!!!"

Like I've made some horrible noise, deliberately, just to wake him up. I admit that I've been tempted, when he's in a deep sleep and I'm lying awake, to bark in his ear, really loud, just so he knows how it feels to wake up in terror. But I haven't done it, because waking him up would just start the cycle all over. But, um, it's so not fair that he gets mad at me in the middle of the night, when I haven't done anything. And then I have to lie awake for at least ten more minutes feeling self righteous. Sorry, I had to say it. And now I'm off to look out the front window, in case Fair is out for a jog.

Namasté, y'all!

* That's not true, I just said it for effect. Sorry.

I like pretty food!

Yesterday was my father-in-law's seventy seventh birthday and we had lunch here for him, which is always fun. When my husband's family gets together, the mix of American, Serbian and French culture is always interesting, to say the least. My sister in law and I plan to make millions one day when we publish a cookbook with Franco-Serbo-American recipes and plenty of stories about our in laws, but I digress. Yesterday, I made chicken broth for the guest of honor, because that's about all he wants to eat right now. When I asked if he had any special requests for his birthday, he answered,

"I am dreaming of chicken broth."

I think your dreams should be fulfilled on your birthday, so I made it. Later, I made a strange but good chicken salad with the leftover chicken:

Leftover Chicken Salad

Start with about 3 cups of pulled chicken in a bowl.

Add a dollop or two of mayonnaise. Err on the side of too little, you can always add more.

Add the following:

Two tablespoons sliced black olives, a handful of slivered almonds, a handful of golden raisins, a dash of curry, cumin and cayenne pepper and a splash of olive juice.

Add salt and pepper to taste. Yum. I just had some for breakfast!

I also made my Mom's rice salad, which is very pretty, and some sort of Mediterranean Meatloaf. I was going to make my version of Ćevapčići, but I got lazy and turned it into a meat loaf. Here it is:

My Mediterranean Meatloaf

In a deep casserole dish, dump the following:

1 pound of ground beef.

2 pounds ground lamb.

2 Eggs.

Maybe a third or a half a cup of bread crumbs (that's all I had, which was fine, because I don't like my meat loaf too bready.)

A bunch of fresh parsley. I took the bunch and chopped it with kitchen shears, letting the parsley fall right into the bowl. I'm all about less mess.

1/4 cup capers. Or so.

A spoonful each of minced garlic and ginger.

A healthy dash of curry powder, cumin and cayenne pepper.

Put on some plastic gloves. I get them at the Hyundai Market on Decker Blvd. Incidentally, you should go there, not only for the gloves. They have everything under the sun and it's easy to spend an hour shopping; don't forget the Pocky! I like these gloves:

Because they fit "my clean life style" perfectly!

Anyhow, mix the ingredients right in the dish with your gloved hands. Shape the mixture into a loaf. I use a casserole instead of a loaf pan so some of the fat can drain. Trust me, you'll get plenty of fat anyway. Put the casserole in a roasting pan and fill the roasting pan with about an inch of water. Cook at 350° for about an hour and fifteen minutes. I put a little Worcestersire on top while the meat loaf was cooling down, but you could probably sprinkle that into the mix if you remember (which I, obviously, did not!)

And, yes, I know I promised pretty food. Chicken salad and meatloaf are not pretty, although you could always try a parsley garnish to spruce them up. My Mom's rice salad is pretty. You should make it.

Mom's Rice Salad

Make 2 packages of Uncle Ben's Long Grain Wild Rice or, as I did, cook two cups dry wild rice from the bulk section* at the Fancy Mart. If you use the Uncle Ben's, don't add any butter or vile margarine.

In a big bowl, mix the following:

1 10 ounce package of frozen peas.

1 yellow and 1 red pepper, chopped.

1 cup golden raisins.

3 green onions, green part only, thinly sliced.

In a little bowl, mix 1/4 cup each honey, olive oil** and rice vinegar (any vinegar will do, but I like the rice vinegar because it adds a mild sweet taste.) Add one teaspoon curry powder and mix it all together. Add the dressing to the bowl of vegetables.

Add the dressed vegetables and a cup of chopped pecans to the rice and mix it all together. I served it in a shallow, lime green bowl and it looked purrrrty!

A Bulgarian friend of my husband's family sent the best cake I've ever tasted, some sort of layered, Tiramisù thing with chocolate ganache. She also, very kindly, sent a mild cake for the children, a tray of the best baklava I've ever tasted (there was a secret ingredient that I just cannot figure out!) and this crazy delicious cheese pastry thing. My cousin in law, a Lithuanian woman, told me it was similar to a Serbian dish, Gibanica. I'd like to learn how to make it, but if I did, my kids would probably never leave home. It was that good!

Namasté, y'all!

* Helpful Hint: When you get home from the store, put the rice in a freezer bag and write the directions on it with a Sharpie, so you don't forget. In this case, "1 cup rice, 2 1/4 cup water, 35-40 minutes." For this recipe, I doubled it.

** Helpful hint II: When you're adding oil and honey to a recipe, use the same measuring cup for both. If you use it for the oil first and don't rinse it out, the honey will slide out of the cup and you won't waste any. Hooray!

I have to share. Isn't that what blogs are all about?

I would like to tell you about a delightful marinade I've been using for fish. I got the idea from P. F. Chang's Oolong Marinated Sea Bass. Theirs is better, most likely because they don't have to pay the health care costs of their patrons, so can use salt and sugar with abandon. This is probably (only slightly) healthier.

Oolong Tea Marinade for Fish

Mix in a small sauce pan:

2 cups Oolong Tea (Brew it right in the sauce pan. Use two tea bags and remove them before you add the rest of the ingredients.)

2/3 cup reduced sodium Tamari Soy Sauce.

1/2 cup light brown sugar. You can use less, but the marinade won't stick as well. You can use more and it'll stick better, but be less healthy. It's a tough call. Sugar isn't healthy anyway, so you might as well rock out, just this once. Maybe use more if it's a dinner party, less if you're just hanging with the family.

A small spoonful each of minced garlic and fresh ginger.

Bring the mixture to a boil, lower the heat and let it simmer for a few minutes. You want to make sure the sugar is dissolved and let it reduce a little bit to make the flavor stronger. Take it off the heat entirely and let it cool. When it's cool, strain the ginger and garlic out. Cheese cloth works well for straining.

Use just enough marinade for your fish (we had Salmon the other night and it was great, but any fish will do!) To reduce the amount of marinade you need, use a zip-loc bag. If you squeeze the air out before sealing, you'll only need a small amount of marinade to surround the fish. If you marinate in a bowl, you have to use a lot to cover the fish.

Freeze the leftover marinade to use another day. You could even double (or triple! or quadruple! or hex...never mind) the recipe and freeze the leftover in smaller portions.

Let the fish marinate all day. I broiled the salmon for about ten minutes, which was good, because we like it on the rare side. As a side, I wilted some fresh spinach in the marinade that I poured off the cooked fish. The whole family gave it a thumbs up.

By the way, if you had gone to the All Local Farmers' Market at Gervais and Vine today, you could have gotten these:

They're from Floral and Hardy Farm and my picture doesn't do them justice. I hope you can tell how pretty they are!

Namasté, y'all!

Dear Loud Yoga Breather.

I like you, really. And I think you are very good at Yoga, even though we're not supposed to say someone is good at Yoga. But I can't keep this in any longer. You breathe kind of loud. Actually, more than "kind of". I believe it's fair to describe your breathing as "very loud." Perhaps it could even be described as "so effing loud I couldn't hear the teacher". Seriously.

You are not the only person in the world who knows how to do Ujjayi breathing. And your extreme breathing puts pressure on the rest of us. I almost suffered brain damage today as I, unconsciously, tried to match my breathing to yours. And I felt very nervous during headstand, when your loud-ass breathing became shaky. I was afraid you were going to have a stroke. I'm pretty sure there's some sort of Yoga rule that says you really aren't supposed to work quite that hard. It's not a breathing contest, okay? There's no prize for "Loudest Breathing Ever". If there was, however, you would so totally win. Now that we've all acknowledged that, can you stop with the insane breathing? Please?

It's said that the Ujjayi breath should sound like the ocean. Maybe you breathe loud because you're West Coast and you want to school all us East Coast Yogis in how lame our ocean is. Ain't no Ujjayi like a West Coast Ujjayi, 'Cuz a West Coast Ujjayi don't stop! Consider us schooled. I promise never to think the Atlantic is as cool as the Pacific again. Y'all's waves are gnarlier and you have more species of Salmon (and it's more likely to be wild caught!). I know. It's cool. You don't have to breathe like an Iron Lung to prove it.

Namasté, y'all! (Yup, even you, you loud-ass Yoga Breather!)

I want to say something nice and funny and cute.

But I'm just not feeling it today, so I'll give you a recipe that I love. I usually make it in the summer and serve it with sparkling wine, which makes me nice and funny and cute...in my mind, which is good enough. I made it today because my father-in-law once described it as the perfect meal and I hoped he might be able to eat it. We'll see. The recipe is a combination of a Nigella Lawson recipe and some other crab salad recipe from somewhere. My point is, I'm not claiming this one, I just like it a whole lot.

Crab Salad with Watercress

Mix in a bowl:

3/8 cup of mayonnaise

Not quite a half teaspoon soy sauce (reduced sodium Tamari, if it's all the same to you!)

Not quite half a teaspoon Worcestershire sauce (and, please, will someone tell me once and for all how to say that?)

A few drops toasted sesame oil. It tastes a little nuttier than plain sesame oil. So go get some.

Wasabi paste, to taste. Try to use at least a half a teaspoon. It won't burn your mouth once it's all mixed in, I promise. I buy the powdered kind and keep it in the fridge. It lasts forever. Well, I don't know about forever, because I haven't gotten there yet, but it lasts a mighty long time.

Stir all that together, then add:

About a teaspoon crushed, fresh ginger. DO NOT SUBSTITUTE POWDERED, MOM. It's not even close to the same thing.

The zest from one small lime. Once again, DO NOT SUBSTITUTE DRIED. MOM.

About a teaspoon of lime juice.

Add the contents of the bowl to two cups of fresh, lump crab meat and stir it all together.

Last, stir in about a tablespoon of chopped green onion (green part only) and an entire bunch of watercress. Don't bother trying to rid the watercress of every last stem. Just take out the thickest ones; the rest of the stems will add crunch.

You can serve it over shredded Napa cabbage or on toast or crackers. Yum.

Namasté, y'all!

Sick days are fun!

I'm lucky, because my kids rarely get sick and, when they do, they don't get very sick. They've mastered the art of getting just sick enough to stay home, but not so sick that they can't hang out and have a good time. Everybody needs a slacker day once in a while, right? I can't be the only mother who's ever taken a "sick" child out to lunch and the mall, talking loudly about fictitious homeschool projects, so no one will know the child is just playing hooky. Y'all have done that, right?

Last night, we went and watched the Super Bowl at my parents' house, because they have a television and yummy snacks, two essential things for a Super Bowl party that we lack. We also went there because we like them. That, and they had beer and wine, two things you can't get on Sunday 'round these parts. I couldn't have cared less who won (wanna' make something of it? I don't!), but I do enjoy a close ballgame. My husband and pleading children persuaded me to stay until the end, even though it was long past the kids' bedtime. There were all sorts of promises made about stellar morning behavior, blah, blah, blah. It didn't take much convincing, because I was lying on the floor, full of chips, dip, fried chicken and Champagne.

Apparently, all the excitement was more than O. could take, because he woke up in the middle of the night and threw up. He must have been concerned that we would send him to school, because he made sure to throw up again right before it was time to get dressed and have breakfast. Don't tell him, but I was going to let him stay home anyway; the second upchuck was overkill. Since my kids rarely miss school, it doesn't take much for me to let them stay home. Unlike my husband's parents.

When he was about ten years old, he woke up one morning feeling out of sorts. Like any child, he told his parents. Like any parents, desperate for a break, they convinced him that he was just fine and got him ready for school. All was well until, on his way out the door, poor A. coughed once and vomited up a four foot long worm. Which his father, master of infectious diseases, proudly put into a jar to show his colleagues at the hospital. They did let him stay home from school, but he had to put on a performance worthy of an Alien movie. But that was the seventies.

I didn't require that much drama, so O. is in the kitchen, happily watching reruns of The A-Team, at my suggestion. Did you know you can download The A-Team from Netflix and watch it immediately? Well, you can, and it's making one nine year old very happy.

Namasté, y'all!

Oh, the things we parents don't know.

I spent a few hours with my father-in-law the other day, waiting for his chemotherapy to start. In his twenties, he came here from Serbia to go to Harvard with ten dollars in his pocket. The first thing he bought was a Coke. He practiced medicine for many years, often complaining (in perfect English, albeit with a thick Serbian accent*),

"Your Dad has the worst job in the world."

If he believed that, though, it didn't show, because he was devoted to his work. Until he retired last year, well into his seventies, he mostly treated patients with HIV. I'm so proud to share his last name, because at least once a month, someone recognizes it and tells me a story about how he cared for a relative of theirs and how he made them feel. His direct, sometimes gruff, manner made people feel less embarrassed and more at ease during times when that was close to impossible. But I digress...

I don't think I've ever spent that much time with my father-in-law, one on one, and I enjoyed it. Although his cancer was the thing I couldn't forget, we talked about a lot of things. One of those things was his dedication to healthy habits over the years, which I like to believe may have held his cancer at bay, at least for a while. He's always eaten fresh, healthy food, very Mediterranean. He's made exercise a part of his life. He loves tennis so much that he bought a house right in front of some public courts. Rumor has it that he's fairly proprietary about those courts and has been known to come out with his racket and look through the fence until he's asked to join the game. Colleagues in the hospitals where he worked said they were used to the elevator doors opening on him hopping up and down on one foot, switching feet every so often, probably to help him stay on his toes on the tennis court. I also pointed out that he rarely drinks. Which lead to a discussion about his sons' health habits. Leaning forward, he confided,

"You know, G [his son, my brother-in-law] personally got drunk two or three times. But this hasn't happened in years."

Ahem. It's certainly not my place to comment on that, but I will share a story that's been told over and over in our family.

One wild high school night, G. came home after having more beer than any sane adult would ever drink a few too many. After sort of greeting his parents, he headed immediately to the bathroom to reacquaint himself with everything he had had to drink that evening. I don't know about you, but I didn't always have the best judgment about alcohol when I was younger, so I think we can forgive G. this indiscretion.

"G.," said my father-in-law, calmly, as if he was talking to a patient, "How many beers did you have."

"Two," G. answered, slightly muffled by the bowl.

"Well," responded the clinician, "Now you know your limit."

And so he did.

Namasté, y'all!

* He sounds kind of like a Serbian Bill Clinton. I've been told my imitation isn't half bad, if you're interested in hearing it. Just ask me next time you see me!