You're never ready.

Death is always surprising. It defies even the most educated prediction. Doctors can guess and patients can prove them wrong. You can see the signs, but the moment of death is still shocking. My grandmother died several years ago in a car accident, two weeks after she had moved to a nearby nursing home. I was shocked. When my father called to tell me, I had to ask again at the end of the conversation if she was dead. He had told me, but it seemed impossible.

My father-in-law died Monday afternoon, ten months after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It was shocking. He wasn't ready and we weren't either. I admired the way he spent these last ten months, always ready for more treatment, refusing hospice care because he wasn't dying any time soon. He didn't make funeral plans, because no funeral was imminent. Bosko was a doctor who specialized in infectious disease, so he was neither ignorant nor unrealistic. He was optimistic and stubborn enough to deny death until it came. I don't think hospice care is a bad thing. On the contrary. A close friend of mine is a hospice nurse and I know she has helped many families through a difficult and often lonely time. But I understood and admired my father-in-law's refusal to accept that kind of care. I believe his stubbornness gave him months of enjoying his grandchildren, his sons and his wife.

People say love is most intense at the beginning of a relationship, for the young. My father-in-law and mother-in-law must have been madly in love, because they married just three months after meeting each other. He was a doctor in Pittsburgh, where my mother-in-law, a nurse and Fulbright Scholar, had come from France to study. She had been given a list of people she might want to meet in Pittsburgh. He was described only as someone who "speaks French, plays tennis." Although I didn't know them when they first met, I can't imagine him being more in love with her than he was in the last few months. When he was with her, he smiled. When she left the room, he looked for her. When she was out on an errand, he sang her praises and talked about when she might return. More times than we could count, he said how lucky he was to have her and how madly in love with her he was. He forgot any less than perfect moments in their marriage. They were nothing compared to his love for her. He called her an angel.

His stubbornness was rivaled only by hers. He complained with a smile about how she forced him to get out of bed and go out to a movie or dinner. She would make a great personal trainer. When he wasn't quite as sick, she made him go for walks in his neighborhood. They went to the same cafe every morning for croissants and coffee. They were known wherever they went. It's hard not to notice a stylish European couple, so obviously in love. I hope my own marriage is as strong as theirs when Alex and I are older. Selfishly, I hope my husband is as in love with me as Bosko was with Odile.

For a brief moment this week, I entertained the thought that owning pets might have made Bosko's passing less shocking for my children. He loved them and they loved him. When he was too tired to talk, he enjoyed watching Baby J barrel through the room. He called him "The Tank." My older children will always remember Slava at his house, with the Serbian priest from Charlotte. They'll cherish memories of playing tennis across the street from his house, showing off their skills, hopefully developing the lifelong passion he had for the game. I don't think a dead dog or cat, or even a series of dead pets, would make this any easier for them. Do people really think that? That one death makes the next easier? That's a little bit simple for my taste. I did have pets when I was younger and they died. Still, I was floored by every death that happened. My grandfather when I was eleven, my other grandfather, O.J., when I was already a mother of two, my grandmother, Nana, when I was a little older, and others, even those who weren't mine to mourn - my friend's parents, someone's child, someone else's friend. Although we knew it would happen, Bosko's death hit me like a ton of bricks, a punch to the stomach, choose your cliché. No cliché is strong enough. I loved my father-in-law and was stubborn enough to think he might be around for a lot longer, in spite of everything I knew about his health. We'll miss him more than we knew.

Namasté, y'all.

Just a few little tidbits.

First things first. I have a fascinating article this week in Jolie - especially for all you guys - about how to achieve that fabulous Smoky Eye, just in time for holiday parties! You could cut out the step-by-step instructions to post on the inside of your bathroom mirror. Just sayin'. Make sure you leave my name in when you cut it out, so you can think of me every time you use it. Mwah! They also let me review a bunch of beauty products. Y'all, I had heard about this phenomena, but I thought it was a myth. I got to keep the stuff - and it was fancy beauty stuff - and some of it wasn't even available in stores yet. This is like a dream come true for someone like me. I will remember that really expensive, not yet released eye cream for the rest of my life. And I would buy it if I could afford it*. If you can afford it, you should. And I guess I should tell you what it is (since Jolie isn't online). The miracle cream of which I speak so fondly is Eyecing Fatigue Fighting Eye Cream by Freeze 24/7. It'll be available soon at Pout for the (I swear totally fair) price of $115. Just get it.

I also had a column in this week's Free Times, about ajvar. I was a little scared, because I wrote about my in laws. Believe it or not, I don't want to make them mad. I adore them, from the bottom of my heart, even if I do poke fun at them just a little. Have you heard the way I talk about myself? I tease because I love! Anyhow, they liked it (whew!) My husband told me they were reading it at EarthFare. Obviously, I couldn't have observed without them knowing, because they would recognize me. I think. But has any other writer out there tried to watch someone while they were reading something you wrote? Just to see if they liked it? No? Oh.

On to other things. You may have noticed there hasn't been a Grass Cam installment lately. Or maybe you didn't. Anyhow, I haven't made one, because I've been feeling scared. There is some brown grass mixed in with the green. I really love grass. I don't know what I would do without grass. Grass is really expensive and I don't know how we can afford more if this goes away. I don't want to think about what I would do to get more grass, the depths to which I would sink. It's madness, I tell you, madness. Anyhow, pray for our grass, won't you? And feel free to offer advice or reassurance. Is there a group for people who are addicted to grass?



And there is just one more thing I have to share. My husband sent me these the other day. No author is credited. If I had written them, I would be so proud. If you wrote them, please claim them. You are a genius. I laughed so hard I cried.

Haiku for the Mullet

Shampoo stings my eyes,
I will never feel that twice:
slick hair smells like gas.

O! SQUIRREL brother,
Your tail, my hair. We are one.
Yet I must eat you.

I liked that foreign
legion movie so much, I
grew me one them hats.

Brown edged tank top sticks
to my white clumpy armpits
Somehow I get laid.

Flowing down the back
helps to keep mind closed, hate
released by short top.

My hair is slammin
like Stone Cold. Can I get a Hell
yeah? Hell yeah. Hell yeah.

This super cool hair
and a bucket of chicken:
What more could I want?

My slick snakeskin boots
My silk shirt with rooster prints
Always colored jeans.

Razor set to one.
Do front and sides and then stop
Reaffirm my style.

Dogs urinate where
they so choose. And so do I.
Red and blue lights flash.

Teen runaway, I
hate my dad. Yet I am one.
Fly, thunderbird, fly.

Ponytails are for wimps.
But if you let that hair loose,
you are my brother.

Short like your schooling.
Long like your prison sentence.
The penal haircut.

Bald on the top and
long on the back. Behold my
glorious skullet.

Dad likes my mullet.
The nurse calls it a critter
carpet. My head breeds.

With long hair in place
how else can I rebel? Hand
me the bong uncle.

Under the Christmas
tree: tight black jeans and a comb.
I've been extra good!

Short for dad. Long for
the daughter mom always wanted.
Everyone's happy.

Namasté, y'all!

* Eh. I might buy it anyway.

It's Ajvar Time, Y'all!

I try to be a Good Serbian Wife. Stop laughing. Yes, of course I'm kidding. While I might prefer at times to eat alone in the kitchen, away from my husband, I certainly don't serve him a big meal before I retreat. The only thing I'll serve him when I'm that mad is...never mind. I know very little about being a Good Serbian Wife, frankly, because my mother in law is French. She's married to a Serbian man, but one does not become Good Serbian Wife by marriage. I can tell you plenty about how to raise children in France, because I've heard more than enough about that. But I digress.

While I'll never be even half the French cook my mother in law is, I have definitely picked up some skills from watching her. And I do mean watching. It takes mad spy skills to get this stuff. The best cooks all claim not to be able to explain how they do it. I'm not sure if that's true or if they just don't want any competition, but I do know that spying on Maman is the easiest way to learn to cook like her. One of the most useful things I've learned is that sliced onions make an excellent baking rack for a roast or fish. They keep the meal from getting all gluey on the bottom and you aren't stuck with a greasy roasting rack to clean. Bonus: Cooked onions are yummy. Fennel works as a roasting rack, too. Maman was the first person in the history of the world to feed me fennel and I loved it. She roasted it with Sea Bass, lemon slices and maybe a sprinkle of capers. When the dish came out of the oven, she stirred a little bit of cream into the drippings to make a sauce. I can't begin to explain how good it is. Don't get me started on her ratatouille or clafoutis...

But I have no Serbian mother in law to spy on. My Serbian father in law doesn't cook, probably because he's been spoiled for years by living with a French lady, n'est-ce pas? There are Serbian dishes that I long to know how to make - Ćevapčići, gibanica, and ajvar are all delicious and elusive. I have a Serbian cookbook, but the recipes leave something to be desired, with names like Boiled Meat (Ingredients one pound of meat and some oil.) After sampling several jarred versions of ajvar recently, I've become obsessed. The stupid, buzz-killing internet warned me that this Serbian baba gannouj-like dish was labor intensive. Anything involving labor is very intimidating to me*. Finally, I came across this article, by Julia Mitric. In some places, ajvar might be labor intensive, but food processors and electric ovens seem to have put an end to that. I've used her recipe twice, with only minor tweaks.

Simple Ajvar

Start by roasting your vegetables. Preheat your oven to broil. Place the following on a large baking tray:

Some eggplant, cut in half, salted and drizzled with olive oil, skin side down.

About three to four times as much red pepper as eggplant, sliced in half, seeded and placed on the tray skin side down.

One hot little pepper, sliced in half.

Broil them until they're seriously roasted, five to ten minutes. The eggplant will probably be finished first. When it is, take the tray out of the oven, move the eggplant and the hot pepper to a plate to cool and flip the red peppers, skin side up this time. Finishing with the skin side up helps start the process of separating them from the skin, which you'll have to do later.

Put the red peppers back in the oven until there are burnt spots on the skin, maybe ten more minutes.

When the peppers are roasted, move them from the tray to a bowl and cover it with plastic wrap. This will steam then a bit and make the skin easier to remove when they're cool.

When your eggplant is cool enough not to burn the sh*t out of your finger, peel it and put the meat into a food processor with the roasted hot pepper and about a clove of garlic, chopped. Julia recommends raw garlic, but that was a bit much for me, so I recommend sautéeing it in a bit of oil or using the minced kind from a jar - it's a little milder. Blend them until it looks like baba gannouj, pretty smooth but with a little texture. Near the end, add a tablespoon of olive oil - lemon olive oil is nice if you have it. Scrape the eggplant mixture into a bowl.

When the peppers are cool, peel them and add them to the food processor. There's no need to clean the processor in between steps. I think a lot of people are intimidated by using one, because it's such a chore to clean it after each step. If all the food's going together in the end, don't bother - scraping will suffice. Use the pulse button on the processor sparingly to chop the peppers. Julia recommends 5-8 pulses and I think that's just right.

Add the peppers to the eggplant mixture, along with a splash of vinegar, and salt and pepper to taste. You can also add chopped, fresh basil if you have it, and dried red chili peppers if you want more heat. Stir it all together and serve with warm bread, cut vegetables or cheese. Or on sandwiches. Or as a pasta sauce. Or salad dressing. Or in an omelet. Or in deviled eggs. Did I mention that ajvar is a very versatile condiment?

Ajvar is a great thing to make this time of year, when eggplant and red bell peppers are so plentiful. If you're really industrious, you can can it for the winter like a Good Serbian Wife. Julia's recipe makes more than mine, so it would be perfect for canning. If anyone knows how to do the canning thing, I'd love to learn. I could probably figure it out on my own, but why not be social about it? Email Me if you're interested in coming to an ajvar party at my place - Slivovitz will be served.

Namasté, y'all!

* I have three children, each one of which grew in my womb, and I have yet to have experienced even a moment of labor. Neat trick, huh?

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!

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!