Yawn.

Excuse me!  It’s the jetlag talking.  Our lives involve a fair amount of speculation as to what method will prevent jetlag.  Or reduce jetlag.  How to manage jetlag.  There’s no foolproof approach.

Now, flying the other way, west, that is, is fine.  We feel like it’s later than it is when we get there, so getting to sleep straightaway is no problem.  I wake up early for about three days, but that just puts me where normal people usually are, feeling great at 7 a.m.

Going east, on the other hand, poses a small set of insurmountable little obstacles, primary among them the fact that we don’t want to GO!  We want to stay where we are.  A second problem involves Avery and me being nightowls to begin with, so when the clock tells us it’s bedtime, we’re just beginning to think about dinner. We tend to give Avery a week or so for her body to figure out the situation, then school starts.

This fall, we adopted a rather more radical approach that I’m calling “Pretend It Isn’t Happening.”  We hopped on a day flight on Wednesday, spent eight delightful hours in the company of a young, gorgeous British comedy screenwriter (I’m not making this up), arrived in our London home at nearly midnight, and got up at 6:30 for school.

Did it work?

We thought it did, Thursday and Friday.  I spent the days at Lost Property, sorting through piles of noxious flotsam, and Avery spent them in Latin, History and Biology, sorting though her own intellectual jetsam.

No problem!

Today, however… I cannot seem to keep my eyes open!  My latest strategy (I tried laundry, BBC News 24 and grocery shopping) is making pizza dough.  Avery’s beloved friend Lille is over for dinner, and as such I’d better produce something.  Cappellini alla carbonara and homemade garlic bread it is.  But I’m still yawning.

My goodness, our flight companion was simply the best.  Paul sat down, struggling with his carryon which was a backback tied up with shoelaces.  “This is my new method of securing my belongings, since I don’t really believe in belongings, people who steal just don’t have enough themselves,” he assured us as he wove and unwove the shoestrings to remove a battered notebook covered in illegible but entertaining-looking graffiti.

“I’m just coming down from 89 days of couch-surfing,” Paul offered, and we fell for it.

“What’s couch-surfing?” I ask, ready to listen to just about anything this handsome, winsome and very young charmer had to tell us.  Avery’s face was a picture.  It was as if you’d given her a list of boxes to tick for “what makes a person fascinating” and there was her list, ticked off and only one mother’s airplane seat away.  Slightly unshaven, flashing white smile (which flickered constantly), America-admiring, adventure-seeking English chap, hers for eight whole hours.

And couch-surfing!  It’s dot.org, so you know it’s a good idea.  My goodness, if I were 23 again I’d be all over the idea.  You log in and go to the place you want to go, say New York, and find people who are willing to share their couches (and dinner tables, and sage advice, and probably a fair amount of alcohol) in exchange for the very vague, karma-friendly notion that someday they might need a couch in, say, Sydney.

So Paul and his three lovely friends — one brave girl among them! — who knew each other to varying degrees when the adventure began and, one imagines MUCH better by the time it ended — spent the whole summer touring the United States of America.  On people’s couches.

And in hammocks!  Their blog… well, it’s a heartwarming list, really, is here.  Yes, if they couldn’t find a couch, they resorted to the hammocks they brought with them, and each other.  “There had to be some spooning,” Paul reveals.

Can you imagine the adventure?!  I can’t wait for Avery to be old enough — her father will say it’s a LONG WAY AWAY — to do something like this.

Our conversation ranged from Stupid Informercials We Have Known (Avery contributes “How often have you wished your blanket had ARMS?”) to food fads (Paul: “I have friends who are vegetarians but they eat fish.  They are vegequarians.”), and everywhere in between.  What fun.

John’s worst nightmare, to get on a plane and have to talk for eight hours.  But it turns out that Avery is at least partly me.

England is just as wonderful as when we left.  We are trying to remember our fluency in the language like “apart from” instead of “except for,” “cashpoint” instead of “ATM,” and said machine asking if you’d like an “advice slip” instead of a “receipt.”  And last night Avery said, without missing a beat, that something at school was “Manda-tree,” instead of the prosaic American “Mandatory,” so I know we’re home.

The cats are ENORMOUSLY fat, both compared to how they were when we left (a summer of eating and not moving from their chairs except to eat) and compared to the tiny kittens we fostered.  But the territorial fights with neighbor cat Charlie are as fierce as ever…

I’m ashamed to say I let this particular conflict last long enough for me to take a photograph, then I shooed Charlie away.  After all, it counted as exercise and maybe Hermione peeled off a few ounces, out of sheer anxiety.

Partly what is making Avery and me so sleepy is our loneliness for our Third Musketeer.  John has stayed behind in America, actually driving all the way up the Eastern Seaboard to spend some Him Time with old friends in Maine.  He sends his love, and this view…

But real life is here at my dining room table, which soon must hold plates of creamy, garlicky pasta and wedges of crunchy, cheesy garlicky pizza dough, none of which will happen if I don’t run.  Or walk.

Yawn.

Capellini Car­bonara

(serves 4)

8 oz dry capellini
1 cup good English bacon, diced
4 coves gar­lic, minced
1/2 cup grated Pecorino or Parme­san cheese
1/4 cup creme fraiche
3 tbsps light cream
1/2 tsp salt
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
fresh ground pepper

About 15 min­utes before you want to eat, boil pasta accord­ing to direc­tions, about 10 min­utes. Drain over a bowl so you can reserve 1/2 cup of the cook­ing water. Set aside. In a large heavy skil­let, fry the bacon and then add the gar­lic, stir­ring over the flame until the gar­lic is JUST cooked but not burned. Add the pasta, toss well and take off the heat.

In a large bowl, mix the cheese, creme fraiche, creme, salt and eggs. Then add the reserved pasta water and whisk well. Pour over the ham and spaghetti in the skil­let and turn the heat up high for just long enough to toss the whole mix­ture together with tongs. Serve immediately with grated Parmesan.

]]> http://www.kristeninlondon.com/news/in-with-both-feet-london-style/feed 2 http://www.kristeninlondon.com/news/last-party-last-kitten http://www.kristeninlondon.com/news/last-party-last-kitten#comments Sun, 29 Aug 2010 23:04:00 +0000 kristen http://www.kristeninlondon.com/?p=4162

We knew the day would come, and it’s been the most glorious of blue-sky marvels.  Jessamy has gone away.  And I’ve set my company table for the last time.  Summer is nearly over.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This week has been a whirlwind of emotion, letting each kitten go to her new family.  And while Avery’s been a total star, I’m an emotional wreck!  But it couldn’t have ended more happily for everyone, so I’ll tell you all about it.

Jessica was first, John’s favorite, to fly the coop.  And what an image, as it turns out, because as we pulled hesitantly into the driveway where Lily and Matthew live, looking around to make sure we were in the right place, there were… chickens!

And, in the distance, cows, even!  A glorious barn built, we found out later, by Matthew’s very own hands (the hands that cradled Jessica so expertly, ready instantly to take her home), then a small Federal saltbox, if those two designations make sense?  A little white house, tucked up behind masses of low-growing bushes, cold frames of plants and herbs a more savvy visitor could identify (they don’t come any less plant-savvy than me), a tired-looking labrador guarding the screen door.

And out popped Lily, wearing a t-shirt that said something about Haitian relief, her gorgeous white-blond hair pulled back in a twist held in place by a pencil, her smile shining at us.  “Ah, it’s Jessica!  Bring her in!”

If I had invented a mother for Jessica, I couldn’t have thought of all the elements of her personality that make Lily perfect. In addition to Haitian relief, she and Matthew build timber barns for charity, volunteer for Habitat for Humanity, and once brought home 9 stray kittens from a camping trip!  One remains with them to this day, Sabine, who will be Jessica’s older sister.

Jessica settled straight down, with only the minimum of crawling on her belly like a reptile, sniffing everything in sight.  Lily’s well-scrubbed and entirely beautiful face glowed with happiness to see her, and we realized there was no reason for us to stay.

We kissed Jessica goodbye and Lily ushered us out, through her kitchen full of the clobber of a real cook, and I spied a cookbook open on the counter to a handwritten recipe for… granola.

Heaven!

As we left, she asked unnecessarily, “Can you eat eggs?” and thrust a plastic box in my hand containing twelve of the most varied eggs I had ever seen, ranging from little more than would fit on a tablespoon to one monster that, when cooked in the morning, proved to be a double yolk!

Double heaven.  There really wasn’t room in our minds for sadness, because it was all taken up with gratitude at Jessica’s having fallen into a pot of such homemade jam.

As we pulled out of the driveway, taking care not to run over Jessica’s chickens, I remembered.

“Do you mind stopping at the grocery?  I really am craving some butternut squash, and I wouldn’t mind a bunch of beets.”

We had not gone a half a mile when up popped one of those wonderful honor-system farm stands with two different spellings of “vegetable”, something for everyone, and guess what they were selling?  Yes.  Serendipity!  A reward, along with the eggs, for having been brave enough to give Jessica up.  Not that we had a choice, looking at hundreds of dollars and six-months’ quarantine if we didn’t.  But still!  A reward.

The next day brought a killer tennis game, a glorious swim in the grotty town pool with my favorite moment: coming up through the frigid water, eyes wide open, to see the blue of the sky and the green of the pines.  And then the trip to Washington, CT to deliver Jamie to her new home, also an 18th century house that’s been inhabited, in this case, by the very same family since it was built, and now the latest scion, in fact the Gorgeous Peach Guy at my farmer’s market, and his beautiful girlfriend Jemima.  In short, Jamie’s new parents.

Jamie’s new mother was nursing burns from an exploding pressure cooker filled with applesauce, her project for the ancient orchard and farm stand owned by her boyfriend.  Go, Pick-Your-Own Everything in the autumn.  Maybe you’ll meet Jamie there, patrolling the orchards for mice.  That would suit her devilish personality down to the frosty ground.

By this point, my sense of triumph at getting two kittens safely to their new homes was giving way to a feeling of subdued loneliness, and a sort of waiting for the other paw to drop.  Jessamy ran around the kitchen alone, clearly trying to invent some new games that did not involve siblings, and I was happy to have dinner plans… Rollie and Judy’s house for supper!  And more than happy to concoct a salad to take along.

Roasted Many-Pepper and Mozzarella Salad with Pinenuts and Mixed Greens

(served 8 as a side dish)

8 peppers of mixed colors: red, yellow and orange

3 balls mozzarella, sliced rather thin, getting about 8 slices per ball

3/4 cup pine nuts, toasted or not as you like

2 handfuls mixed greens

1 small red onion, diced

dressing: 1 part lemon juice to 3 parts olive oil, plus Fox Point seasoning

To roast the peppers, either hold them over a gas stove and turn them till all the skins turn black, or if you have a lot of peppers as this recipe requires, set your oven to Broil and put the rack right under the broiler element.  Cut each pepper in half and remove the stem, then lay all the halves on a cookie sheet, skin side up.  Flatten slightly if you can, no matter if the peppers break.  Broil, turning the cookie sheet to get even broiling, until the skins are as blackened as you can get them without withering the peppers.  Put immediately into a paper bag and roll the bag shut tight.  Wait five minutes or so while you do other things, like slicing the cheese.  Then open the bag and peel off the skins, which will have steamed loose-ish.  By separating the bigger halves (there’s always a bigger half on a pepper, for some reason), make about 24 pieces of pepper.

To assemble, simply get a large pretty platter and make 8 stacks of mozzarella slices alternating with pepper pieces, then sprinkle the greens around on the platter.  Sprinkle the pinenuts and red onion dice and drizzle dressing around the greens.  Grind some black pepper over for contrast.

**************************

We had a fantastic evening, starting with Rollie’s smoked bluefish which, someone remind me, I want for my last meal on earth.  He catches the fish at some ungodly hour of the morning with his mates, one of whom has a smoker.  And then… magic.  It is supremely fishy, radically smokey, fleshy, tender, and the most perfect food ever invented.  And the twinkle in his eye when he catches me staring at it!  “Thought that’d make Kristen happy,” he says with Rollie understatement.

And New England clam chowder from clams gathered in Guilford, on Long Island Sound… and milk-fed veal cutlets, raised by Rollie and his sons.  Gorgeous fresh green beans and steamed little potatoes, Judy’s blueberry cobbler.  And as a parting gift, Young Rollie’s wife Tricia, she of the never-ending garden bounty, presented me with two bars of her homemade soap, using Rollie’s beeswax and honey from his hives, and her own goats’ milk.  Crazy creative and capable, these people!  The perfect gifts to take back to London, for anyone lucky enough to get them.  Thank you, Tricia.

We rode home in the bloomy late-summer darkness, watching the moon rising slowly over the back meadow, feeling grateful for our neighbors and friends…

And late that night, or early the next morning depending on how you look at life, I awoke around 4 to feel a strange compulsion to look outside.  So I did, creeping downstairs to peer from the wavy-glassed windows in the front parlor, to see an EERIE full moon casting impossible shadows across the meadow.  Sort of like the negative of a photo, if that makes sense: shadows where in daylight there is light, a thick, white light where there should be shadows.  I moved across the dining room to look out over the big red barn (as opposed to the little red barn, which we call a garage).  And its mossy shingled roof glowed with a truly mystical light, while more inimical shadows stretched across a surface of molten silver, which I knew to be our rather prosaic lawn.

How I wish there could be photographs of such a phenomenon!  But it exists only in my mind’s eye, now.  I wanted, part of me wanted, to open the front door and look at it all properly from outside, but I was, absurdly, rather afraid.  I crept back up to bed and felt glad to get there!

The next afternoon brought my dear friend Shelley’s family here for a massive lunch of pierrade, that gorgeous and time-consumingly labor-intensive meal of tiny scraps of sirloin, to be cooked on a hot stone and dipped in a variety of sauces: satay, plum, wasabi, hollandaise.  Let’s see, there we have represented Thai, Chinese, Japanese and French cooking!  All to complement the protein-fest that is pierrade.  AND Shelley’s gorgeous cucumber salad, concocted from her own cucumbers, and her tomato-mozzarella-prosciutto salad with basil from her and Erik’s garden.  Quite, quite perfect.

Such a fun, sort of crazy joy to see our three girls laughing it up, finding things in common like Hedwig the owl, a hatred of “summer reading,” a love of all things kitten-related… to think that Shelley and I “met” through a shared love of Gladys Taber, the ancestress of our neighbors across the road, and became fast friends through emails before we ever had a chance to meet, and hug one another tightly.  She is one of those people who is defined by giving… that is where she gets her strength.  A gift to have her and her family here.

And finally, today.  We knew it was approaching.  The last lunch party of summer, the last day with Jessamy.  But what better way to see the summer out?  Say It With Crabcakes, is the motto of yours truly.  Then give away the kitten, once fortified.  My dears, these crabcakes are beyond simple, totally crabby, soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside, and everyone’s favorite, who tastes them, of what a crabcake should be.  Thank you, Joel, my brother in law, for the perfect recipe.  Almost nothing but crab, oh… I wish I had one right now.

Kristen’s Crab­cakes (inspired by Joel’s Crab­cakes, thank you)
(makes approx­i­mately 10)

1 lb fresh claw crab­meat, cooked and picked over
1/2 cup thinly sliced green onions, white and green parts
1 red bell pep­per, minced
1/2 cup may­on­naise
3 egg yolks, lightly beaten
1 1/2 cups fresh bread­crumbs
1/2 tsp chili pow­der
salt and pep­per to taste
3 tbsps veg­etable oil

(1 more cup bread­crumbs for rolling)

Mix all ingre­di­ents but oil, thor­oughly. Form into 3-inch diam­e­ter cakes, about 3/4 inch thick. Roll in bread­crumbs and place in a sin­gle layer on a plat­ter. Refrig­er­ate as long as pos­si­ble, at least 2 hours (this will keep them from falling apart while cook­ing). Before fry­ing, firmly squeeze them into shape once again. Heat oil in a wide, deep skil­let and place crab­cakes in a sin­gle layer. Fry on one side 4 min­utes, then turn and fry for another 4 min­utes. Drain thor­oughly on thick paper tow­els and serve with a spicy sauce of mayo mixed with chili sauce.  PERFECTION.

***************************

There are people in this life, aren’t there, who bring out the best in you: not through flattery or agreeing with you… just by seeing you through the lens through which you see you yourself… the best part of yourself.  This is part of what I love, adore about our beloved neighbors and dear friends  Anne, David, and Katie, and Anne’s sister Alice, now forever immortalized as Jessamy’s new mother.

What makes that sort of friendship?  I’ve spent the hours since saying goodbye to everyone, trying to figure it out.  John says simply, “It’s genuine affection.”  That is it.  It’s the fact that we could have moved in here, six years ago, and had a perfectly nice nodding acquaintance across the road.  Invited each other for Christmas drinks.

What happened, all those years ago?  I’ll tell you one thing that’s true.  They understand Avery!  From the moment we met them, with little 6-year-old Avery (my goodness, the age of my darling niece Jane! how time flies), they had the warmest, liveliest interest in what made her tick.  And she blossomed in their affection.  She’d recite picture books, discuss horses when she learned to ride, listen with the greatest fascination to Anne’s tales of life across the road when she was a little girl, swimming in the pond (“but there might be… anything under that water!” Avery would say in admiring horror, and Anne would obligingly produce stories of snapping turtles)…

And David’s unswerving admiration for Avery’s storytelling abilities — one writer meeting another, possibly — remembering for years afterward funny things she said, as a little girl, and even now.

But it’s more than just Avery, it’s all of us.  The arrival of little Kate.  That can’t be described in words.

The choice to become friends has been one of the greatest pleasures, and of course then (my being Scandinavian and dark and twisty) one of the hardest things about living here, part of the year.  We try to cram a year’s worth of conversation, parenting techniques, news of the neighborhood, mutual admiration of our two daughters, into… just weeks.  Days, really.  But what days they are!

One of my fondest feelings is knowing that, across the road in the darkness each summer night, they’re cooking their supper, putting Katie to bed, enjoying a last cup of coffee, and across the way are the lighted candles in our front windows, blinking at them with all the love we’ve stored up in the months the house has been empty and cold.

So today we had our crabcakes, we chatted, Avery and Katie had a last jump on the trampoline, and then Jessamy was gone, amid a flood of goodbye hugs and a feeling that somehow, this departure of friends and kitten spelled the end of summer.  How lovely it has been.

And all is not lost!  Tomorrow will bring a last riding lesson, a last dinner with dear Jill, Jane, Joel and Molly… and then the job of putting the house to bed for the autumn.  Onward and upward!

Devilled Eggs

(allow a whole egg per person, so this serves 24)

2 dozen very fresh eggs (makes easier peeling when they’re fresh)

about 1/2 cup mayonnaise

2 tbsps dijon mustard

1 tsp mild curry powder, or kefta seasoning

fresh ground pepper and sea salt to taste

Place eggs in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and cover with water, plus an inch over that.  Bring to a boil, then turn off heat, cover pan and leave for 15 minutes.  Drain and place in a cool bowl, add a handful or two of ice cubes and cover with cold water.  Leave until cool, then peel and cut eggs in half lengthwise.

Remove yolks to a large bowl and add enough mayonnaise for your taste.  My daughter likes very little; I can never get enough mayonnaise on anything!  Season with curry powder and salt and pepper, then spoon the mixture into each egg half.  Arrange on a platter and dust with paprika, just, as the great food/mystery writer Virginia Rich says, “for pretty.”  Done.

Corned Beef Hash

(serves six, probably)

four good-sized Yukon Gold or red pota­toes, peeled

about 1 1/2 lbs left­over cooked brisket (mine was slow-grilled)

2 tbsps butter

1 Vidalia onion, minced

3 cloves gar­lic, minced

sea salt and fresh black pep­per, to taste

Put pota­toes on to boil, about 20 min­utes until eas­ily pierced by a fork.  Mean­while, cut left­over brisket into large chunks, then feed them into your food proces­sor and pulse gen­tly, till it is all hashed-up, but not so long that it becomes pasty. Chop boiled pota­toes to nice lit­tle dice.

Melt but­ter in a heavy skil­let, then add brisket and stir until any fat has become nice and hot. Throw in the pota­toes, onion and gar­lic and sea­son well.  Siz­zle over high heat for about 15–20 min­utes, stir­ring at first, but then in the last few min­utes, leav­ing the hash still, to achieve a crisp crust.

GOR­GEOUS.

I have a new philosophy… it’s not any one thing, or state of being, that makes me happy.  It’s contrast!  And finally, after seemingly endless summer days of sunshine, the skies heard the wishes of my farmer friends and sent us two straight days of cool, sustaining rain.  Not the pounding, soaking kind that sends John up a ladder to check on his beloved gutters.  No, this was the gentle, pattering sort that comes with an unexpected autumnal breeze, makes you reach for that cardigan you bought last month and NEVER really thought you’d want to wear.

The rain came the weekend after our momentous visit to the sunny farmer’s market, and remember my Gorgeous Peach Guy?  Well, he turned out to want… a kitten!  We came home in a fever of anticipation, and sure enough, the very next afternoon, up turned Jemima, Gorgeous Peach Guy’s Gorgeous Girlfriend, all long tanned legs and shiny hair, terribly young and beautiful, accompanied by her twin Jenny, who I think was meant to make the choice between the two kittens easier.  Not so much.

“Oh, Jemima, how can you ever decide… [small moan escapes Jenny’s lovely lips]… I don’t think I could…”

“Jenny, help me here!  Do I want the fuzzy one, or the sleek one?”

“Oh, the sleek one’s purring right here next to me, OH, leaning up against my leg…”

“JENNY!  Stop it [similar moan of ecstasy}… the fuzzy one just climbed on my shoulder, and now, it’s purring too.”

John just sat by them and offered moral support for taking both!  Here was his strategy for convincing them that two kittens are better than one.

“Why don’t you take both, and then call us tomorrow and let us know which one you want to discard?”

“DISCARD!”

In the end, we couldn’t reach the shelter lady, who has to approve all paperwork for new adopting families, so there could be no taking of a kitten anyway.  But Jemima actually eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ed and said determinedly, “Right!  I’m taking the hairy one.”  And in just such an anticlimatic fashion, Jamie found her home.

And the very next day, I was sitting out here on my terrace reading a detective story in a desultory manner, when I heard Anne’s voice coming round the corner of the house.  “Kristen, this is my carpenter friend Matthew, and he wants… a kitten!”  We brought him inside and handed him Jessica, and as you see, a family was born.

I never saw anyone fall so instantly in love as Matthew and Jessica.  She fell asleep, totally relaxed and content.  I asked, “What do you think?” and Matthew gazed at me in patent disbelief.  “Of course I’m taking her…”  I emailed him the paperwork from the shelter and later that afternoon got a reply.  “I haven’t even known her that long, but it was so hard to drive away and leave Jessica behind.”

How unutterably lucky we have been!  Gentle, needy Jessamy will go to two sweet and gentle ladies, for whom she will very soon achieve the status of Kitten Princess, I am quite sure.  Rugged, daring Jamie will go to two Gorgeous Young Farmers, and vie with them for the title of Prettiest Person in the House.  And wily, insta-purr Jessica will go to a brilliant craftsman and his wife who are counting the days till they can take her home.

Kudos to Avery who took three kittens, hiding in our laundry room, and spent about five days of her life doing nothing but sitting quietly and letting them emerge, then be petted, then learn to accept being picked up incessantly and kissed all day long.  These kittens purr if you make eye contact with them.  I woke up yesterday morning to feel Jessamy licking my eyelids!  Now, naturally this is not to everyone’s liking, but it was to mine.

It will be hard to see them go.

Anne called me to check how the visit from the Peach Girl had gone.  “They were in your driveway for a long time, so I assumed it went well?”  Avery, passing me on the steps to go upstairs, kitten slung over her shoulder, said, “I can’t believe you guys are talking on the phone when she’s right across the street.”  “Oh yeah?” I countered.  “How about your emailing me when you’re in bed and I’m in the kitchen?”

With the kittens taken care of, and waking to a rainy day, we went off to Waterbury for a movie, waving goodbye to Kate in Anne’s arms, wet trees blowing her hair around.  What a beautiful sight, our little neighbor child tousled in the weather, leaves falling all around her.  Just lovely.  One of those images of someone that seems iconic.  That was Katie, right then, held tight by her doting mother.  Lovely.

And the worst movie EVER!  Salt, with Angelina Jolie (which should have been my first clue).  I’m not a fan, and it’s not her bee-stung lips I object to, since my daughter has very gorgeous lips as well.  No, it’s everything else about her.  True, she has several facial expressions: seductive (even when there is no reasonable seducing going on), determined (unbelievably chiselled jawline set), and evil (lots of eye movements from right to left, as if she were watching an invisible tennis match).  But it was the “script” that really got us, and I apologize now to whoever was sitting behind us as we snickered helplessly behind our hands.  “Converge on the crypt, people, repeat: converge on the crypt.”

Perhaps the most wonderful moment of the movie happened when I was taking a long, dragged-out bathroom break (wondering how reasonably long I could loiter outside the theater without alarming the management).  I returned stealthily to my seat only to have Avery pull on my hand as I sat down.

“You missed it: she pulled off her face.”

“What?”

“She pulled off her face, and guess what?  She had fresh lip gloss on underneath.”

Leave it to Avery, my makeup-blogging daughter, to notice this, possibly the LEAST unbelievable thing in this film.  Argh.  Two hours of my life I will never get back.  And they have left the narrative door open for a SEQUEL.  John says it will be called “MSG.”

There could be only one antidote to this fiasco.  An evening in the kitchen.

Corned Beef Hash

(serves six, probably)

four good-sized Yukon Gold or red potatoes, peeled

about 1 1/2 lbs leftover cooked brisket (mine was slow-grilled)

2 tbsps butter

1 Vidalia onion, minced

3 cloves garlic, minced

sea salt and fresh black pepper, to taste

Put potatoes on to boil, about 20 minutes until easily pierced by a fork.  Meanwhile, cut leftover brisket into large chunks, then feed them into your food processor and pulse gently, till it is all hashed-up, but not so long that it becomes pasty. Chop boiled potatoes to nice little dice.

Melt butter in a heavy skillet, then add brisket and stir until any fat has become nice and hot. Throw in the potatoes, onion and garlic and season well.  Sizzle over high heat for about 15–20 minutes, stirring at first, but then in the last few minutes, leaving the hash still, to achieve a crisp crust.

GORGEOUS.

******************

I so impressed myself with this dish!  Let me tell you why I was so pleased.  I adore brisket, and have had many interesting conversations with cooking friends (Alyssa and Yaz especially come to mind) about the proper preparation of it.  My favorite has always been slow-cooked on the stove in a mixture of tomatos, molasses and beer, but on the day I wanted to eat this brisket, it was HOT and my interest in turning on the stove minimal, especially for a slow-cooked anything.  Save that for a snowy New Year’s day any time.

So I looked up some recipes for slow-cooking brisket on the grill.  That seemed like an idea whose time had come, and John loves to grill.  So into a Ziplock bag went the brisket with a LOT of molasses, some soy sauce, lime zest and minced garlic.  And John grilled that puppy.

But guess what.  Never add soy sauce or salt to brisket!  Not that I was able to taste it raw, but it must have been mightily salted in its preparation, because the finished grilled product, while tasty, was almost inedibly salty.  Of course, we managed to put away a fair bit of it, but only at the price of swilling down gallons of water afterward!

So there was the leftover half a brisket.  What was a girl to do.

The second reason I love this dish now will not surprise you.  You know how, all summer, I’ve been finding that favorite dishes you eat out are even BETTER made at home.  And this just adds to the list (burgers, pizza, fried shrimp all having succumbed already).

And leftover corned beef hash, oh MY!  I say this recipe serves six, but I’m only guessing because one serving made its way to Avery, tucked up in her cozy hideaway bedroom before dinner, with my anxious question, “Is this all right?”  And after dinner we were left with some quantity which at BREAKFAST next day, puts our local diner out of business.  Simply reheat it, shoved over to one half of that same skillet, whilst frying eggs in the other half and toasting English muffins off to one side.  HEAVEN.

The last item on my “I’ll never eat out again if I can make this” list… hashed-brown potatoes.  But I think that unlike the hash, the only thing that makes diner potatoes so special is BUTTER.  CUPS of it.  And you know me, I love butter.  But I can’t in good conscience haul out a cup of the stuff to feed my family.  Not all at ONCE.

Oh, the delicious feeling of luxury that evening, pot of chicken soup bubbling away fragrantly on the stove, knowing that all the ingredients of my hash were chopped and ready to fry up.  I lay back on the living room sofa with a book, listening to rain, watching trees blow, a rare moment of sitting still and just watching the world around me, feeling lucky.

The second day of rain I spent running errands with Avery (American school supplies! it doesn’t get any better than Ticonderoga pencils, pink erasers and good old Elmer’s glue).  Living away makes you appreciate the strangest things, like strolling through the supermarket parking lot under a threatening gray summer sky, coming upon tanned, fit-looking American children in minivans with other families stopped outside them, elbows leaning out windows, exchanging comments on the first day of school.  “I got Mrs Schrage, who’d you get?  Oh, she’s nice!” while mothers gossip.  There is something so cozy about mothers and children, picking up the threads of autumn acquaintance after a summer of fun, dressed in good American clothes, especially Yankees t-shirts.  I just love it, and I don’t think I’d have even noticed the little scene, if I hadn’t moved away.  “Are you in that new building they built?  It has really good lockers, I heard… Pomperaug High’s having a car wash, if you want to come by… Tryouts for girls’ softball are Saturday, are you gonna be there?”  American summer, and kids safe and sound with their pretty, healthy mothers, headed into the grocery store to stock up on high fructose corn syrup and condensed cream of mushroom soup.

On the tail end of the storm came a dinner of meatballs in a rich tomato sauce, with Jill and Joel, Jane and Molly.

All of us sat around the dining room table for the first time this summer, the wind and spitting rain just coming through the maple trees too much to make eating outside possible.  That is, except for John who always has to be dragged kicking and screaming to eat indoors.  Plus, eating inside has an unexpectedly uncivilizing effect on him, and his behavior with his nieces, and he revs them up to a crazy level of energy and silliness.  Molly in particular.  Here is a typical exchange, Molly in her high chair, John sitting alongside.

[my sister] “Molly, show Uncle John how you open you mouth for a big bite of yogurt!”

[John] “Molly, show your mommy how you can say NO!”

It turns out she LOVES to say no!

Oh dear.  Come to think of it, he’s just as bad when we eat out at the picnic table, but at least there isn’t a low Federal ceiling to hold in Molly’s shrieks of delight.

She is a perfect angel.

And here’s an easy dessert: in your grocery store, can you buy ready-made crepes?  I can, and they contain almost nothing in the way of calories, carbs, sugar, anything.  Which is more than I can say for the substance masquerading as “whipped cream” in the yogurt section.  DO NOT buy this!  Just look at the label.  All you need is a container of whipping cream, a hand beater or a Cuisinart, and a couple of flavorings.  We really like a bit of Demerara sugar (perhaps a tablespoon for enough cream for six people), and a bit of lemon zest, a bit of vanilla extract.  But none of the scary stuff you can’t pronounce, in the can.  To be banished firmly, alongside ready-made breadcrumbs and diced tomatoes.  Whizz up your leftover bread yourself, and dice those nice whole tomatoes.  What sort of bread and tomatoes do food companies save for the stuff they’re planning to pulverize for you?  It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Serve those little crepes rolled up with cream and strawberries inside, and everyone is happy.  Except Jane, who prefers ice cream.  We can do that.

Once the sun reappeared, albeit behind some clouds, John and I headed off across the road to pick up some of the old firewood that Anne has had piled up here and there in her meadow, for our Christmas holiday to come.

I wonder how many calories you burn loading and unloading logs?  The woodshed is stocked now, which means the end of summer is near…

Lastly, did you all see that my brilliant Blogidol Julian has given me a subscription feature!  Right at the top of the post, right hand side.  So you never have to miss a post.  You know it’s what you’ve all been wishing for!  And that’s all from Red Gate Farm for now, the only house I know whose beloved contours have been immortalized in… a hand-knitted dishtowel. Now THAT’S friendship.  Thank you, Karen.

Shh.… can you hear it?

Wasn’t there a poet that said “unheard melodies are sweetest”?  That’s what I’m hearing today, out on my terrace, dappled in mid-afternoon sunshine, a goldfinch on the distant birdfeeder, the hydrangea finally in bloom.  Unheard melodies.  It’s perfectly quiet.  For once, this entire summer, there is nothing happening.

Quiet.

To be sure, this morning the air rang with the sound of Avery, Kate and neighbor Taylor’s laughing as they jumped on the trampoline (someone has taught Kate to say “boing” but no one is owning up to it).  And even earlier in the day you could have heard John and me apologizing for bad tennis shots, at the court next to the pool.  But right now… silence.

Actually, mostly what you hear at the tennis court are the unceasing accusations of “Leo, that was so LONG,” and “You idiot, it’s not 30/30, it’s 40/40, what are you, blind?” from the foursome we have come to call The Grumpy Old Men.  Four men in their 80s, in varying stages of decrepitude, but all sharing an unerring instinct for the unpleasant comment, hurled at one another as the game progresses.  One day we actually booked the shady court, because I had had my fill of playing in the blazing sun, and would you believe these guys refused to move over!  “We’ll give you a couple of bucks to go away,” one of them jeered.  In between games they trade slightly off-color stories about their exploits off-court, many of them punctuated with references to Viagra.  Honestly, you have to hand it to them, infirm as they are, still in their tennis whites batting the ball back and forth.  But get off the shady court, gentlemen!

The quiet of my afternoon has been interrupted by my intrepid husband, hauling firewood from across the road to our woodshed in the back of his trusty Land Rover, circa 1967.

He is puffing and sweating in the sun, but I can assure you that he’ll be full of pride in his achievement later, and full of plans for our Christmas holiday here, with plenty of firewood.

It’s the Twelve Days of Summer, that’s all we have left.  Who would have guessed on that day in early July that the summer would speed by so quickly?  Well, I would have, because I know from summers back that that’s how it goes.  You pack up in London, little believing that the holiday has really arrived, and you float across the wide Atlantic, slowly leaving behind the school year cares of homework, wretched piano teachers, steamy days in Lost Property, the burglar alarm that WILL NOT stop turning itself on every time a cat goes by… and you arrive at Red Gate Farm.

For about a week  you revel in the peace, and then the craziness begins.  Endless friends and family troop in and out, bringing dishes of food, numberless candles are lit and burn down as conversations spin out around the table.  Trooping into the hot city for plays, shopping trips, lunches, dinners, family get-togethers… and days at the stable, watching the teenager go round and round, me trying not to sneeze…

And life picks up pace.  Every summer.  Trips to the ice cream shop up the road, for that one fried-food lunch at Denmo’s that leaves us remembering why I learned to fry shrimp, afternoons see-sawing with Kate, explorations of the barn to discover once and for all WHERE is the hardware for our shutters?  And visits to Tricia’s farm, where I come away with a new friend and an apronful of treasures…

Until we’re left at the end thinking, “Where did the time go?”  So I’m glad to have one afternoon, just one Thursday afternoon, with nothing to do but sit here and appreciate the horses whinnying in the back meadow…

Actually, our quiet day today will be enlivened by a visit to the local farmer’s market, one of my favorite places to be on any given summer Thursday.  Will the peach farmer be as drop-dead gorgeous as usual, or will he have sent his dad along instead?  We can hope.

So life this past week has been frantic, even for me.  The last time to breathe was Saturday, when after a whole day of cooking for the following day’s party, we piled in the car and headed over to New Milford to The Archive, a unique collection of photographs of New York City, advertisements for long-gone health products, Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, Real Silk hosiery and Lana Turner.  All the images were collected by Hugh A. Dunne, and the enterprise is now run by his delightful daughter Susie and her husband Jeff, in a Victorian house on a sunny street.  So far they’ve been able to organize only a bit of his half-million-object collection, so we couldn’t find anything about Tribeca.  Next time.

And Sunday brought the party of the century.  Of two centuries, actually, since it was a gathering to celebrate the 200th birthday of the house!  I know, in England that’s nothing to write home about, but here in NEW England, we get excited about two hundred years.  To think of the births and deaths, illness and tragedy, weddings and wars this house has seen.  And my mother’s birthday, substantially less than 200 of them, fell on the same weekend, so the party we normally have for her kind of… exploded!  Added to the general family mayhem were dignitaries from the Southbury Land trust, of which constellation of acres our property is a shining star.  And our friends Olimpia and Tony, all the way from the Catskills!

And from the farthest away, my darling friend Becky and her two girls, Avery’s best friend Anna and her sister Ellie, all the way from Charlotte!  They made a really good decorating committee.

And of course Jill and her girls… Jane got the award for having the most fun with her feet.  The socks… didn’t survive.

The day was one of those that even as it’s happening, stands out as one of the best.  Right now I close my eyes and see the day unfold, watching everyone fall into place in the happiest spot possible.  Rollie rolled up early in his pickup to unload the long tables that would later hold untold amounts of delicious food… he and I manhandled stuff out quick as lightning, unfolding chairs, shaking out cushions.  What would we do without Rollie and Judy?  Because along with the tables and chairs came Judy’s collection of plates in every size you can imagine, and tablecloths, and broccoli salad with bacon!

And then up came Becky’s rental car and out spilled the girls, miles taller than when I saw them last a year and a half ago, suddenly young ladies, as is my own, so why am I surprised?  And Becky herself, she of the warmest, lingering hugs, her serene face, her bubbling laugh, her Southernisms.  “What do y’all want me to do to help?”  And instantly we were back in our old London mode of pitching in together, holding down tablecloths in the breeze, taping them down, pouring ice into buckets, arranging Squirt and Diet Pepsi and pink lemonade and beers.

And Shelley, all the way from New York state, behind the scenes taking the most delicious photos… how did she become so talented!  It was Shelley who captured Jane’s feet… priceless.

Olimpia and Tony brought her usual ambrosial array of Italian delicacies to unpack, ooh and ahh over, taste “just to make sure they’re OK…”  Meatballs in a tomato sauce redolent of fresh basil, beef ribs with the meat falling off the bone, plump sausages and fresh, warm rolls and a garlicky caponata with capers and black olives.  Olimpia!  Will you marry me?

And the party unfolded.  There were, in addition to Olimpia’s offerings, my own sticky chicken wings in a sauce of dark molasses, beer and garlic, red cabbage slaw with a sesame oil and ginger dressing, plus blue poppy seeds… an orzo salad with my homemade pesto and chopped Moroccan olives, and Tricia brought a lovely colorful salad of her own beans and edible calendula flowers!

There were practically hundreds of devilled eggs because they are the favorite of the birthday girl, my mother.  Why don’t I make them more often?

Devilled Eggs

(allow a whole egg per person, so this serves 24)

2 dozen very fresh eggs (makes easier peeling when they’re fresh)

about 1/2 cup mayonnaise

2 tbsps dijon mustard

1 tsp mild curry powder, or kefta seasoning

fresh ground pepper and sea salt to taste

Place eggs in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and cover with water, plus an inch over that.  Bring to a boil, then turn off heat, cover pan and leave for 15 minutes.  Drain and place in a cool bowl, add a handful or two of ice cubes and cover with cold water.  Leave until cool, then peel and cut eggs in half lengthwise.

Remove yolks to a large bowl and add enough mayonnaise for your taste.  My daughter likes very little; I can never get enough mayonnaise on anything!  Season with curry powder and salt and pepper, then spoon the mixture into each egg half.  Arrange on a platter and dust with paprika, just, as the great food/mystery writer Virginia Rich says, “for pretty.”  Done.

********************

I wish I had stopped to take photographs of all the food, like a good blogger should, but to be honest, for once I was actually AT my party, actually IN my life!  And therefore, some moments went unphotographed.  But here’s a sense of the beauty of the table.

It was a wonderful, lively, friendly party, with a whole other party going on in the kitchen as cleanup started… Olimpia, Becky and Jill ended up in a sort of sorority of suds, trading life stories, organizing and bringing order to chaos as only three superwomen could do.

Anne made a speech!  As eloquently as only Anne could do, chronicling the “lucky days” of our house and its protected property, ending with the day we decided to buy it.  How lucky WE have been in our neighbors, who started out as lovely people to wave to over a white picket fence, and have grown into the best of friends.

And then there was the cake.  Chocolate mousse, with some sort of Frangelico or other alcohol-y essence, and “Red Gate Farm 1810–2010″ and “Happy Birthday, Mona” on it.  Mona?  My mother explained to the party at large.  “My name is really Nonna, Italian for grandmother, but somehow in the first year of this traditional August party, the baker listened to “Happy Birthday, Nonna,” and heard ‘Happy Birthday, Mona.’  Now everyone, especially Jane, insists on ‘Mona.’”

What a wonderful day… and just as everyone began to drift away, large raindrops fell onto the enormous maple leaves overhead, shielding us as that tree has shielded this terrace since the last owner’s husband built it himself of rocks from the property.  Finally, the party was over, for another year.

But Becky’s family visit had just begun!  She is the most wonderful houseguest: casually picking up dishes to dry, laundry to fold, much as Rosemary does, so having the two of them together meant I hardly had to lift a finger!  And the chats… oh, the luxury of having her HERE, where I could give her a hug if I wanted to, where we could sit for hours and just “visit,” as she says in her Southern way.  Not the sort of frantic visiting you do on a phone from Charlotte to London, where you know you have to hang up in fifteen minutes, and you’re left with a whole list of things you forgot to say.

No, this is the sort of over-the-kitchen-table visiting that took me straight back to her London kitchen, where there were always at least four and usually more little girls in school uniforms running around, shrieking, looking for snacks, sitting on our laps.  Becky and her family represent for me a whole part of my life, a simpler one when our children were always with us, and little, full of Sports Days and school concerts and playdates.  When did playdates disappear?  Somewhere after Becky moved away, taking a certain part of life with her.

But for four days, we got it back.  Magic.

Not the least of which were…

Becky’s Cheesy Thanks­giv­ing Potatoes

(serves at least 8, but more with other side dishes on offer)

3 lbs/1 ½ kilos pota­toes (Maris Piper in Eng­land is a good choice, or a Yukon Gold in the US)
3 round shal­lots or 1 banana shal­lot, minced
2 cups/ 474 ml grated or shred­ded Ched­dar or Dou­ble Glouces­ter cheese
1 tsp gar­lic pow­der
sea salt and pep­per
3 cups/1 pint/474 ml sin­gle cream or Half and Half

Boil pota­toes until eas­ily pierced with a fork, then peel when cool. Grate them on a coarse grater and set aside.

Lighly oil or non­stick spray a deep glass or pot­tery casse­role dish, per­haps 9 inches in diam­e­ter and 5 inches or so high (mine is round, which is an appeal­ing shape). Scat­ter a layer of grated pota­toes on the bot­tom, then cover with a layer of cheese, a sprin­kling of shal­lot, a sprin­kle of gar­lic pow­der, and sea­son well. Repeat lay­er­ing until you have run out of ingre­di­ents, end­ing with cheese. Then pour the cream over the casserole.

Bake at 180C, 350F until bub­bly and the cheese begins to brown, about 45 min­utes, depend­ing on the depth of the casserole.

******************

Of all the dishes that have come out of my kitchen all summer, this one was a first in many ways: all the children ate it, everyone had second helpings, and it was ALL gone, no leftovers!  Becky always says cruelly, “This is even better second day,” knowing in her heart of hearts that there is NEVER a second day.

And big news: while the girls were all here, our friend Alice decided to adopt Jessamy!  She is the fluffiest of all three kittens, with quite a beautiful personality.  And to think she’ll now be in our lives forever, just a visit to Manhattan away.  And there are inklings that there may be some babysitting duties at Christmas to look forward to…

Then we were off to one last family lunch at my sister’s house (lovely flank steak, Joel, and I cooked my telly contest soup!), and then goodbye to my mother, father and brother until Christmas.  It was a wrench to pack them up into my sister’s car and wave them off to the airport.  But glass half full: it was unforgettable to have them here.

And to make us feel better, we packed up the girls and headed to Quassy!  Quassy holds a special place in my heart, because I can’t decide if I love it, or hate it.  A little of each, I think.  It’s old fashioned, it’s hot, the air smells nauseatingly of cotton candy and fried dough (I know, don’t ask), the rides are almost all too scary for me, but it’s a bit of our summer tradition.  So I go.

This summer Avery and John actually went on the Mad Mouse, a hideously rickety roller coaster, and guess what?  They’re demolishing it later in the summer (like, tomorrow probably) and building a new one!  Who would ride a roller coaster on its LAST LEGS, advertised as such?  My daughter and husband.  Yikes.

Then home for pizza and a haircolor spa led by Becky, with much hilarity and chagrin from our girls as they settled into bed only to find that the air mattress had sprung a leak!  A mad dash to bring up all the cushions from sofas… a crazy end to a crazy visit.

And so they departed.  We were left with a quiet house, my head and heart bursting full of memories that I will only really believe in on some cold, gray, rainy day in London. Then, I’ll sit back and watch the droplets stream down my English windows, and conjure up a house full of birthday guests and the smell of L’Oreal, the taste of birthday cake and the feeling of my mother’s arms around me in a hug, and the heft of Molly on my hip, and it will be summer again.

We couldn’t be more thrilled… Jessamy, the fluffiest of the three kittens, all gray with stripes, has found a new home!  And to one of our favorite families in the world, so we can keep track of her as she goes to her first prom, decides what to major in at college, you know the sort of thing.

Alice, we love you.  Jessamy will be so happy with you, and our two families are united at last!

My mother’s birthday is legendary, these last few years, as we return home for the summers to Connecticut from our schoolyear months in London.  She makes the long trek from Indiana, with my dad and brother, every August, to take up residence with my sister and her family, who live providentially close, a short car journey away.  Such a far cry from the many hours’ time difference, not to mention the enormous pond that separate us, for so many months of the year.  For a few short days, we are all together!  My dad’s twinkling eye, my brother’s endless appetite, and my mother’s gentle humor and pride in us all seem to bubble inside me like a shaken-up seltzer bottle, so much to absorb and enjoy, such a short time.

And that means John’s mom, too, who brings her own magic to the occasions… camera at the ready, always prepared to pull up and enjoy whatever someone else is passionate about at that moment.  John’s iPad?  Now she has one, a gift from him, and they share the joy.  Avery’s love of Coldplay?  She will watch endless music videos.  My piles of garlic and peppers and bottles of olive oil?  She takes up a knife and makes short work of whatever needs to be done.  Kittens to be admired?  That’s easy.

She is the ultimate recorder of all that happens to us, and thankfully gives me endless stacks of photo albums so I can keep us all between the pages, to be remembered…

Last night was crab cakes, OMG, at my sister’s house (see the recipe in my beloved index!) to welcome the weary travelers from Indiana… and lemon bars, made amazingly by me, with Rosemary’s help, as the birthday cake.  And would you believe, I can screw up even a perfect Ina Garten recipe?  And yet… readers, they were delicious.  I actually accidentally doubled the amount of flour in the crust, but I can say, hand on heart, it didn’t matter.  They were perfect.  So think seriously about screwing it up yourself!

Ina Garten’s Lemon Bars

(makes 24 bars)

• 1/2 pound unsalted butter, at room temperature
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 2 cups flour
• 1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
• 6 extra-large eggs at room temperature
• 3 cups granulated sugar
• 2 tablespoons grated lemon zest (4 to 6 lemons)
• 1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
• 1 cup flour
• Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting

I know, Avery has already pointed out to me that “they” have done away with the Four Basic Food Groups.  Now there is a pyramid, or some such.  It’s very complex, with different sorts of Fats To Remember.  I liked the old system, but I’ve made some adjustments.  How about 1) Butter, 2) Salt, 3) Foie Gras, and 4) Garlic.

I LOVE garlic.

And it’s good for you!  Not just in a “Twilight” kind of way, but truly good for your health, which is wonderful to hear because my family must reek of it.  I like it minced to a tiny pulp with lemon juice and salt, sprinkled on a tomato.  Simmering in a tomato sauce, waiting for meatballs.  Stuffed under the skin of a roasting chicken, or mixed with goat cheese to spoon into a red pepper and baked till bubbling…

And then there’s pesto.  My Italian mother-in-law first introduced me to pesto, which she made in vast quantities in her Iowa kitchen with basil from her garden.  When would that have been?  As early as 1984, when I sat down at her kitchen table and watched her work her magic as we chatted about my boyfriend, who we both agreed was practically perfect in every way… that’s a happy memory.  Her freezer was always full of little jam jars of the green elixir, ready to be brought out on cold winter days to be mixed with hot spaghetti for a simple supper.  She inspired John and me to go to the Union Square Farmer’s Market in New York and come home with armfuls of pungent basil to fill our own freezers…

Lemon in pesto?  I think so.  But it’s up to you.  It couldn’t be simpler…

Just whizz up in your food processor the following ingredients, in the quantities that appeal to you (but I’ve given some basics):

Pesto

(serves four as sauce for starter with pasta)

4 cups loosely packed whole fresh basil leaves
¾ cup extra vir­gin olive oil
juice ½ lemon
3 tbsps pine nuts
3 tbsps grated pecorino or Parme­san cheese
2 cloves gar­lic, roughly chopped
pinch sea salt to taste

Place all ingre­di­ents in food proces­sor and blend till smooth, tak­ing care to scrape the pesto away from the sides of the proces­sor to incor­po­rate all bits.

************************

And then, for something lighter, to drizzle on your “everything in a lettuce leaf” supper, or just sprinkle on a piece of mozzarella-topped toast, there’s

Salsa verde

(makes plenty, save it)

1 large bunch each of flat-leaf pars­ley, arugula and cilantro, leaves only                                                                                                                                               2 cloves gar­lic
juice of half a lemon
sea salt to taste
extra vir­gin olive oil till liq­uid (per­haps 1/2 cup?)

Blend every­thing in the cuisi­nart and bask in the green glory. It’s lovely.

And then there’s baked garlic… just cut the tops off really firm bulbs of garlic, drizzle them with olive oil, sprinkle them with lemon zest and sea salt and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes…

I can’t explain what happens to garlic when you bake it.  All the sharpness disappears into a velvety, dreamy spreadable buttery stuff to put on toast, and top with a couple of scrambled eggs, a slice of sausage and a sprinkle of chives.

Are you hungry yet?

I’ve been having so much fun reading other people’s blogs lately.  This is unusual for me, I must admit, because normally I find that living, and thinking and writing about living, take up all my time!  It’s hard to find time to read about other people’s lives, but I have just happened upon several lately that are well worth a visit.  And gorgeous photographs, which make it even more satisfying.  Try dollop, which is written by my college friend Ann in Texas.  Talk about making you hungry!  Gorgeous photographs, you’ll be inspired.  And 365 Kitchen, the brainchild of my new friend Sarah in Brooklyn… and Dinner: A Love Story, by a lady I don’t even know but am severely envious of, because her blog has become… a cookbook.  I like these ladies and their work because they all share my philosophy: life is nicer when you cook good food for your family, everyone sits down together and enjoys it, and now and then you get extra people in your kitchen and around your table to enjoy it too.

Speaking of which, my kitchen and a pork tenderloin beckon because our friend Kathleen is coming and bringing her daughter Cici to have lunch.  Cici and Avery met when Avery was three days old, and they have never looked back.  They were inseparable for nine years until we cruelly separated them to move to London, but distance has not dimmed the silliness when they see each other.  So I will head into the kitchen, grate some ginger, zest some limes and make a splendid marinade for my pork.  Oh, and I’ll have to mince a little… garlic, while I’m at it.

I admit it: I get on food binges.  Obsessions.  Well, sort of fads, where I’ve made something once, and enjoyed it so much that I want to make it again and again RIGHT AWAY, and then try to fool my family into thinking I’ve done something different, by making little adjustments.  They are rarely taken in by this sophistry, and pretty soon John says, “Here we go again.”

The latest?  Everything on a lettuce leaf.  It’s a common-enough way to eat in Thailand (or at least that’s what I hear, never having been closer to Thailand than a takeout menu from that place in Tribeca).  Larb is eaten this way, that I do know, having made it myself (check out that recipe index, folks!), a lovely concoction of ground chicken sauteed and tossed in a lovely spicy, minty vinaigrette.  Then you pile the chicken on a lettuce leaf, along with cilantro leaves, cucumber, spicy sauces, crushed peanuts.

Well, here’s what happened to me to put me on my present lettuce kick.  The supermarket had an enormous special on oven-stuffer roaster chickens.  So I bought one.  And promptly understood why they were on special.  Because it was 100 degrees outside and just about that inside, too, once my oven had been at 350 degrees for the requisite three hours to cook this enormous, Dolly-Parton-breasted bird.  Yack!  SO HOT.

The thought of eating that HOT roasted chicken was about as appealing as suggesting to a woman fresh from her first labor that big families are nice.  The chicken was sad.  No one wanted him.

Until I had my brainwave.  Let him cool off!

Roast Chicken in Lettuce Leaves

(serves at least 6)

1 oven-stuffer roasting chicken

various fresh herbs: rosemary, sage, summer savory, thyme, whatever you have

splash white wine

2 tbsps soft butter

1 lemon, cut in half

sea salt and pepper

2 red bell peppers

1 large cucumber, deseeded

2 bunches spring onions (scallions)

2 large handfuls chives

2 large handfuls cilantro (coriander)

1 cup pine nuts or sliced almonds or crushed peanuts

various sauces, just from jars: Hoisin, satay, hot chilli, horseradish

Place chicken in a large roasting pan on top of the fresh herbs.  Pour wine over,  smear with butter, stick the cut lemon inside, sprinkle on sea salt and fresh black pepper.  Roast at 350 degrees for three hours, or until the wretched little timer pops up.

Tear chicken into strips, pile all the luscious, juicy bites (complete with crispy, salty skin, of course) on two platters, alongside a huge pile of Boston lettuce leaves.  Boston is perfect, I find, because it’s more pliable than Romaine or iceberg, so you can really wrap things up in it.  Wash it well and put through a spinner so the leaves are nice and dry.

On two more platters, offer strips of cucumber, red pepper, spring onions, chives.

Put the pine nuts or other nuts in small bowls, and ditto with the sauces.  Make them reacheable by everyone at the table.  Now dig in!

*********************

I cannot convey adequately how 1) delicious, 2) festive, 3) cool, 4) individual this dinner is!  It’s perfect for a party, especially if you’re not sure exactly what your guests like, because everyone builds her own lettuce sandwich.

And here’s a thought: when you’ve pulled all the lovely meat from the chicken, throw him in a large stockpot with all the detritus from the roasting pan, plus an onion or two and some celery, cover with water and simmer for three hours or so.  Salt to taste, then strain.  It’s the perfect chicken stock.

Which is good, because say you’re compelled to make this dish the very next night too, since Shelley and her family are coming for dinner.  One of her family cannot eat wheat or dairy, but rice is a definite yes.  Steam your basmati rice in your homemade chicken stock!  It is DELICIOUS, so comforting and homey.  Rice makes a very nice addition to something in a lettuce leaf.

Keep in mind that you are aiming for maximum mess.  Everyone needs a LARGE napkin.  The first bite is quite civilized.  Everyone looks presentable.  Then the second bite… pine nuts tinkle to the plate.  Sauces drip down fingers, peppers start to ooze out the end as you try desperately to keep the lettuce wrapped around everything inside.  DIVINE.

We had SUCH fun that night.  A night to remember.

Let’s see, when I’ve been able to tear myself away from piling things on lettuce, I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for baby Gary!  As you all know, our backyard here is graced by the almost daily presence of a big, fat brown groundhog named Gary.  But we’re rethinking the nomenclature, as a tiny baby version has suddenly appeared this summer!  Boy groundhogs are not apparently known for their domesticity or fatherly instincts, so we’re having to re-assess Gary as possibly Garina.  John sighs in frustration as fruits that have managed to “go off” emerge from my kitchen to be placed within Gary’s reach.

And she emerges, squat and suspicious, to crawl to the bowl and investigate.  Melon is particularly popular.  Once I put out some peach pits and skin, in a darling little ceramic bowl I brought back from Islesford, Maine, and she lifted the bowl up in her hands and made as if to take the bowl back to her home in the woodshed!  I had to stomp my foot slightly to get her to drop it, and just eat from it decently so we could watch.  If I ever get a photo, rest assured I shall post it.

Meanwhile, Avery’s been riding up a storm, with her latest trainer, Lynn, a no-nonsense, get-it-done-NOW sort of lady who runs an amazing horsey place in South Carolina, in case you’re looking to buy, sell, train, do just about anything with a mane.  Avery’s usual trainer Amie had the temerity to give birth a couple of weeks ago, and she intelligently asked Lynn to come up and cover her classes.  It’s been a hoot.  Sadly we did not bring with us from London a camera that is any good at motion shots, so I’ll have to leave you with this image of the stable… it pretty much says it all.

And we’ve of course been for ice cream, more times than I can count.  But Sunday was special, because it was Kate-Across-the-Road’s first ice cream cone!  She is such an old-fashioned-looking little girl, all big blue eyes and ringlets, but her personality is 100% in the Now.  She has a wickedly life-affirming smile, with all her teeth lined up and dimples ready, and an accompanying silvery laugh that makes it absolutely impossible not to tickle her.  She liked her ice cream, but she liked being with her Idol, Avery, even more.

I even broke down and had possibly the best ice cream sandwich EVER, made on the premises, minty and fresh, with that sort of cookie texture that sticks to your teeth and reminds you of all the summers of your midwestern childhood…

How do you suppose it would taste wrapped in lettuce?  I’ll get back to you.