Asparagus is in season and reasonably priced, so it is now in regular rotation in our house. Often I simply roast it in the oven with salt and pepper, and serve it as a side dish but last week, I decided to toss it in a cream sauce over pasta.
Although I cook most nights of the week, I try to make Friday night's meal slightly more special for Shabbat. This is one of my favorite family traditions. Though I rarely step foot in synagogue, I find these small ways of worshiping at home carry great meaning for me. We light candles, and say our prayer over the kindled light, make kiddush over the wine, and my children are allowed to have a "dip." (This is the part that would make the grandparents cringe, because my children, and Gabriel especially, really enjoy the wine. Even as parents, it is always a bit alarming to hear Sacha scream, "CAN I HAVE MORE WINE?" followed by David and I saying, "NO," in unison.) David always brings a challah home from Amy's Bread (it may not be kosher, but neither are we, and this is hands down the most delicious challah I've ever had). We say the hamozi, the blessing over the challah, and then eat.
One of Gabriel's favorite meals is Fettucine Alfredo, or, as he calls it, "feta-cheese alfredo." In the wonderfully long suffering ways of blessedly privileged children, he's always asking me when am I going to make it again, as he hasn't had it in so long since he'd had it. (I make it roughly every other week.)
My neighbor had mentioned that her chives were blooming, and I was welcome to them. So asparagus + fettucine alfredo + chives led to this dish. I warmed some cream in a pan with a few slivered cloves of garlic. Garlic warmed slowly in milk, or cream, is one of the most indescribably delicious, and simplest bits of kitchen alchemy I know. This alone, over pasta would be delicious. I boiled the water for pasta, blanched the cut asparagus, and then cooked some egg fettucine. (I really like deCecco egg fettucine, the kind that comes wrapped in little nests; it has a very nice bite, and the flavor of the wheat, and the egg, really shine through. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to find in my local supermarkets, which is a bit disappointing to me.)
I tossed the pasta with the cream, asparagus, lemon zest, a few ladles of pasta cooking water, and topped it with chives, complete with their beautiful flowers. The marriage of the mellow cooked garlic and the more robust garlic flavor of the chives made a nice contrast, and the lemon zest brightened it up nicely. This was a win-win-win dish, meaning Sarah, Gabriel and Sacha all enjoyed it. They may not have eaten much of the asparagus, but I'm willing to overlook these things, and so, by my own two out of three criterion, this dish received a passing grade.
On Monday night, armed with another bunch of asparagus, as well as a log of goat cheese in the house, I was inspired by this post on Smitten Kitchen. I didn't know how my kids would feel about goat cheese, but sometimes I just say, What the fuck, let's live dangerously, and see how it turns out. I cut and blanched my asparagus, mixed the log of goat cheese in a pan with some olive oil and a few ladles of the pasta cooking water while the pasta (I used penne) cooked. Deb, of Smitten Kitchen used tarragon in her pasta, but that didn't seem like the right flavor to me, plus, I had my neighbor's chives, which seemed, to my palate, a better match for goat cheese and asparagus. I finished the dish with the zest of a lemon and the chives.
While David and I were perfectly happy, on the grand scale of cooking for five, this dish was a FAIL. Sacha, who will eat pasta with anything on it was perfectly happy. (He is a somewhat picky eater, but his passion for pasta is remarkable. Not only will he eat alarming amounts of it, but I fear I could present him with a bowl of penne sauced with gorgonzola and shit, and he'd eat two bowls, and demand, "MORE PLEASE!") Although he gave me every bit of asparagus from his bowl, saying, politely, with eat piece, "Here, Mama, this is for you," he ate his requisite two bowls, and then the remainder of Gabriel's as well. As I suspected, Sarah and Gabriel found the goat cheese too tangy, and they barely touched their dinner.
Such is life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. And when you lose, hopefully, as in the case of dinner, the consequences are not dire.
16 May 2009
playdate
My son Gabriel makes me weak in the knees.
He is just about the sweetest boy you could imagine. True, I am his mother, and my objectivity is questionable, but he is really extraordinarily sensitive to the feelings of others. He asks me regularly about my day, and when I tell him what I did, he asks probing follow-up questions that let me know that not only is he listening to me when I tell him, but that he is genuinely interested in what I do with my time when he is not around.
When I come home from a yoga class, he likes to discuss what poses we did. Similarly, when I plan my classes, he wants to know what I'm planning to teach, and often offers (sometimes very helpful) suggestions for sequencing.
His capacity for empathy is remarkably developed for a six-year old boy. When a friend of mine was having marital troubles last year, he would ask her on occasion how she was, and if she was feeling lonely. A few months ago, when a friend of my daughter's died suddenly, in trying to make sense of something so incomprehensible, he said to me, "Her family must be having a sad party."
Today he had a play date with a classmate that he had been looking forward to for some time. His friend, who has been in his class for two years now, is disabled, and does not come to school on a daily basis. She links into the class regularly, and comes in to school about once a week. He expressed interest in getting together with her a while ago, and persistently nagged me, and his friend's mother until we finally made it happen.
Being a boy, Gabriel is also keenly interested in video games. To hear him speak, you would think he lives in Mario World. For him, the boundaries between the his virtual world and the world-world are permeable. Apropos of nothing, he will drop tidbits into our conversations such as, "Rainbow Road is the hardest of all because because there are so many traps, but once when I did it I beat it all and came in first place." His playground games are often based on video games; he recently explained that at recess he played a mini-game of Freeze, a variation of tag, cribbed from Mario Party 8, which involved being stuck on an iceberg, and when you become unstuck, you may move around for one minute.
Gaming brings out an addictive quality in him that is a bit alarming; he often has trouble thinking about what to do, he is so preoccupied with when he'll next get to play. When he plays, he enters a trance state, and would forgo food and drink for the sake of a game. I am embarrassed to mention (as would he be to read), that on occasion, he has peed his pants because he has been so absorbed he couldn't be bothered to hit the pause button. Because of these tendencies, we limit his gaming time to 15 minutes a day, and work hard to encourage him to pursue other childhood pursuits...like daydreaming, reading comic books, and playing outside.
He has video games on the brain the way I imagine teenage boys are preoccupied with sex.
When friends come over all they want to do is play Wii. And while I recognize that gaming is a serious bonding mechanism among boys, I do not want him to spend all his time with his friends gaming, so I limit them 20 minutes toward the end of a play date. This does nothing to stop them from asking, incessantly, "Is it TIME yet?"
He is genuinely interested in this friend, in part because he recognizes, and is fascinated by the ways in which she is different. Her car has a ramp in the back for wheelchair access, which he thinks is the coolest thing ever. I don't think he knew this when he asked us to arrange the play date, but because his friend has limited mobility, their time together would involve playing with Pokemon cards, and video games. This was to be an afternoon of gaming not just in breadth, but in depth. While we just have a Wii, Gabriel informed me that his friend has a Game cube (I have no idea what that is), as well as a Nintendo DS.
So while I work hard to set limits to his gaming at home, here he was going, with our blessing, to a play date more or less devoted to gaming. He was beside himself with excitement.
When he came home, I asked him how his play date was.
"Great!" he said, with a smile of supreme satisfaction that bordered on post-coital. Were he a teenager, I'd would have immediately realized OH MY GOD MY SON JUST HAD SEX, and then informed his father that it was time to have A TALK.
Because he is six, it is all sweetness and innocence. But now that I've heard that tone of voice, as he gets older, I'll be keeping my ears tuned for that frequency.
He is just about the sweetest boy you could imagine. True, I am his mother, and my objectivity is questionable, but he is really extraordinarily sensitive to the feelings of others. He asks me regularly about my day, and when I tell him what I did, he asks probing follow-up questions that let me know that not only is he listening to me when I tell him, but that he is genuinely interested in what I do with my time when he is not around.
When I come home from a yoga class, he likes to discuss what poses we did. Similarly, when I plan my classes, he wants to know what I'm planning to teach, and often offers (sometimes very helpful) suggestions for sequencing.
His capacity for empathy is remarkably developed for a six-year old boy. When a friend of mine was having marital troubles last year, he would ask her on occasion how she was, and if she was feeling lonely. A few months ago, when a friend of my daughter's died suddenly, in trying to make sense of something so incomprehensible, he said to me, "Her family must be having a sad party."
Today he had a play date with a classmate that he had been looking forward to for some time. His friend, who has been in his class for two years now, is disabled, and does not come to school on a daily basis. She links into the class regularly, and comes in to school about once a week. He expressed interest in getting together with her a while ago, and persistently nagged me, and his friend's mother until we finally made it happen.
Being a boy, Gabriel is also keenly interested in video games. To hear him speak, you would think he lives in Mario World. For him, the boundaries between the his virtual world and the world-world are permeable. Apropos of nothing, he will drop tidbits into our conversations such as, "Rainbow Road is the hardest of all because because there are so many traps, but once when I did it I beat it all and came in first place." His playground games are often based on video games; he recently explained that at recess he played a mini-game of Freeze, a variation of tag, cribbed from Mario Party 8, which involved being stuck on an iceberg, and when you become unstuck, you may move around for one minute.
Gaming brings out an addictive quality in him that is a bit alarming; he often has trouble thinking about what to do, he is so preoccupied with when he'll next get to play. When he plays, he enters a trance state, and would forgo food and drink for the sake of a game. I am embarrassed to mention (as would he be to read), that on occasion, he has peed his pants because he has been so absorbed he couldn't be bothered to hit the pause button. Because of these tendencies, we limit his gaming time to 15 minutes a day, and work hard to encourage him to pursue other childhood pursuits...like daydreaming, reading comic books, and playing outside.
He has video games on the brain the way I imagine teenage boys are preoccupied with sex.
When friends come over all they want to do is play Wii. And while I recognize that gaming is a serious bonding mechanism among boys, I do not want him to spend all his time with his friends gaming, so I limit them 20 minutes toward the end of a play date. This does nothing to stop them from asking, incessantly, "Is it TIME yet?"
He is genuinely interested in this friend, in part because he recognizes, and is fascinated by the ways in which she is different. Her car has a ramp in the back for wheelchair access, which he thinks is the coolest thing ever. I don't think he knew this when he asked us to arrange the play date, but because his friend has limited mobility, their time together would involve playing with Pokemon cards, and video games. This was to be an afternoon of gaming not just in breadth, but in depth. While we just have a Wii, Gabriel informed me that his friend has a Game cube (I have no idea what that is), as well as a Nintendo DS.
So while I work hard to set limits to his gaming at home, here he was going, with our blessing, to a play date more or less devoted to gaming. He was beside himself with excitement.
When he came home, I asked him how his play date was.
"Great!" he said, with a smile of supreme satisfaction that bordered on post-coital. Were he a teenager, I'd would have immediately realized OH MY GOD MY SON JUST HAD SEX, and then informed his father that it was time to have A TALK.
Because he is six, it is all sweetness and innocence. But now that I've heard that tone of voice, as he gets older, I'll be keeping my ears tuned for that frequency.
14 May 2009
Striker hotel
I have been suffering from a slight imbalance of humours lately; ie, I've been a bit depressed. One of the symptoms of my affliction is that my normally high need for order in the house begins to border on compulsive. At these times, the blessing of abundance, all the accountrements of life with kids, and the need to keep it in some semblance of order, gnaws at my soul.
I would never wish depression on anyone, but in my case, it is excellent for housekeeping. The very thought of the game closet, that has needed straightening for quite some time, becomes almost unbearable for me. The tottering mess of my daughter's nightstand--which, I know, is really her business, not mine--can give me a seizure.
And then there is the playroom. I use this word loosely because it is really a fairly raw space in our basement, with a concrete floor and some very ancient paneling and lighting. Because I am by nature, an organized person, I have a system* for the toys: there are shelves and bins, and the theory is, in each bin resides a different genre of toy. It's very simple and logical; a bin for cars, another one for figurines, (or guy-guys, as one of my friends children called them as a toddler), for blocks, etc. Though I know there is no malicious intent, my children can't help but FUCK with my system, and when I ask them to do a sweep of the playroom, they do the natural thing, and chuck things randomly in the bins.
The playroom was a mess. There were toys all over the floor, and those that weren't, I knew, were intermingling in ways that were not natural. (I also get a little twitchy when the playdough colors get mixed-up together; does this surprise you? I thought not. )
The playroom also happens to be the laundry room, so I am forced to look at the mess every time I go downstairs to do a load. Most of the time, I can let a lot of this slide, but not right now, in my fragile state. So last weekend, I brought Sarah and Gabriel down to the playroom armed with a few large contractor bags for a few hours of recreational cleaning.
To be fair, the mess is really not their fault, but the force of nature that is Sacha, but he is too young, and far to wild, to be of any use cleaning. He is like pigpen, trailing a mess in his wake. I knew that as we were to systematically clean, he would just as methodically dump. So though it caused his siblings much resentment, he was sent upstairs to watch TV. Ah, the benefits of being the youngest child. Ah, sibling rivalry!
We dumped everything. We sorted. We categorized. We got rid of things that were no longer useful; dress-up costumes frayed to shreds and many sizes too small, odd dress up shoes with no mates, broken bits of toys, random puzzle pieces that had long ago lost their missing piece.
And then we attacked the art supplies. We separated crayons from markers from pastels; popsicle sticks from pipe cleaners; scissors from glue sticks, glitter from paint. To quote one of Sacha's current favorite stories, now, there is a place for everything, and everything is in it's place. When my internal world feels out of control, I find the ability to control something tangible gives me some measure of peace.
Then, something miraculous happened. Instead of clamoring to watch tv, or play Wii, or use the computer, my children began to play. With their toys. Unbidden. This was facilitated in part by the gift of some new Lincoln Logs from my mother (AAH! MORE TOYS!!). But because they knew where to find the people, and the blocks, they began to do what children do best; engage in imaginative play. Without being encouraged to do so. They built, and created tableaux and had a great time.
Sunday morning, on Mother's Day, Sarah built a log cabin hotel, which she named the Striker Hotel, for the little dog that came with the Lincoln Logs.
Then she asked me to play with her.
I love to spend time with my kids, but don't really enjoy playing with them. I enjoy their company tremendously. I will color with them or cook with them, read to them, chat with them. But getting down on the floor and engaging in a game of make-believe? GAH! But it was Mother's Day, and we'd just done all this cleaning, so how could I refuse? What followed was an afternoon at the Striker Hotel, where the little people--the old school little people, which belonged to me when I was a child, and I believe that some that some of them were meant to be members of the original cast of Sesame Street--were the hotel patrons. As the proprietor (AKA Sarah) explained, third floor was of this hotel was reserved for guests with pet allergies. The proprietor assured us that the dogs were NOT allowed up there under any circumstances. For breakfast,an assortment of 19 muffins were served, some of which sounded delicious, but many of which were flavored with poop. (For the dogs. Who can't go to the third floor, poor things) I was introduced to the lesbian couple who was coming to spend a night at the inn. (The interracial lesbian couple, I might add; here's a close-up; don't they look happy?)
This is imaginative play in the 21-st century during the Obama years: A luxury rustic hotel that welcomes an alternative clientele, serves a delicious breakfast for man and beast, while being sympathetic to the special-health needs of all their patrons.
*You should see my spice drawer. I'm really very proud of it. When we moved into this house, I spent perhaps too much time developing a system of organization for it, and two years later, it still sends a frisson of joy down my spine every time I open it. Someday I'll post a picture of it.
I would never wish depression on anyone, but in my case, it is excellent for housekeeping. The very thought of the game closet, that has needed straightening for quite some time, becomes almost unbearable for me. The tottering mess of my daughter's nightstand--which, I know, is really her business, not mine--can give me a seizure.
And then there is the playroom. I use this word loosely because it is really a fairly raw space in our basement, with a concrete floor and some very ancient paneling and lighting. Because I am by nature, an organized person, I have a system* for the toys: there are shelves and bins, and the theory is, in each bin resides a different genre of toy. It's very simple and logical; a bin for cars, another one for figurines, (or guy-guys, as one of my friends children called them as a toddler), for blocks, etc. Though I know there is no malicious intent, my children can't help but FUCK with my system, and when I ask them to do a sweep of the playroom, they do the natural thing, and chuck things randomly in the bins.
The playroom was a mess. There were toys all over the floor, and those that weren't, I knew, were intermingling in ways that were not natural. (I also get a little twitchy when the playdough colors get mixed-up together; does this surprise you? I thought not. )
The playroom also happens to be the laundry room, so I am forced to look at the mess every time I go downstairs to do a load. Most of the time, I can let a lot of this slide, but not right now, in my fragile state. So last weekend, I brought Sarah and Gabriel down to the playroom armed with a few large contractor bags for a few hours of recreational cleaning.
To be fair, the mess is really not their fault, but the force of nature that is Sacha, but he is too young, and far to wild, to be of any use cleaning. He is like pigpen, trailing a mess in his wake. I knew that as we were to systematically clean, he would just as methodically dump. So though it caused his siblings much resentment, he was sent upstairs to watch TV. Ah, the benefits of being the youngest child. Ah, sibling rivalry!
We dumped everything. We sorted. We categorized. We got rid of things that were no longer useful; dress-up costumes frayed to shreds and many sizes too small, odd dress up shoes with no mates, broken bits of toys, random puzzle pieces that had long ago lost their missing piece.
And then we attacked the art supplies. We separated crayons from markers from pastels; popsicle sticks from pipe cleaners; scissors from glue sticks, glitter from paint. To quote one of Sacha's current favorite stories, now, there is a place for everything, and everything is in it's place. When my internal world feels out of control, I find the ability to control something tangible gives me some measure of peace.
Then, something miraculous happened. Instead of clamoring to watch tv, or play Wii, or use the computer, my children began to play. With their toys. Unbidden. This was facilitated in part by the gift of some new Lincoln Logs from my mother (AAH! MORE TOYS!!). But because they knew where to find the people, and the blocks, they began to do what children do best; engage in imaginative play. Without being encouraged to do so. They built, and created tableaux and had a great time.
Sunday morning, on Mother's Day, Sarah built a log cabin hotel, which she named the Striker Hotel, for the little dog that came with the Lincoln Logs.
Then she asked me to play with her.
I love to spend time with my kids, but don't really enjoy playing with them. I enjoy their company tremendously. I will color with them or cook with them, read to them, chat with them. But getting down on the floor and engaging in a game of make-believe? GAH! But it was Mother's Day, and we'd just done all this cleaning, so how could I refuse? What followed was an afternoon at the Striker Hotel, where the little people--the old school little people, which belonged to me when I was a child, and I believe that some that some of them were meant to be members of the original cast of Sesame Street--were the hotel patrons. As the proprietor (AKA Sarah) explained, third floor was of this hotel was reserved for guests with pet allergies. The proprietor assured us that the dogs were NOT allowed up there under any circumstances. For breakfast,an assortment of 19 muffins were served, some of which sounded delicious, but many of which were flavored with poop. (For the dogs. Who can't go to the third floor, poor things) I was introduced to the lesbian couple who was coming to spend a night at the inn. (The interracial lesbian couple, I might add; here's a close-up; don't they look happy?)
This is imaginative play in the 21-st century during the Obama years: A luxury rustic hotel that welcomes an alternative clientele, serves a delicious breakfast for man and beast, while being sympathetic to the special-health needs of all their patrons.
*You should see my spice drawer. I'm really very proud of it. When we moved into this house, I spent perhaps too much time developing a system of organization for it, and two years later, it still sends a frisson of joy down my spine every time I open it. Someday I'll post a picture of it.
The innocence of girls
Appropriate is one of my children's favorite words. Of course they learned it from me, because so often when I say no to something, and they ask for an explanation, I answer, because it's inappropriate.
But there is something about the word that really appeals to them; they use it frequently, savoring the sound of each syllable as they ask, "Is this a-PPRO-priate?"
Last night Sarah asked David, "Why do so many rock stars engage in inappropriate behavior?" She went on to clarify: "Like Avril Lavigne, she wears clothes that expose her NOVEL!"
This totally validated my efforts to limit her exposure to the full spectrum of pop culture.
But there is something about the word that really appeals to them; they use it frequently, savoring the sound of each syllable as they ask, "Is this a-PPRO-priate?"
Last night Sarah asked David, "Why do so many rock stars engage in inappropriate behavior?" She went on to clarify: "Like Avril Lavigne, she wears clothes that expose her NOVEL!"
This totally validated my efforts to limit her exposure to the full spectrum of pop culture.
11 May 2009
slinging hash: pizza
Homemade pizza is having a moment. I spotted it last month, in the New York Times Magazine, and a few days later on Michael Ruhlman's blog, not to mention in this month's issue of Martha Stewart Living.
Although I go through phases, I've been making pizza for dinner about once a week for many years. I like playing with yeast; there was a time, many years ago, when I used to cultivate wild yeast spores in my kitchen for my amusement.
Making pizza does not require special equipment (Really!). You do not need a pizza stone. A pizza peel and cutting wheel are useful if you are going to do this a lot, but a cookie sheet makes a fine substitute for a peel, and a chef's knife, or pair of kitchen shears will cut slices adequately. You do not need to master fancy technique for stretching the dough; no spinning and flipping required!
While it may sound counter intuitive, I find pizza to be a quick meal that requires little advance preparation. I used to start the dough in the late afternoon, after my kids got home from school, and since pizza dough only needs one rising, it would be ready by 5.00 for topping and baking. I have since streamlined the preparation even further, after I learned on The Kitchn that while the dough's flavor may benefit from rising, it is not necessary! (I find the difference in flavor indiscernable.)
Perhaps pizza's biggest appeal, though, is that it is a rare dinner that exceeds my two out of three guideline, sort of. While everyone in my family likes a Neapolitan pie, everyone also has their personal topping preference, and someone is usually apt to complain if I don't make it their way. My sons like it plain, in the Roman style, with olive oil and salt. My daughter likes it with thinly sliced potatoes, rosemary, and a grating of Romano cheese. David and I like all of the above, but we also like it topped with olive oil and zatar, or caramelized onions and feta or goat cheese, or our current favorite, sauteed broccoli rabe and gorgonzola.
For a while, I made things a real pain in the ass for myself, by making many individual pies, with customized toppings for everyone. Why did I ever get into this habit? To amuse my children, who enjoy rolling and topping their own pies. That's just what every mother wants to do in the thick of dinner preparation, yes?
A few weeks ago, I said fuck it, and began streamlining things. Now I make two larger pies, two toppings. One that everyone (aka the kids) will like, and one for David and myself.
I did this last night, for Mother's Day. We'd gone out to dinner with my mother Saturday night, so were eating at home. That was a present to myself; a dinner that no one would complain about. But yet...
I decided on a Neapolitan pie, because I had some sauce already made, and one with broccoli rabe, because I also had that cooked in the fridge. Sarah came into the kitchen and asked what kind of pies we were having, and when she found out there would be no potato pizza, she had a minor episode of righteous indignation because I NEVER MAKE THE KIND THAT SHE LIKES.
(I made it last week.)
There is a parlor game I play with friends sometimes; informally called, What Puts You on the Couch? In it, we try to imagine which of the many, many mistakes we make as parents will be the ones that send our kids into therapy. If this is what eventually puts Sarah on the couch, that her mother made more of her BROTHER'S favorite pizzas, and not enough of her favorite potato pizza, I will consider it evidence that I did a pretty good job.
Homemade pizza dough
(adapted from The Kitchn)
This makes enough for four approximately twelve inch pies; the dough keeps well, in a sealed ziploc bag for up to a week.
*Lately I've been making the crust with a combination of all-purpose, and white whole wheat flour, in an approximate 2:1 ratio.
1-1/2 cups water
1 teaspoon of active-dry yeast
4 cups (10 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour*
1 tsp salt
30 minutes to 1 hour before baking, pre-heat oven to 500 degrees.
In a small bowl or liquid measuring cup, heat the water until barely lukewarm. (I do this in short 30-second bursts in the microwave.) If you used a measuring cup, transfer water to a bowl, sprinkle the yeast over, and let stand a few minutes to allow the yeast to dissolve. It will take on a creamy appearance.
Add the salt, and then flour one cup at a time, until you have a wet, ragged dough.
Turn this dough out onto a well-floured counter or cutting board (I like to use a large silpat mat for this), and knead in flour a bit at a time until the dough forms a smooth, cohesive ball. Go slowly, as if you add too much flour, the dough will be hard to roll.
Tear off about a quarter of the dough, and place on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper about 12-inches wide. (At this point, I place the parchment on top of my pizza peel.) Lightly flour the top of the dough, and press it out to a flat disc. Working from the center, roll out until it's about a quarter inch thick.
Lightly coat the now rolled dough with a sprinkling of olive oil and salt, and top as you wish. Slide the pizza, still on parchment paper, into the pre-heated oven and bake approximately ten minutes. I try to remember to rotate the dough about halfway through at which point, I slide it off of the parchment paper to finish cooking.
Although I go through phases, I've been making pizza for dinner about once a week for many years. I like playing with yeast; there was a time, many years ago, when I used to cultivate wild yeast spores in my kitchen for my amusement.
Making pizza does not require special equipment (Really!). You do not need a pizza stone. A pizza peel and cutting wheel are useful if you are going to do this a lot, but a cookie sheet makes a fine substitute for a peel, and a chef's knife, or pair of kitchen shears will cut slices adequately. You do not need to master fancy technique for stretching the dough; no spinning and flipping required!
While it may sound counter intuitive, I find pizza to be a quick meal that requires little advance preparation. I used to start the dough in the late afternoon, after my kids got home from school, and since pizza dough only needs one rising, it would be ready by 5.00 for topping and baking. I have since streamlined the preparation even further, after I learned on The Kitchn that while the dough's flavor may benefit from rising, it is not necessary! (I find the difference in flavor indiscernable.)
Perhaps pizza's biggest appeal, though, is that it is a rare dinner that exceeds my two out of three guideline, sort of. While everyone in my family likes a Neapolitan pie, everyone also has their personal topping preference, and someone is usually apt to complain if I don't make it their way. My sons like it plain, in the Roman style, with olive oil and salt. My daughter likes it with thinly sliced potatoes, rosemary, and a grating of Romano cheese. David and I like all of the above, but we also like it topped with olive oil and zatar, or caramelized onions and feta or goat cheese, or our current favorite, sauteed broccoli rabe and gorgonzola.
For a while, I made things a real pain in the ass for myself, by making many individual pies, with customized toppings for everyone. Why did I ever get into this habit? To amuse my children, who enjoy rolling and topping their own pies. That's just what every mother wants to do in the thick of dinner preparation, yes?
A few weeks ago, I said fuck it, and began streamlining things. Now I make two larger pies, two toppings. One that everyone (aka the kids) will like, and one for David and myself.
I did this last night, for Mother's Day. We'd gone out to dinner with my mother Saturday night, so were eating at home. That was a present to myself; a dinner that no one would complain about. But yet...
I decided on a Neapolitan pie, because I had some sauce already made, and one with broccoli rabe, because I also had that cooked in the fridge. Sarah came into the kitchen and asked what kind of pies we were having, and when she found out there would be no potato pizza, she had a minor episode of righteous indignation because I NEVER MAKE THE KIND THAT SHE LIKES.
(I made it last week.)
There is a parlor game I play with friends sometimes; informally called, What Puts You on the Couch? In it, we try to imagine which of the many, many mistakes we make as parents will be the ones that send our kids into therapy. If this is what eventually puts Sarah on the couch, that her mother made more of her BROTHER'S favorite pizzas, and not enough of her favorite potato pizza, I will consider it evidence that I did a pretty good job.
Homemade pizza dough
(adapted from The Kitchn)
This makes enough for four approximately twelve inch pies; the dough keeps well, in a sealed ziploc bag for up to a week.
*Lately I've been making the crust with a combination of all-purpose, and white whole wheat flour, in an approximate 2:1 ratio.
1-1/2 cups water
1 teaspoon of active-dry yeast
4 cups (10 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour*
1 tsp salt
30 minutes to 1 hour before baking, pre-heat oven to 500 degrees.
In a small bowl or liquid measuring cup, heat the water until barely lukewarm. (I do this in short 30-second bursts in the microwave.) If you used a measuring cup, transfer water to a bowl, sprinkle the yeast over, and let stand a few minutes to allow the yeast to dissolve. It will take on a creamy appearance.
Add the salt, and then flour one cup at a time, until you have a wet, ragged dough.
Turn this dough out onto a well-floured counter or cutting board (I like to use a large silpat mat for this), and knead in flour a bit at a time until the dough forms a smooth, cohesive ball. Go slowly, as if you add too much flour, the dough will be hard to roll.
Tear off about a quarter of the dough, and place on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper about 12-inches wide. (At this point, I place the parchment on top of my pizza peel.) Lightly flour the top of the dough, and press it out to a flat disc. Working from the center, roll out until it's about a quarter inch thick.
Lightly coat the now rolled dough with a sprinkling of olive oil and salt, and top as you wish. Slide the pizza, still on parchment paper, into the pre-heated oven and bake approximately ten minutes. I try to remember to rotate the dough about halfway through at which point, I slide it off of the parchment paper to finish cooking.
08 May 2009
roomba, RIP
It is with some sadness that I write today that me and my Roomba have parted ways.
I have something of a mania for vacuuming. Although one's dharma changes over time, for at least the past decade, vacuuming has been an important element of mine. It began when I was a newly married graduate student, yearning for a companion during my solitary hours of study, but not ready to commit to a dog. (I'm still not quite ready for that one.) So we got cats, the perfect pet for the commitment-phobe, although I am allergic to them. I adored my cats, but oh, the shedding! It was very hard for an anal neat freak to bear. But, I reasoned, as long as I took allergy medication, and kept the rugs and upholstery scrupulously clean, I'd be fine. It also seemed like the right thing to do as a hostess; who wants to see a guest rise from your couch with their ass covered in your cat's hair? So began a daily regimen of vacuuming.
I didn't really mind. It turned out, I find vacuuming enormously therapeutic. It's aerobic benefits should not be overlooked. I run cold (body temperature; not cold-hearted bitch; I hope), and in the depths of winter, when we try to resist turning the heat too high and a sweater is just not helping, I've been known to take the vacuum out for a few laps to warm myself up. Plus, the crackly sound of crumbs being sucked up by the rotating brushes and into the hose is one of those great satisfying sounds, akin to the whoosh of opening a soda can, or the pop of a champagne cork.
I've never read Joyce Carol Oates, but when I read her mention, in an interview in the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago, "The cleaning is something I use as a reward if I get some work done. I go into a very happy state of mind when I’m vacuuming. I think some of my male colleagues, like Philip Roth and Don DeLillo, are completely denied this pleasure," I recognized a kindred spirit, and realized I should start reading her work AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
My vacuuming habit has outlasted my cats, because not only because it is so finely ingrained, but because I now have children, and we all know the messes they generate. By the time I had children and multi-story house, the lugging of the vacuum, sometimes with a small child in one arm, up and down a flight of stairs from the broom closet, began to seem a bit hazardous, to my baby, not to mention my back. Although I don't like to duplicate appliances, it seemed like a second vacuum might be in order. When some friends mentioned they had gotten a Roomba, and it really worked, my pulse quickened with the possibilities.
The Roomba and I began dating about a year and a half ago, and like all doomed relationships, it started off swimmingly. It was a beautiful thing; I could press go, walk the kids to school, and come home to a clean floor! It was so amusing to watch it work, stumbling around like a blind dog eating your crumbs!
But once you've gotten to know one another a bit better, at about the point where you're leaving a toothbrush at each others apartment, flaws inevitably begin to emerge. At first, it's just little things -- how he never puts his clothes in the hamper on the way to bed, or consistently misses that pile of crumbs in the corner of the rug -- but you love each other, so you can live with it!
The first indication that things are doomed is when you begin to believe it's you, not him, that is the problem. Maybe I didn't arrange the chairs correctly, for maximum vacuuming efficiency? Perhaps I had unrealistic expectations, and clearing the rug of the dried grains of rice was just too much to ask of a vacuum?
Or perhaps, we just had a defective model? I exchanged it for a new one, and for while, it was like that reconciliation after the breakup; we were so happy, and didn't understand why we'd ever parted. But then the same old patterns began to emerge. Either David or myself would set the Roomba to go, and then chide the other one for not running the vacuum, because the rug looked just like it did before we started. All this, despite the fact that as long as we owned the Roomba, we emptied the filter regularly, and kept the brushes as clean as possible.
So my husband and I began to have that difficult conversation about whether it was time to put the pet down. As anyone who has ever had to say good-bye to a beloved furry friend knows, this is a difficult decision to make. But after one too many nights of me running the Roomba, then David running it, the answer became clear. I brought it back for a full refund. (It turns out, as long as you save your receipt, Bed, Bath and Beyond will give you your money back. Since I'd owned the vacuum for almost a year, I would have been satisfied with store credit, so kudos, Bed, Bath and Beyond!)
And because I was so happy to have all that cash back in my pocket, I bought a new vacuum for the first floor, a Eureka Optima. It was extremely inexpensive, at $60. It weighs about 12 pounds, so I could conceivably carry it up and down stairs. It's bagless, which I like, and has a telescoping handle, which appeals to my kids, because they can shorten the handle and actually vacuum, as opposed to pretend to vacuum. So much more satisfying than the toy Dirt Devil they currently (But that Dirt Devil is still one of the best presents ever given to my kids; thanks, Sharon, you know me so well!)
I have a friend who is a devoted bread baker; every week he makes his own baguettes. When I mentioned to him how superlative No-Knead Bread is, he was interested, but not eager to try it himself; after all, kneading is part of the fun. So it is, for me and vacuuming. Sometimes, you still have to do the hard work for yourself, and you actually enjoy it.
Adieu, my vacuuming robot; I will miss you, but not too much.
I have something of a mania for vacuuming. Although one's dharma changes over time, for at least the past decade, vacuuming has been an important element of mine. It began when I was a newly married graduate student, yearning for a companion during my solitary hours of study, but not ready to commit to a dog. (I'm still not quite ready for that one.) So we got cats, the perfect pet for the commitment-phobe, although I am allergic to them. I adored my cats, but oh, the shedding! It was very hard for an anal neat freak to bear. But, I reasoned, as long as I took allergy medication, and kept the rugs and upholstery scrupulously clean, I'd be fine. It also seemed like the right thing to do as a hostess; who wants to see a guest rise from your couch with their ass covered in your cat's hair? So began a daily regimen of vacuuming.
I didn't really mind. It turned out, I find vacuuming enormously therapeutic. It's aerobic benefits should not be overlooked. I run cold (body temperature; not cold-hearted bitch; I hope), and in the depths of winter, when we try to resist turning the heat too high and a sweater is just not helping, I've been known to take the vacuum out for a few laps to warm myself up. Plus, the crackly sound of crumbs being sucked up by the rotating brushes and into the hose is one of those great satisfying sounds, akin to the whoosh of opening a soda can, or the pop of a champagne cork.
I've never read Joyce Carol Oates, but when I read her mention, in an interview in the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago, "The cleaning is something I use as a reward if I get some work done. I go into a very happy state of mind when I’m vacuuming. I think some of my male colleagues, like Philip Roth and Don DeLillo, are completely denied this pleasure," I recognized a kindred spirit, and realized I should start reading her work AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
My vacuuming habit has outlasted my cats, because not only because it is so finely ingrained, but because I now have children, and we all know the messes they generate. By the time I had children and multi-story house, the lugging of the vacuum, sometimes with a small child in one arm, up and down a flight of stairs from the broom closet, began to seem a bit hazardous, to my baby, not to mention my back. Although I don't like to duplicate appliances, it seemed like a second vacuum might be in order. When some friends mentioned they had gotten a Roomba, and it really worked, my pulse quickened with the possibilities.
The Roomba and I began dating about a year and a half ago, and like all doomed relationships, it started off swimmingly. It was a beautiful thing; I could press go, walk the kids to school, and come home to a clean floor! It was so amusing to watch it work, stumbling around like a blind dog eating your crumbs!
But once you've gotten to know one another a bit better, at about the point where you're leaving a toothbrush at each others apartment, flaws inevitably begin to emerge. At first, it's just little things -- how he never puts his clothes in the hamper on the way to bed, or consistently misses that pile of crumbs in the corner of the rug -- but you love each other, so you can live with it!
The first indication that things are doomed is when you begin to believe it's you, not him, that is the problem. Maybe I didn't arrange the chairs correctly, for maximum vacuuming efficiency? Perhaps I had unrealistic expectations, and clearing the rug of the dried grains of rice was just too much to ask of a vacuum?
Or perhaps, we just had a defective model? I exchanged it for a new one, and for while, it was like that reconciliation after the breakup; we were so happy, and didn't understand why we'd ever parted. But then the same old patterns began to emerge. Either David or myself would set the Roomba to go, and then chide the other one for not running the vacuum, because the rug looked just like it did before we started. All this, despite the fact that as long as we owned the Roomba, we emptied the filter regularly, and kept the brushes as clean as possible.
So my husband and I began to have that difficult conversation about whether it was time to put the pet down. As anyone who has ever had to say good-bye to a beloved furry friend knows, this is a difficult decision to make. But after one too many nights of me running the Roomba, then David running it, the answer became clear. I brought it back for a full refund. (It turns out, as long as you save your receipt, Bed, Bath and Beyond will give you your money back. Since I'd owned the vacuum for almost a year, I would have been satisfied with store credit, so kudos, Bed, Bath and Beyond!)
And because I was so happy to have all that cash back in my pocket, I bought a new vacuum for the first floor, a Eureka Optima. It was extremely inexpensive, at $60. It weighs about 12 pounds, so I could conceivably carry it up and down stairs. It's bagless, which I like, and has a telescoping handle, which appeals to my kids, because they can shorten the handle and actually vacuum, as opposed to pretend to vacuum. So much more satisfying than the toy Dirt Devil they currently (But that Dirt Devil is still one of the best presents ever given to my kids; thanks, Sharon, you know me so well!)
I have a friend who is a devoted bread baker; every week he makes his own baguettes. When I mentioned to him how superlative No-Knead Bread is, he was interested, but not eager to try it himself; after all, kneading is part of the fun. So it is, for me and vacuuming. Sometimes, you still have to do the hard work for yourself, and you actually enjoy it.
Adieu, my vacuuming robot; I will miss you, but not too much.
06 May 2009
chick flick
My daughter was home sick yesterday, and both boys were at school, so we had the morning free. Normally I'd suggest a cooking project, but yesterday, a rainy day when you just wanted to huddle under the covers, I asked if she wanted to watch a movie. It seemed appropriately decadent, since I'd never turn the television on for myself during the day.
Sarah is at that in between place where childhood entertainments are beginning to seem to babyish, but the next step, which has her endlessly intrigued, is still a little too...tarty. We settled on Bride Wars. Who doesn't love a bride? It promised promised hijinx! And pratfalls! And blue hair! So we huddled under a blanket on the couch together and ordered it up on pay-per-view.
I generally don't like chick flicks, and would have never chosen to watch this on my own. The plot was facile, the comedy too broad, the characters were caricatures. I know that is the point of a formula film such as this.
But the experience of watching it with my daughter, on a day when she was supposed to be in school, made the experience so...delicious, that I found I enjoyed, if not the film, certainly the experience. Letting my critical, intellectual faculties go, taking at face value that this was a mindless entertainment, not high art, liberated me.
I'm sure the company helped. Perhaps the inclusion of a companion--even who who is still a bit too young understand the phychological nuances--is the appeal of the chick flick, and the essential quality which has eluded me all these years.
Sarah is at that in between place where childhood entertainments are beginning to seem to babyish, but the next step, which has her endlessly intrigued, is still a little too...tarty. We settled on Bride Wars. Who doesn't love a bride? It promised promised hijinx! And pratfalls! And blue hair! So we huddled under a blanket on the couch together and ordered it up on pay-per-view.
I generally don't like chick flicks, and would have never chosen to watch this on my own. The plot was facile, the comedy too broad, the characters were caricatures. I know that is the point of a formula film such as this.
But the experience of watching it with my daughter, on a day when she was supposed to be in school, made the experience so...delicious, that I found I enjoyed, if not the film, certainly the experience. Letting my critical, intellectual faculties go, taking at face value that this was a mindless entertainment, not high art, liberated me.
I'm sure the company helped. Perhaps the inclusion of a companion--even who who is still a bit too young understand the phychological nuances--is the appeal of the chick flick, and the essential quality which has eluded me all these years.
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