What a Tool!

A friend gave me two pounds of fresh cherries.  They are sweet and beautiful, and I wanted to give them a proper burial in my tummy.  So here are the two recipes in which they had a starring role, and the third recipe is what you should drink while baking:

Cherry Almond Focaccia (Tyler Florence's original version here)

Ingredients:

• 
  
  
  
  • 2 teaspoons rapid-rising dry yeast
  • 1 cup warm water
  • 2 tablespoons sugar
  • 3 1/2 to 4 cups flour
  • 1 tablespoon coarse salt
  • 1/4 cup olive oil
  • Fine ground almonds for dusting
  
  

  Toppings:
  • 1 cup fresh cherries, pitted 
  • 1/4 cup sliced almonds
  • 1/4 cup coarse sugar
  
  

  Directions
  You really don't know the beauty of a cherry pitter until you are staring at two pounds of cherries, thinking about how this tedious paring knife task could ruin a perfect summer day.  Mine was $9.99 from OXO.  It's a fun tool to have in your arsenal, and it works on those pesky Kalamata olives, too.  Follow the directions on the label, and beware stray pits.  
  Proof the yeast by combining it with the warm water and sugar. Stir gently to dissolve. Let stand 3 minutes until foam appears. Slowly add half of the flour to the bowl. Mix with a fork.  Dissolve salt in 2 tablespoons of water and add it to the mixture. Pour in 1/4 cup olive oil.  Add half of the remaining flour until you have a nice doughy texture. Mix with your hands until the dough is smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes, adding a little more flour as necessary.
  Turn the dough out onto a work surface and fold over itself a few times. Form the dough into a round and place in an oiled bowl, turn to coat the entire ball with oil so it doesn't form a skin. Cover with plastic wrap or damp towel and let rise over a gas pilot light on the stovetop or other warm place until doubled in size, about 45 minutes.
  Coat a sheet pan with a little olive oil and almond dust. Once the dough is doubled and domed, turn it out onto the counter. Roll and stretch the dough out to an oblong shape about 1/2-inch thick. Lay the flattened dough on the pan and cover with plastic wrap. Let rest for 15 minutes.
  Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Uncover the dough and dimple with your fingertips. Brush the surface with more olive oil and then add cherries, almonds, and sugar. Bake on the bottom rack for 15 to 20 minutes.
  Cherry Almond Ice Cream  
  
  Ingredients:
  • 
    
    • 2 cups half and half
    • 1 cup whole milk
    • 3/4 cup sugar
    • 1 Tablespoon vanilla extract
    • 1/4 cup fine ground almonds
    • 1 1/2 cups fresh cherries, pitted and chilled
    • Slivered almonds for garnish
    Directions
    It's best to use very cold ingredients.  An ice cream maker is fun to use on a hot day, but can be very disappointing if your ice cream never tightens up.  Also, feel free to substitute heavy cream for the half and half if you prefer a creamier texture. By that same token, you can use skim milk and sugar subsititute for a light ice milk dessert.  Yum.  
    In a large mixing bowl, whisk together half and half, milk, sugar, fine ground almonds, and vanilla extract until sugar is dissolved.  Add mixture to the bowl of an ice cream machine and blend until frozen.  Add most of the cherries to the mixer, reserving a handful for a topping.  Blend until cherries are incorporated.  
    
    Pour ice cream into a 2 quart Tupperware.  Smooth the top, and dot the surface with cherries and almonds.  Place in the freezer for 2 hours, then enjoy!
    
    
    Four Plus One
       
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    Ingredients:
    • 3 cups lemon juice

    
    

    
    
  • 
    
    • 1 cup orange juice
    • 1 cup lime juice
    • 1 cup grapefruit juice
    • 4-5 sprigs of mint
    • 3 cups water
    • 3 cups sugar, plus a tablespoon for muddling
    • 750 ml citrus vodka
    
    

    
    
    Directions:
    You will need a LOT of citrus fruit to make this drink.  If you want to just add voddy to orange juice concentrate, be my guest, but trust me, your party guests will never forget this drink if you do it from scratch.  Also this is a chance to learn the beauty of simple syrup.  Make it ahead of time and chill it.  
    Simple syrup:  In a medium pot, add 3 cups sugar and water.  Boil until sugar dissolves, stirring occasionally, remove from heat and chill.  
    Pull the leaves off the mint stems, reserving a couple pretty leaves for garnish.  Place the mint and the remaining sugar in a cup or small bowl.  Commence muddling.  Use a proper wooden muddler, or the handle of a wooden spoon.  Dump green mixture into a metal strainer, hold over a large jug, and pour the simple syrup through.  Go slowly.  When you are done, press the last of the minty goodness through the strainer.  Discard green junk.
    Add citrus juice, vodka, and serve over crushed ice.  Try not to fall over.  
  
  

What's the Statute of Limitations for Pansy Theft?

I just love cupcakes.  They're cute, portable, suitable for all occasions, and they make people smile.  Really, I like making the cupcakes more than eating them, which recently led me to improving the recipes, and not focusing so much on the decorations.  My decorations are stellar, though, and I'm sure that if the cupcakes tasted like crap, people would hardly notice because of the distracting art.  In fact, the art has been so distracting, people haven't come close to imagining where the art came from, or the horror each cupcake endured to become a dessert.  

Let's start with the fact that I'm incredibly frugal.  The designs I create are usually the result of some improv work in my pantry.  Whatever I can beg, borrow, or steal, I do.  My secret thrill in cupcake making is creating something fabulous for pennies.  Several years ago, while deciding what to bring to an Easter dinner, I remembered seeing Martha sugarcoat nasturtiums and Johnny Jump Ups.  I hatched the plan.

Gorgeous devil's food cake, dark chocolate frosting, superfine sugar, egg whites, and pansies.  Easter was days away, and all I needed to do was get my hands on some flowers.  Living in an apartment, I didn't have a garden of my own.  I looked in the produce section, but the only flowers I could find were floppy and ridiculously expensive.  I could go to the nursery, but I didn't have time for plants to grow.  I needed them immediately.  

And then the deviance started.  

There was a house.  There were pansies that wouldn't be missed.  Pleading the fifth amendment, (although I feel I have already paid for my sins), I will not reveal the location or owner.  Shaky-handed, I entered the yard, and snatched dozens of pansies in every color.  Stealing was surprisingly easy.  And it was the first and last time I ever did it.  Swear. 

 I went home and rinsed the blooms, clipped the stems, brushed each petal tenderly with egg wash, sprinkled the glistening sugar, and let the beauties rest in the fridge overnight.  The next morning, I peeked in the fridge, and the flowers looked amazing.  They had curled up a bit, and were dry enough to do their duty in my gastro-artistic plan.  I baked, cooled, and frosted the cupcakes.  Then applied the flowers.  It was the loveliest treat I had ever made.  Right out of a page in Living magazine.  I would surely put this on my resume to Martha.  Looking back, it might not have hurt to mention my criminal background.  

I took pictures, fawned over the cupcakes, tried them out on several platters, to the point that I was making myself late for the Easter engagement for which they were intended.  Finding the perfect platter was a chore, but how to cover them?  Saran wrap was far too confining.  I didn't have a cake stand cover, but I did have Marky.  He could just hold them for the 45-minute drive to El Paso.  Doing my best imitation of June Cleaver, I picked up the platter, swung around to hand them off, and *SLIP*!  

Face down.  All 24 cupcakes.  On the carpet.  We didn't even make it out the door.  I stood there, not breathing.  Marky started picking them up.  After all the picture taking and time wasting, by the grace of Duncan Hines, the frosting was already dry, and didn't leave a trace on our carpet.  And the miraculously vacuumed carpet did them the same favor.  The pansies, however, were smushed.  All the effort to keep the petals curly and light, trashed.  Obviously this was cupkarma for stealing.  I accepted the once delicate statues as bas-relief, and placed them back on the platter.  With Saran wrap.  As we drove, I tried to rationalize not telling my family they would be eating food off the floor.  I would have to tell someone.  Mom could keep a weird secret.  As we walked in, I whispered my confession to her.  She took one look, and assured me, "They'll never know."

Dinner was lovely, and the time had come to unveil my stolen, soiled treat.  I walked to the kitchen, unwrapped the platter, walked to the table, and *SLIP*!  All 24.  On the carpet.  For all to see.  

Don't steal, and don't deceive your family.  Or this'll happen to you.

When the Cat's Away

When I mentioned that my husband was out of town, my coworker got a faraway look in her eye and asked dreamily, "What do you like to do?  You know, when he's gone?"

Great question.  First, when I come home, I don't touch the TV.  That means no Simpsons, no Family Guy.  Oh glory.  I wash my face, and wash the dishes.  Then I stand back and think about how when I come home from work the next day, the dishes will still be clean.  Unless I dirty some.  And even then, I know what to expect upon my arrival.  

Chinese Food.  Like, three times a day.  When Marky and I are struggling to decide where to grab lunch on our days off together, I always suggest Chinese.  Then he always says, in a startlingly Canadian tone, "You know?  Honestly?  Can we choose something else?"  He says it every time I suggest Chinese, to the point that I suggest Chinese, even when I feel like a sandwich, just to hear him say it.  I finally let him in on the joke recently, and he has since changed his reply to, "Eat a dick." I wish I was kidding.  So, back to the Chinese.  I like it all.  Fried rice, orange chicken, chow mein, kung pao, can't get enough.  Oh, and I save so much in dishes using the takeout carton and chopsticks.  Mmm.  I'm getting hungry. 

I watch musicals.  I just finished the Barbra version of A Star is Born.  Last time he was gone, it was the Judy version.  Marky isn't the type to complain if I really needed to watch a musical, but the minute he fell asleep (and that would be minute three), I would feel guilty about boring him.  

Knitting.  Unabashedly, unapologetically.  I could knit for 6 hours if I wanted.  Then take a nap and knit for a couple more.  I knit during the musical.  No one is there to tell me I missed something on the screen.  It doesn't matter.  Well, I think my women's intuition told me to pause each time Kris Kristofferson ripped his shirt off, though.  I like to knit and have a musical playing in the room.  I think that might be what heaven is like.  

I come up with crazy ideas, like trying out for a wedding band, growing tomatoes on the deck, and clipping the cat's nails by myself.  Sometimes these things end badly, but no one needs to know.  

After all that fun, I have a terrible time falling asleep.  The bed is half empty, and I had no one to make me laugh all evening.  In the morning, there's no one to tell me the weather forecast, and that I should think about wearing a jacket.  When I draw a little heart in the surface of my pudding, I'm the only one who sees it.  Thank goodness he'll be home tomorrow.

Happystance

Happystance

A story in two acts  

The First Half of My Day

Day off, thank goodness.  Slept late.  Looked forward to a nice slow day with Marky.  We rode our bikes to the gym and talked about going to an early movie.  Anvil! The Story of Anvil finally made it to the Music Box, and we planned to hit the 5:30 show.  Worked out, came home, talked crazy talk about getting massages.  Then he got a call from a client.  This client wanted a session at 5:30.  Seriously?  Right when we were supposed to go to the movie?  Fine.  Fine.  Money is important, and whatever.  But Marky was still bent on getting these massages.  When I got out of the shower 20 minutes later, he told me he found a place in our neighborhood, and it was pretty inexpensive.  He booked an hour massage for both of us at 3pm.  

We drove to our massage locale.  I won't tell you where it is.  But it was skanky.  SKAN-keh.  There was an accordion-type gate covering the storefront, like the health department had shut her skanky ass down.  We found free parking, though, which is, I guess, worth the risk of SARS.  Upon our approach, we discovered that it was a cosmetology school.  Discount prices?  Check.  I had a sinking feeling when the botox-enhanced cosmetology madam greeted us and introduced us to our lady of the afternoon.  There was only one masseuse.  She planned on piggybacking us.  We didn't have 2 hours to spend.  The madam tried to convince us we just wanted to be in the same room for both massages.  No, we scheduled simultaneous slots.   We argued in three different languages, until the madam gave in with a grand "hmpf," and Marky and I ended up in two different rooms.  Against my better judgment, I disrobed.  

This hour, possibly the longest hour of my life, walked the thin line between a flaccid oily rubdown and borderline sexual assault.  To make matters worse, this learning area was less of a room, and more of a cubicle without a ceiling.  The lights were bright and hot, and you could hear everything going on in every other room through the hall.  Rather than unwind to the enchanting sounds of ocarinas and Native American drums, I listened to the school's administrator arguing with a young woman about her parents' inability to pay their taxes.  Kinda relaxing, I guess.  My mom paid her taxes.  Between the occasional bouts of relaxation, I imagined foreign tourists, quietly strolling through the instruction rooms, taking snapshots of the lavender eyemasked massagees.  I haven't had a lot of massages in my life, but I've never before wished for it to be over so badly.  My student masseuse instructed me to sit upright

And then it happened.  My most unrealistic fear of voyeurism came true.  No knock, no trepidatious entrance, in walked this random guy.  Not an instructor.  Just some guy.  He immediately realized his mistake and walked right out, but wow.  I breathed a sigh of relief, because it really couldn't get any worse than this moment.  A strange man walking into a well lit room to find  me, a small towel, and only a shred of dignity.  I mean, it could be days before I figure out I have ringworm.  

It was all I could do not to pee myself with laughter when the trainee summed the whole experience with, "You're tense!"  Damn right, I was tense.  That tourist that just walked out didn't say anything nice about my hooters.  She graciously showed me the way to the exit, but I had already worked out three separate escape routes in my mind while she was dousing me in Myrrh and Ylang Ylang.  I found Marky, looking disheveled as well, and we giggled nervously upon exiting.  

"Mmm.  Smells like you got some oil with your massage," he cleverly asserted.  

"Yeah," I replied, "didn't they use any oil on you?"

Marky choked with laughter, "No, they didn't even take my shirt off."  Hysterical laughter ensued.  But really, I feel badly for him, because he never even got the chance to be exploited on the internet.  I'm the lucky one.  

The Better Half of My Day

Marky finished his session, and we rode our bikes to the Music Box to see the 7:30 show.  Locked up the bikes, got some popcorn, took a seat in the intimate theater.  There's maybe room for 45 people, the screen is small, plastic grapes and vines hang from the ceiling, it's a terrific way to enjoy a weird documentary.  This guy a couple rows up from us turns around to face his friend.  Mid sentence, I stopped.  I turned to Marky and remarked, "That guy looks like Sting."

"Yeah," he agreed in a hush.  Pause.  "He really does.  I don't remember what I was just talking to you about."

My pulse started to race a little, and then I told myself it just wasn't him.  But then a line of about 10 people filed in.  And they walked right into this guy's row.  "Is it okay if we sit here?" The male leader of the line queried.

And with his telltale husky British tenor, Gordon Sumner quipped, "Well, there's room for you, but honestly, I'd rather sit next to your girlfriend."  

The next 120 minutes were spent trying to be incredibly cool.  Nobody asked for an autograph, no photos.  A pretty respectful crowd, it you ask me.  It was surreal, and I've never been that close to a god of pop music.  I can't say I'm the world's biggest Police fan, but I no one there could deny that we were in the presence of greatness.  And if it hadn't been for Marky's last minute change of plans, we would have missed watching Anvil with Sting.  Good end to a memorable day.  

A Few Good Frogs

During the past month, I've seen some good movies. We usually go to the theater every week, but in an effort to save a little cash, we've been hitting the Netflix pretty hard. Looking back, they're all French movies, but that's just a coincidence. If you have a problem with subtitles, get over it. These are all must see's.

La Vie En Rose. My mom has been suggesting this biopic for awhile. Edith Piaf is a voice you will almost certainly recognize, but might not love. Her style is dated and nasal, but once you watch her story, you will adore that snarly sound every time it pops up on your Billie Holliday Pandora station. Marion Cotillard is an amazingly beautiful actress who completely abandoned her looks for the role of La Môme. Like Mama Cass and Janis Joplin, Edith got by on her talent, not her looks. She had a ton of heart. This is one of the most tragic stories in show business--more than that. It's just a really sad start she got off to, and a sadder end, and I never knew any of it until now. And I share a birthday with her.

Man on Wire. This won for best documentary at the Academy Awards, right? Well, it was deserved. I love documentaries, and this is different than any one I've seen. A full-length feature about a French guy walking a tightrope between New York's Twin Towers. Although that's a monumental task, how could there be enough material for that? Of course, there are 21st century interviews of the international friends who helped him back in the 1970's. Then there's this amazing flashback material. The actors look SO much like the people in the interviews. And a quarter of the way through the film, you realize, they are those people. This story has waited 30 years to be told. This incredibly charismatic person surrounded himself with the most colorful, creative, positive crew he could find to help him achieve his ridiculous dream. And the most beautiful part is that he isn't the one who gets the most emotional about the memory. It was his walk, his art, but his friends seemed more invested in it than him. He was just a vessel for the inspiration to manifest itself.

JCVD. Just watched this last night. I haven't read any reviews, I just want to tell you what I think it was about. Jean Claude Van Damme. I know. The only movie I've ever seen him in is Time Cop. And I don't even know why I saw that in the first place. I'm not much for action movies. I suppose it's because there's no acting, per se, just action. Back to the subject, though, JCVD is a lovely surprise. Here's my take: Something surreal happens to a man who already lives a surreal life. The main character faces a divorce, loses custody of his child, goes home to Belgium, and appears to rob a post office. As far as I can understand (keep in mind, I know nothing about the man), this is not autobiographical. None of these events actually took place, but Jean Claude is portraying himself. And who's to say if he's really a sweet, honorable, horribly misunderstood person en realité? I think it crosses that line wonderfully. JCVD's soliloquy is worth the price of admission. And getting a good long look at that face that has been weathered by camera flashes and abusive cab drivers. Oh, and the cigarette trick--I think he must have done it in a thousand bad kickboxing flicks. Maybe it's because I live with a personal trainer, but his body is amazing. He's still so big and strong for his age. I'm getting simple on you. Sorry. Beautiful movie. Three beautiful movies. Rent them.

When Does a Swatch Become a Remnant?

I almost wrote this as a status update on Facebook, but the thought is just a little too long for that small venue:

Dear Starbuck's Barista,

My apologies for misleading you when I ordered a "large" coffee.  Beaten down by I long day at the office, I was looking forward to some caffeine rejuvenation before an also long rehearsal.  The spouse of a former barista.  I should have known better.  Oh, the mountain of regret as that little word slipped out.  Mea culpa.  I encountered the most basic of syntax errors, but in so quickly (and let's be honest, unnecessarily)  correcting me, so did you.  The word is "venti," pronounced ven-TEE.  Not ven-TAY.     

Let's agree to disagré.

Sincerely,

The Princess of Diction

Thank you, Old Fart. Thank you Judy.

Last night I had the opportunity to grace the stage of one of the highest class establishments in Chicagoland.  In an effort to protect its anonymity, I'll call it "Feet Smeller's."  Also dubbed "The Cougar's Den" and "Blowjob Palace," Feet Smeller's boasts the allure of a frat party and the charm of a pig's slop trough.  Probably responsible for 85% of drunk driving accidents in the greater Wheeling area, Feet Smeller's has never let me down when I really need to see vomit splashed tenderly upon at least two of the 4 ladies' johns.  But enough about the fabulous venue.  Let's get to the patrons.  

We finished our first set without much issue.  Business has been slow since the economic downturn, and the cougars have moved on to greener plains.  Freakonomically speaking, it makes me wonder if people are so strapped for cash that in addition to drinking a few less lattes a week, middle aged women are cutting down on seeking extramarital relations.  Body glitter is a major expense.  Anyway, I chatted with the band, ate some dinner, kept to myself for the most part.  Then the second set.  I should really learn not to leave my seat.  But a girl's gotta get to the bathroom.  As I briskly walked to the back room, I heard someone grunting, "Hey.  Hey.  Miss.  Hey."

I usually ignore people.  I hate to admit it, but if the best you can come up with is, "Hey," I'll probably pretend I have a hearing problem.  But the voice persisted, and a female voice joined in.

"Miss?  Hello?"  So I turned my head.  A nice-enough looking elderly couple sat in the back corner, and they waved me over.  Upon my approach, they both started talking.  The gentleman started.

"We've seen you before," the lady said.

"Oh, really?"  Always be nice to returning patrons.  "Thanks for coming to see us.  Where did you see us before?

The gentleman replied, "Oh, it was Tommy Pescorelli."

Was that any kind of answer?  "Oh, where was that?"

"It was Athens, Georgia," he confidently answered.  

Ok, I really had to pee, and this conversation was going to have to end soon.  "Oh, that wasn't me.  I've never been to Georg---"

"It was twenty years ago," the lady interjected.  "Tommy's son."  I shook my head and began to turn to leave, trying not to make the poor drunk lady feel badly for calling me old.  "No!  It was La Cave!"  

"Oh," I gave in. "I have played there.  Tommy was the owner?"

"No," the man argued, "he's just a friend.  You played there.  You wore a white dress.  Or a yellow dress."  He seemed very sure of himself, but I had finally found my exit.

"Well, I always wear black," and just as this useless conversation was about to come to a neutral end, it took the turn I should have taken seconds earlier.

"Because of your weight?"  

At that moment, I turned on my heel and resumed my brisk walk to the vomitorium.  Seriously?  What did I do to deserve that question?  When we started the third set, I couldn't help but feel some resentment toward the entire crowd.  The Feet Smeller's diners are some of the lamest on earth, and this is far from an isolated incident.  For the first song, I really wanted to make a snarky dedication to the couple in the back, but they were already gone.  And that's what really eats me.  I didn't get the last word.  Through the rest of the evening, I dreamed up great comebacks for that comment.  Here are some ideas:

1. "Well, your fatass wife is wearing white, and she's cool.  I mean, you can hardly detect the Depends through her elastic track suit pants."  

2.  "I would tell you to go fuck yourself, but that would be impossible since the E.D. probably got the better of you around age 80."  

3.  Spill a drink in his lap.  It wouldn't matter if it was hot or cold, because the Depends would protect him from any real harm.  

4.  "You'll have to excuse me, the smell of Ben Gay is making my nauseous, and you better catch that bus back to the home so you don't miss Matlock."

5.  "Thank you for keeping my ego in check"

 Rather than wallow, I grabbed a bottle of Riesling on the way home, and popped in Judy Garland Live at the Palladium.  This was one of the first (if not the very first) times Liza sang with her mom on stage.  Little Liza sang, fought off Judy's attempts to grab her mic, stroked her mother's hair, and ruled the entire show.  Those two were masterful at portraying modesty and graciousness.  I wish I could pretend like them.  

About halfway through this post-hepatitis croakfest, the boys in the audience start yelling, "I love you!"  Judy returned the affection happily.  

Then they made the request.  The request she hated.  

Who wouldn't be sick of Dorothy?  She had made so much music in her short life, but all they wanted was to hear "Rainbow."  This shell of Judy had also been utterly upstaged by her teenage daughter.  She sweetly protested.   When more requests flew at her, she sharply assured them it was on its way, knowing the hit was last on the set list.  If you ever have the chance to watch this concert, don't listen to the words she's saying, just listen to her tone and watch her body language.  Then try to imagine what she's really saying inside.  It's a good thing she didn't bring a gun to that performance.  

After the duets, it was time.  Judy looked for her favorite audience member.  "Liza?  Liza, will you come out here?  Just sit here in front."  Liza dutifully sits cross-legged in front of her mother and adores her.  I think Judy sang about 2 1/2 words before beckoning the crowd to sing along.  She tells Liza to sing, too, but Liza was smarter.  She silently stared at her mama, beaming, holding her hand.  And the audience did all the work.  It was beautiful.