Yeah, well, Willie Nelson might not be able to wait until he's on the road again, but I can't wait to be off, despite going home to Left Bank Books in St. Louis for a warm welcome and good turnout. I love it when they sell out.
People think this book-tour business is the coolest thing since sliced bread -- and it is if you have money and time to truly enjoy being in these truly cool places. Otherwise you're pinching every penny and depending on the kindness of strangers.
Fortunately, there is an upside. For instance, I never tire of being in New Orleans. So when my friend Diana Pinckley arranged a book signing at Octavia Books, one of the loveliest little bookstores ever, it wasn't her fault that it rained. I still got to eat good food and meet lovely people. It especially helps if the sun shines for the duration of a stay in Seattle.
Knowing I'd be in Seattle with next to no money, I sent out a distress call to friends in Columbia, Missouri, who were previous residents of Seattle and still who still had friends in the Emerald City. They hooked me up with not one, but two households who offered bed and board during my 6-day stay.
My first stop was at the home of Margaret Barrett and her husband Joe Cail. He works part time on a salmon fishing boat; she's and aide to her sister who's an attorney. Joe showed me around several favorite haunts that tourists probably never see, including a neighborhood storefront that stocks an estimated 1,000 beers from around the world and local microbrews. Daily draft specials can be consumed on the premises. Margaret served me a delicious rigatoni dinner made with some of the salmon Joe had caught.
Marie Caffrey, who knows practically everybody who's anybody in Seattle (and who, with her late husband the late Walt Crowley founded HistoryLink.org), hosted a lovely dinner party where guests pitched in and we all prepared recipes from the book.
Marie, a dynamo who is also president of the Seattle Library's board of trustees, walked me through all nine floors of the stunningly sculptural central library designed by Rem Koolhaas. She also took me to the famed Seattle Locks and let me hang around long enough to see a series of little boats pass through -- including a drawbridge that had to open for a high-masted sailboat. A nearby 4-year-had nothing on me for wonderment in simple pleasures.
In San Antonio the turnout was sparse, but it coincided with the Saturday farmers market and connected me with Darby Ivins, Molly's niece, who lives there. I wandered around the market before the signing until landing at a counter serving chicken and waffles. Yes: fried chicken and waffles with butter and real maple syrup. It was one of the best breakfasts ever.
A successful signing in Dallas reunited me with people I hadn't seen in years, thanks to a lovely event planned by Liz Baron, who owns Blue Mesa Grill.
Houston took me to Brazos Bookstore. You know you've come to the right place when you walk in and Philip Glass is quietly playing in the background. That was was only a few days after I spoke to the Walker County Democratic Club in Huntsville. For those of you unfamiliar with Huntsville, it is where Texas' infamous executions occur and where there is a cluster of seven (or is it eight?) correctional facilities, called "units," are planted. It is a very conservative community, but the Dems soldier on.
So here they were on a recent Saturday evening; 140 progressive Democrats, gathered to hear Molly stories and chat as I signed and signed until there were no more books. Other than a Houston restaurant experience that brightened my stay with Bill and Connie Habern, two encounters remain standouts.
So Houston first: Connie and I had lunch on the very first day of Gulf oysters on the half shell went on sale for $5.95 a dozen at Pappas Seafood House. Hallelujah! Sweet, plump, fresh-from-the-water oysters. Praise the Lord. I don't care what you scaredy-cats say about risky post-BP seafood, the Pappas family has its own oyster beds and I totally trust their oysters and I scarfed them so there.
Now Huntsville.
Dear Huntsville: Other than its dark side, it has a quaint town square that houses Walker County's Democratic headquarters. So, after a late start from Austin, I embarked on the three-hour drive to the lovely, slightly spooky piney woods of East Texas. As usual I missed a turn and got lost. Reverting to my tried and true method of resolving such mishaps, I stopped at a service station to verify my route, seeking help from the first driver I saw in a busted-up panel truck -- a good way to identify a local resident.
"Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me how to get to Huntsville from here?" He looked me over for a second or so. "Yes ma'm," he replied solemnly (manners are still important in most of Texas).
"Which unit y'lookin for?"
Next stops: San Francisco, Colorado and Galveston.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Box It Up
I often giggle at my best friend's penchant for snow globes, and only recently have I learned that she also has a thing for the Infant of Prague, which accounts for the collection she has in her guest room -- and she's not even a Roman Catholic, but that's too long a story to detail here. The point is that upon reflection I recently realized that without initially realizing it, I too collect.
Boxes.
I don't have many, but the ones I have are sufficiently special that I remember how i came by them. The hand-made, heart-shaped one is from Karachi Michael gave me. When I visited Oaxaca for a friend's wedding anniversary I bought a handcrafted oval raffia box from a street vendor.
For my 50th birthday my daughter Hannah made a suede-covered jewelry box for me. It has compartments and is silk-lined and one of the few things I never pack in a box when I move; I put it on the back seat of the car. Hannah once worked for a small company that hand-crafted calendars, notepaper, holiday ornaments and boxes. She applied skills learned there to this wonderful gift.
Even before that, she made 21 Victorian-style Christmas tree ornaments on the eve of her 21st birthday to celebrate the 21 years we had been mother and daughter. The plain cardboard box that holds them travels in the car with the jewelry box.
For my 60th birthday, Susan, a dear Dallas friend, covered every surface of a box, inside and out, top to bottom, with a collage comprised of hundreds of representations of every facet of my life in Texas up to that point -- favorite restaurants, quotes, favorite foods, vacations, photocopied photographs -- everything that had to do with anything related to my life and work in the Lone Star state. It was (is) amazing. I use it to store photographs that have yet to make it into an album (feel free to complete the phrase: "...and never will").
When I moved form Texas to Colorado and back to Texas again, Susan's box moved in its own box on the back seat, next to the jewelry box in which I pack the heart on top of the photographs.
Now comes a new and wonderful box. Remember the Infant of Prague friend, the one I've know for multiple decades? She took the cover from her edition of my Molly Ivins book and decoupaged it onto a metal box, covering it top to bottom with the dust jacket and flaps. Rose didn't just laboriously cut and arrange pieces to fit; she then filled the box with hand-made truffles dusted with cocoa powder.
When I shared the contents at a dinner party for six, I graciously set out a bowl of Clementines and a small dessert plate of 12 of the truffles on a bed of Marcona almonds. Guests who thought I had been clever enough to launch my own marketing strategy to further promote the book. asked where they could buy one. It too will have a place on the back seat should I get crazy enough to move again.
I can see it now: state trooper pulls me over, looks in the back seat and says "what's in the boxes?"
And I'll say, "Love."
So remember -- Feb. 14 isn't necessarily about romance, fancy meals, flowers and chocolate: its real value rests in the joy borne of having a special person care enough to do something super-special for you.
Have a nice Valentine's Day.
Boxes.
I don't have many, but the ones I have are sufficiently special that I remember how i came by them. The hand-made, heart-shaped one is from Karachi Michael gave me. When I visited Oaxaca for a friend's wedding anniversary I bought a handcrafted oval raffia box from a street vendor.
For my 50th birthday my daughter Hannah made a suede-covered jewelry box for me. It has compartments and is silk-lined and one of the few things I never pack in a box when I move; I put it on the back seat of the car. Hannah once worked for a small company that hand-crafted calendars, notepaper, holiday ornaments and boxes. She applied skills learned there to this wonderful gift.
Even before that, she made 21 Victorian-style Christmas tree ornaments on the eve of her 21st birthday to celebrate the 21 years we had been mother and daughter. The plain cardboard box that holds them travels in the car with the jewelry box.
For my 60th birthday, Susan, a dear Dallas friend, covered every surface of a box, inside and out, top to bottom, with a collage comprised of hundreds of representations of every facet of my life in Texas up to that point -- favorite restaurants, quotes, favorite foods, vacations, photocopied photographs -- everything that had to do with anything related to my life and work in the Lone Star state. It was (is) amazing. I use it to store photographs that have yet to make it into an album (feel free to complete the phrase: "...and never will").
When I moved form Texas to Colorado and back to Texas again, Susan's box moved in its own box on the back seat, next to the jewelry box in which I pack the heart on top of the photographs.
Now comes a new and wonderful box. Remember the Infant of Prague friend, the one I've know for multiple decades? She took the cover from her edition of my Molly Ivins book and decoupaged it onto a metal box, covering it top to bottom with the dust jacket and flaps. Rose didn't just laboriously cut and arrange pieces to fit; she then filled the box with hand-made truffles dusted with cocoa powder.
When I shared the contents at a dinner party for six, I graciously set out a bowl of Clementines and a small dessert plate of 12 of the truffles on a bed of Marcona almonds. Guests who thought I had been clever enough to launch my own marketing strategy to further promote the book. asked where they could buy one. It too will have a place on the back seat should I get crazy enough to move again.
I can see it now: state trooper pulls me over, looks in the back seat and says "what's in the boxes?"
And I'll say, "Love."
So remember -- Feb. 14 isn't necessarily about romance, fancy meals, flowers and chocolate: its real value rests in the joy borne of having a special person care enough to do something super-special for you.
Have a nice Valentine's Day.
Boxing
I often giggle at my best friend's penchant for snow globes, and only recently have I learned that she also has a thing for the Infant of Prague, which accounts for the collection she has in her guest room -- and she's not even a Roman Catholic, but that's too long a story to detail here. The point is that upon reflection I recently realized that without initially realizing it, I too collect.
Boxes.
I don't have many, but the ones I have are sufficiently special that I remember how i came by them. The hand-made, heart-shaped one is from Karachi Michael gave me. When I visited Oaxaca for a friend's wedding anniversary I bought a handcrafted oval raffia box from a street vendor.
For my 50th birthday my daughter Hannah made a suede-covered jewelry box for me. It has compartments and is silk-lined and one of the few things I never pack in a box when I move; I put it on the back seat of the car. Hannah once worked for a small company that hand-crafted calendars, notepaper, holiday ornaments and boxes. She applied skills learned there to this wonderful gift.
Even before that, she made 21 Victorian-style Christmas tree ornaments on the eve of her 21st birthday to celebrate the 21 years we had been mother and daughter. The plain cardboard box that holds them travels in the car with the jewelry box.
For my 60th birthday, Susan, a dear Dallas friend, covered every surface of a box, inside and out, top to bottom, with a collage comprised of hundreds of representations of every facet of my life in Texas up to that point -- favorite restaurants, quotes, favorite foods, vacations, photocopied photographs -- everything that had to do with anything related to my life and work in the Lone Star state. It was (is) amazing. I use it to store photographs that have yet to make it into an album (feel free to complete the phrase: "...and never will").
When I moved form Texas to Colorado and back to Texas again, Susan's box moved in its own box on the back seat, next to the jewelry box in which I pack the heart on top of the photographs.
Now comes a new and wonderful box. Remember the Infant of Prague friend, the one I've know for multiple decades? She took the cover from her edition of my Molly Ivins book and decoupaged it onto a metal box, covering it top to bottom with the dust jacket and flaps. Rose didn't just laboriously cut and arrange pieces to fit; she then filled the box with hand-made truffles dusted with cocoa powder.
When I shared the contents at a dinner party for six, I graciously set out a bowl of Clementines and a small dessert plate of 12 of the truffles on a bed of Marcona almonds. Guests who thought I had been clever enough to launch my own marketing strategy to further promote the book. asked where they could buy one. It too will have a place on the back seat should I get crazy enough to move again.
I can see it now: state trooper pulls me over, looks in the back seat and says "what's in the boxes?"
And I'll say, "Love."
So remember -- Feb. 14 isn't necessarily about romance, fancy meals, flowers and chocolate: its real value rests in the joy borne of having a special person care enough to do something super-special for you.
Have a nice Valentine's Day.
Boxes.
I don't have many, but the ones I have are sufficiently special that I remember how i came by them. The hand-made, heart-shaped one is from Karachi Michael gave me. When I visited Oaxaca for a friend's wedding anniversary I bought a handcrafted oval raffia box from a street vendor.
For my 50th birthday my daughter Hannah made a suede-covered jewelry box for me. It has compartments and is silk-lined and one of the few things I never pack in a box when I move; I put it on the back seat of the car. Hannah once worked for a small company that hand-crafted calendars, notepaper, holiday ornaments and boxes. She applied skills learned there to this wonderful gift.
Even before that, she made 21 Victorian-style Christmas tree ornaments on the eve of her 21st birthday to celebrate the 21 years we had been mother and daughter. The plain cardboard box that holds them travels in the car with the jewelry box.
For my 60th birthday, Susan, a dear Dallas friend, covered every surface of a box, inside and out, top to bottom, with a collage comprised of hundreds of representations of every facet of my life in Texas up to that point -- favorite restaurants, quotes, favorite foods, vacations, photocopied photographs -- everything that had to do with anything related to my life and work in the Lone Star state. It was (is) amazing. I use it to store photographs that have yet to make it into an album (feel free to complete the phrase: "...and never will").
When I moved form Texas to Colorado and back to Texas again, Susan's box moved in its own box on the back seat, next to the jewelry box in which I pack the heart on top of the photographs.
Now comes a new and wonderful box. Remember the Infant of Prague friend, the one I've know for multiple decades? She took the cover from her edition of my Molly Ivins book and decoupaged it onto a metal box, covering it top to bottom with the dust jacket and flaps. Rose didn't just laboriously cut and arrange pieces to fit; she then filled the box with hand-made truffles dusted with cocoa powder.
When I shared the contents at a dinner party for six, I graciously set out a bowl of Clementines and a small dessert plate of 12 of the truffles on a bed of Marcona almonds. Guests who thought I had been clever enough to launch my own marketing strategy to further promote the book. asked where they could buy one. It too will have a place on the back seat should I get crazy enough to move again.
I can see it now: state trooper pulls me over, looks in the back seat and says "what's in the boxes?"
And I'll say, "Love."
So remember -- Feb. 14 isn't necessarily about romance, fancy meals, flowers and chocolate: its real value rests in the joy borne of having a special person care enough to do something super-special for you.
Have a nice Valentine's Day.
Monday, January 30, 2012
A Day To Remember
Weird, how memory works. Ask people of a certain age where they were when Kennedy was shot and they can tell you. Ask some younger folks what they were doing when they heard the World Trade Center Towers had fallen, and they too can cite time and place. Ask folks in Austin what they were doing when word reached them that Molly Ivins had died, and they can do the same.
When I learned of Molly's death on Jan. 31, 2007,I was sitting at my desk at The Denver Post, putting the finishing touches on a cover story for the food section. It was to run while I was away and I wanted to make sure all the pieces were in the right place.
I was going to be away because, as I had in years past, I would travel to Austin to be with Molly on my birthday. It had become a running joke -- I would come for my birthday dinner, she would whip out her credit card and buy whatever goodness was to comprise the appetizer, salad, entree, dessert and drinks. And in a grandiose gensture of magnamity, she would sit, sip Chardonnay and keep me company while I prepared the meal.
Only this time the meal would be no joke. I had last seen her after Christmas. I had just missed her Elvis tree trimming party, but came anyway to say 'hi'. We knew, though, it was more like a farewell. So yes, I was coming to Austin for my birthday, but I knew I would just make soup and hope that she had the strength to swallow it. It would be my last with her.
So there I sat, that January 31st day five years ago, editing what I had typed, watching the clock, knowing I still had to go home, do laundry, pack and be up at the crack of dawn to catch my flight. At aboug 4:30 the phone rang. I snatched it up, not wanting to waste a moment talking to somebody wanting to pitch a story or complain about a story or to ask whether a story had been scheduled yet.
But the call didn't address any of those issues.
It was Lou Dubose, co-author on the last three of Molly's six books. At first there was no response when I barked "Sweets!" into the receiver. Then a man, his voice, audibly cracking just said, "Ellen, it's Lou. She's gone. It's over." That was it. I thanked him and said I would be there the next day.
For whatever reason, I thought about that conversation when I was in San Antonio last weekend. Some guy sat down in the circle of chairs that had been arranged for my reading and signing at the Twig bookstore. He picked up the book on display, regarded it with disdain and huffed, "Hrumph. Molly Ivins. What new junk is she writing now?" Before I could take a deep breath and tell him he needn't fret on account of how she had been dead for five years, a woman who had bought two books snapped, "She didn't write junk and if you think she wrote junk, why are you sitting here?"
And with that he regarded the eyes now all on him, got up, broke eye contact and walked away. I signed a few more books, chatted with a few more Molly fans and thanked them for coming.
On the 90-minute drive back to Austin I recalled that brief exchange, remembered Lou's call and thought to myself: No, as long as there are bigots and mean-spirited people and writers who challenge their narrow-minded world view it's not over. Molly lives on through them and the publications with the courage to print what they write.
And Jan. 31 still remains a day to remember.
When I learned of Molly's death on Jan. 31, 2007,I was sitting at my desk at The Denver Post, putting the finishing touches on a cover story for the food section. It was to run while I was away and I wanted to make sure all the pieces were in the right place.
I was going to be away because, as I had in years past, I would travel to Austin to be with Molly on my birthday. It had become a running joke -- I would come for my birthday dinner, she would whip out her credit card and buy whatever goodness was to comprise the appetizer, salad, entree, dessert and drinks. And in a grandiose gensture of magnamity, she would sit, sip Chardonnay and keep me company while I prepared the meal.
Only this time the meal would be no joke. I had last seen her after Christmas. I had just missed her Elvis tree trimming party, but came anyway to say 'hi'. We knew, though, it was more like a farewell. So yes, I was coming to Austin for my birthday, but I knew I would just make soup and hope that she had the strength to swallow it. It would be my last with her.
So there I sat, that January 31st day five years ago, editing what I had typed, watching the clock, knowing I still had to go home, do laundry, pack and be up at the crack of dawn to catch my flight. At aboug 4:30 the phone rang. I snatched it up, not wanting to waste a moment talking to somebody wanting to pitch a story or complain about a story or to ask whether a story had been scheduled yet.
But the call didn't address any of those issues.
It was Lou Dubose, co-author on the last three of Molly's six books. At first there was no response when I barked "Sweets!" into the receiver. Then a man, his voice, audibly cracking just said, "Ellen, it's Lou. She's gone. It's over." That was it. I thanked him and said I would be there the next day.
For whatever reason, I thought about that conversation when I was in San Antonio last weekend. Some guy sat down in the circle of chairs that had been arranged for my reading and signing at the Twig bookstore. He picked up the book on display, regarded it with disdain and huffed, "Hrumph. Molly Ivins. What new junk is she writing now?" Before I could take a deep breath and tell him he needn't fret on account of how she had been dead for five years, a woman who had bought two books snapped, "She didn't write junk and if you think she wrote junk, why are you sitting here?"
And with that he regarded the eyes now all on him, got up, broke eye contact and walked away. I signed a few more books, chatted with a few more Molly fans and thanked them for coming.
On the 90-minute drive back to Austin I recalled that brief exchange, remembered Lou's call and thought to myself: No, as long as there are bigots and mean-spirited people and writers who challenge their narrow-minded world view it's not over. Molly lives on through them and the publications with the courage to print what they write.
And Jan. 31 still remains a day to remember.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
On The Road Again
Well, here it is, all of not-quite 20 days worth of 2012, and I'm about head north on Interstate 35 to Big D, where the good folks at the Dallas Market Center's Gourmet Food Show invited me to do a cooking demonstration, and (I hope) a lot of book signing. It should make for an interesting outing.
Because I am pretty much a kitchen coward in public, I'm sticking to an easy recipe -- my beloved Kick-Ass Tuna Salad. It came about years ago when I was first invited to one of Molly's Final Friday events -- that's when like-minded political progressives gather on, yes the last Friday of the month, to whimper and whine about whatever topic is up for grabs. If the weather's nice they sing or recite home-grown political poetry and talk about how nice the weather is.
All this Friday night socializing is accompanied by food and booze. My first time out of the gate I didn't know what to bring. Beer seemed too unimaginative, but the budget wouldn't allow for anything beyond the price of a six-pack.
So I looked in my pantry. That was depressing. Campbell's soup was well represented, as were spaghetti, rice and saltines. The fridge wasn't exactly a cheery sight either. I did, however, have a couple of cans of tuna packed in water.
Then I remembered: I had a small jar of capers.
And a little can of chopped black olives.
And a tablespoonful of anchovy paste.
And part of a red onion that was only a day or two old and a few stalks of celery and eggs.
It came to me: a tuna salad with enough ingredients to take it past mayo and celery, paprika and hard-boiled eggs.
I dumped it all together, threw in a little dill weed for good measure, some mayonnaise, a pinch of savory and a bit of dried chopped parsley, a dash of Dijon mustard and prayed for a good result. I made it the night before I was to make the drive from Dallas to Austin, so the flavors had a chance to meld.
Well, long story short, that evening someone who dug a Ritz cracker into the bowl was heard to exclaim, "Damn; this is tuna salad? This is one kick-ass tuna salad."
And voila, a star was born.
It was even a hit in Washington, D.C. at the National Press Club's Author's Night when it didn't have a chance to sit overnight. I made it in the Press Club's kitchen and put it out so people could nosh as they perused the book. They came, they snacked, they bought. A couple of people didn't even believe it was tuna salad, so three cheers for capers, chopped black olives, anchovy paste, dill weed, et al.
Anyway, I'm demonstrating the how to assemble this culinary masterpiece in Dallas. , in the fervent hope that it won't go the way of any of the faux pas from Julia Child's kitchen. If I could, I'd invite you all to come see me make a spectacle of myself, but alas, it's open only to folks attending the food show.
On the other hand, if you're planning to be in San Antonio on Jan. 28, and you find your way to The Twig Bookstore between 11 am and 1 pm, I'll be there too, only sans tuna salad.
Or, if you find your self in Seattle on Feb. 5 and snow hasn't paralyzed the city, come to the Elliott Bay Bookstore.
Meanwhile, stay tuned for future signings in Texas and elsewhere.
I've been alerted that there might be mimosas before the demo.
Oh dear.
Because I am pretty much a kitchen coward in public, I'm sticking to an easy recipe -- my beloved Kick-Ass Tuna Salad. It came about years ago when I was first invited to one of Molly's Final Friday events -- that's when like-minded political progressives gather on, yes the last Friday of the month, to whimper and whine about whatever topic is up for grabs. If the weather's nice they sing or recite home-grown political poetry and talk about how nice the weather is.
All this Friday night socializing is accompanied by food and booze. My first time out of the gate I didn't know what to bring. Beer seemed too unimaginative, but the budget wouldn't allow for anything beyond the price of a six-pack.
So I looked in my pantry. That was depressing. Campbell's soup was well represented, as were spaghetti, rice and saltines. The fridge wasn't exactly a cheery sight either. I did, however, have a couple of cans of tuna packed in water.
Then I remembered: I had a small jar of capers.
And a little can of chopped black olives.
And a tablespoonful of anchovy paste.
And part of a red onion that was only a day or two old and a few stalks of celery and eggs.
It came to me: a tuna salad with enough ingredients to take it past mayo and celery, paprika and hard-boiled eggs.
I dumped it all together, threw in a little dill weed for good measure, some mayonnaise, a pinch of savory and a bit of dried chopped parsley, a dash of Dijon mustard and prayed for a good result. I made it the night before I was to make the drive from Dallas to Austin, so the flavors had a chance to meld.
Well, long story short, that evening someone who dug a Ritz cracker into the bowl was heard to exclaim, "Damn; this is tuna salad? This is one kick-ass tuna salad."
And voila, a star was born.
It was even a hit in Washington, D.C. at the National Press Club's Author's Night when it didn't have a chance to sit overnight. I made it in the Press Club's kitchen and put it out so people could nosh as they perused the book. They came, they snacked, they bought. A couple of people didn't even believe it was tuna salad, so three cheers for capers, chopped black olives, anchovy paste, dill weed, et al.
Anyway, I'm demonstrating the how to assemble this culinary masterpiece in Dallas. , in the fervent hope that it won't go the way of any of the faux pas from Julia Child's kitchen. If I could, I'd invite you all to come see me make a spectacle of myself, but alas, it's open only to folks attending the food show.
On the other hand, if you're planning to be in San Antonio on Jan. 28, and you find your way to The Twig Bookstore between 11 am and 1 pm, I'll be there too, only sans tuna salad.
Or, if you find your self in Seattle on Feb. 5 and snow hasn't paralyzed the city, come to the Elliott Bay Bookstore.
Meanwhile, stay tuned for future signings in Texas and elsewhere.
I've been alerted that there might be mimosas before the demo.
Oh dear.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Adios 2011, Bienvenido 2012
This will, of necessity, be brief:
Tomorrow will mark my daughter's $%st birthday and the first time in years that we've been together in a place where I could cook her favorite foods. So as soon as I send this off into the ether I'll resume chopping onions, celery, bell pepper, garlic and fresh okra. Then I'll heat two cups of oil, add two cups of flour and then stand and stir and stand and stir and stand and stir until the mixture -- en route to becoming a mahogany roux -- reaches the desired stage of brownness.
In will go the onions, peppers, celery, garlic, bay leaves, thyme, a touch of basil and a smidge of oregano. When all are wilted and heated through I'll add the seafood stock made from shrimp shells and heads, let them simmer. On to the pot of vegetarian black-eyed peas, which will have its own blend of onions, red bell peppers, celery, and garlic. I still have two pounds of fresh blackeyes purchased on my last visit to New Orleans. With the addition of more thyme, more basil, Crystal hot sauce, vegetable stock, another pound of peas bought locally, and a dollop of liquid smoke -- a nod to the vegetarians who will join us -- pot number two will be in full simmer.
I'll add the Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, shrimp, oysters and crabmeat when I heat the gumbo tomorrow.
As guests arrive somewhere around 7 o'clock, I'll heat the andouille through in the oven, slice it and put it in a separate bowl -- a nod to our Jewish friends who don't eat pork. As the hors d'oeuvres supply dwindles down to a few almonds, olives and cheese chunks, the cornbread will go in -- two pans with bacon, two pans without. Within 30 minutes the room will go quiet and those who have found a space to sit and eat will chow down as everyone else finds a spot standing at the kitchen counter or adjourns to my office or, if it's still warm enough, to the patio table I would have cleaned if I'd thought people might end up eating outside.
I have no idea how many people will turn up. Some will be my daughter's friends; some will be mine. We planned a guest list, but then started inviting people we thought would either be alone on New Year's Day or who would add life to the gathering. Their ages will range from early 20s to early 70s. Mixing and mingling with friends across a generation will be a wonderful way to start the new year, made perfect if I wake up and find the dishes washed, the food put away, and no one asleep in the bathtubs.
Happy New Year, and may 2012 find you stirring it up at every opportunity.
Tomorrow will mark my daughter's $%st birthday and the first time in years that we've been together in a place where I could cook her favorite foods. So as soon as I send this off into the ether I'll resume chopping onions, celery, bell pepper, garlic and fresh okra. Then I'll heat two cups of oil, add two cups of flour and then stand and stir and stand and stir and stand and stir until the mixture -- en route to becoming a mahogany roux -- reaches the desired stage of brownness.
In will go the onions, peppers, celery, garlic, bay leaves, thyme, a touch of basil and a smidge of oregano. When all are wilted and heated through I'll add the seafood stock made from shrimp shells and heads, let them simmer. On to the pot of vegetarian black-eyed peas, which will have its own blend of onions, red bell peppers, celery, and garlic. I still have two pounds of fresh blackeyes purchased on my last visit to New Orleans. With the addition of more thyme, more basil, Crystal hot sauce, vegetable stock, another pound of peas bought locally, and a dollop of liquid smoke -- a nod to the vegetarians who will join us -- pot number two will be in full simmer.
I'll add the Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, shrimp, oysters and crabmeat when I heat the gumbo tomorrow.
As guests arrive somewhere around 7 o'clock, I'll heat the andouille through in the oven, slice it and put it in a separate bowl -- a nod to our Jewish friends who don't eat pork. As the hors d'oeuvres supply dwindles down to a few almonds, olives and cheese chunks, the cornbread will go in -- two pans with bacon, two pans without. Within 30 minutes the room will go quiet and those who have found a space to sit and eat will chow down as everyone else finds a spot standing at the kitchen counter or adjourns to my office or, if it's still warm enough, to the patio table I would have cleaned if I'd thought people might end up eating outside.
I have no idea how many people will turn up. Some will be my daughter's friends; some will be mine. We planned a guest list, but then started inviting people we thought would either be alone on New Year's Day or who would add life to the gathering. Their ages will range from early 20s to early 70s. Mixing and mingling with friends across a generation will be a wonderful way to start the new year, made perfect if I wake up and find the dishes washed, the food put away, and no one asleep in the bathtubs.
Happy New Year, and may 2012 find you stirring it up at every opportunity.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Justice for Danny Chen
In the interest of preserving what little remains of my mental health, I steer clear of horrible news as the holidays close in. I do this with full knowledge that this is a luxury not shared by those who are party to such news. But since there is no remediation on my end, I avoid.
Except a day or two ago, when Danny Chen's name came up.
Chen, a 19-year-old soldier deployed to Afghanistan, was allegedly dragged out of bed, forced to do push ups while holding a mouthful of water, and pelted with rocks and racial slurs. He reportedly subsequently went into a watch tower and blew his brains out -- all this because he forgot to turn off a water heater used for showers. NPR addict that I am, I was about to turn away from this "Talk of the Nation" discussion, when a man called in from Dallas. Always curious about what my fellow Texans have to say about anything, I listened in horror as the caller described how he too had been hazed thought it was pretty funny.
Seems this particular hazee was forced to run a gauntlet where he too was pelted -- I am not making this up -- with "those spongy female body parts, you know the kind that look real." See, the guys were just having fun, "making us do stuff with them." Mercifully the host didn't seek details. I had to pull onto a service station lot because I thought my head would explode. Well, the caller continued, yes, it was embarrassing, but he didn't really see anything wrong with it.
Well the usually slow-to-react military did see a lot wrong with what happened to Private Chen. Eight members of his battalion have been charged in addition to a lieutenant and a sergeant. Chen was the second Asian-American this year known to have committed suicide as a result of hazing. (The first was Marine Corporal Harry Lew).
There I sat, looking at the car radio, wondering why this caller couldn't have been from Oklahoma or Idaho or one of those Dakotas we rarely think about. Why do Texans keep coming off as disproportionally endowed with a doofus factor? Maybe some sort of IQ test should be required of people who want to subscribe to phone service and call talk radio.
Except a day or two ago, when Danny Chen's name came up.
Chen, a 19-year-old soldier deployed to Afghanistan, was allegedly dragged out of bed, forced to do push ups while holding a mouthful of water, and pelted with rocks and racial slurs. He reportedly subsequently went into a watch tower and blew his brains out -- all this because he forgot to turn off a water heater used for showers. NPR addict that I am, I was about to turn away from this "Talk of the Nation" discussion, when a man called in from Dallas. Always curious about what my fellow Texans have to say about anything, I listened in horror as the caller described how he too had been hazed thought it was pretty funny.
Seems this particular hazee was forced to run a gauntlet where he too was pelted -- I am not making this up -- with "those spongy female body parts, you know the kind that look real." See, the guys were just having fun, "making us do stuff with them." Mercifully the host didn't seek details. I had to pull onto a service station lot because I thought my head would explode. Well, the caller continued, yes, it was embarrassing, but he didn't really see anything wrong with it.
Well the usually slow-to-react military did see a lot wrong with what happened to Private Chen. Eight members of his battalion have been charged in addition to a lieutenant and a sergeant. Chen was the second Asian-American this year known to have committed suicide as a result of hazing. (The first was Marine Corporal Harry Lew).
There I sat, looking at the car radio, wondering why this caller couldn't have been from Oklahoma or Idaho or one of those Dakotas we rarely think about. Why do Texans keep coming off as disproportionally endowed with a doofus factor? Maybe some sort of IQ test should be required of people who want to subscribe to phone service and call talk radio.
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