Grand Tetons National Park: Phelps Lake and Family Fun.

Somewhere in the middle of Idaho.  Adventures awaiting.

Living in the wild west means I am perpetually hounded by the trips I should be taking.  It is no secret that I don't plan to live in Utah forever and so my mind has a list of must-sees about a mile long that may or may not get seen but feel urgent nevertheless.  My current, incomplete, western bucket-list goes something like this (right now; it changes constantly and is in somewhat random order):

1. Sequoia National Park
2. Seattle & Vancouver to gorge myself / see my dad
3. Brice Canyon
4. Lake Powell
5. Yellowstone National Park / Grand Tetons National Park
6. Hike at least one Slot Canyon
7. The Grand Canyon (even if just for the photo op)
8. Canyonlands National Park (gotta take a pic at Mesa Arch!)
9. See St. George (I've heard it's a cooler town as Utah goes)
10. Disneyland / Legoland (threw that in for Roman's sake)
11. Zion National Park
12. Grand Sand Dunes National Park in CO (we never made it there!)
13. Have a raspberry shake at Bear Lake during raspberry days
14. The Ogden Rodeo
15. Drive to the top of at least 1 mountain in Utah
16. Go camping at least once in Utah
17. Rent an RV and drive around the west with the kiddos
18. Las Vegas (never been!)
19. Go back to Park City
20. Go to Provo

Ironically, I did not realize we only live about a 4 hour drive away from Grand Teton National Park and 6 from Yellowstone National Park.  Upon being enlightened, those two things quickly moved up to the top of my bucket list because, well, duh, but also because it's the 150 year anniversary of the National Park system and I am a lover of nature.

Jackson Hole, WY

Neither Matt nor I had ever been to either of these parks but we determined that with 3 small children it would be impossible to do them "right," and so we flew by the seat of our pants, focusing only on Grand Tetons National Park.  I looked up a family-friendly hike on my phone as we cruised the open roads of Idaho, and, for once, food was not a priority on this trip.  I focused on having a nice time hiking in the park for a few hours and getting back to our hotel where we could exhaust the children at the awesome waterfall-filled, fake-bear-decorated pool, and perhaps get a rustic bite to eat at a local game-restaurant.

Roman admiring the river on an overlook.

It was a good plan and we were gainfully rewarded when we took the advice of other travelers and hiked the short, 3-mile roundtrip to Phelps Lake in the Rockefeller Preserve within Grand Tetons National Park.  It was uncrowded (possibly due to the patchy weather) and included multiple fun stops for the boys, among which was a waterfall with a metal walkway directly against it so that the boys could grab at the water and splash each other.  The ever-present danger of black and grizzly bears in the park is something I simply could not let go of and it did cause some stress during our hike (especially with the wee ones), but I decided the best way to keep the bears away was to sing loudly with Roman.  That meant ceaseless repetition of old Girl Scout classics like "My Grandfather's Clock," "The Gay Old Desperado," "I Said A-Boom-Chicka-Boom," "Daisy on my Toe," and some songs Roman decided to make up including an unforgettable rendition of "Jingle Farts" (sung to the tune of "Jingle Bells," of course).  I'm fairly certain the bears stayed away out of annoyance.  Mission accomplished.

On our hike we encountered a deer only 1-2 feet away from the trail; he was so accustomed to humans that he just stood there looking at us as we passed.  I was nearly driven mad by the bountiful collections of mushrooms in bloom, among them many lovely Morels, all of which are highly verboten to pick at any National Park.  The compulsion to get them almost drove me to break Federal law, but I stayed strong.  Alex was miserable for most of the hike (read: until we got to the lake and it was snack time) and I can't decide if it was because we woke him from a nap to hike (without offering coffee), or if his little hiking boots are getting too small.  Either way, I felt bad because he's too big to carry anymore, and anyway, I was carrying Linus.  Linus was a trooper for the most part, but decided to punish us by having a somewhat intense #2 diaper situation in the middle of the hike (and, as luck would have it, we forgot the wipes).  Disaster was averted and we made it to the lake without too much incident and delay.  When we got there Matt admitted he'd been trying to hurry us along so we could do a longer hike than we'd intended (there is another 2 miles around the lake), but it had become abundantly clear that the 3-mile round trip was more than enough for everyone.

*  *  *

Snacks and "Peace" at Phelps Lake

Phelps Lake was breathtaking.  Not only is everything painfully pristine in the Grand Tetons, but we also happened to be there on a day of on-and-off rain storms.  When we arrived at the lake the land was in a state of perfectly screaming pigmentation as a small storm had just passed.  It was sunny and blue-skyed, the water was invitingly emerald with the backdrop of the snowcapped Tetons and framed with towering pines and evergreens.  I've become somewhat jaded about the beauty of the mountains because we live in such close proximity to them; sometimes it just doesn't feel as exciting anymore, but this view and this environment left me speechless, kind of the way Acadia National Park did.  I wanted to sit still and silent and absorb it.  I got about 3 seconds of peace to do that.  Then I was brought back to reality with the squeals of two little boys chasing chipmunks all around me, bounding into piles of pine needles, chugging gatorade, and screaming and giggling non-stop.  Hey, I didn't say it was a bad reality, just not very peaceful. :)  Matt and I snacked on Spanish chorizo and the boys enjoyed goldfish and other sundry snackies.  All that was missing was a nice glass of wine.

Phelps Lake: Fresh air is good for the soul.

We stayed at a lovely resort called the Snake River Lodge and Spa in Teton village, a ski village just outside Jackson Hole.  The whole thing looks like a modern Swiss or Austrian village, and is nestled right on the side of the Tetons with ski-in-ski-out access being a perk widely advertised in our hotel.

We were greeted by a double rainbow at the end of our hike,
and just dodged a downpour.

In the off-season it was just wonderful.  Not too many guests, a great facility with a beautiful indoor/outdoor pool, and a restaurant or two just a short walk away.  That evening we had dinner at the local Wyoming-themed restaurant called The Mangy Moose.  The boys loved the name and the moose face on the sign.  They also loved the extensive taxidermy and antique ski articles hung all over the inside of the restaurant.  We were seated at a large table set into a small alcove, facing out on a main dining area, making it a semi-private dining experience and an easy place to corral little ones. Amazingly, this dinner was a landmark for our family.  It was one of the first and only times that all three boys have willingly sat down to eat without complaining and interacted in a decently civil manner with us.  I ordered a rabbit and venison meatloaf that came with broccolini and mashed potatoes, and Matt had elk sausage and the same sides.  We also had fried pickles to start and were very pleased to see that they were sour gherkins battered and fried whole.  They were delicious.  Roman was forced to try one but, alas, he still hates pickles no matter how much we harass him.  Alex gobbled one up and so did Linus.  The boys had mac n cheese and tried some of our food.  As a reward for the good behavior, we ordered a Mud Fudge cake and it was the biggest piece of ice cream cake I have ever seen.  The boys pounced.  Matt described it as we were throwing carcasses to vultures.  They simply would not stop until it had been devoured and were then energized, bordering on maniacal, for a quick dip in the hotel pool.

A view to the Tetons from the start of the Phelps Lake trail.

We returned home early the next day, Memorial day, (sadly two of us became very ill with a stomach bug Alex had had), good memories in our hearts and a determination to soon come back, this time to Yellowstone, in our minds.  But, really, who knows what the next adventure will be!

The Summer Wind.

Dennis Port, Cape Cod, MA 2013

The Summer wind
came blowin' in, from across the sea.

It lingered there to touch your hair

and walk with me.

All summer long we sang a song

and then we strolled that golden sand -

Two sweethearts - and the summer wind.

Frank Sinatra / Lyrics by Johnny Mercer

*  *  *

NOTE: I found this unfinished post in my drafts and decided it was worthy of posting despite being 3 years old.  It was nice to look back at that lovely summer of 2013, now in the Spring of 2016, when we only had Roman and were enjoying the best of times in Denver and New England with friends and family.  

*  *  *

This post is meant to be an ode to the end of summer.  Maybe it's this week's 3-day torrential downpour and the ensuing basement mini-flood that has inspired me to reflect so fondly - nostalgically, already - on this past summer, but I think more accurately it has to do with the idyllic week we just spent in New England.  Part-vacation, part-family-visit, part-wedding-celebration for Matt's brother.  We all had such an enjoyable time.  And there is something very special about a family being "complete" in the sense that all our siblings are now married and these people are the ones we'll be sharing family holidays, reunions and making memories with for, hopefully, the rest of our lives.

There have been many wonderful "firsts" and special memories made this, the summer of 2013.  Here they are, in list form:

Top 10 (11) Moments of Summery Goodness

2013; in no particular order

Roman risking the diving board for the first time at our local pool in Stapleton.

Matt and Roman fishing together for the first time at Washington Park, Denver

The Labor Day (or maybe Memorial Day?) party in our courtyard with all our neighbors.

Canoeing on Evergreen Lake for Father's Day with Roman and Matt.
So lovely.

A nice day trip to Summit Lake on Mount Evans.
We saw a ridiculous amount of big horned sheep that day.

A pit stop at Avery Brewery in Boulder after a day of hot and glorious hiking.

Roman discovering Chichen Itza in the Yucatan during our vacation to Mexico.
He was very upset that we weren't allowed to climb it.

A beautiful hike in Rocky Mountain National Park.
Roman had to be bribed with Snickers, of course, but it was fun all the same.

Grocery shopping at King Soopers is never dull with Darth Vader in tow.
He's partial to the deli section.

Playing on the beach in Cape Cod before Uncle Marcus' wedding meant the ring bearer
was out like a light as soon as the ceremony was over.  Oh but he had a ball.

My little garden box in Stapleton, overflowing with bountiful zucchini,
tomatoes, fennel, herbs and more.

Colorado Beauties: Summer Peach Pie with Vanilla & Cardamom

Summer Peach Pie - Oh my.

I started to write this post almost exactly a year ago.  A colleague of Matt's from London happens to own a house in the amazingly beautiful mountains of Western Colorado - in  Telluride to be exact - and he invited us for a weekend trip at the last minute.  Despite the long drive (6-7 hours), and the fact that we hadn't even finished unpacking our house completely, we couldn't pass up the opportunity to see friends again and to also explore the other side of this beautiful Rocky Mountain state we had just moved to a month before.

I racked my brain for what I could bring with us as a gift to the hosts.  My eyes and hands had been wandering to the piles of Colorado peaches available at this time of year in the grocery stores, and so when I found a recipe for summer peach pie out of Bon Appetit - something I'd never tried - I was sold on the idea.  Luckily, I happened to also know that these particular friends of ours are as big of fans of dessert and pies as we are.  The recipe I found included cardamom which I felt was a nice shout-out to the Middle Eastern experiences we had all shared while Matt and co. worked at a Bahrain-based bank in London.  Perfect.

* * *

View for the weekend.

The drive through Colorado was a sort of unexpected initiation into life in "the west": plains, mountains, forests, rivers and streams.  We saw much of the best of what Colorado has to offer in terms of scenery and ambiance, and felt ourselves thinking - hoping - that maybe, just maybe, this really could be our forever home.  Not just out of convenience and circumstance, but because we could see ourselves truly falling in love with it.

We wound our way up mountain roads, following the slightly-less-than-precise directions ("take a left at the third cattle crossing and then drive for a mile until you see the small wind turbine...") and getting lost in beautiful, verdent and whispery Aspen groves.  We passed an abandoned ranch where John Wayne's True Grit was filmed back in the day, listening to John Denver and snapping pictures of all the seemingly untouched, natural beauty.

The peach pie was a hit; and it turns out our friend is particularly fond of both peach pie and cardamom (which was quite a good thing, the latter being, admittedly, quite an acquired taste for Americans). 

Here's the recipe.  Take advantage of those August peaches.  They are a fleeting pleasure, but the sweetness does stay with you the rest of the year - much like that trip last summer has stayed with us.

*  *  *

Summer Peach Pie with Vanilla & Cardamom

From Bon Appetit; found at Epicurious.com
Serves 6-8

Colorado Peaches

Ingredients 

2/3 cup plus 2 teaspoons sugar
1/2 vanilla bean, cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
3 tablespoons unbleached all purpose flour
1/3-1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom
3 3/4 pounds firm but ripe unpeeled peaches, halved, pitted, each half cut into 4 slices (about 10 cups)
2 Best-Ever Pie Crust dough disks
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
Whipping cream (for glaze)
Vanilla ice cream (optional; to serve with it)

Method

Position rack in bottom third of oven and preheat to 400°F. 

Combine 2/3 cup sugar and vanilla bean in processor; blend until vanilla bean is very finely minced. Sift vanilla sugar through strainer into large bowl; discard any large bits in strainer. Mix flour and cardamom into vanilla sugar. Add peaches to flour-sugar mixture and toss gently to coat.

Roll out 1 pie crust disk on floured surface to 12-inch round. Transfer to 9-inch-diameter glass pie dish. Trim dough overhang to 1/2 inch. Spoon peach mixture into crust; dot with butter. Roll out second pie crust disk on lightly floured surface to 12-inch round. Drape dough over peach filling; trim overhang to 1 1/2 inches. Fold top and bottom edges under, pressing together to seal. Crimp edges decoratively. Using small sharp knife, cut 2-inch-long X in center of top crust to allow steam to escape. Brush crust lightly with whipping cream; sprinkle with remaining 2 teaspoons sugar.

Place pie on rimmed baking sheet. Bake until crust is golden, peaches are tender, and juices bubble thickly through cut in top crust, about 1 hour 15 minutes. Transfer pie to rack and cool until lukewarm, about 2 hours.

Serve pie warm or at room temperature with vanilla ice cream.

ετσι ειναι η ζωη: Livin' the good life, Greek-style.

My Frappe: Metrios Me Gala

ετσι ειναι η ζωη: Such is life.

(phonetic: etsee-eeneh-ee-zoe-ee)

This was one of the first phrases I learned from my Notre Dame-North-Carolina-Indiana-Jones Professor upon arriving in Ancient Corinth in 2003.  Such is life.  At the time I was in full Greek-immersion mode, "efharistoe"-ing my way around the picturesque village, downing bowls of avgolemono and living mostly off of homemade wine bought from the little old lady's back room in a tiny village outside of town, that we, naturally, used to store in large, plastic gasoline containers on the front porch.  Life seemed good.  It seemed very good.

When I think back to that brief period on the Peloponesos in the summer of 2003, I recall nothing but the ideal of what life was: hot summer days, the esoteric beauty of piecing together Ancient yellow-limestone Corinthian roof tiles to reconstruct a geometric era temple, of meeting third-generation Pot-shard experts from the local village and watching them apprentice their sons for the same, the views of the peninsula from the top of Acrocorinth (Ακροκόρινθος), that first dinner at the local taverna where I learned how to properly pronounce Moussaka (μουσακά), eating raw garlic by the clove with 20-hour cooked mutton and homemade bread and cheese in the mountains, pathetic attempts at sketching Penteskoufi (a tiny ruined village nestled in a beautiful valley near our house), learning to orient myself based solely on the Isthmus and the surrounding mountains, diving into the impossibly beautiful waters of Perachora on a hot summer day and admiring the bountiful sea urchin next to the ancient Greek ruins of the Heraion (Ηραίο Περαχώρας), eating freshly washed, ice-cold cherries at a roadside restaurant with a view of the ocean and a nice breeze after cruising at indecent speeds in our cooky professor's dilapidated, A/C-less, white Lada, window shopping in modern Corinth while sipping a Greek Frappe (Metrio me Gala, for the record), learning bazouki songs after a giant outdoor barbecue of a whole lamb in a hand-dug charcoal pit, laughing and singing and telling stories late into the night, every single night, with a tiny glass of wine (ποτηράκι) in hand.

I didn't tend to think about the less than ideal aspects of the "good life" in a tiny village in Greece: village gossip - especially about expats and the new "archeology arrivals," constantly changing rivalries between family-owned restaurants and bars which effectively reduce your eating options by 50%, no hot showers - and no indoor showers, for that matter - oh, and no indoor toilets either, no air conditioning (even when it's bitterly hot), being jokingly punished for too much drinking by being forced to climb Acrocorinth while seriously hung-over, a mostly-vegetarian diet (this was particularly painful for me), sleeping in a room with crumbling ceilings and a perpetual fear of rodents, lizards and spiders crawling between your sheets, endless afternoons spent sketching temple blocks on graph paper in a hot room, or even more endless afternoons spent sorting through endless piles of said-ancient temple blocks to catalog and re-sketch them again.  The list goes on.

Still, that summer, like many others I've lived, is one suspended forever in my mind and heart as representing a form of true happiness - the kind built upon utter simplicity and freedom, making it ever-memorable and, in its own imperfection, perfect.  And the one culinary memory that best represents that carefree Grecian summer for me is the Greek Frappé.  I drank them every chance I got.  They were one of the first things I learned to order on my own.  And they hit the spot on a hot, dry afternoon of too much antiquity.

Summer these days is, admittedly, full of neighborhood pools and play dates more than leisurely dips in pristine Hellenic waters, but, one day in June, on a perfect Denver afternoon, I decided to take a moment for myself by making a frappé after almost a year since touching my $13 / can Greek Nescafe.  It transported me immediately.  And reminded me that whether it's the Colorado sun, or the Corinthian heat, summer is summer.  Happy is happy.  And ετσι ειναι η ζωη: Such is life.

*  *  * 

Image credit

To make your own frappé, first, find a Greek grocer near you and purchase this.  Then go to Frappé Nation and check out their real Greek recipe and method.  I prefer mine metrios (2 sugars) "me gala" - with milk.  If you have regular American Nescafe, just add more coffee.

Gratitude and Beauty.

headed somewhere

We got back from a wedding in Phoenix on Monday - just in the nick of time for it to dump another foot of snow here in Denver.  Yippee.

But I won't go into my bitterness over the further extended winter here - or any of the frustrating random things that have happened lately either - because the topic of my post today is a conglomeration of thoughts and impressions on gratitude and beauty.  It has been an intense and busy past couple of weeks.  Yesterday I sat down and realized how overwhelmed I have been feeling with everything that's going on (and not going on), and realized that I needed to remind myself to appreciate the little things.

Indeed, here lately, I've actually seen and felt a lot of really, really beautiful things.  Much like when I wrote my "Life is So Random" post in Portland, today, in the midst of snow and clouds, I wanted to commemorate the small, random but meaningful things in my life.  Yes, I do it so I don't forget them - but I guess I also believe it's good to occasionally, purposefully, remind myself of the truly, very beautiful and privileged life I lead, and of how much there is to be thankful for in my rather small, but personally significant, world.

*  *  *

Life Moments of Gratitude and Beauty.

1. On Staying.
Matt and I have spent relatively little time in downtown Denver as a couple.  One morning while my mom was visiting the weekend of Easter we happened to drive down and walk around, drinking coffee and taking pictures.  It was fun to be in a deserted city center and take silly pictures like we used to back in the day.  It feels good to stay and explore for once.

2.  On Miraculous Life.
We met a newborn baby boy a couple of weeks ago.  He reminded me of the wonder, fragility and utterly mysterious nature of life.  And of the irrepressible instinct we humans have, in spite of it all, to take care of one another - even strangers - no matter who, what, where, when or why.

3. On Home-grown Traditions.
For Easter this year I baked Greek Easter bread for the second time.  It's a random recipe I came across that appealed to me due to my eternal-Hellenic-nostalgia and an odd love of hard-boiled eggs.  This attempt came out so much tastier than last year's.  It looked so pretty too - like springtime in a loaf of bread.  It always feels like you've accomplished something special when you bake a truly memorable loaf of bread, in a salt-of-the-earth-with-neon-eggs kinda way.  And I think, however disconnected to us it may be, I'll keep this new Easter tradition.

4. On Random Acts of Love & Rookie Gardening.
A couple of weekends ago, without me asking, Matt built me a raised garden bed, despite the fact that we will have to leave it here and might only get to use it for one season.  It made me so happy and looks so nice.  I immediately went out to buy herbs and seeds, all of which have now been obliterated by the two feet of snow we've had since then (rookie Denver mistake).  But my garden was so beautiful for that one day that it looked absolutely perfect that I just had to share it.  And, hey, in a few weeks I'll start over again with new plants - much like nature, I suppose. :)

 

5. On Unexpected Splendor.
I'd never been to Arizona before this past weekend, but I was absolutely dumbfounded by its beauty.  It was true desert - hot, dry, and stark.  Here's a picture of an incredible sunset we witnessed the other day.  The picture really doesn't even do it full justice.

  

6.  On Stopping to See the Individual Trees.
Upon arriving to Phoenix we rented a car and took a beautiful two-hour drive north of the city to Montezuma's Castle National Monument - a collection of ruins of clay and limestone cliff dwellings built by Arizona's Native Americans several hundred years ago.  While the ruins alone were remarkable, in typical fashion, I simply couldn't get past the immensity and beauty of the Arizona Sycamores (my beloved Plane Trees) that grew all around the area. They looked straight out of a painting.  Maybe I'll paint them myself one day.

7. On Growing Up.
Roman will be four years old in a matter of weeks.  He's growing up.  He tells me when his heart breaks.  He tells me when he likes my dress.  He's so much a person now that I almost can't believe I have the privilege to create and raise him.  I'm glad we still get moments like this one, making snow angels together in the mountains, without a care in the world but each other.

'Tis The Gift To Be Simple: Shaker (Meyer) Lemon Pie

Two glorious discoveries to share:

1. Shaker Lemon Pie is now in the running for my favorite pie of all-time.  Sorry, cherry.

2. I finally found my forever-pie-crust recipe.  The one I've been waiting for all these years. The flakiest, butteriest, best-est pie crust I've ever made.  It didn't come out perfectly this time because I used the wrong pie dish and sprayed butter on the top of my pie (do not do this!), but I know when done right it will be just what I want.  Thank you Smitten Kitchen and your pea-sized-butter-pieces-comment.  You have changed the way I make (and enjoy) crust forever. :)

And a belated Happy St. Patrick's Day to everyone! 

St. Patrick's Day sneaks up on me every single year.  Matt is part-Irish so he always likes to celebrate.  We used to go to our favorite Irish Pub when we lived in New York.  These days, I tend to go home-made and buy the boil-it-yourself Corned Beef packet and make some cabbage, potatoes and carrots to go with.  This year, our Sunday night plans changed at the last minute and so we had to put-off St. Patrick's day until last night, Monday.  As an unplanned addition to my belated Irish meal, I remembered I had a bag of Meyer Lemons sitting in the fruit drawer that I'd been waiting to find the right recipe for.  Four lovely, yellow lemons, waiting to be made into something delicious.  What could be less Irish than four lovely Meyer lemons, right?

Well, that is when the English-Irish meal came together in a much-belated attempt to reconcile the two with no politics involved: Corned Beef & Cabagge and Shaker Lemon Pie for dessert.  Bold.  Very bold.

*  *  *

Simple Gifts.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gain'd,

To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,

To turn, turn will be our delight,

Till by turning, turning we come 'round right. 

Written by Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett in Alfred, Maine

Pleasant Hill, Kentucky, Summer 2012

The Shakers are a widely-forgotten, American Protestant sect whose leaders were originally descended from the English.  They are known for their simply, Puritan-esque way of life - and their lovely, austere furniture and wood-working.  As fortune would have it, when we were about to leave Maine, my watercolor teacher Charles insisted we go to the Shaker village in Kentucky on the epic drive over to Colorado.  He said it was pretty.  He said it was interesting.  But, most of all, he said the Shaker Lemon Pie would change my life.
So we went to Pleasant Hill.  And pleasant it was.

Shame about the pie.

 After one beautiful - nearly ethereal - evening and night in Pleasant Hill, Kentucky, among the buildings and farms of the Shakers, I've fallen in love with many aspects of the Kentucky Shaker way.  The awe-inspiring, spiral staircases.  The unique and unexpectedly beautiful combination of Shaker design and architecture with the rolling hills and high-white-fences of the Kentucky countryside.  The mindset that less is more - that simple gifts are life's real treasure.  It was such a beautiful surprise, that one little day with the Shakers.  I'd go back again, just to watch Roman walk down the dirt road towards the sunset.  But...I wouldn't go back for the food.

Sad to say, but since the essential disappearance of real Shakers in Pleasant Hill, the food and quality thereof has gone somewhat downhill.  I don't doubt that when Charles had the Shaker Lemon Pie it was every bit as delectable as he described it.  But when I had it, it was so painfully forgettable I was almost ashamed to admit to Charles I'd gone and had it, because I didn't want to tell him that it was no longer the pie of his yester-year dreams.


It was then that I made a mental note to try making some Shaker Lemon Pie myself by finding an authentic Shaker recipe and using the best ingredients I could find.  Enter the Meyer Lemons.

I learned the hard way a couple of years ago that too much citrus does-not-a-good-dessert-make.  I tried Nigella's Clementine Cake to get rid of the million cuties I had in my house and it was SO gross (and I almost never use that word to describe food) that I had to throw the whole thing out (a first for me, actually).

I was, therefore, wary of using the entire Meyer Lemon in the Shaker Lemon Pie.  But I did it anyway.  And, happily, the result was one of the most complex, delicious pies I've ever had.  Ever, ever, ever.  And despite all the warnings from cooks that the flavor might be slightly bitter and too "sophisticated" for a child to like, Roman ate his up greedily.

Did I mention I love my son? :)

Shaker Stairway; Shaker Lemons

So here's the winning recipe.  The texture finds itself halfway between Lemon curd and lemon custard.  The pieces of candied rind add slightly bitter-but-fruit-filled notes to each bite.  Try this at home when the Meyers come back out next year.

Verily, I say, 'tis one of life's simple gifts.

*  *  *

Shaker (Meyer) Lemon Pie
Serves 6-8

if you're not greedy :)

The Shaker-like Non-Negotiables of This Here Pie:

1.  You MUST use Meyer Lemons.  Regular lemons will not do.  Too tart.  Too much pith.  The list goes on.

2. You MUST use a mandoline to slice the aforementioned Meyer Lemons.  Unless, of course, you are an accomplished sushi chef who can slice lemons paper-thin on a consistent basis.  And, let's face it, you're not.

3. You MUST let the lemons macerate for a WHOLE DAY.  Do not short-cut on this step.  I'm convinced this is what drew the bitterness out.  I cannot emphasize this enough.

4. You MUST respect this pie enough to make the amazing all-butter crust I mentioned above.  Follow the Smitten Kitchen recipe and process and pay particular attention to the fact that she leaves gigantic pieces of butter in-tact in her crust dough. DO NOT OVER CUT!

Ingredients
2 Meyer Lemons, thinly sliced with mandoline
(as thin as it will go); use the whole lemon!

2 cups sugar
1/2 tsp salt
4 Eggs
3 Tbsp flour (optional)
2 all-butter pie crusts (1 top, 1 bottom); chilled for at least 1-2 hours

Additional
Melted butter or egg-white to brush on top crust
Sugar for sprinkling on top

Method
1. Mix lemon slices (remove seeds) with the sugar and salt and set aside, covered, at room temperature for 24 hours.

2. Pre-heat oven to 425F

3. Roll-out your chilled crusts.  Drape the first over the pie dish with 1/2 inch overhang.

4. Mix the lemon mixture with the eggs and flour.  Pour into lined pie dish.

5. Drape top cover over.  Press crusts edges together to seal and crimp decoratively.

6. Slice top of pie for steam-venting purposes.

7. Glaze with butter or egg-white and sprinkle with sugar, if desired.

8. Bake for 25 minutes at 425F.  Reduce to 350F and bake for an additional 20-25 minutes.

Cool completely before serving.  Cheers!

A Time to Cheese.

Alluring cheeses at Borough Market, London 2010

In life there are times to cook, and then there are times to cheese.

Some days you just can't bring yourself to whip even the simplest of dinners up, and, lucky for me, I live with two men who will happily sit down to a table of bread and cheese as a complete meal.  Confession: I can't say I'm entirely with them.  I need something to go with the bread and cheese (prosciutto? olives? avocado? homemade jam? Membrillo!), but maybe that's the Mexican in me coming out.  My ancestral tendency to leave the cheese to the Europeans can't be entirely escaped.  (Translation: I'd still rather have some huevos rancheros.)  But despite all that, I do have to agree with my 3 year-old, there are most definitely days when you just have to cheese.

I remember well the feeling I had as the cheese cart was wheeled over to us at Daniel in NYC back in 2006.  (Brenda's inner-monologue: "A cheese course?! Amazing. OMG - what the hell do I choose?!")  It was the same feeling I used to get when I'd timidly walk to the cheese counter in Agata & Valentina and then run off pretending I didn't want cheese anyway.  Or how I felt going into the infamous Murray's Cheese with my chef brother-in-law for the first time.

Overwhelmed.

Slightly scared to ask questions.  Worried I'd pick the wrong one and end up not eating it, or, worse yet, not pick anything at all.  Then worrying the monger / waiter would judge me based on what I did pick.  Dreading that with one wrong turn I might end up with a shoe-box apartment that was not only stiflingly small, but also smelled like stinky feet.

A good meal.
Image credit: Marcus Ciardiello

  It has taken a couple of years (about seven, actually) for me to feel somewhat comfortable going to a cheese monger.  I didn't grow up eating a lot of cheese - outside of Oaxaca and Queso Fresco, of course.  As a remedy, it helped to live in London for almost four years.  There, cheese - good cheese - is available at even the worst supermarkets (well, not at the rather unfortunate Iceland, but you get the idea).  I dove head first into deliciously crumbly, aged Cheddars.  Dabbled in the world of wonderfully fruity Wensleydales.  And occasionally even tried a Stilton or two - ever-eyeing the Potted Stiltons at Fortnum & Mason - though I've, admittedly and somewhat shamefully, never been a huge fan of blue cheeses.

At some point in there, I also made a brief foray into the world of luxury food marketing and had the opportunity to visit Casa dei Giovani - and their cheese farm (a side business to their charity-fueled olive oil) where I took home a small wheel of handmade Pecorino plucked from the aging barn where the sheep themselves were tended to.  I carried it home to England, gently tucked in between my clothes on my carry-on.  I never looked at cheese the same way again.

These days, I am decidedly more adventurous in my cheesing.  I don't buy imitation Parmiggiano - Matt and Roman are far-too addicted to the real-thing to ever go back.  And I am lucky to, even in Denver, have grocers near me that carry wonderful, wonderful cheeses from both local (US) and international makers. 

After tasting many, many cheeses I feel it's truly an art and something that takes time to appreciate.  Each is different, unique and worth getting to know.  I still have some I like better (goat) than others (sheep), but at least now I can eat cheese for cheese's sake - without having to drown it in Membrillo or cold cuts.

Here are some of my favorites lately - maybe next time you don't feel like cooking, grab a few, sit down, and enjoy one of life's acquired-yet-simple pleasures.  Go on, cheese it.

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Brenda's Top Five Favorite Cheeses

Lately, anyway, and in no particular order

Camembert, fruit, saucisson & olives: an old standby.
Image Credit: Marcus Ciardiello

 

 

1. Cypress Grove's Humboldt Fog, American, Goat's Milk
This is a cheese I discovered in Maine, though it's made in California.  I love the tangy goatness of it.  So delicious and creamy - kind of a crowd-pleaser, actually.  And yet somewhat more sophisticated than the average goat cheese because of the distinctive layer of vegetable ash running like a vein through the center.  I love that America is producing such great cheeses now - no longer have to only buy French, Swiss or Italian.

2. Gorgonzola Dolce, Italian, Cow's Milk
My local King Soopers Supermarket is a hidden gem of delicious and reasonably priced cheeses.  They have a bargain bin where all the pieces are under $5 - a deal for good cheese.  In one of those a couple of weeks back I found a great looking piece of Gorgonzola Dolce.  Being a professed blue-hater, I had no clue that this would be the cheese for me.  Developed specifically to be milder than regular gorgonzola, it packs a gentler, kinder punch.

3. Parmiggian Reggiano, Italian, Raw Cow's Milk
Does Parma make any bad food?!  This is a classic but it bears repeating: everything tastes better with a little Parmiggiano on it.  I've always cooked with it, but it's only been in the past few years that I've started eating it alone, serving it as part of my cheese plates, and letting Roman snack on it.  It's a strong flavor, but one that is complex and infinitely satisfying with its crumbly, yet substantial feel.  While I almost always buy the Italian original, it's worth noting that there are now some nice American counterparts (counterfeits? :)) from, of course, Wisconsin.

Personal goal: to one day have a whole wheel in my house for the holidays, and finish it. :)

4. Taleggio, Italian, Cow's Milk
What a stinker this cheese is!  But it's creamy and receives the honor of being classified as "truly delish" by yours truly.  I have to admit that I especially like when it's really aged and becomes runny.  I don't like keeping it in the fridge for long because it really does make it awkward when you have visitors who don't like / know much about stinky cheese and its surprisingly large stink-span.  I also think it's cool that this type of cheese (washed-rind, smear-ripened) has been around since the Roman times.  Cicero cheese, anyone?

5. Saint-André
This cheese is almost too much.  Triple-cream?  Seriously?  
Predictably, it's one of Matt's favorites - a self-professed cream-freak and lover of cow's milk cheeses.  And after having it several times, I've also come around to loving it.  I especially love the white, fluffly, billowy little mold skin that covers the outside of the cheese.  If left to properly come to temp, this cheese is the closest thing you'll find to eating really, really sophisticated cheese-flavored-butter.  Ok, something about that almost grosses me out.  I can't eat much when we do have it (not that Matt minds), but I do love having an indulgent slice or two.

Italy Part 2: Rome: "Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me."

Approximately two years and two months ago, Matt and I were in Italy, celebrating our unofficial 8-year-meeting-anniversary.  And almost exactly two years ago today, I wrote the first part of what was meant to be a duet of posts - a musing I called: Italy Part I: San Martino: "Il Bel Far Niente."  Needless to say, things in the early parts of 2011 got crazy for us - on many levels - and I never got to write the second part.  Two moves later and two years later, today I was prompted to finally do so by the happy and unexpected request from a friend to give her some recommendations for good food and beautiful sights to see in Rome.  After writing an inappropriately long list for her, I also spent some time re-living our last trip there through the beautiful photos we took and felt compelled to share here - if for no other reason than just to prolong the feeling of delicious nostalgia all this has provoked.

I believe we left off somewhere in Campania...

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Have you ever had ten shots of espresso in one morning?  I don't recommend it. That's precisely the reason that I found myself suddenly vomiting out the rental car door on a rather hideous side road in the south of Italy on the morning we said goodbye to Matt's family in San Martino.  We were headed to Rome.  And, as if to purge it of any lingering non-Roman commitments, my body decided that all the good-intentioned-Campanian-caffe's of the past few hours had to go.  Basta already with all this Campanian-sciocchezze: there's only room for Roma.

It was fitting because, for me, as a rule, vacation is a delicate and constant struggle between eating too much and not seeing enough.  I am a self-professed not-doer on vacations - I prefer not to fill my day with places I have to be at a certain hour, things I have to see to check-off the endless mental list of "been-there-done-thats" - but I like to take in the scenery, the people, the feel of the place -- and eat.  A LOT.  For me, the memories are made at the lunch table, at the coffee-stop, at the random bench where we sat and chatted for an hour while eating strawberries from the market (where I still regret not getting some porchetta to-go as well).

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"You may have the universe - but Italy is mine."

 "Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me."

Italy has always had its hold on me - for no good, particular reason.  And within Italy, despite two years in Trieste, Rome is the favored, overflowing cup of happy memories for me.  I could sit in almost any spot in that city and feel happily satisfied just to be there, without seeing or doing anything else (except maybe eating, of course).  It holds so much meaning, so much history for me, that simply having made it back there with Matt once more was almost enough for me.

Almost.

Matt and Roman Fecit.

I wanted to go back and bask in all the old and new (for Rome) and old and new (for me).  I
wanted to see our school, stop at our favorite bar, see the restaurant where we had our first date.  And I wanted to try all the restaurants (or at least a few) that we never could have afforded in our college days, to bring our son Roman (!) to the garden where I met his father, stay at a hotel in the center of it all, buy useless mementos, drink good wines.  I wanted to see how the city had changed, relish how much it had stayed the same.  I wanted to take destination-less walks - in circles, even - and admire the stores that I'd frequented once, or the new ones that had taken their place.  And despite my otherwise aimless wandering, I wanted to gleefully check off every single thing and place I wanted to eat or eat at off my impossibly long food-itinerary (I can't entirely let go of type-A Brenda).  And I did.  We did it all.  And, to-date, that brief moment of time in Rome stands out as one of my favorite vacations we've ever taken.

I often tell Matt that I think I'll never be one of those people who can find a place they want to go back to every year and not get sick of it.  In some ways I'm addicted to finding and experiencing newness.  But if I'm really honest with myself, I know that, if given half a chance, I'd be back in Rome every single year if I could.  You may have the universe - but Italy is mine.

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Top Five Memories of Roma 2010

the old-the new, the very long-winded

5. The Only Real Roman.

There was something about seeing Roman in Rome.  It was like my life had come full-circle for one brief second, like all the things that meant most to me had been fulfilled, granted to me in complete perfection for just one moment, to observe and enjoy. 

The little man & Stone Pines at Villa Pamphili Park

He had no idea where we were and much less why it held so much meaning to me and Matt.  And perhaps that innocent glee was what made watching him - run in the rain in Piazza del Popolo (the first sight in Rome-proper that Matt and I ever visited together), or snootily lift his nose and pretend to drink wine at his first Roman lunch, or splash the water in the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi with utter disregard for Bernini's sculpture - all the more endearing and perfect.

Piazza del Popolo in the rain.

Doing like the Roman does.

4.  Boring Pretty Things Everywhere.

One of the first things that ever struck me about Italy was how - to me - everything looked so pretty, no matter how boring.  Literally, everything.  It still does.

I had a few chances to walk around Rome by myself on this trip and it was often at those moments - temporarily removed from Roman's demands - that I had the chance to savor the beauty of quotidian life in Rome once more.

A city of fountains, ruins, strong opinions and a mish-mash of cultures that all somehow converge into a mutual - and expected - reverence for all things Italian. But mostly all things Roman. Filled with beauty to the very brim, for anyone willing to stop a moment and find it: A dimly lit barber shop on a cobblestone street. The perfect espresso with the perfect schiuma, gone almost before you can even admire it. The most impossibly tiny little car parked on what surely must be a sidewalk - and no parking tickets on the window. A fountain with a serendipitous mosaic of red, orange, brown and yellow Autumn leaves floating on the water's surface; a temporary art installation by nature herself, gone with the next flow of water. Chestnuts - castagne - arranged just-so on a street vendor's fire pit, their familiar scent filling everyone's mind with unmistakably Autumnal smells. Rows of stores selling hand-crafted Saint figurines. Priests walking together, laughing, in the Vatican. A man sitting on thousand-year-old ruins, smoking a cigarette, talking on his telefonino. Giant puddles of water forming in between imperfectly laid cobblestones. My son hugging a column at the Pantheon. The Carabinieri standing in the Piazza - enjoying their cigarettes and coffees more than keeping the peace. Or maybe that's just how they do it - keep the peace, I mean - by living well, and beautifully, alongside everything and everyone else.

3. Back to School.

It's difficult to describe seeing your one-year-old stand in the courtyard of the school where you met his father - the same courtyard you snuck into by climbing over the wrought-iron fence because you broke curfew.

 It's strange to watch him sit on the chair in the classroom where your then-boyfriend had Latin class and loved to hang-out at night reading Tacitus standing up, at the professor's podium (after he'd all but done your Latin homework for you :)).

the courtyard

It's a completely bizarre sensation to take him down to the little dining room where you and your now-husband first got to know each other over pumpkin risotto and a somewhat unorthodox version of veal Carpaccio that you still talk about to this day.

But it's also pretty fantastic.

Even more fantastic, somehow, than that same blonde-Italian secretary (Letizia - "Titz" for short, if I recall), still there 8 years later, recognizing you both and being blown away that you actually did get married - just like everyone said you would.

2. Simple food, joyfully served. 

One of the things I recall vividly about living in Rome as a student was the real feeling of indignation I carried with me over the fact that I could not afford to eat everywhere and everything I wanted to.  In that sense, this trip was near-complete vindication.  

Our meals were not extravagant.  They were not particularly fancy or expensive, nor were they at the trendiest or most talked-about spots in Rome.  They were something far better than that: they were elegant, simple, and joyfully served.

Italian food is not complicated, - sometimes I would even say it is an endless collection of variations on a theme - but what makes the food stand out is the care and the true joy you find in how it is crafted, cared about, and passed over to you - an edible representation of all the culture and history behind that person, that family, that city, that particular moment.

Here are my three favorite meals from our trip:

Piazza delle Coppelle

I. Osteria Da Mario
Piazza delle Coppelle, 51  00186 Rome, Italy
A short-and-scenic-walk from the Pantheon through winding streets leads to a small courtyard filled with a small food market and a covered seating area for this family-owned osteria. 

As our first Roman meal - salsiccia e broccoletti for Matt, pasta pomodoro for the Master, and saltimbocca alla Romana with carciofi alla Romana for me - it was perfection.

salsiccia e broccoletti

II. Da Lucia

The dining room at Da Lucia

Vicolo del Mattonato, 2b, 00153 Rome, Italy

 

"Da Lucia," in Italian, means "at Lucia's place.  It feels like a Roman house in this trattoria, tucked away in a beautiful corner of Trastevere, family-owned and run since WWII.

We had a quiet, beautiful lunch of stewed rabbit, involtini con piselli and - because we were lucky enough to be in Rome while they were in season - Puntarelle alla Romana (chicory sprouts with a pungent but delicious anchovy dressing) while Roman slept in his stroller.  

It was pouring rain outside that day, so we didn't get to take the leisurely stroll through Trastevere that we'd hoped for, but instead we stopped by a nearby bar for a quick caffe' and chatted about the good old days.

It was almost too good to be true.

III. Piccola Cuccagna

Vicolo della Cuccagna, 13  186 Rome, Italy

 

Piccola Cuccagna Piccola Cuccagna is just the type of place I would have never stopped had it not been recommended to me.  On the corner of Piazza Navona, in plain view of Bernini's 4 Rivers, I'm fairly certain that most people who don't know Rome write it off as a tourist trap.  Well, it's not. The combination of the setting with, an unrelenting penchant for, as one writer put it, the "unapologetically impolite foods favoured by Romans" - pasta with small intestines, Tripe alla Romana, and Puntarelle (vinegared chicory shoots with anchovy sauce) - left nothing to be desired.  We were utterly satisfied and even giddy. For primi piatti we had: prosciutto e melone (because it never gets old), bruschette, and some buccattini all'ammatriciana - a Roman pasta specialty. For the secondo, Matt was bold and ordered the roast branzino (fileted and deboned at the table) served with perfect rosemary potatoes and some radicchio and lemon.      I,however, was vastly bolder and ordered the Trippa alla Romana (tripe in tomato and parmesan) served with - what else? - lovely Romanesco broccoli. Trippa alla Romana Dessert was, as always in Italy, a delicious but forgettable afterthought to the main event. 1. Oldies but Goodies.

I don't remember when it happened, but I do recall the odd sensation of suddenly realizing that the world no longer saw me as a kid.  It didn't change how I saw myself - eternally in my mid-twenties for the record - but it changed the way I experienced other people, and other places too.  It is lucky, therefore, that certain things in this life - only a few, really - never get old.  And, in fact, they often get better the longer they're around.

walking our old path up the gianiculum hill

We might have returned to Rome almost a decade older and, for the sake of argument, wiser - suddenly, it seems, married, parents, professionals.  But we still felt the same exhilaration when we saw the forum, the Colosseum, the Victor Emmanuel Monument again that we did in our college days.   And we loved going back and taking cheesy pictures together, re-living the places, sights and smells that have thrilled people for more than two thousand years, the same places that make up a special piece of our past - and now, present - lives together and forever will.  Oldies but Goodies.

kisses in front of Vittorio Emmanuele