Real-deal Quiche.

My first-ever real-deal quiche.

Quiche is one of those things that is so ubiquitous that I would venture to say it's actually reached the point of being under-lauded.  Up until a few weeks ago, in my uninformed mind, a quiche was simply the French version of an Italian Fritatta or a Spanish Tortilla.  Nothing particularly impressive, but tasty.  I figured all I had to do to make a quiche was mix a bunch of eggs in a bowl, add the fillings and pour that into a pastry crust.  Wrong, wrong, ever-so-embarrassingly-wrong.  

A quiche is not just another item on the list of many-splendid-cute-and-quick delicious appetizers available out there to the home cook.  It's not just another item on the mediocre and overpriced pathetic excuse for a French bistro I used to frequent in Abu Dhabi (I know, it looks so good but it's not - just think: pork-less French food! eek.), or any French bistro for that matter.  It's kind of an iconic thing, the quiche.  So simple, so well-known and widely-enjoyed around the world.  And yet, after making my first real quiche, from scratch, and asking all my closest friends and family, none of them knew that a quiche is made by creating a proper, real-deal egg custard.  Not just a sloppily whisked-together bowl of eggs.   A custard!  So simple and yet so different!  And when I realized it was a savory custard (ooh how I LOVE flan!) I was making (rather than baked scrambled eggs), I suddenly went from simply appreciating quiches to being a full-fledged devotee.

It was also a huge revelation to me that you layer the custard, rather than just dump all the fillings in at once.  It's a time-consuming process but makes for evenly dispersed ingredients within the quiche, and it's so worth the extra effort when you get the perfect bite every single time.

custardy layers

The recipes I used for the pastry and the fillings came from my newly discovered long-time cookbook Bouchon (of Thomas Keller fame).  One day I opened the book up and decided it was high-time I tried my hand at the real-deal.  I went into a quiche-making frenzy that Matt will probably remember for years to come.

I made three quiches in one-and-a-half days (which given how time consuming they are to make, is an achievement), two of which I kept and one of which I gave away to a friend who had just had a baby. 
I hope she enjoyed it as much as I did mine. Here are the flavors I made:

1. Kale, bacon and Gruyere
2. Maine Shrimp & Asparagus
3. Gruyere & caramelized onion

Apart from one disaster where I didn't pre-bake the crust long enough and it broke and the custard started leaking through, they all came out superbly.  I don't have a proper quiche pan like Thomas Keller recommends, so that's on the culinary wish-list, but until then I swear by my normal, removable-bottom tarte pan which worked really well.  On the other hand, I don't recommend trying the loaf tin so much.  Very hard to get the quiche out in one piece, and believe me, the last thing you want to do is break that thing of beauty after all the blood, sweat and tears it took to make.

My (&Matt's) favorite was the Kale, bacon and Gruyere, by far, so I'll share that recipe here.

* * *

Kale, Bacon & Gruyere Quiche
a la Bouchon

Serves 4

Pastry & Custard Recipes: See Thomas Keller's Bouchon Recipe

Follow the instructions above, simply substituting my fillings, as follows:

Ingredients:
(Besides the things needed for the custard and crust above, of course)
2 cloves garlic, minced

1/2 head kale, chopped

6 rashers of bacon, chopped into small squares
1 cup grated fresh Gruyere cheese

1. While your crust is pre-baking, sautee the bacon until crisp.  Remove to drain and cool on paper towels, saving the fat in the pan. 

2. Add the minced garlic to the pan with the bacon fat at medium-high heat and sautee until fragrant (less than 30 seconds), then add the kale.  Sautee until completely wilted.  Set aside in pan.

3. When it's time to layer the quiche, start with a layer of custard, a layer of kale, a layer of bacon and a layer of cheese.  Repeat 2-3 times more (as necessary), ending with a generous layer of cheese.  Be sure, as Thomas Keller suggests, to fill the quiche to the very brim, even adding the last bit of custard mixture once you've placed the quiche in the oven, so as not to spill and waste.

Serve with a simply dressed mesclun salad and bon appetit!

Happy Valentine's Day 2012!

I found this beautiful nostalgic Valentine's wrapping paper
at a cool Portland stationary store: Papier Gourmet

Every year on Valentine's day I try to find an e. e. cummings poem to put in Matt's card.  I find his poetry so stirring, so beautifully composed and so unique.   

I just hate trite, overused and boring love poetry.  It's almost like a slap in the face to the idea of poetic expression.  That said, I see nothing wrong with buying things like pez dispensers and Russel Stover chocolates as a Valentine's Day gift.  Love doesn't have to be pretentious and expensive - it just has to be genuine.  And I don't care what crazy materialistic conspiracy theories the hipsters of Portland may spout - and I definitely do not agree with the decision by Roman's school to not allow Valentines or treats - I simply cannot find anything wrong with devoting one day a year to telling the special people in your life - friends, family, lovers - that you love them.  That's all.

Roman's Kermit Pez dispenser and gifts awaiting his return from school.

To that tune, this year I happened on a poem of cummings' that I'd never read, which is odd because I thought I'd read them all.  I didn't use this one for Matt's card but I loved it so much that I thought I'd offer it up anyway as a small inspiration for a day which, fantastically and quite simply, celebrates love. :)

* * *

dive for dreams

dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
but welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at the wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for good likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since Doom
(with white longest hands
neating each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
-before leaving my room
i turn, and (stooping
through the morning) kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.

silently if, out of not knowable

silently if, out of not knowable
night's utmost nothing,wanders a little guess
(only which is this world)more my life does
not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if(spiralling as luminous
they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself,i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow's own joys and hoping's very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit's born:
yours is the darkness of my soul's return
-you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

- e.e. cummings

Thomas Keller & The Perfect Roast Chicken

Thomas Keller's Favorite Simple Roast Chicken
and my awesome new Fig tablecloth

A couple of days ago I went on a food-literature binge.  I was about 4 issues behind on my Food & Wine and Bon Appetit subscriptions because of the holidays, and my cookbook collection (a small but varied selection of choice pieces of food lit) had been sorely neglected for months.  Besides the magazines, I pulled out two books on French cooking that I hadn't used in ages: Barefoot in Paris by Ina Garten and Bouchon by Thomas Keller.  As far as French cookery goes, the two are almost diametrically opposed to each other with Ina Garten, of Food Network fame, favoring French recipes simplified for the home cook often with a New England twist and Thomas Keller espousing the authentic and sophisticated French and French-bistro foods he is so well known for at Bouchon, Ad Hoc, Per Se, and The French Laundry.

I was flipping through the books because I'd been craving - positively craving - a good roast chicken for weeks.  I kept seeing ridiculously appetizing pictures of them all over Pinterest and decided to narrow down my top selections and then make the one I deemed most roast-worthy.  After I'd chosen my favorite among the pictures and recipes online - something labelled "Thomas Keller's Favorite Simple Roast Chicken" - I went to look through my French cookbooks to see if I could find anything better.

Open the book and there it was.  The first recipe in Thomas Keller's Bouchon: his favorite simple roast chicken. Seriously?!

Up until that point I had no idea who Thomas Keller even was, much less that he'd written that giant French cookbook my mother had given me 5 years ago or that he was the same chef referenced in the online chicken recipe I'd found.  But there you have it.  It was a match made in heaven, destined for completion on a cold January Sunday in Portland, Maine.  And here I am, like many other bloggers and amateur foodies post-Sunday dinner sharing my pictures of what could possibly be the perfect roast chicken.

The things that elevate this simple roast chicken to the realms of perfection are: the simplicity of the seasoning (salt and pepper only), the scant use of fat (no butter or oil on the chicken itself, though I did throw some in the skillet for the sake of an awesome pan-sauce), and the lack of basting until post-roasting (you throw some thyme into the pan juices and baste a couple of times only AFTER taking the bird out of the oven).  It's so simple I am amazed it tastes as good as it does, and yet, as we always seem to conclude, the best things in life do tend to be the simplest ones.  

Some might complain that it's overly simple.  Some might say that chicken is not sophisticated enough for the carefully cultivated palates of real gourmets.  To them I say: try this chicken.  It is a shocking combination of juicy meat and utterly crispy skin, and the unadulterated chicken flavor really hits you.  In short, roast-chicken-wise, it's about as close to perfect as I've ever tasted.  Why not be bold in our statements?

* * *

For the sake of voyeurism, here are my original top five roast chicken picks, mostly from my pins on Pinterest, in list form (click links to check out the mouthwatering pictures):

Top Five Roast-worthy Roast Chicken Recipes

good anytime but best on a cozy winter day

 

5. Lemon-Garlic Roast Chicken (no recipe) from http://whatkatieate.blogspot.com

This looks to-die-for but, alas, it's just a picture.  I would have had to whip up this one from my own imagination and that's a no-go on a lazy Sunday.  What's with that Katie?!

4. Cardamom & Yoghurt Roast Chicken from tastefoodblog.com

Matt doesn't like Cardamom, but I love it.  This gets points for including spatchcockage and skillet roasting.

3. Spanish Roast Chicken with Citrus & Chorizo from http://pickyin.blogspot.com

If only we had good Chorizo in Maine!  Needless to say, this is right up my alley.

2. Lazy Sunday Roast Chicken from bagandbaguette.com

I'm not huge on rosemary but I love it paired with chicken and citrus.  The skin doesn't look crispy enough for me but those potatoes might make up for that.

1. Thomas Keller's Favorite Simple Roast Chicken from almostbourdain.blogspot.com

What would you eat at your last meal?  I have no clue off the top of my head but Thomas Keller unequivocally said this chicken. Well, that's a recommendation :)  Get the recipe and story behind it at the link above - a great little blog too.

Sunday Dinner: Thomas Keller's Simple Roast Chicken and Grilled Brussel Sprouts

Plenty of Ottolenghi & A Word to the Sage

Mushrooms & Herb Polenta from Plenty by Ottolenghi

I have something to confess.   A relatively major thing, as foody confessions go.  There's something I've been keeping to myself for several years now that I dared not utter but was forced to the forefront of my mind a few months ago when I randomly purchased a new cookbook.

I'd been wanting it for a while but I decided to finally just go out and buy Plenty when I saw it at a highly aesthetically pleasing little shop on the main street in Camden, ME on a whimsical weekend getaway in the fall.  I ordered it off Amazon as soon as I got home.  I just couldn't stand not having that picture of the eggplants (slathered in some sort of deliciously light yoghurty-sauce and sprinkled with thyme, zatar and pomegranate seeds, if you must know) as part of my daily visual binge.

I flipped through it voraciously as soon as it came.  And I oohed and ahhhhed over the lovely, intensely creative vegetarian recipes which literally jump off the page at you.  I'd heard of Ottolenghi for so long.  First, just because I lived in London, of course (they're in Kensington, Notting Hill, Belgravia...).  Then because it was somewhat of a rival to Melrose & Morgan, the place across the street from the bakery I worked at in Primrose Hill where I generally got my lunch (to this day I often dream of their beef wellington).  And finally because a friend of mine was obsessed by their style of cooking and was going on about the new book coming out and how she'd pre-ordered it.  I scoffed.  All-natural ingredient-driven delis with modern lighting, bright white platters and on-the-edge-of-acceptable-vegetarian-salads are kind of "a thing" in London.  They're almost common, ironically.  It's like they're the British upper-crust's answer to the working man's pub on every corner: "So, you dare to serve microwaved cottage pie with frozen chips?  Take THAT scoundrels!"  

Vibrant Vegetable Recipes - as Ottolenghi's Plenty is described - have arrived.

* * *

Yottam Ottolenghi is Israeli and, surprisingly, not a vegetarian (as Plenty's recipes and his weekly column in The Guardian would suggest).  I don't know much about Israeli food, though I do know a fair bit about the Mediterranean and I'm guessing he's going for a fusion of those two with light, modern British cuisine.  I admire the use of local, fresh ingredients and the fact that everything is made from scratch by them every single day.  The only problem I often find with modern, all-vegetarian takes is that they often look better than they taste.  It seems to me that in an effort to use as many fresh, raw, unique ingredients as possible, the flavor combinations can often cross the line a little too far into the purely "artsy-fartsy" side of food, straying every-so-much from the purely "tasty-wasty" side of things.  (I mean, in all honest, I have never tasted a dish where plain quinoa featured prominently that I loved.) 

Despite my misgivings, I must admit that I was spoiled for choice with Plenty.  It covers all the seasonal bases and I had no problem finding  a warm, inviting Fall or Winter dish.  In the end I settled on a deceptively simple recipe: Mushroom and Herb Polenta.

I had all the ingredients in the fridge and any recipe that includes more than one type of mushroom in copious amounts makes it to the table at my house.  I was also especially taken by the idea of creating a beautiful slab of polenta.*  Just so aesthetically appealing.  But anyway, the only thing I was missing was the chervil.  After a quick google search I realized you can substitute a combination of parsley and sage for it and felt happy that I finally had a reason to cut into that giant, beautiful sage bush growing in my backyard before the first frost.  Except for one thing - and here's where the confession comes in - I hate sage.

What possessed me to grab it anyway?  What made me think that instead of using the 1/8 tsp the website suggested I cold use the 4-5 full sage leaves I greedily grabbed?  Was it my hopeful trust in Ottolenghi's magic chef wand?  Was it that I thought maybe this would be the dish that converted me?  It's all beyond me.  I grabbed it anyway.  Yes, I'm a beast.  

I poured my heart into that recipe, chopping up a fragrant herbal storm, conjuring and channeling the spirit of London's most sophisticated, most natural eateries - and what resulted was beautiful.  Truly beautiful.  A purely aesthetic masterpiece of creamy polenta with roasted, autumnal mushrooms.  A delightful thing to look at, and one which Matthew found me gleefully photographing in the backyard as he got home from work.  

But back at the dinner table, I knew something had gone awry.

I don't know why I don't like sage!  I never have.  Maybe in a minute quantity I can kind-of stand it but to me it just tastes like badly-cooked liver.  Badly-cooked liver in the deceptively enticing form of a lovely, velvety leaf.  A perfectly shaped leaf that is iconic for many dishes such as Saltimbocca alla Romana in which it serves as a garnish and seasoning, or traditional Christmas sausage stuffing.  And yet, I just don't get it.  It ruined the dish for me and I am convinced the chervil would have done the same.  If I ever cook this again (which I might), I'd leave it out altogether.

Ottolenghi prides itself on bold, fresh flavors.  This polenta certainly delivers that and a little too much more.  I can't say I agree with this particular flavor combination but...I can't wait to try another recipe.  And maybe even get the first cookbook. :) 

*In the book it's served on a wooden board (which, if I'd had a big enough one I would have done).

Mornings in Paris. And Women With Big Eyes.

Mornings in Paris; Exchange St., Portland ME

 Roman goes to school three mornings a week, and lately I've been feeling really dissatisfied with my lame use of the precious 12 hours of me-time I am allotted each week.  I started feeling embittered each time I found myself mopping floors, pairing socks, or even cooking when I could have been basking in the Autumnal sunshine or reading War and Peace (which Matt currently is) instead.  Being a woman of infinite self-possession and determination, I decided to take matters into my own hands and simply force myself to go and interact with the world (as Matt had constantly encouraged me to do) rather than sit at home and be faced with the never-ending list of chores that, no matter what I do, is absolutely always there waiting for me.  Finding things to do outside of the house that don't involve grocery or unnecessary-random-stuff shopping is sometimes difficult for me to do here in Portland because I feel a little disconnected knowing that we'll be leaving next year.  I haven't made many friends because I don't want to deal with short-term attachments, and truth-be-told, being a pathetically warm-natured person I can't bear the thought of being outside in weather that's below 75 degrees now that it's Autumn and around 40 degrees every day. :)

I find myself nostalgically dreaming of my European jaunts - traveling alone, reading and writing at will.  Stopping for an espresso here and there in off-the-beaten-path cafes full of old-world charm and strangers.  Indulging in angst-ridden moments of romanticism and self-over-analysis and eating delicious food way-over my student budget simply because I couldn't do without it.

Luckily, when Carla visited me in August, we discovered a wonderful little cafe on Exchange Street in Portland.  It is called, much to my delight and infinitely appealingly, Mornings in Paris.  It is just the perfect combination of European charm mixed with large-mugged

Cafe Au Lait-zy

American-style-wannabe-French coffee.  They sell delicious Macarons, croissants, my favorite banana bread and, of course, Maine Potato Donuts.  It takes all the self-control I have to only get a medium Cafe Au Lait everytime I'm there (but I've promised myself I'm getting a donut next time).  The place is charming, has wonderful warm morning sunlight and despite the questionable choice of ochre yellow and black decor and the sometimes angsty barista, I find it highly aesthetically pleasing and welcoming.  The owners are French so there is a semi-legitimate row of European-style bistro tables lining the wall facing the coffee counter, looking out on the passersby of Exchange St.  All the seats are labeled with Parisian street names and I've chosen to sit at the same one each time - Place de La Concorde.  Right next to Notre Dame, fittingly.  Sometimes it's taken by the Japanese tourists that seem to flock to the French-themed locale, but I usually just bide my time and then move once they've left.  The music is hit or miss - this morning it was Willie Nelson followed by some kind of Radiohead-esque intense rock, but other days it's all Edith Piaf-Billie Holiday greats.  I don't mind that too much because it's pretty and I can get parking right outside of it at that time of day - after the breakfast rush but far before lunch will begin.

It has become my new morning haunt on days when I am Roman-less, though I don't think I'd be considered a "regular" yet - something I aspire to.  I love the coffee, the people-watching and the shamelessly indulgent aspect of being able to do nothing, or at least not anything of great productive value with regards to la vie quotidienne.  These days my "nothing productive" has come in the form of two things: knitting a sweater for Roman to work through my stash and reading a book.

The Book is called Mujeres de Ojos Grandes or Women With Big Eyes.  It is a series of vignettes that take place in Mexico, each about a different woman (the author's "Aunts"), presumably with big eyes.  This particular edition includes the English and (far superior) original Spanish text, which I am completely obsessed with.

The book was a gift from a co-worker in the English Department back in my teacher days in Upper Manhattan.  I discovered it a couple of weeks ago after almost 5 years of lying dormant in our book collection with a criptic but appealing inscription on the inside: "for you with the big eyes from Me."  I guess it's one of those happy coincidences - the book didn't appeal to me in the least when my friend gave it to me in 2006, but today it's exactly the kind of read I was looking for.  Easy to pick up, easy to put down, and yet absolutely engaging.

Besides being about Mexico, the book is beautifully written in a style that is both humorous and touching.  I've found myself so utterly absorbed in some of the stories about these women in the early 20th Century - imagining somehow that they are similar to my own Mexican grandmother and her sisters - that I've laughed too loud and cried too openly for being in a public place and haven't cared one bit.  The stories evoke childhoods I never had, and Mexican memories I never made, having left the country of my birth very early on in life and rarely going back anymore these days.  It's an easy way to romanticize a part of my culture and my family's heritage without digging into ugly truths or unpleasant realities.  In short, I am thoroughly enjoying it.  

It's just the thing for a girl with big eyes and her Mornings in Paris.

Glorious Summer & My Barefoot Boy

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

I was starting to fret when the sun refused to shine this late Spring / early Summer - our last - in Londontown. But finally, with only the occasional cloudy day, the British summer has pulled through magnificently for these - our last days here - and we have, gratefully and head-first - taken full advantage of it.

There have been numerous park outings, urban wanderings, and play dates at friends' homes - the latter involving babies, paddling pools, Pimms (for me) and strawberries and cucumbers (for Roman). It feels so nice to have a community here, and this glorious business of enjoying the summer with good friends is something I will dearly miss about our life in London.

While I do love the summer and the sun, and blooms and delicious and beautiful foods and moments that come with it, what I love more is watching Roman grow.

* * *

Watching Roman Grow
these last months in Londontown

He took his first real independent steps last Friday.
He's not quite walking fully yet, but he's getting there. And when he's upright and waveringly making his way in one direction or another, I can't help but feel so lucky to be able to be there to see it all. (Mostly so that one day when he's 20 I can remind him how he didn't always know how to get around on his own. :) )

He loves the sun and the water and crawling on the grass.
He chases puppies, picks (and eats) flowers, he jumps at bubbles and climbs on stumps. He tears at the grass, and hides under picnic blankets, and climbs on his "mama" when she tries to get some sunshine. He sneaks up behind me and gives me a hug, or plays with my hair and then licks my face with real pleasure and mischief.

He's never more glorious, more boy, more Roman, than when he's outside - barefoot and bold, as only summer - and a little boy - can be.

* * *

The Barefoot Boy John Greenleaf Whittier (1855) (Online Source) Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,— I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art,—the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,— Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood’s painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee’s morning chase, Of the wild-flower’s time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole’s nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine; Of the black wasp’s cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,— Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood’s time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O’er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs’ orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt’s for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

* * *

Some Glorious Summer Moments

Crawling in Hyde Park

Swinging in Wandsworth Park

Dangling fingers in the Paddling Pool

Faux-hawking.

"If all the raindrops were lemondrops and gumdrops..."

Charming Harper.

* * *

PS: Happy Birthday Caaaa, best little sister ever.

Little Lovely #2: The Pride & Prejudice Soundtrack

Ah, the English moors....

It's not easy to think of things that can conjure up synesthetic emotions of love's first enchanting and often hysterical breath. It's not even easy to think of things that will simply make the sig other happy enough to not feel jipped out of a romantic Valentine's sometimes, so let's not delude ourselves and delve a little deeper into the well of possibilities that is Brenda's semi-focused "little lovely" blog feature, and maybe come up with some decent choices, shall we? :)

* * *

Little Lovely #2: The Pride & Prejudice Soundtrack

Bombastic introduction aside, I don't really pretend to know much about what will make you or the rest of the world happy, at all, much less as much as it does me, but Little Lovely #2 is something that makes me extremely happy, in a quiet, warm, lasting way. And it was also incidentally a gift I received from the good old husband one Christmas, which makes it more romantic somehow.

It's the Pride & Prejudice Soundtrack (yes, from the new-ish movie with Keira Knightley). For those of you loyal to the BBC, I hear and feel ya. But I can't get past Mr. Darcy in this version. And let's face it - it is good. REAL good. Put your judgmental doubts aside - I can smell them all the way from London, dude, - and read my list of reasons why it's lovely enough to consider getting and listening to this CD this Valentine's Day.

Top 4 Reasons the Pride & Prejudice Soundtrack is Lovely
said in that uniquely British accent-y kind of way

4. Mr. Darcy *bubbly heart spouting*
Two words: Matthew Macfadyen. I don't care who you are and where you're from - if this music doesn't conjure up impossibly romantic and dreamy scenes of Matthew "hunka-hunka-burnin'-love" Macfadyen walking in the foggy (steamy?!) moors for you, there's something very wrong.

And if you're not a Macfadyen fan, then, well, two more words: Colin Firth. (Or should I say "Mark Darcy?" :) )


3. Soundtracks are Underrated
CDs are so passee. Or so the world of cybernerds and mp3 hoarding college students would have you think.

On a scale of 1 (stupidly confident) to 10 (super ridiculous), how lame would you feel going into a music store (wait do those still exist?) and buying this CD for your Valentine?

If you're a girl, I'd say you'd be in the lower part of the spectrum because girls tend to be stupidly confident about any and all amorous gifts, no matter how wrong and unmanly they might be.

If you're a guy, I'd say you SHOULD be a 1 or 2 (if your Valentine is the kind of girl I'd be friends with, anyway), but will probably be feeling at around a 9 or 10. Sweat it out. This gift is worth it. Especially if given with a combination home-cooked meal and some awesome flowers. :D


2. Piano: the Musical Voice of Love
As cheesey and lame as that sounds, I truly believe it is a fact. I can imagine no more soul-stirring type of music than a piano solo, or particularly clear, slow and beautiful piano melody. Both things are copiously and generously taken advantage of in the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack. Not only do they make the perfect accompaniment to the film, but to life itself, and that, to me, is the mark of true musical genius.

There has been many a day that I've found myself humming these enchanting melodies inside my head, rain, shine, love or fight. Sheer, absolute and delectable madness, I know. But if Jean-Yves Thibaudet's savant-esque piano playing be the food of love, then play on...


1. Classical Music Never Dies...
...like YOUR LOVE! (get it? get it?) *shameless grin*

But in all seriousness, there is a timeless quality to this soundtrack that is rarely found in, well, any music, these days.

With Jive Records shoving the likes of "Crossroads" down our throats, even the non-classical music loving have to admit that Dario Marinelli's Pride & Prejudice is a masterpiece.

Despite having been composed by a modern composer (an inherent flaw, IMHO), this music lacks the predictably off-key, plucking-obsessed, minor-chord-driven- David Diamond-esque attempt at originality which makes only the most desperately "post-modern" ear "sing." Instead, it is actually original in that Marianelli uses time-tested methods (major chords, pleaseant refrains, subtle and evocative dynamics) to create a truly time-surpassing combination of melodies which draw you into the story even further than Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy already do.

Further proof that it is, after all, true what they say: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever..."
(Thanks, Keats.)

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Other aesthetically pleasing shots of the English Moors.

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This little lovely is brought to you by...itself. Check out my favorite piano solo on the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack here or below.

Wild Thing.

Max, like Roman and me, is always up for a good bit of 'rumpus-ing."

We are far overdue for a cuteness interlude. Halloween this year also conveniently coincides with Roman turning 6 months old and is therefore the perfect opportunity for his proud and puffy mama-beast to fluff up her feathers and show him off a little more. :)

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One of our all-time favorite children's books (and no, not just because the totally awesome movie is coming out soon!) is Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. It's one of the only books that I made absolutely sure to buy a hardback in, and since Roman was born we've probably read it more times than any other.

This books is near and dear to our hearts not only because it's been around since we were kids, but because Matt has jokingly called me one of Max's "Wild Things" since the first time he visited my house while we were dating and my mom showed him some of my baby pictures (see below). He even sent my mom a "Where the Wild Things Are" thank you note after that. :)

In the words of Max: "I'll Eat You Up!"

Where the Wild Things Are is a celebration of fiendishly childish imagination, wildly innocent caprice, and simple, unconditional love. It always makes me laugh and by the end it always makes me want to cry. It involves dressing up, wild jungles and voyages, wild rumpus-ing, much gnashing of teeth and mischief galore. All that in what amounts to about four sentences of text and simple, yet ingeniously evocative illustrations.

It is a great book because it does what all great literature should do: it makes you imagine. Right now Roman just tries to eat the pages when I read it to him, but I can't wait for the day that he starts to wonder about Max, tells me which Wild Thing is his favorite of all, and maybe even runs around the house in his very own wolf suit making mischief of one kind...or another. :)

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Naturally, my first impulse was to dress Roman as something of a Wild Thing for his first Halloween. The closest thing I could find was a little red devil outfit complete with black cape and pointy tail. I then took it upon myself to further humiliate my child by hand-drawing a curly mustache and goatee on him. (I figure I have to get the harassment in now while he still can't talk.) To virtually commemorate this occasion, here are some pictures of Roman's first Halloween as well as other favorites from my Wild Thing's first six months of life.

"And now," cried Max, "let the wild rumpus start!"

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Mi Diablito



First Halloween - 6 Months



Sitting up so well - 5 months



The Roman Doll hits Texas Stores - 4 months



Going to a part-ay! - 3 months



Really smiling (and charming us to bits)! - 2 months



Already an enfant terrible at less than 1 month.

Departing on a Sweet Note: Ice Creamy Memories

I'll have two scoops of "tuna-taco-baked potato" please.
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We will soon be on our way to the land of my birth - Mexico! Mexico! Mexico! - for Roman's first visit to the American continent and our first back there since before we even got married! As I probably (well, definitely) won't be blogging while away, I thought I'd write an entry about a food dear to my heart that will leave things on a very sweet note until my return: ice cream.

There are many things I could write about with regards to ice cream. I've had a love affair with the food since very early on - eating lime sorbet or cheese ice cream in Mexico as just a little kid. Matt is flat-out obsessed with it and eats it every chance he gets, and it was the very first food Roman ever tried just a couple of weeks ago. But the story that won out in the end for me has little to do with my own childhood. I'll get to that in a minute, but in the meantime here are the top 5 other ice cream memories I kinda wanted to share but will do so only in condensed form.

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Top 5 Other Ice Cream Stories I Wanted to Tell
(and apparently still am)

5. Ode to Green Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream
Ever since I can remember, my favorite ice cream flavor has been Mint Chocolate Chip. I love mint. I love chocolate chips. And I LOVE all things green.

Sometime in my 24th year, while living in NYC, I decided it was a good idea to try out this all-natural super posh mint chocolate chip ice cream. Along with the whole "natural" shtick came the fact that there were no artificial colorings, which meant the ice cream was cream-colored.

I don't care what anybody says - it's not mint chocolate chip if it's not green.


4. It's Never a Good Time for Thyme Ice Cream
In this life I believe it is true that we have all (and by "we" I mean "me") had our moments of valiantly well-meaning-but-shockingly-bad experimentation in the name of broadening our culinary horizens.

I once had olive oil ice cream at the super-hyped-up (and kinda not worth it) Sea Grill in New York, and truly felt that at that moment, no hyper modern culinary agenda or avant-garde reputation could excuse or justify what was going on in my mouth. Despite my experience with non-ice-cream-worthy ingredients, I went ahead and made Thyme Ice Cream two years ago.

Matt looked so happy when I told him I'd made ice cream. What followed - the extreme depressed and ego-bashing look he gave me when I told him what kind it was - was enough to shame me into "keeping it simple, stupid."


3. Matt and The Croatian Pinocchio
One of the more interesting things my husband has ever done was worked as the first mate on someone's personal sail boat and sailed through the Italian Riviera and all over the Dalmatian Coast. Eating his way through every imaginable variation of the non-imaginative Croatian "mixed grill and french fries," Matt often looked forward to the dessert more than the meal. He got an ice cream cone at every port. (Yes, you could kind of call him a promiscuous ice cream eater.)

One warm night in Stari Grad, Matt and his boss ventured to the local - empty - gelato joint, where the ice cream man posed a seemingly innocent question: Do you want a pinocchio (and then he winked)?

He then proceeded to make Matt what can only be described as a web of ice cream cones. When finished, the Pinocchio looked like a giant sculptural fan of cones and balls - nearly 24 cones and 30 ice cream balls later, Matt walked out to a cheering crowd, ice cream dribbling down his hand and arm, eating as fast as he could. Sadly, nobody but the anonymous other tourists got a picture of that moment.


2. Häagen-Dazs: The Tasty Deception
While in Brussels recently, Matt and I spotted a Häagen-Dazs. Having always wondered where the delectably pure ice cream of the posh originated I said "Hey! I bet it's Belgian. Let's go get some."
I was met by a skeptical look from the husb, who retored with: "There's no way it's Belgian. That is not Dutch." Nevertheless, I was further egged on in my rationale regarding HD being Belgian because, as I gently reminded Matt, HD actually makes a sinfully delicious flavor called "Belgian Chocolate" which is only sold in Europe (As a sidenote, if you haven't had it, you should really strive for that experience).

But before I could go grab some vanilla deliciousness, Matt whipped out the Blackberry to settle the HD debate once and for all. He looked up the Wikepedia article on Häagen-Dazs, and crazy disillusionment ensued. And I quote:

"Contrary to appearances, the name does not derive from any of the North Germanic languages; it is simply two made-up words meant to look Scandinavian to American eyes (in fact, the digraphs "äa" and "zs" are not a part of any native words in any of the Scandinavian languages). This is known in the marketing industry as foreign branding. Mattus included an outline map of Scandinavia on early labels, as well as the names of Oslo, Copenhagen and Stockholm, to reinforce the Scandinavian theme. A name was created by reversing the name of Duncan HinesHuncan-Dines (""), an original potential marketer of the product. When that deal didn't materialize the name was, misguidedly, manipulated to sound Scandinavian (it actually sounds Austro-Hungarian)."

Screw you Häagen-Dazs for manipulating me into believing you were an aesthetically genius, exotic creation of the gentle Scandinavian wilderness and/or the quaintness of a Belgian creamery. You have broken my vanilla-loving heart! Well, not really, because I'll still continue to pay a super-premium price for your ice cream cause it's that damn good. :D

Not exactly sure why "the joke's on them" but it kinda is.

1. Roman's First Food: Pineapple Vanilla Ice Cream Popsicle
Please don't lecture me on how newborns aren't supposed to eat ice cream - I know. One day this July I was feasting on a delicious pineapple popsicle - you know, the kind with ice cream in the middle. It was at this fateful moment that Roman decided to show us he was "ready" for solids by launching himself head-first into my popsicle and maniacally trying to grab it with his open mouth.

How could I possibly say no to the desperate plea of a fellow foody? :)

Honorable Mention: Ice Cream With Balls

I laughed in her face when my friend Sandra asked me a couple of years ago if I had an Ice Cream Ball when I told her I'd just made fudgecicle ice cream for Matt.

Little did I know, there is actually such a thing as a ball you "throw around the room" to make the ice cream. In fact I now know this very well, because she sent me a nice big green one for my birthday that very year. It has come in handy while here in London, since our super-nice cuisinart is in storage back in the states. Not to mention, it's a very appealing "ice breaker" at parties. :)

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Bleezer's Ice Cream
today's "official" story

Roman has taken to waking up at 5:30am and not going back to sleep. After about a half hour of his incessant noise-making and leg flailing, and in order to keep my sanity, I tend to guilt Matt into waking up and taking him downstairs to play. Sometimes he puts him in his jungle play mat. Sometimes he reads him The Gruffalo. Sometimes he taunts Roman by eating cereal in front of him.

Today, though, Matt went out on a limb. Rather than singing "I Could Walk 500 Miles" or some random and rather annoying Dave Matthews song, he decided to take a step back into his own child's mind's eye (does that make sense?!) with a crazy little poem he read in third grade.

After getting more giggles and positive eyebrow raises from Roman than he'd ever hoped, he decided it was a good idea to wake me up by reading it to me as well. Sadly, I was in a sleepy stupor and forgot all about it until suddenly at noon today while walking down the street I blurted out: Tuna Taco Baked Potato Ice Cream?! What the hell?!

In the name of all that is frozen, creamy and tasty - here is the zaniest ice cream poem you'll ever read. I've highlighted the ones that I think sound decent. :) Which would you dare to try?

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Bleezer's Ice Cream
by Jack Prelutsky

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
there are flavors in my freezer
you have never seen before,
twenty-eight divine creations
too delicious to resist,
why not do yourself a favor,
try the flavors on my list:

COCOA MOCHA MACARONI
TAPIOCA SMOKED BALONEY
CHECKERBERRY CHEDDAR CHEW
CHICKEN CHERRY HONEYDEW
TUTTI-FRUTTI STEWED TOMATO
TUNA TACO BAKED POTATO
LOBSTER LITCHI LIMA BEAN
MOZZARELLA MANGOSTEEN
ALMOND HAM MERINGUE SALAMI
YAM ANCHOVY PRUNE PASTRAMI
SASSAFRAS SOUVLAKI HASH
SUKIYAKI SUCCOTASH
BUTTER BRICKLE PEPPER PICKLE
POMEGRANATE PUMPERNICKEL
PEACH PIMENTO PIZZA PLUM
PEANUT PUMPKIN BUBBLEGUM
BROCCOLI BANANA BLUSTER
CHOCOLATE CHOP SUEY CLUSTER
AVOCADO BRUSSELS SPROUT
PERIWINKLE SAUERKRAUT
COTTON CANDY CARROT CUSTARD
CAULIFLOWER COLA MUSTARD
ONION DUMPLING DOUBLE DIP
TURNIP TRUFFLE TRIPLE FLIP
GARLIC GUMBO GRAVY GUAVA
LENTIL LEMON LIVER LAVA
ORANGE OLIVE BAGEL BEET
WATERMELON WAFFLE WHEAT

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
taste a flavor from my freezer,
you will surely ask for more.

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Matt is a "Peach Pimento Pizza Plum" kinda guy.

An ice-cream-eating family self-portrait.