peevish mama

Last week I got an email from Chief Big Voice letting me know that he and Saucilicious made the short ribs and that they were WONDERFUL, that they are his new fave! Oh, joy! I simply cannot convey how much that warms the cockles of my heart. I know Chief Big Voice was more likely than the average bear to make the short ribs since he had eaten THE ORIGINAL SHORT RIBS that fateful night when he, Dash and I were all blown away by the mysterious alchemy of beef, savory liquids, time, heat and love. The fact remains, however, that so many lovely things needed to happen for me to get that email, to wit:

First of all, he had to go to the store, buy all his ingredients, come home, pull up my post, click on the link to the recipe and get down to the business of cooking. If I know Chief Big Voice, he didn’t follow the recipe exactly because he’s a little peevish about recipes too. He chopped and seared and made a gigantic mess of his kitchen and let the whole meaty business braise for hours upon hours, filling his house with delicious vapors. He let it cool over night, scraped off the layer of fat, re-warmed the ribs, made some sides, and Oh, Lordy, I could swoon, sat down to a beautiful and delicious meal with Saucilicious on a cold winter’s night in Pennsylvania. This is seriously almost, ALMOST as good as having sat down at the table with them and this vicarious pleasure is really what I have to settle for when my food peeps are spread all around the country. 

Second and more germanely, he had to read this blog. And this, my friends, is not something I can take for granted. The fact that anybody reads this blog is a source of wonder for me, but infinitely more so if you happen to own a penoose. I sort of understand why my lady friends might like to read, written out loud, what we’re all thinking and feeling. But the guys? I don’t know – it’s hugely gratifying to know that this place hasn’t become a parlour of motherhood, vaginas and sparkly things. Of pms, bitching and boots. Of poopy diapers, faux fur jackets and cookie recipes. Where am I going with this? Oh ya, I guess I am pleased I didn’t scare away any penooses. I guess I’m pleased to be more than a mommy blog, a lady blog. Maybe that’s peevish of me, but it’s true. 

So, thank you for reading, my brothers. It means the world to me. 

And as a token of my appreciation, I hereby bestow upon you my new obsession: red chimichurri sauce. It’s pungent and tangy and smoky and spicy and, dare I say it? MANLY. It’s meant for grilled meat, but let this lurk in your fridge long enough and you will discover what I did: it goes with anything meaty, cheesy, eggy, or fatty. In fact, right before I took this picture, I put a little in my bowl of chicken mushroom soup and it made it sooooo much better. The vinegariness just cuts through the fat and makes your plate sing and dance – it’s the Michael Jackson of sauces, only Thriller Michael, not pajamas and blazer Michael. This recipe is adapted from New World Kitchen by Norman Van Aken, which I’m told is a great cook book, but I wouldn’t know because this is the only thing I’ve made from it and probably the only thing I will make, which is fine because this sauce is more than well worth the price of the book.

So, as promised, Chief Big Voice, here it is. And for my brothers Golden and Maestro de Bife – this is going to kick your ass, hermanos, mark my words. Salt and Pepper Polymath, you will love and adore this and it just may send you bushwacking across the creek to give me a hug. Gear Daddy, Renaissance Man, Ivory Tickler, Ten Gallon and Pipes – you’ve had it, you’ve loved it, here’s the recipe, you’re welcome. Soul Daddy, this is right up your alley. Meester Panqueques, Tartare will fleeeep over this. San Flan, The Fox, Devious Knickers, Patriouk, Magnificent Bastard, Rip Van Techno, Irish Laddie and any other boys who may tune in from time to time, this one’s for you. Enjoy, fellas. I know you will.

Chimichurri Rojo Argentino

1/2 cup Spanish sherry vinegar

1/4 cup virgin olive oil

1.5 tablespoons hot paprika (I used regular Hungarian paprika, mixed with Spanish pimentón and a little extra cayenne, but if you can find the hot, go for it)

2 teaspoons cayenne pepper

4 cloves garlic, minced or crushed

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon cumin powder

1 bay leaf, broken in half

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

xo peevish mama

I haven’t had time to write because I’m in the balls out planning stages for a Chilean Argentine Feast that we’re hosting with La Chilenita and her hubby, Sporty Scrivener, this Friday night. This whole week has been a flurry of emails, menu tweaking, ingredients sourcing, linen ironing, tomato fondling and taste testing. I test drove the skirt steak from Clancey’s, prepared it a couple different ways, Dash scribbled notes on graph paper, we looked at each other while we chewed. Yes. Good. I have literally purchased tomatoes from three different places and tried them all in search of something that approaches tasty. Alas, this is not the time of year for delicious tomatoes, so I picked the most flavorful, albeit unripe variety from the Linden Hills Coop and stashed them on my windowsill. Every day I examine them to determine their ripening progress: I gingerly probe them, take their temperature, listen to them with a stethoscope, eyeball them, sniff them and probe them some more. I have an elaborate plan should they lag behind. They need to be perfect by Friday and it is a delicate dance to coax them to perfection. Don’t make me do it, I whisper, knowing no one will be happy if I have to stuff them into a paper bag with an apple. I’m not even sure this works with tomatoes like it does with avocados and bananas, but desperate times call for desperate measures. La Chilenita is running around town doing much the same because this feast needs to be GOOD.

This dinner was part of our parish’s live auction and proof positive that chivalry is not dead. Last spring found me at the annual gala, on crutches and stag (Dash was on-call). I wasn’t going to go, but I got a few calls, and you know me, I HATE to miss a party. My Little Springroll and her hubby Runner Laddie kindly gave me a ride, carried my clutch, signed me up for stuff, got me wine and generally clucked over me and made sure I was fine, which I was, if a little pathetic. I was, however, fretting that our dinner would be allowed to blow through the room like a giant tumbleweed. When the auctioneer started to talk about it, La Chilenita was no where to be found, I had no way to escape and so I went into full cringe-hide-under-the-tablecloth-mode. And this is when my two heros of the night swaggered into town. Yes, maybe they wanted the dinner for 8 that much, maybe they did it for a good cause, or maybe they did it for the gimp in the feather headband nervously pretending not to pay attention to the proceedings. Maybe, just maybe, they did it for friendship. Ten Gallon and Runner Laddie had a blazin’ showdown and all of the sudden the dinner was sky high, higher than anything else and I went from full cringe to full swoon because NOW WHAT THE HELL WERE WE GONNA DO? La Chilenita and I are just little ol’ us! We’re home cooks, not fancy cooks!  And that last slew of bids had firmly pushed us into fancy terrain! Holy shit! La Chilenita and I looked at each other agog when we found each other. No worries, we’ll make it great, it’s gonna be great, it’ll be fun, it’ll be great, great, it’ll be great! we assured ourselves, knowing we had months to plan. Nothing like the balm of time. Until you run out of time. We pictured ourselves leisurely perusing cookbooks in her backyard with glasses of wine on warm summer evenings. Instead we met at Sebastian Joe’s, leaves on the ground and our hair on end.

In the end, my two gunslingers realized they were bidding against friend, not foe, split the dinner and each invited one couple, all of whom are dear friends. So all our fretting and planning and cooking and tasting is a total and complete joy. We’ve got a sexy, candlelit room planned, a festive and sultry playlist, beautiful wines and a menu that we’re proud of. La Chilenita and I decided we would cook for our friends as if they were in a South American home. We’ll cook with time, we’ll cook with care and most importantly, we’ll cook with love. And if if turns out a little bit fancy? Well, tanto mejor! 

On Saturday we needed an easy adventure. The kids were feeling kind of bunk after their mini fevers, as was their mama on the day after the day after Snoop Dogg (yep, not as young as I used to be, and yet I continue to pretend). It was a gorgeous day and we simply couldn’t let ourselves sit around the house and oh, I don’t know, actually get anything accomplished, so we did what we always do when we need a little sumpin, sumpin and we went to the Minneapolis Farmers Market. It’s down to the skeleton crew now, but Chef Shack was there, so we had a tasty lunch of burgers, bison chili and mini-donuts while sitting on some gloriously sunny concrete steps. The kids got animal balloons which ended up causing more tears than joy as they popped and unravelled and disappointed in that special way that all balloons inevitably do. If only Devil Baby would let herself be convinced that it is precisely their ephemeral nature that makes balloons so compelling, but alas, she was having none of it and I rued the day she spotted that guy dressed like a clown dressed like a chef.

As we were leaving with not much more than some apples and some cool cabbage-looking flowers, I stopped at a guy selling different kinds of squash. Bespectacled, unassuming and dressed in clothes the color of the earth, he gently suggested I try a sampling for six dollars. Sure, I said. They were gorgeous and I’ve been diggin’ on squash lately. There is nothing easier and more delicious than roasting it with a little olive oil, real maple syrup and sea salt. He proceeded to fill a big supermarket paper bag with acorn, butternut, buttercup and carnival squash. The cornucopia pictured above isn’t even all of it –  I’ve already roasted an acorn, two carnivals and there’s a huge butternut in the oven right now.

This orgy of squash brings up a few issues: First of all, how are these people supposed to survive? All that work, all that risk, all that waiting, and he’s practically giving it away. Farmers markets are ridiculously cheap anyway, and when you get the end of the day or end of the season desperation sales, well, it just feels unfair. I don’t know what we can do except try try try to buy what we can directly from the source. We are able to do this with so little of our food supply, and for so little of the year, that it seems a pity not to make a bit of an effort in the summer and fall months to throw some of our dollars in the direction of our local farmers. I have a horror of sounding preachy. I too succumb to the cheap and out-of-season Costco berry extravaganza to keep my kids filled with fruit. I’m no saintly self-sustained off-the-grid locavore. But, I am full of guilt about just about everything. So in an effort to assuage said guilt, I told him I’d also buy a cabbage, which is now taking up the entire bottom shelf of my fridge. It’s huge. Like a rugby ball. Bigger. Like a watermelon. One dollar.

And if a twingey sad heart and a guilty conscience weren’t enough, I am also suffering from a peculiar pain in my right ring finger, aggravated from wrangling said squash. It’s hard to cut those motherfucking gourds! They are some seriously tough bitches, y’all. I think I need a cleaver, but as much as I love knives, I’d be too scared to wield a cleaver. I have no doubt I would have a horrible vision of chopping off my finger and then I would go ahead and do it. I seriously think I’m developing carpal tunnel. After wrestling with the bodacious butternut tonight, I tried to let go of the knife and my hand stayed in the shape of a claw. This can’t be good. I’m not sure how long I can go on like this. If Squash Claw isn’t a defined medical condition, then it needs to be and the New England Journal of Medicine needs to contact me asap. 

In the meantime, anyone want some squash?

Last week Chief Big Voice swept into town on the heels of a wretched weather pattern that is stubbornly still plaguing us. As far as he’s concerned, Minneapolis and Seattle could pretty much be interchangeable based on the furrowed brow of rain clouds our city has sported on his last two visits. Alas, I can’t control the weather no matter how much I suck up to Mama Nature on this blog. What I can do, is control what we eat and I can think of no better way to welcome an old friend, to love him up, than to cook. And so I did.

I don’t normally post recipes because, frankly, there are so many stellar food blogs out there that it would seem like pure hubris, which, ironically is what ruined my grilled pork chops. Hubris in that I bragged about how delicious they are, coming from such happy pigs as they do. The final coup de grâce: a few too many glasses of wine causing a break in the chain of custody. In criminal law, in order for evidence to be admissible, you have to document every transfer from person to person and prove that no one else could have accessed the evidence. In cooking law, in order for the pork to be delicious, you have to make sure that the last person to handle it before Doctor Dash takes it out to the grill is me, because I, apparently, am the only person who knows you have to salt the meat. YOU HAVE TO SALT THE MEAT. Something distracted me and Dash pulled the pork out of the fridge where it had been luxuriating in nothing more than a little garlic, rosemary and olive oil and threw it on the grill, assuming I had salted except that you never put salt in the marinade because that will dry out the meat. You salt right before you throw it on the grill, but since I didn’t touch the meat, I totally forgot and suffice it to say I was less than happy with our happy pig that night. Frustratingly, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Were the chops over cooked? Under cooked? Too rubbery? Not enough char? What what what???? It wasn’t until I was doing the dishes that it hit me! No salt! Of course! That’s why they tasted insipid AND were missing that fabulous little salty char crust. Salt is essential, for taste and texture. Never forget the salt. And always use way more salt than you think when it comes to meat. Luckily, Chief Big Voice had slathered his chop with my roasted cherry tomatoes with chorizo, kindly claiming he hadn’t noticed. Argh. 

I did, however, manage to make up for it the next night with some seriously delicious short ribs. Seriously. I cook a lot of meat in a lot of different ways and I might have to go out on a limb and say that this was the best thing I have ever ever ever made. I used this recipe from Smitten Kitchen as a starting point because I seem to be constitutionally incapable of actually following a recipe to the letter. Much like Nanook, who sometimes refuses to read her book club selections, feeling it to be one of the last acts of rebellion left her, I refuse to follow recipes. I start out with every intention and then suddenly I realize I can’t find the port (infuriating because I know we have it and never drink it, so what better way to use it?) and all hell breaks loose and I’m digging around throwing whatever I want into the pot like some sort of enfant terrible chef who refuses to be boxed in.

There is something so satisfying about braising. I love the frenzy of chopping and searing and seasoning followed by the glugs of your concocted braising liquid and finally, slipping the lid on for hours of slow cooking that fills the house with the most heavenly aromas known to carnivores. It seems almost ridiculous that you can go about your day, knowing that what is in your pot is just getting better and better, richer, more tender fall-off-the-bone, more concentrated and savory. It’s the most delicious and magical form of multitasking I can think of.

 These short ribs are a two day process because you absolutely have to cool them in the fridge overnight to scrape off the inch of lard that forms on top. I’m sure if you follow the recipe, you’ll be over the moon. If you happen to be interested in my perverse culinary aberrations, then here they are: There is no need to finely chop the aromatics because they all get seived out anyway  - inch-sized chunks work fine. I think I threw half a fennel bulb in instead of the celery. I also reconstituted some dried porcini mushrooms and added them with the nasty, funky juices. Incidentally, do you know how awesome dried porcini mushrooms are? Any sauce or braise gets instant heft and depth and dark mysterious strangerness about it from their addition – just drown three or four or five or six of them in a bowl of hot water, let them hang out for a while and add the whole steamy deal to your pot, avoiding the bits of grit at the bottom of the bowl. Smells like bunk, but tastes like heaven – like fish sauce, dried shrimp, parmesan – all that soulful umami business. Ooof. Love. I know I polished off our bottle of Cholula hot sauce into the braising liquid. Why not, right? I toss a spoonful of dijon mustard into just about everything. I didn’t do the pearl onions because they bug me. I love the idea of serving the short ribs on a bed of swiss chard like Smitten Kitchen and next time I’ll try that. Instead I made mashed potatoes, spicy sauteed broccolini, and maple roasted squash. DO NOT forget the horseradish creme fraiche. I thought it seemed like gilding the lily, considering the richness of the short ribs, but the sauce brings a tang that plays beautifully with the ribs. I didn’t do the step where you quick roast the ribs because, honestly, I just wanted to serve them in their gravy – strong, dark, velvety and completely irresistible.

What came out of that pot after two days tasted like all that is good in life: long rainy afternoons of cooking, funny, woozy, gregarious meals with old friends and the knowledge that after every cooking mistake, awaits a cooking triumph.

We went up north for Labor Day weekend. Hastily assembled, last minute planning yielded three days, more relaxing and action packed than I would have thought possible. Sometimes, last minute is the best way. We pulled the kids out of school on Friday and set off due north with a minivan chocked to the gills with food, fishing poles, water colors, and anything else I could think of to keep our short attention spans from unravelling into pervasive, crotchety boredom.

I needn’t have worried.

The lake. It was beautiful. Deep. Almost primordial. Its dark, velvety waters were cold enough to make swimming something for which you had to summon up courage. It was cold enough to feel curative. And it was vast, with undulating shorelines, eddies and bays, silent islands, promontories and fingers of land, beckoning or accusatory, depending on how you looked at them. There seemed to be a secret code of earth and water we had to approach with caution and respect. Dash and I had to navigate, eyes skimming the horizon and darting back to the map, to reconcile the two dimensional with the three, to keep our bearings, to find our way home. It was challenging, but it got easier. We learned something new. We grinned madly, feeling slightly less the rubes on a pontoon. We squinted into the sun, proud, almost seaworthy. 

Fish. There are fish in Lake Vermillion. All hungry for worms and willing to be caught by Saint James and Supergirl (Dash too, but with less success – I think the jerky line of a child-held rod must make those worms dance extra seductively). They fished off the docks, they fished off the boat. It was the go-to activity for three whole days. It was what filled up the hours in the sun. And Devil Baby watched and cheered, played with the worms, touched the slippery bodies of the fish, and essentially hung around doing nothing in a way I’ve never seen her do before. It was gratifying to watch them do something contemplative, something that requires patience, quiet, sustained attention with eyes trained on the water.

Kitchen. More time and less stuff, I found myself enjoying the simpler, pared down ritual of preparing meals. I found it meditative: the opening and shutting of drawers, looking for a potato peeler, a whisk, a bottle opener; stopping to take a sip of wine and gaze out the enormous kitchen windows at the lake; washing dishes by hand, keeping my workspace neat. Without the rush, meal preparation is a completely different animal and in the silence of the cabin, broken only by the occasional triumphant whoop from the nearby dock, I remembered everything I love about cooking.

Reading. I was forced to unplug. No wireless, no phone. No twitter, no blog. Just my books. I have been feeling scattered lately. Unmoored. I have been finding it hard to focus, to lose myself in a book. Perhaps it’s because there has been so much end of the summer action to attend to. Perhaps, I too am losing the power of sustained attention, giving way to the rat-like compulsion to check my email, tweet and surf every few minutes. In the quiet of the north woods, I became that mother – the reading mother. On the chaise, with her nose in a book, occasionally peering over the pages with narrowed eyes and an amused smile, luxuriating in the act of reading deeply while her family plays almost, almost, out of earshot. They fished, I read. My heart slowed down. Everyone was engaged, so I could disengage and dive into my books: Snow by Orhan Pamuk, challenging reading, testing my patience, but a book whose layers slowly unfold drawing you further and deeper. It’ll be worth it, I think. Time will tell. And Dangerous Laughter by Steven Millhauser, a tightly wrought collection of short stories, the few I have read so far are intriguing, smart, mildly menacing – he is a beautiful writer.

Fish. Each catch was followed by a few seconds of tense hook extraction. Saint James and Supergirl would bow their heads in concentration, working against the ticking seconds and the struggling fish to get the hook out as gently and quickly as possible. They’d toss it back in the water, peer into the depths and inevitably yell “Yep, he made it!” with joy and relief. For them a fair fishing bargain involves no more than a few seconds of discomfort on the part of the fish. They are tender and respectful toward nature. I am not sure whether this is something you can teach, or whether this is something that just naturally occurs in a child.  

Kitchen. I brought everything, even my sharp knife and cilantro. But even when you bring everything, there are things you wish you had brought. As I made salads and salsas, mixing and matching my ingredients like edible Garanimals, I thought of Jumpa Lahiri’s piece in the NY Times earlier this summer. I thought of all the things I would remember next time (honey, white pepper, soy sauce, hot sauce, gin, the pickled eggplant I just made) and all the things I was so glad to have brought (my knife, sea salt, avocado, cilantro, olives, strawberries, fancy cheeses, sauvignon blanc, baby spinach, garlic, tomatoes, baguettes, Hope Creamery butter, two kinds of vinegar and olive oil).

Fire. Doctor Dash made two fires a night. One with charcoal for grilling steaks and salmon. One with wood for roasting s’mores. The fire drew the children out of the brush, away from the beach. Like young natives, they watched the flames, flicking and dancing against the darkening sky. Or maybe they were just hungry.

Fish. One morning I glanced up from my book and saw a stout fireplug of a man talking to Doctor Dash on the dock where he and the kids were fishing. Our cabin neighbor had ostensibly come out to introduce himself to Dash, but in fact needed to flip Dash’s rod right side up before showing him a picture of the 53 inch Muskie he had caught the day before. We chuckled about this the rest of the day, picturing the poor guy grimacing over his coffee mug as he looked out the window watching Dash cast with an upside down rod. He probably muttered through his pain and agitation for a good fifteen minutes before getting so exasperated he burst through his back door to save Dash from himself. Hilarious.  

Watercolors. I’m so glad I brought them. Devil Baby painted and painted. Busy, quiet, happy. Just how I like her.

Feathers. The bald eagles. They were incredible. We had no idea they all hung out in the north woods. We saw more eagles than seagulls, yet they never lost the power to startle us, to elicit a gasp, a pause in the action to watch their muscular flight, their graceful hunting, their branch shaking landing in the tops of trees. There was an island where a bunch of them seemed to perch and to hover right below them in a quiet kayak was pure magic. And then there were the loons. My kids said the cries of the loons reminded them of our neighbor, Evan’s, cry. Somewhere between a giggle and a sob, suspended between joy and loss, the loons stopped us in our tracks over and over again.

Haunting and beautiful. Just like that lake.

A couple things for starters: as I sit down to write this post I have a song running through my head. A song which none of you know unless you happen to have gone to a Catholic all-girls school in the eighties. I say this with some confidence because it is a little known fact that the Catholics are prolific song writers and drop a panoply of new, uplifting, guilt-inducing ballads every year. Trust me, they’re really good at it. When my parish went all folksy acoustic in the late seventies, I knew there was something afoot and I was not mistaken. So my song? The harvest is plenty, laborers are few, come with me into the fields . . . Ringing a bell? Susie? Yes? If not, it doesn’t matter. Completely irrelevant.

The other point I want to make is that I know I am tormenting you with this whole tomato fixation and I apologize. The only thing I can recommend is some patience. Maybe go away for a while until I get this out of my system, which will be sometime around the first frost. Anyone who has been tuning in here for a while is familiar with my little obsessions: calamity, my knee, music, bacon, my son’s hair, tequila, my knee, calamity. Usually I move on in some fashion or another. Sometimes not. Only time will tell.

Earlier this summer I ordered a big cedar planter on line and planted two measly tomato plants and a pepper plant (respectively, Joaquin, Bruce and Pepe). I got a late start (blame it on the knee and the tequila) and had meager hopes for my teensy garden. In fact, in a knee-jerk act of proactive self-defense, I pooh poohed myself here. 

Well, I needn’t have gone to the trouble, because those tomatoes pictured above in my oddly chunky looking hands are the first of my harvest and they are freaking delicious! They burst in your mouth like little ampules of summer and there are a lot more where those came from.

The ever potent and mysterious confluence of sun, rain and neglect has yielded tremendous, bodacious, GIGANTIC tomato plants. Joaquin and Bruce have completely muscled out poor Pepe, who despite a lack of sun and nutrients, has still managed to squeeze out a few lovely peppers. Joaquin and Bruce scoffed at the cages I got from Ivory Tickler and are growing out of control, every which way. They are muscular, unruly, borderline intimidating. They look like they could snatch a small rodent scuttling by, eat it and use its tiny bones to pick their teeth. They look like they might grope you, should you walk by with a short skirt on. They look like thugs, unsavory characters, major bad asses. And they are loaded, loaded with tomatoes. I am fearful, but I am proud. I love them. Come see them. Just watch your ass as you come through the gate.

Yesterday was my birthday. And it was lovely. I’m not one to make a big hooha out of my own birthday. But I must admit, it’s kind of nice when others make a hooha for me. 

There were flowers on the kitchen counter, which had to have been purchased sometime between ten at night on Saturday and seven in the morning on Sunday because Dash has been on call. A+ for effort, my love. Beautiful swollen peach roses and sunflowers. Sunflowers are so straightforward and happy – they’re my favorite.

There was a precious half hour alone with coffee and the New York Times.

There were sleepy birthday hugs. They woke up remembering.

There was a trip to the Kingfield Farmers Market and my window sill is bejeweled in tomatoes, glowing orbs of yellow, red, orange.

There was a  yoga class, which always does me a world of good.

There was a fortuitous bump into Salt and Pepper Polymath at the supermarket. He wished me happy birthday. I’m not sure how he knew.

There was a late afternoon trip to Bush Lake where some of my book club ladies awaited with their hubbies, resplendent in sun hats and laughter, vodka tonics and cheese. They sang to me and I felt as if I would burst from happiness before melting into the sand from embarrassment. Dash and I lingered in the warmth of the waning sun, long after they had all left, our toes in the sand, our kids feeding the remnants of sand speckled cheese to the seagulls.

There were phone calls and messages throughout the day from all the people I love.

There were grilled rib eyes, tomatoes sliced and drizzled, a little salad of farmers market radishes and carrot, thinly sliced, in a chive mustard vinaigrette. My perfect meal.

There was angel food cake with whipped cream and berries, rowdy singing and plenty of help blowing out the candles.

There was a dance party which ended in a crash. The portable disco ball is kaput, which is just as well because ever since we moved into this house I have been politely requesting a disco ball. A real disco ball. Doctor Dash thought he could mollify me with the disco boobs* he got me for Christmas, and it worked for a while, but I’m afraid that’s all she wrote on that one. 

There were tears and words of truth in the bathroom before bed. Supergirl was crying over the disco boobs, Devil Baby kept repeating that it scared her when they crashed and I hushed and shushed, promising another disco ball, a better disco ball, a real disco ball. Saint James took his toothbrush out of his mouth, looked me straight in the eye in the mirror and scolded: well this isn’t going to help us save up money for Costa Rica.

Touché, St. James, touché. But it IS my birthday.

*Coined by Supergirl.

Everyone is gushing about tomatoes these days. Yammering on and on about how perfect they are, heirloom this and that, just a drizzle of olive oil and some salt, dizzying profusion, vine ripened, sweet meaty flesh, panoply of colors, blah blah blah. Hell, I even rhapsodized about tomatoes about this time last year. Yes, people, tomatoes in August are amazing. I get it. There are a million ways to prepare them, but simplest is best. I get it. Eat them now or forever hold your peace. I GET IT!

You think I don’t understand? Me? The woman who would marry tomatoes if she wasn’t already married to bacon and Doctor Dash? Me? I freakin’ love tomatoes. I’m like the Mother Theresa of tomatoes. The wan, weak, mealy ones? I love those too. They’re all part of God’s plan, and if you have to throw ‘em in a low oven for some slow cookin’ caramelization to make ‘em palatable, then vaya con Dios, mis hijos, I’m in.

See the picture? That’s what I’ve had for lunch or dinner or both, every day since we went to the Mill City Farmers Market this past Saturday (which, incidentally, is my new fave market. Have you noticed a pattern? The last one I visit is my favorite. It has grown tremendously since last summer, but still maintains the cool, locavore, minimalist aesthetic of its founder Brenda Langton of Cafe Brenda and Spoonriver. Maybe it’s the backdrop of the mighty Mississippi and the brooding, cool-as-shit blue Guthrie Theater, but this market really feels like an open air temple to good, fresh, delicious food. And they have dim sum carts. And they have a delicious pig cart where you can get an egg and bacon breakfast sandwich. And they have mini donuts. And pies. And smoked trout. And live goats). I digress. I digress and I need to get back to feeling ambivalent and tortured about tomatoes.

I have been around the bend a few times and to me this shameless orgy of tomato goodness is bittersweet, although admittedly juicy and delicious. It represents the beginning of the end. Summer is waning, and tomatoes are like the glittery confetti at a New Years party. Tomatoes are the grand finale at the fireworks show. Tomatoes are the last hurrah. They are Mother Nature’s one last blast of love, of goodwill, of sweet summer warmth. She is saying good bye and like any smart woman, saving the best for last. (Fall harvest gourds and squashes don’t count, so don’t split hairs and mess with my metaphor mojo.) 

And because you, my readers, are empathetic creatures, you may be asking yourselves: Why, Peevish Mama, why, why must you be so sad? Why can’t you just enjoy the tomatoes? I would sigh a mighty sigh, my gaze fixed on an uncertain point in the middle distance, my eyes brimming with salty tears, and answer you thusly: I am enjoying the tomatoes, my little ones. They are perfection. They are poetry. They fill my heart and my belly in innumerable, indescribable ways. Tomatoes, my loves, are exquisite, yes. But so are these dwindling honeyed days of summer. And for all that fleeting beauty, I cry into my gazpacho. I cry. 

I know I’m waxing annoyingly poetic about farmers markets, but I just LOVE them. I love love LOVE them. You certainly get your browsing and shopping fix, ogling all that colorful, shiny produce and snapping up bunches and baskets of beauty for but a song. You give your foodie-self a good little run around, ending up with buckets of beautiful ingredients for lovely salads and suppers. I love having a big monster bunch of scallions in the fridge, for example, and working my little chef’s brain to figure out how to use them up. You get to chat with people you know over the wholesome twangy din of a bluegrass band. You get to wear hats and sundresses and act all twee and romantic with kale and carrot tops exploding out of your woven bag. And it’s different every time. My supermarket, by contrast, is the same every time. I love farmers markets, and yesterday, I found two reasons more:

1. When is the last time you shelled peas? I can think of nothing as deeply soothing, meditative and delicious.2. If these oddly affecting carrots-in-love had come across the conveyor belt of a poorly paid worker at Dole or United Fruit Company, they surely would have been tossed in the rejects pile. Mother Nature is an artist who works loose and quick, with an abundance of joy and improvisation, wit and wonder. There is crushing beauty and soulfulness in her rare imperfections, if you are simply willing to look. 

Since I became aware of the 350 Project, two local gems, which I have blogged about, have shuttered their storefronts. I am choosing to avoid the paranoid suspicion that I am a jinx, although I have proven myself to be a jinx in at least one boy girl matchmaking attempt gone terribly, terribly awry – but that is a story for another time.

Leuhmann, the tiny, quirky store at 50th and Bryant filled with antiques, shells, fossils, skulls, feathers, branches, vintage taxidermied creatures and all sorts of other intriguing natural curiosities has sadly closed.

Even more personally devastating to me, despite my blustery threats of becoming a vegetarian, is the loss of Galoony’s, home of Minneapolis’ most toothsome steak and cheese sub. I have been satisfying my cravings for these spicy, meaty babies at Galoony’s since 1995 when I first moved to Minneapolis and to my great joy, had most recently turned Supergirl on to the satisfying wonders of what she called “the meat sandwich.” I will never forget the moment I found out I would be losing my beloved steak and cheese spot – I was eating breakfast in the dining room when I read about it in the Southwest Pages and my shriek to the high heavens brought my family running from all corners of the house. Supergirl felt my pain and joined me in my sorry incantation: Nooooooo, noooooo, say it ain’t soooooo. ohhhhh. Galoooooony’s. ohhhhh nooooooo.

So the point of all this drama? This is for real, people. These are tough times and if we don’t make a deliberate effort to support our local businesses, they flounder and they fail. The last thing any of us wants, is to live in a land where big box national chains choke out the people who are creative enough, enterprising enough, brave enough, crazy enough to throw their hats into the ring of commerce and make a go of starting a small business.

Connectedness, conversation, depth of knowledge, passion, craftsmanship, authenticity, uniqueness, diversity – these are all things you find in your corner shop, whether it be a boutique, hardware store or butcher. Sad will be the day when the only person taking my cash is wearing a red shirt and asking if I want to save ten percent by opening a Target card. So with that, here are three more of mine. Please send me three of yours, even if, especially if, you live somewhere else. We all love a hot tip!

Kingfield Farmers Market. I love all farmers markets, but I was particularly smitten by this one because it’s the one I most often forget about. Open on Sundays from nine to one thirty at 43rd and Nicollet Ave., it’s teeny tiny but it has one or two of everything your heart desires: almonds, tomato plants, fresh eggs, cheese, fancy jerky, homemade cookies, tacos, organic meats, fresh squeezed fruit juice, and a cornucopia of fresh organic local fruits and veggies. There are always musicians and artisans for the kids to ogle and all in all, it’s a quick and easy little jaunt whether you want to bang it out in under an hour or while away the morning, noshing on yummies and chit chatting with people. 

                                                       Photo by David J. Turner.

Ladyslipper Boutique. Do yourself a favor and slip into Ladyslipper at 4940 France Ave. S. in Edina. Owned by the Bluebird Boutique ladies (Sasha Martin and Allison Mowery) plus my super stylish pool friend Amanda Rose, it feels like you’ve slipped into the tip of a genie’s lamp, were said genie an accessories maven with an eye for pieces that bellydance between edgy and lady-like, chunky and dainty, modern and vintage. Guilted mirrors, chandeliers, zebra rugs, and plushy rose ottomans, it feels decadent and lovely, yet casual and lively. I was not surprised to find that I loved everything, and I mean everything in the store from the killer boots, to the tremendous bags to the one of a kind jewelry. (Doctor Dash: take note, lover!) These girls have managed to pull together an exquisitely edited collection of goodies at a range price points (some startlingly reasonable). I went in looking for a statement necklace for my brother’s wedding and after a bit of oohing and aahing, chatting, and fondling of merchandize, Amanda pointed out some necklaces made by a local sistah named Tracy Bennett under the name Scout (which I love). Each necklace is unique, made of vintage necklaces, bracelets and brooches, strung together in a way that I can only describe as quirky genius. The necklaces are asymnetrical, chunky, and modern, but derive a drapey, sweetness from the vintage pieces of which they’re made. The one I finally chose has two pretty brooches anchoring a riot of silver and gold chains and simply makes me happy. If you are a girlie girl with a bit of an attitude, duck into Ladyslipper and take a little browse. You’ll find your three wishes in a heartbeat!

Rice Paper. Tucked into leafy Linden Hills, this quiet little spot never fails to hit the spot. With a simple menu of fresh and lively Vietnamese/Thai fusion cuisine, it’s the perfect place for vegetarians or those who want major flavor, without having to roll themselves out the door. While the dishes are light and healthy, your taste buds will be shaking their booties from all the cilantro, lime, chili, and coconut love. The peanut sauce that comes with the spring rolls is to die for and they sell it to go, should you ever want to bathe in it, which, I can assure you, you will.

Who makes chili when it’s 90 degrees? Apparently, I do. After a long wilting day at a swim meet, I stand in my boiling hot kitchen, crack a beer and proceed to sweat and chop and mutter and swig and mutter and swig and sweat and stir and cuss. Whoever eats this chili is going to feel mighty ornery. One of my rotten children left the basement freezer door open and most of our share of local grass fed cow and happy pig were subjected to a second death. And I was subjected to a grisly scene this morning when I found a huge pool of blood spreading around the white tile floor in front of the fridge. All the meat had thawed overnight, sweating and bleeding all over the place. I am chucking most of it, but was able to salvage a steak and a few pounds of ground beef that were still cold. There I stood, gagging and cleaning, all before my morning coffee, cursing the name of whichever child was undoubtedly rooting around for the football shaped gelpack to press on some imagined owie, causing a frozen baguette to slip, wedge itself in the door and effectively ruin hundreds of dollars worth of meat. As I threw bloody package after bloody package into garbage bags, I realized the garbage men had just gone by and there was no way I could leave fifty pounds of flesh in our bin until next week without creating an unearthly stench and a Lalapalooza for maggots. I had no choice but to stuff the plastic bags back into the freezer, which made me feel like Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction – shady, beastly. It’s enough to turn anyone into a vegetarian. Right after I eat that steak, of course.

Our friend, Duddy, got the ball rolling on this Jersey Shore extravaganza after his visit to our house last October. Our kids pretty much line up and his short stay in our chaotic house somehow led him to believe that our families could spend a few days together in relative harmony. He and Dash planned it all out and before I knew it, we were en route to Saucy-licious’ parents’ beautiful beach house in Avalon, New Jersey. I had a teensy bit of trepidation descending on poor Saucy-licious, seeing as we really didn’t actually know each other very well. She and I had met but thrice: at our wedding, their wedding and our friend Philo’s wedding. I’d say she was very brave indeed to agree to this. She’s obviously a girl whose willing to take a gamble based on her hubby’s whim and you gotta love that.

Hanging out with Duddy, Saucy-licious, her sister (Little J), Little J’s boyfriend Shrimp-Boy and their friends Sweet Scissors, Little A, and a bevy of Mikes, was nothing short of revelatory. Suddenly, in the midst of this big Italian family, I felt like I fit in. Hey people! It’s not me, it’s Minnesota! No wonder! This explains everything! Elbow to elbow with this colorful and sweet group of gourmets, bon vivants and foxy chicks, I’m suddenly not the one with the loudest laugh or the most Italian looking or the one with the tightest jeans or the biggest cocktail ring! (I was actually regretting not having packed some of my big rings, but who knew I would be needing them at the beach?!) I felt like I’d come home! Maybe it’s because a big Argentine family is nothing but a short ship’s voyage away from a big Italian family. Maybe it’s because Detroit really has a more East coast vibe than Minneapolis, especially when you creep into the tony suburbs from where I hearken. Or maybe Duddy is just a genius and knew it was going to work. 

And little did I know that I was going to be getting my dancin’ fix on this trip. My new found best peeps took me to my new found fave bar in the world: The Princeton. What a trip! It’s basically a huge house with five distinct bars chocked to the rafters with revelry and mayhem. And the people watching is PHENOMENAL! It’s like a giant, labrynthian roller rink – you cruise in a huge circle, dancing and shimmying as you go, stopping to bust a few cool moves in a whatever spot you happen to catch your favorite song. One of the rooms always has a live band and Saucy-licious expertly manoevered us to the front, center stage, right up at the bar and hoooooooooo mama, did we have a good time! Great cover band, mucho dancing, ringing ears, base in the ribcage, the works. Ridiculously fun. 

The kids got along swimmingly and came and went as a little pack – a cute and chatty amoeba. They hunted for tadpoles, threw their tiny bodies up against the crushing surf, ventured out at night with head lamps and flashlights in search of crabs, giggled in their bunks late into the night and generally had the run of this little piece of kid-heaven.  Supergirl, Mini-Saucy, and Hello Kitty braved the cold waters of the Atlantic and body surfed their faces off – tough chickies. Duddy and Saucy-licious’ son, Huggy Bear, had an endearing habit of throwing his arms around Saint James and pulling him around by the shoulders. Saint James might have shrugged him off a couple times, but he was pleased as punch to be pampered by his new protector, guide and all around awesome friend. The two of them even went on an adventure to an arcade! Ten blocks, on bikes, cash in their pockets and freedom, sweet sweet freedom trailing behind them like streamers in the wind. 

As for us, we feasted, drank and laughed like kings. I would happily hang out in the kitchen with these folks all damn day and night, gabbing and drinking and watching them cook. (Saucy-licious had a gigantic pot of the most beautiful red sauce bubbling away on the stove when we walked in and my mission in life is to recreate it when I get home – meatballs, pork ribs and all). The Duddys are masters of the concoctions (solid, liquid and in-between) and they are forever puttering around the kitchen mixing together some sort of tasty libation or tender vittle. Almost nothing goes untouched by them. Whether it’s Seltzer water amped up with a little sour cherry syrup, or homemade chocolate made with coconut oil, or virgin Piña Coladas, or Cioppino, or pancakes, or meatball sandwiches, or Latin pork pernil, or Saucy-licious’ red sauce. There is always a way to make something more tasty by throwing a little love at it and this is what they do best. I picked up many a trick, tip and recipe in the tornado of deliciousness that seems to hover around the kitchen at all times. I even have some seeds for these beautiful peppers called Ancient Sweets that Saucy-licious slowly sauteed in olive oil until they turned into sweet summer goodness in a pan. (Apropos of the whole seed thing, I remember my mother smuggling parsley seeds from Argentina because the parsley available in Michigan in the seventies was not up to snuff).

If food equals love, then I feel like I just got dipped and breaded and lightly sauteed in a whole heckuvalotta love. In fact, I’m bringing a little five pound paunch home with me as a souvenir to prove how much they love me.

Thank you, dear friends, for your warm and easy hospitality. And thank you for more belly laughs and tasty bites than we could ever begin to count. What a blast!

Especially when you are lucky enough to be under the care of Duddy and his super foxy and hilarious wife, Saucy-licious. I have much to report, but for now nothing says it better than this:

We got donuts before school today. Not that there needs to be a reason to get donuts, but boy, was there ever a reason. Legaus‘ handler came and took him away today. My knee contraption is gone – off to get tuned up for the next unlucky soul. I almost wish I could have tucked a note into it somewhere, a message to be discovered to lighten the monotony, to put the tiniest chink in the frustration. But I’ve got nothing inspiring or clever or enlightening to say. Nothing other than Dude, this sucks so bad. Sucks. Sucks. Sucks to be you. Ohmygod, this suuuuucks. And that hardly seems like a helpful sort of message.

Hail Monti, full of grace 

Toucan Sam is with thee.

Blessed art thou amongst Cocoa Puffs and

Blessed is the fruit of thy loops, Tony the Tiger.

Holy Monti,

Mother of Trix Rabbit,

Pray for your teeth,

Now, and when you ask for cereal again for lunch.

Amen.