A Valentine Bouquet of Cheer

I’m up to my old tricks.

I volunteered to bake cookies for my daughter’s first grade class Valentine’s Day party and, well, you know me. I couldn’t just make cookies.

“Let’s do hearts and flowers!” my daughter said excitedly.

“No, let’s do a whole bouquet of hearts and flowers!” I responded. I don’t know why I egg her on. It always means more work for me.

We hadn’t done a large batch of lollipop cookies on sticks since her pre-school Easter basket. The cookies simply are cut-out shapes, but the skewers add another level of labor and a hefty opportunity for breakage. I felt rusty. And worried.

My daughter and I always work side-by-side when it comes to almost any sort of baking, and her little hands get into every element at every step. This time was no different. But the results were: She was very adept and surprisingly smooth with the dough, the icings, the sugars, the chocolate dipping and the final assembly. She was careful and precise with little guidance. What a difference from age 4 ½ to 6!

We made smooth-edged hearts and what I called “doily hearts” – which were lacey and charming. All we did was prick the edges of the dough with a toothpick before baking and Voila! It was a good idea that was super-easy and worked out very well. We iced and coated the hearts in red, violet and pink sparkling sugars and non-pariels, using décor left over from her party last week. We also made a separate “XOX” cookie for her teacher.

Did we stop there? Not on your life. We rolled out the remaining dough scraps and cut out small one- or two-bite hearts to be dipped in chocolate (her idea) and topped with a conversation heart (my idea). They were really cute, too!

We assembled the “bouquet” of hearts in a pink tub with red paper “grass”, laid the chocolate-covered hearts amidst the forest of sticks, then wrapped the entire confection in clear cellophane tied with a mass of curling ribbon in three shades of pink.

My daughter proudly carried it in to class on Monday morning, and rightly so.

She did a great job.

Elements, recipes, tips and techniques used can be found in a past entry, “Queen of Royal Icing.”

Will You Be My Valentine?

A tornado of nine giggling, squealing first grade girls descended upon the house after school on Thursday, leaving a chaos of cupcake crumbs, sanding sugars, non-pariels, frosting, stickers, jewels, balloons, streamers and scattered conversation hearts in its wake.

My daughter and I threw a Valentine’s Day party for her friends.

I love Valentine’s Day, sentimental fool that I am. We came up with the idea in the icy, dark depths of January, when we were constantly snowed in and barely able to dig out at times. A blizzard of pink cheer was definitely in order. We decided on card making and cupcake decorating as activities. She and I started by making the invitations out of construction paper cut into hearts and glued onto pink poster board cut to fit some funky lined envelopes I had on hand. She decorated the invitations with foam hearts of all colors and ruby-red stick-on heart jewels for added bling. I addressed them in super-loopy curlicue script and sent them using “Love” stamps from the Post Office.

I should have known at that early point that we’d end up going overboard.

I transformed the dining room into an explosion of pink streamers, dangling hearts and red heart-shaped balloons, then set the table with pink plates and matching heart napkins and cups upon a pink disposable tablecloth. I framed the entryway with a glittery heart garland draped like a giant, metallic feather boa.

My daughter and I made chocolate-covered strawberries, mainly for the mothers to eat when dropping off and picking up their daughters. But they were devoured by all. I also put out some chilled Prosecco (Champagne entails just too many expectations) and foil-covered Swiss chocolate hearts and squares from Rohr for the adults.

With all that melting chocolate laying around, I got a little more ambitious: We used molds to make solid hearts and two-tone roses in both white chocolate dyed pink and dark chocolate. Selections of each were put into heart-covered cellophane gift bags, tied with a frizz of curling ribbon and placed into the larger pink paper goodie bags. I also tossed in a valentine’s candy necklace in each. My daughter begged and pleaded at Michael’s Craft Store to please, please, please buy the glitter heart wands because they were “covered in real fairy dust.” I did, and one went into each girl’s bag as well.

But honestly, the girls did all of the work and filled the bags with their efforts. The cards were a blank canvas, with a pink background and doily edge, and they turned out very well: the girls mainly made them for mainly for their parents or teachers and included lots of hearts, X and O kisses and hugs, and wrote loving sentiments. The girls worked very intensely and quite nicely together, cooperating, politely helping each other when asked, and sharing stickers and jewels. It was really quite sweet to watch.

Then all hell broke loose though after a break, during which the girls raided the princess dress-up chest while I set out the cupcakes and accoutrements. But what a riot!

My daughter and I pre-baked both chocolate and golden-butter cupcakes and turned – seriously - a half gallon of store-bought tubs of vanilla frosting into different colors. The girls got to decorate one cupcake of each flavor. Some had never used a pastry bag before, so there was a learning process and a lot of laughs involved. Cupcake décor included Sweet Tart conversation hearts, pink and lavender M & Ms, Jelly Belly jellybeans in all shades of solid and speckled pink, large heart-shaped Wilton sprinkles, edible pink pearls, a pink red and white non-pariel blend, electric pink, violet and red sanding sugars, Williams Sonoma gold and silver shimmering sugars over from Christmas and – how could I resist? – Maraschino cherries for those who wanted them on top. All were set out in bowls that criss-crossed the table, were shared, spilled, mixed together and eaten out of directly (that was the candy …)

The girls’ super-frosted delectables went into fuchsia and white boxes shaped like Chinese-food containers (thank goodness for the dollar store!), to maintain the integrity of the cupcakes. I suggested that the girls all take one to school the next day as a lunchtime dessert, to be part of “The Valentine’s Cupcake Club.” Within a split second, one girl said, "Um, no" without even looking up, and I was shot down. The others pretty much agreed with the "no." Forty years after I was their age, and Mommy is still a dork.

In the end, surprisingly few of the girls were in sugar-shock, and none of them wanted to leave. That was fine, since some of the mothers lingered over a glass of Prosecco. Thankfully, the mother of one of my daughter’s best friends came over to help with the insanity, and we both needed a glass by the end of the party!

I sent the girls off with their goody bags and their choice of balloons from the house, fed my daughter dinner, cleaned up and nearly collapsed.

But amazingly during her evening bath, my daughter and I started planning her next event.

We can’t wait!

Half-Way Day

To all of you who think mismatched socks are a creative way to celebrate the school’s “Half Way Day,” I present you with this: a bouncy, flouncy full circle skirt in two fabrics and color schemes, complete with a crinoline for added pouf.

My daughter and I made it Sunday night.

Half Way Day marks the 90th day of school in our 180-day school year. It’s the kids’ day to “mix it up,” as the flyer sent home last week stated. Some kids wore two different shoes. One wore a pajama top and regular pants.

I think the skirt is both witty and literal. Its literality is obvious: one half of the skirt is a deep navy, black and forest green Christmas plaid silk taffeta, the other a starched pink and grass green cotton plaid. I think the mix of dark winter plaid and cheerful spring and summer colors introduces wit into the equation. Wit, or irony in the least. Considering the winter we’ve had so far, with snow totals nearing five feet, who doesn’t need a blooming burst of spring? The day was originally scheduled in January, but due to snow days, it was pushed into February.

I do have my issues with Half Way Day. It makes me think of a group of broken and bedraggled 1st graders in prison stripes scratching tally marks into the school’s cinder block walls, counting down their days in the clink, plinking their tin cups against cell bars ‘til they’re sprung from the joint.

I have a bit of a reputation amongst the mothers (and teachers) for a certain level of intensity, and when it comes to academics, that is true. I believe that the school year should be as close to 24/7/365 as the law would allow. I can come across as pretty serious. But once people get to know me, I often hear something to the effect of, “Wow, you’re a normal person.” I think the fun and silliness displayed in this creation should absolve me of at least some of that rep in the schoolyard. See? I do have a sense of humor.

But, would just a skirt be enough? As you all know from cooking and baking entries of the past, neither my daughter nor I can leave well enough alone. We had to take things one step further. So we cut apart two pairs of tights and sewed them back together at the center front and back seams. She had one pink leg and one ivory, and wore one pink Naturino shoe on one foot and one black patent leather Mary Jane on the other. The mismatched pink and white ponytail ribbons in her hair were simply icing on the cake.

We had almost as much fun making all of this as she had wearing it to school.

My Dirty Little Secret

I write a food, cooking and gardening blog, and I have a confession to make: I haven’t had a working oven in nearly three years.

Yes, count them, three. And I’m being generous. There were times I could get the oven to work and once I did, it would pretty much heat on command for a few months at a time. “Mommy can fix anything” is the mantra around the house. Mercifully, it worked fairly consistently last winter. That was truly a case of Christmas magic.

But come spring, I’m “all about the grill.” And now you know why.

Now you also know why in a few past entries, you might catch a glimpse of my daughter in the background making little snowmen on the outdoor table while Mommy mans the grill in the middle of winter. Sure, food (both savory & sweet) tastes great from the grill any time of year, but I think I was in denial and just didn’t want to deal with the stove issue.

It died with no chance of resuscitation at the beginning of this year. There was only slight oven ignition, no hear generated and a gas smell in March, then a dead front burner by the end of the summer.

This relic came with the house when we bought it in 2002. The pokey little kitchen had been redone, at least refaced, a few years prior and had a new white sink and white GE Profile dishwasher, the quietest thing you’ve (n)ever heard run. We bought a white GE refrigerator upon moving in, because the seller took hers. But the black-bodied, white-enamel-topped Caloric gas range with a six-inch pyramid back and a clock that “flipped” its numbers as the minutes passed remained.

Why would anyone remodel a kitchen in white and keep a food-encrusted beginning-to-rust black clunker as the centerpiece of the room? Why did I all these years? Self-cleaning, it said. The latch never latched, so I’d go the Easy-Off route, although there was no enamel finish and nothing came off easily.

So I took the plunge and the expense only to ask now, “Why, Why, WHY did I wait so long??!!??”

I went with a gleaming GE slide-in range. It’s clean, white and shiny with slate gray continuous grates, a TrueTemp oven, power boil and precise simmer burners and a brand new flexible gas line. . . George Clooney be damned! This is a housewife’s wet dream!

And believe you me, I plan on giving it a workout that would make Mr. Clooney blush. Stay tuned.

Swiss Chard for Broccoli Rabe

Remember being charded-out last year? We’re not quite at that point, but these greens have made their way into lentil dishes, pasta dinners and numerous steamed or sautéed sides. I’ve also been doing “the swap” – changing out the spinach in pasta with spinach and white beans with Swiss chard, like last year and, finally, for broccoli rabe in that classic prep with sweet sausage.

The dish worked. Another plus was that the chard did not need to be blanched and rinsed before cooking, like the broccoli rabe would.

While broccoli rabe does have a distinct flavor that can’t quite be matched by anything, the end result using the chard was quite tasty. I think the sausage and extra garlic helped, but in the end I added cannelini beans (a household staple and favorite) and tossed it together with mezzi rigatoni. Without the pasta, it’s a very good side dish. But the beans and rigatoni stretched it into two meals.

Swiss Chard (or Broccoli Rabe) with Sweet Sausage

Two large bunches of Swiss chard or broccoli rabe, stems chopped and leaves cut into ribbons
A long link of sweet Italian sausage, casing removed
Thick slice of sweet onion, rough-chopped
2 large cloves garlic, sliced thin; three cloves if that’s what you’re after
1 15 oz. can of cannellini beans, drained and well rinsed (optional)
1 T. flour
4 T. good olive oil
Salt & a lot of cracked black Pepper
¼ C. white wine
¼ C. chicken broth
Wedge of Lemon

½ Lb. pasta, your choice of shape, if using.

Over medium heat, heat the olive oil in a wide sauté pan fitted with a lid. Add the sausage and break it up in the pan. Sauté until nearly browned. Add the garlic and the onions and sweat them until softened. Sprinkle the flour and sauté until well-integrated and lightly golden, about 2 minutes.

Add the beans if using, a very generous amount of black pepper, stir to coat. Add your wine and broth, stir and scrape; it will thicken. Add your greens and salt. Stir to integrate. Lower your flame to low and cover with lid. Allow to cook together for at least 5 minutes. Test for desired doneness.

Blend all together and toss in your pasta, adding pasta water if necessary. Test, re-season, and finish with the juice of your lemon wedge, a glistening drizzle of olive oil & serve.

Whole Foods vs. Fairway

Or should it be “Whole Paycheck vs. Fair Pay”?

Whole Foods apparently is feeling the pinch of the recession, touting its stores and wares as (I’m serious here) not expensive. The chain does have a certain reputation, so I get the feeling they’re trying to garner a new customer base, or lure back those who may have left. And that’s fine. Advertise. It’s a free country.

But the radio spots kill me: “I go to Whole Foods for value and fair pricing.” “Every penny counts.” Really? When I think of Whole Foods, an originator and now behemoth of the organic marketplace with 100% market share, I don’t think of “every penny” counting. I think of every penny, nickel, dime and dollar being leeched out of my wallet. Or, rather, their customers’ wallets.

I go to Whole Foods only periodically to stock up on grains and bulk goods. I think I’m the only person I know who can get out of there for under $20 and still have a full bag of groceries, including an esoteric cheese that might strike my fancy. If my husband and daughter come, the tab surely rises, and quickly.

I went there recently for a short list of specialty items to bring for a last-minute beach weekend: Baguette, three cheeses, water crackers, fig or date cake, and cerignola olives. One cheese had to be Cypress Grove Humboldt Fog, a default and house favorite; the two others would be chosen on site to balance out the acidity on both ends. I went to Whole Foods that day because it’s geographically closer and we were in a rush to leave.

Baguette: Check. Water crackers: Check. Humboldt Fog: Check. Olives. Hmm, Olives. Check the olive bar. Slim pickings. Don’t want jarred. Don’t want the mixed. Check jarred. Nothing. Skip the olives. Trek back to inquire about fig cake at the cheese counter. The cheese monger tries to send me to baked goods. “No, it’s compressed, dried fruit, sometimes with nuts. It also comes in apricot.” He asks a pair of other employees. They escort me to the bakery. “No, it’s not a cake, per se.” Bakery sends me to dried fruit section in produce. I knew it was a fool’s mission to hike all the way back to the other end of the store. I did. Not there. Time to cut my losses and check out.

I should’ve gone 10-extra minutes out of the way to Fairway, because in the end I spent 40-minutes going in a circle with my daughter in tow, looking for things that used to be stocked but now don’t exist there. Fairway, I knew, had it all, and I knew where the items would be in the store.

Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against Whole Foods. It’s a neat adventure when you’re in the mood. But I fail to see “value pricing” in organic heirloom tomatoes that cost $6.99 per pound. I don’t even spend $6.99 on the seeds I grow in my backyard for plants that produce by the kilo. But if you’re in the market for tomatoes and don’t grow them yourself, then be my guest. Knock yourself out.

Now, onto Fairway. I’ve spoken of this small, regional chain before, since it opened a store in my county. The prices are good, competitive. The offerings are vast: it is nearly impossible to just zip in and zip out, much less stick to your list. You’re tempted at every turn. Fairway has the Humboldt Fog cheese as well, but it’s pricey, so $27.99 vs. $28.99/lb won’t send me to one store over the other. When I want it, I know I’m going to pay. As for the “on site selection” of companion cheeses, the word “choice” barely scratches the surface: imagine a wall, floor to ceiling, of cheeses from around the world, in addition to those in the front case to choose from and the pre-cut selections just behind you in their own chilled section of the store.

The Fairway baguettes far beat the one I picked up at Whole Foods in both taste and chewy texture. One costs $1.49, sometimes on sale for 99-cents – that’s when you buy four and stock the freezer. The Whole Foods baguette was $2.59 and didn’t compare. My olive experience sealed the deal, though. Fairway offerings – and this is a small store by comparison – are lined up in a two-tiered ring around a large island of shelves. Cerignola olives (they’re the really big ones) are standard and come in four colors: green, black, pink and mixed. There are a number of blends to choose from, herbed, spiced, mild, lemony, Thai-chili infused and otherwise. Kalamata, Nicoise, Picholine – they’re all there. And, at eye level on the island you’ll find accompaniments, condiments and yes, fig, date and apricot cakes sliced into wedges.

Whole Foods has large hot and cold bars of prepared foods, if that’s what you shop for. Fairway does as well, but Whole Foods wins in the number of items offered. However, I don’t buy prepared foods. Fairway has both conventional and organic produce, meats, baked goods and other grocery items. The prices are definitely better than Whole Foods. Don’t even get me started on olive oils: Fairway wins hands down on quantity, quality, plus regions and countries of origin. And a tasting bar, no less! Fairway also has a lot of grains (and my black lentils), but they’re pre-weighed and not all that cheap. Whole Foods bulk goods beats them by a nose on that front, also because of the number of grains and rices offered.

But when I needed snails to make Escargot a la Bourguignon for Valentine’s Day, where did I actually find them? Fairway. I picked up a fresh octopus ($3.99/lb!) on impulse over the summer to grill, and he was huge, glistening and smelled only of sweet sea brine. It’s hard to find anything other than frozen pulpo. And the price was right.

I can’t quite imagine doing my regular shopping there, since I regularly need things ranging from Cheerios to cat litter to Kiwi shoe polish. I know some people who do at Fairway and swear by it. I could not imagine doing a regular, weekly shopping at Whole Foods, although I know people who do. Appealing radio spots, “value pricing” or not, it would take my whole paycheck.

When I passed a Whole Foods billboard for its “value” ad-campaign over the weekend, I laughed to myself in the car. I was on my way to Fairway at the time.

Apparently, I’m a convert. It’s Fair Pay all the way.

Tomatoes are Female. Pole beans, Male.

Last summer, it was “Reflections on Tearing Lettuce.” This year, I have been musing off and on over the sex of my plants. There are male and female flowers on pumpkin vines, for example, so why not “male” and “female” plants themselves?

While not a comprehensive list of all things male, female or otherwise growing in my garden, a definitive few – the masculine and feminine, the tough and the tender, the sturdy and the dainty – make the cut as follows:

Female Plants

Tomatoes are most definitely female. With their hanging orbs perfectly cupped by a gentle hand and warmed by the sun, the fruits await a tender bite to release sweet, dribbling juices. When sliced, a gentle but skilled tongue can probe the gorgeous and glistening inner wells of the fruit for every last drop of sweet and salty goodness.

Summer squash - and the winter squash for that matter. The plants have a gently rambling form with bursting blooms and curlicue tendrils and are extremely productive. Plus the pollinating bees practically run each other over as they compete to enter the soft folds of the open, welcoming blossoms. There’s a lot of sex going on in the garden. And it’s constant in the squash bed.

Delicate fronds of Chervil and her subtle, mysterious taste.

Basil. Perhaps it is the way a good Genovese basil’s scent wafts up as you walk past, like a woman’s perfume. Perhaps it’s the lacy, ruffled edges of certain varieties that make it female. You tell me.

Rhubarb is female. My plant is a division from my grandmother. It has long, bright crimson stalks hidden beneath a canopy of large leaves. The leaves are poisonous but the stalks never fail to please and surprise. The raw taste will bite your tongue off, but its sweet and tangy flavor can be coaxed out by slow, steady, gentle cooking. And like a woman, the plant gets better and better with age.

Contrary to the knee-jerk “meat & potatoes” man’s meal image, potato plants are female. They have delicate, dangling lavender flowers that look lamentingly downward for the eyes to see, but like women, all their deepest secrets are buried beneath the fertile earth.

Male Plants

My climbing, vining, twining pole beans are male. This year, they have aggressively enveloped the three obelisks anchored in the bed and are venturing beyond, threatening to take over each other’s territory. If that’s not male, I don’t know what is. Also, this year, the bean plants are all boast and bravado: they’re puffing their chests, but not producing. By July of last year, I’d already harvested bales of beans. This year, it was slim pickings. These vines are all talk, no action. Definitely male. However, once the beans are prepared by an expert hand and transformed into a glistening tangle of oiled and herbaceous crisp-tender delight, they become female. The climbing bean exception would be Christmas limas. Once two thumbs gently ease open the pod, you reveal their hot fuschia striations of color. Those plants are definitely female from the start.

Tromboletta zucchini. Those hanging zucchinis are male, for obvious reasons. Plus, unchecked, the vigorous vines could overtake an entire backyard.

Tuscan kale is male, with its dark leaves, pebbled texture and plant heft and height.

Eggplants are male. I really gave this some thought because I just couldn’t quite decide. The leaves have a soft underside and the flowers are quite interesting. But they have a tough skin and take just sooo, sooo long to mature, if they do at all. Are they worth the wait? Some say eggplant is an acquired taste. But with the proper care and attention, eggplant can be trained and transformed in the kitchen into a variety of palatable dishes. That transformation is by a female hand, of course.

That’s not everything growing in my garden by any means. I’ve barely considered the cucumbers. Perhaps one night this week, after everyone’s in bed, I’ll sit on the patio with a glass of wine, survey my surroundings as the season winds down, and figure out the sex of my radicchio.

But for now, I think I need a cigarette.