You are currently browsing the monthly archive for February 2008.
Or at least something like that … I’m hoping it will be at least 30 degrees warmer on the West Coast.
I’ve mowed my leg hairs for the first time since September, and I’m ready to show off my pasty whites.
I’m not planning to touch a computer until Tuesday night, but I’ll take lots of pictures. Can’t wait to see the ocean and spend time with my girls.
Pompous, annoying, wanna-be rock star. Sometimes you could be funny — but mostly when you weren’t trying. When you and your roommates started thinking cocaine was cool, I stopped coming to hang out.
I felt bad when we TP’ed your house and sprayed shaving cream on your lawn. You were an outcast, but it didn’t help that you had no redeeming qualities. I hope you’re not too scarred.
You were older and popular. You picked me up in a red convertible, which helped. But you were a jackass, which didn’t. I flirted with dating you, then decided it was a bad idea.
Insanely enthusiastic, incredibly positive and always fun to talk to. I will never stop calling Brenda BRRRENNDAAAH! because of you. And I love calling Brenda BRRRENNDAAAH. So thanks for that.
Myles’ best friend, you have a wicked, wild imagination. You’re a budding artist and you speak like an adult, which can be scary. You play with Clare, which is nice since she worships you.
Our honeymoon, which seems like a lifetime ago, was easily the best week of my life. We left for Puerto Vallarta two days after our wedding, in the middle of July.
Mexico? In the summer? Yep.
It was hot, humid and rained every day. But the rain was usually over by noon, and we were busy waking up slow and drinking our coffee until around then, anyway.
We spent afternoons on walks or horseback rides through the jungle. Early evenings were for margaritas, consumed at the swim-up bar. (It was on this trip that Pepe, the caretaker of the family villa, taught me how to get my friends stinking drunk on a concoction that deceptively tastes like it contains very little alcohol. I warn them, I always warn them, but they suck down the first one and beg for more. I’m a good hostess. I comply. I’m called evil the next day.)
Because Ed’s parents paid for our groceries and our lodging was free, we decided that when we ate out, we were going to eat fabulously. And we did. One of our favorite meals was at La Palapa, in the romantic district.
I don’t remember my entree because the soup overshadowed everything. It was my virgin tortilla soup voyage, so I had no idea that they can be heavy, overspiced affairs. This one was light, refreshing and vegetarian.
When I got home, I spent hours scouring the Internet for a recipe close to what we’d tasted. Turns out, it was the most simple one I found, with just a few ingredients, that brought me to that place, that humid, breezy hut that smelled of seawater and chili peppers.
In the summer, I like it just the way La Palapa serves it, with a light vegetable broth and without meat. But this weekend, being that it’s still cold in this godforsaken tundra, I used chicken stock and some shredded chicken to make it a little more hearty. Tortilla soup must be served with plenty of accoutrements, like sliced ripe avocados, chopped cilantro and crema or sour cream. And of course, crispy tortilla strips. I bake them, which admittedly isn’t that authentic, but it’s easier than spattering oil all over my kitchen and more healthful. And I think they add the required crunch to the soup.
One more thing — you MUST make your own stock or broth for this soup to work. It’s just not worth it to use the canned variety, no matter how high-quality it is.
Kick-Ass Tortilla Soup
6 – 6 inch corn tortillas
2-3 tsp chili powder (I prefer Ancho, but to each their own. Just please use pure powder.)
1 large poblano chili
1 tsp cumin
3 tbsp vegetable oil
1 onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
6 cups vegetable broth (or chicken stock if you’re making chicken version)
2 cups of shredded, cooked chicken (optional)
1 can diced tomatoes
juice of one lime
For garnishing:
Tortilla strips you make below; sliced ripe avocado; sour cream or mexican crema; chopped cilantro; cotija cheese. (Use whichever ones you like — it’s a customizeable thing.)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cut 4 tortillas into matchstick-size strips. Arrange on baking pan and spray with nonstick cooking spray. Sprinkle with chili powder and salt; toss. Bake 15 minutes, or until crisp.
Char poblano over gas stovetop or under broiler until black. Put that beautiful little sucker in a plastic bag for about 10 minutes. Take it out and peel. Seed and chop it into 1/2 inch pieces.
Cut 4 tortillas into 1 inch pieces. Heat oil. DO NOT SKIMP ON OIL. Cook tortillas until crips and golden, stirring occassionally, about 15 minutes. Add poblano, onion and garlic, saute 2 minutes, or until onions are soft. Add cumin and remaining chili powder to taste. Sautee another minute. Add broth and tomatoes. Bring just to boil. Reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes. Add chicken, if using, and lime juice. Salt and pepper to taste. Ladle into bowls and garnish as desired.
Stare into the eyes of your dining companion, certain that you’ve found true love.
Clare (who had just stripped off her shirt): Daddy, daddy come see my show!
Ed: Why’d you take your shirt off?
Clare: It’s a show where girls don’t wear their shirts!!!
I don’t know if it’s watching my kids with my parents or just a late winter reflective period, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandparents. (My dad’s parents, mostly. I didn’t know my mom’s parents very well, and they died when I was pretty young.)
I spent a lot of time with my grandparents when I was a preschooler. We lived in the same city then, and they often served as babysitters for my young parents. I have lots of warm memories of sitting on grandma’s lap watching Lawrence Welk or the evening news. Usually eating Triscuits, peanuts and sliced cheddar cheese from a pink plastic bowl. (I think those bowls reside at the family cabin now.)
I remember watching the circus that is making a Thanksgiving feast. I’d sit at the kitchen table, out of their way, listening to them bicker about how long the turkey should cook or how much meat to put in the stuffing. I was transfixed as grandma mixed flour and water in a jar and whisked it into the turkey drippings to make gravy so good I’ve never tasted its equal.
When grandpa could still drink (heart problems — the doc made him quit later in life), he’d pour himself a beer in this funny glass chalis he had and crack a raw egg into it. Then he’d sprinkle salt and pepper on the beer. It would float there like flecks of dust and stick to his upper lip when he took a gulp. He was always sure to call me in before he drank the egg at the bottom of the glass. He loved to hear me squeal in horror as the viscous protein slid down his gullet. Sunny-side up eggs still remind me of this.
Grandma had a tin bucket full of buttons. Buttons she’d collected from decades of worn-out shirts and outgrown coats. They were my favorite playthings. I knew where to find the pink container in the closet outside her bedroom and would pull out one of the built-in drawers beneath to climb up and get it. Funny, I don’t remember doing anything in particular with them. I’d just run my hands through them, relishing the way the different textures of plastic felt as they slid over my fingers. And I’d pick through them, one by one (even though I’d probably examined each a hundred times before) and inspect each little disc. My mom has the bucket now, and I’ve been too afraid of what it would feel like to touch them again to ask to see them.
Grandpa used to fall asleep sitting up in his chair. He’d be bolt upright, snoring like a buzzsaw. He and my dad are the only people I have ever known who have this talent. But grandpa would always wake up if you turned the TV channel off his beloved golf game.
Their little white story and a half house was alarmingly clean. There was never a dirty dish in the sink for longer than a few minutes. Grandma swept the kitchen floor after every meal. I never remember seeing even the most minute speck of dust anywhere. My dad and his siblings say it was like that when they were growing up, too. She had four kids. And a steel constitution, apparently.
Grandma had diabetes. She was meticulous about her diet and never had to take insulin. She’d make herself her own apple pie in a pot-pie tin — without the sugar. I loved those little pies so much that she started making me one in a pot-pie tin, too. So she’d make a big pie for everyone else and one little one for me and one for her.
Their grass was a thick, green carpet. I remember rolling in the most lush patch, just beside the garage and thinking it was the best smell in the world. They had a white picnic table that grandma used to cover with a plastic red-and-white checked tablecloth. To keep the dirt away from our food. Even though they probably painted the thing every year and she’d wash it down with a bucket and sponge before every outdoor meal — cooked on the bright yellow Weber I still get choked up to see at the cabin.
Grandma wore bright red lipstick called Million-Dollar Red. I’d reach into her medicine cabinet and carefully remove the little gold cylinder to inspect it, never daring to smear any of it on my own lips. It smelled like baby powder.
When Grandpa died, I was 19. He had gone into the hospital to have surgery on his knees. So he could play golf again. He was in his late 60s. I remember taking the call from my mom that his organs had failed in surgery. I heard the words like the phone receiver was underwater. I hung up and started packing my clothes, not even knowing how I’d make the six-hour trip home. I was numb and the tears sat like salty puddles, clouding my vision, not daring to drip onto my cheeks.
I was still an arrogant, snotty teenager, and I’d been shunning my family regularly since I was 14. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t have time to ask my grandpa more about what it was like to live through the depression. Or about serving in the Korean war. Or about how he met my grandmother. Frankly, at the time, it never occurred to me that I’d ever want to know those things.
They asked me to give his eulogy. I was a writer, they said. I went the entire weekend before the funeral without writing a word. I told them I couldn’t do it. My aunt told me they’d record it for my grandmother, who was too sick to be at the service. I retreated into their den and stared at the fabric of their tweed sleeper sofa. I cried. I swore. Finally, I wrote and later spoke about magic and how my grandpa was the luckiest person I knew. How he taught me card tricks and how to win at cribbage. How he was always amazing us with a slight of hand.
Too bad that magic didn’t work enough to keep him here for a little while longer.
Grandma’s cancer came back not long after grandpa died, and I was too far away to spend much time with her, but at least I got to say goodbye. And she got to meet Ed. She called him Eddy at Thanksgiving dinner, and we all laughed.
She’d have loved him if she got to know him.
I like to think it’s because I’m super logical that you gave me an A, but I suspect it might have been because you liked to flirt with me while we smoked during breaks.
