Connecticut Cowgirl

My 22 year old son came home to visit from Texas last week. He asked me if I could have a pizza from a local pizza restaurant waiting for him when he got in at 11 pm. Of course, I obliged him. What mom wouldn’t?

Connecticut is the pizza capital, I guess. I know in my experience it has always been a well received treat present at most celebrations, especially if young people are present. I can’t even think of a birthday or school party where pizza wasn’t served while my kids were growing up. Mom and pop pizza parlors are a constant in this neck of the woods and they never appear to lack business. Of course, they are all different and everyone has their favorite.

I, myself, enjoy many different kinds of pizza. In fact, I’m hard pressed to think of any I would refuse. I think I would say, however, that that to me when it comes to pizza, simple is best. Nothing beats a simple, basic pizza pie. Frank Pepe’s makes a white clam I dream of. It’s nothing but dough, oil, garlic, spices, cheese and freshly shucked clams. The combination of the spices, garlic and the briny taste of the clams is so delicious. It’s not easily forgotten.

My favorite pizza is truly home grown, however, and originates from my father. My Dad, Mr. C, used to enjoy cooking and pizza was one of his specialties. From dough to sauce, it was all from scratch. A weekend warrior in the kitchen, my father perfected his perfect crust – thin and crisp.

The essential ingredients were tomato sauce, oregano and parmesan cheese. Lots of parmesan cheese. Not freshly grated parmesan though, but the kind that comes already grated. ( Personally, I’m with my Dad on this. On certain foods, pizza being one of them, the pre-grated kind actually seems to have more flavor.) And just so you don’t think my father wasn’t a discriminating chef, I’ll have you know he only used the highest quality brand of shaker jar cheese, such as Colonna. He would then sprinkle aromatic oregano on top of the pizza and drizzle oil over it all before putting it in the oven. It smelled wonderful

I still make Mr. C Pizza today. It is the signature pizza of my family. I am not the purist my father was, however, I switch between homemade and jar sauce, and alternate between mixing my own dough or buying it uncooked from the bakery department of Stop & Shop. I also sprinkle cornmeal on the round pan I use before shaping the dough. This makes for an even crisper crust. Sometimes I add fresh mozzarella (but it really doesn’t make a difference because it’s all about the parmesan). The end product is the same, a simple, delicious pizza.

To be honest a few family members have confessed they prefer less parmesan. Did I mention there’s lots of parmesan on Mr. C pizza? For me, there is no such thing as too much parmesan, so I don’t get it. My middle child begs me to make Mr. C pizza and my husband praises it, so I know I’m not alone. Some things you just don’t change.

The sauce is also a point of debate. One of my daughters has said since she was old enough to speak, “too much sauce”. This gets to the heart of the matter and like the parmesan isn’t open to negotiation. Sauce isn’t just glue for toppings on Mr. C pizza; it is an integral part of the taste experience. Mr. C pizza is a “wet” pizza, but not so heavy with sauce you can’t pick it up and eat it. There is a talent to getting the sauce just right. You can’t ask someone who has mastered the sauce to forget this hard earned skill and make it less than perfect. It would be like asking an athlete to play less than their best. Sorry, pizza excellence is not achieved by compromise.

In my approach to pizza, I live by a simple philosophy: If heaven was a cheese, it would be called parmesan. And, if pizza is served in heaven, it’s made by Mr. C.

I have heard a bit of buzz about Christina Tosi’s bakery goods at New York’s Momofuku’s Milk Bar. Actually, more like a lot of buzz.

I love New York and the idea of dropping everything and making the trek into the City to sample these goodies first hand has an appeal, but it just isn’t going to happen. So, I did the next best thing and googled until I found some recipes. If you can’t go to the cookies, then make them yourself…

http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2010/09/blueberry_and_cream_cookies

This Blueberry and Cream cookie caught my attention. It seemed a bit different and who doesn’t like blueberries and cream? The blueberries are the dried variety, so they are not weather or season dependent. Like most dried fruit, they aren’t inexpensive. They are delicious, though, and obviously, a key ingredient in this recipe. I recommend staying with the program. Leave those raisens and craisens for another cookie.

In fact, staying with the program is the most common piece of advice provided in the comments by posters who made these cookies. I heeded their advice, making them exactly as instructed, including the 24 hour refrigeration period prior to baking. I wasn’t disappointed.

The milk crumbs are delicious and also essential. They are also quite easy to make. I made them a day or two ahead and stored them in a zip lock bag at room temperature. You can see them in the picture if you look close. Yes, those little specks are milk crumbs.

My struggle with cookie commitment has been detailed on this blog. That, coupled with the “O factor”* I get when contemplating a multi-step recipe has been known to put the cabash on expanding my recipe repertoire before. I am learning to overcome this though, by breaking a complicated recipe into steps and not feeling the need to do it all at once. Kind of like a 10 step program.

These cookies have a few steps to them, but they are not at all complicated. They are a drop cookie, my favorite kind! You won’t be disappointed.

* The state of being overwhelmed

There isn’t a drop of Polish between myself and the IT Director. That being the case, our Easter festivities always include kielbasa and sauerkraut. Perhaps our taste buds are Polish?

This wasn’t always the case. My Irish mother occasionally boiled a kielbasa and served it with kraut straight from the can for dinner. I think my father enjoyed it, but it was one of those “if I take tiny bites, I can swallow it without chewing” meals for me. This was in the days where opting out of the dinner entree for cereal wasn’t tolerated.

My husband’s Italian mother and Yankee grandmother ( this was the only ethnicity she claimed) would cook it up when there was a family buffet. But it was never an Easter tradition for us until years later, when my children attended a parochial school which was operated by a Catholic parish of Polish origination. I guess that the parish was exclusively Polish at one time, but that was many years ago. Still, the traditions survived and traditional Polish food was part of the fundraising and social traditions. Handmade pierogies, golumpkies (stuffed cabbage), with kielbasa and kraut became part of our regular diet, comfort food in any language. We loved it all and quickly adapted. It just wouldn’t be Easter without Polish kielbasa.

I bake my kielbasa, cut up, with the sauerkraut (including the juice) mixed in. Borrowing from my Yankee grandmother-in-law, I mix brown sugar in with it all to cut the sour taste. I have no hard rule on how much brown sugar to add. The kraut is sour and acidic enough to stand on its own, so you can add quite a bit before you will detect any sweetness. I add enough to color it a light brown, enough to be able to tell it’s there. Then I bake it for at least an hour at 350 degrees. If you like it well done and a bit crunchy, don’t be afraid to cook it longer. The sausage is, of course, already cooked, so it’s really a matter of your preference. The brown sugar mellows the taste and blends with the flavors of the kraut and the sausage really well. It will convert nonbelievers.

Serve it with bold mustard as a side dish and create a tradition!

I went to breakfast last Friday with a business associate.

I had an egg sandwich and my companion went all out with a Belgian waffle. You know what a Belgian waffle is: waffle, fresh strawberries and last but not least, whipped cream. A pretty decadent breakfast, yes?

I always associate Belgian waffles with the 1964 New York World’s Fair. I was all of eleven years old and my parents took my siblings and I for a day at the Fair. I remember a few of the exhibits, but mostly I remember that everywhere you looked, someone was munching on a Belgian waffle. Two waffles with strawberries and whipped cream sandwiched between them wrapped in foil, allowing the muncher to continue walking around enjoying the Fair. It was a new food item to me, and looked delicious. A breakfast item doing double duty as a dessert! My parents had four kids with pleading faces beseeching them, “Please, can we have one? PLEEEASE!

Ever thrifty, my parents did not believe in paying the high prices asked for food at these events. My mother had a thermos filled with boiling water and hot dogs in the car for our lunch. Unlike me, who would have broken down and bought my kids a Belgian waffle if for no other reason then the fact I wanted one and couldn’t eat it in front of them, my parents resisted. They just don’t make parents like this anymore.

We went home resolved to work hard and someday have a Belgian waffle of our own.  It was worth the wait.  :)

I’m kind of liking winter this year.

I have an on and off fondness for the season and never really know how I will feel about it until it’s here.  And it’s not here until January, because before that it’s “the holiday season” which can look a lot like winter if the lights and decorations are factored out.

Of course, this winter is an easy one to like.  Minimal snow to date and some pretty unusually warm temperatures.  It’s not a cumbersome winter, forcing you to acknowledge its presence like last year’s did. It’s the kind you can almost ignore.

Still winter has its own sounds and rhythm.  Even without snow, it’s quieter.  Darkness and overcast skies become the norm, and we in turn respond with nesting activities like cooking stews and reading.  I actually think there is something rather “civilized” about winter, sort of nature’s gift of therapy to us. Winter gives us permission to slow down and touch base with our inner selves, a hibernation of sorts.

Then why is it essentially de rigueur to not like winter, especially in parts like New England that get the full winter experience?  In a popularity poll of the seasons, I guarantee winter would come in last.  So, if it’s so warm and cozy, why is it so disliked?  Ostracized even, by “snowbirds” running south to avoid any exposure to it?  The only way to save face as a winter lover is to be a skier or snowboarder.  Otherwise, you are just an odd ball and your best to keep it to yourself.

 I submit the answer is that cold just isn’t cool.  Winter doesn’t have the happy, carefree spirit of summer.  It lacks the color and richness of fall, and the fresh, newness of spring.  Winter just isn’t a comer.  It’s old and grey, hard to warm up to.  Winter is the Seinfeld of seasons, a season about nothing.

Myself, I have come to recognize that whatever the season, I am happy to see each come …and go.

I love the start of summer, but of all the seasons am happiest to bid it adieu.  There is a lot of hype associated with summer; it is definitely the cool kid of the seasons.  There is an entire genre of songs about it.

 Truth be told, I think it’s overrated.  Don’t quote me on this though, because I’ll deny I said it.  I can’t afford to be on summer’s bad side!

I like a short Christmas season.

In theory, I like the longer one, the one that starts the day after Thanksgiving and is full of parties, Christmas cards and cookie swaps. But in actuality, I’m better with a short one. I get in the spirit about one week before the 25th, and for me that’s soon enough

The truth is, Christmas overwhelms me. In early November, as I realize the season is fast approaching, I get excited about it. This excitement doesn’t translate into action though, and before I know it, the season is here and I’m not.

It was different when the kids were young. Christmas is a mission when you have young ones. You are creating a fantasy for them and you derive your joy from theirs. Christmas morning is one memory we all cherish from childhood, even though there may be great variation in our actual experiences. Most of us want to recreate the wonder we experienced for our own children.   Christmas overwhelmed me when my kids were young, too. But it also inspired me, which then created energy and translated into action. Not so much now.

I guess it’s an issue of sustainability ( you know I can’t leave 2011 without using the “word of the year”). I still love the whole aura of Christmas, but I don’t need a month to appreciate it. I also know that this is a temporary state (I hope), which can be easily cured by new additions to the family… known as grandchildren! All in good time.

On another point, I am listening to Pandora Christmas music as I write this. Bing Crosby is talking to an audience at the beginning of a song asking them to sing along. He’s explaining how enjoyable “gang singing” is. Listening to this, I can’t help but contemplate how over the course of sixty years the connotation a word carries can certainly change a lot. That’s the subject of another post though, and for now, I’d just like to contemplate what Bing was talking about and the spirit he was trying to evoke in a simpler time.

That kind of Christmas is always in style.

The passage below was reprinted in the Wall Street Journal on November 23, 2011 entitled “The Desolate Wilderness”. It was written by Nathaniel Morton, keeper of records of Plymouth Colony, and is based upon an account by William Bradford, recalling the circumstances of his and fellow “pilgrims” arrival to the New World in 1620.

Being now passed the vast ocean, and a sea of troubles before them in expectations, they had now no friends to welcome them, no inns to entertain or refresh them, no houses, or much less towns, to repair unto to seek for succour; and for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters of the country know them to be sharp and violent, subject to cruel and fierce storms, dangerous to travel to known places, much more to search unknown coasts.
Besides, what could they see but a hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wilde beasts and wilde men? and what multitudes of them there were, they then knew not: for which way soever they turned their eyes (save upward to Heaven) they could have but little solace or content in respect of any outward object; for summer being ended, all things stand in appearance with a weatherbeaten face, and the whole country, full of woods and thickets, represented a wild and savage hew.
If they looked behind them, there was a mighty ocean which they had passed, and was now as a main bar or gulph to separate them from all the civil parts of the world.

If you take a few minutes to slowly read this passage and focus on what is being described, you may feel the impact I did upon reading it. What powerful writing, conveying the darkness and loneliness the earliest settlers to our shores must have felt.

The unsung heroes of our nation’s earliest stirrings.

Our legacy of courage and optimism. The American spirit.

I misplaced my Kindle the other day.

It wasn’t really misplaced since I knew where it had to be. But there was a closed nail salon and a locked door standing between me and it.

I was so upset with myself. Not because I never leave things places, but because I always do… even when I make up my mind to stop doing it.

I have been this way my whole life. ( This means it’s not an age thing.)

My IT Director says it’s because I am always preoccupied with where I am going next or what I have to do. It’s true, I am always more focused within rather than outside myself. I’m the person who never remembers what section of the lot they parked in, too busy with my thoughts upon arrival. I have been annoyed with myself on more than one occasion about this, but I’m afraid it’s organic and an inherent part of me.

Do I look less alert and “with it” than I would like? I’m sure I do, walking around lost in thought. On the other hand, do I want to wipe all thoughts from my mind and just note the mundane activities around me? For instance, “Oh, look at that blue car, and that grey one. And note this, here are two women walking by me talking.” Is that putting a mind to good use?

I think it’s connected to the introvert/extrovert distinction and how we process stimuli around us.

The what?

This is where I segway into the real motivation for this post.

Like many people, I always associated the word introvert with shyness and an extrovert as being very outgoing and social. An article I recently read says that’s not the case at all. The terms actually deal with how people process and react to stimuli about them. An introvert‘s brain is actually more responsive to activity within them. They generate their own energy, so when interacting with others over stimulation occurs creating the need to “chill out” with some down time resulting in the image of being less social. Introverts get their energy from within, they aren’t dependent on outside stimuli.

An extrovert , on the other hand, needs people around them to get the necessary level of stimulation to generate energy. They derive energy from without, not from within, so they don’t get the overload of stimulation an introvert does from crowds of people. They also don’t benefit from time alone the same way an introvert does. They need interaction to get things going within. It’s about the processing of information, not about being a party animal.

I am decidedly more introvert than extrovert. I would say a 70/30 split is about right. I can really relate to feeling that energy is being sucked out of me by some people. I used to feel it was my failing because I couldn’t match what seemed to be excessive enthusiasm for no apparent reason. Now, I know that sucking feeling was real!

At any rate, now I have a good excuse for my less than “with it” demeanor. I’m not out of it…I’m just recharging!

Talking about a being missing in action from blogging, I can’t believe myself how much time has passed. Blame it all on Irene. At least that is what I have been doing.

I recognize this is becoming a less viable excuse with each passing moment, but it certainly was valid for a bit. We lost power for four days, in a week where I had two real estate closings. For my small practice this was tantamount to a disaster. Somehow I muddled through, but it was a week that I never want to repeat.

There are many frustrations with power outages to say the least, but trying to conduct a law business without one’s computer and phone is impossible. Taking a few days off would be great, but unfortunately everyone isn’t equally hamstrung. The bank involved had power back within one day. Once power is restored, it’s like it was never lost. “What do you mean we can’t close tomorrow? We’re ready to go and your client is very anxious. We’re not sure how long this rate will last.” Not too much pressure.

A funny story happened at the bank on Monday morning, Day 2 NP (no power). My local branch was closed due to the outage, so I drove to the next town over where a branch was open. This town experienced spotty outages, some residents never spending any time in the dark.

So, I approached this very young teller and asked her for the balance in my accounts. I usually do this by phone, but blame it on Irene, I couldn’t. She provided them, and then in a very kindly voice gives me a card and says “You can call this number and get your balances. You don’t have to come in to the bank”. I then realize she thinks I am some eccentric woman who goes to the bank every day just to hear my account balances. My disheveled, unshowered appearance didn’t help in this area. I could have explained to her that a tree had fallen on my house and I had no phone service (like several thousand others), but what was the point? Everyone lives in their own reality today. If it’s not happening to you, it isn’t happening.

Talk about different versions of the same reality, I heard a social worker at DSS refer to Irene as a “tragedy” the other day. My response to her is: Katrina was a tragedy; Irene was, for most, little more than an inconvenience.

Nevertheless, I’m blaming my absence from the blogosphere on Irene.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

We went out to dinner last week with two other couples. These are “old friends”, as in we go back to our just post college days when we were all finding our way professionally ( and romantically). One couple lives in California and was visiting family here. The other couple lives fairly close by, but had fallen off the radar screen for many years. It was nice getting reacquainted with them.

Only my IT Director had dessert, if you don’t count the few bites I stole from him. Some of us, however, did have a cup of coffee or tea to top off our meals. Is it me, or is this a ritual that is largely fading?
I remember my parents always had a cup of coffee at the end of a restaurant meal. In fact, they used to bring home the little glass creamers as a treasure for us to fight over after their infrequent evenings out.

I know, I’m always up for “a cuppa” after a nice dinner, my preference being strong black tea. It’s really not about the beverage, though. It’s about the company and the desire to linger a bit longer and leisurely enjoy the surroundings and each other. A good restaurant gets this, and lets it happen. It’s an integral part of dining out and creates as much of an impression of the evening as the food.

Getting back to my earlier question though, is this “ cuppa linger” a dying ritual? I tend to think it is. Even in the midst of the great resurgence of interest in coffee, it seems that our consumption has become part of our daily rush or a warm comfort for solitary internet surfing, not an excuse to socialize.
I don’t know, but I did recall feeling a bit surprised to hear our friends say, “I’d like a cup of coffee” instead of “just the bill, please”. I do believe it’s been a while since this has happened and I intend to do my part in keeping this “linger” going.

In friendship, small gestures speak volumes .