Archive for the ‘Holiday’ Category

We're Hungry!

In the spirit of St. Patrick’s day, I almost posted a cabbage recipe.  The trouble is, I come from Germans and Czechoslovakians.  I must say it did feel a bit odd to post Slavic, Germanic, Eastern Bloc cabbage for a happy Irish holiday.  I mean, who needs cabbage with all that baggage?  Not that the Irish haven’t had their troubles in even recent history, but, shucks, they were neutral in World War II.  It’s hard to brawl with neutrality.  And neutrality is a nice backdrop upon which to build a holiday involving four-leaf clovers and rainbows.  Seriously, RAINBOWS.  The Irish got lucky when they were handing out national symbols based on national lore: they got RAINBOWS.  Little else is jollier than a rainbow and unless you’re a fraternity brother from a really macho college, you have nothing to hold against a rainbow.  Only really macho fraternity brothers from really macho colleges hold things against things that they pretend to despise in the open.

So rather than give you my mom’s TASTY cabbage recipe, I’m going to give you a link to the Food Network, (you can thank me later for having the knowledge and creativity to link you to THE MOST OBVIOUS SOURCE IN THE UNIVERSE).  I like to blog responsibly, and if the Irish know how to drop their cabbage in a pan with corned beef and potatoes, cook it together at once to yield magically delicious results, then I’m going to yield the floor to those Culinary Divas over at Food Network.  I mean, one pan (on the stove and to the oven) cooking, while you can make soda bread and drink a pint?  No WONDER Irish eyes are smiling, which is not exactly what Slavic, Germanic, Eastern Bloc eyes are famous for.

THE LINK TO THAT RECIPE I WAS TALKING ABOUT, if you still remember after my tangent. Kind of makes me feel like a high school teacher again.  I’m supposed to be talking about Shakespeare, but then I tie in Rachel Ray, and then I wonder why my students are looking at their prom pictures.

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Was not achieved at our household on February 14th.  With two performances (Mom’s and Dad’s) and children focused only on the lollipops in their school Valentine mailboxes, along with Father Time’s uncompromising cracks of the whip, not to mention the Sandman’s early morning work, exacerbated by the pain of having a broken espresso machine, the morning was full of sighs, huffs, pained expressions, and, we’ll call it, amplified voices.  I made waffles from scratch with vanilla paste OUT OF ANGER.  Has anyone ever made homemade waffles out of anger?  I suppose it’s better than smashing the Baby Alive doll, which I have not done, ever, nor do I wish to, though I wouldn’t mind if, by some miracle, the urinating toy would end up in a pile at the local Goodwill.

We also managed to disturb a number of Episcopalians at the church where my husband worked a soloist.  We left mid-service for my two-year-old who announced, out loud in the echoing, cavernous, wood-bedecked sanctuary, “I have to go poo,”  right after she returned from going pee, a need which she also announced, with equal clarity and volume.  When we left the church (the house of God, right?) she asked me, “Is that Daddy’s show?” Wow.  My husband effectively upstaged GOD.  Not bad.  I suppose Daddy is the center of the universe or, perhaps, some religious education for my children is in order.

Needless to say, we survived our ‘shows,’ went to a gymnastics birthday party (your favorite, too?), visited with friends and managed to have some serious fun by the day’s end.  Though despite fourteen days of commitment to love and food and those really hot photos, there was no romance and about $40 worth of champagne went unpoured.  Overall, it was a very good day, though the events of it would make for a lousy sonnet.  Perhaps we’ll reclaim the romance on some fantastic 7th of July, that is, if we are not trying to make up for an unpatriotic Independence Day that may have occurred three days earlier.

And now, at Saving Private Mommy, the Olympic Games can begin.  Four days late.  Thank God for streaming video.

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I’m not a fan of clichés since I like to think outside of the box, and I usually bend over backwards to avoid them, but at the end of the day, sometimes clichés get the job done.  Especially if that cliché is a chocolate-covered strawberry on Valentine’s Day.  Now that’s a hackneyed idea that should be embraced, or rather, bitten into, since hugging a strawberry is a waste of time.  To make a long story short, I’ll explain my choice in hopes that you, too, will drink the Koolaid.

Chocolate strawberries are tasty, elegant, and, let’s face it, full of fiber.  They are a lighter option than the brownie sundae, unless you eat twelve of them, like I did at my husband’s work Christmas party.  They do give you that gourmet experience with a very low-fuss preparation process.  I’m going out on a limb here, but I’ll assume that most folks don’t go gangbusters over the idea of crafting those fussy, but tasty, little petit fours.  While you deserve the indulgence, time is money, and who wants the pressure to always be firing on all cylinders when it comes to cooking for a holiday?  I hope you don’t mind that I went over your head and authorized you to make a clichéd, easy, yet gourmet dessert.  I hope you’ll consider finding a spot for these on the table since you already have a lot on your plate whilst your irons are in the fire and your candles are burning at both ends.  Watch out for the tablecloth!

• Melt chocolate chips in a saucepan over medium heat.  Remove from stove when melted.

• Dip in strawberries.  Let cool.  Refrigerate.  And go ahead and count these eggs before they hatch.

• Eat.

So make this very tasty and easy cliché, and save your midnight oil for some other occasion, like hiding your wealth from the IRS at 9 PM on April 14^th, a time when you really need to knock it out of the park.

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I was asked by my editor (Yes, Greta has an editor.  You think I would navigate through saving enlisted mothers across the globe without a pilot?), to write a story about my husband’s and my first date.  I thought for a moment and decided that would be impossible since the details of it have no literary promise whatsoever.  No opportunity for metaphor, theme or even hyperbole.  In fact it wasn’t even a date.  It was an improvised outing that involved a respectable number of sparks, but in a setting that is, well, Denny’s.

Yes, our first date was at Denny’s, back when people still went to Denny’s.  A simpler, more innocent time when we embraced GMOs, and enjoyed the nuanced gooiness of hydrogenated oil.  It was before Food Network taught us that food snobbery is the inalienable privilege of everyone who has cable.

The choice of Denny’s was not terribly calculated, but came on the heels of his helping me rehearse an aria.  That’s opera talk for song, if you’re not a fan of these things.  (Yes, we met in an opera.  I was the lead and died in his arms.  Now THAT has a print-worthy ring to it with all the necessary romantic imagery, up until the point where I tell you that I came back to life, and that the opera was a comedy and about spiders.  And we performed it at a community college.  Perhaps my editor, whose main duty it is to say, “I like that,” (my fault, not his) should intervene here.  Am I off topic?)

So my date ate Moons Over My Hammy and I probably had a scrambled egg with ketchup (I know) and some Earl Grey tea, a low-calorie, healthy snack for the slender version of myself that inhabited my 20s.  Beyond that, the date was unremarkable, though my husband might tell it a bit differently, and love blossomed over time, after several meals of Cheddar-flavored Hamburger Helper and cheese bread, made by the interesting, handsome, wildish bachelor that was to one day be the father of my children.  Hamburger Helper is surprisingly good, especially when it is made by a man who has really pretty eyes and sings like a bubble gum version of Thomas Hampson and is way more relaxed and impressed with me than Thomas Hampson would ever be.  I met Thomas Hampson at a master class and while he is handsome and can sing with more precise vocal technique than my husband, I could not for the life of me imagine sitting on my couch with him, telling bad jokes and drinking cappuccino.  And he would NEVER read my blog before bed.  It would cut into his reading time devoted to Lord Byron or Ralph Waldo Emerson.  Or Percy Bysshe Shelly.  Who is Percy Bysshe Shelley, anyway?

So I won’t be able to blog about our first date with any effectiveness.  While there may have been a better date with all the trappings of romance, I don’t even remember it.   But the greatest ‘a ha’ moment, when I decided for certain that this man would be the one with whom I would share my life and create three children who would need to be shuttled to and fro the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL, was the Round Table incident.  Again, a poor setting that definitely lacks the romance of, say, a Shakespearean forest or countryside.  If I can find another blog with a prettier story, one involving artfully cooked Ahi decorated in ribbons of wasabi-aioli glaze, French wine, roses and Michael Buble, I will link you (as long as you don’t give that person your Babble vote).

We’re celebrating 14 Days Of Food And Love.  Check back tomorrow for another heart sharped blog about things to eat and squeeze

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I’m so sorry that I almost ruined your Valentine’s Day.  Really.  If you decided to go with the Saving Private Mommy At Home Dinner, you were probably interested in finding out what the MAIN COURSE would be at least fifteen minutes before you sat down to eat it.  I’m sorry that I got a bit buried and distracted by talking cupcakes and seasonal verbs.  I hope that I’m catching you before you went to the meat counter, and that you haven’t sought out some time-consuming help in the unkind embrace of a recipe from Martha Stewart. She’s lovely, but such a Nazi about measuring, and she would never let you sneak in a jar of sauce like I will, if you choose.

This chicken parmesan recipe is the lead actor in an all-star, Valentine’s Day, Broadway cast of foods.  After a bruschetta overture, followed by caesar’s opening scene, chicken parmesan will enter the stage costumed in a baked coat of golden breading, with tangy sauce and cheese to make the scene truly climactic. With  a heart-shaped brownie denoument, the rest of V-day 2010 will be history.  Let’s get cookin’, good lookin’.

• First you need to Rachel Ray the chicken:  butterfly a boneless, skinless CHICKEN BREAST (one per person) and stick it in a ziploc bag with a splash of water in it.  Take a heavy saucepan and beat the shit out of it. Do this until it’s thinner.

• Whisk an EGG or two in the bowl.  Combine BREAD CRUMBS and PARMESAN CHEESE at a one-to-one ratio, maybe a cup or so if you want. You’re the boss. Dredge (I love that word) the chicken breast in the egg first, then the bread crumbs.

• Place it in a baking dish that has been greased with OLIVE OIL.  I’m at a point in my life where I pretty much won’t tell you to make anything without drizzling olive oil on it.  So do that, please. Thanks.  Bake in the oven at 375 degrees for about 25 minutes or until golden.

• Meanwhile, back at the stove, you cook some spaghetti noodles until they are almost done.  You drain them and let them sit in the sieve and continue to cook.  You didn’t do for them what they could easily do for themselves.

• Remove chicken from the oven and top with a seasoned TOMATO SAUCE, either Spaghetto, your personal, homemade favorite, or a jarred variety.  You pick.  Boss.  Top with more parmesan cheese.  The more, the merrier.

• Return to oven for about 5 minutes or until the cheese is melted.

• Place the cutlet on a bed of noodles.  Spoon on additional sauce to your taste.  Tell your heart that you didn’t fry the cutlet; don’t tell this to your Valentine.  He/she won’t even notice.

Have a great dinner.  Don’t forget the wine.  You might choose sparkling wine to go with the bruschetta, and then transition to red for the chicken.  If you end up naked at the end of this meal, you’ll know you are an excellent cook.

We’re celebrating 14 Days of Love and Food!  Check back tomorrow for Day 11 of musings on various matters de la corazon.

RE-RE-RE-RE-REPOSTED SHAMELESS PROMOTION AND AQUA ALERT:  If you like this blog, please vote for Saving Private Mommy on Babble.com.  Greta has made the TOP 100 Bloggers list already, and is seeking a position in the TOP 50!  What a greedy little whore.  Go to Babble’s website.  You’ll find Saving Private Mommy on or around page 2. Greta thanks you for your support!