Learning to Shut Up and Eat

Hello, my friends! I'm so sorry for the long silence, but I just got back from a visit to Italy where I spent three weeks just EATING. And drinking. Definitely drinking. Actually, I think I'm going through an Aperol spritz withdrawal...

But really. The trip was incredible. I've gained 6 happy pounds and a slew of new friends, who are all my next-door neighbors' family. So many of my happy memories are of sitting around their tables, eating course after course, speaking horribly bad Italian and learning that listening attentively for hours on end for any word that helps me understand what someone is saying is exhausting. But, man, is it fun!

Perhaps the biggest lesson that I learned on this trip, however, was simply to SHUT UP AND EAT. I mean it. So many times I (and I think you do this, too) tell myself that I will not like a particular food or dish, and so—ooooh, shocker—I DON'T!

At the start of this trip, I decided that I wasn't going to do that anymore. I wanted to step up my food attitude even more after my recent virginal experience with raw oysters,

so instead of negatively prepping my brain when faced with an un-experienced (yes, I made that word up) food this trip, I was going to leave my mind open upon first bite/slurp/lick/etc. and see how my taste buds responded.

And so I ate things that I never would have eaten before.

Like this salad at Garraffo in Palermo, Sicily:

And this steak at Uncle Franco's:

And this snack at Cousin Sebi's:

The first was flash-seared octopus that, if I had been blindfolded while eating it, I would have thought by texture and taste that I was eating a steak. Insanely delicious.

The second was horse. Yes. CAVALLO. So good I had it twice.

The last was a piping hot bowl of sheep-milk ricotta cheese with the whey, eaten by spoon with fresh bread chunks to soak up the whey. I thought I had died and gone to comfort-food heaven.

NEVER would I have eaten any of these dishes if I had followed my immediate reaction of I-won't-like-this. And, oh, what I would have missed out on!

I challenge you to try it: STOP TELLING YOURSELF YOU WON'T LIKE A FOOD.

Just shut up—and eat.

A New Year's Kitchen Resolution: Being Okay With Ugly

The other night Chef Reiton and I sat down to dinner. It was our first full day together after being apart for the New Year. A candle flickered on the table. We swirled the wine in our glasses, smiled into each other's eyes, then turned to our meal set on the table: a chunky Greek salad and a baked, fake-pasta dish (beef and bacon meatballs, simmered in tomato sauce made with our own homegrown tomatoes, and cubed-up and fried Italian eggplant, all sprinkled with a good picante provolone).

It all smelled heavenly.

And, dear lord, was it all SO ugly.

As I took bite after bite of my absolutely scrumptious, ugly dinner, I thought about my ugly meal: Does food being "pretty" keep people from cooking? Do they see all these Glamour Shots of food on food blogs like mine (not that my photos are at ALL glamorous compared to some) and on Pinterest and on TV and get intimidated by the prettiness?

I remember being intimidated by prettiness. I looked at how easily the pretty girl was...well, pretty. And I just thought there was no way that I could ever be like that. So I didn't really even try.

Here's proof:

(A lot of you knew me when. Big dork. But I was happy!)

And now I'm thinking that might be how people regard "being able to cook." It's intimidating. The "pros" make it look so easy to make such a glamorous meal, but when you try, it's not. It looks just plain awful. So you don't even try.

My friends, I'm here to tell you:

It's okay to be ugly in the kitchen.

Was I embarrassed by my ugly baked meatballs that broke up against the fried eggplant with cheese that didn't melt into a gorgeous gooey mess but instead only softened and congealed into a more plasti-cheese shape? Was I utterly ashamed of my Greek salad whose feta cheese chunks disintegrated in the olive oil and red wine vinegar and ended up coating all my beautiful veggie chunks in a murky white dressing?

No, sir! Why should I? Who was I trying to impress? I not only was experimenting with flavors and using what I had in my kitchen, but I was feeding my husband and myself a delicious, fresh, home-cooked dinner. THAT's what mattered. I wasn't doing a photo shoot for a magazine, using fake food. I was creating a REAL meal with REAL food that was REALLY delicious.

Do I like my food to look good? Yes. But the reality is that a good 5-out-of-10 times I forget the garnish, or my food looks lost on the serving plate, or every dish is the same color and my dinner plate looks like it's from a sci-fi movie, or I am just too damn hungry to care!

So, for all you burgeoning (or not-yet-burgeoning) cooks out there: DON'T be intimidated by all the pretty food (the sometimes really beautifully ridiculous food photos that make you wonder whether the cook ever even got to enjoy that warm pie after getting the mood lighting right, the apple blossom branches just so, the perfect bite mark on the perfect apple, and the sweetly drifting confectioner's sugar caught at the right shutter speed).

Don't think you can't cook because of the looks. Screw the looks. Like your momma told you, the looks don't matter. It's the heart and the soul that do.

And you know what? It's the same with your food.

SO. New Year's resolution for me—and hopefully for you: In the kitchen (and maybe sometimes elsewhere...), I'm going to be okay with ugly.

A Petition to Change the Thanksgiving Symbol

As my butter lay softening on the counter this morning, I dug through a pile of old cookie press stencils, looking for anything that could pass for a turkey. The closest thing I could find was an antlerless reindeer. Or wait... Maybe it was a camel.

I eventually decided on a heart. I did a bit of grumbling in my head, hoping people didn't think that a heart was too Valentine-y for Thanksgiving.

But as I continued my morning—going for a calorie-burning run pre-turkey/stuffing/pecan pie; checking out the Black Friday sales in the paper (why do we need all this stuff???); meditating in the steaming shower—I thought of who I was going to be spending the day with and what they mean to me. And suddenly, I thought, We should stop using the turkey for the Thanksgiving symbol and change it to a heart, instead.

Because that's what I feel every Thanksgiving. It's a day that forces me to look not just at one person I love, like Valentine's Day does, but EVERYONE I love. Those who I get to see everyday. Those who I miss because they are far away. Those who have gone before me and who I need to patiently wait to see again.

No. It's not the turkey I look forward to for Thanksgiving. It's the people that I love so much that I wake up thinking of. And even if I don't get to be with them, my heart is warm all day long from thoughts of them.

So, here's my vote to change the Thanksgiving symbol from a turkey to a heart. Color it yellow, orange or brown, if you like.

At least it will be an honest symbol.

Lessons Italy and My Italian Friends Taught Me (Involving a Pizza and a Whole Roasted Scup)

It's been a reflective week this past week, these days following Chef Reiton's and my return from living in Italy for a month. I say "living" because that's what we did.

We didn't tour. We didn't visit. We lived.

And in those four weeks of first-time everything for me, I honestly believe I was transformed a little bit by the people and the places and lives I got to know while we were there. When you live, that's generally what happens, I guess. You learn from the experience. And I've heard that travel changes you. I guess I just wasn't expecting it to change how I think about so many things.

For one, I need to chill out. I'm serious. I am so much more chill than I was in a past life, but still, this trip taught me I can do way better. I was determined to not let anything stress me out from the moment we walked out the door (flying stand-by there and back, the driving of southern Italy's roads, only knowing a miniscule fraction of the language, etc., etc., etc.). I was pretty damn close to succeeding. Enough so, at least, to really learn that Life is incredibly more enjoyable when you allow fear and frustrations to roll off when they come sneaking into your being. Take a deep breath and a few seconds to look at how much worse something could be. Amounts of perspective and gratitude will shift dramatically in the right direction.

I also learned that I come from a country that really needs to get out more—and that includes out of our comfort zones. Traveling alone with my husband and staying in people's homes forced us to talk to Italians who spoke little to no English. Which meant we were cramming Italian lessons on Duolingo for a month and a half before we left. Which meant we spoke very, very little Italian. But you know what? It was enough Italian to fumble our way through ordering dinner, communicating with our hosts, and carrying on two-hour conversations with new friends who had the patience to let us speak like three-year-olds.

Frankly, I'd rather be embarrassed about my bad Italian grammar than the other incredibly rude behaviors I saw displayed by Americans who came to Italy expecting to get away with learning ZERO Italian beforehand. I'm sorry, but do the people who visit our country expect us to know their language when they get here? And don't give me the crap about the dominance of the English language. Show some respect for a different culture, learn to say and use "Hello!" frequently, and show some humility when you don't understand something. We saw three women hot off the cruise ship get irritated when our awesome friend, Salvatore, kept asking if they wanted 'pomodoro' pizza. They just kept saying louder and louder, "PIZZA." We finally had to intervene with their obnoxiousness and tell them that 'pomodoro' means 'tomato' because not all pizzas in Italy have tomato on them. We also pointed out as Salvatore calmly and coolly walked away down the street after they placed their order that Bar Max was a COFFEE SHOP and didn't sell pizza. But you know what? Salvatore was going to get them their pizza, anyway. Sure enough, a few minutes later Salvatore returned from his friend's restaurant carrying two pizzas for the women. And then he went and borrowed plates and real silverware from his other friend's restaurant. All for three Americans who didn't take the time to read his store signage or learn two words in Italian, namely, "please" and "thank you." Sigh.

Rude behaviors aside, every time we had one of our awkward-turned-awesome experiences of making new Italian friends, I spent the next day glowing and reminiscing of how much I loved these people. Of how delightful the world is when we spend time getting to know each other, laughing together and kissing each other good-bye.

And every time I had one of those experiences, I also had the thought that being on a tour bus would never, ever have given us—no, FORCED us—into those opportunities. Opportunities that were intimidating at first but opened up our world to friendships and memories that, I hope, will last a lifetime. Opportunities to visit towns, homes and places of beauty well off even the road-less-traveled. (Search for "Fiordo di Crapolla" on Google Map 3D; I hiked there from the top of the hill/mountain with two of our new friends, swam there, and then hiked back up, unlike the tourists who motored in on a boat—which is illegal—and only stayed 30 seconds).

We also had opportunities to eat at an insane number of bars and restaurants. Some that we hit were listed in the tourist guides; those tended to be very good. But the ones which we randomly stumbled across or were recommended by our new friends to have owners and servers that would take care of us—those were the restaurants that we went back to over and over again. I don't care that we weren't trying a new place every meal. The people and the food at these restaurants became home after the hours we spent with them. We didn't want to be anywhere else.

With this repeated visiting of the same restaurants came times when we just told our server to bring whatever dish they loved; we wanted to get out of our food comfort zone. What did this mean? It means we got a lot of fish and seafood. A LOT. I mean, we were in southern Italy. We also got the chef to come out from the kitchen one night and teach us how to eat a whole fish because we had absolutely no idea how to do it.

If you are a loyal reader, you've probably noticed that I don't cook a lot of seafood. And when I do, it's pretty basic. Shrimp. Clams, once in a blue moon. Swordfish even more rarely. That's about it. So this eating-seafood-on-a-daily-basis was really new for me. Like, REALLY. And regardless of the fact that I gained seven pounds in a month (some of it was muscle weight, I swear!), I felt better. I really did. And I really liked all the fishes that I ate. Who knew fresh sardines were out-of-this-world?? (Super bummed they aren't native to the New England waters. Because I would be making them weekly. For real.)

And now we are home. Italy and our new friends are in my dreams every night. I am comforted only by the fact that at least the food we can (mostly) replicate here. We do live with the Atlantic lapping the shore at the end of the block. The unfortunate thing: all this seafood available to me that I learned to love in Italy? I don't know how to prepare it or cook it. Except for sardines from our cooking class with the Duchess. But, we can't...get...

Crap.

So, two days after we get home, we get an email offering cooking classes with Boston Public Market and Red's Best, a retailer for a network of local fisherman. The class promised to teach how to prepare not just one but THREE different seafood dishes: steamed razor clams, roasted whole scup, and bouillabaisse. DUDE.

Well, I signed us up. We went. We loved it. And we each came home with possibly one of the easiest and most delicious, healthy, not-fishy-at-ALL dinners I've ever made, even if it does sport tiny, razor-sharp teeth:

(How did we prepare it? Roasted it on a baking sheet at 350° F for about half an hour after we stuffed it with some lemon slices and fresh herbs of choice, sprinkled it heavily with salt, and rubbed it with olive oil. That's it.)

NEVER would I have made (and subsequently loved) this dish without Italy. Never.

I'm afraid I might have actually been annoying during the class because I kept remarking of how things reminded me of Italy. Like how the fennel in the bouillabaisse was so Italian. And how our friend, Andrea, had showed us how to clean and trim tuna that his fisherman friend had landed one afternoon. And how we learned to stuff and roll fresh sardines for a gorgeous dish in Palermo and now we are wanting to know what other fish to replace them with...

I'm currently wondering how long this obsession will last. I tend to do that with new things; I get obsessed. A year from now, will I still be telling everyone about the delectable spaghetti con vongole Patrizia's husband made for us in Atrani or of that crazy walk we took to Ravello or of that one time when we were in Trapani and I asked those two men if I could take their picture...?

But honestly, I don't want the obsession to end. I want it to go on and on and continue teaching me the way the past month taught me. As long as I am able, I want to continue living the way that Italy taught me to live: with a full heart, a full belly, a full glass of wine and a full appreciation for the fact that Life hands all of us all kinds of customers. Help each other out in the times of need, share in the goodness when it lands on your plate, and for heaven's sake, EAT.

The True Definition of a Foodie (According to the Reynolds' Dictionary)

I was in the middle of a very random, non-food-related activity the other day when all of a sudden—like, out of totally nowhere—the thought passed through my mind:

I really miss sitting down to a meal with the Reynolds.

There was a momentary pause in the random task I was completing. The timing of the thought startled me, but upon further reflection, the thought itself did not. It did, however, give me cause to ponder. Ponder for days, in fact.

The Reynolds have been wonderful friends of mine from the moment we first met, but they became a total lifeline to me during my separation and divorce—answering phone calls made out of loneliness and confusion, driving to pick me up so I could join their dinner party, calmly pouring me a glass of wine while willingly listening to my tears and ramblings (totally allowing me to ruin their previously fun evening) and providing me with sage advice.

And when the madness was all said and done, they followed my journey onward: drank countless martinis and bottles of wine with me as I experienced my newfound self and true independence for the first time in my life; met my new boyfriend (Chef Reiton) with open arms; kept the communication lines and last-minute dinner invites open after I moved from Chicago to Wisconsin; and celebrated every single joyous minute of Chef Reiton's and my backyard wedding celebration (like, literally; the Reynolds were the last ones to leave).

The Reynolds have been the truest of friends to me; that is a fact. But it was my week-long pondering that made me realize it was the stage on which the development of our relationship was set that made that exact thought pass through my consciousness. Truly, almost every single interaction that Cyndy, Perry and I have ever had has been set around sitting down to a meal together and just being. For hours at a time we carry on real talk about our real lives while we enjoy real food (and drink. Lots and lots of drink.).

Food for the Reynolds, I now realize, is a gift. It is a gift magnanimously given over the course of an evening during which, somehow, you feel that you are the main event. No matter how many times I have sat down with the Reynolds to a meal—and many of those times started at Cucina Paradiso, a fabulous little Italian restaurant that was a few blocks from our homes, and ended on the Reynolds' balcony in the wee hours of the morning—I have been made to feel enjoyed, cared for, listened to, respected, loved. Loved through the food and loved through the attention given to me and what I had going on in my life at the moment.

And it wasn't just evenings spent at Cucina where I felt this way. Many of our evenings spent were small get-togethers at their home. Traipsing up the stairs to their flat, I would be greeted by Perry who would lift me off the floor in a hug before leading me to the kitchen to find Cyndy. There she would be, masterfully finishing the touches on the food prepared by her own loving hands and artistic eye (I say "artistic" because it is not uncommon to hear Cyndy use adjectives like "gorgeous," "lovely" or "beautiful" as she is describing food). There I would be greeted with her own hugs and smiles. Then would come the barrage of questions about my life...the further questioning as the wine was poured...the laying out of a simple but beautiful appetizer board...

And that was the start of the evening.

I wish you could experience it. Cyndy and Perry don't just "have a way" of making you feel like the world's greatest guest. For that evening, you really are.

And there is more to it. You know how I said that Cyndy has this artistic way with food? It's something that I noticed about her the first time I went to their house for dinner. Food, for Cyndy, isn't just made to taste good. It's prepared to look good, too. And in eating my first lovely meal at their home, I noticed something about myself as a gorgeously arranged platter of food was set in front of me: I felt honored. Cyndy's meal was so simple yet so obviously created with love and care for the visual and culinary experience of her guests.

It's the combination of both those things—the warmth and sincere curiosity that they have about you AND the beautiful presentation of a delicious meal so lovingly prepared—that made me realize that is what makes me miss my meals with them. I miss the activity of their friendship and I miss feeling loved with their laughter, wine and beautiful food. Because that—all of it—is their love language.

Upon that realization, a secondary thought hit me:

I want to be like that with my heart and my food. 

I want people to know that I love them because of the straight-up, honest-to-goodness food I prepare for them. I want to set that stage and then take the time in an evening to demonstrate true, sincere care in getting to know my guests. Because I'm realizing that is the true definition of a foodie.

It's not about taking great food pictures or being able to go out to this restaurant or that restaurant and enjoying someone else's amazing food, or even about writing a food blog.

Being a foodie is about learning how to make your own delicious food, no matter how simple, and sharing it with people you love while providing them an evening to relax, talk about themselves, and be heard, honored and cared for.

Cyndy and Perry, my true foodie friends—you are missed.

And thank you.

How to Hand Your Heart over the Fence (or, Love in Arancini)

I'm working in my garden with Chef Reiton the other morning, pruning the insanity that is my tomato patch (in a good way), when I hear my name said in the most perfect Sicilian accent you could possibly imagine. I look up to find Paola, my next-door neighbor, standing on her upstairs balcony, waving.

"I have something for you," she says. "Wait five minutes. I come down."

If you've read my blog long enough (soon entering its 9th year!), you will remember when I moved to Boston two years ago and wrote about Paola and her proffered peaches in my post, Brandied Peaches and Cream at Midnight (which I just reread and realized that not only did I spell Paola's name incorrectly, I also haven't made that dessert again and I want to! A cool, creamy, low-sugar dessert that uses summer fruit and liquor! YUM).

Well, since that post, we have had Paola over many times. We have gotten to know her very well, and let me tell you: everything my gut told me about her back when we first met was true. I'll finish my story, and you will understand.

Back to me in my garden: I wait five minutes. Soon I hear the downstairs screen door open, and here comes Paola, carefully navigating the porch stairs with a foil-covered plate in hand. We both walk toward the low cedar fence that divides our yards. I don't know what's under that foil, but already I'm smiling.

"This is for you," she says as she hands the plate over the fence, she smiling, too.

I accept the plate with a "Thank you!" and hold it to my chest.

"Well, don't you want to see what it is?" she says. "Open it!"

I laugh because I don't know how to explain my love of suspense as being the reason why I hadn't unwrapped the plate—but then I cautiously lift the foil.

Set squarely in the center of the plate are three golden brown, piping hot, perfect arancini.

For readers like me, who—oh, about two years ago—had no idea what arancini was, I will educate you: in its basic form, arancini are rice balls that have been stuffed with some type of filling and then coated in breadcrumbs and fried.  Like practically every food, there are different interpretations of what its filling "should" be, but mine—the ones sitting on the plate in my hand—were made by a Sicilian home cook who uses her experience and what she has on hand to guide her. "Meat, egg, scamorza cheese. There are usually peas, but I didn't have any," she says, "so I used some basil instead." With her years of practice in a Sicilian kitchen, they were shaped into cones that would make any art teacher proud.

Paola goes on to tell me that she had made them and fresh "gravy" (a simple tomato sauce that Italians use with pasta and meats) for her grandson to take to work for lunch, and she decided that she wanted me to have them for lunch, too.

And so we do.

As Chef Reiton and I sit and eat, moaning over the delicious simplicity of this food we were experiencing for the first time, I almost yell out, "Paola, I love you!"

And as I sit and sip my wine and savor the lethargic effects of all great Italian cooking, I realize why I wanted to yell such words.

It was because those words were what she was telling me when she handed the plate of arancini over the fence.

This aracino, this little creation I had just consumed, had been made with thoughts of me. And it wasn't just any old food that had been shared: it was a food that was a part of Paola. A part of her story. A part of her repertoire of ways she expresses her love for others.

When that plate came over the fence, it wasn't just arancini on the plate. It was also Paola's heart.

A Latin American Dinner Menu—and a Few Reminders of Why I Cook (and You Should, Too)

I woke this morning to dreams of last night's dinner—the dinner I emergency-posted last night in a fit of delirious food love. Our kitchen still held the faintest smell of smoky chipotle as I came downstairs for our morning coffee. If we had been hungry, I would have pulled out a bit of the barbacoa, heated it up in the skillet and cracked an egg on top for Chef Reiton.

But we weren't hungry at four in the morning, so instead I uploaded our dinner photos from last night and dorkily reminisced over how fantastic it was.

Our menu? It was an eclectic compilation of Latin American foods:

• Puerto Rican tostones with mayo-ketchup
• Mexican barbacoa served on homemade corn tortillas
• Caribbean cucumber and mango chow

I definitely can't say the dishes we served were all 100% authentic, but I can say that, holy cow, I didn't want to stop eating!

This dinner, believe it or not, was actually super simple and quick. The barbacoa is made in the crockpot; the tostones fry up (twice!) in about 5 minutes total once the oil is hot; and the chow takes about 10 minutes to assemble before it chills in the fridge. The longest part is the tortilla preparation, but that—that I will get to. Save the best for last...

First, the chow. I may have already mentioned this salad-of-sorts in a previous post. I've certainly made it several times already since it was published by Bon Appétit in their April 2017 issue. The recipe is from Miss Ollie of Miss Ollie's in Oakland, CA. It has an easy-to-find list of ingredients and can be made in about ten minutes. The best part is that it can be made a few hours ahead and chilled in the fridge while you are making the rest of your dinner. I love it for its sweet but peppery mango, the heat of chiles, the coolness of cucumber, and the tang of lime. The cilantro allows you to serve it with a variety of ethnic foods that love cilantro: Thai, Mexican, Caribbean. It's simply fantastic.

Next, the tostones. Tostones are thick slices of green plantain that have been fried, flattened, fried again, then sprinkled with adobo seasoning and served with garlicky mayo-ketchup. We learned how to make these babies when we recently had our friend Chaz (JetBlue's BEST flight attendant!) over to cook a Puerto Rican dinner (yes, I will blog on that soon!). 

Not only are these just flat-out fun to make (no pun intended, really!), they are absolutely delicious and healthy, with about 2 grams of dietary fiber for half a green plantain and a low glycemic index. And as for the frying, if you still think fried food is horribly unhealthy, that's because—sorry—you are doing it wrong. Food properly fried barely absorbs any fat; the water in the food immediately starts to steam when the food is dropped into the screaming hot oil, pushing water out of the food so that the fat can't soak in. Don't believe me? Read the transcript of a Good Eats episode by Alton Brown, one of my favorite food scientists, who explains it in a more entertaining way. You can also do a bit of research on this. You'll find that science is right. Thank you, science. 

Now for the barbacoa. I have no idea who Queen To Y'All is, but I want to thank her for posting this recipe on Recipezaar.com years ago and making me and my friends extremely happy. It was a required party staple during my years in Chicago. Now you can find the recipe under "Chipotle Roast for Tacos and Sandwiches" on Food.com. It's awesomely simple. Dump all the ingredients into the Crockpot in the morning, set her on low, and walk away until it's time to prep the rest of dinner. It will sit and simmer happily, silently taunting you, wafting smells of cumin and spice all day long. When it's time to eat, stir it all up with a slotted spoon and put it on the table. That's it. 

We are now left with the best for last... 

I've never in my life eaten a fresh corn tortilla. Even the Mexican restaurants that I've visited use prepackaged. You can tell: they are rubbery, pretty darn tasteless, and absolutely perfectly round. It's actually kind-of too bad I made these (in a good way) because after eating them, I don't know that I'm ever going to be able to eat another commercially made tortilla again.

Corn tortillas may somehow look complicated (like anything does when you've never made one) but in reality are super simple to make. They are made with a fine corn flour called "masa harina" (I used Bob's Red Mill—totally gluten-free, by the way, and you can find it in most grocery stores), salt and water. I used my stand mixer to blend the ingredients into a smooth paste, then Chef Reiton formed them into little balls.

We experimented with different ways to roll them out. Chef Reiton started by rolling them on a sheet of parchment

but we decided that they tore less and came out rounder if they were flattened with my palm between two sheets of parchment and then rolled gently.

We also learned that the little balls need to be kept under a damp towel while the tortillas are being rolled out. They started to dry out rather quickly, making them break and tear when they were rolled. Because of this learning curve, I ended up actually dipping the last several balls of dough into a bowl of water twice then rekneading them to soften them back up again.

With our cast iron skillet smoking hot, we cooked up the tortillas, one minute a side, finishing with a final thirty seconds after the second flip. Later we realized we should have had two skillets going at a time. Duh. It would have gone faster.

The recipe for these tortillas came from a wonderful cookbook by Marilyn and Luis Peinado called Bienvenidos to Our Kitchen: Authentic Mexican Cooking. The book is loaded with every single authentic Mexican dish you've ever eaten plus some. 

You are in luck, too! New copies are still available on Amazon.com as well as used copies on BarnesandNoble.com and eBay.

As Chef Reiton and I sat sipping our rioja at the end of the meal, we couldn't stop oohing and ahhhing over our empty plates. I do not mean this as a boast, but how could we have made probably the best Latin meal I have ever had in our North American kitchen?

The answers are simple:

1. We are willing to experiment making new foods.
2. We are willing to mess up and learn from our mistakes for the next time we try it.
3. We are into saving money while eating food that is usually better than a restaurant's.

Do you want to know how much our dinner for two last night cost us? Actually it's probably closer to three dinners for two, thanks to the leftovers. Let's assume that going out for an average Mexican dinner costs $60 for two people. Sound reasonable? Maybe even a little cheap if you throw a few margaritas into the bill? 

Well, here's what I spent at Market Basket on the ingredients that make three full meals for two (and I'm even going to assume you don't have staples like cumin, garlic, chile powder or oil). I'll even throw in the bottle of wine we had with dinner:

• 2 lb. chuck roast from Walden Local Meats, my pasture-raised meat share: $20.00
• can of green chiles: $.99
• can of chipotle peppers: $2.69
• onion: $.43
• can of salsa verde (even though mine was free because I used my own): $1.29
• beef consumme (used my own, again, so technically free): $1.89
• garlic head: $.40
• cumin: $1.59
• chile powder: $1.29
• adobo seasoning: $2.79
• green plantain: $.33
• corn oil: $3.09
• masa harina: $2.99
• hothouse cucumber: $.99
• mango: $.99
• cilantro: $.99
• shallot: $.25
• bottle of wine: $18.00

TOTAL: $60.99

So, for a more expensive, pasture-raised roast, a good bottle of wine and ALL the ingredients for the meal, I spent the same as the cost of a Mexican dinner out—and I'll actually get THREE dinners for two out of last night, not just the one. AND my homemade dinner was SO MUCH BETTER than the food you get at a restaurant.

And it's not ME who is awesome! It's the FOOD!!!

Sigh.

I'll calm down. But, folks...this is why I cook. And it's why you should, too. It's cheaper. It's healthier. It's waaaaaaay deliciouser. (I know.)

So. Think about what foods you love. Find the recipes. Buy the ingredients. Make the meal. Even if you "screw up," it's going to be good.

Promise.

Homemade Corn Tortillas (and How They Can Blow Your Mind)

I don't really have time to write right now...

But I just finished one of the most delicious multi-cultural dinners I have ever made, and I'm presently completely obsessed with the amazingness of fresh corn tortillas.

I swear more will follow. I PROMISE more will follow. But I will also tell you this right now: I will NEVER buy packaged corn tortillas EVER AGAIN. I don't care if they are $1. I don't care if they are
"faster."

All I know is that what Chef Reiton and I made tonight fricking blew my mind. It wasn't even the same food. Like, seriously. It in no way resembled the tasteless, perfectly round, I-have-to-cook-them-anyway tortillas that I buy at the store.

Which means they were flawed in their roundness. Yes. My anal side really struggled with not being able to make them pretty. But it made no difference in how they tasted. What we made were earthy, vaguely sweet, hearty and hefty. We loaded them with shredded chipotle beef, and did they break like measly, pasty, supermarket tortillas? No. Were they supple, golden and screaming with flavor? A resounding YESSSSSSS!!!

And now I must go. We have to get up at a ridiculous hour tomorrow morning. I just needed to get this off my chest. I'll post the menu tomorrow. Swear...

Buenas noches, amigos. Te veo mañana.

The Luxury of Leftovers: A Weeknight of Fun and Games

I had an epiphany in the middle of the kitchen Wednesday night. I was lamenting the fact that I didn't get to cook because I had put "Leftovers" down for the evening meal when...BAM!

What was that epiphany?

Wait...since I'm just reheating leftovers, that means we're going to have so much more free time tonight. That means it's Fun Friday on a Wednesday!

Use those leftovers in the middle of the week, baby, and make a family party out of it! God bless "waste-not-want-not!"

The Baldwin & Sons Trading Company — Woburn, MA — A Restaurant Recommendation

NOTE TO READER: The following letter is private. It is addressed to the new bar/love of my life. However, due to the nature of its delivery, I guess I am going to have to let you read it. 

Actually, please DO read it. It just may change your life forever, as well...

~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~

My dearest Baldwin & Sons,

I know we only met last night, but like Romeo and Juliet, one meeting is all it appears to have taken for you to become, in my book—how shall I put it?

IT.

As Shakespeare so astutely says, so will I:

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways...

So, here we go:

Reason #1 - You are beautiful.  I know that sounds incredibly shallow, but let's be honest: no one ever is immediately struck in a GOOD way with how ugly something is. Unless it is cute-ugly. Which you are not. You are striking. Well-kempt. Hip but classy. Well-balanced. Golden. Shall I keep going?...

Reason #2 - You are kind.  See? I'm not all about the looks. In fact, I believe I have to say that your kindness is more attractive than your beauty. (It's just that I didn't know it at first, and I'm going in order of occurrence.) Your genuine interest in my husband and I upon our meeting was rare in an establishment. We weren't just clients last night; we were friends. (Am I making you blush, yet?)

Reason #3 - You serve wickedly outstanding Sichuan dishes.  And as we all know, Sichuan is hot.  Enough said.

Reason #4 - Nika.  She corresponds about reservations and other such related matters at all hours of the day or night. Who ever heard of a bar hostess doing such a thing??? I actually forwarded her notes to my husband before we even met and said, "I love these people already..." See? It was a premonition.

Reason #5 - Van.  He made me my first cocktail (see below) and then proceeded to steer the rest of my dinner-time into an experience I will not forget in a long, long time...

Reason #6 - The Trader Vic.  What an opener! A Mai Tai that shook my notion of Mai Tais to its very foundations!

Reason #7 - The Southern Belle.  Can I just say that this was a revelation as to why I need to make cinnamon syrup TODAY??? She is a cocktail that is exactly as Van designed her to be: soft and demurely sweet but who can most certainly hold her own.

Reason #8 - Mick.  He quotes The Princess Bride.  Instant soul-attraction.

Reason #9 - You are generous. 

Reason #10 - The Prescription Sour.  Oh, glory be... Rum and scotch together? Who knew? (Sigh.)

Reason #11 - Patrick.  He, like Van, is a master. Truly, truly a master.  I could just watch and watch and watch...

Reason #12 - The Baldwin Apple Revised.  Everything about her was so sweetly irresistable: the foam. The little egg cup. The apple chips.  [aside] The frosting.

Reason #13 - You are unlike any other bar I've ever met.  And I've been to a lot.  A LOT.

Reason #14 -  Tyler.  How do you not love chatting about cocktails with someone who has a beard that rivals the finest of all beards? How?

Reason #15 - Ran.  The giant behind it all is THE one to thank, I know. I mean, you all run like the finest piece of clockwork. It's amazing to behold. And to enjoy...

Reason #16 - You are perfection.  So don't change. Ever. Unless you want to add some more life-altering cocktails. Then I'm okay with that.

I hope that the evening was as enjoyable for you... When we awoke this morning, the first thing Derrick and I said to each other was, "Last night was awesome." And we were talking about YOU.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

With many happy thoughts and fond memories, until we meet again,

Yours truly,

Rachael

Creating a Foodie is on Pinterest!

Well, folks, I spent the last few rainy days/week working on getting Creating a Foodie set up on Pinterest, and I am proud to announce that she is far enough along that I would call her "up-and-running!"

SO. If following Creating a Foodie through email is not your thing (which, if you ARE interested, just type in your email address in the sidebar under Get CAF in Your Inbox!), you can now follow on Pinterest at https://www.pinterest.com/creatingafoodie/.

Or maybe you will sign up for BOTH! Whoa! Then I would be, like, "You love me! You really, really love me!"

Thanks for reading, folks.

XOXO,
rach

A Kitchen Flashback—and Some Thoughts

Last week here in Boston, it was pretty crappy. Weather-wise, that is.

When it came to the Reiton household, however, we were great! My parents were here! Woohoo! It's always so fun to have my mom and my dad here: they appreciate everything, they love to eat, and my dad grew up here, so it's like he is coming home. It's just awesome.

What was like coming home for me, this week, was cooking with my mom.  Actually, I specifically mean baking with my mom.

Until this weekend, dear readers, this was a sight I had not seen in 25 years:

The only difference 25 years ago was that my mom's bowl was much bigger because she was most likely making a double batch. And maybe she wasn't so vein-y 25 years ago. That's about it. What I do remember being exactly the same: she was always on the floor with the bowl between her knees. Her sleeves were rolled up. And she was madly kneading dough for the week's bread.

That bread dough is something that I have dreamt about for years.  I've tried to make it, but it just doesn't come out the same as Mom's.  I think she has done it for so long, she's just got that thing where she just knows when it is right. Which only comes with practice. And failures. And lots of French toast and croutons.

But you know what? That's what makes cooking worth it. Things never come out perfectly the first time. 

And you know what? Who the hell cares??? It's food for YOU. You aren't cooking in the Queen's kitchen, for God's sake. And if it all really comes out crappy, it still fills your belly AND is a cooking lesson, to boot.  So if you just can't get your fill because it's just too God-damn-AWFUL, go eat a bowl of cereal, for crying out loud! Quit complaining! There are people who will have eaten nothing for a week in this world, so get over it. Seriously. 

Those whiny words: "I can't..." ??? 

Pffffft.

If you keep practicing, one day it will come out great. No doubt about it. Pay attention and keep trying.

And that's my cooking lesson for you for today. Straight from my mom. Who has no idea that she's influenced this sailor-mouthed, gin-and-tonic-influenced blog post about trying and failing in the kitchen.

And learning. Always, always learning.

John Besh's Brown Butter and Vanilla Waffles

That's it.  That's all that's left of them.  Four waffles piled in the most golden, glorious, butter-soaked stack you ever did see. They smelled so mouth-wateringly good coming off the waffle iron, I couldn't resist diving in for a few bites before the photo shoot.  And then—I just couldn't stop.

So, this is it, dear reader.  This is the photo you are going to get of John Besh's Brown Butter and Vanilla Waffles.

Sorry.

The recipe comes from his second cookbook, My Family Table: A Passionate Plea for Home Cooking.  Like his first book, My New Orleans, this cookbook is delightfully readable, full of anecdotes and personality and conversation, beginning with a plea that, when I read it the first time, made me say out loud, "THIS is why I write my blog!" 

Besh understands that cooking, at the heart, is a way to express love for one another.  It is not a form of entertainment.  It is not a competition. And the reality is is that our entertainment industry has become overrun with food shows—food shows that intimidate many budding home cooks, not inspire them.  Besh aims, in My Family Table, to take on that intimidation and turn it into confidence by showing you how he cooks at home for his family.  For his friends.  For real. 

This is why I love this man (remember our Besh-obsessed honeymoon in NOLA?).  He can out-chef the best chefs out there, but at the heart, he is a family man who loves people and loves food; his cookbooks are a testimony to that. When I cook with him, I feel like he gets me, unlike the many, many other celebrity chefs out there who seem to be more into themselves than anything else.

So.  If you don't own a Besh cookbook, yet, I would highly recommend going and ordering My Family Table on Amazon.  When you get your book, after you read his inspiring introduction, open it up to page 110, and make yourself the Brown Butter and Vanilla Waffles.  

You will not—NOT—regret your decision.  Either one of them.

My Latest Project: A Recipe Index

When I started writing this blog six years ago, I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

Okay, wait.  Let me rephrase that: As I am writing this blog today, I have no idea what the hell I am doing. I write because I love to and because I want to share my thoughts and love, but when it comes to making a really cool blog, I feel pretty clueless.  I fumble my way through it a lot, to be honest.

Regardless, I want all of you to have an enjoyable experience while hanging out with me online, so I've always been open for suggestions and ideas on how to make our time together better.  A lot of you have told me (for years) that I need to have a recipe section.  And I LOVED the idea.  I just didn't know how to go about adding one that was attractive, organized, and not going to be impossible to keep up with.

Well, after lots and lots of research and futzing around, I think I have finally figured out how to create a recipe index that I like, so I'm taking the big leap and starting the process.  It will be a work in progress for quite some time, but I hope you will bear with me as I plod along.  I will be starting with the most recent recipe posts first and working backwards—just an FYI.

To get to it, click on the "Recipe & Inspiration Index" tab underneath my blog title.  That will open up the different categories of foods I've written about.  Select what you are interested in, and then choose which food post you want to read.

That's it! Let me (and Marley) know what you think.  I am VERY open to suggestions!

Dear Butchers of America... An Open Letter Regarding the Labeling of Meat

Dear Butchers of America,

I am writing with a question that has perplexed me for quite some time now.  It is regarding beef cuts, so I am hoping that you can help me.

I am a home cook; I've not been formally trained in any way in identifying parts of meat.  And while I like to experiment with recipe creation, I generally use recipes from my cookbooks and warped and spattered Bon Appetit magazines to cook my meals.  

When I am reading recipes to create my shopping lists, I see cuts of meat listed such as "flank steak," "brisket," "rib roast," etc.  But when I get to the grocery store, I see labels like this:

"Boneless Beef Chuck Steak Grillers???" What the HELL are those??? 

Chuck, okay—I get that part.  But "chuck steak grillers???" Do you guys, just for shits and giggles, sit in the back and come up with made-up beef part names to confuse us home cooks? You know we are looking for "2-3 lb. chuck roast."  Do you guys put hidden cameras in the cases so you can laugh hysterically at our confused, perplexed faces as we pour over the meat selections and wonder what the hell half of them are?

And it seems that this is further affected by national region.  Out here in Boston, everyone talks about "steak tips."  Never heard of them before in my life, but apparently "marinated steak tips" are just the shit.  But when I ask anyone what exact cut of beef they are, no one seems to know! It's just "beef."

My dear butchers, I have a request to make: how about a universal chart that all U.S. butchers use to label their meat, so no matter what state I travel to, no matter what store I shop in, all meat is labeled with real beef cut names that match up with my recipes.  If you want to have some fun because your job hacking up animals has gotten to be too much, maybe make a "mystery meat" case? Put the hidden cameras there?

That would be AWESOME.

Thank you so much for your concern and assistance,

Rachael

Thanks for an Empty Bowl: Grateful Kitchen Thoughts

Because Chef Reiton and I are apart so much, we tend to do that "foodie" thing where we take a picture of our food and text it to the other to show what we are eating.  Sometimes we also take a picture of the "after."

This was last night's "after." It was a salad (with avocado, Cousin Jeff.  That's "what the hell" that green stuff is.):

Before I went to bed, I texted Captain Reiton "good night."  He was somewhere in the air above me, flying a rather delayed flight to Chicago.  As I scrolled back through our typed-up conversation for the day, I looked again at the picture above, and suddenly the following thought came blasting through my brain:

"Thank you, God, that I can take pictures of an empty bowl."

Because it wasn't simply empty.  It was emptied.

The Story of My (Kitchen) Life: Thoughts on Dinner and the Making of a Family

The other night as I was preparing dinner, I started thumbing through my worn, warped copy of Well Fed and rereading Melissa's introduction to the cookbook for the umpteenth time.  Melissa tells the story of her childhood and what it was like living with a father who was a cook in a Pennsylvania resort town  (yeah!) and a mother who won recipe contests. Her story started me thinking: a lot of well-known cooks whose books I have read have had very similar backgrounds.  They all seem to have grown up in a family of cooks or a have had a grandma who mentored them in the kitchen as a child, blah blah blah.

I reflected rather ashamedly: I don't have that.  The only time I saw my dad cook was to heat up a TV dinner when my mom was in the hospital having my brother.  My mother cooked, but as for teaching me any specific techniques or recipes, there was none of that.  We didn't come from any particular heritage that felt an urgency to pass down some lauded family recipes (although I wish I did).  

I do remember the smells of my mother's cooking.  I remember the blur of her moving about the kitchen at a rate that would prompt my dad to say, "Slow down, Jane!" (a trait which I have totally inherited, gratefully). And then there was always the miracle of watching her take leftovers from the fridge and turning them into a casserole or a stir-fry or a dessert that was truly delicious.  

Which then made me reflect on this: frugality was always turned on its head in our house, not just by the food, but by the finesse in which it was served.  Dinner was delivered to the family--all of us-- every night.  We ate around the dining room table without fail, and I mean without fail.  There were placemats or a tablecloth on that table, as well as lighted candlesticks in the fall and winter months.  The table was fully set, no matter what the main course or sides, and set according to proper dining etiquette (which my father taught us as soon as we could carry plates to the table).  Bach or Beethoven was usually playing in the background.  Dinner was served from bowls and platters, never directly from a pot, and there was dessert.  Always a dessert.  

Dinnertime was a social event for us, an event that my father thanked my mother for every night.  He probably didn't know it, but hearing those words every night instilled in me the understanding that the time and energy and love my mother put into that meal were an important piece of what made us a family.  My mother's unfailing contribution to crafting and molding that event, night after night, was not just noble.  It was necessary.  Without it, we would not be who we were.

The same night that I was mulling over Melissa's introduction, I took this shot after Chef Reiton and I had finished dinner:

In the moment, I didn't know why I took it.  I just suddenly had the urge to take a picture of the story of our dinner, so I hopped up onto a stool and shot it with my phone.

Studying this picture now, now I see what was in my heart when I took it.

I didn't grow up in a family of super knowledgeable cooks.  I never had my grandma instruct me in ways of food preparation.  I've been (and still am) intimidated like nothing else in certain things regarding the kitchen.  I get it when people tell me, "I don't cook."  They are terrified to mess up.  They are terrified  because when it comes to making a meal for another, it's your soul you are serving on that platter.  

This shot of our table, it's a picture of my soul and a picture of Derrick's soul.  It is an image of what we pour out for the other, just like my mother used to do for us.  It shows love and sacrifice and failure (the burnt-to-a-crisp scallions?) and acceptance (he ate them still).  It displays the culminating event made from all four of those factors.  It shows Family.

And this is why I write this blog.  I know that what I have with my family is special, but I also believe, and believe with all my heart, that what I have is absolutely attainable and absolutely vital to the health of any family.  I know there are reasons why many families don't do what we do; and some of those reasons can't be overcome.  

But most of them can.  Reasons like--well, let's be honest: laziness.  Fear of failure.  Misuse of time.  Lack of knowledge.  Lack of experience.  We've all been there.  But they are all obstacles that can be overcome.  (If you try to tell me money, I am going to disagree.  I know that I spend far less on my grocery bill every week buying just fresh fruits and veggies and meat and milk than those who load their carts with soda and snacks and boxes and boxes of processed foods).

Think of it this way.  Learning to cook is like learning to ride a bike: you want to learn because you want to get somewhere, but you are going to fall over and over and over again until you start learning the mechanics of the ride as well as how it feels.  When those risks are taken, and failure accepted as par for the course, things start to click.  Then it's "Watch out world!" There is nothing to stop you, and the rewards are never ending.  All it takes is the determination and that first push.

So, consider this your big push...

(Don't worry. I'll be here to help and encourage you along the way.)