A Paleo Puerto Rican Dinner Menu

What a week. In our second snow bomb storm of the season, the power in our block where "the power never goes out"—went out. Not for thirty minutes. Or an hour. Or the evening.

No, it went out for 24 hours.

Thank goodness it went out after I had pulled the steak tips we were having for dinner from the fridge. AND our stove is gas, so we could light her up and keep cooking. By candlelight.

So, despite the awkwardness of cooking without really being able to clearly see our food, Chef Reiton and I still forged ahead to start our month of going paleo to get these two bodies back on track.

So, here you go, folks: a paleo Puerto Rican dinner, prepared and eaten by candlelight:

• Pan-Seared Cumin-Lime Steak Tips
• Simple Avocado Salad
• Tostones

Recipes:

For the steak tips:

1. Rinse and pat dry the steak. Sprinkle generously with kosher salt, ground cumin, garlic powder, freshly squeezed lime juice and freshly ground black pepper. Rub it all in. Let meat rest for 15 minutes (while you prep the rest of the dinner).
2. Cut off the top and bottom of one onion, halve it lengthwise, remove the peel, then slice the onion halves lengthwise into slivers.
3. Sear meat in a tablespoon or so of coconut oil in a skillet until starting to char. Add onion slivers, and continue cooking steak, turning tips to sear all sides. Toss the onions occasionally.
4. You want medium-rare to medium in doneness on the steak. Rest under foil on a plate for 10 minutes with the onions. Garnish with cilantro and serve.

For the avocado salad:

1. Wash and halve avocado(s). Whack into the seed with a chef's knife blade, then twist the blade gently to pop out the seed.
2. Hold a half in your palm. With a paring knife, CAREFULLY slice through the avocado flesh but NOT the skin, cutting it into cubes.
3. Take a silverware tablespoon and, sliding the edge of it between the avocado skin and the flesh, scoop the chunks out into a bowl.
4. Repeat as necessary on additional avocados.
5. Salt and pepper the avocado chunks, squirt with some fresh lime juice, and toss gently. Garnish with chopped cilantro and serve.

For the tostones:

1. Heat coconut oil in a small skillet or saucepan to a depth of about 1/2-inch. You can save and reuse this oil several times for this.
2. Meanwhile, with a paring knife, cut the top and bottom tips off a very green plantain.
3. Score through the skin of the plantain, following along the natural ridges of the skin.
4. Take your thumbnail and wedge it under one of the skin strips. Pop up the skin, then slide your thumb up the plantain, peeling off the strip. Repeat the whole way around. Repeat on additional plantains as necessary.
5. Slice the plantains into 1- to 1 1/2-inch chunks.
6. Fry the plantain slices in batches to a golden brown, turning once to get both sides. Drain on paper towels.
7. Smash the fried plantain chunks to about 1/4-inch thick with a plate, tostone smasher, or what have you.
8. Refry the smashed chunks (tostones) in the hot oil. Remove to a paper towel to drain and immediately sprinkle with adobo seasoning (you can readily find this in your grocery store in the ethnic aisle). Serve.

And there you have it, folks. A paleo Puerto Rican dinner—by candlelight.

Homemade Fish Stock and Hysterectomies

This is going to be a quick one because...well, if you can't tell from the title of my post, I'm a bit laid up compared to my usual self. I'm only writing because, after tonight's experience, I thought maybe I should warn any of you out there who are preparing to have a hysterectomy: do NOT plan on making homemade fish stock within the first week or two of recovery.

Why?

Well, the following scenarios might give you an idea why. Imagine experiencing each one of them sequentially while sporting a 6-inch incision on your lower abdomen that has been glued shut and is surrounded by bruising the color of a yellow highlighter marker.

1.) After bringing the salted heads and skeletal remains of two large, species-less fish, two halved onions, a few sprigs of parsley, some fennel fronds and two bay leaves to a boil in a stockpot, I lift the lid to see this:

2.) Upon another stirring of the pot, I lift the lid to see a translucent ball drift to the surface, bob gently in an eddy, then lazily roll over to reveal the iridescent glow of a fish eye staring back at me.

3.) As I get ready to tuck myself into bed in the guest room on the lower level, I get a text from my husband: "It really stinks up here. I think next time we should make fish stock outside."

And now I sit here in bed with an ice pack on my belly because it hurts so much—and I'm still laughing.

So! Just a fair warning to those of you who want to have hysterectomies and then go make fish stock soon after. I caution you: Get that ice pack ready.

A Grain Bowl Recipe for Skeptics

If you have paid attention to anything food-related this past year, you will know that one of the most popular, healthy, hippie-ish dishes to hit the scene is

The Grain Bowl.

No, it's not your grandmother's bowl of oatmeal, Cream of Wheat or farina. It is a savory dish: a concoction of fiber-full, vitamin-packed ingredients that seem to have absolutely nothing to do with each other that are all piled on top of a base layer of cooked grain—in a bowl.

I don't know about you, but to me that sounds like either an incredibly boring meal or an incredibly healthy-to-the-point-I-don't-want-to-eat-it meal. Was I born in the '70s? Yes. Did my neighbor grow pot in his backyard and eat—right in front of our boggling eyes—the slippery, slimy seaweed that we brought home from the beach? Yes. Did we eat his wife's beans and rice and love it? Yes.

But a grain bowl???

Sigh. It just seems like it's trying too TOO hard to be part of the club, you know?

But the fuss! The number of restaurants popping up and serving these damn things! I mean, seriously.

That means...yup. You loyal readers know me. I decided I needed to give it a try. (I still do have a good three pounds of Italy to come off. And it's already FEBRUARY!!! My male readers will have no idea why I just said that about February. Ladies, you know what I'm saying...)

SO. I decided to start simple. And who did I go to as my guide? My ever-faithful, besties-in-the-kitchen, Bon Appetit mag. (I'm telling you, folks. If you want to learn to cook, subscribe to this magazine. If I could figure out how to get their ad on this blog, that would be the ONE ad I would actually add so you could just click and subscribe. The folks who write it are fun. They are real. They aren't afraid to admit they are still learning in the kitchen, too. They are like US! Woohoo! So, until I can figure out how to get their ad on my blog, here's the link to GO SUBSCRIBE TO BON APPETIT MAGAZINE!)

The picture they put in the magazine that totally tempted me and made me give in can be found on Bon Appetit's website here. I used page 52 of my oh-so-special, January subscriber-only issue of Bon Appetit to guide me and gathered up my bowl ingredients:

• pearled barley (it's what I had leftover from beef and barley soup)
• bunch of curly kale (one with smaller, more tender stalks)
• 2 small sweet potatoes
• half a brick of halloumi cheese (a Greek melting cheese that has a really nice salty flavor)
• slivered almonds
• sunflower seeds
• coriander seeds
• and mint leaves.

I put the barley on to boil in salted water for 45 minutes, then got to prepping the rest of the ingredients so they were ready to layer on after the barley was cooked, drained and cooled.

1. The sweet potatoes were scrubbed, dried, cut into 1-inch cubes, tossed with olive oil, salt, pepper and a little paprika (I like hot but regular, ol' sweet is good) and roasted for 30 minutes at 400° F in my toaster oven.
2. The curly kale leaves were cut from the stems (toss the stems), sliced crosswise then lengthwise, rinsed, dried and dumped in a bowl. I sprinkled them with a bit of salt and cider vinegar, then massaged them gently for about 30 seconds to start breaking down their tough fibers. The vinegar would do the rest while I moved on to my next ingredient.
3. The slivered almonds, sunflower seeds and coriander seeds were tossed on medium heat in a tiny bit of olive oil until they were golden brown and the coriander seeds started popping (about 1 minute), then drained on a paper towel and sprinkled with salt and pepper.
4. The mint leaves were rinsed, dried, and torn from their stems (stems tossed).
5. Now it was time for the dressing: In a small jar, I shook together 6 oz. olive oil, the juice of 1 lemon, 1 tsp. Dijon mustard, 1/2 tsp. honey, salt and pepper. This was more than enough dressing, but extra can be used on salad later.
6. At this point the barley was ready: it had a nice chew to it. It was drained then scattered on a towel-lined baking sheet to dry (I have an abundance of flour sack towels which I use for purposes such as this, not just for drying my hands. I go through a dozen in about three days. Just don't wash them with fabric softener!).
7. While the barley cooled, I fried the halloumi: I heated up a little bit of olive oil in a small cast-iron skillet (enough to just coat the bottom of the pan), browned both sides of the cheese, then sliced it.

Assembling all the parts into a bowl took all of one minute: the barley lined the bottom of a pasta bowl and was topped with a pile of kale greens, a scattering of roasted sweet potatoes, a few slices of fried cheese and a sprinkling of toasted seeds and mint leaves. It all was drizzled with the lemon-Dijon dressing, and voila!

My own, personalized grain bowl!

I think I had had a bit of wine at this point or I was really excited about my creation because I didn't realize until the next morning that I had gotten REALLY close on this pic. But, oh well. Because after I took my first bite of my first grain bowl EVER, I wanted to get that close and stay that close.

Does that mean it was delicious?

Yes.

A party in my mouth?

Yes!

A marching band of foods that combined into a perfect explosion of flavor and texture symmetry?

YES!!!

I think you know what I'm going to say to the "Will I make this again?" question. And you know what the beauty of this meal is? The parts can all be made or prepped ahead and simply reheated or quickly cooked as needed. A weeknight dinner that will make you happy in, OH! So many ways!

So, hippies! Rejoice! You converted a total skeptic, and I will declare it loudly to the world:

I LOVE GRAIN BOWLS!!!

But Dwight, wherever you are: the raw seaweed?

Hell, NO.

Ready to give the grain bowl a try? Leave a comment and let us know what you did! Go crazy! Use what you have and what you like! You'll give us some more ideas of things to try! 

Make the Most of Your Food Budget: A Weekly Dinner Menu and Shopping List

About a year ago I wrote a post about being smart about how you shop for produce. And while I shop for a lot of produce, there is another way that I learned to be smart about my food (and this I do religiously because it saves me so much time, money, waste and fridge space!)

What is my "brilliant" idea?

I write a weekly dinner menu and 

a corresponding shopping list of ingredients.

Okay, when you think about it, it's not so brilliant. It's common sense. Going to the grocery store and standing in the middle of the aisle, thinking, "What am I going to make this week?" (which is what I used to do every week) really doesn't make any sense at all. I would end up forgetting what I was going to make for dinner later on in the week because I never had actually written down the ideas that I had had to brainstorm in the midst of the grocery store. Or I would think I had ingredients that I didn't which I then needed to go out later in the week after work to go buy. Or I would get stuck making the same damn meal over and over again. Or I would end up buying a whole lotta crappy (and I mean CRAPPY) boxed or frozen previously-prepared-and-therefore-processed-with-tons-of-sugar-sodium-and-chemicals foods that literally were hurting me from the inside out. (And, no, I'm not being paranoid. Talk to a chemical engineer about what goes into our processed foods and see what she thinks about processed foods.)

I think I'm not the only one who used to do (or still does) such a ridiculous thing on a weekly basis. I think a lot of us do that very thing because we are pressured for time.

Folks, taking half an hour to an hour to plan is going to save you the same amount of time in the grocery story as well as much, much more. I promise.

SO. Here's what I do:

On Saturday or Sunday morning, as I sit with my coffee, I interrogate Chef Reiton and peruse my foodie magazines/cookbooks to decide what I/we want to make for dinner every single night that week. I write down the meals we decide on in an organized list on my phone. Below is an example. I keep a template in Notes and then update it weekly. (If I want to save a particular week because I love the meals I made and want to save them as a reminder of what to make again, I just copy and paste the whole note into a separate Weekly Dinner Menus folder.)

As I am writing up my list, meal-by-meal, I keep a separate, running "To Get" list where I write down each of the ingredients I need for each recipe (this may require popping up and checking the fridge to make sure I really do have Worcestershire sauce). 

Here is a snapshot of what I have on my "To Get" list today. Not much is on there because I only have a few random things left to get (thanks to crappy selection on earlier shopping trip and a few random things that popped up):

I try to enter the ingredients in coordinating sections to save me time running back and forth in the grocery store: produce section first, meat next, center aisle items next, then the dairy section. 

Since the list is on my phone, I never forget it. And as I shop for the ingredients, I delete them from my phone.

On the occasion that something pops up (the neighbors ask us over, we do an impromptu night out, I decide we need to eat leftovers, whatever), I bump the dinner list down a day by doing a quick copy-and-paste.

Planning my menu out for the week helps HUGELY with the following:

• I rarely have to go to the grocery store during the week, giving me extra time at home in the evenings.
• I always have everything I need to make the dinner I want.
• I save time at the grocery store because I already have an organized list of what I need, so I'm in and out as quickly as possible.
• I save money and waste because I don't buy foods that I end up not using and throwing away.
• I usually buy ONLY what is on the list, saving me money because...it's not on the list, so I'm not buying it—unless it is something I will use later for sure AND it is on special. This way I know that I'm still saving money in the long run.
• I save my health because I don't walk down the junk food aisles and buy bad-for-my-bod processed foods that are SO tempting when I walk down those aisles list-less-ly.
• I save fridge space (and my sanity). You will be amazed at how streamlined your fridge gets when you only shop for what you need!

I really, REALLY encourage you to give this a try. Not only have I learned how much time, money, etc. I've saved, but it's also done so much more for me as a cook and a lover of food:

• I actually try those recipes that I've bookmarked/dog-eared/torn out of a magazine.
• I broaden my tastes and try recipes using ingredients from countries that aren't American (no ingredient is hard to find anymore, folks. Shopping on the internet has existed for decades now...)
• Cooking has become a fun and rewarding (I get to EAT!) way to explore and push myself to learn new techniques, ingredients, flavor pairings, etc.

If you do take this step into streamlining your schedule and amping up your cooking, leave a comment below. We'd love to hear how you've adopted this strategy and what it's done to help you!

The Wine Kitchen—Frederick, MD—A Restaurant Recommendation

While I was back visiting my folks over the holidays, my uncle "U.P." had a 76th birthday roll around. Being one of my favorite uncles, I suggested that we spend his momentous day together and just do whatever the heck he wanted.

And so we did. We started the day by driving one of U.P.'s best friends to the Baltimore airport. Doesn't sound very exciting, I know, but if you took 30 seconds to meet Greg, you would quickly understand that the hour-and-a-half drive really was a rollicking good time.

After saying our goodbyes to Greg at BWI, U.P. and I stopped in at Mt. Airy Liquors, his favorite wine store in Mt. Airy, MD. MAL's service was excellent and friendly, and the shop was clean and exceedingly well-stocked for its size. U.P. and I both found some new wines for great prices to give a try, AND I found a 1.75L bottle of Beefeater for $24.00! That will keep my brother and I stocked on G&Ts for months of visits to Mom and Dad!

Next was lunch. Wending our way down a winding business park road, we came to a.k.a Friscos, a sandwich joint that was HOPPING. With everything homemade, including a few beers on tap, I quickly saw why U.P. had frequented this little restaurant in his past to the point of being considered a regular. It was delicious—especially the "Exploded Potatoes."

From there we headed to the old side of town to wander the shops on East Street, grabbing a fantastic coffee at Frederick Coffee Company & Cafe before we began our afternoon of poking around the neighboring arts-and-crafts and antique stores.

As the temperature dropped and the sun began to set, we decided it was time for a light dinner and a glass of wine to warm up. U.P. decided he wanted to take me to one of his all-time favorite places to sit for a glass of wine and talk, and this...this was the highlight of the day.

Along Frederick's downtown riverwalk dubbed "The Creek" sits a simple beauty, the Wine Kitchen. Part French bistro, part American hipster bar, the Wine Kitchen keeps itself trim and tidy, not just with its service and bearded but clean-cut staff but also with its menu and wine flights and somehow warmly spartan decor.

Seated beside a window looking out onto the water, U.P. and I sat sipping our wine and a Manhattan Curve (with Campari ice!) while grazing on a beautifully delectable charcuterie board, one of WK's most popular offerings, and a basket of warm, crusty bread.

I wish we could have sat there all night. And if we had been able to, I think the staff would have let us. Our handful of servers carried out our evening with American verve but European tact. U.P. and I were there to talk, first and foremost. The WK servers felt that vibe and respected it, showing a discreet sensitivity that only seasoned, truly humble servers can do.

The evening could not have been more exactly what was needed: the talk, the food, the drinks, the service. Thank you to the Wine Kitchen for that. I'll be back, without a doubt.

But I just may order that charcuterie board all for myself next time.

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.

Celebrating with Nathan Miller, the Chocolate Love of My Life

This past weekend was a weekend of celebration.

I celebrated another year on this beautiful planet of ours with THE love of my life and the people who allowed me to enter into it (I say "allowed" because I've been a difficult one from the start; abortion was an option for my parents multiple times, and they said "No, thank you," for which I am forever grateful).

I also celebrated being given the opportunity to do the very first book reading and signing of my first book, Marley Eats His Vegetables (or you can purchase a physical copy on Blurb.com). The event was planned by my old hometown library, Coyle Free Library, as part of their grand re-opening after a gorgeous remodel.

What an incredible day! The townspeople came out in droves (more proof that the idea of libraries going by way of the dodo is a bunch of hooey), and I got to read my book to a bunch of the cutest little kids I've seen in a long time. I met amazing local authors—Ron Keener, Jennie Brown, Sherri Maret and Esther Jones—and even more amazing townsfolk: Selma Thomson who had just turned 100 and was such a pleasure to talk to. Old friends I haven't seen in decades. A mom who encouraged me in a way I don't think she realized how much it meant: thanking me for writing a book that her daughter who struggled with learning to read loved and could read, and I got to talk to the little girl about the truth that it didn't matter how long it took her to learn; what mattered was that she was being persistent.

It truly was such a special day, and so to celebrate and keep it local, my family and I decided to go to Roy Pitz Brewing Company, an establishment I would highly recommend to both locals and those of you who pass through Chambersburg, PA, for whatever reason. It's always got great food and outstanding brew, and the waitstaff are always super friendly, too.



As we were finishing our giant mugs of beer, my mother reminded me to save room for dessert, not for leftover birthday cake but for Nathan Miller's to-die-for chocolate, sold in the same warehouse down the hallway from Roy's.

Nathan makes—and I am not exaggerating in any way—the best chocolate I have ever had. Crafted in tiny batches with beans that he sources from all over the planet, Nathan can literally take you around the world through chocolate, right from his tiny shop in good, ol' Chambersburg, PA.

This weekend we tried chocolate from Guatemala, a deep, dark, grassy chocolate. It was absolutely delicious (pairing nicely with his rich, nutty-and-caramel-y coffee), but it was the bite of his Buttermilk chocolate bar that sent me over the edge. So smooth, so rich and ever-so-slightly salty. It was what I always imagined Willy Wonka's bar to taste like—only a hundred times better.

Averaging about $8.00 a bar, NM chocolate bars make an excellent little gift, the kind where you don't want to spend a lot but still want to show a sincere token of your appreciation. Believe me, anyone who receives a gift of an NM chocolate bar will take one bite and know that your "little" token—and your "thank you"—are HUGE.

I know that my appreciation was huge. To end my incredible day with Nathan, the chocolate love of my life, and bites of his incredible chocolate?

Oh, sigh. There just could not have been anything better. 

For the Love of Lamb: Yotam Ottolenghi's Kofta Recipe

I think I may have forever changed my opinion on eating lamb last night.

We take part in the Walden Local Meat meat share program, and I have had a pound of ground lamb sitting in the chest freezer for several months, not knowing what to do with it. I didn't grow up eating lamb, and when I have had it in ground form, it always tends to taste just, so...lamby.

Chef Reiton, on the other hand, has a sort-of fascination for it. If I mention lamb is on a menu or that I bought a leg of lamb to roast, his eyes light up. So I feel kind-of bad that I repeatedly pass the lamb section in the meat department.

Hence the dinner we made last night. We own Yotam Ottolenghi's Jerusalem cookbook. There is not one dish that I have made from that cookbook that I have not positively LOVED. And so when I mentioned that we had ground lamb hiding in the freezer downstairs and Chef Reiton said, "OH???", my hand went to Jerusalem's spine and gave her a little tug off the shelf. A quick perusal of the index led us to "kofta," little lamb and beef logs mixed with pine nuts, parsley, onion and garlic and seared to dark, crusty perfection before they are nestled in and drizzled with a tahini dressing and browned butter. Ottolenghi suggests serving it with a cucumber and tomato salad, which we did, ignoring his direction to not do the fried, spicy chickpeas.

 The dinner was incredible. If two of us would have done the prepping, we could have had both dishes on the table in 30 minutes. And when the tahini sauce got mixed into the salad and chickpeas? It was a glorious, delicious mess. I told Chef Reiton after the first bite that I wasn't going to be able to talk to him during this dinner...

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 everything 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.