Hello, Strangers! CAF is Back and in Boston!

I'm not sure how you feel, but, boy, you have been missed! What a whirlwind of a month this has been! There were times when I felt the light at the end of the tunnel would never appear, but here I am, sitting in my old green chair, drinking my coffee, and once again writing to you.  I could not be happier.

Where have I been, you ask? Well, let's start with the day we packed up Michael in Wisconsin and drove him two days across the country to Rhode Island to start school, then drove back to Wisconsin to meet my parents who had already started the big wrap-up of our dear old house.  The following day we filled with the final packing up, then we spent another day loading the moving van.  That night we spent at the local Holiday Inn Express, then we got up the next morning, closed on the WI house, then hit the road headed for the East Coast.  Woohoo!

All this time we were waiting on our Boston closing date, waiting but hearing nothing.  With our fingers crossed and feeling a bit homeless, we schlepped our little caravan of stuff (the largest U-haul you can rent with a trailer attached, my parents' minivan packed to the gills, and my Fit containing myself and the Big Dog) to Angola, IN, for the night.  The next day of travel took us to Henrietta, NY, and still no news.  My mother called her best friend out in MA and did what only the best of friends can do: she asked if we could stay at their house while we waited to close.

I don't know your opinion about it, but I think one has to have a seriously large heart to take in not just one couple but two AND accommodate a very big, stinky, stressed dog AND one extra large U-haul truck with a trailer attached, a minivan, and a car.  I mean, really--who does that?

Inge and Roger, that's who.  And they fed and entertained us to boot!

For one day.  (No word on closing.)

Two days.  (No word--except that tomorrow we were up to the deadline and the buyer was pissed.  Don't blame her.  Started thinking we might lose the house and should start madly looking for an apartment and a place to store all our stuff.  And live out of a duffle bag for a few more weeks...).

Three days.  (A request for more paperwork comes through.  And Derrick gets sick. Really sick.  We spend the afternoon in the Boston Medical Center ER.  Let's just say that the little Fort Hospital ER looks like heaven compared to BMC's...).

Four days.  (We made the deadline, but still no closing date. Maybe Friday.  We all lay low and wait.)

Five days.  (Derrick still rests, trying to recoup.  In the afternoon a call comes in from our fab realtor, Fran.  Can we come down and do a final walk-through? Hell, yes! We jump in the car for a drive downtown when Fran calls again: make that walk-through fast because we needed to close THAT DAY by 4:15! Hallelujah!!!!)

Six days.  Can you believe that Inge and Roger were actually sad to see us go??? I think I would have been jumping up and down at the end of the driveway, waving goodbye with gusto, if that was me.  But no.  They even took the time to come down two days later to see the new house and to go out to dinner with us.  Geez, what friends!

And while we are talking about the generosity of friends, can we look at my parents?

They drove up to WI from PA, moved box after heavy box out of the house to the garage while we were still driving home from RI, helped Derrick and I move out the furniture and load the truck, drove with us the whole way from WI to MA, supported us with advice and encouragement the whole time we waited on tender-hooks regarding the closing, helped us unload all of our stuff into our tiny new house (along with my dear U.F. and rocking cousin, Jen) which required maneuvering a lot of stairs, then spent two more days with us, helping us rearrange furniture and unpack about half our boxes to start making this house look and feel like home.  Holy.  CRAP.

Did I mention that my parents are 73? I mean, that's not old, but it's old-er, that's for sure.  I apparently have some great genes.

How is that for a month? A month surrounded by rockstars.  Generosity rockstars.

Sigh.

So.

Now that I am feeling the beginnings of being settled, I hope that we can reacquaint ourselves.  Strangers no more! Let's get cooking!

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.

Brickhouse Pizza Pub — Fort Atkinson, WI — A Restaurant Recommendation

She's a beauty, isn't she?

Like every other good American would probably say, pizza is one of those five foods that if I was stuck on a deserted island and I had to pick one food that I would have to eat for the rest of my life, pizza would probably be it (besides chocolate peanut butter cup ice cream).  I could eat pizza every day, I think.  What you served on it wouldn't matter hugely to me, although I am definitely more of a traditionalist with my toppings.  You can hold the pineapple and the taco meat, thank you.

What I am particular about is the crust.  I grew up in a town full of amazing pizzerias run by Greek and Italian families.  Their pizza dough was like their bread: yeasty in aroma and flavor, with a crispy exterior, and a bubbly, chewy interior.  Good mandible strength was required when tucking into one of their giant pizza slices.  

When I moved to Chicago at the age of 17, everyone declared that I was moving to the best pizza in the world.  And while I would eventually agree that it was quite good, I missed—no, make that craved—the pizza from home.  There is only so much cheese that one person can eat in a sitting before things start acting a little scary, and who the hell cuts their pizza into squares, anyway? I mean, really.  And the dough? It just didn't even compare.  It was either too bread-y or too cracker-like.  Nope.  My Italian boys were missed.

Almost twenty years later I moved to Wisconsin, famous for its cheese curds and frozen custard.  Unfortunately, it looked like I would have to carry on with my pizza fantasies for another few years.  Pizza was nowhere near being a Wisconsin delicacy.

And then along came Brickhouse.

I was one of the original staff that opened this little restaurant in what became my new hometown.  On the day I interviewed to waitress, I sat across from two men, father and son, and admitted that I had never worked in the food industry in my life but that I loved people and I loved food and I would be the hardest worker they had.  They gave me the job, and I prayed that I would like the food.  Little did I know that their food standards would exceed even my own.

The day before opening all the waitstaff came to the restaurant for a tasting so that we would know some of the foods we would be promoting.  It was then that I learned that everything—the pizza dough, the sauces, the soups, the salsa, the bread, the nacho chips, the croutons—everything was homemade.  The only non-condiment item we didn't make were the desserts and the pasta.  The burgers were shaped by hand, the steaks hand-cut.  I walked into the kitchen and saw a tray full of roasted chickens being pulled out of the oven and soup stock simmering on the stove in a giant pot.  This was a restaurant I was going to be proud to work in.

First I tested the chips and salsa.  Delish.  Crispity chips with layers that shattered when you bit, and salsa that was nicely spicy and lime-y and fresh.

The soup was straight out of grandma's kitchen.  Full of flavor and stuff.  No thin, brothy stock here.

And the pizza?

The pizza.

The pizza...

That pizza that I had been dreaming of for the past twenty years? Right.  There.  The crispy-chewy crust.  The fresh tomato-y sauce.  The perfect amount of melty cheese.  Dear Lord, and I was going to work here!

That was four years ago.  I no longer work at Brickhouse, or "BH" as we affectionately call it in our house, but you can bet that when any of us talk about going out for dinner, it is an unspoken understanding that there is only one place we mean.  

Those two men who were my bosses? They are no longer my bosses.  They are my family.  

And that pizza? That pizza... (Scroll back up there and look at it!)

It's still my favorite pizza anywhere.

Fungi Flashbacks: Uncle Fred's Sautéed Mushrooms

My schnozz did it to me again this morning.

I was frying up some baby bellas and yellow onion in butter for a couple of omelettes.

I got a little distracted by the bacon sticking to the cast iron skillet and mometarily forgot about the 'shrooms, when suddenly—

I am standing in Uncle Fred's kitchen.  I am six or seven years old, and my cousins and sisters and I have just run numerous laps around the house in a game of tag.  Uncle Fred, dressed in an apron with a spatula in hand, is hovering over the kitchen stove.  On the counter beside him is a stack of Dixie cups, and in his skillet are sliced mushrooms, sautéing slowly in melted butter.  The kitchen is warm and smells of sweet earth and salt.  When the mushrooms are a glorious golden brown, he scoops a spoonful into a Dixie cup and hands it to the next child in line: a kid-friendly finger food for his kids on the go.

Ahhhhh.  My nose.  My dear U.F.  My memories.

Thank you, dear God, for all three.

The Anatomy of a Patty Melt—and Its Recipe

It hit hard.

Really hard.

It started so innocently.  I was putzing around the kitchen, doing this, doing that, when I opened up the fridge and saw a package of raw hamburger sitting there, staring at me—hamburger meant for, well, hamburgers.  I closed the fridge door, and suddenly I saw in my mind's eye:

A patty melt... Ohhhhhh, a patty melt!!!

I desperately tried to shake the image from my mind.  Your guts don't like grain, I told myself.  Just—eat the meat.

Nope.

I went for a run.

The craving followed.

You don't really have anything else in the fridge to cook, anyway, my craving reminded me.

Oh, good grief.

And I caved.

To assuage my guilt, I hereby give you the four components that make up the patty melt of my dreams.  Now you, too, can taste and see...

You will need:

• raw hamburger (however much poundage you want to eat is up to you)
• 2 slices of melty cheese (I love Muenster)
• 2 soft, thick slices of white bread
• lots of butter

The only other requirements? A skillet, a metal spatula, a small piece of parchment, and ketchup, for serving.

Heat that skillet over medium heat until it is hot but not blazing. While it is heating, shape your hamburger into a large rectangle that is the shape of your bread but slightly larger (meat shrinks as it cooks, and you want the cooked patty to be the size of your bread).  Salt and pepper both sides of the patty, then cook it in the skillet until brown and crusty on both sides.  (I did about 1/3 lb., and mine took about 4 minutes per side.  Keep an eye on yours.  Different amounts of meat and different stoves make for different cooking times.)

Remove the patty from the skillet and drain it on a paper towel-lined plate.  Pour off the meat fat, wipe out (scrub, if necessary) the skillet, then reheat it on the stove until hot.  Add a tablespoon of butter to the skillet and push it around to thoroughly and heavily coat the bottom of the skillet, focusing on the center where the bread will be placed. You want a good pool of butter for that bread to fry in.

Add a slice of bread to the skillet, sopping up the melted butter with the bread before placing it in the center of the skillet.  Lay one slice of cheese on top of the bread, then top the cheese with the beef patty.  Give the sandwich about 2 minutes to brown, then, using a metal spatula, start peeking under the bottom slice of bread periodically.  You want a nice golden crust to your sandwich, not a burnt one (and all that butter can burn quickly, if you aren't careful).

Once your bottom crust is golden, momentarily remove the half-sandwich from the skillet with the spatula and add another tablespoon of butter to the skillet.  Do the same swirling technique as before, then place your second piece of bread in the butter pool, sopping as before.  Lay down your second slice of cheese, then carefully flip the first half of the sandwich on top.

Lay the piece of parchment over the top crusty piece of bread and press down HARD with the metal spatula.  Do this frequently for a few minutes, smashing the whole pile down and making the melty cheese glue all the sandwich parts together into a deliciously compressed mess.

When the bottom crust is browned how you like it, cut the patty melt in half diagonally and plate it.  Squirt a crap-ton of ketchup onto your plate, and get ready to dip and bite away.

Blue Moon Restaurant — Lake Mills, WI — A Restaurant Recommendation

I cannot believe how quickly the summer is flying by.  We are almost to the middle of August, and for the teachers of Wisconsin, that means school is starting in a couple of weeks.  It's kind-of odd for me not to be returning to school at the end of the summer.  It's all I've known for almost 15 years.  Life is calling elsewhere, however; not just career-wise but location-wise, and so last night I got together with one of my best friends and former library aide, Judene, to get ready to say good-bye (but not yet, we are determined.  NOT YET.)

We decided to meet in a town that is about halfway between our two homes in a little town called Lake Mills.  It's an idyllic, American small town: beautiful, old homes line the main streets.  The downtown is quaint and surrounds a central park.  It's a place that I should have visited more often, but, typical of me, I never "found time" to.

Anyway, Judene just found out she is neighbors with the owner of a restaurant there, and since the establishment was already one of Judene's favorite date destinations, we decided to meet there for our girls' night.  The restaurant is called Blue Moon, and Judene described it as it having a very "NOLA" vibe.

New Orleans?!? I was in.

I got to the restaurant first, and, thanks to a rather stressful day, happily hit up the Happy Hour special: a dollar off all tap beers.  I sat at the bar and drank my Blue Moon and took a good look around.  The first thing I noticed was the great music: some seriously classic, old time-y blues. Definitely NOLA vibes. The decor? Deep dark blue walls lined with artwork of all kinds referencing blues or jazz music, New Orleans, or—you guessed it: moons. Stained glass windows hung in the storefront.  A silver pressed tin ceiling finished off the look.  I liked it.

At that moment Judene showed up.  Our evening got rolling, and I have to say: it was delightful.

What made Blue Moon stand out for me was the staff.  The creole was tasty (I did not try their famous pizza) and the atmosphere chill, but the staff are what make me wish I had found Blue Moon a long time ago.  By the time I walked out the door, I felt like I had just been let into a little family.  I know that all waitresses are not created equal, but our waitress, Liz, was genuine, kind, and conscientious.  When Judene, who has celiac, ordered a dish that she believed to be gluten-free, Liz came back a few minutes later to tell Judene that she had checked, just to be sure, and it wasn't.  What waitress does that? Obviously, one who cares.

The chef periodically came out from the kitchen and checked on every single table after their meal was served to make sure that everyone was happy.  We had no complaints, but even if we had, I'm sure we would have had that plate whisked off the table and re-served to our liking with his big, booming laugh to accompany it.

The owner, Sherrie, was there last night, too, and she talked to us for a bit after our meal.  What a darling woman! Another authentic, caring human being whose smile adds the final warming touch to a most decidedly happy place.

If you live in or near Lake Mills, I would definitely recommend giving this little place a visit.  I don't believe you will be disappointed.

Learning to Salt a Margarita Rim: A How-To Video

Being that it is summer, I've been drinking my fair share of margaritas.

We even had a margarita taste test on vacation to determine the group's favorite recipe.  In the midst of doing such research, I came across instructions for salting the rim of your margarita glass.  This is what I read: "Fill a pie plate with 1/4-in. of kosher salt..."

A quarter inch??? In a PIE PLATE??? Gee-zoo-weez! How many margaritas are they planning on you making? Enough for the whole freakin' neighborhood? I don't care if it is "just salt."  Waste not, want not, my friend.  (Not to mention how a quarter-inch rim of salt on your glass would taste... Echhhhhh!)

To prevent future heart attacks and to show you how to efficiently salt your margarita glasses, I made—you guessed it! Another cheesy video! Woohoo! Here you go: How the Hell Do I EFFICIENTLY Salt a Rim?

Here's to saving the salt mines!

Saying Goodbye to Mil-ee-wau-KAY: CAF is on the Move!

It's becoming increasingly hard to believe, but within a matter of weeks, we will no longer be residents of the great state of Wisconsin but instead be Beantowners.

While this is a transition that I have been looking forward to for a long time, there are many parts of this move that make me really sad, one of them being: we're losing Milwaukee.

If you have never visited the city of Milwaukee (we can't say that word in this house without referencing Alice Cooper in Wayne's World through the pronunciation), you are seriously missing out.  It is a fantastic little city: beautiful architecture, great walkability, AMAZING art museum, wonderful restaurants, and the best ballpark I have ever been to (yes, better than Wrigley).

To say good-bye properly, Derrick and I surprised Michael with a trip downtown this weekend.  First stop was The Safe House, a super fun restaurant whose spy theme begins with the restaurant signage itself being code named and concludes with a "spy mission" scavenger hunt throughout the entire establishment while you are waiting for your meal.  Here's Derrick reading our list of clues:

After eating a tasty lunch, we did a bit of wandering downtown:

 

Then if was off to the main event:

The highlight of the evening?

Michael caught a game ball hit by Shane Peterson! What a way to end our last home game ever!

We decided to top off the night with one last Milwaukee tradition: Leon's Frozen Custard, easily the best ice cream you will ever eat:

Despite the fact that I kept getting choked up at the thought of what was coming in the next few weeks, that day could not have been more fun.  

Mil-ee-wau-KAY, you have never let us down.  We will be back, old friend.  Just you wait and see.

A Mel-on a Good Time!: A Kitchen Gadget Video Demonstration

Chef Reiton spoils me rotten.  Like, really.

He just got home two hours ago and handed me a bottle of Johnny Walker Bluuuuuuuuuuuue. 

I KNOW.

- - - - - - - - - - -

CUT TO:

INT. RACHAEL AND DERRICK'S DINING ROOM

We see RACHAEL standing with a group of friends who all stare at RACHAEL in disbelief as she pulls a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue out of her liquor cabinet.  RACHAEL looks sheepish as she begins to pour drinks. 

RACHAEL

                                                     (almost whining)

All I said was that I was really getting into whiskies... 

- - - - - - - - - - -

So.  Anyone want to come over?

Because then we can pull out the previous gift he gave me, too!

Any takers?

Oh, wait... Gotta run! Someone's at the door!

A Pimm's Strawberry Shrub: Two Worlds Collided

I've recently discovered the delight of a shrub.  Not the bushy kind.  Oh, no.  No, the alcoholic kind.

Once again, my educator has been Bon Appétit with their rather practical article for the dog days of summer.  I was drawn to the shrub recipe because I had a pound of organic strawberries dangerously close to moving from glorious to gross, so before you could say "shrub, spritzes, and swizzles" ten times fast, I had this going on the stove:

A little bit of water, a little bit of sugar, and that pound of strawberries simmering away.  It wasn't 15 minutes later that I had this:

Can't you just smell it? Oh, if you have never cooked strawberries, you must.  They smell fake, they smell so good.  (I tried grilling them the other night.  Chopped them up and put them on vanilla gelato.... Not bad. Smoky strawberries are quite interesting!)

These berries were cooled, strained, and then mixed with a bit of vinegar.  The result? A shrub, a.k.a. an elixir to be blended into an intoxicating beverage.

The first concoction I made with my shrub was a blend of the shrub (duh), citron vodka, and club soda.  Refreshing.  Dangerously so.  And just so damn pretty.

Last night I decided to play, and so I muddled a slice of lemon with an ounce of shrub in the bottom of a glass, added an ounce of Pimm's, threw in some ice cubes, then topped it with about 4 oz. of club soda (you could do more or less, depending on how strong you want your drink) and stirred until well chilled.  The result?

A Pimm's Shrub, at your service.  Tastes like bubbly flavored tea.

(Now I've got "Two Worlds Collide" by INXS playing in my head...)