And…beer. Did I mention the beer? Like an amber line on the map, beer, serious bier, trailed us all through Bavaria. Beer is somehow beautiful over there; all hefty steins and tradition and frosty hopped-up light. That, or I was just on vacation. Either way me and beer, we’ve not always been friends. As an eager college drinker I’d throw up – Greg’s hair-holding skills sealed our deal – and later, a moderation-minded adult, I’d try excellent “artisan” beers and my nervous stomach would think it ate three loaves of bread. An uneasy truce, at best.

On this trip we traveled with my brother-in-law Stephen and his wife, Moa, a native Swede whose sociable, even-handed beer skills could put most European men to shame. She was happy. Greg and Stephen were deliriously happy. They were all three happy to explore the sudsy maze of cafes, cellars and stubes. And me? Come follow the amber line:

In Salzburg we visit Zum Fidelen Affen, which we thought meant something about a loyal monkey, but a waiter reveals it’s The Funky Monkey. Actually, the waiter says, it’s “funny” monkey, but “I just like to call it funky.”

In this friendly, wood-beamed room I discover the joys of rotwein gespritzt - red wine spritzer – and also free, fresh-baked pretzels. I will find out fast in other places that free pretzels don’t always mean good pretzels – but here they are both free and good. I suddenly feel great loyalty to The Funky Monkey, and resolve to become a great Austrian beer drinker, and get more pretzels.

I overdo it at The Monkey. At Gasthaus Somethingplatz I start ordering bottles of plain wasser, and by late afternoon in Mozartplatz, at a place possibly called Mozartbar, I start drinking peppermint tea. I am traveling, and careful. I am boring, and this annoys me. So I down a tall Pils, get twitchy, and then go back to sipping tea.

In Munich we visit a true temple of bier, the Hofbrauhaus, founded in 1592. Here, servers (some in traditional, half-laced St. Pauli girl-garb) rush liter beer steins, sometimes eight in each hand, to long wooden tables stuffed with locals, tourists, yuppies and grandmas. They eat weisswursts and clink glasses and have a marvelous time. I am about to succumb to the liter – an optimistic move, at best  – when I discover the Radler. Part beer, part lemonade, it’s similar to the English Shandy and a great beer compromise for me, or, as Greg concludes, “a tasty little kid’s beer.” I love the Radler, hoist it with two hands and drink every drop. Greg and Stephen are amused. Now if they only put coffee in beer, I tell them, then you’d see some drinking.

And speaking of drinking, the Hofbrauhaus sees a lot of it. Most don’t get drunk, exactly  – a higher tolerance than weak Americans – but the group right behind us, the big table of young, super-buff Italian guys? They gave their best impression of trying to drink all the beer in Germany.

They got more excitable round after round, yelling toasts and smashing heavy steins together. They broke into drinking songs, pounding beers, fists and cameras on the table, and each time they pounded, the beers jumped. Our table mates were Russian, the rowdy boys were Italian and the old ladies at the next table over were German, tut-tutting the rowdies. It was all very cavernous and beamed, cozy and sloshing. I slurped my Radler, smiled at my husband, read the beer-soaked carved initials lining wood planks. We shared another salty pretzel, smelled amber and lemon and hops, and I let that Bavarian afternoon drift away.

I love good food and think about it a lot, but not always. People are surprised to find I often don’t eat anything until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. I get lost in my work and it isn’t until my stomach starts to seriously growl that I remember. Other days I think about food combinations all day long. I can’t walk through a farmers’ market without getting inspired.

Coffee craving?

I disappoint people when I say this—especially as Seattle is now my home base—but I don’t drink coffee. Tea only. Coffee makes me bounce off walls. I once had an espresso and was awake for three days. I make exceptions, however, for coffee ice cream.

Favorite hometown food?

In San Francisco, where I’m from, I love the tea leaf salad at Burma Superstar (best name for a restaurant ever), a good Mission burrito, daikon cakes at Slanted Door, seafood tostada from the Primavera stall at the Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market, and coffee-toffee ice cream from Bi-Rite Creamery.

In Seattle, where I spend most of my time now, I like the lasagna at Café Lago (ethereal and light, if you can imagine that), Ethiopian food, pizza at Delancey, chilaquiles at Senor Moose, and salted licorice ice cream from Molly Moon’s.

Ever been served breakfast in bed?

I used to date a mountain climber who brought me tea and hot bowls of cereal while I snuggled in my sleeping bag with a view of snowcapped peaks. That was pretty great.

Food that makes you gag?

Liver. There is nothing that can be done to redeem liver in my eyes.

Worst kitchen disaster:

I had a fondue party once where I nearly burnt the house down. Does that count?

Leftovers in your refrigerator?

At this moment: carrot salad from a picnic with friends, the tiniest bit of sorrel tart (my favorite recipe so far this year), and a good sized bowl of raspberry curd that I am trying to keep my mitts off. It’s hard because the stuff is addictive.

Your idea of a romantic meal:

I run the gamut: I love restaurants, but I also love a nice sunset picnic. One of my most romantic meals involved takeout and a car parked along the Pacific Ocean. It really depends who you’re sharing it with. With the right person, a PB&J could seem sublime.

Secret snack of shame?

Kraft Mac & Cheese, with the fluorescent orange “cheese” packet. I’m also a sucker for Jelly Belly jelly beans, but I’m not ashamed of that. I try to find the packet with the largest number of black beans, which are my favorite. I also have a fondness for sour gummy things, licorice chalk, and onion rings. I also eat an indecent amount of pickles. I’m not ashamed of that either.

Best restaurant if you’re not paying:

If I’m not paying I’d like to go somewhere I haven’t been. Blue Hill at Stone Barns, perhaps? I’d also like to fly to Italy and track down the tiny place near Mercatale in Chianti where I had the best pasta of my life—a mushroom ravioli that I will remember forever.

If you were a cocktail, what would you be?

A Greyhound—sweet and tart—or anything with ginger beer in it.

Favorite pizza place?

That’s hard. In Seattle I’m loving the Brooklyn-style pizzas that Brandon Pettit and Molly Wizenberg (Orangette) are making at Delancey. I also love the pizza at the Cheese Board and Arizmendi Bakeries in the Bay Area. They make only one pizza combo a day, with a chewy sourdough curst and toppings like roasted garlic, spinach, goat cheese. Very California, very good.

Extra credit: a great recipe with five or less ingredients

I recently learned you can make lemonade by putting a whole lemon (cut in quarters, all seeds removed) in a blender with water and sugar to taste. Blend it up, peel and all. I made a version with added spearmint, which was lovely. The leftovers made great popsicles.

(Yeah, the 12-year old had a glass. Six hot wings, a few pizzas, leftover candy and one election later, she’s out cold. Bad parents!)

But…is it fussy, or patient?  I am in fact extremely patient when it comes to pressing sugar into tins and piping swirls on cakes, and doing extremely skilled tasks like making palm trees out of Styrofoam.  But I’m not truly patient, like my mother.  Her diligence is rare even among the patient, no kidding – if you need your necklace untangled or your candlesticks cleaned, she’s your girl.  Her patience is a virtue, and mine is, shall we say…sweet. Frivolous.

Clearly, one’s relationship to the sugar bowl says volumes – packets – about personality. My Grandma Edna had a kitchen cabinet devoted solely to pocketed Sweet-n-Low; Greg likes a two-second pour (no more), and my Dad does not want sugared coffee but does want a big bowl of chocolate ganache, thank you very much.

My father-in-law has been known to tank three sugars into one small tea, but generally prefers the double whammy of sugar icing on sugar cookies. Me – I like one full Splenda – properly wapped around in the air first – sprinkled on cappuccino. My daughter takes a Wonka-esque view – never too much, it’s all good and you know, that gobstopper should be everlasting.

Flavoring sugar and pressing it into darling little shapes takes sweet devotion to a whole new level, true that, but I think once you see – and taste – their sparkly goodness, you’ll convert, at least once.

My inner Queen Elizabeth has always wanted to clutch a violet-blue handbag and say “one lump or two?” when friends come to tea, but as yet no one’s come to tea – um, we go to coffee – and I’m still not living in England. I am here, drinking cappuccino from a large paper cup. Still – I’m so beguiled by this idea, sugar cubes as art, so precious, too civilized. Set aside the Splenda and summon your inner fussy, and all your patience, to make them – because after all, a spoonful (or shape-ful) of sugar, well…you know.

Cinnamon & Chocolate Sugars

1 lb. (16 oz.) superfine sugar*
2 tsp cocoa powder
2 tsp ground cinnamon

In a small bowl, combine half the sugar with cocoa powder, stirring to blend. In a separate bowl, combine the remaining sugar with cinnamon, stirring to blend. Add 2 1/2 tsp cold water to each bowl. Using hands, mix each well, to the consistency of barely wet sand.

Use a spoon to press sugar mixtures tightly into butter/sugar molds, pressing with the back of the spoon to pack. Invert onto parchment-lined backing sheet. Tap to release shapes, and allow sugars to dry at room temperature, at least a few hours, until completely dry and firm.

Sugars will be slightly fragile; to serve, transfer by spoon or spatula. Store in airtight container.

makes about 30

note: you can use miniature tartlet tins to mold the sugars, as shown, or you can also try the flexible silicon mini-molds designed to form candy or butters.

other note:  This idea was originally culled years ago from a now-forgotten or misplaced source.  If you were the first-ever molded sugar-maker, please accept the credit and my compliments.  You’ve done a great service for dentists everywhere.

* superfine sugar note: if you do choose to indulge in this bit of luxurious fussy-craft, I urge you to actually pick up and use the superfine sugar. Regular granulated sugar will produce a more open-grained, less stable shape, and nothing can ruin that “one lump or two?” moment like broken sugar filling your carpet.

But apparently that’s what the kids are doing, and any Thursday night in the sushi joints you can see long rows of good-looking students doing a sort of kamikaze chicken dance with shooters. I see girls toss back their hair and also shot after shot, and think, their parents must be so proud.

Late nights, drinking stamina and coordination required? I’m out. But surely someone has been in. Do you love sake – hot, cold, shaken and stirred? Who among us has been brave enough to do the bomb?

So. Today, instead of a bright happy recipe with lots of steps, let’s just cool it down by gazing at a nice, frosty limeade.

There. That’s better. Oh Winstead‘s limeade, how you soothe. Topped with eye-popping sherbet and neon maraschinos, they’ve been spritzing up limeades at this Kansas City favorite since 1940. There is only one thing better than a Winstead’s limeade…

…a Winstead’s limeade with a Winstead’s burger.

Dab your eyes and wipe the keyboards, Kansas Citians and KC ex-pats – I just caught you drooling out there.

Tomorrow, we’ll go back to the kitchen. That is, after she-who-knows-all, she who got a fancy haircut and has laid out the outfit already, sprints from the car and into junior hell high. Better her than us, eh?

Or maybe my tart-lipped, gussied-up cousin is all “I-say-nothing” just because she’s made in France.

Yeah? Well, look at me!

I’m pressed too! Pressed right here on the counter.

So what if they bring that fresh lemon juice right to the table on a shiny tray, with a pitcher of water and tiny sugar cubes and a precious silver spoon. What of it?

So what if everybody gets to mix their sugar by themselves over there and, you know, adjust the taste?

I get my sugar dumped in, my friend. Dumped. One size sweetness fits all. Oh dear – I guess that isn’t very refined…but…but…I refresh them! I have a purpose!

Still nothing, eh? Okay, Citron Presse, that is enough.

You think Maitre d’ Antoine down there cares about serving you more than me? You are le wrong, cousin. You are just euros in the bank to him. But me, Limeade…

…they love me in Kansas. They worship me, pal, they need me. They sip me and guzzle me and when it’s 100 degrees they would like to shower in me.

Especially that Josie. She doesn’t care about your ooh-la-la drinks and your fancy chairs and lemony pressay-voo, no sir.

Crap.

Oh, fine.

Look – now I am le fancy Limeade. But don’t expect this every time.

Good Kansas Limeade

5 limes
about 1 quart water
1/2 cup sugar (to start)
2 cups ice
extra limes for slicing

To get the most juice from them, roll and press limes with your hands. Cut limes in half and juice, manually or with juice press. Pour juice into pitcher, add sugar and few lime slices. Mix together and stir in ice cubes. Begin to add the water, stirring and stopping to taste. Adjust limeade by adding water or sugar.

Serve over ice with more lime slices and, if desired, other fruit garnish.

Get Fancy! For a true Kansas City treat, make Cherry Limeade by adding maraschino cherries and their juice.

Where is the ultimate limeade meal? Click and see.

All. The. Time. When the fiance and I get up in the morning, our first words to each other are often, “Mmmm. What’s for dinner tonight?”

Coffee craving?

Yes. Oh, dark goddess of earthy delights, how could I face the day without you?

Favorite hometown food?

Chicago is known the world over for its deep dish pizza and hot dogs, and I’m a big fan of both! A Chicago-style dog is a steamed – sometimes boiled – beef hot dog served on a poppy seed bun with tomatoes, hot sport peppers, onions, mustard, a dill pickle, and bright, bright green pickle relish. Never, ever put ketchup on it! Yuck! Phooey!

My very first hot dog, the earliest I can remember, was at Fluky’s up on Western. I was three when I left that neighborhood, but I still remember the hot-dog-shaped gum they had for the kids. That was great stuff. Jeez – I’m looking at the homemade jambalaya that we’re supposed to eat for dinner, and all I can think is “I wish we were headed out to U Lucky Dawg tonight.”

Ever been served breakfast in bed?

Yikes. I had to ask the fiance this question, because I honestly couldn’t remember. He said, “Um, maybe once, when you were sick. If you could call that breakfast.” He’s right; I probably wouldn’t have. Really, we’re all about dinner in bed at The Box House, and the preparation is usually a joint effort.

Your absolutely reliable, go-to dish for entertaining is:

Pre-made chicken prosciutto pasta from the grocery store with basil pesto. I know, I know, it’s such a cheater. But what the crowd wants, the crowd gets.

Food that makes you gag?

Plantains. They’re the darling of South American cuisine, but in our travels, I could never quite stomach them. Yick. I love bananas, but these aren’t bananas.

Three things in your refrigerator right now:

“Hot Bitch at the Beach” pepper sauce that we stole from some Cajun place downtown and keep out of nostalgia, about twenty small bottles of Diet Coke, and what is that – sniff – last week’s Mexican carryout?

Your idea of a romantic meal is:

Steak fajitas at Fiesta Mexicana at Broadway & Lawrence in Chicago. It’s our go-to place for celebrating milestones: a new client, an old client with a second project, a client that actually pays on time…Fiesta serves the best margaritas around.

Secret snack of shame?

Nachos with cheese and jalapenos. I can’t enjoy a movie out without them.

At home? Chocolate. In cookies. In cakes. Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate bars. Bottles of Hershey’s Syrup flipped open and chugged like a soft drink. Ugh. No wonder it’s been a while since I’ve seen a Size 2. Oh! And cream cheese on Saltines. I blame my mother for introducing me to that one.

Most ambitious effort in the kitchen:

I guess that would have to be the Medieval Meal I made for my cousins. It was my turn to host our Gourmet Club, and little did I know that your average roast duck has, like, five bites of meat on it. Or that certain cousins wouldn’t touch anything cooked in alcohol – and everything was cooked in alcohol for my Medieval banquet, even the dessert. Stewed pears.

It was the last time I hosted Gourmet Club.

Worst kitchen disaster:

See “most ambitious effort” above. We ended up ordering pizza.

Second-worst disaster was making homemade applesauce when I lived in La Crescent, Minnesota – up in apple country. I forgot to put the top on the blender, and had apple pulp spew everywhere – into every nook, cranny, and crevice of my 70′s green-and-gold kitchen. I had fruit flies for a week.

Best restaurant if you’re not paying:

I love sushi, but damn, that stuff adds up quickly. There’s a place in Chicago’s Andersonville neighborhood that we used to go where the sushi chef would make up something special for each customer, based upon his impressions of that person.

Asking the price in advance for that kind of artistry seemed tacky, so we had no clue what we were spending until the bill arrived. The chef was a bit like the Soup Nazi, and ran a pretty tight ship – we were absolutely forbidden to dip his personalized creations in wasabi.

If you were a cocktail, what would you be?

A Perfect Manhattan. Oh, wait. That’s my favorite cocktail.

If I were a cocktail? Maybe a Sazerac. It is, supposedly, the FIRST cocktail. Made of Rye, Peychaud’s Bitters and Absinthe, it is absolutely divine and appeals to my love of both history and folk traditions – my online moniker “Green Fairy” was, in fact, inspired by my love of Absinthe! I’ve included the recipe – but what if you can’t get Absinthe, you say? Then you make it! Erm. Not that I would. Because building a copper still in your kitchen would be wrong.

Sazerac

1 sugar cube (or 1 teaspoon simple syrup or 1 teaspoon of granulated sugar)
4 dashes Peychaud’s Bitters
2 ounces Rye
1/2 teaspoon Absinthe (or Pernod or Herbsaint)
strip of lemon peel

Fill an old-fashioned glass with ice. In a cocktail shaker, moisten the sugar cube with just enough water to saturate it, then crush. Blend with the Rye and Peychaud’s Bitters. Add a few cubes of ice and stir to chill. Discard the ice from the old-fashioned glass and pour in the Absinthe. Coat the inside of the entire glass, pouring out the excess. Strain the whiskey into the Absinthe-coated glass. Twist the lemon peel over the glass so that the lemon oil cascades into the drink, then rub the peel over the rim of the glass; do not put the twist in the drink.

Extra Credit: Where is the world’s best pizza?

Ooohh. I know I’m supposed to say Chicago, being a Chicago gal and all that. And it really, truly is the honest-to-goodness best pizza in the whole United States – maybe the whole world, and I have eaten my way ’round the world, believe me. I really do get the jitters if I don’t have a deep-dish Chicago pizza, oh, every other week or so, and when I’m away from home, I miss it. Desperately.

Now that I’m up in Evanston, my new pizza love is Lou Malnati’s – your own hometown favorite, Marilyn. We usually get “The Lou” – fresh spinach, mushrooms and sliced tomatoes covered with a blend of mozzarella, romano, and cheddar – yes, cheddar – cheese. We add our own olives and jalapeno peppers.

That said, one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had was at Happy Herb’s in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. It wasn’t actually on the menu when we were there, but we’d heard through the backpackers’ grapevine that the “extra happy” pizza came stuffed with – you guessed it- ganja! And just to be certain the waitress understood what I meant, I kept saying “I want my pizza extra happy. You know. Wink, wink, nudge nudge. EX-tra, EX-tra happy.” Well, you know what they say: “when in Cambodia…”

But I would never, ever try to duplicate that particular pizza at home. Because that would be wrong. And illegal. Keep off drugs, kids, and stay in school.

editor’s note: I’m going to let this intriguing but wrong answer pass, because the loving descriptions of both my favorite pizza and hot dogs were enough to make me cry. Thanks, Joanne!

But then things got a little sleepy. So they drank the inventory.

When buyers appeared again, they were out of lemonade. One boy ran inside and returned with a half-empty bottle of Gatorade.

“That Gatorade is kinda old,” said his sister, “there’s stuff in it.”

“Whatever,” he said, pouring.

They squeezed a lemon over the pitcher and tasted. “Disgusting,” Josie told him.

He threw the bottle under the table. “They will never know.”

A group of bicyclists rode by, and oh, they stopped fast – the signs, the pleas, the sunny pitcher and angel faces. They paid and they sipped, then twisted their lips and made polite sounds, wow, yeah oh boy, how about that, then crushed their Dixie cups and sped away.

The kids tasted again, and spit on the grass. “Just throw it out,” said Josie.

“Dump the Gator-emon-ade!” said the littlest one, “it’s mean to sell to dumb people.”

But they sold the last drops, and those poor unsuspecting few probably spent the evening praying to the porcelain god and cursing the angels who sold them the yellow death. Fifty dollars later, I asked them if it was right to pass off gross, fake lemonade.

“Eh,” they said, “it was a good cause.”

Old-Fashioned Lemonade
serves 6

6 lemons
1 cup sugar
6 cups cold water

Juice the lemons to make 1 cup of juice. Get the most juice by firmly rolling the lemons between your hand and counter, then cutting in half and juicing.

In a gallon pitcher combine 1 cup lemon juice, 1 cup sugar, and 6 cups cold water. Stir, and adjust water to taste. Chill and serve over ice.