I just might be the blogger’s chauffeur, alarm clock, snack provider, ponytail holder-buyer, chief room inspector and summer personal assistant. Also, her proud mom. Be sure to read the first post, 100 Movies of Summer, to see how it all started. Dim the lights and grab the popcorn! I’ll meet you over there.

There’s good news, too. She’s wonderful, lovely and smart and funny, as she always has been. She is all those things and now more, independent and stubborn and debate-ready, on matters from politics to proper barrette placement, which, I’d forgotten, is crucial.

She does not have one answer. She has ten. On a truly inspired day, twelve.

Who was there? Well, so-and-so was there, and her friend, and nobody else. Nobody? Well, oh yeah, there was that guy, and his friend, and his little brother, but they’re boring. And someone’s mom dropped her off but then she had to leave, to go to yoga. And oh yes Emily was there but not that Emily, not the one you don’t like, the other one. There were tons of people I knew. Tons? But, you know, nobody else was there.

So the news, then, is that even when they are lovely-smart-funny, the pleasures of agreement are few. She thinks adults oversimplify, always assuming a situation is either perfect or totally awful. She says it’s all flexible, all open to possiblity. Nothing is just one way.

I called my mother the other day and asked, where is the reward here? What is it? Oh, Josie is my reward, she said. I was stunned. It’s not me? The adult me isn’t your reward? Well, she said, you are, but she’s the easiest reward.

I told her well, she’s quite complicated right now. Your own daughter takes longer, she said. You did.

One hot afternoon last week, first in a long line of scorchers, Josie got home from the pool and was sitting in the kitchen eating popcorn, briefly friend- and phone-free.  I pounced, and she couldn’t believe her luck: errands! She would join me on errands. Gas, dry cleaning, dog food place and the local co-op for eggs, asparagus, salad greens, fruit.  And because any errand-mate must act as my extra hands, on the way home it was Josie who held the small green basket, dropping tiny leaves and fine dirt in her lap, the first strawberries of the season.

The berries were misshapen and candy red, embroidered with yellow seeds. Josie cupped the basket, turning berries over with one finger, picking at curled green stems. Her hair was still wet and she wore friendship bracelets, the wrist code of teen girls: this is my favorite, these are my friends, that’s my design. I wore shorts, which I generally avoid up to August, and also a ponytail, in place through October. To me summer is a stack of camp forms, frizzy hair, bathing suit shopping, bug spray. Of course for most people summer, I know, is the golden child of seasons, joy without fuss. Josie was an unfussy baby, and later an unfussy child. Now she embraces its complications, this almost-high school life, juggling friends, algebra, parents, lockers, friends. Choices.

In the car she was quiet, rather suspiciously not asking for objects, rides or permissions. She wanted to get home, to zoom through dinner and reach dessert. Squinting through five o’ clock rays at the berries on her lap, I asked Josie: what should we do with them?

Should I make strawberry cobbler? Soak them in rum? Buttermilk strawberry cake, strawberry-rhubarb pie, strawberry rum sauce or ice cream or strawberry-banana crepes?

We should eat them, she said, and popped one. Just eat them.

And that is what we did.

The Center of Everything [originally posted July 2, 2009.]

It’s been a month since Josie’s bat mitzvah, and looking at photos now with a better-rested and less tearful eye, it’s hard to believe we did all that. But we did, and at least one part of it merits a closer how-to look.

Centerpieces. We planned 16 tables of adults at our party (some 60 kids ran loose in the Dogg Pound, see here) and all of them would need centerpieces. We did not want flowers for our dog-themed bash, nor floating candles or exploding fountains. We wanted something funky and handmade that reflected Josie (since we could not stand her atop each table) and was not, in my vague notion, a “regular centerpiece.” I sketched stuff for weeks.

On receipts and memos and envelopes, I sketched centerpiece ideas: dog houses from boxes, with dog photos on sticks, and paw prints, and boingy silver things and metallic shreds. All the ideas seemed to require mass materials – styrofroam blocks, cardboard boxes, spray paints, photographs, disco balls. About two weeks before the party, we thought we had a winner. Me, Greg, and our friend Korrin – an OCD crafter and all-around good sport – huddled at the third floor craft table, each trying to make a prototype work. But they would not work; the boxes were too big, the paper too thin, sticks toppled off. Korrin got a headache, and left. Greg saw something in my eye he’d seen before, and left. Alone at midnight and surrounded by crumpled silver shreds, I had a short but weepy pity party, followed by a hearty round of why-the-hell-am-I-doing-this. Still, I’d made tea and the house was quiet, so I sat down fresh at the table, switched on the HBO show “In Treatment,” and started doodling again. By now I hated the failed ideas – so tacky, overblown, “regular.” Why did we need so much stuff? Could we create something but not take anything home? Forty-five soothing, Gabriel Byrne-filled minutes later, an answer:

We would build a small tower of items from the Lawrence Humane Society’s wish list – pedestrian stuff like paper towels and dog food, but exactly right for Josie, who volunteers there, and reusable to its core. Applying wedding cake logic, I sprayed cardboard cake rounds silver, and used them to separate and stabilize layers. The paper towels were bound, cake-style, with paper and ribbon. We could donate the towel rolls and dog food, recycle the paper and cake boards, and reuse all the ribbons. Only the balloon toppers were a one-night stand – but they were lovely.

Whether you’re throwing a big event or a cozy party, I urge you to try reuse/recycle decorations. Our guests appreciated both their funky “found-art” looks and the care behind them. Plus, you don’t need to be an artist or a serious crafter to pull it off. Can we apply this idea to different events? Here’s a few to start:

Child’s birthday party: even for a small party at home, decorate with short stacks of give-able items, like toy trucks for a truck theme, stuffed animals, etc. Donate to a local homeless shelter, hospital, or social service group.

Garden party: make the stacks from terra cotta pots, seed packets and small plants. All can be given to guests for planting, or donated to a local community garden.

Pizza party: (Josie’s idea!) Use disposable pizza pans to separate “layers,” and stack with flour bags, cans of tomatoes or sauce, onions or canned olives. Top with fresh tomatoes. Donate all to a local shelter that cooks and serves hot meals.

Your ideas? Share them below and craft away.

“The Center of Everything?” The post title references a well-known Lawrence writer who, rather than mess with centerpieces, just produces great books.

I like everything about fondue.

In the early 90′s Greg and I would go to Geja’s Cafe, the fondue institution in Chicago’s Lincoln Park, a subterranean place with stucco, flamenco tunes and delightfully curtained booths. Called “Chicago’s Most Romantic Restaurant,” it features a massive fondue menu with cheese, beef, lobster, scallops, flaming chocolate. You drink wine for two hours while you wait. You drink wine with four fondue courses, watch wine blaze your dessert, clink champagne. Then, if you are me, you pass out on the table in cheese-wine coma and, for an encore, fall out of a taxi and hurl.

Still, I like everything about fondue.

I like going to buy the cheese, and griping about the cost. Oh well, I always say, handing the cashier our mortgage, it’s only once a year. I love that it’s a one-pot meal, and prying open Sterno, and piling tart apples in bowls and drinking wine while I stir in the wine. I like forks flying, diving, and tangling under cheese. Enough tangled dipping and someone’s bound to drop an apple, or lose their bread. When that happens, tradition dictates that you kiss the person to your right…

…especially if that person is a Josie-loving Lab.  Now break out that set – you know, up in the high cabinet, in the back. Pour, stir, bubble and smooch: enjoy your own fondue night.

—-

Traditional Swiss Fondue

adapted from The Book of Fondues

1 garlic clove, peeled and halved
1 cup dry white wine
1 teaspoon lemon juice
2 cups (8 oz.) shredded Gruyère cheese
2 cups (8 oz.) shredded Emmentaler cheese
2 teaspoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons Kirschwasser (cherry brandy)
dash white pepper
pinch grated nutmeg

crusty French bread, cut in cubes
1 – 2 tart, firm apples (I prefer Granny Smith) cut in chunks

Rub inside of fondue pot with cut garlic clove.

Pour in wine and lemon juice; cook over medium heat until bubbling. Turn heat to low and gradually stir in cheese with wooden spoon or, for easier cleanup, a heatproof silicone spatula. Cheese will melt, but cheese and wine will appear separated.

In a small bowl blend cornstarch with Kirschwasser. Add to melted cheese mixture and continue to cook, stirring for 2 – 3 minutes, until mixture comes smoothly together. Watch carefully and do not allow fondue to boil. Season with white pepper and nutmeg, and serve immediately.

Serves 4 as a first course; double recipe to serve as main course.

A word about heat: whatever your fondue heat source, it’s a balancing act. You want it high enough to keep fondue melted, and low enough not to burn. Despite best efforts, you’ll nearly always find a small patch of burnt cheese on the bottom. French-speakers and true fondue fans love this treasure and call it “la religeuse,” the nun. I call it holy good snacking.

And your Halloween?

This is not new to me, missing the view, especially in the kitchen. Mostly I see cookies through a camera, or sauce on the back of a spoon. I whip meringue peering into a mixer by the second, watching for the right curve to appear on the right shiny peak. Details follow me out of the kitchen, too, as they did last summer when we tripped up to the North Woods for our annual beloved cooling-off. I brought my camera and also an unfortunate new habit, the blogger’s eye, which I turned first on breakfast.

We love to start the day in Lutsen Resort’s rustic dining room. There’s a hearty breakfast buffet, no tepid Sunday brunch but a much-loved, locally fresh, rush-the-table buffet. Now, we are people who drink coffee – for breakfast. We like to eat properly on Sunday, but nothing in our daily routine suggests even toast, let alone heaped plates of cheddar and wild rice eggs, smoked sausage, buttermilk biscuits and peppered rivers of gravy. And because you’re breathing brisk pine air and are certain you’ll hike it off, how about those pastries? Lemon custard squares, cinnamon bear claws, airy chocolate croissants. Wild blueberry danish.

It’s all tremendous – the glittering lake, fresh-baked danish, healthy air and caution to the wind. Feeling good, and a camera near the fork. Why not some pictures for the blog?

So I snapped away while they ate, aiming for special breakfast sunlight on special danish glaze. When Josie saw the pictures she said “Too much close-up or something.”

Too close? “I don’t know, the bacon. You made bacon look…gross?”  She was right. How did the smokiest bacon lose its looks? What’s with that blueberry? I backed the lens off the breakfast.

Out by the lake I tried pondering the horizon but wound up sifting tiny rocks, lake treasure. Cold waves rushed my feet and I tumbled sandy jasper, granite and maybe-agates through my hands. I brought the camera.

Further down the shore Greg and Josie were skipping rocks, the same rocks. Like shell seekers, the three of us like to wander the lake beach, sometimes separate, sometimes in all directions, somehow together. This time I sat in the sand, and told them I’d catch up.

I played with my camera, closer and closer to the rocks, mesmerized by green stripes and egg shapes and fossil dings.

Just around the time I found the zoom could capture jean fibers, I looked over, and up.

My husband loves to skip rocks. Lake Superior rock-skipping is art and sport, a thousand smooth chances to both relax and get it right. For a man who uses his brain all day – or perhaps precisely because of it – Greg is surprisingly devoted to throwing rocks into water. He’s as good at this no-brainer as it is good for him, nothing but bounces over waves. “Five,” he’ll say, “did you see that? Five.”

Josie’s been working at it for years too, with each summer using longer arms to best the master. When I looked up from my rocks that day, I saw this:


If I were still sifting rocks I’d have missed it, and if I’d followed them, I’d be in it.

We frequently wish to be where we’re not, always why am I here and should have been there, but for a few minutes in July I was right where I was supposed to be, wet feet and sandy rolled jeans, windy hair and heart bouncing down the shore, seeing what we’ve wrought and for once saying yes, here and now. Oh, yes to the wide view.

With that in mind I chose Josie interviewing me. From February 3, 2009, complete with original Tuesday intro, I hope you enjoy this lovely mother-daughter Tell Simmer mess.

————————

Welcome to a special Tell Simmer Tuesday. If you’ve missed it the last few weeks, fear not – there are a few special interviews in deep hibernation, just waiting for the right sunny day. In the meantime, my daughter staged a coup, and declared that the next Tell Simmer would, in fact, feature me. The result, I’m afraid, is navel-gazing at its finest; you will not find more colorful self-interest in the blogosphere, I tell you…unless you count David Lebovitz’s meme supreme, 89 Things About Me. I let Josie pick the questions, but kept it down to 14. Because Simmer’s just not that into me.

What is the craziest thing you’ve ever eaten on pizza?

You know I don’t get crazy with my pizza. I don’t do pineapple and jalapenos like some people. You think you’re being cute, but – is this the first of 14 questions designed to get a rise out of me?

What is your favorite song to cook to?

If I am chopping onions I put on Joni Mitchell’s “Blue,” because if I’m going to be crying, I might as well be miserable.

What is your biggest kitchen disaster (if a cook as perfect as you has any?)

Again with the cute. Just because I tell you how to hold a knife and not chop your fingers off doesn’t mean I can’t mess up. You’ve only seen my experienced phase, not the early doofus years.

I’ve scrambled pastry cream and saved a few tippy wedding cakes – but I’d say the most unpleasant wreck occurred in my apprentice days at an extra-famous shmancy Chicago restaurant that Dad says will absolutely not be named now or at any other time. I accidentally omitted sugar from two souffles that were then served, and as I’ve noted before, people who order high-priced desserts want perfect, and behave rather badly without it. May your disaster never happen in a well-heeled dining room.

Who is the TV celeb chef you hate the most, and why?

Now this is just silly. You’re not going to get me to tell them that – the Internets are forever! Besides, she’s wildly successful – er, every day – and I’m just blogging about dinner. Every other day, at best.

What is your most hated dish at family gatherings?

What’s with all the hate talk? Haven’t we always told you that hate is a big word? That we only hate hot weather and frizzy hair?

That said…get serious. I can’t answer that, because I want them to still welcome you at Passover long after I’m gone. Everything on the table is fantastic. Every dish that every single person brings is wonderful.

What celeb would you most like to cook you a meal?

Hmm. I’ll take Harrison Ford – circa Working Girl – carrying a breakfast tray of waffles and mimosas. In a nice white hotel robe. Don’t tell Dad.

We all know that you don’t eat your own pastries very much. What’s the one sweet thing that tempts you?

Okay, you know this, but fine – Lemon Meringue Pie, Pecan Pie (warm, of course) and Key Lime Pie. In that order. Also, fresh-baked rugelach occasionally call from the tray. I am their first responder.

Who is your cooking or baking idol?

Julia Child. When I was five, I’d sit in front of the TV and goggle at Julia, whacking cleavers and slapping giant fish. When she raised her wine glass at the end and said “Bon Appetit,” I’d raise an imaginary glass back. I achingly miss Julia Child.

If you let me and Dad cook all week, what do you think would happen?

There would be a few frozen burritos, one half-peeled orange and a dozen trips to Free State Brewery.

Who is your superhero alter ego?

Wonder Woman, of course. The outfit, the power…the bracelets. Hey! That’s not a food question.

Describe your ideal romantic meal.

Dad and I are clinking glasses in Paris, and you are at military school.

Okay, you ask everyone else, so…what drink would you be?

Irish Coffee: warm and cozy, with a stealthy knockout punch.

Who do you think is the cutest celeb chef?

You are watching way too much TV. Tomorrow, it’s after-school potato peeling.

Who is your perfect sous chef? Moi?

Yes, it’s vous.

I should hope.

Except when you pitch fits about telling you things. Like – how to do them right.

Whatever.

This is a flurry of activity, it is, after what we’ve called The Summer of Nothing. It seemed she did not want to do classes, or camps, nor any effort that required organization, even forming a line.  No, she wanted to swim, and hang with friends, scoop blueberry sundaes and climb rocks with old mom and dad in the cold waves of Lutsen, Minnesota. We let her, and now it’s back to the books.  Will her head be empty as the berry bowl, or charged by summer’s fruit? We’ll see.

———

Berries, sugar, water

Minnesota-toted blueberry jam

simmer

spoon

sauce remembers.

Easy Blueberry Sauce: simmer 1-2 pints blueberries with dash of sugar and splash of water. When warm and sugar has dissolved, add about 1 cup good-quality blueberry jam or preserves. Stir to melt and combine. Optional: add a squeeze of lemon or pinch of nutmeg for extra flavor. Serve warm over pancakes, waffles, ice cream. May also spoon directly into mouth.

For even more zing try adding another fresh summer fruit, like sliced peaches, plums or nectarines.

So – do you have a few words on berries? Pancakes, waffles, pound cakes or cobblers? Is there a pandowdy in the house? Tell me how you like your blueberries – and please, keep it to ten, and make it juicy.

Oh, that Donald. In our house he’s come to symbolize little tortures – ultimately the spoon will bring comfort, but first the miserable gauze, and pain, and that fixed orange smile! My oral surgery wish for you: may all your teeth show themselves, and remain useful, and may you enjoy soft Banana French Toast without ever, ever having to sit in that chair.

from January 6, 2009 (original post here)

Here’s the thing: I don’t love Jell-O, and most of America does. I’d bet that even foodie elite, people who’d never be caught with a two-tone wiggler, dig strawberry banana when no one’s looking – I believe it. There are a few distinct groups of Jell-O lovers – 50′s kids who grew up with it, like my parents; crafty cooks who make projects of rainbow parfaits; and the rest, like my daughter, who just plain like its slippery cool. And in there, there we have it. The only time I like Jell-O is when I’m sick – when I’m good and sick and low, those unnatural tones look like comfort, and taste easy. A delightful slide down, and too smooth to refuse.

Josie had some oral surgery done last weekend, the poor thing. Whenever she’s legitimately sick or injured – antibiotics or 100 degrees, whichever comes first – she will get tucked into our bed with quilts, movies, and the dog, and luxuriate in being The Poor Thing. A diminished state will also make her The Nice Thing – a fever or post-anesthetic haze will do that to a kid, I guess. She lays positively docile, sipping Gatorade and following orders, her parents stroking hair or bringing treats. What – a – trouper.

Can we get you something, something soft? Jell-O? Okay. The lime kind, and Donald? Sure. You just wait right there.

That’s right. When in need of true comfort, dental or otherwise, we call on The Donald. Promise not to tell her friends; she’d kill me. With the spoon.

Anyway, as soon as you could say Tylenol 3, the two full days of Jell-O, soup and yogurt made her bored with movies, sick of codeine, restless and newly charged as The Crabby, Hungry Thing. She was starving, she said, we were starving her. I believe that’s called taking care of you, I said. You wanted Jell-O. Well yeah, but now – now she was just mad to have missed the whole weekend, sure that she was wasting away, and maybe she would like a large steak. Or a dozen buffalo hot wings. And celery. The dog leaped off the bed, and the spell was broken. She was feeling better.

Not wishing to undo the surgeon’s work, I nixed the chewing, but offered real food. How about…French toast?

Eh.

I looked around the kitchen. A banana in the fruit bowl straightened, hopeful.

Okay. How about French toast…with caramelized bananas?

Ooh.

Aha! Soft for the mouth and sweet on the tongue. Now we were talking, and even better, healing. There’s still Jell-O in the fridge, and sore mouth or not, she’ll eat it. Me, I’ll wait for the fever.

Caramelized Banana French Toast

This method lets you use one pan for both the French toast and the bananas; just make sure it’s good and non-stick.

8 slices bread (I like to use stale baguette bread, cut on a thick angle)
4-5 eggs *
1/4 cup milk or cream
splash orange juice (optional)
dash of cinnamon
dash of nutmeg

1 tablespoon canola oil, or butter, for frying

1-2 bananas, in thick slices
1 tablespoon butter
1 1/2 tablespoon sugar
splash orange juice

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs, milk or cream, orange juice, cinnamon and nutmeg until smooth. Add bread slices to bowl, turning pieces to coat with egg mixture. Leave slices in the egg mixture 5-15 minutes (thick, dry bread can take longer) or until bread is soaked through, but not falling apart.

Using a large, non-stick frying pan, melt oil or butter over medium-high heat. Add soaked bread slices and cook 1-2 minutes per side, turning, until evenly browned. Remove French toast from pan and set on a paper-towel lined plate.

Leaving heat at medium-high, immediately add sliced bananas and tablespoon of butter to the same non-stick pan, shaking pan as you add to keep bananas moving. Sprinkle sugar over bananas, then the splash of orange juice. Keep the pan moving as they cook, using a heatproof spatula to help turn bananas fast. Both sides of bananas should brown quickly, melting the sugar and juice together, about one minute total cooking time.

Set French toast on plates, spoon warm bananas over the top, and serve.

* so, what’s with “4-5 eggs?” Well, eggs will vary in size, volume, and how long they’ve been in your fridge. Start by whisking up four – if there’s enough liquid to generously cover the bread, stop there, and if not, add another.

serves 3-4, depending on your own Hungry Things

Why am I doing it again? We recently unearthed a few notes from those days, and I decided to revisit, and finish the doodling I’d started some twelve years ago. This update is a gift for a friend, someone expecting her first, someone who will also tread floors and will, perhaps, find the need to recite baked goods. I was always amazed how the silly muffin-and-pie mantra soothed us both, rocked her to sleep and kept me awake. It also seems to work on small, sweets-loving kids, goofy adults and a few chatty, sugar-looped bakers.

A is sweet on apples, that fall into the pie

B melts into butter, and makes the muffins sigh

Carrots from the garden, deployed to make the cake

D’s are for the donuts when you don’t know what to bake

Elephant ears are flaky (you can say palmiers, too)

F is for the fritter that has nothing else to do

G is for galettes, swirling summer, dripping fruit

H is for hamantaschen, three-cornered cookie loot

I is pie in the icebox – it’s lemon, sweet and cold

Jam befriends the sponge cake and they build a jelly roll

K is always Key lime – should be yellow, never green!

L is for the lattice that keeps red berries seen

Macarons are le favorite, a Paris souvenir

Napoleon’s gone forever, but his treat still lingers there

O is for Oh So Many, a hundred cookies that we ate

P is for the nice plain pears we’ll eat to clean the slate

Q is for Queen Mother’s Cake, from Maida Heatter’s book

R is for the recipe our dog’s jaws sadly took

Scones are a craggy compass, to point us through the day

Tea is their companion (though not the American way)

U loves umeboshi, Japanese fruit that’s pickled tart

V is for vanilla, pure and closest to the heart

W sings out welcome, which is what cakes tend to say

X is for the extra slice you might get on that day

Y is for golden egg yolks, like whisking in the sun

and Zzz’s are heard at daybreak…

…when the bakery work’s begun.