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.

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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…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.

Maybe it’s all the extra change I’ve fed the Lawrence parking meters. All accidental, true, but still, paying it forward, no? Or maybe a tolerance reward, for that man next to me on the plane from Dusseldorf, the one who cheerfully interrogated my life’s history, who performed backbend yoga in the aisle, who veered in and out of nausea and ate all my ginger candies.

I don’t know. But whatever I did to deserve apple strudel and snowball-sized whipped cream in my coffee, I’m grateful. And I’ll take it.

Tomorrow we leave this beautiful city, Vienna, and train down to Salzburg. Oh sure, it’s Mozart’s hometown, but it’s also the first place I ever saw in Europe, back in 1990, when I was younger, less brave, and afraid to taste the city. That trip’s highlights: sleeping atop my padlocked backpack, throwing up alone on a mountain and, courtesy of a near-consumptive cold, eating only Fisherman’s Friend cough drops for two days. I promised Greg I wouldn’t trip too hard down memory lane this time in Salzburg; but I didn’t promise you. A few stories to come along with reports on wiener schnitzel, hot wine and enough Palatschinken to feed us all. Happy Holidays with love, from your Simmering correspondent in Austria. It’s professional dessert research, and someone’s got to do it.

* extra credit and a virtual slice of Sachertorte: What does the post title have in common with Salzburg? Hint: jam, bread, and one hot captain with seven children.

Cold never used to trouble me – and in fact I still adore winter, and before that fall, and rank Kansas summer heat just above root canal. But the fact remains that I am freezing. While walking Cleo yesterday – she loves it, both obvious and oblivious – the world could see only my nose. Encased in two tanks, a thick sweater, tights under jeans, red scarf, big coat, gloves, jammed-down hat and sunglasses, I found myself in a mummified winter state, not altogether unpleasant, an insulated place unlocked by parkas.

Cleo has seen three winters now, but is still deliriously newborn come January, amazed at her paws disappearing in white.  As she romped around and we circled the quiet chill of the park, a lovely mental heater kicked in.  Thinking other thoughts, answering your own questions, replaying scenes from a good day, a bad year – anything but it’s so cold.  That engine is your own pot on the stove, and it lets you kick snow like coconut, forget why you came and believe, with warm conviction, that you don’t mind being there at all.

* Here’s a question – hey Marilyn, where’s the food?  I’m getting sick of all this yammer.

Well my honest friends, I defrosted my fingers over many a delicious bite this week, and they’re all coming your way in the next.  Stay tuned, and stay warm.

Chocolate sprinkles on that? I thought so.

Comfy now?  Good – first, let’s talk about popularity. I raised the idea the other day, when I recapped Simmer’s most popular posts of 2008 – popular not due to great personalities or loaded iPods or shiny hair, but celebrated for their viewing numbers alone. This left a few readers cold, and I must say I didn’t love it either. Stats don’t always tell the tale.

I heard things from readers like “but the ones I like weren’t even on there,” or “what about the rat head in the drain?” I believe the estimable Country Doctor’s Wife was referring to the mouse head in the dishwasher, bless her heart. I knew what she meant.

After reading everyone’s thoughts I closed the laptop, jammed on a pair of oven mitts and yanked out some burning cheese straws, talking to the oven.  “Can’t win…everybody different…burnt…whatever…”

Greg and Josie were watching basketball in the other room. “What,” he said, “did you say something?”

“No,” I said.  “I mean…whatever.” Then I puttered around the kitchen. “Stupid oven…popular…please everybody…tired…”

Over the game, they yelled.  “Hey! Mumblyrant.  Stop it.”

That is what they call me when I’m doing that – Mumblyrant. When I pointed out that “Mumblyrant” sounded like a Harry Potter character, they started calling me Professor Mumblyrant. Nice.

Sadly, they’re right – I do that, especially in the kitchen, and especially when things aren’t going well, and it’s gray outside for the fourth day in a row, and they happen to be doing some pleasurable other thing. Why, it never occurred to me that slamming dough and banging pans and yammering to oneself might sound like martyred, mumbling ranting.  But there it is.

Wait – why are you getting your coat?

I’ll get back on topic – popularity. Popular posts. Let’s end that idea once and for all – and perk up the gray days of winter – with a little giveaway. If you leave a comment in which you share your favorite post from this blog, you will be entered to win something wonderful.

Something handmade – a little book containing every recipe from Simmer Till Done, craftily hand-bound, and one-of-a-kind. Let’s peek into the Simmer workshop, where my assistant has already begun production.

Looks like she’s just taking a break.

A two-hour Wallace and Gromit break.

Anyway, name a favorite Simmer post – we’ll set the record straight on quality vs. quantity, and you might just win a little handmade recipe book. You know, when J.K. Rowling wrote Beedle the Bard, her billionairess follow-up to Harry Potter, she created seven handmade copies -  six were gifted to lucky people, and the seventh was auctioned for $4 million. One of them is on display, behind bulletproof glass, at the New York Public Library.

So, that probably won’t happen here.  But it’s darn cute…and I’m making it myself…crafty…stupid blog…

Perhaps Rowling will feature Professor Mumblyrant in the next one?

Now – go forth and comment, please.

And really, I’m so glad we had this chat.

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Name your favorite – or recently enjoyed – Simmer post in the comments, and you are entered to win a handmade Simmer Till Done recipe book.  Winner will be chosen randomly from the comment list.  Comments close Saturday, January 10, at 11:59 pm.  Winner announced on Sunday. Good luck!

* note: oh, fine, let’s make it 11:59 pm Pacific time, for our dear friends out West.  Holy ganache, that’s an extension for everyone else!  Thanks for playing along – you’ve made my weekend reading quite delicious.

But it is never just once. I’m a habitual yes-girl, and what’s worse, the ideas – even today – are frequently of my own making, things I was not even asked to do. I propose an idea and everyone says “yes!” and I say “of course!” and twelve hours later I’m hunched over a counter, glaring at a mixer. I’d like to say I never learn, but somewhere after 38, I did.  The ghosts of three “sures!” past – all holiday, all gingerbread, all crazy – finally taught me to keep my sweet mouth shut.

Street of Broken Dreams

Fresh out of culinary school, I’m working for an overly ambitious guy at a do-everything shop in Chicago’s Old Town.  We plan our holiday open house, and even though I am already baking pastry, working catering, designing the menus and refereeing romantic staff spats, I raise my dorky hand.  How about a gingerbread Armitage Street?  Shops, snow, icing, lights?  Everyone seems pleased, and I work all week on the sugared city scene. It’s a candlelit hit at the open house, and I’m clapped on the back all night. But my eager-beaverness soon earns me every job that no one wants.  A famous name is brought in at great expense to draw customers and boss me around. In the end, Ambitious Guy declares bankruptcy and closes shop.

A Model Relationship

Older and ostensibly wiser, I am brought into a restaurant to whip the bakery kitchen and staff into shape.  The owner wants a partner, and says it will be me, in time; he has a difficult reputation but I believe him, and work my little heart out.  Christmas rolls around and – surprise! – I’m outside, sketching the restaurant for a gingerbread model.   I work on this one at night, at home, after work and when Josie sleeps.  On my tiny kitchen counter I cut through gingerbread slabs with an X-acto, and then a knife, and finally a hacksaw.  The iced model goes on display, and it too is a hit – customers ooh and ah over the little white bricks and candy awnings all week, but before New Year’s, Difficult Guy decides maybe…maybe he doesn’t need a partner.  I hang up my apron, but the gingerbread stays.

How the Cookie Crumbles

I didn’t even work there. My friend owned a little gourmet shop, and was brainstorming holiday windows. I suggested a gingerbread Eiffel Tower. Would I have time, with a toddler and a catering business? Oh, sure. Why not?

Glaring at twenty pounds of dough three days later, I wasn’t sure.  My design was clear but painstaking, and as the baked brown slabs filled my dining room, tagged with yellow Post-Its – “2nd level left,” “tower deck B,” “base foot DON’T CUT!!” – it became a dark architectural headache. I was thrilled when we set it safely in the window, aglow with tiny lights. My friend’s door clanged with jingle bells, and shoppers brightly elbowed and jostled for truffles and sausage and cheese. People took pictures, the local paper came, and my friend loved it, too – she loved it so much that weeks later, when royal icing began to crack off, she refused to take it down.

“Please take it down,” I’d say. “The season’s over. It’s porous, you know – not meant to last forever.”

But she would not, and there was some argument over who the tower belonged to – me, the rightful baker, or her, owner of the window. I gave in – yes, keep it up – and it sat there falling apart bit by bit, which is more than I can say for our friendship, which fell apart immediately.

So. What have we learned?  Be careful with saws in the kitchen. Don’t glue monuments with egg whites, and don’t eat raw dough before sunrise. Enjoy playing holiday elf, and if you’re able to say yes, say yes. But if you just can’t say no, tread gingerly.

Happy Holidays!

What? Had to read that twice? Me too.

Here’s the thing – I ordered a pair of Hunter boots – “Wellingtons” in the United Kingdom, where they are beloved for gardening, fly fishing, hunting – all the things I do (not). But I’m a little unhinged devoted to all things English, and there’s a heap of cold snow outside, so I turned to the traditional waterproof wellies. I even got the warm, fleecy liner socks that let you turn them into all-weather wellies.

They shipped them to me using the special crazy person Anglophile rate.

wellies by the door – the photo that started it all

The Queen wears wellies. She wears them in nice boring green, like me, though I do not carry a matching bag and hat. Helen Mirren wore them in The Queen, every time she almost shot a deer or romped with her corgis.

Let me be clear: I LOVE my wellingtons, and have forsaken all other boots. Love ‘em.

And…so do a lot of other people.

In a giddy rush of pleasure – just opening the Hunter “By Appointment to her Majesty the Queen, blah blah blah” box nearly made me expire – I snapped a few photos of my boots. I uploaded them to my Flickr photostream, because in this odd, post-blog era, I think nothing of posting pictures of my walls, my signs, my dog, what I had for breakfast…or my boots.

A very few people look at my Flickr photos. My parents, my in-laws, my daughter…a tiny but dedicated number of readers, bless them…and perhaps my mailman, after I told him he should be reading my blog. A nice tidy few normal people. And then: the boots.

The viewing stats on those innocent pics went from 1-2 views to something like 72 views. Overnight.

What was it? Well, turns out that people love them some British boots. I mean love wellies and like looking at them and are probably looking at them right now.

Members of the well-meaning Flickr “Wellington community” – and if they are some kind of shoe cult, should I back away slowly, or join up and get first news on sales? – posted comments. They kept clicking. People from far-flung countries kept looking at my boots. The numbers were going up, and up.

Who are these people, and why are they staring at my wellies?

To be honest, the UK sizing was too big on my absurdly small feet, and I tried to get Josie, whose feet are officially bigger than mine, to take the boots. But she made a face. The green rubber boots were uncool.

“But Queen Elizabeth wears them,” I told her, “when she’s at Windsor.” Bad move. “Kate Moss wears them…she looks completely hot in them. They are cool boots. Cool hot Kate Moss boots from happening London.”

Josie told me I was no Kate Moss.

Oh, snap! Ouch! But it’s true. I’m about as tall as one of her legs.

So now I’m wearing the wellies anyway. They’re warm, they’re dry, they’ve got traction…and frankly, I don’t want to leave the house without them on. I wear them in the snow, in the slush, to the store, out to dinner, to Elle photo shoots, drinks with Madonna – you know.

So what if Kate wears hers with nothing but short shorts and I wear mine with a full body parka. My boots are being stalked on Flickr. Maybe they’re just looking at the stairs?