A Whole Lotta Frittata

Do you all remember my pan? My sturdy, strong, beautifully seasoned cast iron frying pan? The pan with all that meaning and history. The pan I burned to bits about this time last year.

Yeah, that one.

I saved it. I scrubbed and I scraped and I seasoned, and then I seasoned again. I cooked a mountain of bacon (and created a true baconophile in my Aspie).

And I saved it.

Now it is making frittatas. Perfect, evenly cooked, gorgeously browned frittatas.

A few weeks ago, the family of my amazing au pair came to visit us from her home country of Belgium. We spent a lot of time with them while they were here. We had them over for dinner one night (check the Fast, Fake-Baked Ziti recipe on the right – it’s my go-to dinner for events like this because everyone, and I mean everyone, loves it). We went sightseeing with them. And we meant to go to the zoo with them. Except that it was insanely hot, the air quality was bad, and my heat-strokey Aspie and my formerly asthmatic diva would have melted.

So I kept them air conditioned, and we invited our extended Belgian family over for brunch the next day instead.

I didn’t have time to shop, so I just used what I had. Two-thirds of a loaf of Italian bread and a handful of eggs, a drop of vanilla and some cinnamon made a nice little French toast.

I tossed a fruit salad. I brewed some iced tea.

And I made a frittata. A clove of garlic, half an onion. A handful of baby tomatoes, seeded and diced. Six little balls of fresh mozzarella, quartered. Several pretty green basil leaves. And, when it was ready for the broiler, a handful of freshly grated asiago sprinkled over the top.

Um, yeah, so I keep a fairly well-stocked kitchen.

My little frittata was yummy. So yummy that I made the same thing the next day for a house guest who had never had breakfast in bed. Everyone deserves breakfast in bed, dontcha think?

Look. Pictures.
































That pan is a wonder. Not only did it cook up a stunningly gorgeous and tasty concoction of eggy goodness, practically by itself (yes, my pan is that good). But it didn’t stick. Not even a little bit. Clean-up was easy-peasy.

I love that pan.

Go get your own pan, season the hell out of it, then make a frittata. It will make you happy.

Rosemary’s Caprese Frittata

• 1 8” cast iron fry pan
• 6 eggs
• A dollop of milk (presuming milk can dollop)
• 1 T butter
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• ½ medium onion, diced
• 4 small tomatoes, seeded and diced
• 12 or so leaves of fresh basil, torn
• 6 balls of the little bitty mozzarella (if you know what they’re called, feel free to comment!)
• ¼ - ½ cup grated asiago or parmesan

In a mixing bowl, whip eggs and milk until frothy. Turn on the broiler. Heat your cast iron over medium heat. Add the butter. When the butter melts, sauté the garlic and onions until translucent. Add the tomatoes and basil and cook for a minute or two longer to bring out their flavor. Even out the ingredients across the pan, then pour the eggs over the top. Drop in the quartered mozzarella balls. Leave that pan alone until the eggs have generally set (the top of the frittata will still be very wet), then sprinkle the asiago over the top and put the whole thing under the broiler immediately. Let it brown. Cut in the pan and serve in tidy little wedges. Or messy ones, if that’s your druther.

Do not serve with ketchup. That would be sacrilege.

Wait, Is It Really July? Well, Almost ...

I came here today intending to blog about frittatas. That's right. Frittatas, and all their eggy goodness.

This post, sadly, is not about frittatas.

On the way to my blog, I got distracted by my friend the Diva. She posted her mid-year resolutions.

I like that idea. See, I did do the New Year's resolution thing. I kept them simple. And I did not make them public, because my resolution track record pretty much sucks.

For reference, here they are: my 2010 New Year's Resolutions, nearly seven months late.

• Read
• Sleep
• Move

See? Simple. And I am reading more. But that's mostly because I'm sleeping and moving less. Funny how that one worked out.

So I like the idea of a whole new set of resolutions, a set of mid-year, hey-what-the-heck-is-it-really-July resolutions, that I might possibly be able to accomplish.

Here they are.

• Finish the half gallon of Breyer's rocky road ice cream currently melting in my lap. Very doable, particularly as a half gallon container now holds a mere 1.5 quarts. (When exactly did that happen?)
• Learn to say "yes." Ironic, since I spent my year plus in limbo learning how to say "no." Now I'm really good at no and realizing that I need a few more yesses in my life. I'm not talking about "Yes, I'll manage the whole soccer league," or "Yes, I'll make 84 cupcakes for tomorrow's bake sale." I'm talking about "Yes, sweetie, I'd love to play Polly Pockets with you," and "Of course you can have a hug," and "Sure I can read Wacky Wednesday 18 more times today." These are important yesses.
• Find a sugar daddy who wants to buy me a brand new and completely bug-free house and send all three of my super-smart kids to college. (But only if I can keep dating my San Francisco-bound sweetie.)
• Set a new family record by blowing up six - yes, I said six - bottles of Diet Coke with Mentos. This is hands-down my kids' favorite activity of the summer. Yeah, I know, six isn't really that many - particularly when compared with this YouTube classic - but since the kids usually get just the one bottle apiece, six is a big, big deal.
• Write that frittata post. I even took pictures folks. Yes, pictures.

Stay tuned ...

Where's the Food, Reprise

Tonight I talked to my dad. My dad reads my blog. He is a FAN, and I do mean that in all caps. It's a good thing. It's what dads are supposed to be.

He did have one criticism though. "Where's the food?" he asked. "Don't forget you're writing about food."

I reminded him that this is meant to be about family. Food's just a filter. I am not a foodie; I'm a mom. What's more, I'm a nearly single, working mom of three, one of whom has Asperger's Syndrome, and I'm feeling my way through the mandatory period between separation and divorce more commonly known as Limbo. That means stress, joy, lessons learned, lots of time with the kids, time spent without them, finding new friends, finding myself ... and a whole host of other things.

It also means food. For me anyway. Because, well, it's one of the few things you really can't live without. And also because I used to have time to cook.

Yeah, I so don't do that anymore.

Anyway, I checked, and yes, indeed, there is food in each of my last three posts.

My most recent post was about - forgive me - vomit. And it was about toaster waffles, chicken quesadillas and ice cream. It was also about blueberries - at least it was for me. Be grateful I did not share that part.

That was, by the way, my second post about vomit. I hope not to write too many more.

The one before that was about learning to ask for help. This is a valuable life lesson, and one you learn the hard way in Limbo because if you don't ask for help, generally, you don't get any, and trust me there is little to no chance you'll manage Limbo without it. This, too, was about food - namely chicken, potatoes, wheatberries and cabbage. Oh, and brownies. I am all about the chocolate.

And the one before that? It was about my thrilling yogurt-and-Oreos dinner and the Petri dishes school makes out of our kids.

See? Food everywhere.

Tonight, one day after the anniversary of my first (and I hope only) year in Limbo, my not-yet-ex and I signed our separation agreement. Not much food in that. Just a feeling that the tunnel is nearing its light, and that you don't much want to cook. So I warmed up a can of refried beans, doused it in salsa and tomatoes, then melted low-fat cheddar over the top. I ate in front of the TV.

Ah, freedom.

The Blogroll

I'm a surprise blogger. Always wanted to try it, and now that I have a vehicle, I find that I actually have something to say. Had no idea it was in there. Surprise!

What this means, though, is that I never stopped to set the context. I'm betting that, as a result, you have no idea why I chose to put those random bits and pieces on the right side of the page. So I'll do a few posts over the coming weeks to give you the 4-1-1 (and yes, I feel silly even typing that).

We'll start with What I Read ... more commonly known as the blogroll.

First up is DivaSpeak, which I've been following since its inception. It is creatively crafted by a good friend who knows her pop culture cold (she blogs on Lost and Heroes, among many other things). She also has a knack for finding brilliant, off-beat content. My most recent guilty pleasure from the Diva: "I've dreamed about it ... have you?" It's one of those things you can't stop watching. Not that you'd want to. Dive into her archives. She keeps me entertained. She also has phenomenal taste in shoes.

The Bloguscript is my how-to-live-vicariously blog, because it's written by a friend who actually leaves his house. I read this and want to go do things and see things and hear things. His tunage is interesting, his grammar is spot on, and he's got a sense of humor just this side of snarky, as evidenced by his "You Might Not be a Redneck" post. He's been teaching me to blog, for which many thanks and a batch of banana chocolate chip bars - or at least a lasagna - are likely in his future.

If my friend iClipse is providing the mechanical bloggy know-how, the Yarn Harlot is providing the inspiration. I knit. I write. The Yarn Harlot knits. The Yarn Harlot writes. She makes me want to knit and write and then knit some more, because you realize, reading her, that knitting and writing are what life should be about. I want to knit a sock. I don't even like socks. And then I want to write about it. And take its picture. I think that means I am an honest-to-goodness fan.

Cake Wrecks is a new find. I've been decorating cakes for 12 years. Started with this stunning creation that I copied out of Colette Peters' first book, Colette's Cakes, for a dear friend's baby shower. It was a giant bib done in multi-colored buttercream loops, lacy swags of royal icing, and pastel animals piped with run-in sugar. It tasted like sawdust, but oh, was it pretty! My cakes taste better now and mostly come out to play for birthdays and special family events. This blog makes me laugh out loud. Often.

Eat Like Me is on the roll because I think I should want to read it. A nutritionist chronicles her day in food. Not 100% sure I'm there yet, though I do check in sometimes. And knowing this blog's here does seem to make me eat better ... I'm officially down 15 pounds since I started blogging in January.

Snark appeals to me, which is why I keep a link to Diary of The Food Whore and get her RSS feed delivered to my iGoogle page. A snarky caterer. Loves food; not so fond of people. Brilliant.

52 Cupcakes is - duh - another cake blog. Some of her ideas are a little off the beaten path: to wit, the Bisquick Bacon Cupcakes with Maple Syrup and Bacon Frosting. But she's unfailingly creative, and that works for me. I actually want to try those the next time I make breakfast for dinner with the kids.

It's Easy Being Green

I work for a living. I know, hard to imagine that I can find time for a job. But I do. Work for a nice, big company, with lots of people in it. Used to be a lot fewer people, but then we executed a merger. We got hugely enormous and became genuinely multinational in the process. This is cool, because it means that sometimes I get to go to Paris. And I like to go to Paris. Not just for the food, either, though that's certainly a draw.

On my first trip to Paris, the folks on my team wanted to get to know each other. So we did a personality analysis.

As our consultants explained, each of us is a blend of three colors, one of which is usually dominant. If you're mostly blue, you are heavily analytical, always thinking about the future, and generally staring at your bellybutton because you are so inwardly focused. If you are red, you are driving and driving and driving - though you may not always know toward what, and that "what" may sometimes be a big giant cliff. And if you are green, you are the Chatty Cathy of the group, the social butterfly, the networker. And you are always late, because the person you are talking to right now is incredibly important. This pisses off the blue people, who are always on time because they are insanely precise, as well as the red people, who never wait for anyone.

This will come as a complete shock, of course, but I am mostly green. I am also always late.

On Wednesday after work, I walked into my hotel and found an American friend in the lobby, waiting for her French boss, who was joining her for dinner. I kept her company while she waited. Of course, he was late. He is green. She is green, too, so we understood. And when he arrived, apologizing, we explained that there was no need because all of us are green.

At which point, green social beast that he is, he invited me to dinner with them. For which, huge thanks.

We spent 45 green minutes on the sofa getting to know each other before we realized that if we didn't leave we'd never find an open restaurant. Then we chatted at the table without even looking at the menus for at least 20 green minutes more before we realized that if we didn't order we wouldn't eat before midnight.

Everything was late. None of us cared. We were too busy enjoying being green together.

The food wasn't bad, either. At the aptly named Spicy restaurant, we enjoyed intriguingly spiced dishes along with a chilled bottle of red wine (and J-P, if you read this please share what type of wine it was because I loved it and I cannot remember). Oh, but the best part - aside from the green conversation - was the dessert. It was called Spicy Coffee. And with that, I learned a new food word - degustation. For Spicy Coffee was a bit more than that. Along with our teeny tiny cups of French coffee, we each enjoyed a degustation of two insanely fabulous desserts. One was a small, cannoli-like pirouette cookie filled with an appropriately green pistachio cream. The other - it was ooh-la-la good! On the top, chopped spiced fruit - maybe apple? Then a thick layer of a smooth custard akin to vanilla pudding, only richer. And then, at the bottom, a layer of perfectly spiced and saturated gingerbread. Together in one bite, they blended perfectly. Rather like our conversation that evening. Fabulous!

We closed the restaurant. Then our newest French friend suggested we see the Eiffel Tower at night, so we did ... and, not realizing that our green natures had brought us to the Tower after midnight, we missed the last subway train back to the hotel. So we chatted and walked and chatted some more. Crossed the Champs Elysees, all bright lights and cars and dramatic presence. Chatted a bit more. And finally made it back to the hotel at 2:00 a.m.

Being green is a bit like being blonde: you just have more fun. Though one might occasionally appreciate just a little more sleep.

Call Me Couscous

On the plus side of separation and divorce is the opportunity to fix a few things and get them right the second time around. Takes a while - a good, long while - to figure out what those things should be, exactly. It's an iterative process, and one I'm going through with some measure of success and a nearly equal measure of failure.

Here's one I'm determined to get right.

Lesson 1: Make time for you.

It’s okay not to be at the top of your list, but you should at least make the top five. A stressed out mom is a grumpy mom, and even the best of us a need a break.

Given the massive changes in my life in the last few months, I needed a big huge gargantuan break. So, last weekend, I took one. Invited a friend to hop a train with me and headed to NYC for food and art and a little Broadway.

Which brings me to couscous.

My part of the world is a quick train ride from NYC. But if you've ever spent much time on Amtrak, you know the food is, well, bleh. And that's being charitable.

So I packed a lunch. A grown-up, not-your-average-lunchbox lunch. No plain Jane turkey sandwiches for me on my grown-up vacation. Went recipe trolling on foodnetwork.com and came up with something that I thought might work: Moroccan Chicken with Apricot Couscous and Green Olive Sauce. Changed it up a bit, because no one in her right mind should ever spend an hour and ten minutes making lunch. Used boneless, skinless chicken breasts and covered them in a very intense, home-ground spice rub ... then rinsed off the rub once everything was cooked and cooled. Used regular old tortillas instead of wasting time hunting down lavosh.

Grown-up food does not have to be exotic. Just has to fake it well.

Couscous in a wrap is not something I'd ever have thought of on my own. I frankly figured the texture would be a little odd in what was basically a sandwich (and if you've read me on couscous before, you'll get that). But it went so well with the other bits, it made that wrap worth eating. Celeb chef Tyler Florence doesn't usually impress me much, but that worked.

So, the wraps were good. Set a nice, adult tone for a nice, adult weekend. Managed to stay away from the giant Toys R Us in Times Square, avoided the M&M store, and even kept my distance from the world-renowned Natural History museum. Instead, I toured a grown-up museum full of grown-up art, ate lots of grown-up food, and even had a grown-up drink or two.

Even better, though ... I had two meals worth of phenomenal leftovers waiting for me on my return. The couscous and all its flavors had a chance to meld and soften, the olive sauce settled into salty, tangy comfort, and the chicken found its juicy goodness.

I'll make that again ... then wait two or three days to eat it. Without the tortillas this time.

It's All About the Texture

My au pair doesn't like couscous.

This is a surprise to me. I mean, it's couscous. Cooks up in minutes, minimal on the flavor spectrum, nice and easy. On the starchy sides scale, it's easier and about as interesting as plain rice or potatoes. And she's a plain food kind of girl.

Still, no go for her on the couscous.

I'm starting to think that half the world's likes and dislikes have more to do with texture than flavor.

All his life, my not-yet-ex-husband vehemently protested the addition of onions to a dish, sometimes crying allergies if he couldn't get his point across to wait staff. We were married a decade before I figured out the secret. I was making soup from scratch one day and desperately wanted the onions in it ... so I sauteed them, ground them to a pulp in my food processor, and put them back in the pot. Two whole onions, and not a single complaint from the peanut gallery. In fact, the dish got raves and a request for seconds, even thirds. I realized that, much as he might like to think otherwise, the issue was never one of flavor. It was simply the fact of the onion, its clearly observed presence, and its texture, that set off this intense reaction.

My lovable Aspie has always chosen his food - with the exception of permafaves pizza and macaroni & cheese - by their texture. I think this is a symptom of his hypo-tactile sensory integration issues. He needs stimulus. So when it comes to food, he wants hard, crunchy, tough or chewy. Or tongue curdlingly sour - yes, a taste, but one that produces a physical reaction.

I'm not much different. I will eat almost anything, but there are some foods - well, two, to be exact - that I avoid like the plague. Rye bread with caraway seeds, because little hard things that get stuck in your teeth simply do not belong in bread. Or in anything, for that matter. The second? Cottage cheese. The lumps get me every time. Actually, it reminds me of this coconut ice cream - I think it was called magpuno? - that I had when I lived in Manila as a kid. Little soggy pieces of frozen, grated coconut. It felt a lot like eating worm ice cream. Ick.

Couscous I can handle. Worm ice cream, not so much.

When McDonald's Really Is The Answer

You know it's going to be a rough week when on Tuesday your 10-year-old runs away from school, then tells you he doesn't want to live anymore because life is just too hard.

When that happens, for a mom, there is part of you that just wants to crawl under the covers and sleep for days on end. You want to shut down and shut it all out. But you can't. There's a little person you brought into the world who needs you to be whole so that you can keep him in it. You find a way to find the joy and bring it back to him.

We got him help, and are continuing to get him help. It's had an effect on the whole family, though. The other kids are antsy, whiny, angry and clingy by turns, and he is still a yo-yoing bundle of challenging emotions. I've been working very hard to focus on family - more time spent together at dinner, more time for playing, more time for talking. Curling up in a top bunk having a good heart-to-heart and a hug. You find the joy and focus on it, make everyone else see it too. He's okay, for now. But the scary thought is back there, for both of us I think, and the next time he cycles down - because he will - that thought will jump out like the smog creature in Lost and start wreaking a little havoc.

Friday is our movie night, something I instituted since my husband and I separated as a way to make the kids feel special and give me a break at the end of the week. We spread a blanket on the living room floor, enjoy an indoor picnic, and watch one of the 137 kids movies we have in our collection. Tonight, my oldest was with his dad, meeting a few professional athletes, having KFC (his favorite fast food), and spending the night enjoying some one-on-one male bonding. But the little ones needed a treat, too. So tonight it was Aladdin and McDonald's. Because sometimes a Happy Meal with a cheap plastic toy and a mountain of french fries really is the right answer. Or, in mom's case, a Big Mac and a strawberry shake. Same thing. I'd planned a lovely shrimp dinner with green rice and fresh steamed artichokes. But I gotta say, those two all-beef patties really hit the spot.

I did get to indulge my own passions earlier in the day. On the way home from a meeting, I stopped on impulse at the brand new Safeway the next town over. I'd enjoyed watching them build it - they razed the old building and started from scratch. It opened several months ago, but I've never gone in. I visit two stores in my own town and remain fairly loyal to them. And I do visit both, regularly, because neither has everything I need. I can get cinnamon coffee creamer only at the one; blueberry applesauce only at the other. And a Sara Lee Butter Streusel Coffee Cake only once a year when some distributor accidentally drops it on the shelves.

But this new store - it's stunning! Clean and bright, with a layout that's fun and leads you deeper and deeper in. It's designed for those who browse! And it's a mecca for a wannabe chef. Every variety of everything I could possible want. My area doesn't have a Wegman's or Whole Foods - we are light on gourmet or organic grocery stores. But this one, it's definitely got its own charm. Shelves full of every ingredient I've ever searched for in vain. Fire-roasted everything. Basmati rice and flax meal and three different kinds of barley. Every flavor of applesauce imaginable. And the produce! Jerusalem artichokes, tamarindo, long skinny Asian green beans. And one or two things I didn't recognize. You're inspired to try new things, to get creative and play with your food.

No Sara Lee coffee cake, though. I'm starting to think that it's a regional thing. Maybe Marylanders just don't eat it? Another good reason to move.

The week is over. I know my boy is safe with his dad, but I wish he were here 'cause I miss him.