Of Pancakes and Patios

It started with pancakes.Specifically, these pancakes.

Jaimeson and I were presented with a beautiful, office-free Chicago morning and no plans to speak of. I clearly love making plans so I have very little explanation for why this feels so incredible. Our conversations first thing sound like an extended word association game where onomatopoeic sounds count. One of those words? Buttermilk. I giddily remembered that I had some in the fridge. Buttermilk in the morning only means the good kind of pancakes.

Alas...we've no real fruit to speak of.

Time to text these two.

You see Molly (right) has been my best friend since high school and frequent co-adventurer. And in a coup that can only be described as Napoleonic (with much larger hair), she has moved to Wicked Park. To the only other apartment in my building. Directly across the hall. The mirror image of mine. I could get into other aspects of best case scenarioism but I think that will reveal itself. She and her Jaime were playing a similar game of mumbled Good Mornings across the hall and she confirmed that she was in possession of...a banana.

Thusly, banana pancakes with syrup and blueberry compote were born. The four of us sat around with bedhead as I flipped pancakes onto plates as each was released from its buttery cast iron haven. Even Ala, landlord extraordinaire, came by for a couple of "whatever smells so good." At this point we were all wondering about what the day might bring...maybe grilling out later?

As the day meandered (lazily), it became abundantly clear that a cookout was in order. The previous weekend yielded Jaimeson running back and forth from the grill with lambchops in the middle of a thunderstorm so we were abundantly grateful for a warm, dry evening. Enter, Bon Appetit, August 2009.

I am not a current subscriber to Bon Appetit but a coworker had received two extra copies and offered me one so I greedily accepted...and proceeded to read cover to cover. One recipe, one photo essay after the next...I was enthralled and craving. You know the term "food porn" exists because photos of ingestibles can be an incredibly sensual experience, yes? Welcome to a 1977 Playboy.

The piece on peaches was particularly inviting but we were nothing short of inspired from cover to cover. We chose some must-haves and set about to the Mexican market and Jewel. First course is pictured above. Melon and prosciutto has been a long time favorite but a fresh basil leaf into the mix? It just works (inspired by p 56). I did the full recipe of sorts on Tumblr.


Smoky corn salsa. I hate to start with what could have been a standout of the whole night but I'm feeling especially chrono-sensitive. We grilled it all. Thanks to Jaime, we grill our corn husk-on which is not what the recipe calls for but I refuse to eat corn any other way now so there it is. When it comes in from the Coleman (as on the far left) it smells so sweet, earthy. And then you peel back the husk and you've got nothing but gold with little spots of light char on the kernels. From the corn to the peppers to the green onion it was all perfectly toasted. With sauteed cumin and garlic? Hot chipotle sauce? It sang. It sang ballads. Page 48. Trust.

Jaimeson going in for the corn salsa. Our guests are starting to look like a wine advertorial. If it weren't for all the beer bottles.

Speaking of beautiful grilled things, welcome to Jaimeson-burgers. 1 lb ground sirloin, 1 lb ground chuck, six cloves of garlic. Yes, six. They are incredible. And don't take my word for it, take the word of our friends still outside who didn't know we could hear them RAVING about the burgers with aged cheddar draped over the tops, raving with pungent garlic breath in each other's faces and joy in their eyes.

Beer bucket.

Now would be a good time to say that just because it now appears I'm skipping to dessert doesn't mean that we didn't have something other than burgers. We also managed Horseradish Potato Salad (page 44) with fresh asparagus tips added in. It was good but my shots and interactions were a touch blurry at that point so let's just leave it there.

Back to peaches. I know I already mentioned the sexy involved with this peace but talk to me about roasting high-season peaches with Italian almond cookies and butter. Talk to me and notice the glazed, open-mouth response you get. It was an easy recipe that allowed for me to prep the amaretti crumble ahead of time but roast the peaches on the spot, leaving lots of time for friends and merriment. Low-maintenance and smoking hot...my kind of dessert.

I urge you to click the picture for the close-up but it was prett-straightforward. Pit the peaches, sprinkle crumble generously and bake till glory (page 89). Serve with a generous helping of vanilla bean ice cream and a kiss of amaretto over the top.

The terrible twosome after another fabulous co-hosting job. I am not jaded into thinking I'm anything but a pawn on these nights. All the charm is with these two. I just chop things up and keep pouring cold red wine on top on my sangria fruit.

The UnVeiling: Jaimeson Edition

For the duration of this blog, I've been inconsistently discreet about my paramour and his professional life. Today I’m going to break from whatever opaque secrecy I’ve had and say that the music man you've known mostly as Jaimeson has been working on something rather rad for a very long time and the first piece of it is being previewed on Aurgasm.

This particular selection off Coalition of the Unwilling was composed by Jason Kanakis (that would be him) with lyrics by the ethereal Priscilla Ahn and sung by the belovelied Laura Jansen. Three favorites in one song and goodnight I could not be more proud.

True Blue Trial and Error

Sometimes I wonder if I talk about my mistakes enough here.

Ok, I don't really talk about anything enough here lately but this is something I've been thinking about.

When I say "mistakes," I'm not talking about an extra glass of wine or three, an extra snooze button pounce or the odd typo when I've rushed something out. I mean the cook-and-eat variety. I mean that as someone who loves to cook and rarely repeats a recipe, it is inevitable that there be some doozies that I manage to just glaze over with a nutty brown butter. One time I think I mentioned the hand pie FAIL that brought me to midnight kitchen tears but that's been about it. I'm really flattered that some of you seem to think I'm mana-producing MENSA material...mais non.

I just love food.

I'm not terribly exact with measurements, my grandfather cannot even stand to watch the ugly way in which I peel potatoes, I still have a hard time getting all of a meal's components to finish at the same time and holy-dreams-of-sheba I am a MESS. A mess who HATES dishes and then becomes a mess with fruit flies.

A couple exceptions for your TKTC-deprecating pleasure:

Jacob Have I Loved Peppermint Bark

I was in a rush. I didn't let the dark chocolate cool in a thick enough layer and it made this unholy mess. Esau on the left and younger brother Jacob on the right, wherein I corrected my mistake. Only in this case vs the Biblical one, they both got the inheritance. If by "inheritance" you mean they were brought to a Christmas Cookie Exchange and eaten greedily. As mom says, "It all goes to the same place."

Banana Bread Canyon

Brand new loaf pans. A gift from Brother for Christmas. They are the nice ones. Insulated. Heavy. But my oven? It has an inferiority complex. It is an old and crusty oven that only likes other old and crusty things. Luckily many a phoenix has risen from those flames but this loaf of Bourbon Spiked Banana Bread? With the 70% bittersweet chocolate nibs? Not one of them. And since I couldn't gift this loaf as a gift and was out of flour? I ate the cooked bits around the corners with a JUMBO glass of milk. Sometimes mistakes are delicious and require a combination of sweat therapy and lettuce-mongering in penance.

Fully Dressed

Sometimes cooking mistakes are as simple as making sure the lid is on tight. The blender lid...the splash guard...the salad dressing tupperware top. That said, I wear it well, no?

Birthday Bubbly

Not all slip-ups happen in the privacy of Wicked Park. No, some are public. And almost fatal. On my 26th birthday I had the good fortune of being taken on a field trip for my birthday dinner. Molly and I headed to Avondale to try Urban Belly- a most buzzed about Korean haunt with communal seating, duck/foie gras dumplings and a generous BYO policy. It's my birthday and I get to drink whatever I want?! Kir Royale. That's what I want. So Mols pulls out a bottle of kirsch and I pull out a bottle of warm bubbly because my birthday doesn't mean I wasn't too busy to chill the champers. No matter- they gave us ice and the equivalent of juice glasses.

I've opened champagne. I've even opened champagne with some grace. I have lovely flutes to drink it out of. I'm a class act and it comes with the territory. Nothing says class like warm champagne cocktails over ice in plastic juice cups, n'est ce pas?

So I go to open the champagne and I wrap napkins around the top about seven layers deep. Then I twist and eaaasssyyyy....KABOOOOOOM! Shreds of paper napkin fly like confetti. Cork narrowly misses the head of an adolescent boy in the exact opposite corner of the restaurant. Opa.

Everyone was a wonderful sport. Even got some "Happy Birthday" salutations out of it. And the boy bestowed the cork on me with a pride not dissimilar to what I see in HoneyCat's eyes when she brings me one of my earrings.

Butter Blitzen

I know this looks like a nice enough picture. This is from my coworker Lauren's June baby shower with the lady herself and the divine Suzanne in the middle. Lauren is my first friend who I've seen regularly all the way through a pregnancy. In my hand you will see the item I make that is the single most requested recipe/contribution/bounty that I've produced. The brie cup.

Astoundingly simple, addictive to a fault and inciting riots at cocktail parties if you don't plan for double what you're currently thinking. I do wonder if this photo could somehow have been cuter. I'd worn a floor-length green cotton dress ot work with my cardigan that day and was feeling very sassy. Having prepped a pie and half of the cups the night before, I just needed to run home quickly to make the sauce before heading to the shower pictured above. I've done it easily a hundred times, this one was no different. Until, in my rush, I set the saucepan of honey-butter-garlic-parsley-walnut goodness on the kitchen table. Halfway. And it slowly but surely tumbled to the ground leaving me speechlessly COVERED in the glory. Whoops.

What brought this on?
The whole reason I started thinking about this was actually thanks to Lauren. Rather Lauren and Barrett, her now 5 day old golden boy of 8.5 pound perfection whom she brought into this world most heroically in my opinion. This is her first baby and it's got me thinking about the whole mom thing- I was fascinated by her entire pregnancy.

I know lots of moms. In fact, that number appears to increase by the hour these days. From what I understand, the first time is pretty much trial and error. Maybe the whole thing is that way but particularly the first one. I'm the oldest and I can confirm this at least from a reared perspective- first children are screamy little guinea pigs.

Bodily fluids will be places that organized society discourages, the undulations of simple breathing amplified to 11. What sounds like screaming to most of us, turns a new mom into a living, breathing Rosetta Stone capable of discerning every whimper into a communicated want or need. The blogosphere is loaded with tales of desperate times and desperate measures (OMG we are out of diapers and are left with nothing but trashbags and dried spaghetti). It's make it up as you go a lot of the time but mistakes are expected and often hilarious after the fact. I think it sounds like fun. I'm pretty content to keep to my side of the metaphor* for the moment but I'm excited for their little family. For the stories and the laughing...with Lauren in charge I know there will be both.