The Italian Word for "Pause": Strawberries and Cream

A note from the start…I’ve been waiting. Waiting to say so much because it felt like I’d never have the time to do it. It’s not the first time I’ve done this but, as happened before, just because I’m not writing about it doesn’t mean it’s not happening. It’s been an adventurous couple of months. Marked by more travel than I’ve ever done so close together. By the end of June, it will be 18 airplanes, 7 cities and three places I’d never been before (Austin, Asheville and Oklahoma). 19,710 miles all told. Most of those miles garnered on an Italian vacation with my family in which I felt a million miles away from anything but was in fact only 2% of that.

Vacation sounds pretty Griswoldian. Not bad (and not always inaccurate) but not the best word. 2011 by definition seems to move about a mile a minute and several fast-paced projects have had me rotating at an occasionally brutal clip. I love it but eventually I needed a break. It couldn’t have been timed any better. So yes, it was a vacation. But more than that, it was a rosemary-scented, sun drenched, mossy tile roof-topped, highly tannic, golden garlicky pause. To the tune of rolling bouts of laughter as only your immediate family can provide. I start with this picture because it’s the view from my bedroom window that week, taken very, very early in the morning. It is the beginning.

My parents rented a house on a working vineyard in a tiny town called Pianella, 20 minutes outside of Siena. It was a grand old farmhouse that had been lovingly kept seemingly for the full 500 years it’s graced the crest of a characteristically Tuscan hilltop. The trip in was pleasantly uneventful. Feeling the need to always dress in character (casually posh European jet setter, natch), I arrived in Florence wearing red suede heels and a favorite straw hat though in the 12 hours of travel post-Chicago, the person between those two items was rumpled and dazed with a bit of melted chocolate on her white button-down. I’d been re energized by a sparkling conversation with a retired Stanford Physics professor on my way in from Munich. Then the entire family met me at the airport (Dad, Mom, Brother, Aunt and Uncle) so that level of enthusiasm just about counts for an extra couple hours of sleep.

Day 1: Rain, sleep and a bath with perhaps the prettiest view in the house from the tub. It was the only real rain we had the whole trip and it was the perfect opportunity to catch up on the rest I’d been missing while being unapologetically immersed in a new book. Various family members tried their hands at making coffee from the French press and the fridge had been stocked with various meats, cheeses and fruit prior to our arrival (a girl could get used to this). As had the wine closet. With the windows open, all those rich, related smells of coffee and bath steam, ripe pears and rain on dark soil, fresh pages and a juice glass of Chianti (because we couldn’t find the wine glasses) made it easy to imagine never going home.

Oh yes, for those of you new to TKTC, the toothy foursome first pictured here would be my true, nuclear north. My friend Danielle made note when I was first back that I am, at 5’9, a shortie in my family. We all drank tall glasses of milk with dinner (or at least that was what my Dad attributed it to growing up). I like that none of us can quite believe our luck here.

Day 2: A different day entirely. I was up with the sun to snag the second shot above and it was one of about 10 I took, not quite believing it to be real. Along with Mom, Aunt Pat (Mom’s sister as will become rapidly apparent to you, the reader, when you seem them in photos together) and Uncle Bill (Pat’s husband and the co-chairman of I Married a Kirwan Anonymous) and I struck out early toward Cortona, nestled on something more akin to a mountain than one of the rolling hills in our bit of countryside. We toured a museum, had some lunch and I slowly started to get that familiar feeling of insignificance whenever I’m in Europe. Everything is so much older. That town was settled and civilized 1,000 years ago.

From there we drove to meet my Dad and brother in Montepulciano. I’d been there for the first time in 2005 on an exquisite post-college adventure with the one and only Molly McGuffin and was excited to be able to go back with family. We tracked down some Brunello to fortify ourselves for the trek uphill to the main piazza and were again rewarded at the top, not just with wine but with a view that was quite simply the most remarkable set of views in the entire region.

Alright maybe I’m exaggerating but if I am it’s only because there are so many views to choose from so until I see all of them, it would be impossible to properly judge. I agree with you, I should really start committing myself to seeing every vista in Tuscany. It would be irresponsible not quit now.

Brother greeting the sun in Montepulciano. Poor Boston had it worse than Chicago last winter and he was locked away with some intense projects for what Spring Beantown did have. We both showed up looking a little sallow so every uninterrupted sunbeam in Italy was gulped from a crystal cup. This picture reminds me both of the Rapture and of Twilight. I’ve made peace with that.

You guys know how much I adore brother dearest. I will likely tell you again but right before we arrived in Italy, Brother found out he'd be moving to Chicago in August for grad school. First time in 10 years that we'll live in the same city and I'm a big ball of joy for it. Tack that bit of awesomeness onto Dad's retirement, parent's 30th anniversary, aunt and uncle's 40th...keep the wine opener out and maybe buy a spare.

The rest of the afternoon was spent tooling around town, Brother and I sharing my Dad’s old D100 and my humble point and shoot (the family mantra is “Langsens share” after all). We even managed a short, wonderful stop at Susanna Crociani’s cantina. She’d introduced herself via Twitter prior to my trip and I was so pleased to find her there when we were in town. I walked out with a few beautiful bottles, my favorites being the one she made for her brother George and her “experiment”…a sweet, almondine VinSanto. This made it's way into the first of a few Italian kitchen concoctions I've brought home to keep. More on that later.

Onward to Florence. This is where I can be fully judged. I was maybe dragging my heels a bit Tuesday morning. I’d been to Florence and have a sadly notorious lack of patience when it comes to churches and museums. Small galleries? One after the other after another. But I’m not crazy about crowds, particularly on vacation. I want to be where no one else is. I like the find. I like the local joints. This occasionally leads me to forsaken alleys and mild food poisoning but at least there’s a story there.

Alas, this was the view that greeted us at the top of the driveway that morning (36 cypress trees per side, Aunt Pat counted). You don’t come across a view like that without wanting plow toward it, Manifest Destiny intact. So I gathered my angst and slept most of the way there, covered in crumbs from my Italian breakfast sandwich special (crusty bread spread with Gorgonzola, pears, prosciutto, greens and a dab of jam). To the city we go.

I was wrong in my hesitation. You told me so. Moreso, Mom could have told me so but she has too much grace to actually say it if I am properly abashed. We had a guide for the Uffizi who told all kinds of stories about the Medicis and the art their empire inspired. Even in packed galleries, in unwise shoes (“but I want to look Itaaalian,” said the 14 year old Jessi who follows me on all family vacations), it was fascinating. I was still craving some solo adventuring by the end of it but how fantastic are the photos my brother caught of us with our guide at the end?

The main place in Florence that didn’t exist to me when I was there many moons ago was Santa Maria Novella. The apothecary, named for the beautiful church and piazza above, produces gorgeous scents and it’s a bit of a mecca for fans of fancy lotions and potions. Hundreds of years old, produced by a monastery and a singular luxury I found when I was in no position to have any luxuries. When I moved to Wicked Park, I smelled their potpourri in a shop and fell for it so intensely that I tracked it down at LAFCO in New York. It’s strong but I love it and a little bit goes a long way. So I’ve been using it in my apartment since and I was thrilled to pick up two little packages straight from the source. I managed a few other goodies too. I think I’d have bought magic beans from them if they left me in there long enough. Even Garance loves it.

On the way to meet the rest of the family, I picked up some pistachio gelato using the two full phrases I know in Italian and the man with the scoop spoke Italian back to me, winked and then continued in Italian. As though we were in on some charming little joke I’ll never know the punchline to. I’m good with that. Si si si (wink back)- Buon giouornato! And off I went. Joy in heart.

It was a lovely day but a particularly exhausting one. In Italy for three full days and jumping headfirst into meat, cheese and pasta almost exclusively makes one especially wan and in need of a home kitchen’s sustenance. On the drive home it was decided this would be a good night for dinner in. We stopped at home to drop off the menfolk and Mom, Pat and I rolled down to the tiny market in Pianella. Beyond a rather hilarious driving mishap in which we couldn't figure out how to get the stick shift into reverse and thus pushed the car into a forward facing position while it neutral, dinner was easy, simple fare.

Roasted asparagus with orange zest and olive oil made on the same land we were living on. Fresh farm eggs scrambled and slow cooked with tomato, herbs and prosciutto and a fresh green salad with vinaigrette shaken in an empty olive jar.

But we had dessert too, of course. A team effort that made everything taste even a little bit better.

Photo by Dad, styled by Brother. I was still finishing dinner so the guys took the tray out to the patio to ensure I'd having blog photos. There is nothing about any of this that doesn't make me smile.

Strawberries and Cream Parfaits
1 quart fresh strawberries as red and ripe as you can get them
1 pint heavy whipping cream
1 box/package of light crispy cookies (we had yogurt cookies on hand but crisp ladyfingers or even vanilla wafers would work)
3/4 cup Vinsanto or good Sherry
1 Tablespoon sugar

1.) Slice your strawberries into a bowl and toss with 1/2 cup of your Vinsanto, cover for at least 20 minutes.

2.) Load your cookies into a zip top plastic bag and beat them to manageable, uniform bits. Including the cookies was Aunt Pat's moment of genius. I think she meant to serve them on the side but that would require anything be beaten and why skip that part if you don't have to? Don't feel bad for the cookies, they recover beautifully.

3.) Whip your cream and when you start to get soft peaks, add the remaining 1/4 cup of your Vinsanto and your single Tablespoon of sugar. Keep beating until you've got a whipped cream that sits tall on a spoon.

4.) Put it together. Crumble in the bottom then the gorgeous cream, then the tipsy strawberries. Repeat. You see why we don't pity the cookies. Sandwiched between sweet wine-soaked summer berries and drunken, full fat Italian whipped cream. Cookies never had it so good.

5.) Throw them in the fridge until you're ready to serve. After about an hour the whipped cream and strawberry syrup will just be beginning to compromise the cookies. You'll have just the loveliest bunch of textures.

If an unexplained breeze passes under your spoon on your second bite and it smells ever so vaguely of lemons and cypress trees, take a deep breath and enjoy that perfectly Italian pause. Then fill up your spoon again.

Thinking Ahead to a Fall Feast

Sisters of the Pie from by.luuvu on Vimeo.

As I have raved and raved about for close to 8 months now, I took a pie-making class from Kate McDermott in Seattle and it was as close to transcendent as pastry lesson could really be. There are very few places I'd rather be in November than Provence with she and her counterpart Kate in France, Kate Hill. Kate Hill may be better known to some of you as a mother of Charcutepalooza. If you happen to be available, a fan of proper farm to table cooking and unopposed to fall in Provence- Pig & Pie is for you.

In Search of Spice

The dregs of winter are upon us, friends. As with every season, there's a bright side and a Deathstar side and while winter seems more frequently placed in the stormtrooper's camp, I'm not about to write it off so simply. We're just digging out of the biggest blizzard in at least a decade and just when you think that aforementioned light might be buried the deepest, you remember it is snow after all. My neighbors seem to shine the brightest when reflected off all that white.


Everyone's smiling like third graders with their rusty shovels and their shiny stories. Digging each other's cars out, complimenting canine footwear, making snow creatures. We're at our best when winter's at its worst. This is where we secure the bragging rights that take us through the rest of the year and we'll all be tuckered if New York is going to hijack our rightful, wintered glory.

It's not all ponies though, there's the cabin fever, as well. Cabin fever and its deeply disturbed cousin complacency. Get off my couch, complacency. For the last few weeks it hasn't mattered as much because I've been running around the country so the couch and its sleepy occupant were left to their own devices while I was in Denver and Nashville (oh be still my heart after all this time). I head to DC on Monday and Montreal next week and Orlando a week after that. I'm taking in a lot of views like this one (on descent toward Denver).


The truth is, I am so much happier when I'm speeding around trying new things and places and people. That need not be relegated to when I'm on the road- is anyone else prone to constantly finding greener grass in other pastures? Because I spent an evening at No. 308 in East Nashville and had myself convinced for days that there wasn't anything like it in Chicago. And while that might be true for Robert's, I can get my Mumford & Sons/Jackson 5 dance party on at the Whistler (or anywhere else in Logan Square) not 10 minutes from my wicked front door. It's not the same but it's a similar breed of smoke. Now I'm rambling (HA- you probably called that 10 minutes ago). Blame it on the Deathstar but I need to be spicing things up on the home front a little more and I am nothing if not overly literal.


On a snowy Sunday in Old Town after many lists and recommendations, I bit the bullet and totally refreshed my spice rack at The Spice House. I had a coupon for 15% off and was already partial to their simple labels and careful quality. Most of my spices had been traveling with me since my four year stint in Oxford, Ohio. Ground spices are only meant to last for a year according to Cooks Illustrated so I was pushing my luck seven times over. Felt really good to just toss everything and start fresh and for less than $70, I managed the following:

• Garam Masala Curry Mixture
• Ground Ginger (China Number One)
• Aleppo Pepper, Crushed
• Ground Cumin
• Ground Organic Turmeric
• Whole Coriander Seeds
• Granulated Garlic Powder
• Saffron, Spanish Superior Grade (1 gram- a little goes a long way)
• Spanish Smoked Paprika, Hot
• Hungarian Sweet Paprika
• Curry Powder, Sweet
• Organic Saigon "Cassia" Cinnamon
• Mustard Powder, Medium Heat
• Ground Cloves
• Whole Fennel Seeds
• Whole Black Tellicherry Peppercorns
• Dried California Parsley Flakes
• Organic Dill Weed
• Ukrainian Village Seasoning
  

Now what to do with all this bounty? A few ideas.

My favorite snack/salad topper. Chickpeas rinsed, patted dry and roasted for 12 minutes at 400 in a very light coating of extra virgin olive oil. Once they're out, spice as you like but my personal blend is Aleppo pepper, sweet paprika, curry powder, turmeric and Maldon smoked salt (which I put on everything these days). If you line your baking sheet with foil, cleanup is a breeze. These are the best.

Another new neighborhood favorite- The Butcher & Larder - has opened its doors and relieved us of what was once a neighborhood desert for sustainable, ethically raised meat. I took home two of their house sausages, broke them up then sauteed with tomatoes, Aleppo pepper, garlic powder, dried parsley and some sage I found clinging to our plant in the garden (very hearty plant, noted). Served with a pillow of fresh Pecorino atop roasted spaghetti squash.

My other B&L purchase- a lean shoulder cut of beef. Covered in Ukrainian Village Seasoning, seared on all sides in a cast iron pan then popped in the oven till medium rare (about 7 minutes at 425).

And finally, an actual recipe. Because this is about to change your roasted sweet potatoes and then it will move on to charm everything else it touches like fat slices of toasted Italian bread or root vegetables. Based on a recipe of Paula Wolfert's. I got really lucky and discovered it just in time for dinner with my friend Janine, the brains/beauty behind Rustic Kitchen.

Moroccan Spiced Butter

½ teaspoon of Maldon smoked salt
4 spring onions, white part only, chopped (reserve the green bits for something lovely)
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
1 heaped teaspoon of smoked paprika
1 tablespoon of cumin seeds
1 teaspoon of coriander seeds
1 teaspoon of fennel seeds
½ teaspoon of hot chili powder
Small handful of parsley, chopped

½ cup of unsalted butter, room temperature

Using a mortar and pestle, crush the sea salt, spring onions, garlic and spices to make a paste. Add the parsley, and pound until quite smooth. Chop the butter roughly and pound it into the paste until well combined. Form the butter into a log, wrap tightly, and place in the fridge to rest till it gets its bearings.

A Slow (Food) Soul: Thomas Keller's Roast Chicken, Potato Sunchoke Puree and Beet/Watercress Salad

As is typical with Chicago, Spring has been a bit of a tug-of-war. It was 70-something for a spell in March and now it's May. There were ice chips at my windowsill last night.

Ice aside, there's tall grass in the yard and the flowers are at full tilt. This week marked the first of the big summer farmers markets opening for their regular seasons and there was a rebel yell that went up in my heart at the site of those tents.

The market wasn't the only thing that returned. Jaimeson came home after being on the road, but for a night, since February. What has been a rigorous tour schedule is relenting a bit for May and June and thus, a feast was in order.


Enter Dill Pickle Food Coop. A beautiful, fresh and "happy" chicken. Locally grown parsley and watercress. Prairie Fruits Farm goat cheese. An organic lemon. Sunchokes and gold potatoes.

And the beets. Deep garnet and bright gold with sunset orange on the edges. I wrapped each beet in foil and roast them for an hour at 425. Once they were cool enough to handle, the skins rubbed right off and those colors revealed themselves like gems in rock quarry.

They were then diced and scattered among the watercress, dotted with the soft goat cheese. We cut the sweetness with a lemon vinaigrette. Nothing fancy- juice of half a lemon with a quarter cup of olive oil, some salt and some pepper. The salad was simple. And it tasted sublime. Highly recommend.
The chicken was similarly simple in its ingredients but I need to give credit to ad hoc at home for teaching me a few new techniques. Ad hoc is one of the cookbooks I picked up at the IACP Culinary Trust Dinner...the night after Thomas Keller picked up an award for best cookbook in the Chefs and Restaurants category on its behalf. The book lived up to its reputation and delivered not only a gorgeous chicken but a straightforward bread pudding for dessert (not pictured...we gobbled).

As a product of all of the above, J walked into a house that smelled like home. It takes me awhile to get used to being with company again but I'll just keep feeding him. Welcome back, buddy.

The Salty Sweet Life: Chocolate Peanut Butter Torte*

* Alternatively titled: "If Sex Was Baked It Would Have an OREO Crust and a Peanut Butter Chocolate Cream Cheese Middle"

Long absences aside, I'm not much of a hugger. But I will make you a pie with butter crust and serve it with hand-whipped cream melting off the top. I have a devout tendency to protect my space but the affection hasn't baked off of any cake I've ever made. There's just a balanced bit of bite in the frosting. A stack of lemon bars with shortbread crusts isn't made less sweet by a whiskey chaser.
In that way, I am a human equivalent of a quintessential combination- salty sweet. Never fully committed to one or the other, I am unlikely to provoke insulin shock with a superbly sweet nature but am incapable of hardening a heart on purpose.
This is my kind of dessert. Savory hits of peanut butter, creamy folds of cream cheese and then the chocolate. Goodnight...the chocolate.

In the midst of a folded-peanut-butter-cream-cheese-whipped-cream-mousse, bits of bittersweet chocolate and roasted peanuts rolled in cinnamon and espresso appear to break up that milky heaven with a toothsome crunch. It embarrasses me that one sentence was just that long but how do you break that up without the grammatical equal of a toothsome crunch?

As you've likely gathered if you've hung around for more than a post or two, I'm on the road a lot. What you might not realize is that for as much as I'm gone, I have a full family of friends who travel 10 times the amount I do. Jaimeson is my personal pied piper of musical gypsies but over the years the troop has widened considerably. I occasionally envy their rootlessness but, more than anything, I love the ability to provide an edible anchor of sorts when they appear in a 5 mile radius of Wicked Park's winding brick path.

These visits have punctuated the last five years. Once a month or so, someone will turn up to do something wholly wonderful onstage. New people, new sounds, new fun to be had and stories to be told... it's not a conscious effort but you would be hard-pressed to find a more interesting group of humans to spend time with on occasion. I just try to err on the side of mindful when talking about those occasions- we all have a right to determine our own level of public.

All this to say that it was one such visit that gave me a real good excuse to make this dense bit of magic so Amen for that. And on that note I'll throw out two related recommendations.


1) Food people love music and music people love food. I mean if you had to name the two concepts that gave you the most basic level of joy on a consistent basis, these two go together like peanut butter and jelly. Or peanut butter and chocolate, as the case may be. That link has never been more pronounced than it is now. Allie is a master bread baker and sends secret salad dressing ingredients. Elliot started a whole Tumblr dedicated to eating healthy on tour. And Jaimeson. I think you know by now.

If these kinds of things excite you (as they clearly do me), you should really check out the Epicurean Musician. Andrew interviews bands and musicians of all kinds to get the inside track on all the best ingestibles.

This week? He interviewed Cary Brothers. Cary released his second full-length album, Under Control (link is to iTunes, you will need that), on April 6th. The title kind've says it all, "Reformed Fast Food Addict Turns Toward Greener Pastures." Yes, I recognize the full irony of his TKTC love directed in the same breath with kale and asparagus while I'm here today posting about sex on a cakestand a Chocolate Peanut Butter Torte. However I will happily take the nod that this oft-neglected corner d'Internet helped point the way to greener living. It's nice that we can all feed each other in different ways.

I realize that's cheesy. Pop a Lactaid.

2) While I'll probably keep to my ambiguous personal guidelines regarding what to post and why, I think I could probably do a better job of speaking up when some of these folks are coming to Chicago...they give good (great) show, as the saying goes.

Starting with Bess Rogers and Lelia Broussard at the Elbo Room, this coming Monday, April 19. Be there- it's gonna be a rock show.

Without further ado (and thank you for your patience with all ado above), the instructionals for a pretty piece:

Chocolate Peanut Butter Torte
Ingredients:
For the crust:
32 Oreo cookies, finely processed into crumbs
5 1/3 tbsp. unsalted butter, melted and cooled
Small pinch of salt

For the crunch:
1 1/4 cups salted peanuts, finely chopped, divided (for the filling, crunch and topping)
1/2 cup mini chocolate chips (I used bittersweet chips chopped down)
2 tsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. espresso powder
1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
Dash of ground nutmeg

For the filling:
2 cups heavy cream
1 1/4 cups confectioners’ sugar, sifted (I found 1 cup perfectly sufficient)
12 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups creamy peanut butter (not natural)
2 tbsp. whole milk

For the topping:
1/2 cup heavy cream
4 oz. bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

Directions:
To make the crust, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 9-inch springform pan and place it on a baking sheet. Combine the Oreo crumbs, melted butter and salt in a small bowl. Toss with a fork to moisten all of the crumbs. Press into a thin layer covering the bottom and sides of the springform pan. Freeze the crust for 10 minutes. Bake in the preheated oven for 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack and let cool completely before filling. Yes, that is the only baking that needs to be done. It's awesome.

To make the crunch, in another small bowl combine 1/2 cup of the chopped peanuts, mini chocolate chips, sugar, espresso powder, cinnamon and nutmeg. Toss with a fork to mix and set aside.

To prepare the filling, in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, whip 2 cups of the cream until it holds medium peaks. Beat in 1/4 cup of confectioners’ sugar and whip until the cream holds medium-firm peaks. Scrape the cream into a separate bowl and refrigerate until needed.

Wipe out (do not wash) the mixer bowl, replace the whisk with the paddle attachment, and beat the cream cheese with the remaining 1 cup of confectioners’ sugar on medium speed until the cream cheese is satiny smooth. Beat in the peanut butter, whole milk, and 1/4 cup of the chopped peanuts until well combined.

Using a large rubber spatula, gently stir in about 1/4 of the whipped cream just to lighten the mousse. Still working with the spatula, stir in the crunchy peanut mixture, then gingerly fold in the remaining whipped cream. Scrape the mousse into the crust, mounding and smoothing the top. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight; cover with plastic wrap as soon as the mousse firms.

To finish the torte, put the chopped chocolate in a heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water. Leave the bowl over the water just until the chocolate softens and starts to melt, about 3 minutes; remove the bowl from the saucepan. Bring the 1/2 cup of cream to a full boil and remove it from heat. Pour the cream over the chocolate and, working with a rubber spatula, very gently stir together until the ganache is completely blended and smooth.

Pour the ganache over the torte, smoothing with a metal icing spatula. Scatter the remaining peanuts over the top and chill to set the topping, at least 20 minutes. When the ganache is firm, remove the sides of the springform pan. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Source: adapted from Baking: From My Home to Yours by Dorie Greenspan and Annie's Eats, where I saw it first.

This last picture brought to you by a great show at the Riviera, the end of what I imagine to have been an awesome tour (Jaimeson was on it for a few weeks, dance moves and all), some deliciously obscure beer, two kinds of whiskey, two full bands and crew on one tour bus, a torte that turned out worthy of its alternate title (at top courtesy of Elliot) and one song made popular in a little film called Beetlejuice. Salty, sweet and delicious the whole way through.

Mythology: The Art of Sins and Consequences (plus some Food Pr0n)

On January 4th, I started this post by loading photos of all the lovely things I ate over the holidays. On January 14th, I started really missing my blog but still couldn't find the energy to finish said post. On January 21st I decided that I needed to post this so I could clear my head enough to start doing modest, more regular posts again. I caught myself saying "I had a food blog" recently. And while the past tense seems truer than the present sometimes, it made me sad. Because I do really miss it. And you.

So here is me using the smallest number of words I think I've ever used on record. Five words per picture to take us through the celebration, the travels, the changes, the sins (that would be the baked goods. I regret nothing). Hopefully five words to get me back on track.

Shameless drive for office popularity.

Jason's fancy cohabitation celebration treat.

Recently discovered we are Norwegian.

Dad's stuffing smells like Christmas.

Will work for fish tacos.

Work is busy but delicious.

Brother made me a breadbaker.

Giada has nothing on Gina.

There are mushrooms in here.

Spanikopita Sally says Happy 2010!

It's celebration food, y'all! -Paula

JoJo is Scandinavian, as well.

A cozy place to start.

Then Green Penance. See "consequences."

Room Enough On My Plate for Both Traditions and Adventure Even if a Little Gravy Gets on the Tablecloth

Today is a day that is one part precipice and one part plains for people like me.

Plains in that, just like every other day, I'll be looking forward to dinner and most of my decisions will be based around the snack caliber available.

Today is the precipice because it is a holiday dedicated entirely to food and enjoying it with your favorites. I got two days off of work AND an early close yesterday because everyone is just that excited about dinner tonight. And sales on Friday but I'll be in a vineyard at that point and about as far from a big box store as I can possibly be. If only they sold patience and belief in the best of human nature at Black Friday sales. Alas, yes, vineyard.

I'm writing to you from a little town nestled in the southern end of California wine country. A golden nugget of hills and greenery known as Ojai, about 15 miles off the Pacific coastline near Santa Barbara and Ventura. The Langsen family is most of the way toward moving a five-way existence down to four. Which is to say, Brother is in Boston, I am in the great American metropolis of Chicago and my parents are retiring to Florida and Cape Cod, depending on the season. That leaves the house I grew up in outside Memphis without much furniture, let alone beds, and a very snazzy For Sale sign in front (after a perfect last Thanksgiving there last year). To distract ourselves with the consistent family pursuit of Adventure! we have moved our family and foodie-centric celebrating to a place that is sunny, warm and with a generous pour policy.

In the words of someone who would know, "It's a good thing."

One interesting by-product of our relocation? We are not cooking. We will be eating (really well, apparently) but we will not be cooking. As a hardcore traditionalist and lover of chopping, mashing and wafting kitchen smells, it took me a few minutes to get my head around this new plan. On the one hand, Langsens say yes to adventure (particularly the kind with promises of lolling countryside, good wine and farmstands). It's like the third family commandment following "Langsens share" and "Langsens love school," the two most repeated phrases of my childhood. Seriously.


On the other hand, I want a turkey, some stuffing, mashed potatoes. And I really need the orange brown sugar vehicle through which I manipulate love from those seated at my table. A solution came to pass in the shape of two friends coming in from New York and Jaimeson returning from LA in one weekend. Friendsgiving it is. Menu planning commenced immediately.

Kat and Brad have been part of the extended TKTC family network since the week I never talked about in August. Sometimes when things are really really awesome, I let myself stand in their shade so long that I can't quite put the post together. Kat wrote about it here but the gist was that I made a friend on the Internet and she agreed to drive from New York to Cape Cod in August having never so much as spoken to me on the phone. Four couples (pictured above) from New York and Chicago cooking and drinking their way through a long weekend in the beach grass...it was incredible. J and I went to visit them in New York in September for an evening of cocktailing and dinner partying in Greenpoint. If you're keeping track, TKTC and the Internet are undefeated in the friends department. They arrived in Chicago Friday evening for some "city-shopping" in my kind of town.

Jaimeson had been on a big ole tour for the fall and walked in the door to house that smelled like turkey. I'd done most of the prep the night before and had placed an order for two of Dave's famous from-scratch pumpkin pies and two of Lisa's...wine bottles. Molly made a warm crab dip and volunteered her oven and fridge. Jaime made palomas. Bob and Christina came bearing local brew and bread to be broken. We were in business.

Now there are things I can mess with on Thanksgiving and things I can't. I hadn't found a turkey concoction that obsessed me yet (though now I'm curious about Foodmomiac's) so that was up for review. I needed a green vegetable. Homemade green bean casserole was delicious last year but more intensive than I felt up to for a feast served in the middle of a busy weekend. I had some fresh cranberries and was open on that front as well. Non-negotiables: Stuffing (Dad's recipe), Mashed Potatoes (Mom's classic) and Sweet Potatoes (my love-mongering vehicle).

Menu:

• Dry Brined Sage Turkey with Cider Gravy
• Stuffed with Dad's Pepperidge Farm, sage, wine, fresh stock concoction
• Brussels Sprouts with Walnuts and Bacon
• Cranberry Dijon Compote
• Crustless Sweet Potato Lovetrap
• Mashed Potatoes (Kosher salt, whole milk, kiss of cream and butter, whipped with Pumpkin {name of my mixer})
• Spiced Pumpkin Pie with fresh Whipped Cream
• Pick Your Poison on the cocktail front and best of luck to you.

Turkey was good. Really good. It was basted with butter, pan juices, cider and cheap white wine so I'm not sure where that was going to go wrong in the first place.

The gravy was even better. I would make this turkey again just for that rich brown glory that plate after plate bathed itself in. Or just skip the food altogether and find an apartment with an actual bathtub.
The stuffing tasted like my Dad's, which is to say it is the best thing I eat year round.

The Brussels sprouts I would do differently. Two cooking processes in liquid left them a little overcooked. Thank God for Jaimeson who resurrected them with a rich broth (he also did all the turkey lifting and carving, kept my wine glass full, and was thoroughly entertaining on two hours of real sleep).
The cranberry compote was easy but overpowering from a mustard standpoint. Not something I would advise as a side dish but great on a leftover turkey sandwich.

The sweet potatoes gave everyone indecent thoughts and inexplicably started crooning "Sex On Fire" when I removed them from the oven. Which is to say, the recipe still works 12 years after its debut.
The mashed potatoes may have had a little more than a kiss of cream. They were incredible. Paula Deen, Ina Garten and Ree Drummond would have been proud.

{Lack of Picture is a victim of Gluttony}
Pie. Dave does pumpkin pie like no one else does pumpkin pie. And I know pie. I know pie so well that we gobbled it before the Gods swooped down and took it back to heaven. Or before anyone took a camera out. Here are two he made today so you get the idea.

All in all, we cooked, we ate, we sipped and then took it out to the patio and sat around the outdoor space heater on a divine fall evening. It was my feast. Made with my hands for people I love. And we ate Thanksgiving sandwiches and turkey soup for days after.

It was what I wanted and it freed up my senses to be here now. With people I love. Excited for dinner in a totally new place. I'm thankful for all of it. And you, too. I can feel your goodness from here.Happy Thanksgiving from Wicked Park (by way of California)!

{The pretty photos in this post were shot by Dave and that gorgeous camera of his. Thanks Dave... and Lisa for buying Dave a camera!}