Red Sauce

I Like My Oysters With Just Lemon, Thanks

Aah, yes, blogging. I have not been so into it, lately, as you can see.
So, I am here today to tell you the obvious. Blogging will be sporadic but still here in the future.
I am just not feeling the blog lately. I am feeling dreadful and embarrassed that this has become more diary than anything else and that grosses me out, as any articulate might say.
One too many people in my life have cut me off, mid-story to tell me, “Oh, I know that already, I read it in your blog.”
My intention was not to make this a diary. But alas, intentions are meaningless sometimes.
Let me just recap some great food moments of late and then hope that when I begin working at home in my skivvies in a couple of weeks, I will have more interesting things to share than what I ate, where I ate it and what I am thinking about Mariah Carey and/or my mother that day. Oy vey…
Oysters, Crab, Aretha
Crab cake, oysters, at Grand Central Oyster Bar.
Crab cake, not freshly cooked. And oddly seemed deep fried. But nice big lumps of crab in there.
Oysters—I have decided definitively after oyster eating binges lately, my favorite oysters are Malpeques.
Spare ribs, shrimp wonton soup at N.Y. Noodle Town.
Proscuitto, Arugula pizza at Graziella’s.
On another note—the lovely Aretha (this review says she was recovering from a cold in Boston) has lost some of her Aretha range. And her show was something like a Vegas-act with old jazz standards sung in between some Aretha-classics. But she’s still the queen. Seeing her live, though, a bit sad these days.
But I have faith that she will be singing the national anthem at one of the Tigers' World Series games!!!
Go Tigers!

Pink Shirts and Chorizo the Next Day

Cool and sunny. I took the turn with the other spandex-clad group and rounded the slight decline in a tucked, lovely aerodynamic position. I was ahead and while it was no race, I was enjoying leading the huffy group of men in their tight shorts and their serious mouths. Then all the sudden I hear this woman off to the left say, “Look, there, you got one, the pink shirt.” She was looking at me, pointing at me and talking into a walky talky device.
I stopped since I noticed my fellow shiny clothed friends also stopped and then it dawned on me quickly. I was wearing a pink shirt, a pink lycra shirt. Not my usual color choice but it figured when a police officer stops me for running a red light while on a bike path in Central Park, I would be sporting my bubble gum colored cycling shirt. In fact, it was the only time this year I had it on. When I showed up at Central Park, my riding partner just looked at me and said, “Rose. Pink. Right on.”
So then just about 30 minutes and 12 miles later, I got pulled over by a cop and threatened with a ticket for running a red light in my pink shirt. But I do believe the pink shirt saved me a bit. How do you give someone a slap when they are wearing pink?
I was also lucky to be riding with a native New Yorker and a law student working for Eliot Spitzer who talked me out of the ticket by simply asking the cop not to yell at us, “please.” The cop stopped, thought about it and told me, the pink shirt, to go on my way.
Just after that I nearly mowed down an old man and his dog who were both looking the wrong way as they crossed the path.
I hate to become a pedestrian basher but if I am going to get my peach pie stuffed fat ass out at Central Park at 630 a.m. and don a pink shirt to ride with the serious cycling kids then I should be looked for on the path by this old man and his dog out for their morning walk. They should know better.
Last night’s dinner was a mash of leftovers that turned into a master piece of textural complexity and color. I was all Sarah Moulton in the kitchen. I took Sunday dinner’s leftovers and made a lovely Tuesday night meal.
On Sunday, besides peach pie, I made tacos. Chorizo, beef and bean tacos. Last night, I cut up the leftovers, added some onion, garlic and fresh basil with a generous amount of olive oil and mixed in some cavatelli and parmesan.
Lovely and amazing, just like the first time around.

My Afternoon With a Whorey Pie

It's amazing that I went all summer without making pie. Until yesterday, that is. Late in the afternoon, I stood at my kitchen table and made a pie crust simply with flour, butter and salt. This came after much discussion about whether to use all butter, all Crisco or half and half. I went for the all butter. Butter is better. No doubt about it. And I agree with one of my consultants who said, "Crisco just scares me." Then I peeled a large bag of sweet peaches I bought in Greenpoint.
I cut up the peaches and placed them gingerly in the buttery pie crust with their striated red marks, perforated from their now missing pits, looking upwards. Topped it all off with a muddy mixture of sugar, butter and an egg. On top of that, I sprinkled cinnamon and nutmeg.
Then the double crusted bad boy went into the oven for nearly an hour. It’s true! Pies take a long time to cook.
But so does a late summer transformation…..
As Pascale Le Draoulec, a French author in search of the perfect American Pie in her book "American Pie: Slices of Life," says, "Pie just may be the madonna-whore of the dessert world." She explains that pie is both sensuous and maternal. Pie, the perfect whore.
The outcome of my own sensuous and maternal whorey peach pie was pretty excellent. Although, I would have liked the crust to be a tad bit flakier. My guess is that I manhandled it a bit too much when I formed it into a ball. And one consultant suggested I may not have let it rest long enough. It was only in the refrigerator for about 20 minutes.
This week, I am going to tackle more pie. Maybe this time, I will make the crust with lard.
Any suggestions?

Peach Pie

Pie Crust:

2 Cups all-purpose unbleached flour
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup cold unsalted butter
5 tbs. cold water

Cut the butter into little pieces. Dump the flour and salt into a bowl of and mix. Add the butter and cut it in with a fork until the batter becomes pebbly. Add the water, adding it a little at a time to make sure you have the right amount.
Press dough together gently into a ball. Do not overhandle.
Place plastic wrap over dough and let it rest in refrigerator for at least an hour.
Roll out dough with floured rolling pin on floured surface. Place dough in pie pan and cut off excess. Gently roll excess into a ball and roll out again. This is the top layer. Place top layer over peach mixture.

Peach mixture:
5 1/2 cups peaches, cut and peeled.
cinnamon
nutmeg
one egg
1/2 cup sugar
2 tbs. flour
1/2 cup butter

Place peaches center side up on bottom. Pour cinnamon and nutmeg over mixture. Mix together egg, sugar, flour and butter. Pour this over the peaches. Top the pie with the top crust.

Bake at 450 for 15 minutes. Then turn down oven to 350 and bake for about 35 more minutes.

Get Yo Ass Up and Pour a Couple Mo

I had to wait the moments of my life out in a bar facing an open window that looked out onto an empty street. In front of me sat a sweaty glass of whiskey on the rocks and a pint of icy cold water-a "water back" as the tough bartendress called it.
Whiskey was introduced to me by my father who drank squat glass after glass of it as he taught me how to play poker at our brightly lit kitchen table. I was not even a pre-teen and played poker better then than I do now. What I most remember about it is the woody smell coming from my dad's mouth and the clinking of the ice against the glass every time he picked it up and sipped it.
The short glasses with the brown liquid appeared again in my life as “scotch on the rocks,” that my mother ordered at her divorcee bars on Jefferson Avenue.
I caught my own taste and respect for it when I had several glasses at, of all places the, Harvard Club with my now pregnant friend, who was not pregnant then, by the way.
We learned of oak casings and woody finishes. We tasted caramel overtones and chocolate finishes in some. We made relays back and forth from the whiskey tasting table to the spread of port cheese, Ritz crackers and peanuts the club leaves out for their patrons. The club also has Doritos sometimes, as a matter of fact. Wasps don’t know how to eat, but they know at happy hour, one needs the salt and the carbs.
An old man with wrinkly, thin fingers took his time with his cheese as I waited impatiently behind him with my now empty paper plate. He called me “young lady” as he moved to make room so I could pile a dollop of cheese on my paper plate and grab a handful of Ritz that I dumped alongside the red and orange spreadable cheese.
And as I waited out at this hipster bar and contemplated a turn of events, whiskey was what I turned to. It has an ability to slow things downs, unlike the slick taste of beer that tends to quicken matters. And when things are rolling too fast, and you can rely on slowing it down simply by putting a harsh, tart flavor in your mouth, it's a bit of a miracle. Mother's little helper in a squat, sweaty glass.

A Pig, A Potato and a Work Out

Bacon can be misunderstood. I don’t know how much bacon Jackie Warner of “Work Out” eats but probably not much.
But eating bacon and cakes from Black Hound bakery brought over by the lovely Judy McGuire and watching “Work Out” helped make my Tuesday night fly by. And when the summer is waning and the week is dragging and like Loverboy, you are just working for the weekend, it’s nice to have a Tuesday night fly by.
Yeah, that's a pig up there--that is bacon before it's dead and cut up for you. Just reminding all of y'all. We are eating living beings.
I made my regular potatoes Anna with a variation of some added bacon—potatoes, onions, garlic, olive oil, salt, pepper, parmesan cheese, the last of my truffle oil and I added some bacon from Oscar’s in Upstate New York. I made some New York Strip steaks bought at Whole Foods and cooked a bit too much. And I made some asparagus and garlic bread.
Sidenote---I experienced a dumbass sighting at the Whole Foods meat counter who was insistent and bitchy about wanted to buy local. He should have waited one day and bought his dumbass strip steaks from the farmers market. He thought Buffalo New York Strip meant it was from Buffalo, New York and then got bitchy when he realized there was no “local” beef at Whole Foods. He kept asking where Coleman Farms was. I kept saying Colorado and he would not listen to me. Did he think chicks didn't know? Did he think I, myself did not dabble in trying to buy local? He does not know me!! People need to do some research. I commend his passion, but get out of the way. You are wasting my time. Buffalo is an animal, dumbass!
So, we all sat down on my green couch—the big Greek, Judy and I and watched Jackie Warner turn flab into fab for one woman. And we watched Zen really come out of her shell. Um, this made up shell Zen was in, is fascinating only that it is made up. They made up some kind of self-esteem issues for this woman, a trainer at Jackie’s gym, who they said was distraught and out of shape, but was neither of those things in reality. But the big gay trainer totally set her straight on her hike up a mountain. Oh, Joy! She’s better now. And she is going to lose those two pounds she gained when she was mysteriously distraught.

More Baked Pasta and More TV, Please

The thing about being a bit obsessed with food and eating as well as being a bit obsessed with biking is that at some point there becomes a confusion about whether you are eating to bike or biking to eat.
All those training guides tell you to eat to bike. Blah blah blah. But one of the many bonuses of logging long hours on my bike is that I can go home, have some baked penne with a tart, garlicky tomato sauce dotted with chunks of fresh mozzarella and hard, sharp melted Vermont cheddar and know it’s all going toward the cause of the bike ride.
Being a fantasy athlete can also be a total mind fuck. So there is a fine line to tread.
Speaking of fantasy athletes, I watched “Work Out” last night as I changed two tubes on two bikes in my living room, or my front room of my rent stabilized abode. There I was in front of my window air conditioning unit with two bikes upside down, a plate of steaming, cheesy, tomato-ey baked penne on the table and some freakishly golden tanned, dyed blond locked ladies and men on the television who are all about "working hard, working really hard."

The Life of a Sexy Ass Guido

The life of a sexy ass guido is not an uncomplicated one. I beg and I borrow this a bit, but when it says so much by saying so little, I have to take it.
I met a man that looked like Donald O'Connor in a yellow jersey and I am just now recovering from the whole experience.
He is standing there in his fancy yellow lycra cycling jersey, puffing out around his flat belly, and he is sporting a slight but constant smile on his face and he is asking me if I “ever met anyone at these things.” "One of these things" is an organized bike ride through a New York cycling club.
I can’t get his face out of my head. It’s sitting there like the last chip in a bowl or not the last chip in the bowl because that is usually the most desired chip. No, his face is sitting there stuck in that place in my brain where things stick and become a vision all around you even if you are looking at the 7-11 on 23rd off Park Avenue like the last girl standing at the high school dance. But I never went to high school dances, but still, there is that girl standing there and this guy, the guy with the yellow lycra thinking he is all Lance Armstrong studly standing there, grinning.
“Have you ever met anyone special or interesting at these rides?” he asked again after I said, “Huh?” the first time he asked.
The man looks a bit like Donald O’Connor but O’Connor would for sure be nicer, kinder, gentler and not in dire need of a post-divorce fling with a chick in her own lycra jersey. And he might sing and dance and be friends with someone like Gene Kelly.
This Donald O’Connor man may even be obsessed. Yes, he seems obsessed. He bought a $2,000 Serotta bike and got professionally sized for another $500 and he is sporting all this cycling gear, Look clips, Cannondale socks, Pearl Izumi cycling shorts and he is constantly smiling. No, he is grinning. He is suave. No, he thinks he is suave.

Ain't Nothing Like a Bing Cherry

When I eat cherries, I see my home state - blue skies, white teeth, big cars. Bing cherries from Michigan are summer for me. As time goes on and it becomes clearer and clearer I live nowhere near Michigan, peaches have also become summer for me. Believe it or not, Jersey peaches.
But still when I go to the grocery store in July, I want cherries. I look for them and I am continually disappointed. In my refrigerator right now as a matter of fact is a big bowl of disappointing East Coast cherries.
They were soft and not even juicy. The red blood seeping out of them was not so much sweet as just liquid. So, I made a cherry syrup last night after riding my bike around with some scary men and women in lycra. I seeded about ten cherries and blended them up and added to that some water, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla. Cooked down for about fifteen minutes and I poured the syrup over some Laloo’s vanilla ice cream. And I fell asleep, bloated from ice cream, burned from the sun and happy from a long bike ride.
Happy Sunday to me.
I had to postpone the blueberry muffin making since I came home after long, hot, bothersome bike ride to City Island and through Westchester to realize I had no eggs. No eggs, no muffins.
Later this week, though - Muffins!

Blueberries and Two French Relics

Blueberries. That is what looked really good at the Farmers market. Blueberries. I was disappointed. Oh, and zucchini. Zucchini looked awesome. Still, disappointed. Eh, but I guess that is a fait accompli. And yes, I was joking. There was purposeful use of French right there.
So, I bought a lot of blueberries from a second vendor since when I asked the first if his were organic he said, “No, but we spray very little.”
He seemed to be in the wrong place with the wrong answers at the wrong time. I pitied him a little as I have been feeling lately like I should have been born earlier in the 1900s so I could have been a 1940s sassy mofo. And the little sprayer guy had black currants on his table. Intriguing. But they were bitter. I tastes them. Bitter fruit, and I thought of Billie Holiday, immediately. What do you do with black currants? Anyone?
I know what I am doing with my blueberries. I am making muffins, blueberry bread. I was toying with the idea of making blueberry pie, but I prefer cherry and peach and even apple pie over blueberry. And lord knows, I am a sucker for a muffin and I could make quick breads all day long. Yep, quick breads, bong hits, coffee by the gallon and an addiction to pool playing is what keeps me energized. There’s a rainbow around my head from all the positivity of those groups of things that make up what is me.
I saw Catherine Deneuve and Gerard Depardieu before I bought the blueberries and the zucchini and, by the way, fingerling potatoes. They are in Changing Times directed by Andre Techine. Deneuve and Depardieu never had chemistry. But that was never what it was between them that make them so amazing to watch together. They are the goofball and the goddess in extreme. She always seems to pity him a little and he is not exactly in awe of her, but in overwhelming respect. In the movie Deneuve plays an ice princess who bounces through life as it takes her. Depardieu plays a man who seems overwhelmed by life. There were each other’s first loves. Depardieu’s character has remained obsessively in love with Deneuve’s ice princess. He stalks her down after 30 years in Tangiers and the fun ensues.
It was a perfect prelude to blueberry picking.
And on to the muffins.

Taking the Plunge, Handing it to the Man

On the way home from listening to a discussion about food and food writing featuring Ruth Reichl, Anne Patchett, Jane and Michael Stern, and David Rakoff with a Leonard Lopate moderating, I kept repeating in my head this one idea that came up – How do I inhabit my own life? How do I enjoy life?
What we eat, why we eat it and the way we think about eating it tells so much about us that it is wise to take the time and think about that. Living an examined life, takes energy, time, patience and sustenance. And what that sustenance is makes a big old difference.
While last night’s discussion, which centered around Gourmet magazine’s literary supplement (“August Summer Reading” Digest) had many thought provoking lines and quotes---are fancy salts necessary or a sign of our increasingly evil society that is fetishizing food items? Is Curtis Barbecue in Vermont the best restaurant in America? And can I really live by the creed, buy American, buy local and eat organic as much as I should?--what I came away with was a) when miserable, I dress badly (white crop pants, red American Apparel shirt and flip flops? Man, I am in misery mode), b) Upper East Siders love to dress up and listen to people talk about food and sitting in a room surrounded by them made me feel like I was back in GP, c) I love Leonard Lopate on the radio but he comes off as a bit too cantankerous in person or maybe he had a bad night and d) big changes for me must involve living a more examined life and inhabiting it in the truest form I can.
So, my dear peeps, I am giving notice today at evil corporate media empire. I am taking the plunge, going freelance full time, baby. While I have a three month full time freelance gig to cushion the uncertainty that a full time freelance writing life can entail, I am excited to take the plunge and come November pad around my apartment in my underwear inhabiting an examined freelancers, worry-filled life.
I am a strong Sicilian American woman!! I am the modern Anna Magnani, people.
Keep on living. Happy Weekend!!