Pent up and Popovers

Some of the time, I value dessert more than how I will look in my wedding gown, but only until dessert is finished. Once it is gone from my plate, I forget why the pull of chocolate lava was so strong. The dilemma arises yet again when dessert and I come to a crossroads. Catholics have a lot of guilt, and so do Italians but I don't want guilt and food to mix. In moderation, there need not be guilt.  My best friend's mother is a physician. We shared a meal together recently and she dug in with much fervor to a hot antipasto, a smile across her face. She said "if you want something, eat it, just not every single day. Even french fries." These doctor's orders I will adhere to. 

While a student at Georgetown, I worked as a hostess at an Italian restaurant called Filomena. It was a grand place; Presidents eat there. It's where I met my future husband (woah husband sounds so, well, momentous- I have not yet written the word where I was the bride in that equation.) It was there I also solidifed my love of tiramisu, wore my first cummerbund, made dear girlfriends, and ate far too many portions of Gnocchi della mama. I still recall my Saturday evening ritual of working dinner service, purchasing a piece of cake from the mammoth dessert case, and trapsing up Wisconsin Avenue at the end of my shift in my Dansko clogs, cake in tow. Sneaking quietly up the stairs, I would strip off my uniform and cozy myself in bed. You bet I ate that cake with a plastic fork, watching Netflix in my jammies. I managed to lose a bit of weight that year, despite this ritual. And moreso, that one slice of cake a week made me abundantly happy. 

Just as soon as I am certain I've made some progress navigating young adulthood, a circumstance yanks me back to reality, to humble and shape me. Self criticism abounds alongside waterworks and doubt; a chocolate fudge sundae and a hug from mom follow suit. I often wonder how my mom puts up with my incessant nagging and anxiety. Nana too. I crave her reassurance, reassurance in general -whoever can provide some. Only half joking, I tell her often I am grateful that she never sent me back down stream in a basket for someone to find, like Moses. She said, "mothers never send back their babies." I took great comfort in that. My greatest vulnerabilities tend to be self-made. What I would give to be apathetic for a couple of minutes a day, to stop analyzing and wondering about the normative, but then that would be changing my fabric. A mentor once told me "every quirk is another thread in your tapestry." The challenge we are afforded is to figure out what we can learn from those threads and the impact we can make despite them, or maybe more importantly, because of them.

When I was little I wanted to be a cashier. I liked the way the items sounded when they were scanned. I wanted a conveyor belt of my own. The foods in motion inspired me; bite after bite, meal after meal would come from those ingredients. At age eight, I received a working cash register for my birthday. I dreamt of small enterprises and made sweet little tags to "scan" and store in the register. My parents entertained my fixation and I had a substantial collection of plastic food to play grocery store. I never actually worked in a grocery store oddly enough, but that register is still somewhere in the recesses of my mother's attic.  

My second greatest aspiration as a young girl was to be an ice cream scooper. What life more dignified than to bring people joy by way of an ice cream cone. And oh the forearm muscles I would have. Those forearms would spark conversation. Onlookers would say,  "those forearms scoop ice cream." I would walk with pride, rainbow sprinkles affixed to the bottom of my shoes. I never worked in an ice cream store either sadly enough, but it's never too late.

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Ingredients

• butter for greasing popover pan
• 3 slices pork roll (Taylor Ham)  ou can also substitute 2 sausage links, 3 slices canadian bacon or 3 slices of center-cut bacon. 
• 2 cloves minced garlic 
• 1/2 cup mixed shredded cheeses I've used Parmigiana, Asiago, and Mozzarella. 
• 2 eggs, at room temperature
• 1 cup milk, at room temperature
• 3/4 cups flour
• 1/2 diced red onion
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper 

To Prepare the Popovers 

This recipe makes six popovers and was adapted from Giada De Laurentiis. 

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Butter your popover pan, or muffin tin. Dice taylor ham and cook over medium heat until browned. Add minced garlic and cook about 30 seconds longer, tossing until aromatic. 

Spoon 1/6 of your meat and garlic mixture into each popover cup. Sprinkle an equal portion of cheese into each as well. 

Blend eggs using an emulsion blender or mixer until fluffy. Add the flour, milk, red onions, basil, salt and pepper and mix until incorporated. Pour the batter into popover cups , right below the rim. Top with more cheese if desired. Bake in the oven until puffed, about 35 minutes. Do not open the oven or they may deflate. Let cool and enjoy.

What women eat

My tenure in the catering industry has been brief. I would never deny that, or feign a level of awareness I have yet to attain. But being brand new, training wheels in tow, creates a nature similar to that of a sponge. Concepts are novel, every moment a teachable one, each experience potentially formative. While sometimes discouraging, to know so little, seeing things for the first time is also enlivening. Engaged and bright eyed, the new chapter is full of promise.  Humbling too. 

Before we as rational beings have a chance to develop adequate know-how, we are more likely to believe what we are told by authority figures. We lack a benchmark to compare our recent knowledge against, and cannot draw from prior experiences necessarily. If a concept is reinforced enough, we may draw conclusions.  Such conclusions aren't always accurate though, and generalizations can be damaging, paving the way for prejudices.  One such idea that has been reinforced time and time again at work has to do with what women eat.

On more than one occasion, to be accurate on more occasions than I can count on two hands, people have described their female dinner guests as unlikely to desire anything more than a salad or a light option.

"We are mostly ladies, so nothing too heavy. We are all watching our figures...Can we swap out that Tenderloin for something like fish? I don't think the ladies will like something so substantial."

 I am intrigued by this assumption that a woman shouldn't want a bountiful or hearty option. That I as a woman, might be denied the chance to sink my teeth into a burger topped with a fried egg, the yolk dripping down the corners of my mouth. That a man need not watch his figure the same way I am supposed to. And can't a dude be vegetarian too?

Despite our advances as a gender over time, there is still a lingering belief in some factions that ladies will not eat the same way men will. Portions should be small, options light, and varieties few. I say, eat what works best for your body. If a vegan lifestyle is your truth, then by all means seek it. Pescetarian, gluten-free, or dairy-free, or "I only eat pork on days that begin with T". All of these options are valid. Food is truly our life force and should be treated with such reverence. What we put in our bodies defines how we feel, how we view ourselves, and how we view the world around us. 

Of course, there are some dramatics here, and I myself am presenting a mere correlation between gender and food selection in a narrow segment of the population. I still find it worth mentioning as somewhere in the deep recesses of our minds, woman should be eating a certain way. We have done away with little white gloves, but still order a salad on the first date so the partner across the table from us believes we treat our bodies well. Or hey, we just like salad, and that is just fine as well. I think there is a grain of truth here though, and grains grow into bigger concepts. 

I'll have the short ribs with a grain salad on the side. And a milk shake, but only on Sundays. What will you be having?

On a Stick

There is something about consuming food on a stick that reminds me of being a kid. It takes me to times of reckless abandon, roller blading, scraped knees and an indifference to society's conventions. Over time I have evolved, likely we all have. Priorities have changed, and responsibilities have mounted. But with effort and an open mind, a pop of some sort can bring us back to simpler times. 

I began working for a boutique caterer about two months ago. My writing schedule has been delayed, my balance a little off, but in lieu of dreaming and concepting, I have been earning and learning. In the learning part, dreams are still nurtured so overall the outcome is a positive one. It's been a full immersion into the world of running an off premise catering business. My boss imparts on me endless amounts of insight as she has ample experience. The lessons I learned in books at school don't often apply. Trial by fire is the only way to learn anything and learn it well. From work, I've drawn much inspiration as well. Delicate hors d'oeuvres, tricks of the trade, and rules of the kitchen. Surely it has been a short time and I have more to discover than I can even quantify, but I've always wondered what it might be like to work in an environment like this one, and I am leaping right in. 

Over the weekend, I worked at an event for a young lady's birthday. The adults had an elevated menu and the kids had well, kids fare. Things you can pop in your mouth as you run about, chatting with friends, reapplying raspberry Smackers lip balm, straightening the tie your mom made you wear, and peering at the person you have a crush on. The DJ announced the guest of honor's entrance, and all the kids gathered around her. He said, "this is all for you. Everyone is here to celebrate you!"  It sounds absurd, but I got rather emotional at this display.

I was reminded of times when little parties, exams, and Friday night football really consumed a majority of my time. Every exchange was so critical, every heartbreak a crushing one. The momentous times of the teenage years in the grand scheme of our lives might be trivial, but at that time they are everything. It is a selfish time, where we feel hyper aware of our surroundings and how we are received. Eventually, as maturity dictates we gain proper perspective. Before then, however, the wild highs and the crushing lows of being thirteen feel so all encompassing. Eventually things change as nothing is constant and our burdens and joys are transformed, but we will always know the fragility of being thirteen. 

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To prepare the pie pops

I took some leftover Cottage pie (beef, carrots, peas and the fixings) and turned them into a savory pie pop. While these days, my responsibilities are rent, student loans, and being attentive to family and friends in a considerable way, there is always a pie on the stick, to bring me back to Smackers Lip balm and school dances. 

To prepare, roll out your pie crust on to a floured surface, ( I have a homemade buttery variation but pre-made should work), until 1/4 inch thick. Using a circle mold or the opening of a glass, cut your crust into circles. Arrange circles on parchment paper and top with about 1 tablespoon or desired filling. Place your lollipop stick amidst the filling. Rub your finger dipped in cold water around the edge of your pie, as a glue. Top each circle with another, and press gently to seal. Press down with a fork to further seal the edges. Refrigerate for 10-15 minutes until pies firm up again after being handled at room temperature.  Bake at 375 degrees for 30-40 minutes or until desired brownness. 

Homonym-ing and Shortbread

How nice it might be, being a bee. With wings for flying and honey to find. To focus on what's whole before that troublesome hole. On how far we have come, rather than feeling just short. And where did that short business come from anyway? My sister is short, as compared to other folks and she is in no way inferior, you see. But shortbread I'll keep; not the least bit diminutive seeming to me.  And remember these words- don't search for solace in someone who's soulless.

Shortbread adapted from Martha Stewart Living. 

Everything gets a label these days. What's with the labels? And the boxes. Society just loves putting people in boxes. "She is too sensitive, he should be classified. Let's have him evaluated." My fella always tells me he had attention deficit growing up; it was never diagnosed. He ran and played with the other kids, and did his best in school. He became a Marine, and now a chef, and luckily for him he  not often must sit. He adapted and thrived, without any boxes. The only box I'd like is a box full of chocolates. Imported ones. Expensive. Perhaps scatter them over that shortbread. I don't need a box for my life to reside inside of. My nature, and my quirks, weaknesses too. They're all mine, and I own them. Just keep me out of a box. Boxes are for chocolate. And shoes. 

I prefer to affect the status quo than to be an effect of it. I'm easily awed, which you may find odd, but maybe they are one in the same. Worth is in the eye of the beholder anyway. And while we are awed, what a difference a letter makes.  Let's steer clear of awful, but life should be aweful. In the grand scheme of the world, we are but wee. Still how nice it might be, being a bee. 

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Ingredients:

• 1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
• 3/4 cup packed light-brown sugar
• 1 1/4 teaspoons coarse salt
• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/2 semisweet chocolate chips or chunks
•  1 1/2assorted chocolate candies roughly chopped
• 1/4 cup chopped peanuts 

To prepare Box of Chocolates Shortbread

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. With an electric mixer, beat butter, brown sugar, and salt on medium-high until light and fluffy, 3 minutes. Add flour in three additions, with mixer on low. Beat until combined and dough is crumbly. Press dough evenly into an 8-inch square baking dish, coated in baking spray. Bake until golden brown and firm, about 35 minutes.

Carefully remove from the oven and scatter with chocolate chips on top. Once they begin to melt, about a minute, spread gently with an offset spatula or spoon. Scatter candies and peanuts over the top. Let cool on a wire rack for an hour. When chocolate is set, you can refrigerate briefly if you wish, cut into jagged bars. 

Breathe it in

I caught myself looking in the mirror. I try not to make it a habit of peering too deeply or I end up noticing blemishes and other trivial things. While I studied my face, time felt like it was standing still. I was grateful for each blemish, my eyebrows, my nose. I realized that exact moment would never exist again.  Gone into thin air it will go. I will age, my hair will grow, and my face will change. If I am fortunate, I will develop laugh lines.

All too often I forget to take a step back and breathe it in. My mind too busy evaluating the bigger picture. Nonetheless, I remain cognizant that until I am unabashedly grateful for something, anything, there will never be enough. I want to strive and succeed, but I more desperately want to feel whole in the moment.

As an exercise in being present, I take a personal inventory.

Today I didn't solve world hunger. I didn't single handedly build a brand, save a life, or give a talk at a TED Conference. I wasn't able to run five miles. I'm not necessarily my ideal weight. There are still many unknowns. 

But I did smile at a stranger while walking down Bloomfield Avenue. She was nearing eighty or so and looked sullen until I acknowledged her. Then she flashed the toothiest grin I've ever seen. I saw a child's spirit in her eyes. 

I fixed my bed. There is abundant research in psychology supporting the notion that a fixed bed will enhance overall happiness. I even left the rest of the house somewhat clean when I departed this morning. If the house was a mess though, at least that bed was pristine, every pillow in its place.

There was a luscious latte at Raymond's. Its foam reminded me of a Disney movie. Finding hidden meanings in my food is a simple pleasure I enjoy twofold. 1. Meaning is uncovered. 2. Food and drink is had. 

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I learned something new at work. Actually four or five completely new things. It is both humbling and infuriating all at once to see how much is left to discover. Without even scratching the surface, I am tickled by the possibilities.

My Nana surprised me. I find it remarkable that you can know a person your entire life, and they still manage to do something you hadn't anticipated. Out of the blue she used sexy in a sentence, via text I might add. She texts, yes. She is just the coolest woman. Cooler then I'll likely ever be. 

My cousins and I hiked to an overlook in the Pocono Mountains. My fingers were numb and eyes teared, but my mind was clear. The air was crisp. James will argue Pennsylvania air is the cleanest air you will find. 

At that moment, there was truth to his hometown prejudice.

I called a friend, made chocolate chip cookies, and said my prayers.

...

A recurring theme in my thoughts is how we as people endeavor to find our place.  For me that "place" is yet to be identified, unless I've already found it. That is not so far fetched to consider. Wherever I am is the only place I have.  I might as well breathe it in and make it count.