The Kitchen Daughter

"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair." --Mary Heaton Vorse

I have the good fortune to be acquainted with and related to people who are writers. Friends are usually fascinated by the process of writing, particularly fiction writing and have one of two reactions. One, they think it must be kind of easy, because you can make it all up and you get to sit at your computer and keep your own schedule. Or two, it is incredibly hard and they can't imagine even thinking about writing a piece of fiction - it is overwhelmingly intimidating.

Coffee and Courtesy

Life is not so short but that there is always time for courtesy.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

For years we have been hearing about the decline of civility - in schools, offices, even our government. That good manners are vanishing due to (take your pick) increased reliance on technology, poor parenting, cable TV, or Facebook. And I must admit that I do see evidence of this everywhere, much to my dismay.

In Search of Lost Cookies Redux

And suddenly the memory appeared.  That taste was the taste of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray . . . my aunt Léonie would give me after dipping it in her infusion of tea . . .

-Marcel Proust

'Tis the season of the cookie.  With visions of Mom and Grandma baking Christmas cookies dancing in my head, I put out a call for family reminiscences and got this reply:  “No doubt you will make mention of Mrs. Schweer's cookies.”

Christmas Cake

My husband only asks for one Christmas gift every year without fail - a Christmas Cake baked by me. This tradition started when we came to America, the land that does not know Christmas Cake. Until then, I could stroll into any food store in South Africa (even at the last minute) and buy a perfect Christmas Cake – non-baker that I am. Or, we could go to our mothers’ homes where my husband could get his home-baked fix. But that first Christmas in America, I just could not find the cake. You see, in this country, “Christmas Cake” is plain old fruitcake. Once I figured out that that was what I should be asking for, I was surprised to find that not only was it hard to find a good fruitcake in America (or at least in Florida) the cake was much maligned here – so much so, that there’s actually a Fruitcake Toss festival held in Colorado every year:

Thanksgiving In South Africa

South Africans don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, nor do we have an equivalent to this uniquely American tradition.

Another Day in Paradise

As I stood gazing out at Elk Lake in New York's Adirondacks, a guest at the Lodge stepped up next to me and said, “Another day in paradise.”  That about sums it up.

When the Heat is On

I can't stand the heat, but I can't avoid the kitchen either. When the mercury tops 100, what to eat, when all you really want is cool sorbet or perhaps a mojito for dinner?

Dining in the Dark

Close your eyes. Open them - no difference - it’s claustrophobically black all around you.

South African Restaurants, and a Recipe for Bobotie

I noticed a curious trend on a recent trip to South Africa - a whole slew of “South African” restaurants had opened across the country. I lived in South Africa for most of my life, dining at the usual places - Steakhouse, Indian, Seafood, Italian, French, and all manner of Fast Food restaurants – but I’d never seen a restaurant billed as South African before - in South Africa, that is. Oddly enough, the first South African restaurant I ever came across was in Atlanta, Georgia, a few years ago - “10 Degrees South”- where my husband and I spent a lovely evening reacquainting our tastebuds with familiar flavors.

As I Sit Itching

I don’t recall my first encounter with poison ivy, but I remember the first with poison oak.  Driving thousands of miles along I-80 was de rigueur among the college set those many years ago.  I commuted between Chicago and California and participated in all manner of things daft.  That included clambering down a cliff to the Pacific Ocean, clad in swimsuit and sandals, only to realize the way back was straight up.  It hadn’t seemed so steep going down, so why was it necessary to crawl through the bushes to reach the top?

A Capitol Time

We only had 24 hours in Washington D.C. so we wanted to see much as possible. Getting to D.C. from most places on the east coast is easiest on Amtrak, in my opinion. We could relax and read while on the train instead of having to negotiate the traffic on the beltway. Trains arrive in the gorgeous Union Station, where you can catch a Metro subway, eat in any of a number of restaurants, or shop in a veritable mall of stores. Washington is a very walkable city, so we were able to stroll out of Union Station and over a couple of blocks to the Hotel George, a little boutique hotel on Capitol Hill where we had reservations.

The Best Onion Rings You'll Ever Eat

“Myran’s has the best onion rings you’ll ever eat.”  Onion rings?  We were in the heart of crawfish country, headed for Myran’s Maison de Manger for lunch.  Among her many talents, our friend K. is a supremely good cook.  While we didn’t doubt her, we were surprised that, in this context, she’d give onion rings a starring culinary role.

Eyjafjallajokull - The Inconvenient Volcano

For 7 days I tracked its every move vicariously through BBC TV, SKY News and CNN in hotel rooms in London and Paris, waiting for the go-ahead to get back on an aeroplane bound for Atlanta, secretly hoping that it wouldn’t come too soon. Though I knew had to get back.

Cooking with Giada

I want to cook like Giada De Laurentiis.

I don't necessarily mean that I want to create the same recipes as she does, although that would be nice too. My son gave me some DVDs of her cooking show on the Food Network and I was hooked. Her recipes are simple and easy to recreate at home and they are based on Italian cooking, of which I am particularly fond.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

From the vantage point of Royal Street on a beautiful spring day, the resurgence of New Orleans was abundantly on display.  Choosing from the delectable fare at the New Orleans Roadfood Festival was nigh impossible:  roasted oysters, crawfish enchiladas, roast beef Po Boys, Texas barbecue, dark chocolate turtles, pecan pie, and more.

Exercise For An Hour A Day, Seven Days A Week

Excerpt from The Journal of the American Medical Association, March 24/31. 2010:

“Objective: To examine the association of different amounts of physical activity with long-term weight changes among women consuming a usual diet.

…Participants: A prospective cohort study involving 34 079 healthy US women (mean age, 54.2 years) from 1992-2007…

Conclusions: Among women consuming a usual diet, physical activity was associated with less weight gain only among women whose BMI was lower than 25. Women successful in maintaining normal weight and gaining fewer than 2.3 kg over 13 years averaged approximately 60 minutes a day of moderate-intensity activity throughout the study. “

I read this report with mixed feelings.

$1.00: A Poem by Elaine Sexton

$1.00

for five fresh eggs in winter,
one of them “wrinkled”
the farmer says, but still good.

Food For Thought

The latest book by Michael Pollan (The Omnivore’s Dilemma, In Defense of Food) is so simple, so concise, it could be read, indeed should be read, by elementary and middle school aged children. Food Rules: An Eater’s Manual is not much more than a pamphlet; Pollan designed this book to cut through the cacophony of food and nutrition noise that fills the virtual air of today’s media.

In Search of Lost Cookies

And suddenly the memory appeared.  That taste was the taste of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray . . . my aunt Léonie would give me after dipping it in her infusion of tea . . .

-Marcel Proust

'Tis the season of the cookie.  With visions of Mom and Grandma baking Christmas cookies dancing in my head, I put out a call for family reminiscences and got this reply:  “No doubt you will make mention of Mrs. Schweer's cookies.”

Mrs. Schweer?  Who the devil is Mrs. Schweer?  I turned in desperation to the internet.  Lo, there she was!  She’d been written up in Life Magazine, and she’d died at age 105 in the very hospital where I was born.  I wrote Mom to confirm.

“Not our Mrs. Schweer.”

May I Eat As I Please, Please?

Every Saturday this summer, we visited the local farmer’s market—for fresh vegetables, of course, but also for French tarts so good you knew butter suffused every pastry pore.  I waited to have my annual blood-letting until the market closed, for I suspected my cholesterol level might be in doubt.  I should have waited until the holidays were over.