Bruno Mars...isn't that a Candy Bar? What?

My rendition of "Grenade" by Bruno Mars dedicated to my foody sister.  I mean no disrespect to Bruno in fact I embrace his work and his talent.  I just needed to make it relevant to me.  He is a talented artist pulling at the heartstrings of teens and young adults everywhere.  I on the other hand already lived through those days and now have other pangs in my life.  As a more mature and  experienced adult, I have developed other relationships...for example, with food.  It takes a lot of energy and creativity to make delicious, healthy dishes.   I would really cook anything for ya!


Click here to listen to the original

Easy over, easy over, that's just how fried eggs are
Oh, take, take, take it all but you never give
Should've known you was trouble from the first bite
Had your mouth wide open, why was it open?

Gave you all I had and you tossed it in the trash
You tossed it in the trash, you did
To give me all your  porkchops is all I ever asked
'Cause what you don't understand is

I'd make a marinade for ya
Throw my pasta on a plate for ya
I'd fold and whisk and flambe for ya
You know I'd cook anything for ya

I would go through all this pain
Strain these wet noodles down my drain
Yes, I'd eat pie for you, baby
but you won't eat the same
no, no, no, no

Blacken fish, blacken fish, eat it till your blue
Tell the chef I said, hey, I need this one with a roux
Cook women, Cook women, that's just what you need, yeah
You'll smile in my face then rip the ribs right off my plate

Gave you all I had and you tossed it in the trash
you tossed it in the trash yes you did
to give me all your sauce is all I ever asked
cause what you don't understand is

I'd make a souffle for ya

Throw my pasta on a plate for ya

I'd fold and whisk and flambe for ya

You know I'd cook anything for ya

I would go through all this pain

Strain these wet noodles down my drain

Yes, I'd even fry for you, baby

but you won't cook the same

If biscotti's are desired

Ooh, you'd watch me bake with no shame

You say you saute, you're a liar,

'Cause you never, ever, ever fry baby

But darlin, I'd still make a marinade for ya

Throw my pasta on a plate for ya

I'd fold and whisk and flambe for ya

You  know I'd cook anything for ya

I would go through all this pain

Strain these wet noodles down my drain

Yes, I'd  eat a pie for you, baby

But you won't cook the same

No you won't cook the same
You wouldn't cook the same

Ooh, you'd only call take out.

No, no, no, no

From Heels to Cleats

The  weekend of the formal dance for my 15 year old daughter.

Friday thru Sunday

Black flats 

Running shoes 

Ugg boots 

bare feet

....go to sleep

comfy socks

flip flops 

high heels 

bare feet

....go to sleep

softball cleats

dirty socks

bare feet

...ahhh

Decem-bye-bye

The holiday season is behind me and the decorations, ribbons, recipes, clothes and extra pounds are resting peacefully in their respective boxes, files and thighs.  There are no more weekends left for getting the unsent cards out or justifying eating the last bit of chocolate left in the box to nom away.  However, I discovered a collection of photos on my phone from various moments in the season that I took probably thinking, 'these must be the moments I want to remember'. Looking back through the photos, the season looks fun and festive.  But actually, there are other moments that I can think of that are much more worthy that I did not capture in a picture.  Part of that may be my own fault. I don't normally take pictures of me procrastinating sending holiday cards,  and contemplating if I should pull out my credit card one last time from my wallet.  What about all dirty dishes piled in the sink waiting to be cleaned and muddy wet dog paws painting a path on the hardwood floors? These are seasonal mayhems and they return every year. Secretly I love them just as much as anything.

Thank goodness the holiday lunch I shared with a friend in a quaint downtown was captured but I don't have a picture of my 'fender kiss' when I  suddenly threw my car in reverse to secure a parking space that opened up after I had just passed it (I swear there wasn't a car behind me).  But, it all ended well.  My friend and I met a wonderful craftsman potter, who was so kind and mellow.   The incident could have been an outing killer, but it turned into a meeting of goodwill and cheer and feeling really good about mankind.  It was a good moment.

The Christmas tree. I do have a picture of this brilliant beauty, but I should have used the outdoor setting on the camera when I committed it for posterity.  I'm always in search of the latest technology when it comes to lighting the tree. This year,  I found the perfect lights... they were just a wee tad smaller than a baseball. I could not wait to see them on my fresh Noble Fir.  See?  The tree so blinding you needed a pair of anti-glare sunglasses to look at it.  Who needs to turn on the heater when about 200 light bulbs are on your tree generating enough heat and light to warrant wearing tank tops in the house in the chill of winter. No amount of water was keeping that tree fresh for the next 6 weeks.  I secretly wrapped a fire extinguisher in holiday wrap behind the tree just in case the tree spontaneously combusted.  So, in addition to the light bulbs, I also put on about 500 little cool white lights and installed two switches for bi-modal lighting. One mode for cool lighting and the other for full-on total incandescent ( not saving energy mode) lighting. Completely ridiculous.  Someone should have told me to stop.  We were roasting marshmallows over the tree.

 However, what I remember most, and I don't have any pictures of,  is making  candied citrus peels dipped in dark chocolate and citrus Turkish Delights. Neither of these are hard, but both are time consuming if you want then to turn out right.  My family ate the citrus peels like french fries ... one after another without any thought of what they were putting in their mouths.  I offered them ketchup and mayonnaise to help wash them down.  Watching them disappear was frightful and I don't have any pictures of these little delicate shoestring delights.  But I  must have had it in my mind about taking pictures because I have one in the very beginning of the process, in full peel. However, any more  ideas of capturing this process was trumped from the hypnotic spell I was under while watching my peels blanch over and over and over again.

I love the holidays but I love to see them go too.  Bye Bye.

When Cookies Save the day!

...and this is why I keep homemade sweets and treats in my home.

I was writing a letter to a company that I found very interesting and felt its goals and purpose matched my interests perfectly.  With excitement and  all the wonder of the possibilities that could come out of this possible union, I sent a letter describing myself and telling them how wonderfully prolific and profound I am.  I went on to describe how adept I am at so many skills and software programs.  When I was finished, I was just amazed at how truly great I was.  Wow!   Feeling good about myself and all that I had accomplished, I clicked the  'send' and off it goes.  Just for fun, I opened the letter again from my 'sent' box to read about myself all over again.  This was a good letter and it described me to a tee, it was perfect.   "Wholly Crap!" "What the... it can't be."  I put my glasses on and there it was,  sitting on the page like some bird had just pooed on it, right after I had just described my innate ability to pay attention to details...there it was, staring back at me as though I had typed in bold, italicized, 24 pt font.   How could it be?  I misspelled the word electronic and with a slip of the finger spelled electroonic.  Are you even kidding me here? Why didn't the word program pick up on that?  Oh man, oh man, oh man.  Here I am in the heart of Silicon Valley and I can't even spell the very word that made this valley so famous.  I called my sister and she laughed hysterically.  She sent me voicemails all day asking for tech support on her electroonic devices.  It went on and on and on.  

I was not distraught. I felt rather pleased that I felt confident enough with my spelling ability that I did not use spell checker.  But, all the same, this is why spell checker exists. So, to ease the anxiety and reflect on my unavoidable awkward life,  I went into my freezer and took out two of my cranberry orange biscotti's and brewed a pot of earl grey tea and just let the phone ring as my sister left sinister messages asking for electroonic support.    I am still waiting to hear from them by the way...still waiting...sigh...

60 the new 40

60-21-14. It's not the combination to a high school locker, the call numbers in Bingo or a Quarterback hike cadence. These numbers represent a snapshot of life. A husband and father turning 60 years old; a marriage of 21 years; and a son, 14 years old - and on one particular night a celebration took place, with those exact numbers in play.

 I was thrilled to get a message from a friend of mine asking me to help organize the food for her husbands 60th birthday celebration. I couldn't wait to call my sister. As soon as I said the words "party" and "food" she let loose with a steady stream of questions into the phone, "How many people?" "Sit down or buffet?" "China dishes or Eco-plates?" "Appetizers?" "Main Course?" "Dessert?" "Indoors or outdoors?" Oh, the possibilities! I was getting a little dizzy from all her questions. However, suddenly, it dawned on me, this was not just another party. This celebration was about a life, not about food. Whatever we prepared needed to complement the party not be the party. This was 60 years of life! Immediately, the menu came into focus. The food needed to gather people, reflect on the past, embrace life and create a memory. It needed to be savory, yet fresh and sweet, full of texture and experience. My sister and I could not wait to start chopping, wrapping, marinating and creating some dishes.

 We quickly decided on marinated lamb grilled over hot coals with its hot savory juice spilling over to the rice pilaf, decorated with pan roasted pine nuts, apricots and currants. The table would be adorned with fresh roasted eggplant blended with fresh spices into baba ganoush. The sweetness of homemade yogurt transformed into tzatziki, (a cool blend of herbs and spices in yogurt), balanced by the spice of mouth-watering aleppo pepper hummus. Of course there would be filo wrapped delights carefully wrapped and brushed with clarified butter. Don’t forget the tabbouleh salad with bundles and bundles of carefully hand-chopped parsley. Additionally, my sister would craft beautiful mini lamajouns (Armenian style pizza) and a completely original dish that remains nameless but it contains the nuttiness of bulghur wheat, tomatoes, mint, parsley and other spices and herbs formed into teaspoon size bites.  We contemplated calling them"Tabouli bites".   There was even room for Armenian string cheese, lovingly pulled into fine strands, bundled on a dish next to the pita bread.

It was time for the celebration. My friend was such a graceful and relaxed hostess. With calm, and without pretense, it was obvious her intentions were nothing but love for her husband, her son, and their community of friends. The decorations were subtle but meaningful. She organized pictures of her husband from different time periods in a whimsical display on the dinner tables. However, the high point of the evening was a movie slide show set to music through the decades showing images of his life.  My sister and I passed out handmade savory infused lollipops to be enjoyed during the movie presentation. There were chuckles and laughs as the pictures faded in and out. There were memories of old haunts and hangout joints, report cards and teacher remarks. It was fun to see the pictures of him as a young man with a full beard and moustache. I don’t know what it is about men and beards but even my own father, brother and husband have grown, or in the case of my husband, attempted to grow the same beard. It struck me that I only knew my neighbor as a friend down the street who happens to have a child the same age as one of my own. But, now he suddenly became someone’s son, someone’s childhood friend, a boyfriend, a student, and maybe a grandfather someday (but not too soon, I hope).

Think of the roles food plays in our lives – it’s more than calories. Have you ever bitten into a ripe mango or watermelon only to have the memories of an afternoon  of a long ago summer dripping down your chin? The job of food at this party was to trigger and enhance these memories without anybody paying attention to the food itself. That was a tall order. This is the real joy of cooking – understanding the palette and purpose. Is the food the foreground or the ambient light? The melody, the harmony or the soothing heartbeat…

 The food was eaten, memories were shared. The proof of the evening was in the apple cake.  For as long as he could remember, an apple cake was always served on his birthday. This cake was so dense and sinfully rich, topped with a toffee glaze.  It was more like eating a caramel apple without the stick. Oh was it good and besides,  you only turn 60 once.   My sister and I were happy and satiated in a different respect.  We were just happy to see our hostess relaxed and enjoying the party.

The evening was best summed up when his close friend raised a glass of champagne and simply stated, “You make turning 60 look easy.”

Let's face it, 60 is the new 40. Bring it on!

Twittering in the Garden

Recently, my sister and I catered our very first Tweetup.  What is a Tweetup?  It's basically an informal gathering of people who share a common Twitter interest.   This particular group of Tweeters were a savvy yet diversified flock of landscape designers from around the country gathering in the Bay Area to attend the 2010 annual San Francisco Garden Show (SFGS to the gardening elite). In fact, the Tweetup was a pre-party for the SFGS and for many it was the first time to actually meet face-to-face and interact with one other without a keyboard.  It had all the same mystery and excitement as the movie, "You've Got Mail".  Ahhh,  the rush of adrenaline when Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks finally meet after months of writing.

It is my dear friend who hosted the pre-party in her magical garden, which in my opinion is above and beyond anything one would see at the show.  Am I biased?  Yes,  mind you I am not a gardener, but I know what I like – just like my wine.  Also, pre-parties are the best sort of parties to attend.  If there is red carpet event for gardeners, then a Twitter pre-party, in my humble opinion, is it!  Everyone has their nails cleaned and buffed, there is  swirling chatter all around, the anticipation about seeing each other and, of course, the excitement of  attending the SFGS (The Academy Awards of the composting crowd).

After a very wet winter, and months of prepping her garden, home, dog and husband, the Tweetup was threatening to be rained out. Puxatawny Phil declared 6 more weeks of winter, and by golly that is what we got. As luck would have it, the weather gods shined on my friend and her Twitter-kins, the sun poked out that particular day and her garden was in glorious bloom. Her Tweeting friends arrived and everyone enjoyed the fruits (literally) of her hard work.  Seriously,  her garden is so finely tuned all year long,  I could easily, without even looking at my calendar, know when to flip my mattress.


I have known my friend for the better part of 9 years.  I have seen her life change and evolve just like her garden.  The funny part is, it is not just about the plants and the carefully placed garden charms.  It is the sublime feeling I experience whenever I step in to her garden. It is not a surprise that her garden has been the prize of gardening magazines, newspapers and various Tweets everywhere.  For me, her garden encourages me to imagine the impossible. It is a place to remember the past, to be in the moment with your child, laugh with your spouse and dream of things to come.  It is simply beautiful. In fact, it reminds me  of  being in my sister's kitchen and  pantry.  It is a place of discovery, smells, colors, texture, sounds and taste.  I know the second I step into my sister's kitchen I am someplace where I am safe and loved.

I would be remiss if I did not mention my friend's husband who is incredibly clever with a hammer and nail.  His ability to transform her childhood cottage into a rustic but functional office is the envy of all who step inside.  It's also his construction of a beautiful aviary and chicken coop  which are one-of-a-kind structures that unassumingly  grace the garden.  Whenever I leave her garden I  am inspired and empowered to achieve the impossible.  It is the love of tradition, family and friends that motivate her to excel at her craft like none other I know.  I remember as a child running around playing the game of "tag" with my siblings and in the game  there is a designated "free space" where a person could run and stand and no one could touch you. This is exactly how I feel in her garden.  So, when she was talking to me about her Tweetup garden party, I asked her what are you doing about food?  She said she was going to serve sausages.  Really?  I love my friend, and I know she loves sausages but, really?  I have nothing against sausages. They are nice tidy little meat packages, savory and spiced to perfection. They are a no fuss, no muss kind of food.   Just like the next carnivore, I love how they crunch and spew hot sausage juice all over my white shirts. Imagining her designer friends, in the back drop of her blooming garden, eating meat sticks, well, that was like having caviar with potato chips.

So, my sister and I prepared a menu that would complement her garden and friends.  Just as my friend has her clever husband,  I have my sister who is clever with cleaver and grater.  She has an uncanny ability to anticipate spices in a dish, make syrups and condiments that create a one-of-a-kind melding of flavors that blossom on your taste buds.  As for me, I am the artistic one, the quality control gal, the big picture ( I cook too) but my sister is the chef and the wizard around the pot. Whoa!  When I mentioned my friend's party, she started her whirling dervish routine.  It was back to the market and out with all her potions.  I am very happy to have been able to help my friend. I know what she does to achieve what she does, and secretly I know,  that she knows, that my sister and I do as she does.  This makes us all very knowing. HA!

If you are curious as to who my friend is and I know you are...you can tweet her here:  http://twitter.com/sweetrebecca or better yet...read her blog here: http://gossipinthegarden.com or check our her landscaping design work here: http://www.harmonyinthegarden.com/Home.html
If you want to know more about my sister, you have to stick with me... here.

Tortured Soul

My sister has a serious problem but I don't think it requires a therapist or a doctor.  Just some serious understanding from those around her. I discovered something about her that really surprised me. She does not like ivy. My sister and I were sitting on a low-walled rock fence looking out over the landscape of changing colors, drinking some hot coffee in the cool air. Summer was fading away and bountiful autumn was stepping in taking over the scene. Across the way there was an meandering ivy plant, showing off its progress last spring as it made its way along the fence, relinquishing itself to the change in season. It was absolutely stunning, with its deep reds, oranges, yellows, dirty purples and greens. Maybe it was the caffeine boost I got from the coffee, but I couldn't stop talking about it. I went back in time reflecting back when I lived on the East coast with all the mature buildings and vegetation, nearly forgetting my sister was even sitting next to me. When I got back to being in our moment, I noticed how ominously quiet she was. Not a smile, nod or contribution to the conversation. You see, she never looked at the fence. Instead, she sat very quietly looking at her steamy reflection in the coffee tapping the side of her paper cup. "What's wrong sister?", I asked. She replied quietly but with a little hesitation, "The ivy... I don't see it that way, I see a mess". I couldn't tell if she was disappointed, sad or sick. There was an awkward moment of silence followed by a very deep thought when I suddenly busted up laughing. My sister had a problem with ivy!! You see, when I see beautiful ivy growing on a building or fence, I see a cute hobbit house or a stately building. I see a blending of nature and architecture. My gosh, I experience art, colors, texture, shapes, composition, moods. However, my poor sister sees an invasion, a plague. She sees rats. She sees little tendrils slipping into cracks and making bigger cracks. Simply put, she is a tortured soul.

I continue to laugh with complete abandoned, shamelessly not taking my sisters recently unveiled neuroses into consideration. It all makes sense now. Her windows on her turn-of-the-century home are the best caulked windows in the northern hemisphere. How many times have I called her and she is got her caulking gun, sealing the windows around her house. If she isn't shopping for food, she is caulking. Thinking back on our childhood, I believe there is a very good explanation for her caulking and ivy-phobe behavior. Our older brother, during high school, had a part-time job cutting ivy from a condominium complex.  Any opportunity to creep us out, he did! He would go into detail about the rats, mice and voles living in the thick, lush, ground cover and the hundreds upon hundreds of snails, slugs and spiders. Admittedly, I have been forever cautious around ivy and always think twice about stepping in it, but my sister? I think she processed it a little differently. Ivy vines, Spanish Moss, and ground cover pose a serious life threat to her, squeezing the last bit of oxygen from her lungs, suffocating her into a complete state of stupor. All I can say is, thank goodness for home depot and caulking goo. Secretly, I think she keeps a little syringe of it in her purse...just in case.