I just ate breakfast soup, after eating breakfast. Today’s breakfast was pecked in serving order—between feeding the beans, I dug into small bites of Challah French toast Pudding, just a lick of syrup, packed lunches, just a handful of Pirate Booty, three rings of pineapple. Then I returned home to devour the best soup I’ve ever made. Breakfast soup is not a milky porridge with bits of crumbled bacon and a swirl of maple spiced egg custard (though that does sound heavenly). No. It is phenomenal soup of the savory variety from which you won’t be able to keep yourself come breakfast. You’ll eat it cold, standing up, straight out of the fridge. I am crazy in love with this soup. I will share the recipe because it’s my own, and you won’t find one for it anywhere else (believe me, I tried to find it).  But first, a random of the past few days:

LUCAS LOST TWO TEETH
They go out in the same order they came in, people say of teeth. We noticed a gap in Lucas’s lower rack, only to discover that a tooth had run away. Lost, didn’t even realize it was gone. Then, another loose tooth, one he was ready to tuck under his pillow as soon as it came loose. Though yesterday, when I picked him up from school, the gap had widened. “Where’s your loose tooth, buddy?”
“Drats,” he said. “Foiled again.”

ABIGAIL LAST NIGHT
After a dinner of New York strip and my Sweet Potato Mojo Fries (Sweet potatoes cut into fries, shoved into a plastic baggie with egg whites, then spread upon a parchment-lined baking sheet, cooked at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, flip fries over, cook another 7 minutes or so, then quickly shower the hot “fries” with: salt, 1 clove minced garlic, chopped cilantro, chopped mint, zest of 1 lime, and a pinch of red pepper flakes—the egg whites act like a browned crackling coating), Abigail turned to me and without stopping for a beat said, “Mama, now we need to eat our ice cream for dessert because we have to get all these sweets out of the house!”

WHAT ARE YOU—NOOOO!
Perhaps I’ll spare you the story of Kind Sir’s transition into a Waterfowl the other day. Nervous stomach, meet the ool—notice there’s no “P” in it? Supposed to keep it that way. Oops. Poor Abigail, too, dragged out, soaking, forced to race with us into an air conditioned bathroom, with Lucas truly waddling, appropriately enough, like a Waterfowl, which is exactly the noun I’d turn into a verb to discuss the situation. It was a water-foul. Nightmare on my street. I will also spare you the scene once we entered the bathroom. There will be no discussion of the sink. Truly tasteless, I will also add, after all this poop business, my mind keeps circling corn kernels. I am so sorry.

MICHAEL’S GENUINE FOOD & WINE
Last Wednesday, Phil and I stole away to Miami for the afternoon. Phil was there for work, and I’d come along to eat. We dined at Michael’s Genuine Food & Wine (They have a cookbook, too). It’s the kind of place where I imagine patrons asking the waitstaff, “Yes, the chicken is organic, but what was it fed, where did it sleep, and what was his name?” My sustainable food associations with zealots aside, Michael’s offered us fresh, bright, inventive food—surprising. I ordered the soup, which, yes, served as inspiration for the breakfast soup I just devoured. Since I was unable to find the recipe anywhere, including a cursory search in their cookbook via Amazon, I recreated my own version at home. In love, despite the free-association.

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THIN COCONUT CORN SOUP (WITH OR WITHOUT COCONUT)
4 cups College Inn Chicken Broth (not stock)
4 ears of shucked fresh corn (Not sure you’ll get the same crunch and perkiness from frozen, but perhaps. Grab a bag, use ¾ of it)
1 baking potato, peeled and cut into ½-inch cubes
13.5 oz can of can of good quality coconut milk (my fav: Chaokok brand for its high coconut cream content)
½ red onion
Pinch or two of red pepper flakes (your call on how much heat)
1/3 cup fresh minced mint
1/3 cup fresh minced cilantro (unless you’re one of those people who HATES it)
2 pats of butter to swirl in at the very end
2 tablespoons of olive oil (again, optional. I added at the end, then whisked because I love to see those teeny tiny dots of flavor in my broths)
Totally optional if you like it creamier: ¼ cup Heavy Whipping Cream (or to use if you’re stuck with a crap brand of coconut milk)
1 Avocado, cubed
Zest of 1 lime (optional – I did not do this)
Salt and (white) pepper to taste

I say thin because this isn’t some chunky glue chowder. The broth is thin. Also, you can modify the recipe using low-fat or fat-free alternatives like fat-free half-and-half. I go for the fat kind of thin, personally.

1. Holding them upright in a bowl so kernels don’t fly everywhere, strip the cobs of their kernels as close as possible to the cobs. Place cubed potato and the kernels and their cobs in a large, heavy pot with the broth, making sure the broth covers all. If not, add more broth or water. Season with ½ teaspoon of salt. Bring to a boil, then cover, stirring occasionally, until the corn and potatoes are tender and the broth is flavored, about 17 minutes. Remove and discard the cobs.

2. Whisk in coconut milk (and cream). Add red onion, ½ of chopped herbs, red pepper flakes Reduce heat to moderately low and simmer, uncovered, until the flavors have a chance to meld, about 5 minutes. Add the remaining herbs, season with kosher salt and white pepper to taste. Optionally whisk in butter and/or oil. If you want more brightening power than the mint, add zest of 1 lime.

3. Add avocado cubes to the bottom of each serving bowl, and more red onion if desired, add the soup, and serve immediately, or eat for breakfast reheated in the microwave.

Last time I went to a Weight Watchers meeting was September 9, 2011. When I’d made Lifetime, my leader had me stand in front of the room, left hand up, as I repeated a sacred promise. You know, I, state your name… I promised, at her insistence, “never to pay for Weight Watchers again.” Meaning, don’t let yourself stray two pounds from your goal weight, ever, or else you’ll have to pay. I know she had only the best of intentions, having me commit to my goal, but what happens if I slip up? If I have a really hungry brain and full belly, but eat anyway? What happens is, I became terrified of breaking my promise because it would mean I was a failure, that I simply couldn’t stick to my oath.

Today, I said fook that noise. I don’t care what I promised because I shouldn’t have made the promise in the first place. The fact is, you’re not a failure if you gain weight. You’re a failure if you give up. Showing up, despite mistakes and overindulgence deserves a gold star. Not that anyone gives two pounds what I weigh, but it’s my blog, and my record of life, so I’m putting out here.

January 28, 2011 – Starting Weight 156.4 lbs.
July 23, 2011 – Made Goal Weight of 125 lbs. 124.8 lbs.
August 27, 2011 – Made Lifetime 123.6 lbs.

April 19, 2012 – Returned to Weight Watchers 130.2 lbs.

Total Loss as of today: -23.4 lbs.

While I’m now 5.2 lbs. from my goal weight, technically, I need only lose 3.2 lbs. to reach 127 lbs. to be considered “at goal,” given their two pound leeway. I’m not obsessed with the numbers. I simply want a feeling of control again. Between the Cold Stone Creamery I had my way with last night and my complete disregard for vegetables these past weeks, I’m ready to be accountable again. Which for me means simply writing down everything I eat for a few weeks. Oh, and I’ll weigh my wine because I forget what a serving looks like. That’s truly all it will take. Because when you write it, you’re more mindful. When I do reach goal again, I will stand in front of the room and tell everyone that “never” is a word that shouldn’t ever weigh you down.

Tonight is fondue night. I’d planned it for yesterday, but then I was too tired to do anything I’d said I’d do, which lead to a drive-up window, which lead to my eating everything they didn’t, which lead to the mildest form of guilt, which led to “Oh, why not?” paired with a dry Riesling from Germany. From France to Germany, I’m very Euro that way. Only, I made them shower.

Pajamas, toys littered here, some there. Clean up! Only who had the energy? I needed sleep. Still, as promised on nights without TV, we read two bedtime stories, one of their choosing: Amelia Bedelia and The Baby and one of my favorites: Anatole. I was gearing up.

I knew fondue night would come—I’d spent too much money on cheese for it not to come—and what better book could I select than a story all about cheese! Anatole, as far as I’m concerned, is the original Ratatouille (the Disney Pixar film, not the country-style vegetable dish featured in the movie, based off Thomas Keller’s recipe for “Byaldi”). So, tonight it is. Fondue times two.

Equal parts Gruyere and Emmental, white wine, a clove of garlic, a thimble of Kirsch, a fresh dusting of nutmeg. Melt on, my friend, melt on. Though, I might cut back a bit on the Emmental because I’m not the hugest fan of Swiss cheese. I am, however—and this is true since living near Zabar’s back in the 2000′s—a monumental fan of Fromager d’affinois, the greatest oozy cheese ever. Pure cow’s milk, it’s a French double-cream, and it puts Brie to bed and leaves it there for good. It’s, I’ll just say it, better than butter.

I’ve spent my afternoon previewing Friends with Kids, while prepping the conduits: sugar snap peas, roasted cauliflower, blanched broccoli, grilled baby bellas, carrots and green slips of Granny’s apple. Then onto hulling strawberries, slicing mango, dividing oranges, cleaving nectarines, and peeling kiwis. I’ll leave the bananas to the end. Pretzel rods and pound cake. All to be devoured by my succulent sweet beans. As for Friends with Kids, it’s When Harry Met Sally, only not as funny. Though, it is funny, and I did enjoy seeing most of the Bridesmaid’s cast—I wish they had bigger roles. Sorry to be so quick about it, but I have to race to scoop up the tadpoles. I think I’m going to make them speak with French accents before we re-read Anatole tonight.

Wassail doesn’t make me think of apples or the brown pulpy foam, or the potpourri you end up ingesting with the quickest of hot pecks. It makes me think of WASPs, sailing. And of ferrets. Because Wassail might as well be weasel, which is quite ferret like. And ferrets make me think of the way thin old boobs hang, long and lean. Our whole lives we try to be just that, defined, carved, elongated. And with Christmases past and soon present, the bits of us we’d hoped were rounder go oblong. Then we wrap a silk scarf ’round the wattle, thank heavens for the Ally McBeal characters with real life contemporaries, apply a brighter shade of lipstick than we would, say, in spring (or at least hopefully with less orange), and we pour ourselves some Wassail. No, more, dear friends, no more. This year, my drink of choice will be salty, sweet, sticky and soused up but good.

That’s right. Enter the Salted Caramel Vodka (or Maker’s Mark) Hot Chocolate. The real question is: when will Fourbucks get their liquor license already? Because my other winter go-to hooch beverage is a kissing cousin of the Spiced Caramel Apple Cider. Just add calvados and bourbon. Or really anything alcoholic. Who cares. Soon, if you do it right, you won’t.

With Ribbons, Bows & Nautical Knots, here’s to tying one,

Stephanie
 

I’m at the library with books stacked to my chin; it’s the Holiday Preamble, a preface to the pudge, a prologue to the pounds. Planning for the holiday season makes me want to smack my mama and roll her in the mud. Gathering lists, comparing recipes, flipping through holiday circulars, it’s all tastier than spoonbread, more toothsome than cider-glazed turkey, sticky sweet sin pudding. I can’t get enough.

Duck That Goose

This season, however, we’re taking our show on the road, winding our way up to the Treasure Coast, where we’ll be giving thanks at Yiayia’s house.

We’ll be picking up my grandmother “Big Yiayia,” in Delray Beach, then heading north to my mother’s home in Stuart, FL. My sister Lea will be meeting us there, after her drive down from Gainesville (she graduates this January with a degree and license in Chinese Herbs and Medicine and Acupuncture, a nice addition to her massage therapy and cosmetology licenses). I call first!

At my mother’s home: She and her husband Don, Lea, Big Yiayia, Phil, Lucas, Abigail, and their mother, The Glutton. My grandmother, age 96, will be baking cookies and assembling Baklava (she has worked as a chef and caterer, and she spent a lifetime married to, my pappou (pah-pooh), a Greek man named Euripides, so the Greek sweets and appetizers are always aplenty. My mother will bake her cider-thickened apple pie and will construct a salad, roast a bird, reduce a cranberry sauce with pear, nuts, and mandarin orange. As always, she’ll compose a gravy—without saying the word “giblet”. If she uses innards, we needn’t know about it, even though we know about it. Then, she’ll orchestrate a dressing (stuffing) worthy of hymn.

Oh, the stuffing. As an indecisive Libra, I can allow that I’ve always got my hand in it, and I’m never completely satisfied until I’ve taste-tested my way through the options. There’s the traditional sausage, celery, white raisin or apple, sure. There’s the wild mushroom camp. The cornbread addicts. The chestnut fools (Sorry, but chestnuts only smell good. They taste like mealy mush scrotum). Oysters. Sage. Wild rice! How you dress your bird is a decision as paralyzing as how to trim a tree (another obsession of mine).

A few doors down, my aunt will host neighbors and her own children and grandchildren. Then, after dinner, we’ll all gather together at a tented pool reserved for our family, where we’ll binge pick our way through desserts. Together, we’ll be close to twenty-five people, give or take a drumstick.

My job: glorious side dishes and extraordinary desserts. My dream job. Where, oh, where to begin. My answer: the library. One thing I know for sure: I’ll be making a tray of macaroni and cheese at Phil’s request. ‘Cause he likes nothing else on the Thanksgiving table. I can’t believe we’re related.

Previous Thanksgiving Love Notes:

It’s The Thought That Counts, Not The Calories
(This includes links to previous Thanksgiving years)

Giving Thanks For Leggings

I‘ve learned that there are new neighbors in our development. Hence, the flour and sugar. I happened to have twenty-four Italian prune plums on hand, because, well, that’s just the kind of psycho kitchen I keep. The violet gems aren’t around long, so when I see them at the market, I nab them up. Growing up, my mother cleaved each plum and cooked them on the stove top until they were thick and bubbling, with cinnamon, vanilla bean, and sugar, “Just enough,” she’d say. “Who needs crust!” I was too impatient to wait for them to cool, dipping my finger in when her back was turned, shoving that finger into my mouth before she could spot me. She was right. They were better once they cooled and thickened up a bit. We’d spoon them over vanilla ice cream or swirl them into breakfast farina or yogurt. There’s something soulful about them, which you can’t say for many end of summer, very early autumn, fruits.

More slender than their stubby round-bottomed plum cousins, Italian Prune Plums look as if they’ve been dusted with a fine coat of powder. Slice them open, and you won’t find bursting runnels or vibrant flesh. They aren’t as juicy, which makes them the perfect candidate for a dessert bar. The Italian jewels have a green tint to them, a telltale of tart. Which is exactly what I look for in a fruit destined for the shortbread life. Tart fruit that flirts with the sugared butter crust is all a girl can ask for. It’s why I like rhubarb bars, and even, although sweeter, blueberry bars. And don’t get me started on my all-time favorite Blueberry Buckle Bars. Sense a theme here. I love me some (walnut honey!) bars because they make good gift. Oh, right, and my Blondes Have More Fun Bars.

Also, if you ever find yourself in South Florida, make your way over to The Boys Farmers Market in Delray Beach, FL. It’s basically a kissing cousin of Zabar’s, but with even more Jews. Their produce is the best I’ve found, ever. Seriously, I’d say it’s on par with Eli’s, which was obscenely overpriced. The Boys produce is all “sugar sweet.” Sugar Sweet Peaches. Sugar Sweet Corn. Sugar Sweet Bing Cherries. The whole place is juicy and makes me want to take my top off and let them squeeze my melons.

The Boys Farmers Market, Delray Beach, FL