Wonderbread Eyes

It’s the swoosh of those strenuously long eyelashes that makes me go weak at the knees. Always. I know she is cute in so many ways, who better than me, her mother, to name them all, but most definitely the eyelashes are my weakness, maybe out of maternal pride (look at that Voguesque attribute that formed in MY uterus) or jealousy (I glob and glob and glob endless vats of mascara promising to deliver half her natural length. I am lucky if I’ll get a third). They get me every time.

“Pleease, mom, please”, she pleads in rhythm with her swoosh. Each time those lids close I swear I am being fanned.

She clutched the bright white bag with psychedelic red, blue and yellow dots floating amongst its brazen “WONDER BREAD” inscription as if it where her most treasured American Girl doll. I appeared shell shocked and just looked around aisle 8 anxiously hoping no one would recognize me. How on earth would I, a self-ordained food snob, explain my offspring cavorting with such low-grade food fare?

“Come on, Dani, it has absolutely no nutritional value”, I attempted in my most maternal tone, all the while picturing mush clogging up an already clogged colon (mothers really can picture this).

But I haven’t described to you the color of her eyes yet, have I? They are not the light sky blue eyes that I carry; eyes that, growing up amongst Venezuelans whose standard oculus color choices range in black, dark brown, and brown, were both cherished and gawked at as if they made me into some unique species. Nor are her eye’s those of my Venezuelan husband, a non-descript muddy tone
that falls under the dark brown category.

No, her color is one all of her own, as if her tiny DNA ladder took a dance with sky and sludge to decide which she’d end up with and couldn’t make up its mind so she ended up with a strange mix of the two. A swirl with the heavens and the earth leads to a most interesting hue: a rich honey, like amber with splotches of gold and even a speck of green (my father’s hazel making a quiet cameo appearance).

And why stick with one tint when you can have them all, her tiny, logical blueprint thought to itself? And so she hasn’t, for those swirls of colors do change depending on my daughter’s outfit, her mood, or the clarity of the day. Every sunrise holds a new surprise as to what color eyes she will have – a constant motion of change and beauty, much like her.

So I am telling you when those killer eyelashes brush over those amazing eyes (today the color of wild blueberry honey) you buckle at the knees and even allow a loaf of Wonderbread to be bought (and not even hidden, you balance it right on the top of the shopping cart, damnit, next to the organic, free range eggs and the locally grown arugula, because you don’t give a crap anymore, you are forever swollen with love over that beautiful gaze you somehow participated in creating.

She knows she has this hold over me because she looks in my direction and throws two more blinks.

“Thanks, mom” she says, with a subtle, yet victorious grin sliding on her face. I know she knows how easy that was. I know she wonders what else she can get and whom else she will sucker if her mother, The Toughest of the Toughest, caved under seven blinks. I know she knows all this. Aside from having stunning eyes, she is incredibly smart. But I can’t help myself. I can’t say no to her eyes.

At home I place the white spongy bread next to the hearty multi-grain loaf. It is bright and bleached and happy next to its sullen, heavy healthy counterpart. Thanksgiving has just ended and I find myself recalling my childhood right after this holiday where turkey was enjoyed best in a sandwich: thick chunks of meat slathered with mayonnaise and thinly sliced red tomatoes. The bread was always lightly toasted and white, airy and delicious. I know I have a whole Tupperware filled with leftover turkey. No need to hide from anyone anymore, I am still under my daughter’s eye spell and the grains can wait; I am suddenly craving that wonderful memory.

Wonderbread Turkey Sandwich
2 slices Wonderbread, lightly toasted
immeasurable amounts of mayonnaise
tomato slices
arugula
leftover turkey

Assemble. Eat. Repeat.
Makes 1 sandwich

Baking Through Grief

I suspect she will never be the same. The road held humid secrets of the night before it and the sky was a blackish blue, the same color Richie’s veins habitually carried before the accident. But then in an unfathomable twist of fate, while darkness turned to dawn, her son was hit by a Jeep Grand Cherokee and the break of day began with one less person. One less son. One less smile to fill Judy’s heart and so it froze and her eyes have turned cold, gray, and hard, eyes that normally flowed with warmth like rich butterscotch one drizzles on their ice cream with glee. That was gone and I suspect she will never be the same.

There is no sense to such a senseless act. There is no sense to a child, all of sixteen, being taken away from his world, which, by all accounts, was one filled with thrill and adventure. I visited Judy in her home and it was adorned proudly with photographs detailing all of her son’s explosiveness and zest. An image of a young child, all of seven or eight, comfortably propped on a huge motorbike bathed in crusted mud. Another of the same child, a year older now, sporting a huge fish and an even bigger grin. Another image stops me and begs me nearer: it is a close-up of Richie sporting a wildly long and bleached-blonde Mohawk. He is probably eleven in that one, and, where the hairdo could easily serve as the centerpiece of that image, it is not. It is the warmth and promise of Richie’s smile that has brought me closer. It is the sparkle of his eyes that demanded me to stop. And think. And look closely. ‘I am Richie’, it spoke confidently and fearlessly. And then, if you look deeply into those eyes there is a spark of Judy there, always watching.

Death is an awkward visitor in our lives, the type that always manages to show up and we are never sure what to do with. It seems Death has made a bit too many unwarranted visits in my life lately and I feel a bit befuddled and drained from it all. But Richie’s passing seems to have touched me even further. There are pictures everywhere, you see. So many pictures. So many memories. And the promise of a life that remains unkept. And Judy’s eyes that have hardened and I wonder how they will see life as sweet again.

We all deal with grief in our own personal way. Mine, of course, is through the kitchen. It is the turf in which I feel most comfortable, where I know my way around best and no one can bother me. For Richie I made a cake. I beat the sugar and butter for a long, long time. It needed time and care, just as a small child does. I didn’t want to rush this cake. I wanted it to be just right. Some cakes call for a more impersonal approach: dump all the ingredients in one big frosty hello and beat the crap out of them for 3 minutes, dump them in their respective pans and bake them and that is the end of that. I love those cakes. They are convenient, fast, and good, but for today, it didn’t feel right. I wanted to savor making this cake, carefully divvy its contents and gently introduce them to make a grand batter. Like the young life cut short, I wanted to nurture this cake.

Lulu, my hot red mixer, understood. She churned diligently and produced the fluffiest butter/sugar mixture just for me as I stood numbly watching her paddle go round and round. Things work just as I intend in my kitchen, and that soothes me today. Once the cakes are baked and cooled, I begin to assemble them, first carefully slicing them into thin layers then dousing them with simple sugar to seal the moisture, then adding the raspberry preserves and finally, the whipped cream topping. It feels just right to make this cake on this day. As I bake it, I can’t seem to shake the images from the collage of photographs at Judy’s house. Images of youth and hope and adventure churn into a sad loss under the hum of Lulu. Still, I know Richie would think this the perfect cake for his mom and the thought of that gives me solace.

I spin the final layer of frosting, making sure to have my cake spatula at the perfect angle so as not to create any imperfections. I carefully mark the pieces using the back of a bread knife and go about creating the final touches with a French tip and some fresh berries. I turn and pipe and assemble as if this cake were my practical test for Le Grand Diplome. All the while I think of this boy that I never knew who has died, and I think of his mother, who has touched my life and that of my children with all her spunk and creativity and fun. I love her for that and for teaching them that thinking out of the box is always cool. I remember the look of delight in my daughter’s eyes every time she got to do another messy hands-on project with Ms. Judy, or my son’s fascination with the cookbook projects she spearheaded. During the years my children where with Ms. Judy, her energy and innovation was a current fixture in our home and it has grown and transcended all these years.

The cake is done and is indeed perfect. I know she will never be the same, how can she? She has lost her son. But I bring her the cake anyway. It is round and sweet and filled with richness. She places it on the table, next to Richie’s photographs and I know he is smiling somewhere and already I feel better.

Raspberry Vanilla Cake with Whipped Topping
(Chef, Gian Flores, J&W)

For the Cake:
3 cups flour
1 Tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon baking poser
¾ teaspoon salt
1 ½ cups milk
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons butter, softened
5 large eggs

For Filling:
Simple Syrup*
1 cup seedless raspberry jam
whipped cream
*made by taking equal parts of water and sugar and boiling down for five minutes

Decoration:
Berries
Sliced almonds

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease 2 9” cake pans.
In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt.
In a separate bowl, combine milk and vanilla.
Using an electric mixer,, cream butter and sugar until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, and beat well.
On low speed, add flour mixture alternating with milk mixture. Mix until fully incorporated.
Divide batter equally between 2 cake pans and bake for 30 -40 minutes.
Cool 10 minutes in pan, then invert them onto a cake rack. Cool completely before assembling. Each cake pan makes 1 cake.

Slice each cake into three thin layers. Brush each layer with simple sugar, then add 5 tablespoons of jam and spread thinly. Top with whipped cream. Place layer on top and repeat with next layer.
Cover cake with whipped topping. Add nuts and berries as decoration.

Makes 2 cakes

No Se Tu (How A Child, Hormones, and Luis Miguel Changed My Life)

It was a cramped quarter, roughly half the size of my bathroom at home, but nevertheless, it was one of the more desired spaces in the office because it had a window view. As my boss led me to my new abode I felt a hushed envy rush over those poor souls I was passing by who were subjected to the dark grayness of a corridor cubicle. I had only worked there for several months and already I was being granted the coveted corner cubicle. They barely knew me, but they hated me for my undeserving sunlight.

“This is where you will work now”, my supervisor offered in her quick, chirpy voice. I quietly gloated at the view. From the tenth floor, the Florida rays easily flushed over my future workspace, and, although the flat terrain did not offer much if you weren’t facing the ocean (I wasn’t) it still beat the fluorescent lights that surrounded my envious co-workers.

As I envisioned my increased productivity bathed in surpluses of Vitamin D, a head popped up from the other side of the wall.

“Hi! My name is Adrianna! I work in the ad department!”

Adrianna appeared harmless to the naked eye. She was round and bubbly, with warm chestnut eyes and stark black hair coifed in a perfect bob that easily hugged her full face. She was all of 5 feet tall (with heels) and sported few accessories save for a solid 18-karat gold cross linked with a small medallion of a woman in deep prayer, some Saint, I suppose.

After my boss left, Adrianna extended an invitation to her side, most likely to show off her half of the much-desired workspace. Work was the last thing Adrianna could do, I thought to myself, as her desk was littered with thousands of tiny artifacts; remnants of where she’d been or would like to be. There were at least 25 different angel statues, tiny porcelain things with pink lips and gold-rimmed halos, I couldn’t tell if she wanted her area to resemble a 9-year old’s room or the inside of a church. Propped up behind them where at least 100 diminutive stuffed animals: bears, lions, dogs, seals, giraffes, pandas- the entire San Diego Zoo was housed here in miniature form and excessive dust. I felt my nose itch just looking at them.

Wherever there was a possible gap of oxygen, Adrianna had added something else: a snow globe, a doll, a crystal shoe that doubled as a pencil holder. All she was missing was a crown to complete her title as The Ultimate Queen of Kitsch. In the far corner, hidden behind a file or two (yes, she actually sported those) was a tiny blue boom box. It seemed so comfortably forgotten that I did the mistake of paying it no attention and moving on.

I thanked Adrianna for her invitation and moved back to my happily barren space where I began to assemble my files and decorate my area with one or two picture frames. I could breathe much better over here.

As I waited for the computer tech and the phone guy to come set me up I began sorting through some reports I would have to present at the end of the week. That’s when the blue boom box I had carelessly ignored slowly began crooning through the foam wall that separated Adrianna and I:

“No se tu,
Pero yo no dejo de pensar
Ni un minuto me logro despojar
De tus besos, tus abrazos,
De lo bien que la pasamos la otra vez…”
I don’t know about you, but I can’t stop thinking, not for one minute can I strip my thoughts of your kisses, your embrace, of the good time we passed the other night…”

The voice continued with sappy promises of eternal love and devotion, holding out on long notes in a painful bout of affection that seemed, by her sighs, to mesmerize Adrianna but managed to only give me a bad bout of indigestion. Who the hell was this guy and wasn’t listening to him against company policy?

The day continued with a series of amorous serenades. If I were fortunate enough, Adrianna would lose herself in the lyrics and belt out a few. I felt her angst, her anticipation, her hope, her broken heart and her love-swelled one, and all the while, I got more and more frustrated. I wondered if this was the reason co-workers fell quiet as I passed them by on my way to, what I thought was, a victorious workstation? Maybe the silence and hushed gasps weren’t those of jealously but rather, some form of fascinated pity, a kind of, another-one-bites-the-dust gawking that would soon occur as I unraveled in obsessive love ballads. This cubicle wasn’t coveted, it was cursed, window view and all.

There were several instances when I gently asked Adrianna if she wouldn’t mind turning down the music, but in doing so, I seemed to have run a stake through the principles of love.

“But, what? You don’t like Luis Miguel?” she asked aghast, her warm chestnut eyes turning cold and harsh on me.

“He’s fine,” I lied. “I just have a hard time focusing with any kind of music.”

But I know she hadn’t heard a word of my rebuttal. I was officially The Enemy to her and as such, she made every tune-filled effort to mark her turf and stand her love ground. The conditions where clearly set: she and Luis weren’t going anywhere, either I dealt with it or I joined in their pain.

I never visited her booth again, but even though I avoided the saints and teddy bears, there was no getting around Luis Miguel. He crooned as I typed emails, filed papers, wrote reports and spoke to clients on the phone. In my top drawer I housed an extra-large bottle of Tums and found myself popping the chalky anti-acid tablets often, no doubt a consequence of exposure to too much forlorn love.

I began resorting to snacking. Loud, crunchy snacking that would crunch out the unbearably high notes Luis attacked over and over again. It became a scientific study of sorts, trying to find the perfect snack that could bring culinary satisfaction and help keep my sanity. Chips where too flimsy, dissolving almost instantly and therefore not worthy as a muffler. Pretzels where a bit better, but their snap and salty kick left me feeling more bloated and annoyed. It was only after being subjected to Luis Miguel and his full-studded Mariachi rendition of “Amaneci Otra Vez” for the umpteenth time that the obvious dawned on me: chips and guacamole! How hadn’t I seen it before? There lay the harmony I needed of flavor and crunch and plenty of deafening time to enjoy it. A Mexican snack to beat a Mexican problem. And so, I would bring my tiny Tupperware of homemade guacamole, loaded up with extra lime to keep the avocado from losing its brilliance. I kept a bag of chips inside my file cabinet, between the monthly budget report and the South American clients and I began munching my way through the endless ballads.

As the months dragged on, I found myself reaching more and more for my Tums, enough so that I had to slow down on my guacamole habit (it didn’t really work anyway, I could hear him through anything). I thought it best to make sure Luis Miguel was not the only cause to my upset stomach.

When the tiny blue plus sign magically appeared my husband and I were both elated. We had been planning on having a baby and where thankful to get pregnant so soon. Chomping regularly on my Tums had an ulterior motive now, and, the newly discovered pregnancy also gave me determination to leave the job I was never happy in and focus on becoming a mom. Without much fanfare, I left the corner cubicle and all the members of the tenth floor. Still, at the end of my last day I got the allotted ice cream cake in the conference room as well as feigned enthusiasm for the upcoming new chapter in my life. I had no true ties to the place and wouldn’t be missing that many people there.

Which was why I was surprised to find Adrianna approaching me as the goodbye party fizzled and people drifted out, slipping comfortably back into their lives. She headed straight for me and handed me a thin wrapped package. As I grasped it, she reached up and gave me a surprisingly strong, heartfelt hug and whispered,

“Good luck on your journey. Don’t forget to feel love.”

With that, she walked out the door and I never saw her again.

Somewhat stunned, I placed her parcel on top of my cardboard box filled with already forgotten remnants and left. When I dumped the box in the passenger seat of my car, Adrianna’s gift fell to the floor and slipped under the loose carpet, hiding from sight and forgotten entirely.

As the months passed and my belly swelled, my memories of tenth floor hell easily faded. Days passed by learning the latest safety trends on cribs, clearing up potentially hazardous material around my house (how different a home becomes once a child in introduced) and trying the unfathomable task of preparing to go from a woman to a mother.

Around month eight I got a harried phone call from my husband. He had landed from one of his many business trips in South America and had forgotten to rent a car (his usual ride home). He sounded apprehensive and a bit nervous. It seemed to be his usual approach to me these days. Hormones had kicked up in full gear and led me to become wildly erratic, but he proceeded with his question: would I mind picking him up?

To his relief, I jumped at the chance. After all, I had been cocooned in my house and needed a purpose beyond folding spotless onesies.

I wobbled to the car and got in, throwing my purse onto the passenger seat. It banged against the chair and bounced to the floor, landing upside down and showering the ground with all its crusty contents. I looked at the disaster of my life now spread all over my car and decided to take care of it before I began the 40-minute drive to the airport. There was no way my short fuse would stand for that lipstick rolling back and forth.

Wobbling back out of the car, I crouched beside the passenger side and began scooping up all my belongings and throwing them into the secret confines of my purse. As I scraped and dumped (no time for sorting now) I felt something poking from under the carpet and found Adrianna’s parcel, hidden all these months, just waiting to be discovered.

I grabbed the thin package and tore it open. Then I sat down and laughed. I was holding a CD of Luis Miguel. Of course, I was holding a CD of Luis Miguel. It was titled, appropriately, “Romance”, and had a black and white profile of the crooning god himself, decked out in a crisp tuxedo, his full lips in mid-song, eyes shut tight in love-drenched agony, beautiful mane of hair spiked and perfectly slicked back.

In a tribute to my former archenemy and a curious need to walk down corporate memory lane, I popped in the CD and began my drive.

The song crept to a start. What was that, an oboe, or a clarinet announcing the impending hopes and glories of a despondent love? I hadn’t recalled that opening before. Either way I found myself surprisingly intrigued and not annoyed in the faintest. Dare say there was something soothing about the instrument?

And then something horrible happened: Luis Miguel began to sing and I felt warm, fuzzy love! I grasped the steering wheel tightly and was captivated by his every word. It didn’t seem to matter that I had single-handedly supported GlaxoSmithKline with my faithful and regular ingestion of mint-flavored Tums or that I had devoured an entire California orchard of avocados trying to drown the man out, here I was, a mere six months later and I couldn’t get enough of this sappiness!

The rest of the drive was a hazy blur of hormones and tears. All I know is that by the time I reached Terminal E and found my husband, I was a mascara-running mess. Horrified (and obviously panicked) he quickly asked:

“What happened to you?”

And I, too worn down to get angry or defensive or even care, began crying all over again, explaining the irreparable torn fabric of lost love to a very confused and misplaced man who was gentle enough to simply hug me and let me cry my heart out amongst thousands of befuddled travelers.

So the pregnancy continued as such. Wherever my belly and I went, so did Luis Miguel. No doubt there was a part of me that wondered if this relationship would end once my daughter was born and the hormones would be flushed out. But when Daniela arrived so did the chance for more love, hope and happiness, and Luis Miguel burrowed himself more comfortably than ever in my psyche and daily listening life.

It has been twelve years now since I first heard Luis Miguel and cringed, ten since that fateful ride to the airport when I cried my eyes out. I find my feelings for Luismi (as he is known by his faithful followers) to lie comfortably between both extremes. There are moments when a good cry comes in handy and he is there to deliver and there are moments when the white-bleached teeth and neon-orange tan he sports are cause for more hysteria and criticism from me than anything else. Both times work well with guacamole, by the way.

Still, in the time he and I were informally introduced and I grew to adore him, I have managed to follow Adrianna’s advice and feel love: through my smart and caring daughter, her adorably cute and inquisitive younger brother and their admiring dad whom blazes through life with me full of excitement and adoration. This is the love I cherish and tear up over. This is the moment I live for and embrace. This is what is worth more to me than anything. Still, it doesn’t hurt to belt out a song or two of Luis Miguel as a reminder once in a while…No se tu!

LUISMI GUACAMOLE
¼ cup minced white onion
2 tablespoons minced cilantro
1 jalapeno, seeded and finely minced*
2 teaspoons fresh lime juice**
1 medium ripe avocado, quartered
1 small tomato, chopped
1 teaspoon sea salt
Tastiest if done with a “molcajete”, the traditional Mexican mortar and pestle made out of volcanic rock. If you don’t have one, just use a bowl. Whatever you do, don’t use a blender! Guacamole should be chunky.
Add onion, cilantro, and jalapeno to molcajete and grind with pestle to combine. Add lime juice and avocado and gently mush avocado. When it is half mashed, add tomato and salt and mush some more until fully combined. Adjust seasoning. Serve with chips.
*For spicier guacamole, add jalapeno seeds.
**More lime juice will prevent oxidation and preserve avocado for longer (good for picnics or office). Otherwise, guacamole should be consumed immediately.

Serves 4

The Pleasure of Being Sick

It starts inconspicuously enough, like, when your kid turns towards you and gives a whole-hearty, sloppy sneeze in your direction. ‘Okay, that was gross’, you may think to yourself, but, being that it is your kid (the one that inevitably has crapped, puked, and pissed on you at some point in your bonding) you most likely will think nothing of it. And so you go on your way.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking. Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever. Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you.

So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously in there declaring the arrival of your newfound illness, I can guarantee you, without a doubt, you can blame it on one of your children. And you don’t even need proof.

When I was a kid, the world would actually stop if I was sick. People would flock to my side to tend to me as I wallowed in self-pity, not too thrilled about feeling lousy, yet quietly basking in a utopian egocentricity. It was a careful balance of perfection and lots of tissues. For eight hours, I became an only child bathed in excessive doting and not the forgotten last kid in a rung of three. Meals where instantly cooked up and presented on pretty trays splashed with tropical flowers: perfectly soft-boiled eggs nestled in delicate porcelain eggcups, bowls of homemade chicken soup and freshly-squeezed orange juice arrived with me just thinking of them. Each dish was hot and soothing and perfectly blended with love and salt and pepper.

Cars would honk in traffic in the distance and I would relish in the thought of harried children or workers, rushing to their varied responsibilities while I basked in the serene and almost naughty pleasure of sleeping at 10:00am on a weekday. Of course there was always the nagging issue of make-up homework waiting in the dusty corner of my mind, but, for most of the day, I would park that nuisance in my unconsciousness and focus on the pleasures of being sick.

Today things are a bit different. The world dare not stop when I am under the weather, it seems to only speed up. With two young children to care for and a weekends-only spouse, balancing the tissues with self-pity only gets me behind. I do get nostalgic for my past when Nyquil becomes my beverage of choice. I can almost smell the chicken soup my beloved nanny, Yoli, tenderly simmered for me or the extra dose of warm hugs my mother would offer just to perk me up a bit, but I have piano and karate and tutors to get to, and if I don’t get going I will inevitably fall behind. Still, a quick trip down memory lane is something I simply can’t pass on, especially if this one takes all of four minutes. Tripping over laundry and discarded toys, I make my way to the kitchen for a quick, revitalizing soft-boiled egg. It may not be served to me in a dainty eggcup as it was in my youth, but as I crack the top, douse it with coarse sea salt and fresh pepper and take that first nourishing, creamy bite, I am instantly transported to a moment made just for me filled with time, love, and the quiet pleasure of feeling sick for a day.

Feel-Good Soft-Boiled Egg
This is not brain surgery, but you’d be amazed how many people mess it up. Precision is key.

First and foremost, begin with THE PERFECT EGG!!! Always use organic, hormone-free, cage-free eggs, it makes a difference! I rely on The Country Hen eggs . They are on the pricey side, but well worth the cost: the flavor is unparallel!

Bring to a boil 2 to 4 quarts of water, enough to cover a single layer of the egg by 1 inch. Gently lower the egg into the water. Simmer for exactly 4 minutes. Remove the egg from water immediately.

To Serve:
Place in an eggcup (or shot glass, if you don’t have an eggcup), wide end down.
Use a spoon to gently crack the top of the egg. Peel off the tip. Using a knife, slice across the top to open egg. Add top of sliced egg into the egg. Season with coarse kosher salt and fresh ground pepper.

Toppings:
There is nothing quite like a simply perfect soft-boiled egg with salt and pepper. However, sometimes you want to fancy it up. The sky is the limit on dressing up your soft-boiled egg! Here are a couple of suggestions you may add to your egg:

Chopped chives
Tabasco sauce
Crumbled bacon
Chili Powder
Crumbled cheese (feta or bleu cheese)
Caviar

No Time To Sleep

This past Tuesday was Election Day, and while I was particularly excited to live through such a history-making election, I was also glad the kids did not have school and I would not have to get up at the crack of dawn to tackle lunches, snacks, breakfast, shoe searches, hair untangling etc. etc. etc. Little did I count on my wake-up call from my six-year old son, Jonathan.

TAP TAP TAP, a determined finger knocked through my comforter solidly on my forehead.

“Mom…” he insisted, mid-whine, as if we’d been engrossed in this conversation a good half hour or so.

“MOM!!!” more forcefully now (he’d definitely found me and wasn’t going away).

I peeked one bloodshot eye out into the dark world and was met by an inquisitive stare framed by ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Standing by my bedside in his favorite tin soldier pajamas was my son. He seemed irked that my brain hadn’t caught up to his yet; still, it appeared one bloodshot eye would suffice. The minute our gaze locked, he preceded full steam ahead:

“What if Thumbs tied them up because he is good with lassos and THEN caught up with Dink and the others on the horse trail or maybe the magician guy with the handcuffs did it because he was the only one not tied to the chair like the others but then again what was Lulu doing tied up in the office where the safe was if she is the cook? MOM, what was she doing in the office, huh????”

The only reason he stopped was because he six-year old lungs demanded air, and then, of course, he remembered me and became increasingly frustrated that I still had one eye shut. His eyes narrowed on me, lip curled in a well-rehearsed scowl and he waited. I turned to look at my clock whose neon green numbers announced it was 5:35 a.m. Seriously? My one day to sleep in and I was woken up as lead panelist to an overzealous detective conference determined to crack the code of Ron Roy’s The Ninth Nugget A-Z Mystery series?

I tried to grumble something about needing a cup of coffee but he would have none of that. He stood his ground, grimace well placed, waiting for me to solve this urgent dilemma.

I didn’t know who did it or why I was even thinking about it without caffeine in me but I did recognize that look on my son’s face as that of wild, vivid imagination that had captured him and woken him at this early hour. As much as my body ached to sleep, as a writer and a mother I knew I was privileged to be a part of that excitement and I would not let him down. So I opened my other bloodshot eye and his smirk turned a tad bit hopeful.

“All good theories,” I grumbled, slowly cracking the warm shell of my bed and sitting up. “Thumbs did stay back at the ranch for most of the time so he could be the one who tied them all up and stole the gold nugget, but then, he is the creepy one so the author might want you to suspect him. The magician certainly was agile with those handcuffs, and the book tells us the reason Lulu the cook was in the office was to water the plants, but, who knows…we’ll have to keep reading to find out who the real culprit is.”

I didn’t solve much for him. Really, I didn’t solve anything at all, just rehashed what he had said and put periods in the appropriate places. But what I did do was jump into his enthusiasm, regardless of the early time, and this seemed to be enough for him. He crawled into my bed and begged, “mom, can you please read more now???”
“Not yet, we have to wait for your sister to wake up”, I reminded him. “Can’t solve the mystery without her.”

We did wait for his sister to wake up to solve the mystery. I won’t tell you who it was, but I will say it was filled with enough twists and turns to captivate all our imaginations. Of course, the biggest thrill by far was witnessing the infectious love of reading my son now has. Already he is begging me to help him solve the next mystery. I only hope this one lets him sleep through the night.


The story took place in a dude ranch in Montana, and after a novel-full of horses, lassos, and bonfires, a bowl of chili con carne was something we were all craving.

COWBOYS CHILI CON CARNE
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 yellow onion, coarsely chopped
1 ½ lbs. ground beef
5 tablespoons tomato paste
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 teaspoons ground basil
3 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 28-oz. can tomatoes
½ cup red wine
1 can sweet corn
1 can dark red kidney beans, drained
½ cup sliced Spanish olives
1/4 cup chopped parsley
juice from one lemon
salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
5 tablespoons hot pepper sauce*

Heat olive oil in a dutch oven over medium heat. Sauté onions until translucent, about five minutes. Crumble beef and cook fully, stirring often. Add tomato paste, garlic, cumin, chili powder, oregano, basil and mustard and stir to combine.
Add tomatoes, wine, corn, kidney beans and olives, parsley, lemon juice, salt, pepper and hot sauce.
Increase heat and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and let simmer for 15 minutes. Adjust seasoning.

Serves 6 - 8

TO SERVE, spoon into bowls and add one or more of the following garnishes:
Chopped cilantro
Shredded cheddar cheese
Sour cream
Chopped scallions
Tortilla chips
Rice

*Use spicy sauce to your discretion! Like it burning, add more! Not into hot: take it out

No Time To Sleep

This past Tuesday was Election Day, and while I was particularly excited to live through such a history-making election, I was also glad the kids did not have school and I would not have to get up at the crack of dawn to tackle lunches, snacks, breakfast, shoe searches, hair untangling etc. etc. etc. Little did I count on my wake-up call from my six-year old son, Jonathan.

TAP TAP TAP, a determined finger knocked through my comforter solidly on my forehead.

“Mom…” he insisted, mid-whine, as if we’d been engrossed in this conversation a good half hour or so.

“MOM!!!” more forcefully now (he’d definitely found me and wasn’t going away).

I peeked one bloodshot eye out into the dark world and was met by an inquisitive stare framed by ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Standing by my bedside in his favorite tin soldier pajamas was my son. He seemed irked that my brain hadn’t caught up to his yet; still, it appeared one bloodshot eye would suffice. The minute our gaze locked, he preceded full steam ahead:

“What if Thumbs tied them up because he is good with lassos and THEN caught up with Dink and the others on the horse trail or maybe the magician guy with the handcuffs did it because he was the only one not tied to the chair like the others but then again what was Lulu doing tied up in the office where the safe was if she is the cook? MOM, what was she doing in the office, huh????”

The only reason he stopped was because he six-year old lungs demanded air, and then, of course, he remembered me and became increasingly frustrated that I still had one eye shut. His eyes narrowed on me, lip curled in a well-rehearsed scowl and he waited. I turned to look at my clock whose neon green numbers announced it was 5:35 a.m. Seriously? My one day to sleep in and I was woken up as lead panelist to an overzealous detective conference determined to crack the code of Ron Roy’s The Ninth Nugget A-Z Mystery series?

I tried to grumble something about needing a cup of coffee but he would have none of that. He stood his ground, grimace well placed, waiting for me to solve this urgent dilemma.

I didn’t know who did it or why I was even thinking about it without caffeine in me but I did recognize that look on my son’s face as that of wild, vivid imagination that had captured him and woken him at this early hour. As much as my body ached to sleep, as a writer and a mother I knew I was privileged to be a part of that excitement and I would not let him down. So I opened my other bloodshot eye and his smirk turned a tad bit hopeful.

“All good theories,” I grumbled, slowly cracking the warm shell of my bed and sitting up. “Thumbs did stay back at the ranch for most of the time so he could be the one who tied them all up and stole the gold nugget, but then, he is the creepy one so the author might want you to suspect him. The magician certainly was agile with those handcuffs, and the book tells us the reason Lulu the cook was in the office was to water the plants, but, who knows…we’ll have to keep reading to find out who the real culprit is.”

I didn’t solve much for him. Really, I didn’t solve anything at all, just rehashed what he had said and put periods in the appropriate places. But what I did do was jump into his enthusiasm, regardless of the early time, and this seemed to be enough for him. He crawled into my bed and begged, “mom, can you please read more now???”
“Not yet, we have to wait for your sister to wake up”, I reminded him. “Can’t solve the mystery without her.”

We did wait for his sister to wake up to solve the mystery. I won’t tell you who it was, but I will say it was filled with enough twists and turns to captivate all our imaginations. Of course, the biggest thrill by far was witnessing the infectious love of reading my son now has. Already he is begging me to help him solve the next mystery. I only hope this one lets him sleep through the night.


The story took place in a dude ranch in Montana, and after a novel-full of horses, lassos, and bonfires, a bowl of chili con carne was something we were all craving.

COWBOYS CHILI CON CARNE
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 yellow onion, coarsely chopped
1 ½ lbs. ground beef
5 tablespoons tomato paste
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 teaspoons ground basil
3 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 28-oz. can tomatoes
½ cup red wine
1 can sweet corn
1 can dark red kidney beans, drained
½ cup sliced Spanish olives
1/4 cup chopped parsley
juice from one lemon
salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
5 tablespoons hot pepper sauce*

Heat olive oil in a dutch oven over medium heat. Sauté onions until translucent, about five minutes. Crumble beef and cook fully, stirring often. Add tomato paste, garlic, cumin, chili powder, oregano, basil and mustard and stir to combine.
Add tomatoes, wine, corn, kidney beans and olives, parsley, lemon juice, salt, pepper and hot sauce.
Increase heat and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and let simmer for 15 minutes. Adjust seasoning.

TO SERVE, spoon into bowls and add one or more of the following garnishes:
Chopped cilantro
Shredded cheddar cheese
Sliced jalapenos
Sour cream
Chopped scallions
Tortilla chips
Rice

*Use spicy sauce to your discretion! Like it burning, add more! Not into hot: take it out

Voting For Coffeecake

The crowd delicately coiled behind a dirty white minivan, weaving through a red Camry and back around a blue Lexus. Without realizing it, we had wrapped ourselves around the quintessential American symbol: cars the color of the American flag. The wait promised to easily exceed an hour, and I wondered who was the lunatic that assured me early voting at this unknown, dilapidated poll was a guaranteed twenty minutes. Probably the same lunatic that spoke to the lady with the walker, the couple with the frustrated four-year old (we just started, kid) and the aunt and her overly enthusiastic nephew, whose high-pitched voice and pimple-laden face made me question if he indeed did qualify as a first-time voter.

These folks were my neighbors for the morning, and when we’d be done, we’d end as friends, regardless of whom we wanted on our ticket. In fact, our stance on healthcare, Iraq, or taxes never even came up. We had other platforms to discuss on this uncharacteristically chilly Florida morning and they began with our youngest representative sitting in the bright green umbrella stroller:

“I’m hungry”, cute nameless child wailed.
“We’re almost done” her mother lied. “Sit tight and before you know it I will get you something to eat.”

Those of us around the child knew that if her inquisitive blue eyes weren’t buying it we shouldn’t either, still, we longed for her mother’s words to be true. There was no telling when we’d have the privilege to perform our civic duty but a snack sounded tempting to every one of us just the same.

“What I’d do for a cup of coffee,” Aunt X grumbled to her nephew loudly enough so we could all commiserate.

“Such a windy morning, yeah, I could go for a hot coffee”, a man (looking very much like Joe the Plumber) chimed in.

“Dunkin’ Donuts hazelnut,” someone begged behind me.

“I think there is a Starbucks on the next corner,” another voice promised, even though that corner wasn’t going to help us much in this line.

I started salivating just thinking of a cup of Joe, more specifically, my home-brewed marroncito coffee, which is Venezuelan for “little brown one.” My days are fueled by a steady infusion of this drink, made in my reliable espresso machine; using only the finest Venezuelan beans my husband faithful hauls back from his business trips there. Securing this coffee is no simple feat: the brand I favor is reserved for restaurants and local bakeries which boast huge Gaggia machines that nurture the country’s obsession with this addictive drink. Years of string-pulling with the right people have secured us our tasty caffeine, making me fortunate enough to partake of it here in Florida. Even though I already had consumed my allotted two morning cups all this talk of coffee had me buzzing for more.

The child, still glued to her stroller, looked up at us indignantly. She seemed shocked that we could be so selfish as to distort her request for food by digressing into some obtuse adult adoration of a beverage other than apple juice.

“Mom!!!” she wailed much more forcibly. “I said, I’m HUNGRY!”

Her mother, (who looked as if she could use a marroncito herself), began searching frantically in her purse. She was a good mother. I knew this because she had a very big purse. All good mothers have big purses, magic bags that house any given item a restless offspring may desire. She was sure not to disappoint. The child (and I) watched in anticipation.


Her eyes squinted as she bravely groped the inside of her bag. Suddenly, she stopped, as if stung by something, but instead of a scream of pain a warm smile spread across her sleep-deprived face and her hand made its victorious exit. A gold package glittered as it left the cavernous confines of leather hell and sparkled in the bright sunshine. It was a bag of Teddy Bear Graham crackers.

I wasn’t impressed but you’d think the girl won the lottery. She squealed with delight.

“GIMME, GIMME, GIMME,” she demanded.
The proud mother handed over the bag that was surely to be gobbled up in a matter of minutes. Still, a couple of minutes of sanity was better than none.

I looked at the mother and smiled. She looked at me and returned a grin. We’d done it again, our exchange seemed to confirm. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, but we were both mothers (my sleep-deprived look must have given me away) and therefore her victory was mine as well.

I leaned over to her and whispered, “What we need with our pretend coffee is a good coffeecake.”

“With lots of cinnamon”, she bounced back with a skip in her voice. Under the crunch of her daughter’s snack, waiting in our early voting line that would stretch out a couple more hours, we closed our eyes, not to envision a day with John McCain or Barack Obama, but simply one with the perfect coffeecake.


The Perfect Coffeecake

¼ lbs. soft butter
1 ½ cups sugar
2 eggs
1 cup sour cream
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
1/3 cup chopped pecans
2 teaspoons cinnamon

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Beat butter and one cup of the sugar until fluffy.
Beat in eggs, one at a time.
Stir in sour cream and vanilla.

Sift together flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt and stir into batter until smooth.

Spoon half the batter into a greased 9-inch square baking pan.

Combine the remaining sugar, nuts and cinnamon and sprinkle 2/3 of it over the batter.

Top with remaining nut mixture.

Bake 50 minutes or until done.
Serve warm.

(Makes 16 servings)

Skipping the Yacht for a Steak

“I feel spent and like running away to some foreign, exotic country…by myself”, where not the reassuring words my husband, (calling from the disconnected distance of Mexico) expected to hear from his wife, but it was the answer he got nevertheless. Not even the award-winning Merlot he had secured from a tiny, dusty vineyard he visited in Argentina last week seemed to dull the strains of being the sole caregiver of two young children 24/7. Glass two was empty and the options had narrowed themselves to Turkey or Greece for my escape.

Husband was smart enough to sense that whatever reply he offered would invariably get him in trouble, so, he spoke extra slowly, as if such verbal speed bumps would guarantee him some sort of half victory in the conversation.

“…Escape …to…a foreign…country? “
There was a second or two where he honestly questioned my authenticity on such a declaration, and in him believing it, I, for that split second, did too, instantly being photographed by hoards of hungry paparazzi while I lounged around in a much-coveted 7-million dollar yacht off the coast of Mykonos. It sounded good. I already felt tan.

Until I heard a 6-year old squeal, “ESCAPE TO A FOREIGN COUNTRY???” and was catapulted back to my reality: a suburban evening boasting unmade beds, backed-up loads of dirty laundry and two highly energetic kids. The only thing going for me was my dinner plans of watercress and steak.

The first time I’d been privy to such a mix was in the dark, damp corner of Le Coq D’Or restaurant, a French culinary secret nestled in a sinister, unforgiving street in Caracas. This was my parents all-time favorite restaurant, and, after we’d brave the less-than coveted neighborhood, we’d enter the tiny establishment and be greeted by an art exhibit serving as a tribute to fighting cocks: a tradition still practiced in parts of Venezuela today. Paintings and sculptures of all sorts and sizes lined the walls celebrating this disturbing cultural custom. I managed to disengage from what such artwork, as well as the name of the restaurant, represented because I knew the culinary rewards far outweighed any ethical ones.

After a brief visit at the overcrowded bar where my parents began their excursion with a series of, what they described as, ‘the best whiskey sour on this earth’ we would be seated at a small, dark booth where we’d all instinctively order the house special: pepper steak with watercress.

The steak was simply served: swimming in a silky ocean of creamy butter and speckled with peppery peppercorns, it’s red juices comingling with the crisp and pungent mound of watercress served as an accompaniment. It was a straightforward dish, but unforgettable at that. I remember closing my eyes as the bite of the watercress mixed with the softness and full-flavor of the rare steak. If you were lucky, you’d get a peppercorn or two mixed in there and the experience was so incredibly pure and good I would yearn to repeat it over and over and over again, asking my parents on regular intervals when we would be visiting Le Coq D’Or again.

I have no tributes to cockfighting in my home (if you don’t count my children pitting against each other over the remote), but every once in a while, when the day has been a rough one and I peer out the garden window in search of the yacht, I settle my craving for escape with a simple and wonderful steak and watercress special, just as they served in Le Coq D’Or.

CHEATER’S FAST STEAK AU POIVRE
2 marbled strip steaks, about 1 1 /2 pounds total
2 tablespoons whole peppercorns (can be black or combination)
½ teaspoon kosher salt
½ teaspoon parsley garlic salt
4 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon oil
FOR THE WATERCRESS:
2 cups washed watercress
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
kosher sea salt

Coat steaks with peppercorns, salt, and garlic salt.
Heat 1 tablespoon butter and the oil in a skillet set on high and sear the meat 2 minutes on each side. Cook an additional minute each side for rare.
Remove pan from heat and stir in remaining 3 tablespoons butter until melted.

Serve on top of a bed of watercress drizzled with salt and extra virgin olive oil.
Serves 2

Fuzzy Ambition

He waddled with such determination that I soon realized this was a duck to be reckoned with. Although he was tiny and barely feathered, I felt resolve in his stance, making him stand out instantly amongst his cramped, fuzzy siblings. After all, I had looked high and low for him and it wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. Only the best duck would do.

As a small child I remembered cuddling with a fluffy, bright yellow rendition of this fellow. It lay balanced on my head as the final pièce de résistance of my stuffed animal sculpture I’d require to be piled on top of me at bedtime. My mother would have to re-do the entire floppy monument if it was not properly topped with Sealy, the seal, Lady, the dog, and my washed-out duck, who remained nameless but held honorary peek position atop my nose. Only then would I be safe from the perils of nighttime and go to sleep.

My destiny with ducks grew, quietly fueled by my close childhood friend Raquel and her displaced obsession with the creatures. Adults questioned her fascination. We were not children growing up in rural Maine, traipsing amongst cattle and cornfields, but rather, urbanites raised in the metropolis of Caracas, a fast-paced, fume-congested city sprouting up buildings quicker than a weed will grow on a riverbank. The closest things to ducks were the stray dogs roaming the street for scraps of food. Still, Raquel seemed a wildflower equally displaced in this grandiose city and when she tired of saving beetles and stick bugs and ants from all the metal and concrete surrounding them she longed for a duck. As her best friend and a teenager in dire need for shock attention I made it my feat to get her one.

At first, I innocently believed it would be as easy as going to the store and buying one. But the eyes of the lady at the brightly lit, aseptic pet shop crammed with crates of overpriced, exotic dogs went flat when I turned down the 8-week old Canadian Eskimo puppy (a purebred, she guaranteed, waving the papers to prove it) and insisted I wanted a duck.

“Un pato?”, she asked, confused and deflated.
“Si, un pato,” I announced, forcing my heart to not get disoriented by all the canine cuteness.
“Ay, mijita, aqui no hay patos, solo perros”, which roughly translated to, ‘you’re on your own kid’, and was the send off to my newfound obsession: securing a duck for my beloved friend’s fifteenth birthday.

“You sure you don’t want to get her a pretty necklace?” my mother gingerly offered, no doubt taking cues from the feel-good “how-to-raise-a-teenager” books I’d seen slowly stacking on her bedside table. The books promised my mother that the secret to a successful relationship with your teenager was allowing them their space to make their own decisions while kindly reinforcing the sound resolution of an adult’s level-headed view, something she felt quite applicable in this circumstance. My rebuttal to level-headed thinking was a full eye roll (I’d gotten pretty good at those). Plus, I knew the idea was crazy and had no logical argument.

We spent the following days feverishly searching for a duck. All the pet stores looked at me with pity or amusement or a careful combination of both, but with every rejection I became more determined to somehow bless my friend with this furry creature. I received some reprieve when, leaving the last pet shop on my list, the owner suggested I go to the local market on the outskirts of the city and try my luck there.

Local markets today, are, of course, very politically correct places, conjuring up images of tenderly cared-for animals and ferociously organic crops banding together against the supersized evils of the mechanized food industry. But “local market” on the outskirts of Caracas in the 80s meant a very different, grungy affair where, quite frankly, getting to the location unscathed was half the battle.

My mother insisted my father visit the market alone but this request only fumed my desire to go more and my father couldn’t turn down the rare opportunity of his teenage daughter begging to spend time with him, even if it meant getting mugged. At least it would make for a memorable, bonding story. So, in the earliest weekend hours of Raquel’s birthday we headed to the farthest outskirts of the poorest neighborhood and made our way down dirty aisles crowded with stands selling fresh coconut water, lingerie, and miniature saints, amongst other things.

When the toothless woman realized we weren’t buying a hand-carved statue of Jose Gregorio Hernandez (honored for his healing powers and guaranteed to cure all that ails in life) she reluctantly directed us to a tiny, rickety stand between the rosemaries and the spare blender parts where Raquel’s long-awaited surprise was housed in a crushed cardboard box.

The baby duck seemed relieved to see me, quickly waddling towards me and away from his brothers and sisters as if reprimanding me for being late in getting him. I picked him up, handed the owner an exuberant amount of money and began heading back to the car, briefly stopping for a sliver of coconut cake.

The cake was sweet and delicious, swarming my taste buds with joy and victory: a definite celebration to a long fought search. Each bite was soaked in syrupy coconut milk and perfectly chilled, coming out of an auspicious cooler packed with smoking dry ice. I asked no questions about its origin or the fact that such a cake could have had such perfect timing (for my stomach was now aching with hunger), but rather, closed my eyes and enjoyed every bite of it while my father nervously glanced in the direction of the car hoping its hubcaps where not one of the newest additions dangling off a wire in the car stands down row 3.

I cradled the frightened creature under my jacket keeping him safe from the swarm of human life that bustled around us. It was just barely nine o’clock in the morning. No doubt Raquel would not be up for another two hours, but the thought of keeping this perfectly fuzzy secret from her for any more time felt unbearably impossible a feat and it was, after all, her birthday.

We made our way to her house, where to the shock and dismay of her parents (who must have read the same how-to-deal-with-adolescents book that allowed for space but gently guided reason) I produced a baby duck from inside my grey Member’s Only jacket.

“Is Raquel up?” was all I managed to plead.

It seemed to be enough. I am not sure if it was my big blue eyes (probably not, her parents had grown used to me playing those up), or the fragile fuzzy duck trembling in my hands, or simply the generous, good-hearted spirit that has always easily flowed from both her parents, but whatever the motive was, it melted their look of apprehension into one of acceptance as they made way for me and my gift to pass.
“She’s not, honey, but why don’t you go on ahead and wake her up for this” her mom said.

And with that, I skipped, ever so carefully, with my trophy gift, a smile on my face, and what I knew for sure, would be the best birthday wake up present to date.

Sweet Coconut Cake
Inspired from the Venezuelan national dessert, “Bienmesabe” which literally translates to “It Tastes Good To Me and is the pinnacle of the country’s fixation with coconut: from delicious and healthy coconut water, to coconut candy to this lusciously sweet delight.

Make this the night before serving so the flavors have time to blend and the cake to chill.



Cake:
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ cups sugar
½ cup shortening
1 ¼ cup milk
3 ½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 large eggs

Heat oven to 350F

Prepare the cake. In a large bowl, beat all ingredients together on low speed for 30 seconds, scraping bowl constantly. Beat on high speed for three minutes.
Pour batter into a greased 13 x 9 x 2 pan.
Bake 35-40 minutes

Meanwhile, mix the milk mixture ingredients together (see below).

As soon as the cake comes out of the oven, cut into 20 squares and pour milk mixture over the cake, allowing the cake to absorb completely.
Refrigerate overnight. Serve with a sprinkling of shredded coconut.

Milk Mixture:
1 (15-ounce) can cream of coconut (Coco Lopez)


1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
½ cup whole milk
¼ cup dark rum
Preheat oven to 350F
Topping:
Shredded coconut

Makes 20 servings

Becoming an American Jew

Today is Yom Kippur, the day of Jewish Atonement, where all Jews become somber and introspective, asking for forgiveness for any wrongs they may have done throughout the year, spilling the beans to God, for lack of a better word. All this has to be done without any distractions, which means, no food.

Such a condition does not sit well with a foodie like me, as you can well imagine, and so, I breathe a sigh of relief to be a member of a very progressive, informal synagogue, the only one in my nieghborhood, I believe, where my son is warmly accepted wearing jeans and crocks to the service and the rabbi conveniently slips us an out to the food clause by ending his sermon with a “for all of you who are fasting, may it be an easy fast.” He knows enough to assume there is one or two or three of us who will be more distracted without food than with it.

Religion did not play a big role in my upbringing. I’d venture to say it was quite non-existent. Amongst the rows and rows of churches and saints we were the token, odd Jewish family in an unquestioning Catholic South American country that seemed to have more churches and saints than homes. And we seemed just fine like that.

My father would joke about his father (a man of iconic stature I’d grown up hearing stories about) who would most likely be turning in his grave at the sight of his son frying up Sunday’s bacon. And yet, he’d smile, fry on and offer up another story about Isaac Abbady’s critical role with the British government in Palestine, only to end the story with a plateful of the tastiest bacon (the secret, he claimed, was a low flame and lots of patience). If my grandfather was turning, I wouldn’t hear him over the crunch.

Even still, my stamp of Jewish identity seemed an inherent right to me. Born to an Israeli father, my life was woven with colorful stories of abba (Hebrew for “father”) and his youthful adventures as a Boy Scout romping through the still-forming confusion of Palestine and then later, Israel. My father was a real sabra (a term I wore proudly as if my own) used to describe native-born Israelis. He’d come alive during his tales growing up in Israel, his hazel eyes lighting up with sparks of excitement that drew me into his world and kept me there.

Every year my family and I would make our annual summer trip to Israel, where, aside from intrusive cheek pinching from overbearing musty relatives, our father would point out the landmarks of his many stories and even attempt to relive some with my sisters and I: the skidding snake trail of Masada, the small kiosk on a crowded Jerusalem street which served as a meeting point for skipping school, the overcrowded beaches in Tel-Aviv. Each had helped make my father who he was and in turn, each helped draw him closer to me.

This was how my Jewish identity was formed and it attached itself easily to the kaleidoscope of my unconventional upbringing as a child raised in a Latin country by an Israeli man and a American (converted) woman, a life spent brushing shoulders with diplomat kids and army brats that came from any corner of the world you chose. It all seemed quite normal to me.

When I started my own family in South Florida I realized I had missed a huge American Jewish cultural gap. Just as I couldn’t bond with college buddies reciting episodes of The Brady Bunch (I only caught snippets of it on our winter visits to the U.S.), I couldn’t navigate through the American Jew’s pronunciations of Sabbath, Yom Kippur, or Rosh Ha Shanna.

There have been many other adjustments coming from a secular Israeli-international background to a South Florida Jewish one filled with moments where I feel I don’t quite fit in. But then again, it is a feeling I have carried with me one way or another my entire life and its strangeness is strangely familiar to me.

My adaptation to the food customs has been a huge success as I eagerly embrace the American Jewish obsession with brisket, kugel, and tzimmes: delicious prerequisites for being a good American Jew. The pronunciations and prayers may take some time to figure out, but again, I am grateful for my unassuming, progressive rabbi as well as the unbridled excitement and enthusiasm of my kids. This is their reality, this is their Judaism, and I am quietly, gratefully and hungrily along for the ride.

GINGER KUGEL
A great way to break the fast or not break the fast, whatever your liking.
Noodle Kugel:
water
1 pound medium egg noodles
1/2 cup butter (1 stick) at room temperature
1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese
8 ounces plain Greek yogurt (or sour cream)
6 eggs, slightly beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup sugar
1 (8-ounce) can crushed pineapple
1 tablespoon fresh-grated ginger

Crumb Topping:
3/4 cup crushed cornflakes
1/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
4 tablespoons butter

To make kugel:
In a boiling pot of water, cook noodles about 10 minutes until slightly overcooked.
Meanwhile, combine the butter, yogurt, sour cream, eggs, vanilla and sugar in a food processor (or mix with electric mixer). Combine.
In a small bowl, combine pineapple with ginger and mix well.
Drain noodles and place in a bowl.
Add noodle mixture and pineapple/ginger mixture and mix well.
Transfer to a greased 13 x 9 x 2 inch glass baking dish and refrigerate overnight (if you are short on time, you can freeze for 30 minutes).

To make topping:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix together crushed cornflakes, sugar and cinnamon and spread evenly on top of kugel. Dot top with bits of butter and bake 1 hour or until golden brown.

Makes 8-10 servings.

Deconstructing A Blackberry

It started out simply enough: his big beautiful butterscotch eyes widened in amazement, popping those thick, mile-long eyelashes up to the sky as he asked in a six-year-old’s innocence:
“Oooooh! What are those?”

We weren’t brushing through thick, quiet forests on a peaceful summer’s Vermont afternoon like we should have been, like the way my sister and I did when we first asked that same question thirty years ago, so I felt a pang of guilt at cheating my son of the experience, but he knew no better. No, we were in the middle of an artificially-lit and climate-controlled sterilized supermarket in a South Florida strip mall, our shopping cart haphazardly parked between wilted bags of age-defying iceberg and a shocked pile of leftover peaches claiming to be from Georgia (but any good Georgian peach would have scoffed at the suggestion.) It was there that I held the tiny Canadian plastic box bursting with blackberries and my son, ever the fruit zealot, beamed at the steroid-sized bubbles of blackness.

“These are blackberries”, I forced myself to say in the calmest and most believable voice. I could still sense Champ, my favorite horse, pulling at the bit, eagerly wanting to jump the next log (we weren’t allowed to jump on trails, but Champ and I were both little daredevils when paired together) and the only time I’d hold him back was when we’d encounter those thick bushes speckled with tiny, tart blackberries, one fourth the size of these ones, but most certainly packed with double the flavor. Still, that was thirty years ago and I wasn’t going to spoil it for my son, no matter how sweet my memory or how shocking the size of these babies.

It didn’t take much for him to love them, and love them instantly. He didn’t even need a horse, or the story of one (I tried, he seemed bored). And so, we began buying blackberries. Lots of blackberries. Dollars and dollars worth of blackberries (they can become rather expensive coming from Chile, or New Zealand, or anywhere but the mountains of Vermont, where they are a well-kept secret). It became his fruit of choice, his FOOD of choice, which isn’t hard for a self-proclaimed fruit eater as he is. Stacks of tiny plastic crates filled my fridge and for weeks I found myself running back to that tiny, neon-lit refrigerated corner of the supermarket for more.

My son is a no-thrills kind of guy and would eat them straight up, stalling only for the mandatory rinse I insisted on giving them. But that was it. I, on the other hand, become restless enjoying fruit in its naked sense. I must do something with it to celebrate it. Eating it straight up is too quick a commemoration. So, my mind began to wander and inevitably led me back to the mountains of Vermont. I recall my mother making amazing blackberry pies during those long summer days spent in the Green Mountain state, but I didn’t want to compete with that memory so I went for the next best thing: blackberry muffins with chocolate ganache.

My son seemed a bit irritated by such manipulation. He is only six but already has mastered the curled lip to a frightening perfection. “Why are you messing with excellence?” he seemed to wonder when he realized the baked goods where created from his refrigerated stacks of plastic goodness. But then again, he is only six and it usually doesn’t take much beyond the word “chocolate” to bring him around. This time seemed no exception. He was perfectly content enjoying my muffins as long as they were served with a side of fresh blackberries.

Chocolate Berry Cupcakes
(adapted from Beverley Glock, 500 Cupcakes)

½ cup fresh blackberries
3 tablespoons water
1 cup superfine sugar
1 cup self-rising flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ cup soft butter
2 eggs
1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder

For the Ganache:
¾ cup (5 oz.) bittersweet chocolate, broken
½ cup (about 2 scoops) melted vanilla ice cream (Hagen Daaz)
12 blackberries (if they are huge, slice them in half)

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line 12-cup mini muffin pan with paper baking cups (if you don’t have paper cups just coat with oil and dust with some flour.) Combine the blackberries, water and ½ cup sugar in a small saucepan over low heat. Simmer for about 5 minutes, until the fruit starts to release its juices. Smash fruit with the back of a spoon. Set aside to cool.
Combine the rest of the ingredients in a medium bowl and beat with an electric mixer until pale and creamy, about 2 to 3 minutes. Spoon the batter into the cups. Spoon a little of the fruit on top. Bake for 20 minutes. Remove the pan and cool for 5 minutes. Then remove the cupcakes and cool on a rack.
To make the ganache, melt the chocolate (microwave or double boiler) and slowly whisk in the melted ice cream until glossy and smooth. Spread the ganache onto each cooled cupcake and top with a blackberry. Refrigerate until set.
Makes 1 dozen small cupcakes.

Felucca Sunset

I remember the color of the sky on that lazy afternoon years ago. It was a battle of the palette: hues of pinks with splatters of violet and the unrelenting but struggling yellow of the sun refusing to fade away after a long, bright day. In the far distance, proclaiming its lasts rites to the day, a defeated swollen orange began to sink into the Nile to mark the end of that day.

The air was heavy with the scents of the streets, which, on a late afternoon in Luxor, meant an intoxicating mix of spices, roasted pistachios, and Ful Mudammas, an Egyptian fava bean stew set simmering for hours in tall pots to be scooped out and served with olive oil, lime juice, and pita.

We boarded our felucca, a traditional Egyptian sailboat, with high hopes for a memorable sunset journey on the Nile. Our captain was Ahmed (we learned his name through the jovial cheering of his fellow felucca boaters) and though his wavy black hair and thick eyelashes obstructed my view from his leery black eyes, I knew he was glaring at us suspiciously. After all, we were young college students and we weren’t married, he just seemed to know that. Still, times were tough, he had the boat, and we were tourists paying American dollars, so he would comply with our request for a ride. It didn’t mean he had to like it.

We sat in his rickety felucca and began our Nile adventure.
“Please to sit apart,” he ordered, interrupting my boyfriend’s intent to wrap his arm around my shoulder and bring me closer to him for the duration of this intended romantic moment together.

Ahmed’s request was followed by two blank stares trying to figure out why we weren’t granted our postcard moment in Egypt.

“PLEASE TO SIT APART”, he mustered in his most forceful English, the sweat starting to trickle down the side of his forehead. There was no negotiating with this man, and, given that we had long left the river bank and lay floating at the mercy of our very conservative skipper, we had no choice but comply.

And so, the sun sunk below the mysteries of Egypt as my beloved and I sat apart. We drifted aimlessly down the Nile, and our tour guide (who was now much more relaxed that no sin was in motion) began to spew out an array of historical facts about the murky waters we were traveling on and the great sites of Luxor where grand kings and queens lay in the majestic remnants of Egypt. His English flowed a bit smoother now that he was repeating his usual lexicon of facts, but the accent was still quite thick so I closed my eyes to better focus on what he was saying. But as my eyes sealed shut, my sense of smell was assaulted by culinary aromas brewing in the hot Egyptian sun. Coriander. Cumin. Zaatar. They were all there, intertwined with the memory of King Tut’s reign and the chaos of the streets that awaited us beyond our Felucca.

When our ride was over, our guide forced a smile towards us and extended a hand to help me out.
“Thank you for your visiting to Egypt” he mustered, his gaze locking on mine, distrustful of my light blue eyes, an anomaly in Egypt.

My boyfriend and I disembarked and defiantly held hands, no doubt dry land gave way to our life of sin. I felt like turning to Ahmed and assuring him, “I will marry this man, and we will have beautiful children and be very, very happy”, but I got more pleasure in leaving that question unanswered for him. Instead, I turned towards the smell of chaos and food and hand-in-hand with my partner in crime proclaimed, “LET’S EAT!”

The air was still warm as night arrived and we found our way up to the rooftop of a tiny building where an even smaller restaurant was housed. There, as the day cried its last goodbye and the awe-inspiring show of stars began, we ate a wonderful meal of Shakshouka, held hands, and even kissed under the Egyptian moon.

SHAKSHOUKA
2 onions, chopped
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 green pepper, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
1 hot fresh chili pepper, seeded and thinly sliced
4 tomatoes, peeled and chopped
1 8-ounce can of tomato sauce
1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper
4 eggs
Drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil

Fry the onions in the oil until golden, about 5 minutes on medium-high heat. Add the peppers and fry until they are soft, 3-5 minutes. Add the chili pepper, tomatoes and tomato sauce and simmer for ten minutes on low heat. Add parsley, salt and pepper and cook one more minute. Crack the eggs open on top and cook, 3 – 4 minutes more, until they are set. Drizzle with olive oil, serve hot with pita bread.

In Search of A Good Loaf

I'm going to say it now, but first, let me kiss my husband and kids goodbye, sprinkle a dash of anemic fish food on my beloved pets, Goldie #1 and Goldie #2, and take one last longing look at my comfortable and safe life before I am shackled up and taken away to a dark and secret place...I love bread.

Yep.  Sometimes I go to the market and buy a fresh baguette.  Nothing else.  I bounce towards the cash register with the (hopefully still toasty) crusty delight tucked under my arm, a warm smile spreading across my face as its delicious aroma completes me, and people instantly open a path for me, their eyes bulging, their mouths wide open but speechless, completely aghast at my impertinence with the evils of carbohydrates.  They anxiously await for the Carb Patrol to arrive and take me away.

No one has dragged me away in shackles, as of yet.  Although I do get riddled with angry looks, this does nothing but increase the sultry pleasure I get from ingesting slices of crusty loaves slathered in, what else, butter.

It seems bread has become a favorite villain for many Americans.  Armed with the latest shields of trend diets, Americans have denounced all things carb including, first and foremost, the quintessentially primal loaf of bread.

We all like to dream we can change the world, albeit one small step at a time.  Some of us with more budget head off to remote parts of the world to help nourish lives in much need, others turn to the problems in our own backyards.  Culinary wimps like myself dare to attack suburbia head on with the excessive purchasing of breads in the hopes that, after the shock wears off, people will start to notice the importance and deliciousness of this primal sustenance.  It's a hard, thankless job, but someone has got to do it.

Simple Crusty Bread

(adapted by Nick Fox, New York Times Dining Section 11/27/07 from "Artisan Bread in Five Minutes A Day" (by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois))

1 1/2 tablespoons yeast

1 1/2 tablespoons Kosher salt

6 1/2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour, more for dusting dough

cornmeal

1.  In a large bowl or plastic container, mix yeast and salt into 3 cups lukewarm water (about 100 degrees).  Stir in flour, mixing until there are no dry patches.  Dough will be quite loose.

Cover, but not with an airtight lid.  Let dough rise at room temperature 2 hours (or up to 5 hours).

2.  Bake at this point or refrigerate, covered, for as long as two weeks.  When ready to bake, sprinkle a little flour on dough and cut off a grapefruit-size piece with serrated knife.  Turn dough in hands to lightly stretch surface, creating a rounded top and a lumpy bottom.  Put dough on pizza peel sprinkled with cornmeal, let rest 40 minutes.  Repeat with remaining dough or refrigerate it.

3.  Place broiler pan on bottom of oven.  Place baking stone on middle rack and turn oven to 450 degrees; heat stone at that temperature for 20 minutes.

4.  Dust dough with flour, slash top with serrated or very sharp knife three times.  Slide onto stone.  Pour one cup hot water into broiler pan and shut oven quickly to trap steam.

Bake until well browned, about 30 minutes.  Cool completely.

Makes 4 loaves

Variation:  If not using stone, stretch rounded dough into oval and place in a greased, nonstick loaf pan. Let rest 40 minutes if fresh, an extra hour if refrigerated.  Heat oven to 450 degrees for 5 minutes.  Place pan on middle rack.

Green Secret

He had long curled up shoes and a tall hat with a Pilgrim's gold buckle on the front and even though he was forever drenched in cocoa, he had an odd smell of mothball, or dust, or mold. For years there was a little green man living in the bottom of my chocolate milk mug and this was how I imagined him. As a kid, my nightly ritual was pretty uneventful: bath time, pajama time, being tucked into bed and then read to. The closure to the day was topped with a frothy mug of chocolate milk. This surely seemed to be a treat: chocolate (albeit mixed with milk) is always a good thing. However, as rituals go, my sister and I soon caught on that this was the last step before the horrendous, curtain-dropping, impossible silence of lights-out darkness, and so, soon enough, the chocolate milk drinking slowed down to a turtle's pace.

My mother, no doubt on a light-hearted whim of ingenuity mixed with complete desperation, put an unforgettable spin to our chocolate milk drinking experience by making the event an unbelievably interesting one that demanded our complete and quick cooperation. One muggy, late night, after nestling next to us on our chocolate milk stained daisy sheets, mom absconded our impressionable six and seven-year old minds with the tale of The Little Green Man that lived at the bottom of our mug. She never explained how this little man could live at the bottom of my mug AND my sister's mug, but it was a detail that, at our tender age, we easily missed. If we drank the chocolate milk fast enough, we were promised the chance to catch a glimpse of him. (No explanation as to what would happen to him if we were slow drinkers.)

While I didn't grow up to be 5'11" (despite my countless prayers to Brooke Shields while clutching her image on the cover of Seventeen magazine and begging to be just like her), I am confident there isn't one calcium-deprived inch in my entire bone structure thanks to mom's tactic. Chocolate Milk Speed Drinking became my nightly obsession from then on. Armed with an unhealthy competitive edge, an infallibly wild imagination, and a total and unwavering trust in my mother (what was I thinking?) I became determined to meet this little man, and later, his family, for he must have a family, children, a village...something (remember the vivid imagination part).

Never once did the notion dawn on me that this could perhaps be false. I even had moments where I would swear, SWEAR, I had caught a glimpse of him: his finger, his foot, the top of his head, just barely speeding away to the bottom of my cinnamon-colored glazed mug with a chip on the handle.
"Saw him!" I would shout with the same glee and triumph aunt Zelda yelled BINGO.
"Where?" my sister and mom would chime in, my sister clearly aggravated by my apparent victory. And of course, as easily as I had spotted him he was once again gone, seeking refuge inside the murkiness of my nutrition. I know mom must have wondered how long the enthusiasm for all these near-misses would last, or at best, how many more paralyzing bouts of brain freeze from my chilled speed drinking I would tolerate. Luckily for her, I appeared resilient in the light of my daily disappointments, becoming more adamant and determined that in the next chocolate-drinking round I'd be fast enough.

You know the end of the story. I wasn't fast enough, in all sense of the word. I started to catch on and become suspicious at about age 28 (so I'm a slow learner), when my husband questioned my incessant and desperate consumption of dairy beverages. Even still, after the shock rubbed off, I still like to pretend I see him escape through the invisible trap door at the bottom of my mug. I just can't help myself. That tiny moment of hope and trust and delicious chocolate milk is one I am not so willing to give up.

This month another man in green is being celebrated. This one does have a name and an identity: he is St. Patrick and comes from the grand ole isle of Ireland. Being one-sixteenth Irish myself, I deem it a privilege to eat some tasty Irish grub in his honor. Of course, I'll have to skip the beer and wash it down with a cold, tall glass of chocolate milk instead. You never know who might be there at the bottom of it.

Warm Cabbage Salad with Bacon and Roquefort
(adapted from Sara Moulton, The Food Network)

A delightful treat, using two Irish favorites: cabbage and bacon!
This salad is flavorful and rich and can be served up as an appetizer or alongside a meal.

4 ounces thick-sliced bacon, cut crosswise into 1/2 inch pieces
freshly ground pepper
1/4 cup dry white wine
1 small shallot, finely minced
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons heavy cream
1 teaspoon Dijon-style mustard
salt, to taste
3 cups finely sliced green cabbage
3 cups finely sliced red cabbage
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1/2 cup crumbled Roquefort

In a large heavy skillet over moderate heat add the bacon pieces, generously season with ground pepper and cook until crisp. Transfer the cooked bacon to paper towels to drain and remove the skillet from the heat.

In a small saucepan combine the wine and shallots and simmer until reduced to a thick syrup. Whisk in the cream, mustard, salt, and pepper and continue to simmer until thickened slightly.

Heat the skillet with the bacon drippings over moderately high heat and cook the green cabbage, stirring, until it just begins to wilt, about 1 to 2 minutes.

Transfer the wilted cabbage to a bowl and cook the red cabbage in the remaining drippings in the same manner.

Return the wilted green cabbage to the skillet, add the vinegar and cook stirring, 1 minute.

Stir in cream mixture and cook stirring until cabbage is crisp-tender. Serve cabbage warm topped with the crumbled Roquefort and bacon.

Serves 4

When Love Is A Sandwich

She was of such stunning beauty that even the women around her stopped to gaze, or so I am told. Sweat beads formed along her clavicle and teased their way down her thin yellow cotton dress, but I did not notice. Her windblown jet black hair refused to be held behind her ears and, I am told, slender, tan fingers insisted it do so, but I cannot confirm that either because I did not notice. Her eyes, encased by ridiculously long dark lashes held lookers captive with a warm moss green stare. But don't quote me on that please because I did not notice.

My male companion noticed, just as everyone else that walked into the tired, lonely store on a forgotten street of Florence many summers ago. It was a dusty, hot afternoon and our feet ached from hours of museum viewing and walking. We were young college graduates out experiencing the world taking a pause from enlightenment to grab a bite to eat, stumbling upon this moment I still remember vividly almost twenty years later.

The door had a bell attached to it to announce new arrivals. I remember the gruff voice of an older man, carrying a huge belly wrapped in a thin, white undershirt.

"Bienvenuti" he bellowed in Pavlovian synchrony to the bell. He must have been her father, I gather in hindsight, not because of genetic disposition, but rather in the way his body naturally turned in her direction at the arrival of newcomers, with his shoulders held high and what chest he had pushed out: a father used to worrying about a beautiful daughter, I presume.

The woman was behind the glass case, I did see that much, but whereas most people's gaze shot right through the food and to her, my eyes had found what they needed in the food. Rows upon rows of tidily wrapped surprises whose names I could not understand and whose parchment paper packages only revealed a glimpse of prosciutto, or egg, or arugula commanded my full attention.

"Beautiful girl" my companion whispered to me in stunned silence. Our relationship was such that we would openly and readily compare notes about those around us, regardless of their sex. It had become a sport of sorts, particularly on this trip through Italy, which is why my man's face smirked slightly in disappointment at my answer.

"Damn, look at those sandwiches!"

I pointed to one of the wrapped treasures and the woman's eyes brightened, she smiled and nodded ever so slightly. I didn't know what I had picked, but I knew by the sparkle in her eye and the way her body relaxed just a bit, that this was one of her favorites. My companion knew too. His shoulders slumped in resignation. I had just upped him one by connecting with this beautiful woman when he couldn't even muster a 'ciao'.

She gingerly placed my selection in a brown paper bag and handed it to me with the utmost care, as if entrusting me with a child of sorts, and then we were on our way; leaving the Italian beauty and her equally magnificent array of mysterious sandwiches. As we hit the pavement and headed towards the next church, I pulled the sandwich out form the bag and took a bite. It was sheer ecstasy in its simplicity: a wonderfully seasoned dark tuna sitting on a tidy bed of green beans marinated in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Thick slices of ripe red tomato added the final touch and the bread had the utmost perfect crunch. I understood the twinkle in her eye: this was the perfect sandwich.

I shared my meal with my mate and he too had to conclude this was worthy of pure distraction. Till this day, I don't remember where in Florence this tiny store was, or what the beautiful woman in the sundress was called (if I ever caught her name), but I do remember the sandwich and how it tasted the instant I bit into it and how it made me feel whole and loved and nourished all in one bite. I never wanted that sandwich to end.

Years later, I still try and recreate the same bite. I season my tuna, make my green beans and connect all the dots for that incredible moment. Maybe it was the sunny Florence afternoon, or the promise of a day filled with adventure and possibility, or maybe I did notice how beautiful that woman was after all. All I know is that , as good as the sandwich may be when I make it, it never tastes quite the same.

A Ciao Bella Sandwich

2 cans albacore tuna packed in olive oil (look for Italian tuna as specialty stores)

2 tablespoons yellow onion, minced

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 teaspoon fresh dill, chopped

1 teaspoon fresh chives, chopped

1/2 teaspoon hot sauce, preferably from Scotch Bonnet peppers (Jamaican or West Indies)

For the beans:

1/2 cup green beans, rinsed and cut into 1/2 inch pieces

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

1/2 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon sea salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

tomato slices

crusty bread (such as baguette)

Prepare the tuna by draining it and mixing with all the ingredients.

Prepare the beans:

steam or microwave for 2 minutes, until soft.

Combine all other ingredients and whisk vinaigrette. Add to beans while they are still hot.

Assemble sandwich by first placing the green beans, then tuna, then tomato.