Another Bite at the Cherry

Mom's Remedy for the Blues

2011-07-23T17:57:00.000-07:00

As puberty crept up and I became a passive passenger on a roller coaster of hormones, there’d be days that I just couldn’t shake the blues. It was a Jekyll-and-Hyde scenario that would haunt me for most of my fertile years. I never thought to look at the cause; my body was gearing up for a wham-bam of reproductive activity. I only saw the symptoms, which were moodiness and the ability to bite someone’s head off. My mother, Champion of Chocolate, held the key to my happiness. We were driving in her car one night, a flame-red Cadillac sedan DeVille, when she turned to me and said, “How’s about a hot fudge sundae?” They were words of salvation.

We pulled into Turner’s Ice Cream Parlor. That old building, near Hyannisport, with its clapboard siding and rickety double-hung windows, had been written about by JFK. A yellowed-with-age note signed by the former president hung in a frame on one of the “if-these-walls-could-talk” walls. I don’t know if the gray-haired woman who sat behind the counter, in her starched man-tailored blouse and apron, was Mrs. Turner. I just assumed it. Both the building and the woman were relics of the “olde Cape Cod,” sung about by Patti Page. It was decades before Ben met Jerry. Imported ice cream just didn’t exist. This was honest-to-goodness, homemade stuff, with flavors like penuche pecan, fresh summer melon, and the unicorn of all delights, frozen pudding -- a concoction of cream and dried candied fruit that seemed like a cross between holiday eggnog and cannoli filling.

We’d sit in that quaint shop, which had never been renovated to look the part, and be served hot gooey chocolate fudge. The kind where you can almost taste the sugar granules between your teeth, rather than the pasteurized goop that floats over soft serve today. A young girl, working her summer job, would open a refrigerator and pull out a large stainless steel bowl with a spatula stuck right in it. She’d give the contents a few turns and top the heavy glass sundae dish holding our overflowing desserts with a healthy dollop of the freshest whipped cream on Earth.

We made outings to Turner’s a weekly event. Mom always went for the fudge. I experimented with ice cream and topping combinations, growing particularly fond of ginger ice cream with claret sauce. The spicy bits of candied ginger were tempered by the sweet red sauce that tasted more like jelly apples than wine. I introduced many of my girlfriends to Turner’s -- girls that hadn’t yet found a food outlet for their hormonal highs and lows. It was hard to convince some of them that this was the real deal. Their palettes were dulled by too many air-filled shakes from Friendly’s.

My senior-year science teacher wouldn’t accept my thesis titled, “The Science of Ice Cream and Emotions.” I suppose it was too far-fetched a topic for the times. In 1972, PMS was only an acronym for “public message system.”

Over thirty years later, Mom’s remedy for the blues, i.e. hot fudge, along with its curative powers, still has the ability to pull me out of the lion’s den of emotion.

Mom’s Remedy for the Blues Hot Fudge

4 ounces unsweetened chocolate

1 cup sugar

4 tablespoons butter, unsalted

1/2 cup milk

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon vanilla

Directions:

1. Melt chocolate, sugar and butter in top of double boiler over low heat, until sugar is dissolved.

2. Stir often to avoid burning.

3. Slowly add milk. Stir till blended smooth.

4. Add baking powder and vanilla. Stir till thick

Makes about 1 cup.

Chasing Zorba

2009-10-02T05:35:00.000-07:00

Sleeping to the sounds of the Yankees being slaughtered by the Texas Rangers is nearly impossible.
“Can you bring the volume down just a hair?” is my typical request, as I nuzzle into the sheets, like a cat kneading its paws into a comfy sweater. I listen, a sleepy captive audience, to the announcer rattling off batting averages, anxious for the moment when, my live-in boyfriend, John, might turn on his wireless headphones. In the background, the stadium organ is winding up, but instead of a fiery foot- stomping rendition of “We Will Rock You,” the organist reels off a few drawn-out bars of a song that sends me back thirty-five years.
“Can you name that tune?” I ask softly, without opening my eyes.
“Sounds familiar,” he offers.

John is an insomniac who thrives on alpha waves and is vigilant about rooting for his favorite team -- right up to the last inning of the losing game. But, would a guy raised by a German immigrant father and a Native American mother recognize a Greek cultural anthem? I tell him it’s called “Zorba the Greek.”
“It’s a person, a song, and the title of a movie, I add, reaching for the earplugs, which are never too far from my side of the bed.
“Ever think of being on Jeopardy?” John asks dryly. He’s probably wondering if this is the movie starring the actor that looks like Aristotle Onassis.
Pulling a pillow over my head to blot out the flickering light of the television, I drift off and hear the music from memory.

Some days, Stacey Tillman and I walk home from school together. Today the aroma from Mom’s kitchen makes it all the way up Concord Avenue meeting us full on when we open the front door. She is baking something because the air is thick with browned butter. Dance music plays in the background. We set our books and coats down in the front vestibule.
“What music is that?” Stacey asks, completely dumbfounded.
“That’s ‘ba-zook-key’ music,” I answer, ashamed. While other housewives on our block are listening to pop, my mother is bustling around the house to Greek Muzak.
“I didn’t know you were Greek,” she says matter-of-factly.
“We’re not,” I reply flatly.

My father had recently started taking mandolin lessons, and every Thursday after he put in his eight hours selling cosmetics to “mom-and-pop” drugstores, a tutor would come to the house and wearily try to get my uncoordinated dad to manipulate the tiny strings. My sister and I had a running bet to see how long it would take before the beautiful mandolin with its rosewood neck became kindling. The year before, he had wrapped his nine iron around a tree out back, and the golf lessons were history.

My mother was up to her elbows in sheets of filo dough. The kitchen table was a wreck, scattered with wet dish towels and baking sheets. She pulled a tray out of the oven; it was full of triangular-shaped parcels that looked like apple turnovers but had a savory rather than a sweet smell. I curiously lifted one of the wet towels to see what was underneath.
“No, don’t touch!” she snapped, pulling the wet rag down. “It’s very important to keep the moisture in. Otherwise the sheets will break before I roll them.” She rarely improvised, following a recipe to the letter. “So, kiddo, how was show-and- tell, did anyone guess it right?” She looked up briefly and blotted her eye makeup with the back of a finger. She wasn’t exactly June Cleaver in pearls, but Mom was a definite looker. She had perfectly arched eyebrows above hazel eyes and wavy black hair, made even fuller with an additional “fall” that sat on the top of her head and cascaded down her back.
“Mom, no one knew they were rocks from the Acropolis,” I said acerbically, punishing her for making the suggestion in the first place. She was a Sunday archaeologist, and our house was filled with artifacts that surpassed common antique furnishings. Her style of decorating was eclectic. Ours was the only house where framed gravestone rubbings from ancient cemeteries hung beside crystal sconces and Mexican bark art.
“They thought I picked them off the street. I looked like an idiot!” I said. She swept her bangs to one side with the back of her wrist and in one motion pushed away my testiness.
My parents had recently returned from a trip to Athens and the Greek Islands. Had the Ministry of Antiquities known my mother had heisted a few pebbles from a national monument, they may never have let her leave the country. But they were smuggled past customs in the bottom of Dad’s cigarette pack. She loved the fact that a small piece of ancient Greece now resided on Long Island. On a previous trip to the Middle East they had returned with a Ziploc bag full of soil from Jerusalem. It had carefully been packed in their suitcase, sandwiched between layers of clothing, eluding airport security. “Isn’t it against the law to bring soil from a foreign country -- something about disease and bacteria?” I pointedly asked my father.
“Unless you want me to go to prison, don’t ever tell anyone it’s here!” he said with life-threatening seriousness. The bag of dirt remained well hidden in my father’s basement office for several years. It was a relic that we never spoke of until the day my grandfather was buried. Standing above the casket vault, my father pulled the bag from his overcoat and scattered the contents over the simple wooden box. They were straight, law-abiding citizens, but each of them had a passion and for this they bent the rules.

“Can Stacey stay for dinner?” I asked, picking at the dried scraps that sat in a heap on the table. “What are we having?” The stuff was paper-white and dry as parchment paper. I figured this was the mistake pile that got too much air.
“Oh my, I didn’t even get the chicken in the oven. It’s Friday!” she blurted, dropping her pastry brush, sticky with oil, and covering up her pastry sheets with the delicacy of handling a Fabergé egg. “Chicken, noodle kugel, and cantaloupe, same as every Friday,” she recited by rote, moving into multitask mode. We weren’t a religious family by any means: we ate bacon on Sunday mornings and only attended synagogue on the High Holy Days, or for an occasional bar mitzvah. Both of my parents were Jews who believed that the way to keep the religion alive was to eat the food their parents ate. The only requirements for my siblings and me as we grew to adulthood would be to eat roast chicken and kugel every Friday night -- and to marry Jewish.
“So what’s this stuff for?” I asked, looking at the odd pastries and moving over to the pan of kugel that sat on the stove. The tops of the thin egg noodles were golden, and the rich smell reminded me of grandma’s kitchen.
“The borekas are for the girls,” she said, dragging a five-pound roaster out of the fridge. She quickly assembled the ingredients and starting rubbing it down with a paste of garlic powder, paprika, and vegetable oil. It was always a big chicken on Friday nights. Dad spent the rest of the weekend picking at the cold meat, washing it down with Old Milwaukee beer.
“The canasta girls?” I asked.
Mom was moving her trays of dough around the kitchen, looking for any available counter space, balancing them wherever they wound up. She reminded me of the guy that spun plates on the Ed Sullivan show.
“No, not canasta,” she said, licking the garlic from a finger, the way I would if it were frosting. She’d been spending more time with a group of sisterhood gals, whose Sephardic parents had come over from Greece and Turkey. Unlike her longtime canasta friends, Diane and Barbara, whose parents were Ashkenazi, these new friends were colorful and loud, with names like Joya, Ida, and Gay. They wore heaps of gold costume jewelry, which highlighted their angular features and almond-shaped eyes. The religion was the same; the differences in interpretation were subtle enough to be dismissed. The Yiddish-raised “girls” were conventional in style and infinitely dissimilar to the foreign “girls”, whose lineage had been born of assimilation.
“The mah-jongg girls?” I asked.
She placed the bird into a pan and lavished it with some more garlic, the way some ladies used talc.
“No, not mah-jongg,” she replied.
Stacey picked up the phone receiver and dialed her mother to let her know that she was home from school.
“You staying to eat?” I asked, while the numbers were still spinning on the rotary dial. It seemed that every night was spaghetti-and-meatball night at their house. It may have been the only thing that Bunny Tillman knew how to cook -- or that because of its simplicity she could work on her abstract paintings up until the last second before feeding her family. When Stacey had a sleep-over party for her ninth birthday, we were allowed to hang out in her folks’ room, out of the way of the older brothers, while Bunny and Hal watched television by candlelight in the den. We locked the door for privacy, and twelve of us crammed onto their king-sized platform bed to play strip poker. We laughed at each other’s underwear, and stayed up all night. We sang, “Come on...come on...come on and touch me babe. Can’t you see that I am not afraid…?”
Bunny wouldn’t let her daughter watch the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows thinking that it would give her daughter nightmares. But for Bunny, the idea of a bunch of flat-chested girls jumping up and down in their Carter’s was just fine.

I noticed a travel brochure stuck behind the phone, advertising a hotel in “the beautiful Catskill Mountains” where your “vacation awaits you.” A blue-paper insert had the word L-A-S-H-A in bold type and Greek Get Away underneath that. Now it was all making sense, I thought. These newly found friends had enlisted my parents into some cult. Was the Ladies Auxiliary Sephardic Home for the Aging responsible for this strange immersion in Greek culture? I quickly assessed that their leader had brainwashed my parents under the pretense of Judaism. I felt suddenly sick, and the temperature in the kitchen rose so quickly I could feel my ears burning. I just wanted my family to be like everyone else’s. I missed the days when Johnny Mathis was the only record Dad listened to. And what was the story with all the dark eyeliner and mascara that Mom was wearing? I wanted to go to Disneyworld, not the boondocks of upstate New York with a bunch of bazuki-loving senior citizens! I glared at my mother as if she were a Stepford wife.
Stacey was speaking quietly to her mother around the corner of the kitchen, the long phone cord stretched beyond recognition to reach the next room.
“Nah, we’re having leftovers,” she announced. By that she meant second-day spaghetti and meatballs. But it won out over our traditional Jewish menu and whatever Greek side dish --which were our leftovers.
Stacey always had to be home before 4:00 p.m. That’s when I dutifully watched the newest episode of Dark Shadows; Bunny knew that if Stacey stayed she’d be captivated. She’d leave our house and hit the local Carvel for a thick shake on the way home. It would fill her belly and stave off her appetite for one more serving of Italian food.
I ran into the bedroom I shared with my sister and, like a tight-rope speed walker, paced the invisible line that ran down the center.
“Don’t even think about it,” Lisa growled without taking her nose out of a book. She must have sensed that at any moment I would pounce.
Oblivious to her mood, which was distinctively pensive; I wanted only for her to keep me company. She was a serious girl with long black hair, dark eyes, and an acute set of boundaries. I wasn’t allowed to join her friends when they came over to the house, and was by no means supposed to speak to her when we passed each other in the corridor at elementary school. Lisa was three years older and light years aloof. She had been on the defensive since my parents brought me home from the hospital; repulsed by my in-your-face style of affection. We were nothing alike and I adored her. She managed through nine years with as little contact with me as possible. Then my parents had a baby, and I was forced to move into her room.
“Come on…it’s four o’clock!” I pleaded from my side of the line.
She snapped the box closed and looked at me with contempt. “Okay, and then leave me alone!”
We did have one thing in common: the mystery of the alluring vampire Barnabas Collins and his beautiful wife, the haunting witch, Angelique. The show was pure escapism from our day-to-day confines; an exotic realm miles away from split-level suburbia.

In 1970 it seemed everyone, young and old, was looking to escape somewhere, somehow. The death toll from the war in Vietnam was over 34,000, the Ohio National Guard had opened fire, shot, and killed four students at Kent State, and even though the album, Bridge Over Troubled Water, by Simon & Garfunkel won three Grammy awards, Vice President Spiro Agnew stated that the song was about heroin addiction.

Mom was scooping up the last of the filling for her borekas; a slurry of chopped spinach, eggs, and feta cheese. I took a quick count of the number of pieces she had prepared. There were several dozen, with a tray still in the oven.
“What girls are these for?” I asked.
“The belly dancers,” Mom said with a wink.
Tomorrow she’d walk through the doors of Isadora’s Dance Studio, armed with borekas and a heap of gold jewelry; she’d leave the status quo and enter the sublime.

Joya’s Spinach Boreka Filling

Ingredients:

1 (16 ounce) bag frozen, chopped spinach,
thawed and drained in a colander

2 eggs, beaten with 1 tablespoon water, divided

1/4 pound feta cheese, crumbled

1/2 cup ricotta cheese

1/2 teaspoon oregano

1/2 teaspoon garlic powder

Salt and black pepper, to taste

1/2 teaspoon za'atar (a Middle Eastern spice mixture), optional
1 box prepared filo dough (frozen food section of market)
1/2 cup vegetable oil

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

2. Combine all filling ingredients, reserving 1 tablespoon of the egg wash for the tops of the borekas.

3. Spray a large cookie sheet with non-stick cooking spray.

4. Remove filo dough from it’s box, unroll entire package and using a pair of sharp kitchen scissors or knife, divide dough in half creating two long stacks. Immediately cover with a dampened towel.

5. Remove one sheet of dough at a time. Brush with vegetable oil. Place 3-4 heaping tablespoons of filling at one end of dough strip. Form the borekas into a triangle by lifting the right corner up to the left. Continue folding parcel up the entire strip of dough until a triangular parcel is formed.

6. Paint with the egg wash and sprinkle with the za'atar or sesame seeds.
7. Bake the borekas in the center of the preheated oven for 20 to 25 minutes or until puffy and golden brown.

Makes 10 large borekas.

FAST FOOD

2009-01-10T11:05:00.000-08:00

In the wee morning hours, home delivery trucks dotted the streets of our suburban neighborhood. White-capped milkmen ran from house to house filling galvanized tin boxes with fresh milk and dairy products. And snack foods like potato chips and pretzels went to other homes. Out from behind a brown speckled van, with the logo “Charles Chips,” a deliveryman would balance two or three impressively huge cans and drop them at their destination. We were, however, the first family to get delivery of Cott soda. Two cases of heavy glass quarts arrived every Friday: an assortment of grape, cola, black cherry, and the coveted cream -- always the first one tapped. No wonder there was always a milk-fed friend begging to have dinner with us.

Mom liked to sleep in. Getting up with the sun to serve a warm breakfast to her school-aged children wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She waited till the house was empty -- free and clear of questions and demands -- before having her coffee and buttered roll with a paperback romance novel. The day I started kindergarten was the day I received a crash course in the morning routine.

“Get up and get dressed,” My older sister, Lisa, ordered, like a drill sergeant. “Mom, laid out your clothes last night,” she said, pointing to the ensemble at the foot of my bed.
“Where’s Mom,” I yawned.
“Upstairs, don’t make any noise,” she said, tiptoeing down the hall.
The worst transgression in our house would have been to wake a sleeping parent. My sister and I had already been taught the moral principle of “consideration,” after it had been smacked into our asses.
“Isn’t Mom going to make us breakfast?” I asked, hoping for a hot bowl of Farina.
“Mom doesn’t get up early, get used to it,” she replied derisively, walking off to forage through the assortment of Drake’s cakes stored in the oven.

So my folks never had a problem finding a teenaged babysitter, because the word was out about our junk-food stockpile. Whipped cream from a can was a trendy delicacy when it hit the market, and we always had a can or two. That stuff which miraculously propelled itself from the funny white nozzle was good for a half an hour of entertainment. Lisa and I would compete by standing with our mouths gaping open as the babysitter injected as much whipped cream as the space would hold. Whoever gagged, lost.

We ate Yankee Doodles for breakfast and had Swanson TV dinners every Saturday night. Even after I had been to college, had revolutionized my dietary world, and returned home with an armful of bottles from the health food store to concoct a soy lecithin, wheat germ and organic honey gruel, Dad was still doing the morning cup of coffee -- with a cupcake chaser.

My father was a cosmetics salesman, and, though he was raised in an orthodox Jewish household by a mother that adhered to the kosher principles, he lived on a steady diet of quick-stop specialties, regardless of their orientation.

On Sunday mornings Mom would fry up some bacon and eggs, and then we’d pile into Dad’s ‘67 Impala; headed to Brooklyn for a visit with his parents. They were Polish immigrants who spoke only Yiddish and had raised four children in their two-bedroom apartment. For most of his youth Dad slept on a cot in the cramped kitchen, only acquiring a bedroom once all of his older sisters were married.

Somewhere along the way we’d stop for burgers and fries. McDonald’s, before the dawn of the Big Mac, was the ultimate roadside attraction. Outside, a red-and-white-tiled wraparound bench ran below impressive glass walls. Pressing our faces up against the window, Lisa and I spied burgers sizzling on an automated circular grill and an assembly line of men in starched white clothes churn out perfectly packaged sandwiches. The graceful beauty of their aligned posture, accurate aim, and controlled speed captivated my imagination.
When Burger King debuted in our hometown, we actually got dressed for dinner, eager to line up and sample their flame-broiled brand. There was no drive-through in those days, and the term “fast food” wasn’t common knowledge.

We ate the stuff in the backseat, balanced the cold soda cups between our knees and used the fries as swords in a duel, while Dad drove and Mom bit her nails. Before arriving at my grandparents’ third-floor walk-up in Flatbush, a small, dank apartment that was filled with the aroma of garlic and onions, Dad would stop at a dumpster and throw away any remnants of our lunch -- including all the paper packaging. The four of us would get out of the car so he could spray it down with Lysol. Then we’d jump back in, turn the block and arrive. Dad had always led his mother to believe that we were the fruits of an authentically kosher womb. He figured what Grandma didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

And she had her own way of faking out the powers that be. We would bring shopping bags of fruit from the farmers market on Long Island for her to use in the apple cake recipe that came from the old country. If the previous weeks’ produce hadn’t been processed; she had an ingenious, if not totally devious, method for letting us know.

“Hello, this is the operator with a collect call for Mrs. Noapel,” the long-distance lady would say.
“I’m sorry, there’s nobody here by that name,” my father answered, declining the incoming charges. As Grandmother and Father silently listened, using the phone line as the operative, “NO APPLE” was decoded.
“No fruit, straight to Flatbush,” Dad would proudly announce after hanging up the receiver.

Grandma Sylvia’s Apple Cake
3 cups flour
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1/4 cup orange juice
1 cup vegetable oil
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 teaspoons baking powder
6 apples
3 teaspoons cinnamon
6 tablespoons sugar

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour a large rectangular pan (lasagna-type).
2. Combine the first seven ingredients and beat at medium speed for 10 minutes.
3. Peel and thickly slice the apples and add cinnamon and sugar.
4. Layer half of the batter in pan; add apples, then the rest of the batter. Sprinkle top with additional cinnamon and sugar.

5. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the top crust is crisp.

Serves 16.

Featured in "Latina Magazine"

2006-01-10T16:15:00.000-08:00

Latin Fusion Lovers! What a wonderful response we have received from our coverage in Latina Magazine...keep those e-mails coming! Here's two favorites from the Cuba and Brazil menus. Enjoy!

CONKIES

3 cups grated coconut
3/4 pound pumpkin, peeled and grated
1/2 pound sweet potato, peeled and grated
1/2 pound brown sugar
1 teaspoon powdered cinnamon
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon almond extract
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups corn flour
½ cup all-purpose flour
4 ounces raisins (optional)
6 ounces shortening
1 cup milk
Wax paper or plantain leaves – cut to 8” wide strips

Mix grated coconut, pumpkin and sweet potato with sugar and spices. Add raisins and flours last and combine well. Melt shortening over low heat; add milk, then combine with other ingredients. Place a few tablespoons of the mixture onto wax paper or leaves. Fold securely with seam down on steamer rack. Steam over boiling water until they are firm and cooked. Cool before unwrapping.

Makes 24 bars.

Conkies are perfect with the next recipe!

BRAZILIAN ICED CHOCOLATE

2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
¼ cup sugar
1 cup double strength coffee, hot
2 ½ cups milk
1 ½ cup cola, chilled
Whipped Cream
Vanilla Ice Cream

In the top of a double boiler, over hot water, melt the chocolate squares. Stir in the sugar. Gradually stir in the hot coffee, mixing thoroughly. Add the milk and continue cooking until all particles of the chocolate are dissolved and the mixture is smooth, about 10 minutes. Pour into a jar.

Cover and chill. When ready to serve, stir in the chilled Coca-Cola. Serve over ice cubes in tall glasses.

For a beverage, top with whipped cream.

For a dessert, add a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Serves 4 .

Out to Launch - One 'Mo Time

2006-01-10T15:52:00.000-08:00

2005 was a great year for our "Recipe Deck" series manufactured by Boston Warehouse Trading Corporation, with over 70,000 copies sold! Look for three new titles at a gift store near you: Salad Gourmet, Soup Gourmet, and Snack Crazy! The line makes it's debut at the Atlanta GiftMart January 10-18, 2006 at the Dougan-Bliss showroom.

The Gravy Train

2005-11-07T14:30:00.000-08:00

Gra-vy: noun 1:a sauce made from the thickened and seasoned juices of cooked meat. 2.something additional or unexpected that is pleasing or valuable.
--Merriam Webster’s Dictionary

It comes to mind that most of my childhood meals were very dry. My mother was a great homemaker and our family did enjoy her “from scratch” dishes, though most fell under the heading “B.C.” -- Burnt Cookery. It was not any more appetizing than it sounds.

Pepper steak from the Westinghouse electric wok was my favorite. Never a fan of nightshades, I couldn’t handle the peppers and cared less for the onions, but the thin slices of tender beef soaked through and through with salty teriyaki sauce was right on the money. Come to think of it, that may have been the only dish in her repertoire where sauce was fundamental to the recipe, not optional. She may have had a moral issue with gravy, akin to the sacrilege of putting ketchup on steak. Quite possibly, she wanted one less pot to clean. Either way, we never got it.

Every Friday night, year in and year out, was the traditional roasted chicken meal. One night, though, after seeing that the white meat was parched to the wishbone and gravy wasn’t being served à la carte, I decided to challenge the powers that be.

“Can we vote on it?” I asked my parents, regarding the weekly poultry ritual.
“No, there’ll be no voting in this house!” barked my father, with the ultimate voice of authority.
“Some families take votes,” I murmured quietly into my fork.
“Are you under the impression that this house is a democracy?” he said, raised his lung power. My mother was silent when Dad was about to rage. Even my sister knew enough to keep her mouth shut. I, on the other hand, always took the bait.
“Yes,” I said. (Wrong answer.)

He hunched his shoulders menacingly. “This is not a democracy,” he said slapping down his drumstick,” his dark eyes sparked with fire. “This is a dictatorship!” That was just too complex a statement to be easily answered or solved by a ten-year-old. “What do you think of that?” he asked.

“I don’t like it,” I said. I was definitely flirting with disaster.

My sister slouched inconspicuously into her chair, feeling a victim of circumstance. There were six chairs at our kitchen table, and only four of us. Lisa always set the dishes and, with artful subtlety, placed me right next to Dad. Her plate at the other end of the table made her so close, yet so far away. Oh, there were times when I’d undo her clever handiwork and slide my place setting next to hers. But, miraculously, as we all sat down, my dish was back in its original position. Damn, she was good, always employing me as interference to the striking range.

“If you don’t like it, leave!” was his familiar retort. The Hobson principle, of apparent free choice offering no real alternative, was my father’s standard. “You’ll take what’s given to you, or have nothing at all!”

To present a counterargument would have gotten me kicked out of the kitchen, and surmising that my options were as limited as the dinner menu, I replied simply, “Dibs on the dark meat.”

Pepper Steak

1 1/4 cups beef broth, divided
1/4 cup soy sauce
1 1/4 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup thinly sliced mild onions

1 (1 1/2 pound) boneless round steak, cut into strips
1 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 cup olive or vegetable oil
4 medium green bell peppers, cut into julienne strips
2 large tomatoes, peeled and chopped
3 tablespoons cornstarch
Hot cooked rice

Directions:

1. In a small bowl, combine 3/4 cup of the broth, soy sauce, ginger, sugar and pepper; set aside.
2. In a skillet or electric wok over medium-high heat, brown beef and garlic in oil.
3. Add peppers and tomatoes. Cook and stir until peppers are crisp-tender, about 3 minutes.
4. Stir the soy sauce mixture and add to pan. Cover and cook until the meat is tender, about 15 minutes.
5. Combine cornstarch with the remaining broth until smooth; add to pan. Bring to a boil; cook and stir for 2 minutes.
6. Serve over rice.

Mystery Pie

2005-11-03T13:16:00.000-08:00

I was standing in line at the school cafeteria, pushing a tray full of carbohydrates. It was Thanksgiving season, and through the cardboard cutouts of cornucopias I detected that there was just one choice for dessert. Kids were grabbing the plates as if under a blue-light special. I scrutinized the little paper plate with the orange concoction.

“It won’t bite you,” said the kid next to me to keep the line moving. I was looking around for a red Jell-O alternative. “C’mon Shorty, take it of leave it!” he snapped.

“It smells like spice cake,” I said to him with my nose in it, though he wasn’t interested in discussing the matter.
“She’s smelling the pie -- gross!” remarked someone else.
“She once licked her plate after spaghetti.”

They side-stepped me like I was toxic waste. I happened to think the school’s spaghetti and sauce entrée was quite delicious and took their comments in stride. I had eaten spice cake once at the school’s holiday carnival, but this stuff wiggled like pudding. The smooth and dense texture filled my mouth. The sweet fragrance of the custard sent waves of pleasure right down to my Buster Browns. I felt a bit naughty eating something that seemed so exotic.

When I came home that night and explained the details of the dessert to my mother she replied simply, “Oh that’s pumpkin pie.”

“How come we never have it?” I asked in utter amazement. “It’s really good!”
She looked at me as if I had just suggested that we start celebrating Christmas.
“My mother never served it.” She bit off every word. “NOT a very Jewish dish.” I had gotten the same comment once before, regarding spice cake.

I didn’t understand the explanation at the time. My mother was an atheist, and didn’t believe in the existence of a supreme being. But she was very devout in regard to tradition. She called herself a gastronomic Jew and thought that if a dish fell outside the parameters of traditional Jewish cuisine it wasn’t worth serving.
But it went deeper than that. To mother, Thanksgiving was an assimilated non-holiday. She celebrated the event with little enthusiasm knowing that those people weren’t her forefathers. There hadn’t been one Jewish Pilgrim at the original Thanksgiving table and she resented that! So, she held out on pumpkin pie for as long as she could. Now that the secret was out, she had no objection if I ate it -- she just wouldn’t bake it. From that year on, I had to purchase Entenmanns’s from the convenience store if I wanted pumpkin pie with Thanksgiving dinner.

Tipsy in the Kitchen

2005-10-12T06:21:00.000-07:00

October 16 is National Liqueur Day!

What's the difference between a liquor and a liqueur?

This question confuses many, and with good reason. Many liquors are available in flavored forms nowadays. Both liquors and liqueurs contain alcohol, but the terms are not interchangable.

In general, liqueurs are sweetened spirits with various flavors, oils and extracts. Liqueur alcohol content can range from a low 15 percent (30 proof) to 55 percent (110 proof), so potency is not a distinguishing factor. Rum, whiskey, brandy, and vodka can serve as a base spirit for liqueurs. Cream liqueurs have cream added, while créme liqueurs are much sweeter, likened to a potent syrup. Our ancestors referred to liqueurs as cordials, and they were often used medicinally.

Here’s a first look at two recipes from our upcoming book “Liqueur Amore” which will be published in 2007 by Boston Warehouse.

This cake is so moist and so rich; the stuff of a decadent “wedding cake”. The taste of orange will entice your tastebuds and the silken texture will tease your palate! Serving this cake at our Wild Rose Inn bed and breakfast brings oohs-and-ahs, and I always print out extra copies of the recipe for interested guests!

If you’re feeling adventurous; prepare your own orange liqueur (similar to Grand Marnier)…but plan this well in advance; curing time for the liqueur is one month.

The secret to this sensuous recipe is pouring a mixture of liqueur and juice onto the hot cake. (Poke a few small holes with fork to help the liquid absorb.) The recipe makes two cake rounds for a layered effect ( I’d use a simple whipped cream to frost) or one 1/2 sheet for cutting into squares.

Orange Blossom Cake

2 cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 1/8 cups sugar, divided use
2 teaspoon orange peel, grated
3 eggs, separated
3/4 cup orange juice
1/4 cup clear orange liqueur (such as Triple Sec®)
1/2 cup whole milk
Whipped cream for garnish

Stir together flour, baking powder, salt and baking soda; set aside. In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, beat butter and 1 cup sugar until fluffy. Add orange peel and egg yolks, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Blend orange juice and liqueur. Combine 1/2 cup juice mixture with milk. Add flour mixture and milk mixture alternately to creamed mixture, beginning and ending with flour. Beat egg whites until stiff, but not dry; gently fold into batter. Pour into (2) greased and floured 9-inch square pans. Bake in preheated 350 degree F. oven 35-40 minutes. Cakes will be very dark on top. Combine remaining 1/2 cup orange juice mixture and 1/8 cup sugar. Pour mixture over hot cake. Cool before removing from pan. Serve with whipped cream. Serves 12-16.

Grand Orange - Cognac Liqueur

3 cups brandy or cognac
11/2 teaspoons pure orange extract
1 cup orange-blossom honey
1/2 teaspoon glycerin, thickening agent (optional)
dash of ground cinnamon and ground coriander

Place all ingredients into a clean container to age. Stir, cap and let age in a cool dark place for 1 month. After initial aging, pour through fine mesh strainer placed over medium bowl. Rinse out aging container. Place clarified liqueur back into bottle. Makes 4 cups.

Recipe Riddle - October

2005-10-03T12:53:00.000-07:00

October is National Seafood Month.

Here's a riddle that has stumped the best.

A few clues: it's not exactly comfort food - unless you're a penquin!

Think: temperature, animal, and Bullwinkle.

You Gotta Be In It To Win It

2005-09-22T16:18:00.000-07:00

After losing out on FoodTV's "Next Food Network Star" contest last year I vowed never to try another. The $1,200. spent to have the entry videotaped stung, but my hopes for becoming a celebrity television chef were squashed like compactor trash when a congratulatory phone call from the network executives never came. Yes, I really thought me and the kids had a shot with our show "Family House Party!" It was an expensive lesson; but just like NY Lotto says, You Gotta Be In It To Win It!So, for the last several months I licked that $1,200 wound, figuring my plate was full enough without having the additional worries of stardom. After watching a rerun of "The Secret Life of French Fries" I was about to turn the TV off, and heard the promo:" You could be the winner". Oh no, I thought, here we go again. I felt all rationale drain out of me like bathtub water and Mrs. Hyde, the sweepstakes maniac, was all ears."Enter the Haagen-Daz contest and maybe your flavor idea will win." I tossed and turned with conflicted thoughts but finally fell asleep to visions of sweet victory. The only problem was, I had to have a videotaped entry in the mail by the next evening to beat the deadline. Another damn videotape! What ever happened to the lost art of the essay? I bargained with myself that this one would only cost the price of a mini-8 cassette. I grabbed my daughter's camcorder, plugged it into the sign post outside because my kids had used the battery in some science project, and stood outside waiting for traffic.

To one passerby I yelled (with the camera rolling) "What do you think would make a better ice cream, Apple Strudel...or Macaroni and Cheese". To the next victim I hollered a choice between Apple Strudel and Garlic Bread. I got more laughs than answers. Beings this is Woodstock, and folks walk the streets with neurotic agendas, one guy wouldn't play the game stating it was "an inappropriate question". Geez, it wasn't like I was asking him for an opinion on Roe vs. Wade. But I was getting into it, so I threw on an apron and dragged the camera downtown, hoping I'd find an electric receptacle and more willing players.

I changed my approach and told people (off camera) that I was helping one of my kids with a homework assignment. The tactic worked and I soon had a crowd.

"Hey, UPS man, what do think would taste better in ice cream, Apple Strudel or Chicken Soup". Not so surprising; he went with the apple! I ripped the tape from the machine, ran it down to the P.O., and felt like a winner.

Epilouge: They haven't called yet. But there's always tommorrow.

APPLE STRUDEL ICE CREAM

2 1/2 apples, peeled and cubed
1 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 quart heavy cream
2 packages Dream Whip Topping Mix
1 box instant vanilla pudding
1 quart plain yogurt
1 pint half and half
1 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 pre-made or frozen pie crust

Bake pie crust according to package directions. Cool shell and then break into small pieces, not crumbs. Measure 1/2 cup of broken pie shell, set aside. In a saucepan, combine apples, brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg. Heat, stirring, until apples soften and are well coated, but not limp. Refrigerate for 1 hour. In a large bowl, manually whisk together cream, Dream Whip and pudding. (Do not use an electric mixer!). Whisk in yogurt until well blended. In a blender, thoroughly combine half and half, granulated sugar and vanilla. Whisk blender ingredients into yogurt mixture. Stir in apple mixture, nuts and pie shell. Pour into ice cream mixer prepare according to machine directions. Makes 8 cups. Serves 16.

Who's in the Soup Kitchen

2005-09-17T15:37:00.000-07:00

Consider how presidents have manipulated the image of soup itself--serving, as it does, to symbolize both poverty (the soup kitchen) and the common man. Herbert Hoover was, to his sorrow, forever linked to the image of soup lines, symbol of depression America, but FDR turned those tables into a triumph of solidarity when he instituted Tuesday Soup Nights in the White House. (Franklin Roosevelt liked Martha Washington's original crab soup, but with a splash of Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry in it.) Here's First Lady Eleanor, just down from Hyde Park in an oh-so fashionable cloche, doing the honors at a soup kitchen.

Martha Washington’s Crab Soup

1/2 pound fresh crab meat (or 1 cup canned or frozen)
1 tablespoon butter
1 1/2 tablespoons flour
3 hard boiled eggs, mashed
Grated zest of 1 lemon
4 cups milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup sherry
Dash Worcestershire

Boil crabs in salted water to get meat (if using fresh). In a large saucepan, combine butter, flour, eggs, lemon zest, salt and pepper. Boil on low heat and pour milk in slowly. Add crabmeat to milk mixture and gently cook for 5 minutes. Add cream and remove from heat before it reaches a full boil. Add sherry and Worcestershire. Serves 2.

Recipe Riddle - September

2005-09-01T10:02:00.000-07:00

In honor of National Chicken Month! This one is so easy I can't, in good conscience, provide the answer. Hint: think Comfort Food.

2005-08-27T14:30:00.000-07:00

Nostalgic Sunday Brunch

On a lazy Sunday, after the guests have checked out of the Inn; when John is watching the big screen and the kids are battling it out over Monopoly, I love to rattle the pots and pans. Here are two of my favorite (and simple) comfort food classics.

HAM AND SPINACH ROULADES

24 slices boiled ham, thin cut
2 (10-ounce) packages frozen chopped spinach, cooked, drained
2 cups packaged cornbread stuffing
2 cups sour cream
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg

Cream Sauce:

8 tablespoons butter
8 tablespoons flour
4 cups whole milk
1/2 cup sharp Cheddar cheese, grated
Paprika
Parmesan cheese, grated

Combine well drained spinach, stuffing, sour cream, salt and nutmeg. Spread a moderate layer on each ham slice. Roll up and place seam-side down in buttered casserole dish. In a saucepan, over low heat, melt butter then whisk in flour. Blend well. Add milk and continue stirring over medium heat until thick. Add Cheddar cheese and remove from heat. Stir constantly until all the cheese is melted. Pour over ham roulades. Sprinkle with paprika and grated Parmesan cheese. Bake at 350 degrees F. for 15 minutes covered and another 15 minutes uncovered. Makes 24 rolls; allow four roulades per person. Serves 6.

Wine Suggestion: Beaujolais, Burgundy, dry red

STRAWBERRY BETTY

1 quart strawberries
Juice of 1/2 lemon
2/3 cup brown sugar, firmly packed
4 cups bread cubes, without crust
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon grated lemon rind
2 tablespoons butter
Heavy cream for garnish

Wash and hull berries, mix with lemon juice and brown sugar. Put berries in a shallow
1-1/2 quart baking dish. Mix bread cubes, white sugar, and lemon rind. Sprinkle mixture over strawberries and dot with butter. Bake in preheated oven at 350 degrees F. for 25-30 minutes. Serve warm with heavy cream. Serves 6.

Wine Suggestion: Monbazillac, Bordeaux, sweet white

In the Kitchen with Risotto

2005-08-19T16:45:00.000-07:00

I've decided once a week to hang up the tried-and-true; procure an ingredient that I had never cooked with, and let the creativity flow. So many times I fall into the rut of cooking what is familiar...definately the dark side of being a Comfort Foodie! But I've been reading Amanda Hesser's novel "Cooking for Mr. Latte" and today it has inspired me to try "risotto". I once caught Giada on FoodTV's Everyday Italian making a sweet risotto with raspberries for Valentine's Day - which wasn't enough to convince me. I'm the queen of pilaf, a brown rice babe - till now, risotto, has been foreign territory (is it pasta or is it rice ?). Amanda's "Creamy Risotto with Lemon" (page 141) jumped off the page and turned out to be a fabulous initiation. The secret to making great risotto is not to oversaturate the grains with liquid while it is cooking. Only add more broth (chicken or beef stock) once the previous amount has been absorbed. Sticking to this method will conjure a fluffy grain that is still firm to the bite. I adapted her recipe by adding 1/4 cup reconstituted Porcini mushrooms (with the water for soaking) half way through the process and substituted sour cream for the creme fraiche. This fabulous dish was served with grilled wild mushroom chicken sausage, and a simple salad of Vidalia onions and fresh garden tomatoes. Delicious! Italian cooks have recognized risotto as a comfort food for centuries.

Mom's Remedy for the Blue's

2005-08-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

As puberty crept up and I became a passive passenger on the roller coaster of hormones, there’d come days that I just couldn’t shake the blues. It was a Jekyll and Hyde scenario that would haunt me for most of my fertile years. I never thought to look at the cause: my body was gearing up for a wham-bam of reproductive activity. I would only treat the symptoms, which were moodiness and the ability to bite someone’s head off. My mother, Champion of Chocolate, held the key to my happiness.
We were driving in her car one night, my mother in that flame red Cadillac sedan Deville, when she turned to me and said, “How’s about a hot fudge sundae?” They were words of salvation as we pulled into Turner’s ice cream parlor. That old building, near Hyannisport, with its clapboard siding and rickety double-hung windows, had been written about by JFK. A yellowed note signed by the former president hung in a frame on one of the “if-these-walls–could-talk” walls. I don’t know if the gray-haired woman who sat behind the counter, in her starched man tailored blouse and apron, was Mrs. Turner—I just assumed it. Both the building and the woman were relics of the “Olde Cape Cod” that Pattie Page sang about. It was decades before Ben met Jerry, and imported ice cream was nothing but fiction. This was honest to goodness homemade stuff, with flavors like penuche pecan, fresh summer melon, and the unicorn of all delights, frozen pudding—a concoction of cream and dried candied fruit that seemed like a cross between holiday eggnog and cannoli filling.
We’d sit in that quaint shop that had never been renovated, to look the part, and be served hot gooey chocolate fudge, the kind where you can almost taste the sugar granules between your teeth rather than the pasteurized goop that floats over soft serve today. A young girl, working her summer job, would open a refrigerator and pull out a large stainless steel bowl with a spatula stuck right in it. She’d give the contents a few turns and top the heavy glass dish that held our overflowing dessert with a healthy dollop of freshest whip cream on Earth.
We made outings to Turner’s a weekly event. Mom always went for the fudge. I experimented with ice cream and topping combinations, growing particularly fond of ginger ice cream with claret sauce. The spicy bits of candied ginger were tempered by the sweet red sauce that tasted more like jelly apples than wine. I brought many of my girlfriends to Turner’s – girls that hadn’t yet found a food outlet for their hormonal highs and lows. I was very surprised when my senior year science teacher didn’t accept my thesis topic on “The Science of Ice Cream and Emotions”. I suppose it was too far-fetched a topic for the times. In 1972, PMS was only an acronym used for “post meridian standard”.
Over thirty years later, mom’s remedy for the blues, i.e. hot fudge, along with its curative powers, still has the ability to pull me out of the lion’s den of emotion.

Mom’s Remedy for the Blues Hot Fudge

4 ounces unsweetened chocolate
1 cup sugar
4 tablespoons butter, unsalted
1/2 cup milk
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla

Directions:

1. Melt chocolate, sugar and butter in top of double boiler over low heat, until sugar is dissolved.
2.Stir often to avoid burning.
3. Slowly add milk. Stir till blended smooth.
4. Add baking powder and vanilla. Stir till thick

Recipe Riddles - August

2005-08-01T13:34:00.000-07:00

In honor of National Peach Month! If you've never tried making this, your in for a surprise; it's the one-pan wonder of the dessert world! Hint: Just what kind of truck is it?

Passing the Torch

2005-07-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

Being a fifth generation Innkeeper, I come from a long line of home baking matriarchs - women that utilized homemaking and baking for gains in an era when women were scarce in professional kitchens. Like Bubbe (my mother's grandmother), Grandma Lil, and Mom - baking, and a persistent sweet tooth, are in the DNA. When my son, Austin, showed signs of interest I made room for him to start experimenting. He started with box mixes for brownies and cookies; eventually moving up the ranks to scratch recipes, and from there adaptation. I stood by and watched with proud adoration as he chose to add chocolate chips to a batch of P'nut Butter Cookies! He says, "Baking makes me happy. When I'm in a funk, it turns my mood around." While he was at sleep-away camp this summer he producded an article for the camp newletter entitled: "Making a S'more", and reported that "it was a hit! Everyone knew me as that-marshmallow-guy!" Now, that's how to make a Jewish mother kvell!

PEARL JAM in Woodstock

2005-07-23T05:32:00.000-07:00

I've long since lost the butterflies when a celebrity walks through the doors of my house. Maybe that's because here at The Wild Rose Inn I've met so many, or maybe because I meet them on common ground; at the end of the day we're all just folks in need of a comfy bed. I was fascinated that two members of the legendary "grunge" band PEAL JAM would come for a visit. Though I didn't know their music well, I did recognize that they held a status with Generation X the way The Rolling Stones did with me. Mike McCready, one of the founding members of the band was on a strict diet, as are many guests these days, and he requested the use of our private kitchen to prepare his meals. He has been dealing with Crohn's disease since he was a teenager - and made one simple request: pick up three pounds of extremely lean chopped meat! I asked him about his diet, and this was the jist of it: "The thing that has really been working for me right now is my diet and this book by Elaine Gloria Gottschall, called "Breaking the Vicious Cycle." And this doesn't work for everyone but, for me, it's worked. And it's basically a diet, of no sugar, no starch - so, no potatoes, no fries, no refined sugars. And it's tough. We have to make bread out of nuts and all sorts of stuff, but it's the only thing that's put this [Crohn's] thing in remission without being on a ton of drugs. Actually, it's the best I've felt since I was probably 15 or 16. " It was a pleasure meeting both Mike and Stone Gossard (who wasn't on a diet, but loved the fact that I served Green Tea!) My kids, being under the radar as far as popular music is concerned, chose to watch "Sponge Bob" reruns rather than meet the band!

Chasing Borscht

2005-06-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Woodstock with a backpack, a guitar, and two hundreds bucks which I had earned as a cocktail waitress in a hillbilly bar at my last stop. Lisa, my older sister, was finishing up her final year at Binghamton College. It was the first time I had visited her outside of our parent’s home. The apartment was dark and smelled like old wood and fish. She shared the crowded third floor walk-up with Rose, a polish exchange student, who insisted I try her version of beet borscht the first night I arrived. The table was set with an array of chipped dishes and mismatched flatware. I adore naked borscht with nothing more than a boiled potato and sour cream as garnish and was delighted to sample her old-world recipe. But in its place, Rose’s offering was a hot brown soup spiced with curry and made with raisins and sunflower seeds. I fished around the bowl for the beets, so overcooked that their natural blood red beauty had been bleached out hours before, like a miner panning for gold. To add insult to injury, there was no sour cream in their dairy-free kitchen. I applied for food stamps the minute I was settled and with my first allotment Lisa and I bought a chicken to roast and a box of crumb-topped Entenmanns donuts. It brought back bittersweet memories of our junk food inebriated childhood and we laughed, like little girls keeping a secret, at the irony of the purchase, thinking that all things come full circle.
“I never eat like this anymore,” she said dunking her donut into a glass of soy milk. “I’m a vegetarian now.” Her voice was filled with conviction.
“Yeah, me too,” I replied grabbing seconds.

Recipe Riddles - June

2005-06-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

In honor of National Camping Week (the 4th week of the month)! I'm going to take a real stretch here and say that only ardent campers would recognize this recipe. Hint: One of the words IS the cooking vessel. Good luck!

Strudel Makes The Woman

2005-06-17T10:47:00.000-07:00

My mom and dad began married life in a small ground floor apartment in a two-family house in Brooklyn. One day Grandma Lil decided it was her daughters turn to learn the family recipe for strudel; beautiful Russian strudel filled with nuts and plum butter. My mother watched as the dough was worked until paper thin. The filling wasn’t difficult, but the dough required a certain expertise. The crucial part was in the initial preparation; the dough needed to be pounded and stretched. They slapped it and banged it like two prize fighters; which is comical enough, both my mother and granmother barely reach the five foot mark. (I’ve often said: “You know you’re in a Jewish family when at ten years old your taller than most relatives!”) The beating continued, with the two of them drenched in sweat, until they were almost done. They were obsessively working the dough, hoping it would soom gain its elasticity and before they passed out from heat exhaustion, when all of a sudden there was a loud knock at the door. My mom wiped the sweat from her face and opened the door to find the landlady, who lived upstairs, looking impatient and frustrated. With her hands on her hips, she expressed wonder at how her tenants could possibly be cold –still. She had turned the heat up several times. My mom was puzzled. What she didn’t know was the standard rule of two-family living: If you need more heat, rap hard on the pipes. My mother and grandmother still laugh about that till this day.

Out to Launch

2005-06-03T12:27:00.000-07:00

The "Recipe Deck" Series, published by giftware giant Boston Warehouse, launched at back in January 2005 at The Atlanta Gift Mart. Like proud parents going to their child's first recital, John and I flew down for a "Meet the Authors" reception. Each "deck" is a collection of 100 recipes, menus, and entertaining ideas - in a card deck format with a funky box for packaging. By the time this photo was taken at The NY International Gift Fair , one month later - 30,000 copies had been sold from our eight titles! You can find them at Le Gourmet Chef, Steinmart, Home Goods, and Marshall's not to mention hundreds of smaller giftware stores nationwide. Kudos to BWTC for making our dreams come true with such a beautifully executed product! In the works for 2006 are three new titles.