Silent victories

            My family has begun a fantastic tradition of after-school meetings. When the kids get home, we all meet at the kitchen island to have a snack, and discuss the day’s events before heading off to do homework or chores. As the kids have gotten older, the need to prepare them to cope with social stress has become more of a pressing issue. It always amazes me how early this pettiness invades a childhood these days-maybe I am just getting old. I gently revise conversations that seem “gossipy” with directed questions to bring them back to a less “catty” but related topic. I also try very hard to surround myself with people who do the same for their children. I avoid drama where I can and try to let it go when it cannot be avoided. There is much to be said for not taking the bait! I try very hard to model genuine caring, compassion and a gentle nature for my kids. I don’t always succeed, but it seems very important that my kids learn to let go of small stresses like being angry at someone for cutting you off in the car. I remind myself out loud, to let it go, they must be in a very big hurry, and that I really hope they are okay.

            A while back, during one of these kitchen meetings while having tea and cake, my son asked me if he could skip trick-or-treating this year. I furled my brows and cocked my head in a questioning pose as I probed the situation further. He responded in a way he rarely does...he retreated and walked away sullenly. I followed him as my mind rivaled a circus acrobat performing a complex series of flip-flops trying to account for this new behavior. Two hours later, I had dragged out of him that he had ripped his costume and his friends were going to make fun of him if he went in a ripped costume. I pulled it from his shelf and saw that it was in disrepair, truly a loss. “No problem” I gloated “We have a Halloween tote full of old costumes, we can just choose another.” Once again, I was met with sullen silence paired this time with two sky blue daggers piercing my mind that for some reason, was just not understanding. “Forget it” he announced, “I am probably too old to go anyway.” Before he retired his little nine-year old body to a life void of brightly wrapped chocolate treats, I coaxed him back to the kitchen. For me, the kitchen is like a neutral ground full of inviting smells and endless possibilities. Plus, even if you fail there, chances are, the mistake will be delicious. As we munched on Great Grandma’s pineapple upside down cake, it occurred to me that I was looking at the wrong side of the problem! The costume wasn’t the real issue.

            My children know that if I start to tell them a story, that it has a meaning that they will be quizzed on after the story. (Needless to say, my stories are often met with belabored sighs and winces displaying that knowledge.) And so it was, that I opened my mouth and before I could utter a word, he collapsed into self-defeat. So I stopped and thought. No, I scrambled for a different approach. This time, I did not tell a story. Instead, I asked questions. Lots of questions! Through his answers, he displayed his understanding of the difference between playful banter and belittling, and came to the conclusion that his friends may not be true friends if they would hurt his feelings purposely. It was the first time I think he discovered the answer to his own problem. (Albeit with a little guided moderation.) So he and I both learned something that day, and as we shared the last piece of pineapple upside down cake, it was more satisfying. I felt slightly superhero-ish, but like most superheroes, my glory was a private celebration. One which came after seeing the look of new-found direction and confidence that my son will always believe he created alone.

I have already shared the recipe below, but I am posting it again, because it is just that good!

Great Grandma Z’s “Flip your perspective” pineapple upside down cake.

3 eggs

1 cup sugar

1 cup flour

1 can crushed pineapple, drained

Beat eggs with hand blender until yellow froth appears. Add sugar slowly to form soft peaks. Sift flour and fold into batter until completely blended in. Spray the sides of a 9x9 baking pan with baking spray or grease and flour. Spread crushed pineapple across bottom of pan and pour batter directly on top. Bake for about 45 mins at 375. Top should look firm and slightly browned. Remove and cool, flip onto serving plate, you can use a cold wet towel on the bottom of the pan to coax the pineapple to loosen. Lift the pan, cut and serve. This cake should be eaten within a day or two of cooking or it will get mushy. J Enjoy!

Definitely sweat the small stuff

            We have all received the emails regaling stories of people who have had lived through life-changing events and the moral is always something akin to “don’t sweat the small stuff.” It’s everywhere. Waving good morning to you from your Facebook inbox, wagging a finger at you in a well meant e-card, jogging past you on a T-shirt  or coaxing you into a pensive minute and a half meditation at a traffic light  from the bumper sticker of the car in front of you. At this point, it has become an adage or some may even say it is a cliché in American society. Most people will agree that it is sage advice. I think this saying needs a small adjustment. I think we should all sweat the small stuff, just make sure it’s the right small stuff.

            The small stuff is what sets a great chef’s recipes apart from cafeteria food, slivers of a second separate gold medal recipients from silver, and the tiniest pitch adjustment can make or break a music performance. To ignore it completely would be to cease striving for anything. Instead, let’s sift the small stuff. I think that life has gotten a little too complex and we could all benefit from a slight adjustment in thinking. A lot of us have been moving so quickly for so long that we don’t recognize the small stuff a lot of the time, let alone realize the value of it.

            Take this morning for instance. I woke up and spent forever preparing everyone for school and work. I found a love note written on my mirror in lipliner from my husband. Just a simple “I love you” and I did nothing. I had the day on my mind. I needed to make sure my daughter’s backpack was empty so the teacher wouldn’t think I didn’t care, I had to make sure the boys combed their hair properly so the other kids wouldn’t think they were sloppy, I had to bring the garbage cans back in so the neighbors wouldn’t think we were lazy. I was definitely sweating the small stuff! Downstairs, I found a note on my kitchen counter. It was from my daughter who is learning to write in kindergarten. It read: “just becas I lOve You love Marionna.” It was written on a torn piece of paper with hearts made from holes poked through the paper with a pen and a star drawn in the center.  I smiled and set it aside as I continued to prep lunches and clear the dishes from breakfast. I spent my day fussing over minute details that I thought meant something and which probably were pointless, while completely ignoring the important people in my life. I was clearly sweating the wrong small stuff. Later in the day during lunch as I was sorting junk mail, I realized that if I could take 3 minutes a day to sort junk, I should take the same time to prioritize my life! I pondered the events of the day and realized how important those messages were to their authors and how disrespectful I had been by not acknowledging and reciprocating right away. I don’t believe in dwelling on past mistakes, but I believe less in repeating them.

            Tonight, we will be having an old-fashioned home made sit down family dinner, because that is the small stuff I choose to attend to. Dishes will pile up and they may even be left until tomorrow (GASP!) but my husband and my kids will go to sleep tonight knowing how important they are to me. Tomorrow morning, there will be another message on the mirror, this time FROM me and my daughter’s lunch will have a special note as well. So, I challenge you each to spend the next week sifting the small stuff and portion your time and efforts accordingly.

            Please feel free to share your favorite home-cooked sit down dinner in the comments section below.

Home made Pot Roast:

Large piece of Beef or Pork loin.

Half a bag of small cooking onions

Similar amount of small cooking potatoes (or new potatoes)

Six large carrots

Salt and pepper to taste

Boil the meat in lightly salted water until cooked through (use meat thermometer) in a large pot with lid.

Add carrots and potatoes boil until fork soft,

Add onions and boil until glassy.

Total cook time is usually about 4-6 hours – you can let it cook longer on low to increase flavor.

Sift all contents into serving bowl. Reserve Au jus to make mashed potatoes, or to use as gravy or cook dumplings in it.

When life gives you peaches...

         One of my favorite stories to tell actually predates my current kitchen. That is right, we are going pre-Aunt Barb’s Kitchen, actually, pre-Aunt Barb! I guess back then I was just Barb. My husband and I lived in a beautiful two-story, two bedroom, two- minutes-to-get-the oven-open (but that is another story) townhome. It was inconvenient, but it was home. And, since we were expecting our third baby, it was shrinking! So, we were in the process of building our new home, and on this particularly extremely hot end-of-summer day, I was cursing the slow progression of the building process as I melted in my non-air conditioned home. Given the exasperating circumstance I was in, I did what any heat-stricken melting pregnant woman would do. I packed the kids in the car for a field trip to buy peaches to make a cobbler.

           I frequented a farm stand just outside our town. The kids loved the elderly couple that ran the farm stand, and the elderly couple was always mesmerized by my pregnancy jeans. The lady always marveled over how much more comfortable pregnancy outfits were nowadays. They say that when you are pregnant your brain gets a little cloudy, even during simple transactions like making change or remembering where you left your keys. I am not convinced that everyone goes through this, as I have seen some of my best friends perform awe-inspiring tasks while pregnant. As for me though, I definitely was in a cloudy pregnancy brain-storm that day because I bought two giant bags of peaches from the kindly woman with so many compliments about my stretchy-top jeans. I am still not sure WHY I thought I needed so many, and I have spent many a reflective moment pondering how my life might have turned out had I not bought so many peaches that fine day, or had perhaps chosen a more sensible selection, like corn.

           On the ride home, the boys who were, 1 and 2 at the time, indulged in a Ramona Quimby style feast of peaches, taking a bite and then dropping the rest to move on to the next peach, that, lacking all foresight, I had left within their reach (and just out of mine). As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that I could not let my peach covered boys run around the apartment while I unloaded the car. So, I brought the produce in, quickly dropped the bags at the door and headed back out to bring the boys in one at a time.

            As any parent of a toddler knows, transitioning from the car to home takes forty-two years. It is a long process that begins with a brief hide and seek for the harness release button, followed by an endless scavenger hunt for all the child’s paraphernalia, topped off with the toddler having fallen asleep, requiring you to balance/juggle it all with any combination of hands, knees, hip, thigh, shoulder and mouth, while you quickly grow a third hand to open and close the doors.  “Ha! Bring it parenthood!” I thought to myself once I had completed that parental triathlon with the first boy.

           Apparently, parenthood was listening, and responded in kind by upping the difficulty level. My older son helped himself to four decades worth of peaches while I unloaded my younger son. When I realized the situation had gone from bad to worse, I contemplated my dilemma: the car had soon-to-be-rotting peaches in it, but the boys were also covered. What to do? I resorted to the idea that the car would have to wait and I bathed the boys and set the older one downstairs, while I quickly dressed the baby. However, I had once again forgotten to move the peaches. So, while I lotioned my freshly bathed 1 year old, my 2 year old was helping himself to even more peaches, except unbeknownst to me at that time, the unused portions were being tossed onto the cream colored carpet of our rented apartment. I set the baby down in his crib and had a little triumphant skip in my step as I descended the stairs. I was so proud that despite the stresses of the day, I was still in relatively good spirits. Evidently, the fates saw this as a silent gauntlet to the face and my good mood faded to a feeling of inner face-palm as I immediately realized my mistake. Again with the peaches! Counting to ten I scooped up my two year old, and re-bathed him, lotioned, dressed him and set him in his room for a nap.   

          As I cleaned the tub, a familiar smell wafted my way. It seemed that the baby needed a change. So I proceeded to my room, but as it turned out, heat and babies and peaches should be registered as a biological weapon.  The whole crib needed a change! Half an hour later, as the baby lie in clean linens in his crib, I scrubbed the tub, perplexed as to why I could not eradicate the smell. I heard the most delightful giggling coming from my older son’s room. As I peeked in, I gazed upon another stinky peachy mess and one naked toddler running around in it!

            I am still not sure how we all made it through that day. I am not sure how the car and the carpet and the tub ever returned to their original spiffy state of clean. I do know that by the time my husband arrived home, the kids were finally sleeping. I can only imagine what he must have felt as he walked into the kitchen to find me preparing dinner and crying. Did he notice that they were not the kind of tears you weep when you watch a heartfelt movie, and not the kind you cry when you lose your dearest Grandma unexpectedly?  I still wonder if he recognized my tears as the kind of tears you cry when you are turning your body’s last reserves into energy to push through a day of ridiculousness like no other. A day that will go down in forgotten history with all the other amazing feats that only live in the minds of parents everywhere, occasionally retold in kitchens like my own, but more often lost to brain clouds, shame or a healthy combination of both. A day when peaches have become your enemy and there is only one thing left to do:

Make the best darned peach cobbler ever!:

6-8 Peaches washed and sliced but not peeled

¼ cup Brown sugar

1 brick of cream cheese

1 tsp Vanilla

½ cup granulated white sugar

Baking mix – prepare drop biscuit recipe according to your box in a bowl and set aside

Whipped cream

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix the sliced peaches and the brown sugar until all peaches are coated.

Cover the bottom of a tart pan (or a shallow Correlle baker) with sliced peach mixture.

Using a hand mixer, add vanilla and sugar to the cream cheese in a mixing bowl and beat until only small bumps are left.

Spoon cream cheese mixture over the peaches, place tart or baking pan onto a cookie sheet and bake for about 20-25 mins, or until the cream cheese parts look like a cheesecake (not soupy).

Remove and let cool.

Drop spoons of biscuit mixture on top of cream cheese peach tart and bake (with pan on cookie sheet) again for about 10-15 mins or until the top is slightly browned.

Serve warm or cool with whipped cream. (Don’t forget to refrigerate the leftovers)

Ever make a great recipe out of complete exasperation, frustration or just by accident? I want to hear about it! Please post your story in the comment box below.

A Matter of Perspective

            My kitchen has the best view, from the window above my sink, I can see my backyard and the edge of the forest beyond it. I am lucky enough to be able to watch my kids romp the way kids do when there is no one reigning them in, when they have the luxury of free time and lots of space to run wild with their imaginations. From my little window, I have watched friendships formed, duels fought, truces shaken upon and then broken ten minutes later. I have seen first love and first heartache, and I have witnessed firsthand the results of my parenting efforts. I have seen my kids at their best, reaching out to a lonely friend or helping a struggling sibling without being asked, and I have seen them at their worst, testing boundaries I didn’t think I would be dealing with for years to come. My kitchen window has given me the gift of knowing my kids from another point of view. One from which I have less direct influence. It is scary sometimes to watch as they do something I have warned them not to do a million times, but it is exciting to see them accomplish something I would not have allowed them to even attempt. While trying to catch my breath after watching my son sled down a homemade jump ramp on our back hill, narrowly missing the stockade fence, it occurred to me that my kids have to live within the confines of this concept of  “liability” that I am so scared of. I am so scared to let them try things that could hurt them that I deprive them of that feeling you get when you accomplish something you thought was impossible! Having had the epiphany that I was a terrible parent, I fought the urge to yell for the kids to come inside, and sat back to watch in awe of the wonderful fun they were having. I had just about convinced myself that, given my utter failed attempt at parenting, I should back off completely, let them have free reign, and pursue my original life goal of being an astronaut princess rockstar. That is, until I heard the scream. Parents, you know the one I mean. It was different than the playful screeches kids belt out during tag; it was not the lingering “I’m sick” sob, this was the high pitched crack and then heart-wrenching silence followed by the “someone-find-my-mom-because-I-really-hurt-myself” cry.  Evidently, their sled had made contact with the fence on one run down the hill. I sized up the damage: two kids  walking (no broken legs), no blood, one cradled arm...a broken arm perhaps? Like any parent worth their salt, I snapped back to reality and pretended to be unimpressed with the whole situation while I inspected the injury. Little did they know I was an emotional wreck inside. Had I actually failed at not parenting? Is that even possible? I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I was pretty sure it was my fault. After some arm maneuvering and a little reverse psychology, the boys were found to be scraped but essentially fine.  So, I whipped up some comfort food, gave them each a hug, then I sat down to give them the “I told you so” talk, but I changed my mind. My kitchen window had shown me the benefits of a longer leash and allowing kids to learn from their own mistakes. And my window had given me a great perspective with which to "frame" the current situation. So I just said: “ if you move your ramp down the hill a bit, you won’t have to worry about the fence again,” and I turned and walked away, knowing that they may choose not to listen, but trusting that  given some space, they would make the right decision. So, I have indefinitely postponed my royal space album's debut due to the realization that I may not be such a bad Mom after all.

Get-a-Different -Perspective Upside-Down Pineapple Cake  **Courtesy of Grandma Zhanna**

Ingredients:

3 egg yolks
1 cup flour

1 cup sugar

1 Can  (strained) of pineapple rings or tidbits

Preheat oven to 375 degrees

Spray or butter and flour the sides only of a 9”x9” baking pan

Beat egg yolks until they change color
Add sugar and beat again
Fold in flour

Arrange pineapple pieces in bottom of pan

Pour batter over the pineapple

Bake about 50 mins.

Let cool 10 mins then flip upside down onto plate to serve.

Simple Elegance

     Like most women, my hair and I are in a constant love hate relationship. It loves to torment me, and I hate it. I was born with my Mother’s fine strands, but my Grandmother’s enormous volume of them. It is neither curly, nor straight. So, it requires either straightening or curling daily, before I feel presentable. On one particular Halloween, we were getting ready for the much anticipated parade of friends and family through our humble home, and of course, I was preparing snacks in my kitchen. I had been struggling the better part of the evening with costumes and accessories to prepare my children to go charm treats from our neighbors.  I had curled my hair in the morning, but there had been no time to style it with any intention, because I still had to prepare the snacks for our guests. As I stood over the stove mulling cider, I was constantly bombarded by a mystical menagerie of ghouls and fairytale creatures with the strangest requests. I got a chuckle from the thought of a pirate asking for help buttoning his shirt and a dragon needing a scarf to keep his face warm. As I bent down to comply with each bizarre request, my hair fell into my face. I brushed it aside, annoyed that it had dared to interrupt such important work! Besides, I was worried that my magical night might end in tragedy if my hair caught fire as I cooked. As I reached for the strainer in the back of one of my cabinets, my locks again dutifully reminded me of their needs too. Exasperated, I searched for the clip that I kept in my kitchen. It was bejeweled with red crystals in a flower pattern and made me feel slightly more put-together whenever I swept my hair back with it. What I had forgotten, was that my little princess was wearing it that night. And I literally mean princess, but since the costume's tiara was too rough on her scalp, we had used my beloved clip as an acceptable substitution. She was a vision, and I was out of luck! As one of my bangs curled its way into my line of sight for the third time, I desperately scanned the kitchen for a twist tie, rubber band or anything that could just keep it at bay until I could finish cooking. I spotted a lone green chopstick peeking from the pile of drying dishes. I remember when I  washed it, that its mate was missing, but I was reluctant to toss it, because it was a beautiful color green. I quickly swirled it through my ponytail and triumphantly ran it through the resulting twist. That would do the trick! I strained the cider and plated the caramel apples just in time for my husband to announce that it was time to trick or treat! I shouted from the kitchen for them to give me five minutes to do my hair. (I was going as a butterfly and needed to look pretty.) He looked at me puzzled and shrugged as he walked away. But as I ran around the banister to climb the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my chopstick-do in the port hole mirror at the bottom of the stairs. And to his surprise, I put some deedley-boppers on my head and walked past him through the front door. As it turned out, my hairstyle looked more elegant than any I would have been able to coax it into in the next five minutes. I congratulated myself, as we raced to catch up to our brood, on my fairytale ending of simple elegance. I marveled at its simplicity and at the fact that my kitchen had come to my rescue providing me with the perfect accessory. I silently congratulated myself for having achieved a feat regaled in numerous beauty magazines as the ultimate style quest--simple elegance. As the kids ran up the drive of the very first house of the night, I soaked in the joy of and magic of the night. But as I watched all the candy-crazed mystical creatures running about, I realized that it was a unique moment. Like most of the best memories a person has, there was no record of it, no reference point to refer back to and no chance of recreating it. It was simply an elegant memory in my mind. As for recreating it, impossible! After all it would require: one cooking hazard, a little pressure from a pirate and a dragon, one princess with a very sensitive scalp, and a lonely but lovely green chopstick.

Recipe: Simply Elegant Chicken

1- 1/2 pounds of boneless chicken thighs

1 medium onion coarsely chopped

1 green pepper coarsely chopped

1 can of (Contadina brand) diced tomatoes in Burgundy wine

Add olive oil to a frying pan set to medium high and sauté onion and pepper until glassy. Increase heat and sear chicken on all sides. Reduce heat to medium and add can of diced tomatoes. Cover and let simmer for about 25 mins (or until chicken reaches 180 degrees internally). If sauce gets too thick, add a little water and/or reduce heat a bit.

Serve over mashed potatoes.

Question of the week: What food is the epitome of simple elegance for you?

The Silent Gasp

Last weekend, my five year-old daughter took it upon herself to wash a sink full of dirty dishes by hand, alone. As I entered my kitchen, I heard her singing made up songs about dirty dishes and saw a mountain of bubbles rising from my sink with a pile of soapy dishes “drying” to the side of it. I started conversing with her about washing the dishes and all the pretty bubbles. As I panned the scene, the new bottle of dish soap, which I had bought the day before, entered my line of sight, with maybe a quarter of the liquid remaining. Then it happened – the silent gasp! Luckily, I captured this all too common, but often ignored, event on video. It’s a fleeting reaction that parents know well, compacted with too many emotions to list, among them, the desire to hide any critical judgment. It is almost always followed by an ambiguous declaration or request for clarification that is meant to both distract the recipient from noticing the silent gasp, and justify the gasp, in order to make-up for the guilt that the gasper now feels for having been judgmental. My silent gasp was followed by my asking, as non-chalantly as possible: “How much soap was in the bottle when you started washing the dishes?” I waited an eternity (about 2 seconds) for her answer - hoping that by some miracle my husband had done 400 loads of dishes the night before or that a neighbor had come and borrowed a cup of…soap. Realizing the slim probability of either, I dreadfully anticipated her response. She used her hand to indicate that the bottle indeed, had been full a few minutes ago. The mountain range of soap bubbles in the sink corroborated her claims, and I took it all in as she went back to singing her wonderful made-up songs from atop of her chair at the side of my sink. I sat in exasperated awe of this tiny person diligently washing the dishes, blissfully unaware of the perfectly-working dishwasher to her right.

Recipe: Beat-to-Your-Own-Drumsticks in Spanish Rice

1 ½ Lbs raw chicken legs

4 cups Chicken Broth

1 family sized package Spanish yellow (saffron) rice  ( I use Vigo brand but any brand with Saffron in it will do)

Place ingredients in large slow cooker. Set for 4 ½   hours on high. Enjoy!


So, what makes you silently gasp? Is it something wonderful, something awful, or something else entirely? Please post your responses as comments below.

Rebellion Rethought

For years I cooked safe recipes. Tried and tested by loved ones, favorite magazines, and TV Chefs. I was so scared to put myself out there and stake my culinary claim that I had resigned myself to be boring. Naturally, and to my family's dismay, I rebelled by refusing to cook anything normal for a while. Like a rebellious teen, I snubbed accepted conventions, and sought out the shocking. Little did I realize how much of myself is reflected in my time spent in my kitchen. I was blind to the fact that I was denying my family and myself, the privilege of tradition and familiarity. I can't tell you what broke the cycle, because I have yet to discover that fact. The result of my culinary epiphany is here, staring at you from your computer or nifty phone. The recipes I share combined with the snippets of wisdom, or in some cases less wis and more dom, are a true reflection of my life, spiced just enough to make them worthy of passing on. Some are simple, some are bold, others are elegant while they all have an element of comfort and familiarity that can always be found in Aunt Barb's Kitchen.

Rebellious Shrimp Scampi
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tsp minced garlic
1/4 c butter
1/2 Lb uncooked deveined shrimp with shell
1 tsp fresh grated ginger
1/2 Box of linguine pasta

Boil salted water for pasta. Add pasta and cook according to box.
As pasta cooks, heat olive oil over med-high heat in frying pan. Add garlic and ginger sauté until lightly browned but be careful not to burn. (Reduce heat as needed)add shrimp And sauté until shrimp changes color completely. Add butter reduce heat to low and let simmer. Drain pasta. Remove the shrimp's dinner jackets and tails. Toss shrimp and pasta and remaining butter sauce in pan with pasta. Plate and serve.