I cooked on Valentine’s Day. It was what I wanted to do. Or what I thought I wanted to do (in the euphoria of planning). There were tense moments where I felt hot and overworked and cranky, and happy moments where I thought I might have made major culinary breakthroughs. There was even a long, long stretch of moments where I almost cried in the soup (figuratively speaking: I made sauces that day, not soup) because I was so sure I’d ruined everything. In the end though, it was all delicious, and dinner was a happy, festive celebration.
For dinner, I sauteed shrimp in butter, olive oil, and garlic. Fresh garlic—lots of it. I pulled the shrimp out of the pan and kept them hot in the oven while I made a sauce for the pasta with the juices left over. More fresh garlic, a little more butter, and cream (hey, it was Valentine’s Day. Not a day for freaking out about fat). I stirred and stirred it, hoping it would thicken by reduction so I wouldn’t have to use flour or cornstarch. [continue reading…]
Andrea Jane is one of my younger sisters. Actually, all of my sisters are younger than me, but only one is littler: Julia measures in at 4’11”, while I am whole centimeters past 5’. These urns are Capo di Montes. Italian, date unknown. I am sure that when and if my mother reads this, she will wonder (possibly out loud) “What on EARTH do urns with naked babies all over them have to do with Andie?”.
Made with my mother’s dress pattern, a pattern she kept from the early 70’s (possibly even the late 60’s). That would make this a vintage dress, in its own way. I love that it fits both me and Maurya (there is no way Michaelyn would ever step into it, as pink as it is). I love that I can remember my mother dressing up in her own concoction made from the same pattern. It was navy blue and white pinstriped, and she wore a red sash, a red hat, and red heels with it. I think I can remember red buttons. Her dress was a little different; the pattern has various length options as well as sleeve options. Her sleeves would have been long and full, and the hemline would have swept the ground. But the same pattern!
Larry is hunting. We’d almost given up on him and Alice as our resident mouse control squad. Considered putting them on suspension for neglect of duty. But lately, we’ve been treated to the spectacle of Larry on the hunt and Alice on the munch. Our confidence in both has grown; they are caressed and applauded continually.
Historically, I have helped the kids with their valentines and their valentine boxes. It’s a beautiful way to bond, mid-February. I have sweet memories. But this year, both Ez and Meisha were radically independent; they had these going and finished before I even really knew what they were up to. I’m proud of their self-sufficiency.
I am a Dilbert fan, partly out of sympathy. My husband, Frank, has spent a significant portion of his life in an office cubicle; even now that he is a consultant, I believe he spends most of his time in client’s cubicles. And I played a brief stint as a research clerk in an earlier life, where I shared a small, file-laden office with two other ladies… there was just enough room for three desks and miniscule aisles between. More than enough room for “office life”. Anyway, I definitely get Dilbert. We used to live just a couple of miles from the Hanford Nuclear Reservation; local communities teemed with engineers and scientists of every stripe (with their appellate clerks and secretaries and technicians). Cubicle careers were the norm (and so was unimaginative, efficient architecture). One of Frank’s cubicle co-workers went a little crazy and started a cake decorating business, creating quite a stir at the office– a lot of heel-kicking and potlucks: any excuse for a cake. I saw the cubicles, their uniquely personal and sometimes furtive adornments: coffee mugs, framed photos of loved ones, certificates, euphemisms and comic strips, little gags perched on top of computers. Rarely did the adornments outreach the confines of the partitions, and if they did, they didn’t stray far or make much of an impact on the community at large. 
Another Memorable Moment on my Quest for the Perfect Cake. My cake-making reputation is, well, rather sad. Or at least compromised. I have made a few delicious cakes, but they looked terrible. I’ve made one or two ok-looking cakes, but they were dry, or weird tasting, or the ganache I used as frosting was so hard the cake beneath was obliterated when we tried to cut it. Yes, quite a few dry cakes, and even more cratered cakes. And I’m not a victim of circumstance or bad luck here; this has everything to do with my choosing to be a cake maverick, a confectionary loose cannon. A cookie jar cowboy. Traits I inherited from my dad…hmm. Well, maybe that does make me a victim.