A beautiful day

I had a beautiful day yesterday. 

It was cold enough that I could stay in bed with a quilt on top of me. That's a lovely way to wake up, and rare in Central Florida. I made the most of it.

A friend gave me an online Jacquie Lawson JL Sussex Advent Calendar 2022.*  Checking on the day's surprises is the very first thing I do each morning. I watch the daily presentation, then find the day's elf (who does his little elf dance when I tag him), and check the special room to see what present there is for me to open. Yesterday it was an online puzzle! Such fun. I'll miss it come Monday!

I picked up the two grandkids at 12:45 pm, and we went to the movies to see Puss in Boots. We bought french fries. I was in heaven sitting there with the two of them. Every once in a while N would lean his head on my shoulder. Like I said, heaven! E is home from college, and it is amazing how calm it makes me knowing she is home.

Later, Tom and I went out to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. I had chicken mole, he had a beef burrito. We both had one of their signature margaritas, they are very tasty.  

And today I have leftover chicken mole in the fridge. I might eat it for breakfast. Oh geez, I had to go and google it because I'm an idiot. So many calories! Luckily I have a short memory.

*https://www.jacquielawson.com/advent

Hungarian Goulash!

My brother, Big D, came for dinner last night.  He was on a business trip and stopped over to visit. We grew up in a super ethnic enclave in South Bend, Indiana, with a Hungarian bakery, businesses, etc. Our church was Our Lady of Hungary, which offered the early morning mass in Hungarian. My four younger siblings went to Our Lady's parochial school. Although we are not that ethnicity, growing up there introduced us to an amazing Eastern European cuisine. Of course I made Hungarian Goulash for dinner. It was fabulous.  Here's the recipe:

INGREDIENTS:

3 pounds beef, I use thick cut of lean beef, like round

1 onion, sliced

2 – 3 cloves of garlic, split in two

3 Tablespoons paprika (Hungarian sweet style - see photo)

1 small can of tomato paste (6 oz equals 170 g)

4 - 5 potatoes, peeled. Cut into 1 ½ - 2 inch chunks

5 carrots, scraped and cut about an inch thick

bay leaf

hot water - almost to a boil

salt, pepper

PREPARATION: 

Cut excessive fat off meat and cut meat into 1 ½  to 2 inches cubes.*  

Roll meat cubes in mix of flour, salt, and pepper to coat. Brown meat in skillet. Transfer browned meat to slow cooker.  

While browning, put a  3 qt. (2.8 liter) pot of water on stove to heat. 

After removing meat, pour some heated water to the skillet, and stir in a bit of salt/pepper/paprika to flavor the juice in the pan.  

Add 2/3 can of tomato paste to the rest of the water left in the heated pot, and stir. Add salt/pepper/paprika.

Add both skillet juice and tomato paste/hot water over the meat in the slow cooker - enough to fully cover the meat and make it soupy.  

Add sliced onion, bay leaf, and split garlic pieces. Add another tablespoon of Hungarian paprika. Then cover and simmer on low for 6 hours in slow cooker.  

Add carrot pieces about an hour after you put the meat in the cooker.  

Add potatoes about an hour after you add the carrots. 

Salt and pepper to taste.

I confess I probably use more than 3 TBS

Birthdays

When I was a child in the 1950s, and a tween/teen in the 1960s, birthday celebrations were low key. In my family you got a homemade cake, and your favorite meal. Candles were lit, the song was sung, and one felt special. We didn't get presents. That probably sounds harsh, but it didn't feel that way. Being acknowledged was enough. It's all about the food, y'all!   

My childhood birthday meal was always stuffed cabbage with mashed potatoes, and a white cake with vanilla frosting. I'd still choose that as my birthday meal if cake was a requirement. 

Now I'd prefer fruit pie, or hey! maybe pecan pie. However, our Orlando area grandkids prefer white cake with vanilla frosting, so that's what I ask for. With vanilla ice cream, for crying out loud. One really must have a decorated birthday cake with lit candles when children are present. When they grow up and there is no longer a need for candles or cake, I will demand pecan pie. Or maybe peach. Cherry?  

Last year my daughter and husband asked what I wanted as a present. I replied "BBQ potato chips, a whole bag all to myself." They laughed, but I wasn't kidding. If I could have a whole bag all to myself, I would be so freakin' happy. I hate to share, don't you?

What would you like to eat on your birthday?

Lake Apopka Wildlife Drive, July 2022

Yesterday, Tom and I went on the Lake Apopka Wildlife Drive, and then on to the city of Mount Dora for Cuban food. It was a much needed distraction from reality. This is some of what we saw along the drive.

A big guy in the water on a hot, humid day

a cute little marsh rabbit, minding his own business

A shot along the canal, such beauty sustains me

Egret, fishing no doubt

a scrappy female grackle

A raccoon, just walking by

a great egret being chased away by a heron

The heron, triumphant

The big payoff, eating picadillo (me) and grouper salteado (Tom) at the Copacobana in Mt. Dora. There are so many interesting things on the menu, but my heart belongs to picaddillo. I can't bring myself to order anything else.

Toil and Trouble

Ragu Bolognese! It took forever, probably because I followed a recipe. 

I began by transforming pancetta and garlic into a smooth paste. Because I live in the modern world I used a food processor. I fried the paste in butter (!) until the fat was rendered and the metamorphosis complete. I chopped the Holy Trinity (celery, onion, and carrot) gloriously fine, and added that mishmash to the cauldron*. Damn, my friends - I was cookin'! I was turning base materials into gold.

When the veggie/fat seemed utterly transfigured, I plopped in a pound each of ground beef and pork. Fifteen minutes of chanting** browned the meat evenly. I imposed my will with a wooden spoon, chopping and hacking to break it into small pieces. 

I added wine, a pinch of nutmeg, salt, and whole milk. Well, I didn't actually have whole milk, so I used my fearsome powers to turn half and half and a little skim milk into whole. Don't judge me. For a few uncanny moments I feared I didn't have nutmeg. After ransacking the spice rack, I found it. Or maybe I materialized it? Who knows?

Meanwhile, on the other side of the stove I heated stock into which I dissolved tomato paste and puree. I folded the red liquid into the meat, bringing the heat up until it bubbled and spit. I covered the pot, lowered the heat, and simmered the whole mess for a few hours. I degreased the sauce once even though the recipe didn't ask me to. I just had to. 

Before serving, I melted in two more tablespoons of the Philosopher's stone*** and added 20 turns of ground pepper. That's what the recipe asked for, 20 turns. I obeyed.  

*pot

**swearing 

***butter

When company departs

Visitor season in Florida is going on full force as the frozen Northlanders make their way south to warm up. This natural phenomenon also warms up our hearts.

The only downside to visitors is the ridiculous amount of food that is leftover when they leave.  Honestly, I try my best to stuff them like sausages when they are here, but legally I am unable to force feed them. Or at least that's what my husband tells me.

T's daughter R (my fairy stepdaughter) left this morning. It was hard to see her leave because we love her so freakin' much and enjoy getting to know her. So I was sad when we walked into the house after dropping her off at the airport. Sad is a very dangerous state to find yourself in when there is half a pecan pie AND a third of a red velvet cake in the fridge. Or potato chips in the pantry. Oh wait, aren't there a couple of pints of ice cream in the freezer, too? 

Bacon and plenty of it

In the time-honored spirit of excessive winter holidays, I made a killer brunch on Christmas day. It was delightfully over the top. Of course, if we ate like that every day it would kill us. On Christmas we throw caution to the wind. Depending on your beliefs, this is a time for joy and celebration in hopes of welcoming the sun or son. I'm a firm believer that to bring back the light, we must eat and drink with abandon and without regard for things like fat, salt, weight gain, or cirrhosis of the liver on this one magical day of the year.

We feast on biscuits with sausage gravy, and potato and cheddar cheese frittata with a variety of salsas. There is citrus salad, sliced avocado, a bloody Mary or two, and the King of Food, bacon and plenty of it. In years gone by, I slaved at the stove frying up strips of bacon. The popping and spitting bacon grease ruined many a Christmas sweatshirt, and the house would smell of bacon for days. That is not a bad smell, bacon; but it gets old.

In recent years I have seen recipes for baking bacon in the oven to avoid the mess. This year I thought I would give it a try. I preheated the oven to 400 degrees, lined a large cookie sheet with aluminum foil folded up all around the edges to catch the grease. I put baking racks on top of the foil and carefully placed bacon to ensure I used up every single blessed strip. I loosely laid a piece of foil on top to keep my oven clear of splatter, and then baked it for about 25 minutes. The recipe said 10 - 20 minutes, but I was nervous so I let it go a little too long.

It was good, although not as greasy or succulent as fried bacon. How long you bake it determines how crisp it gets. I left mine in long enough that it practically disintegrated in your mouth. The pieces broke when you tried to pick them up. There wasn't any leftover so I am assuming it was good enough, but next time I'll shoot for 20 minutes.

Fried, not baked: better

Do I have to clean my house for Thanksgiving?

I can't believe Thanksgiving is this Thursday. It is as if I went to sleep last July and then woke up this morning. What a wonderful and personally satisfying interlude this election cycle has been. I'm looking forward to more of the same in 2020. 

But now I have to come down to earth and face the cold hard truth. I'm going to have to clean my freakin' house in anticipation of a big family dinner. Let's just say the housework has been a bit neglected and a serious holiday cleaning is in order. Yikes. It will take me days. I better get crackin'.

I'm sure it is hard for readers outside the U.S. to understand Thanksgiving, unless you are Canadian. Then you have already been through yours and you know the drill. But the rest are probably wondering what's the big deal with this Thanksgiving thing, and why don't we just wait until Christmas for Turkey? I don't know. We just don't. We're American, for better or worse. 

Thanksgiving is a family-based holiday, but not commercialized or decadent like the U.S. version of Christmas has become. It is about food, memories, and love. Or at least that's what we tell ourselves. I bet a lot of the people who will celebrate on Thursday dread it like the plague because they will have to sit next to their mean-spirited aunt, or their racist father. Politics, religion, and unresolved emotional themes will ruin yet another family meal in some households. Oh well, as long as the food is good. It is really the best meal of the year.

I love Thanksgiving food. Thinking of mashed potatoes and turkey gravy, moist cornbread stuffing with nuts and dried fruit, homemade cranberry sauce, and all the rest make me happy. A special memory is my mother's pumpkin pie. Oh, Ma! I miss you so.

She never bought canned pumpkin. Nope, not my Mom. She bought small pie pumpkins, split them in half, cleaned out the seeds and baked the pumpkin in the oven before scraping it out and making the pie. THEE pie. The perfect pumpkin pie. It was totally different than one made with canned pumpkin. Hers was luscious; darker, complex, textured, better in every way.

Everything was usually made from scratch in her house, but certainly always on holidays. She would even make homemade bread for Thanksgiving. We topped it off with jellies and jams her and my father "put up" (i.e., canned) every August.

I have had dreams about her three times in the past two weeks. In truth, this is what the holidays really do.  They conjure up ghosts.

My mother in pink, 1988

Peach Pie and Politics

I'm eating peach pie. My husband's pie crust is remarkable. We are a team; he makes the crust and I make the filling. I must confess this is my lunch today. It was either leftover pie or a salad - no contest! Actually, I am only pretending this is my lunch. I know for a fact I will eat that salad, too. 

While indulging, I am researching candidates for circuit and county judges. I have my mail-in-ballot for the Florida Democratic primary sitting on my desk, and I am trying to figure out some of the more arcane choices so I can finish up and mail it in. Florida's primary August 28.

I'm fairly certain who I will vote for as Governor, positive about Commissioner of Agriculture, and struggling with Attorney General. I love my U.S. Congresswoman, so will definitely be voting for her again. The judicial candidates and the school board elections are the tough ones for me, there is not nearly enough information available.

Florida has had Republican rule for 20 years. During that time they've controlled the Governorship, the State House and the State Senate. The Democrats got sloppy as a result, and became less effective at choosing and pushing good, competitive candidates...until now. We have a wealth of great candidates, many of them new. The Democratic party is being transformed by progressives entering the arena. Big changes are coming in Florida in November, unless Voldemort tampers with our elections from afar. It seems they are already trying. Shame on them!

And that, my friends, is why I am voting by mail. I want a copy of what I did. 

Entertaining Visitors

We had visitors two weeks ago. We have visitors this week. We will have more visitors the week after next. It is an embarrassment of riches, a plethora of love, an overabundance of hilarity. But most of all, it is an excess of food and drink.

Our current visitors leave today. It has been wonderful. However, I'm stuffed to the gills and sick of food. I don't know if it is the glut of alcohol or sugar, but I am lightheaded and slightly nauseous. Of course, it could also be the fact that I keep forgetting to take my daily medications on time. Yeah, that could definitely be my problem. Let's pretend that's it, okay? Now that we have THAT figured out, I am popping the pills I should have taken 6 hours ago. Maybe I will stop eating pumpkin chocolate chip bread, too. Couldn't hurt.

People like to visit Florida, which is good for us because we like having visitors. We have this entertainment thing down pat. T makes amazing dinners and/or we go out to eat. If I make dinner for guests it will either be a stew or pasta. I like stirring the pot, you know what I mean?

Our visitors range from those who only eat french fries and chicken strips to low carb, vegetarian, vegan, diabetic, dairy free, gluten free, food allergies, and everything in between. Got a food issue? We can handle it with one arm tied behind our backs. We like a challenge.

I have a limit though. I prefer people stay no more than 3 nights, although I can manage 4 nights without losing my mind. If they stay a full week, I start hallucinating.

Not only do I forget to take my pills when I have company, I stop remembering to breathe. But I NEVER stop talking or taking pictures. I'm filled with sadness and longing for days after they leave. Sigh. I'm already looking forward to the next bunch. I hope they eat vegetables.

Christmas baking

I have been baking for the holidays. You, too?

My father's family has been in the U.S. since 1714, so they are totally Americanized, with nary a trace of ethnicity.  However, they were from Kentucky and Tennessee, so there were regional Christmas treats on that side. My beloved paternal grandmother, for instance, always made divinity candy and peanut butter fudge.

My mother's side was both German and French, and her grandparents arrived in the U.S. about 1860. They moved to a German enclave in Northern Indiana, near Chicago.  My Mom was born in 1926, so she was raised in those traditions. Her mother made fancy Christmas cookies.  Mom also made fruitcake, but I think that was a 1950's housewife thing. Dad made chocolate fudge. We always made rolled cut-out cookies which we then frosted with many garish colors and loaded down with sprinkles. Yum.
I already made my usual fruitcake, which I've wrapped in bourbon soaked cheesecloth this year instead of brandy. 

Fruitcake

and I'm also making Hungarian kieflis. They are insanely thin rolled dough wrapped around walnut/confectioner's sugar/egg white mix.  Then shaped into a crescent.  When done and cool, they are dusted with more confectioner's sugar. Although I am not Hungarian, I grew up in a Hungarian parish, and everyone made them, my mother got her recipe from a neighbor.

Heavenly Kieflis

Next week, I'll make the cut-out butter cookies with my grandkids.  That's always fun.

Okay, make me say it, I'm going to make fudge, too. Even though it will push me right over the damn edge. I hope you are satisfied, Chilly Hollow, your fudge recipe is my downfall once again.  Don't tell me to eat less.  I can't.

For those of you who also celebrate a winter holiday, what are you baking or making? Not just Christmas, I'm interested in any winter holiday. Are they part of your family traditions?

Is it so wrong?

Sheesh, I can't believe we are really going to stage another relentlessly sunny Thanksgiving in flip flops and shorts. 

As the day approaches, I am finally going to admit I miss having Thanksgiving in the frozen north lands where it is weather appropriate for the season. No, I do not want to move back. I am done with white knuckle driving and shoveling snow. I just wish I could occasionally spend Thanksgiving  there, and see my old friends.

This is our 4th Thanksgiving in Florida. The first three years we ate like civilized people in the dining room. The first two we even used our good china. Last year, meh! Bring out the white Corning Ware. It's Florida casual, now. I may NEVER haul out that good china again.

In fact, this year we are having Thanksgiving out by the pool in the lanai. I am looking forward to it. It is the best  time of the year in Florida. However, I miss a cold-weather Thanksgiving in a house with a wood stove and lots of candles. I can't help it. That's what I am used to.

If we are giving thanks at this time of the year, then I am thankful for the life I have lived. It has been jam packed with both joy and sorrow, which is to say it has been quite full. As I get older I notice the quiet moments are often swarming with memories. I have to wonder, is it so wrong to yearn for the past?

Paying homage to my friend JE's Challah.  A powerful Thanksgiving memory.

A recipe for love

I have a box filled with old recipes. Some typed, some painfully constructed in all caps on index cards of varying sizes. Others are xeroxed and folded. A few are scribbled down on a scrap of paper. They chronicle the various stages of our married life.

The oldest were transcribed before the advent of xerox copiers. When we got together in 1970, copying machines were unimaginable. The recipe cards from that earliest decade are the most interesting to me right now. 

We were poor.  Everything we ate was homemade; it was cheaper that way. We did not have a car during our first years together. Consequently, I went grocery shopping twice a month. I walked there and shopped like a brazen hussy before calling a taxi to take me home. I was organized about food because I had to make our money last. Before shopping I figured out two weeks worth of meals, buying what was needed for each and planning for overlap. It worked! We never starved. 

I've had fun seeing the old recipes from those early days. There is a certain recipe for "Herbed Soybean Casserole" that was truly vile. I could never make it taste good. Probably no one could. I almost threw the recipe away today, but decided it is a cultural relic, good for a laugh. 

My signature dish from my youth was homemade pizza. Years ago, I found a reasonably quick recipe for pizza crust in a Fanny Farmer Cookbook. I also made a quick, fresh sauce from cans of peeled, plum tomatoes and dried herbs. In my youthful exuberance I grabbed each tomato by hand, pinched a hole in the middle and then squeezed them senseless into the pan. I was still a kid. It was all about having fun.

I bought mozzarella in solid rectangular packages and carefully sliced it, making it last. For the topping, I fried up onions and green peppers in olive oil until they were limp and luscious. Fresh sliced mushrooms would go on the pizza, too, and sliced black olives for color.

Yesterday I decided to make that venerable pizza again, the old way. I still enjoyed squeezing the whole, peeled tomatoes into the pan. It seems some thrills never get old. I threw myself into kneading that dough, punching and pushing and giving it tough love until it was just right to stretch. I even used the same old pan from our youth to stretch the pizza out on for baking. It was fabulous. Now I am going to eat the leftovers for breakfast. That was always part of the plan.

New York City with my girls

What a great time, 3 generations of women together in NYC. Sure, there was squabbling and snark; however, those inevitable moments sparked by lack of privacy were overshadowed by the love we felt and the fun we had.

We flew from Orlando to Newark, NJ, then took a hotel shuttle to Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel. The 3-day musical theatre workshop (acting, singing, dancing) was staged by Broadway Artist Alliance, housed in the heart of the Theatre District. The hotel was conveniently a block away.

E's workshop started each morning at 9:30. M&E sleep until the last minute (trusting the world again). I wake up at the crack of dawn. I did NOT want to be around when they woke up late and crashed around the hotel room. I slipped out and went down to the lobby to drink lots of coffee and read an actual newspaper. Oh yeah, there were BAGELS. The real deal. I was in heaven.

The workshop didn't end until 7:00 p.m., leaving M and me free to roam, shop, eat, and talk each day. I loved spending time alone with her. It was also a long school holiday weekend, so crowds on the street were fierce. I walked fast, weaving and bobbing like a prizefighter. Or maybe more like a drunken sailor on leave, desperate to keep up?

Space is a prime commodity on an island. Stores in the City are narrow and multi-floored with people everywhere, even grocery and drug stores. It seemed odd to take an elevator to get to the sinus meds in Walgreens. Buildings are unique and details a joy, especially on the oldest, funkiest buildings. I had a good time just looking at things.

We went to a NY style pizzeria and devoured a fabulously greasy pepperoni and black olive pizza! The crust was perfect. I'm happy to report Florida pizza will never satisfy my granddaughter again.

Homeless people begging on the streets are heartbreaking. I imagine native New Yorkers become desensitized, but it hurt my heart. One young man was lying next to a building covered with a dirty blanket. He was clearly sick or high, his eyes glazed. He never looked up, even when I put money in his cardboard box and he muttered a weak "Thank you." He is someone's child. I wanted to hold him in my arms and call him honey. I wanted to tell him everything will be okay, even though I know it won't. I wonder if his parents know where he is? I hope not.

Me, capturing something "important" while M screamed at me to get out of the street

PB and WHAT?

I love peanut butter. I am thankful I was not cursed with a peanut allergy. You might think I am being facetious or shallow, but I am quite sincere. Peanut butter enhances the quality of my life, and I WANT the quality of my life to be enhanced.

I eat peanut butter on toast, in oatmeal, cookies, and sandwiches. I have a favorite African groundnut stew recipe that my husband whips up. It never fails to make me happy when I'm feeling blue. I spread PB on pancakes, crackers, and celery. If I am feeling especially wicked, I will scoop it out of the jar and eat it neat, right off the damn spoon. Secretly, of course...

You see, peanut butter is a comfort food for me.  My other comfort foods are anything red, and milk chocolate. I know dark chocolate is better for you, but it just doesn't float my boat like milk chocolate. Still, I force myself to choose dark chocolate from time to time just in case I have somehow changed my mind. I try to keep an open mind about these things.

I fully realize one "should not" use food to comfort, soothe, or pacify one's tortured self; however, it works. Anyway, I hate "should nots." "Should nots" make me want to do the opposite.  So, in the interest of not gaining a million pounds during these dark nights of the soul, I am looking for alternate ideas. NOT alternative facts, mind you. Do you have healthier and lighter comfort food you choose when you are simply eating to fill that empty part deep down inside? Lay it on me. I want to know. 

Pomona in winter, no doubt yearning for apples and cherries

Going Back

We made a whirlwind trip to Upstate NY in mid-May. It was the first time we went back since moving to Florida in March 2014. We arrived late Friday and left after lunch on Monday. Absurdly short visit, I know; but T is not a good traveler. I apologize from the heart to those dear friends I was unable to see this time. The guilt and regret I feel is palpable. But this trip had a specific purpose.

Our friend, ShS, died in January and we were unable to go back for her funeral. We specifically planned this May weekend with the old gang to honor her and help her husband process the loss.

Saying goodbye to her was one of the last things we did before leaving NYS over two years ago. She was not sick yet. Still, when I hugged her goodbye at her doorway that cold March day I was overcome with sorrow and didn't want to let go of her. I fought tears as we drove away. It would be an understatement to say I don't usually cry. I am usually steely calm with goodbyes, so Tom asked if I was okay. I told him I had a strong feeling I was never going to see ShS again. It was one of those moments when the future reaches back with fully extended claws to rend your heart with foresight. Spooky.

On a lighter note, while there we went to our favorite Vietnamese restaurant. When I walked in, the waiter immediately remembered me! He also remembered my standard lunch order after all these years. Whatta guy!

His kindness reminded me how we impact everyone we meet. A kind and gracious waiter can make a customer's day. We might remember him/her for the rest of our lives. Relationships take many forms. Make no mistake, we all play a role crafting goodness and light in this world.

Yes, we went to Wegmans. I had a hilarious "moment" with an elderly stranger who was sitting down in the dining area eating an entire Mini Ultimate Chocolate Cake all by her sweet self. As I walked by, I saw the cake and exclaimed "Look, it's one of those cakes!" She heard me and said, "I am just trying to make sure I stay fat." Ha! I'll probably never forget her, either.

Just so you know, we brought a small, empty carry-on suitcase on the plane. Before leaving NYS we filled it up with 3 dozen bagels for our return. The security bag scanner at the airport got a big kick out of it. Six of the bagels were garlic. Now the suitcase will forever smell of garlic. I don't care.

Bagels, ripe for the picking

Heaven on Earth: the produce section at Wegmans

FYI - We are going to be preoccupied with a family wedding this weekend, so I probably won't be checking my or other people's blogs for a few days.  If you send comments I will publish them and respond Monday or Tuesday.  Have a good weekend!

Cute Tomato

Well, if you can believe it I ate our second homegrown tomato of the season this morning. I chopped it up and sprinkled it on a split five grain baguette piece, topped it with sharp cheddar and stuck it in the oven until the bread was toasted and the cheese melted. Yum. It was almost as good as a bagel.

We have a couple of teeny raised beds and we are able to start planting some things in March here in Florida. Since we bought tomato plants instead of starting them from seed, we have a nice head start on the fresh produce.

Our 4 year-old grandson, N, took the actual "first" tomato from the garden earlier this month. He wanted to take it home to Daddy. Unfortunately, his father was unable to eat it because by the time he received it the tomato was mush. It seems N used the tomato as a ball. We live and learn.

Little N is my partner in this year's vegetable gardening adventure. He helped me plant seeds for carrots, beets, snow peas, cilantro, green beans, zucchini, and basil. There was much excitement when the seeds started to grow. He likes to water the beds when he comes over to visit. Then he waters the fence, the shed, the house, and me. He loves the power of the sprayer, but he is still learning to control it. When he holds it in his grubby little hands he becomes a de facto sprinkler system. I love that kid. It is a joy watching him learn new things and make new connections in his little mind. It would be wonderful to have a mind so open and uncluttered again.  

and here is the third tomato of the season, coming right up

Chocolate Cake

I have been craving the perfect chocolate cake for a couple of months.  I try not to have dessert because I absolutely don't need it, and I also want to eat less sugar.  However, a craving is a craving is a craving.  It seems like the longer I deny myself a pleasure the more I want it.  Something has to be done or I might possibly lose my mind.

The other day I caved and made a cake.  It is good, but it isn't the chocolate cake I wanted.  It just isn't.  It isn't dark or fudgy or dense enough.  It occurred to me that what I really craved was a Wegmans Ultimate Chocolate Cake. 

Wegmans is this amazing grocery chain in the Northeast.  If you've never been to one, you simply cannot imagine. It is so good that when family from the Midwest would come to visit us in Upstate NY we would take them to the State Parks, the gorges, the Finger Lakes, the wineries, the Cornell plantations, AND Wegmans. 

They sell this cake in two different sizes: full size and mini. T and I would buy the mini and it was perfect for two servings for each of us. The problem was it was SO good that my second serving would end up being my breakfast the next morning. The cake I made the other day is not that good. Maybe that's a gauge of excellence for chocolate cake. Do you want to eat it for breakfast?

This morning I searched the internet for the recipe. Turns out it is a secret recipe and not to be found. Probably just as well.

Wegman's Mini Ultimate Chocolate Cake

The Man Salad

Much in the news these days about the epidemic of obesity. 

Last week T and I went to the barbecue restaurant downtown.  It is hard to eat healthy in my neck of the woods unless you are cooking at home, going to an expensive restaurant, or you are willing to drive to Orlando.  It takes 30-40 minutes to get to Orlando.  The traffic is terrible, and we're retired so money is tight.

Usually we cook at home.  We are both decent cooks, and we like our fruit and veg.  Sometimes we babysit late for our 4-year old grandson, N, and just want to grab a quick bite on our way home. Unless we're feeling flush with money burning a hole in our pockets, our inexpensive choices between there and here are pizza, subs, burgers, Mexican, Thai, or barbecue.

Barbecue is good, cheap, and right downtown. Everyday people own and run this place. When you live in the Land of Mouse, where chain restaurants reign supreme, Mom & Pop owned bakeries, cafes, and restaurants are a big plus.  All their meats are heavenly, lean and lightly seasoned so you can apply as much or as little of their 3 different homemade sauces as you like. The problem is their side dishes, which are seemingly designed to kill you on the spot.

I carefully ordered beef brisket, green beans and coleslaw.  I tried very hard not to eat the grilled Texas Toast that came with it.  "Tried" is the key word.  FYI, the green beans were cooked perfectly well (i.e., not overcooked) but came smothered in butter.  You know I tried to order healthy-ish, but whattayagonnado?  Next time I'll know better, although I have no idea what other side I could possibly substitute for the green beans that would be a better choice. Baked beans, maybe?  Fried okra?  Aaack.

I must confess I have become a connoisseur of coleslaw since moving to Central Florida. Every place does it differently, and every place seems to have it.  I would not have ordered it in my former life up north, mostly because it would not have been on the menu.  Here it is often the only "vegetable" on the menu, besides french fries...  And if you're going to eat pulled, barbecued meat, you need some coleslaw!

Much to my horror, T ordered the "Man Salad" listed on the menu.  What is a man salad, you might ask?  A massive platter of french fries covered with beans, cheese, and pulled pork.  Don't forget the barbecue sauce, baby.  Sorry - he wouldn't let me take a picture of the "salad."  I wanted to.  He said it wasn't very good.  I bet.  I'm sure he felt a little sick afterwards.

Here's a picture of the Bar-B-Que joint.  I don't know anyone in the picture, but there are always lots of people standing in line at the take out window.  If you are a barbecue aficionado the meat here is really, really good.  Inside, the ordering counter and the seating area in the back are funky as hell.  Check out the fake gas pump/fuel dispenser out front. These restaurateurs are dead serious about their ambiance.  I don't know about you, but I wonder why both the bald guys are wearing orange shirts and navy blue shorts?

I've got bagels!

We found a real live, honest to God BAGELRY in Central Florida! It is a dream come true.

We were on our way to see the manatees who huddle together at Blue Springs State Park where they spend what animals from this part of the world like to refer to as winter. T was driving and I was riding shot-gun. Now that I have discovered strip malls hold the secret to the Central Florida eating experience, I spend my travel time scanning an endless procession of strip malls (aka open air shopping areas stretched out in a line) for eating opps as we drive by.  I have come to realize the better eating joints are often in the older strip malls. The newer malls tend to house franchises. All of this is counterintuitive, I know, but I am learning. 

The magnificent "bagelry" sign caught my eye as we drove by a funky old strip mall alongside the highway. The mall itself was old and deteriorated.  I had to force myself to look at the stores, but there it was. I screamed "BAGELS" and T skillfully maneuvered to the extreme left of our three possible lanes and made the first U-turn he could so we could retrace our steps and check that sucker out.

The storefront has seen better days, and the inside has not been updated since about 1975. The signs describing the offerings were all handwritten on white paper with magic marker. It was, in a word, perfect! They sold bagels that are made at their main bagelry in Daytona, which is about an hour away from this sacred temple. They had 17 different kinds of bagels! I told you that if we were to find real bagels they would have to come from the Atlantic Ocean side of Florida! This bagelry also sells rugelach, black-and-white cookies, and potato knishes. Geez-O-Pete, I think I have died and gone to heaven.

You know a good bagelry when it is filled with crates of different kinds of bagels and you get to pick and choose what goes into your bag. After loading up, we ordered potato knishes to go, with spicy mustard of course. T ate his while he drove, which was a truly harrowing driving experience.  For me, anyway. He seemed more concerned about how much potato filling fell into his lap.

My breakfast this morning, a plain bagel with toasted cheese.  Life is good.