I am back from our trip to Rome.  It was a fascinating trip, full of surprises and lots of fabulous food and one late hiccup in the plan.  We had never been away from the kids for a full week, and to land 5000 miles away pushed me out to the edge of my parental comfort zone.  The edge is a good place to be sometimes.  For all involved.  But that umbilical cord…  now, I’m sure you know that I do not mean the one that connected me to each of them at birth, because we did cut that one.  I mean the unseen cord that stretches from my heart to theirs, and boy oh boy, it stretched until it hurt.

Of course, eating gelato by the Trevi Fountain with people I love did help me get over it for the moment, as did one great meal after another.  I love to experience all the local specialties when I travel, and Rome had some great and memorable ones.

I was put in charge of choosing the restaurants (my pleasure), and communicating with all taxi drivers (mixed results).  I did a crash course of Italian for Travelers before I left, but when put in a pressure situation, it all flew out of my head, except to tell them that “I am learning Italian, but I do not speak much”.  I think I said that to everyone, no matter what they said to me.  May have made them wonder what exactly I was learning in Italian.  The other strategy was to say “Prego” at any time, since it seemed to have 12 innocuous meanings.  In retrospect, I did OK at the communicating part, and we ended up where we were going.  But maybe that is not saying much.

Other than the food, one of my favorite parts was strolling (roaming?) down the narrow back streets and impossibly narrow alleys, looking at the architecture above and the well-worn cobble streets under my feet.  The knowledge that we could be run down by a zooming Smartcar at any moment just added to the excitement.  I actually ran into one moving car (versus the other way around) but neither of us suffered any damage.

International intrigue, jane-style!  I am not a high adrenaline kind of gal.

Unless you count eating  Rigatoni con la Pajata, pasta with a sauce of milk-fed calf’s intestine cooked with tomatoes, salt pork, garlic and spices, and topped with grated Pecorino cheese.  This was seriously one of my very favorite dishes.  Amazing, complex flavor.  Romans are known as “popolo mangereccio” (people who are fond of eating) and this apparently includes a fondness of eating every part of the animal, and I have to agree it is tasty.  (Even better than Pork Belly Tacos from Mexico.)

I leave you today with a sense of relief that a tumultuous February has ended, and for me each month starts with a brand new shiny day called the 1st, which has always felt like a new start to me.  Start by starting.  And remember all the good things along the way.

Now we don’t get out much, as they say.  No particular reason, really just a general feeling of comfortable satisfaction spending the weekends together with our kids, coupled with a marked lack of advance social planning.  But some good friends still call, pick a date, make the reservation and get us back out into the city.

So we found ourselves out and about last night in a fun, noisy, young, hoppin’ restaurant downtown.  We were somewhere close to the oldest people there, or maybe I only saw the youth, I’m not sure.  Not that there is anything wrong with that.  Just that  it felt vaguely like crashing a party of cool kids, with a grateful feeling that they let me in to spend my money.

The concept was eclectic Mexican, with a menu where I could have ordered anything based on the tantalizing descriptions.  One dish jumped off the trendy page though, and when the (very young) waiter stopped by to inquire if we had any questions about the menu, I asked about the dish.  It was delicious, he said, very rich, and if I wanted something lighter, he recommended the mahi mahi tacos.

Fish tacos?  Hello?  I have had those many times, always good, but not splurge-worthy.  I was OUT, and I wanted the Crispy Pork Belly Tacos with guacamole diablo and pickled vegetables, thank you very much.

I must say, this dish was absolutely delicious.  I loved it.  The meat melted in my mouth but had a crispy caramelized crust that was reminiscent of bacon.  The spicy avocado melded perfectly with the richness and was balanced by the sourness of the vegetables.  It surpassed my expectations.

Walking back to the car, the Christmas lights twinkling around the tall buildings and an unusual amount of people all about, I felt full and warm in the drizzly sleety snow and did I mention full?

The night out was fun and refreshingly interesting for a Saturday night, time spent laughing and talking with good friends and good food.  Still, I was happy to arrive back home and change into my flannel pajamas (elastic waist – yeah!) and just be, well, home again.  It did not take long to drift off to sleep.

Around 3:00 am, I woke with an acute awareness that I had consumed the innards of a pig that had been garnished with guacamole diablo (Diablo?  Does that mean hot or devilish?) and those pickled vegetables of Beelzabub.  Really, what was I thinking?  Although I don’t drink, I had clearly been drunken with the out-ness of the evening.  The intoxication of friends and food and youth and twinkly lights was *poof* gone in the dark of the night, and I was left with a food hangover.  As I propped myself up on a pile of pillows to have gravity assist the contents of my stomach back down my esophagus, I recalled how often I heard the farm report in my youth, the one that played on the radio at noon on weekdays and would start the broadcast each day with the price of pork bellies.  I don’t think they were selling those pork bellies to Mexican restaurants back in Wisconsin.  As the long-ago-broadcasted words swirled around in my head, the radio announcer’s voice seemed to mock my culinary choices and asked if I also wanted to eat some feed corn or, perhaps, some silage as an appetizer.

The good news about a food hangover is that the morning still breaks bright and new, and for once I felt no temptation to eat any of the bacon I made for the kids’ breakfast.  Think of all the calories I saved by having nothing but my smoothie. Good thing friendship is a soothing tonic; and rich meals, like childbirth, are seldom remembered in full detail.

If I am forced to go to a Halloween haunted house, I’ll pick this one (or I’ll stay home).

While on vacation, we broke the long-standing, elusive Picky Eater Taste Barrier and the list of new-things-tried grew by the day.  I cannot tell you how happy this made me, the Frustrated Foodie who for many years could not cook interesting dishes or dine out at adventurous restaurants with her whole family.  It felt like nothing short of a small miracle that those kids flew right by “no ingredients touching” to frutti del mar and cioppino.

Hallelujah.

We arrived back home, and inevitably the children found the old food routines easier to stomach.  I was disappointed but started to cook more interesting dishes anyway.  Slowly, both of them have shown more and more willingness to at least try new things.  “Hey, that actually smells good”, they would announce with equal parts surprise and confusion.  Indeed, my jaw dropped this week when The Professor ate jambalaya with shrimp and spicy sausage.  Two helpings.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know people talk about jaw dropping — it is a familiar idiom — but I actually felt the drop of my jawbone and it’s companion reaction, mouth hanging agape.  “I almost fell out of my chair” and “knock me over with a feather” also  felt like actual possibilities.  He just looked at me with a tween eyebrow lift and said “What’s the big deal, Mom?”,  shoveling in this (admittedly delicious) concoction of innumerable ingredients as if he had been trying new foods I made, and finding them incredibly delicious, for all of his days.

I am happy to pretend along with him, and his brother, that they were not picky for the last decade.

Another case in point:  until recently, I quite possibly had the only two children on the planet who did not like sandwiches.  How can someone not like sandwiches?  It’s bread, meat and maybe cheese.  Jeez.  But while on a weekend trip, my cousin made sandwiches for a picnic lunch, and low and behold The Little One shoveled them in.  When we returned home, he asked if I could possibly make delicious sandwiches like that here at our home.  Hhmmm, I think I can duplicate the recipe:  let’s see, one slice of whole wheat bread, one slice of turkey, one slice of cheddar, another slice of bread.  Press down and wrap in make-shift materials because the rental house does not have any kitchen supplies.  My son was amazed.  “Wow, I didn’t know you could make this!”  Suddenly I was a star, the purveyor of deliciousness heretofore never seen in this house.

I guess I’ll also pretend that I did not serve turkey sandwiches 187 times in the last ten years.

All in all, a small price to pay for my new stardom.  I’ll take small miracles wherever I can find them.

We discovered the lack of any type of spatula/flipper when the meat was heading to the grill on Friday night.  After a thorough search of all the drawers and cupboards, we discovered a nice, shiny-new set of garden tools in a kitchen drawer, and promptly re-purposed the trowel as a hamburger flipper and brat turner.  It worked.  That garden trowel got lots of use through the weekend, although we did not have to use it on the scrambled eggs because a late-comer received the call to bring a spatula, pronto.

This lack of proper useful conventional equipment did not stop a couple of us from undertaking what I might consider one of the most ambitious cooking projects I can imagine:  a first try at canning peaches.  B brought a recipe fresh ripped from a magazine (“Impossible Virgin Canning Projects Magazine”, perhaps?) with a beautiful picture of the preserved peaches, so pretty in the jar with no trace of botulism to be seen.  She brought canning jars, lids and rims. She bought a huge box of gorgeous, fresh, Michipie peaches.  Most importantly, what she brought to the kitchen was a sense of fun, and optimism, and a confidence that this could be done by two people who had never done it before — a sense that canning peaches was the most natural thing in the world to do on a beach vacation.

I love that about her.

Everyone else disappeared from the kitchen in fear in logic in haste, scattering in all directions trying to look busy.  I never would have tried this adventure on my own, but I was happy to find myself there, working side-by-side with my cousin, figuring it out as we went along.  We boiled lots of pots at once.  Pots of boiling water to sterilize jars.  Pots at a boil for a quick dip to skin the peaches.  Pots of sugary syrup that boiled over, but we kept on going.  I love to cook but am hopeless at following recipes, so I goofed a few times yet she did not make me feel inevitably responsible for the possible botulism poisoning of our whole relation.

I really like that about her too.

Here we are getting started.  (Note: the dog treats on the counter were not part of the recipe.)

Look how happy the brave canners are!

Peaches turn the sugary syrup a beautiful color when they cook (This was right before it bubbled over — I was supposed to be watching the pot, DOOH…)

Things got a little sweaty scary exciting near the end of the process…

It was declared the leftover syrup will make delicious lemonade:

And, viola!, the finished product.  I  am not positive how the stray hot dog ended up in the food-styled final shot; suffice to say there were seven kids running around and at least as many kids-at-heart…

Thank you to my dear cousin who, as always, opened my eyes to new adventures…

What is it about neighboring states that creates this virtual wall?  Is it the sibling rivalry of states?  Each place is largely the same but depending on where you live relative to The State Line, you have your allegiances.  It is an arbitrary line on a map, but it spurs fanatical sports rivalries (Packers vs. Vikings), creates the butts of jokes (did ya hear the one about Olie and Swen in Minnesota?), road rage (well, you can just see how they learn to drive in Illinois, can’t ja?”).  It is also the rationale for why their highways are not as well maintained (even though they have tolls!) their women are not as strong, and their children are not as above average, to quote Garrison Keillor, a Minnesotan who knows a lot about such things.

So, back to the story:  off we go to Michigan for a family reunion of sorts, no expectations about the location whatsoever, just looking forward to seeing cousins and in-law cousins and the mini-cousins some of them have begot.  The drive took much longer than expected (but that is another story…), so we I was a bit frazzled by the time we arrived.  It was getting close to  dark when we pulled in to the rental house, so we did not see much scenery or even the lake.  What I did see after all the warm welcome hugs and happy exclamations was… pie.

All kinds of pie.  Pie from Bob’s Barn of Pie.  It is a good thing that I did not go to Bob’s myself, as I suspect I would not have been able to decide.  They extolled the wonders of blueberry lemon, strawberry rhubarb, and many others, but there before us was a beautiful apple pie with an artisan top crust, a triple berry pie oozing with berry goodness, and… an apple jalapeno pie.  Eyebrows shot up, mouths drooped agape — really?   Yes, indeed, She had just baked them fresh today.  She baked them all herself.  No one knew who She was (clearly not Bob) but we reverently referred to She the Pie Maker for the rest of the weekend.  She was good at her job, that much was clear.  She had a calling.

I could not help but notice that the apple jalapeno box was missing a big slice.  Turns out Bob at the Barn of Pie has a favorite flavor and it is apple jalapeno, so he helped himself to a big ol’ slice of the last pie right before they came in, but he insisted that they must try this pie because it was his favorite.  Perhaps he sensed they were from Illinois so he wanted to make a peace gesture and bring an end to this whole state rivalry thing.  A peace pipe of pie.

Either way, we were happy to have our 3/4 of an apple jalapeno crusted wonder, which everyone declared oddly delicious, with almost a chutney-like sweet/hot flavor.  Yum.  Immediately my perception of the whole state of Michigan was elevated considerably.  Any place with Bob’s Barn of Pie that She made fresh in innumerable flavors was a state that needed to be re-evaluated top to bottom.  Time to put aside my preconceived notions about MI and discover why so many of our Ohio friends go there every summer (that was always so mysterious…)

And I will hereby and forthwith call this land Michipie.

The next day brought sunny, seasonably warm weather and a trip to the beach.  The sand was white and soft, the water of Lake Michigan was clear and cold and refreshing.  It was beautiful.  There was that gas generator running loudly there on the sand with a long orange extension cord running to a boom box blaring tunes at 10:00AM, but by then I already had my rose-colored Michipie glasses on and I did not see any drawbacks to this place.  How cute!  Look at the dancing drunk people and the ones passed out on the towel!  They must be visiting from some other state (like Indiana) because people from Michipie are clearly much nicer than that.

Don’t get me wrong — Wisconsin is still my little slice of heaven and always will be.  I’ve learned though to look at my neighboring states in a new light.  Maybe we don’t have to fly to far-away states to have adventures.  Those far-away states have states all around them that make fun of them too.  Maybe, just maybe, I could be a little more open-minded.  I’m just saying.

And, in the end, it was not just the fine crusted pastries that made it the best “end-of-summer” weekend I think I have ever had.  It was the feeling of family, people who call me Janie and I don’t mind, people with whom I can grill brats with a garden trowel…

…but that is a story for another day.

But shortly after Judy’s post, I was visiting my family in Wisconsin and made my annual pilgrimage to my favorite coffee shop in WI, Mud Creek Coffee.  Mud Creek opened a couple years ago, and I was delighted but dubious that the concept could make it in a small town in today’s economy.  Every time I drive up there and Mud Creek is still open, I always stop and frankly just want to throw buckets of money through the drive-through window and say “Please make it!” because it is such a cool little coffee shop and I would be sad if it was gone.

Which is exactly the idea behind 3/50.

On this last trip, my Dear Sister and I went to Mud Creek for a relaxing afternoon break and what did I find on the counter but a flyer for the 3/50 Project.  So I figure, if the concept made it there already, it is time for my town to get on board!

So, here is the premise of the 3/50 Project:

1.  Pick three independently owned (brick and mortar) local businesses you’d miss most if they were gone.

2.  Commit to spending $50 a month at these three businesses (that’s $50 total, NOT $50 each…)

3.  Help save your town’s independent stores, one person at a time.

Now don’t get me wrong — I enjoy the immediacy and ease of on-line shopping, big box store bargain-hunting (I am a Costco addict), and all the other many chains that make shopping and eating out so convenient.  I know that at this point there is no way that the majority of my family’s expenditures can be sourced through local independent vendors.  But $50 a month of money I was going to spend somewhere else anyway?  That I can do.  It’s easy and just feels right.

So, here is my list to start on September 1st:

1.  Tazza Mia Coffee (which I do think is the freshest and best tasting coffee in town.)

2.  Troy’s Cafe (a gem of a restaurant with innovative, fun, affordable food in a relaxed atmosphere.)

3.  Ace Hardware (I know Ace is a chain, but this is the [last?] little, local hardware store around here, one with every little doohickey and thingamabob for fixing things, and a cute Grandpa-guy clerk who knows where everything is on the tightly packed shelves.)

There.  I had to try hard to keep all three choices from being food-related.

So that’s my plan.  I would love to hear what three businesses you would pick, and, dear readers, if you are willing to give it a try…

To Infinity and Beyond
By Tom Jacobson

The Internet changes things.  It warps the space-time continuum.  It changes people and our perception of people.  It gives each of us a new chance to explore things we have always wanted to, and allows others to see us through a different lens.  The New Yorker sure got it right back in 1993 when they first published the now famous Peter Steiner cartoon, “On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog!”  And while we aren’t dogs – except of course for Jane’s dog, but gosh that sure seems to work for her! – do our real-world lives match our cyber existences?

In life, I am a gadget-guy.  I love my toys.  I thrill at the fact that I can use my Palm, connected via Bluetooth to my cell, to go onto the Web, to program my DVR, all while standing in line at the airport.  It just doesn’t get any better than that!  (If you don’t believe me, ask the guy in your life.  He’ll confirm it.)

I am a salesman.  Yes, I took my masters degree in library science straight into the “vendor world” and ultimately fell to “the dark side” selling software to libraries.  Trust me I have heard all about it, and there are still nights I lay awake thinking about it.  But honestly, the goal is to connect with the library, explain the product, understand their issues, and solve their problems.  And when you do it right, you are a rock star!  Honest to God!  The whole room is on its feet, and at the end of the day you float out the door…  There is nothing to be gained from cutting corners and doing it any other way, so for the non-believers, you are just wrong.

I am a husband and a father.  Well at least on paper I am.  I say that because most days I have this nagging feeling that I am doing it wrong, though others assure me that feeling actually indicates I am doing it right…

I am all these things and more every day.  And yet when I log on to the Web, I am none of these things!  They are left behind when I beam myself up, and I come out the other side someone else.  Transformed.  And as you watch on your monitors, those bits of me that still remain are further diffused.

Yes, I can still be counted on for the one-liner wisecracks.  That’s me snarking on Jane’s Facebook wall in and between everyone else’s kind, encouraging words.  But with the ability to turn it off and on, looking in only when one wants to, the zings come across as they are meant, and the barbs are stripped away.

And if you look over at my Facebook wall, who am I?  A master chef!  Yes, a culinary prodigy planning, anticipating, cooking, plating, chronicling and devouring meal after succulent meal!  Don’t know what to have for dinner?  Just check it out and see if anything sounds good.  Wondering if a 7 and 8 year old will like Brussels Sprouts and Sea Scallops?  The answer is there.  Need a recipe for the best blueberry pancakes, down to which blueberries to use?  Just ping me, I have it on hand.  Advice on the magic of turning a chicken carcass into soup?  I’ll give it to you straight.  (By the way, if your kids don’t like the celery floating in soup, a hand blender takes care of that little problem, and they don’t even know it!)

Lamb and Pasta w/ Greek Cinnamon-Tomato Sauce
with a Spinach, Leek & Feta Triangle

I’ve even developed a following among my FB friends.  The other weekend when I posted that I was “looking forward to the organic, grass-fed beef tenderloin filets”, an old college friend commented that I made “beef sound like a hot date!”  I was later accused of food-porn when I confirmed they were great, having rubbed them with a garlic and salt paste and drizzled olive on top, broiling them nicely and finishing mine with blue cheese, add to that golden pan-roasted potatoes and asparagus with balsamic and parmesan…

My brother-in-law is a follower too, though more of the type who tries, but can’t quite look away and is ashamed of himself later.

Brussels Sprouts with Sea Scallops

My Dad did the cooking while I grew up.  Not all of it, but the day-to-day while my Mom went to school and later worked.  I’ve always enjoyed cooking.  When the kids were born, it was the one thing I could really do effectively to keep the household on track.  In fact despite traveling very regularly in my job, I’ve come to do all the menu planning, shopping, and cooking, including those meals when I am not at home.  If I am out for three days in a week, that is three meals cooked and in the refrigerator before I leave.

My favorite was when my daughter asked a friend, upon learning that she did not have a Dad, “But who cooks your food?!”  The single mom looked wistfully my direction, and totally made my day!

Spanish Paprika-Potato Omlette, Chipolte Sausage with Carmelized Red
Onions, Lightly Dressed Salad and Cheese Bread

That is my thing.  And while I enjoy it and discuss it regularly, there was something about Facebook that just launched it in a whole new way.  Gadget-guy?  Salesman?  Husband and father?  No!  Top Chef!  Iron Chef!  Little Suzy Homemaker!!  You name it, there I am.  Micro-blogging the daily menu, and writing food-porn.  And loving every minute of it.

Have I discovered a new career?  Or simply a new outlet?  Am I a dog?  Or a master chef?  Is anybody even reading?  I have no idea.  But I know if this is possible after only a few short months, then who knows what strange corner of the galaxy this trip is going to take us to, but I can’t wait to get there.

Tonight’s menu you ask?  Fried chicken and my mother-in-law’s hoe cake.

*

I am pretty sure I served waffles for dinner to my resident-picky-eaters on the day I first read Tom’s Facebook family dinner updates.  Looking at the pictures he posted, I figured he must take his young family out to restaurants often.  Then I found out it really was “what’s for dinner” at someone’s house…  Huh?   Whoa.   (Yum.)

Thank you Tom, for sharing your story and Facebook foodie experiences.  Keep us posted!  (And when can we all come over for dinner?)

Most years we buy a share at the wonderful local CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm, which gives us a bountiful basket of vegetables every week from mid-May to mid-October.  There are so many smart aspects of buying fresh and local; one beauty of “buying all that they grow” came in the form of vegetables and herbs both familiar and unfamiliar.  One vegetable last year had us searching online for a name — the long, green curlicues turned out to be garlic scapes, delicious, with a flavor of both garlic and onions.  I put it in everything while we had it;  and I know I would not have been likely to pick it up from a market on my own.

If you are interested in reading a fascinating account of a family’s adventure in eating completely local for one year, check out Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver.  I loved the book’s mix of themes: gardening, recipes, motherhood and family dynamics, juxtaposed with a journalistic investigation of the effects of food production on the environment and economy.  Oh, and it’s funny.  I like that too.

I have no delusions that our small plot of earth will yield much this first year, as it is a new adventure. We are giving it a casual try, with my characteristic fear of commitment.  It may just be a bunny buffet.  We have both read the hysterical book The $64 Tomato by William Alexander, about the perils, trials and tribulations of Obsessive Gardening Disorder.  We plan to keep each tomato under $10 each.  We’ll also plan to go to the farmers market as usual.

Now, perennial gardening?  That is where my time has been happily spent for years…

*?*

It does NOT apply when Grammy makes Froot Loops for breakfast.

*

Note to self:  The descriptive product name FROOT Loops gives the big clue that this breakfast cereal can only be “part of a nutritious breakfast” if served with steel cut oats, fresh fruit with antioxidants, a protein smoothie and a Flintstone vitamin chaser.

This young man is having his FROOT with some OJ and a pencil (which has lots of fiber).

*

That’s why we love Grammy.  She’s not a big grump like his mom.