Put your Heart (of Palm) Into It.

I get a lot of food magazines. I actually get way too many food magazines. The problem, the reason why I say way too many, is that I insist on reading every word and staring at every detail of every photograph – and all in one sitting. Maybe everyone does that, but I feel like magazines, except for the literary ones, are more often enjoyed in a leaf-through-it-casually-and-pick-it-up-and-down-over-time sort of way. But me, once I pick it up and open the cover, I'm in it to win it until I flip that very last page. Kind of like me and a bag of chips.

Oh, and that's not all. Not by a long shot. I save them. I keep them all in a pile for a larger project. And once the pile reaches a certain height, about two or three times a year, I go back through every single page of every single magazine and rip out the pages that have recipes I want to play with and images that inspire me. After I tear them all out, I sort through them and file them into binders assigned to different categories; soups, breakfast, vegetables, poultry, holidays, and so on. The photographic inspired pages go into their own binder. It's like my own private Pinterest.

I can understand why Fred always tells me, 'It must be exhausting to be you'.

So now you see why perhaps I ought to cut back on the magazines.

And now that I'm moving across the country in less than two months (!), this all seems really idiotic. Especially considering if I ever want to find one of the recipes I can just Google them. But I can't stop myself. It's as if I am compelled. Which is scary since I just saw The Conjuring last weekend.

But, fairly often, I do refer to my binders of recipes to get dinner ideas. And just as often I refer to my binder of inspirational photos as a reference of how I'd like to visually capture said dinners.

So as I was poking around in the cupboard the other day I found a jar of hearts of palm. I honestly do not recall buying them and have no idea how long they had been living with me. I've always been fond of hearts of palm, but it totally reminds me of the early nineties. It lives in my memories with sun dried tomatoes, tuna tartare with mango, Dippin' Dots and Zima. I even vaguely recall a rumor going around that hearts of palm was bad for the world, kind of like the whole shrimp thing right now.

As I was holding the jar of hearts of palm and noodling down memory lane, reminiscing about white zin and baked brie, I remembered that very recently I saved and filed away a recipe for what else, hearts of palm. And I just so happened to have most of the ingredients. And what I did not have was easy to change out with other things, to make it my own. That's just kismet.

Heart of palm is an interesting thing. It is a vegetable. It's harvested from the inner core of certain palm trees. And yes, harvesting of many non-cultivated palms results in palm tree death. However, other palm species are clonal and moderate harvesting will not kill the entire clonal palm. Moreover, an alternative to wild hearts of palm are palm varieties which have undergone a process of adaptation to become a domesticated farm species. This variety is the most widely used for canning. And this very farmed variety is what we are buying at the market. But since harvesting is still a labor intensive task, palm hearts are regarded as a delicacy.

Move over foie gras, here comes something leaner?

Heart of palm does actually seem like a delicacy. It is delicate. It's soft in color and texture and has a subtle, muted taste. A taste that could be described as, well, delicate. Though I like to snack on one or two, straight up, no chaser, you will almost always find them in salads.

And here is no different.

I love this salad. It is bright and fresh and zippy. It's colorful and covers the entire texture spectrum, from super soft all the way over to super crunchy with everything in between. The original recipe called for parsley where I used cilantro. But I think any number of fresh herbs could and should be folded in as well; basil chives, shiso, mint, you name it. 

I will tell you now that once the hearts of palm jumped into that salad, they also jumped into a new memory category. One that is very much in the present. It was so simple to make and so fun to eat, that I bet once you try it, this is one of those recipes that will end up in your binder as well.

Hearts of Palm, Heirloom Tomato and Avocado Salad

Serves 2-4

1 cup mixed color heirloom tomatoes, chopped into ½-inch pieces

1/2 small sweet onion, cut into thin slivers

1 14-ounce cans hearts of palm, drained and sliced 1/2 inch thick

1 avocado, cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro

1/2 teaspoon finely grated lime zest

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

2 tablespoons canola oil

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

In a medium bowl, toss the tomatoes with the onion slivers, hearts of palm, avocado and chopped cilantro. In a small bowl, whisk the lime zest and lime juice with the mayonnaise and oil; season the dressing with salt and pepper. Pour the dressing over the salad, toss gently and serve right away.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Zucchini Fries with Poblano Cream

Two years ago: Bourbon-Vanilla Bean Banana Bread with Candied Walnuts

Three years ago: Classic Southern Deviled Eggs

Four years ago: Baked Tomatoes with Goat Cheese, Fresh Herbs & Hazelnut Breadcrumbs

The Egg Man

Eggs. They are the new black. Or at least the new bacon. Eggs can be used in every type of meal in countless ways: sunny side up, scrambled, frittata'd or used to coat bread for French toast for breakfast, on top of a burger at lunch, deviled eggs for a snack, over roasted asparagus, in an avgolemono soup or used to make a pasta for dinner and even baked into cakes, cookies, whipped into meringues for dessert. You can have them soft, medium or hard boiled, or go for the sixty-two degree version. The options are endless.

And the types of eggs with which to play are also numerous: chicken eggs, duck eggs, quail eggs, ostrich eggs, fish eggs (roe and caviar). Think of the infinite creations and myriad of recipes using all manner of eggs. And, in every single type of regional cuisine, from Japanese to Italian to Israeli to every place.

I've got it: eggs are the little black dress of food. Dressed up or dressed down, accessorized or kept simple. A classic. A staple. And much like always wanting to have that little, black dress in your closet, one always wants eggs on hand in the refrigerator.

One iteration of the egg I haven't seen much of in recent memory (save for untouched in deli cases), but I grew up with, is egg salad. I know a lot of people get a little ooged out by proteins followed by the word salad: tuna salad, ham salad, chicken salad, shrimp salad, egg salad, and the grossest of all, Jell-o salad. Usually these salads involve mayonnaise as a binder, and there is a pretty substantial anti-mayo cult out there. This particular family of salads is also considered straight old school. It can be grouped into things like casserole, Betty Crocker and the like which dates back to the 1950s and 1960s.

Even though, theoretically, these salads should fall into the category of not suitable for packed lunches or picnics, what with the mayonnaise and the tuna fish and the eggs and all, that is exactly where they do fall. How many of you had one of these fill-in-the-blank salad sandwiches, wrapped tidily in wax paper in your lunch box or brown paper lunch bag? How many of you have had one of these fill-in-the-blank salads on sandwiches, crackers, on top of lettuce or just straight out of their container on a picnic? I am willing to bet quite a few.

My dad had to learn how to make shrimp salad in a home economics class in high school in the mid 1960s. He food poisoned himself. So I don't recall much of that around growing up. But, between Mom and Dad, there was a lot of tuna salad, chicken salad, and a weird-but-totally-delicious sandwich my mom packed for school lunch involving cream cheese and sliced green olives between two slices of bread. But, though I'm not sure why, my dad's egg salad always stood out to me. Whenever he made it, which was usually for a late-afternoon, dog days of Summer snack, I was thrilled.

Egg salad is one of those things I have never given mountains of thought. I could probably count on one hand the times I've ordered it out. But I order chicken and tuna salads often. And make them. And even more often, I order, and prepare at home, deviled eggs. And really, a deviled egg is pretty much the same thing as egg salad, but constructed differently.

As we have deemed June picnic month here at F for Food, andJune is when his birthday falls and, of course, Father's Day, I called my dad to find out his egg salad recipe to take on our next picnic. He made a couple of batches so he could recall his recipe-non-recipe and sent it forth.He wanted to let you know that either white or wheat bread is acceptable but the bread you choose MUST be a soft bread and it is certainly not to be toasted. And if you must add lettuce, tomato or bacon, feel free. But he won't be having any of that.

I left the recipe in his words since they are so extremely cute. Googier?! I love it.

Steve's Egg Salad

Makes enough egg salad for 3 or 4 sandwiches.

6 hard boiled eggs:

(Foolproof hard boiled eggs can be made as follows: Start the eggs in cold water, bring the water to a boil, then remove the pan from the heat, cover and let the eggs sit for 10 minutes.)

The cool or room temperature eggs are peeled and chopped up in a mixing bowl.  I use a fork and do a mixture of slicing and pressing to get my desired base. A mixer makes it too creamy.

Add and mix:

1/3 cup Duke's mayo. You can add a little more if you want it googier.

1 tablespoon brown spicy mustard

1/2 kosher dill pickle, finely chopped

1/4  teaspoon ground pepper, kosher salt & (secret ingredient) vinegar.

Bon appetite, y all.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Mussels with Chorizo & Kale

Two years ago: Artichoke-Potato Hash

Three years ago: Duchess Salad with Romaine, Avocado, Cucumber & Pine Nuts

Leftovers

Christmas has come and gone. The gifts have been thought out, purchased, wrapped, received, unwrapped and put away. The guests have come and gone. What remains, however, is a lot of leftovers. Fred and I have done all sorts of things imaginable with all of the leftovers in the fridge - the most creative being a shepherd pie of sorts. We took the leftover prime rib, chopped it up with some carrots, celery and red wine and turned it into a boeuf bourguignon. Then we took the scraps leftover from the domino potatoes, boiled them and made a mash. We put the remains of the winter greens gratin in the mash and stirred it all together. Then we put the bourguignon in a casserole, topped it with the mash and baked it. That was dinner one night. And a snack the next day. The funny thing is that now we have that leftover in the fridge.


I feel like Sisyphus, but my rock is leftover food. Actually, my rock is the ham. We weren’t entirely certain we would have enough food to feed our seven, possibly eight, guests for Christmas dinner (a thought, that in hindsight, was absurd) so we asked Fred’s mom’s boyfriend to bring a ham (he had offered). Needless to say, the ham never even saw the dinner table on Christmas as we had an over abundance of food.


So I sent everyone home with some ham that night. And the next day there were ham sandwiches. And some ham biscuits the day after that. We even had ham and eggs for breakfast the next morning.


But even yesterday, when I opened the fridge, the ham was still there. And a lot of it. I wanted to get the hock to make ham and beans, but there was still so much ham left to use. So, I did what I often do in these situations; I called Mom. You see, my mom makes a killer ham salad.


My mom is also moving back to Virginia in less than two weeks. So right now, any excuse to see, or talk to her is welcomed. In fact, lately, we’ve been talking about five or six times a day. Yesterday it was about ham salad. She told me her recipe and her technique, and while Fred watched football in the den, I took every last shred of meat on that ham, got two chefs knives, and went cray cray on some ham salad. My mom told me Uncle Dougerton especially loves her ham salad, so I delivered some to him today. I also took some to my girls at Lindy & Grundy, since they love anything my mom makes.


Today is New Year’s Eve, and I’m sitting on the sofa, writing this, completely swaddled in the blanket my mom knitted me for this Christmas. She has been working on it for well over a year and it shows. It’s huge. It’s like twenty feet long huge. It’s bright and colorful and filled with different textures and shapes. I know it will be in my life forever. My kids and grandkids will love this blanket. I look at the blanket and I know she touched, and thought about, and poured love into every thread, every millimeter of it. Did she know what she was giving me right before she is moving away? My favorite leftover of them all. An heirloom.


And this recipe for ham salad.

Kathy's Deviled Ham Salad

Ingredients:
2 cups ham, really finely chopped
1/4 cup sweet onion, finely diced
1/4 cup celery, finely diced
1 large dill pickle, diced
3 tablespoons mayo
1 teaspoon dijon mustard
Dash of sherry vinegar
Salt and black pepper to taste


Directions:
Mix all the ingredients together until blended but not too smooth as you want a bit of texture. Taste and adjust any seasoning or add more mayonnaise if you like. A little drizzle of pickle juice is excellent as well.


Yield: About 3 cups. Keeps in the refrigerator for a few days.

Printable recipe.


One year ago: Domino potatoes
Two years ago: Linguine with pancetta mushroom cream sauce
Three years ago: 2009: The Year of the Food Truck

Simplicity: The Hallmark of Genius

My mother's name Kathryn Virginia. My grandmother called her Divinia (Virginia jumbled up and pronounced similarly) and nicknamed her Divi. Most Virginia's are nicknamed Ginny or Ginger but my grandmother had her own special naming and language process. My grandmother had her own special way of doing most things. The mother of five, she became weary of hearing "Mom, oh Mom, Mama" from her brood. Once she announced that she was to be addressed as Brenda (not even close to her name: Esther), so for almost a month she would not respond to anything but Brenda.

If you recall, my mom also has her own special, shall we say, language. Recently, water has turned into watzee, Maggie is Magothy, and I’m still Tweeters. I too have fun playing with my words. So I suppose the apple has not fallen far from the tree for the past three generations.

My grandmother passed away when I was about twelve or thirteen years old. I don’t think I knew her all that well but do I have some very specific snapshots of her and her world. First of all, I swear she looked just like Roy Orbison. There was often cream chipped beef on toast happening in the kitchen. And one time, when I was crying about something, she gave me a Monchichi coloring book to try to lift my spirits. I used to love those Monchichis. I remember really loving her bathtub, and I can also recall a hole in the floor upstairs in her house that looked down into the kitchen. I had all of my Christmas mornings at her house in Roanoke until she passed away.

Apparently Grandma made a very involved and very decadent rum cake of which my mom has a very specific, very visceral memory. According to Mom, the cake took days. Part of its process involved wrapping the cake in a rum-soaked towel overnight. Apparently this cake weighed about as much as the family dog. Mom has been trying to unearth that recipe for quite some time now, to no avail.

I’m spending today writing this and trying to track down a recipe that fits the bill for that elusive cake. I'm poring through vintage cookbooks, asking my food cohorts via Twitter, and searching online. I even sent an email to Aunt Babe and Noel. We shall see. If unearthed, this will be the cake served at the December 16^th Dinner at Eight. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime I am going to share with you the recipe for the most elegant, yet simple, hors d'oeuvres I can imagine. They are little onion sandwiches and they were served at the most recent Dinner at Eight during cocktail hour. I had been hearing about them for years. Mom used to make them in her café back in Richmond and they were a hit. My dad even called me one time after he stopped by a party for their mutual friend, Breeda, where Mom had served them. He said he ate five of them in as many minutes and then had to promptly leave because of his onion breath. I guess they were so good, he sacrificed the party for the sandwiches. Priorities.

The success of this dish depends on the quality of the bread used and the thinness of the onion-slice filling, which must be nearly transparent. I highly recommend using a mandoline. And, of course, you must use Duke’s mayonnaise.

Divinia’s Tea Sandwiches

12 servings

24 slices of a fine-textured white bread
36 small, wafer-thin slices raw sweet onion
1 ½ cup Duke’s mayonnaise
Salt to taste
1 cup minced parsley

Cut the slices of bread into rounds with a small biscuit cutter (or a water glass), about one inch diameter.

Choose small onions and slice them so that each circle will be a little smaller than the bread rounds.

Spread each piece of bread with mayonnaise. On half the pieces arrange the onion slice and season with salt. Cover the onion with the remaining pieces of bread to assemble sandwiches.

Spread the remaining mayonnaise on a wooden board and sprinkle the chopped parsley on another board. Hold each sandwich round lightly between thumb and finger so it will turn like a wheel. Roll the edge in mayonnaise, then in parsley. Set the sandwiches, as they are completed, on waxed paper and chill thoroughly.

Printable recipe

Two years ago: Buttermilk Corn Soup with Curry & Mint

Back to the Basics. Holding on. Letting go.

Over a girls' night out with Maggie last week I lamented the recent loss of a t-shirt that had significant sentimental value to me (and was super cool). A boy I once cared for deeply had sort of permanently loaned it to me and I, of course, kept it forever, until I just lost it a short time ago. I suppose it is one of the only things I had left of him, besides my memories. That whole thing was years ago, now.

Maggie just blinked at me and flatly told me to forget about it. She said I keep too much stuff. I don’t need all of the stuff. It doesn’t necessarily need to have the gravity I have assigned to it. 

It’s a shirt.

Admittedly, that smarted a bit. But she’s right. As tidy as I am and as often as I clean out my closet of clothes, shoes and accessories that I don’t want, or no longer fit, I have a ton of stuff. In addition to that signature t-shirt left behind from most of the boys that have meant something to me. I have a Steeler’s glass that was Sam’s. I’ve carried it with me for a decade. When it was broken last year so was I. I have cards Paz made for me from twenty years ago, a matchbook with a joke written in it from Michael Fancini from fifteen years ago, I have kept every journal I’ve ever written, have busted up furniture from my grandparents, and even have a hat pin, all bent and rusty, that was found in a jewelry box my dad gave to my mom long before I was born. Let’s not even mention the decrepit strainer, shaped like a triangle, with rust, from my dad’s house from way before my time, that sits on a chest in my dining room, never used, yet has no real, actual, sentimental value to me that I’m aware of. But I love it.

What you own eventually owns you, right?

I’ve never actually shed all of my stuff before. And as a result, perhaps I find myself trapped in the past a bit. “I used to do this with that person”, “I used to do that this way and this that way back in the day.” You know?

We can’t completely shed everything really. Actually, even if we get rid of it, we still have all of our stuff anyway, tangible or not. Everything is part of the mosaic that makes all of us who we were, are and will be.

These thoughts coupled with this time of year have harkened me back to thoughts of my family, my roots, my parents, the James River, youth, spirit, innocence, thunderstorms, cicadas, Yo! MTV Raps, Ca-Ca the Clown, The Magic Pumpkin, lighting bugs at dusk, Dinosaur Jr., my back deck; Richmond and Grove Ave. Where I became me.

Those of you that read me on the regular probably know all of this about me already. This is what I do periodically (maybe this is my new stuff).

But man alive, I also miss that food.

Where is it here, dear City of Angels? Where can I find brilliant (and unabashedly Crisco’ed) fried chicken, meatloaf, roast beef, fried catfish, chicken pot pie, chicken livers, collard greens, green beans, fried green tomatoes, pimiento cheese, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes (with mountains upon mountains of butter), corn on the cob, parker house rolls, tomato aspic, corn bread and sweet tea under the same roof? With a twist. In the right place. And wine, too, please. WHERE?

Because I want it. And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Sometimes tried and true, and sometimes with a twist. In the right place.

 

I’ve mentioned this previously - but I’m redundant and you all know it – the South actually created the only cuisine that is indigenous to this country. Yes, it’s true. Look it up.

So last week Doug, Maggie and I had a Southern feast: fried chicken (cooked with Crisco AND butter, mind you), buttermilk biscuits, slow cooked collards, and sliced heirloom tomatoes with a dollop of Duke’s Mayonnaise, sun tea and, of course, wine. For dessert we had buttermilk pie (recipe coming soon).

I want more. I’m going home in October. I want my emotional Snuggie. I want to talk to Aunt Babe. I’m going to ask her everything about everything. And I’m going to talk about her food. And I’m going to hug her.

And then I’m coming back here to you, my City of Angels. And I’m going to make you some food.

Shirt? What shirt? I’ve got cooking to do.

Classic Southern Fried Chicken

Serves 6 

 

2 small chickens, broken down
2 large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour  

2 tablespoons seasoned salt, such as Lawry's
1 tablespoon fresh cracked black pepper
24 ounces Crisco 

1 stick of unsalted butter

Pat the chicken pieces dry and line a baking sheet with wax paper. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the milk. Add the chicken. In another bowl, whisk the flour with the seasoned salt and seasoned pepper. Dredge the chicken in the seasoned flour.

Dunk chicken back in buttermilk mixture and back into flour mixture.

Transfer to the baking sheet.

In a 12-inch, cast-iron skillet, heat the Crisco and butter to 365°. Add all of the chicken and fry over moderate heat, turning occasionally, until deeply golden brown and an instant-read thermometer inserted nearest the bone registers 170°, 20 to 24 minutes. Drain the chicken on paper towels and serve right away.

Printable Recipe

FOR MILO, WHO NOW KNOWS THE WAY.

My absolute favorite book as a child, and perhaps my favorite book of all time, was/is The Phantom Tollbooth by Norman Juster and illustrated by Jules Feiffer. The book tells the story of a young boy named Milo who would rather be anywhere other than where he is, values little and considers time and all things that exist within it a waste of, well, time.

One day Milo comes home from school to find a large, mysterious and anonymously delivered package that contains a miniature tollbooth and a map of "the Lands Beyond" in his room with a note that reads "FOR MILO, WHO HAS PLENTY OF TIME". And with nothing better to do Milo assembles the tollbooth and, in his toy car, travels through it onto the road to Expectations.

As a result of not paying attention, he first travels through The Doldrums; a place where thinking and laughing is not allowed. But soon gets out (with thought and laughter, of course) and finds his way through Dictionopolis and Digitopolis and must save the two princesses, Rhyme and Reason, by helping the kings of each kingdom settle the debate on which is more important, letters or numbers. We learn, along with Milo and Tock, that both are equally important.

On his journey he meets and befriends Tock, a watchdog with an alarm clock attached to his body, the Whether Man, who contemplates whether or not there will be weather, and so many other fantastic characters. We meet The Humbug, Officer Shrift, King Azaz the Unabridged, The Mathemagician, Terrible Trivium and the Senses Taker and Alec Bings, a little boy who sees through things and grows until he reaches the ground, and he even got to watch Chroma the Great conduct his orchestra in playing the colors of the sunset.

In Digitopolis they eat Subtraction Stew, which makes the diner hungrier and in Dictionopolis they attend a banquet where guests literally eat their words.

There is so, so, so much more to this story. It’s filled with puns and has been compared to Carroll’s, Alice in Wonderland.

What I love about it so very much is, as an only child, a “latch-key” kid raised by Boomers in the Reagan era – I very much related to Milo. But the moral of the story is what really got me and is something I have not taken for granted since my first reading of the book as a very young child. I learned that information, education, words, numbers, colors, experience – the world, is beautiful. Time is important and should never be wasted. Everything can be interesting.

All from a little children’s book.

I have owned at least six or eight copies of the book, all of which I‘ve either given away, loaned (never to be seen again) or lost throughout the years. Lamentably, a few of them were beautifully and emotionally inscribed by my mother. That’s okay, because I want it to be out there. I want people to read it. I just bought another copy. Used. I like that it’s used. I like that it’s been read.

Why did I buy another copy and why am I writing about The Phantom Tollbooth now?

My cat.

Yes, I have had a cat. I got him a month or two out of college when I lived with my boyfriend at the time and Paz. It was late summer, 1996. The Atlanta Olympics were going on. I named him Milo.

Milo lived with me in our many homes (one next to a crack house), and two relationships, in Atlanta, traveled across country with Mark, Besito and me, and lived with me for quite a few years here in LA, through four or five different apartments and houses. 

About five years ago my then boyfriend, Liam, and I moved into a house in Canyon with Milo and Besito. After some time Liam and I went our separate ways and not long after that Milo, Beso and I moved to a different house, higher up in the Canyon. Milo continued his predatory and manly behavior proudly depositing his dead, neatly eviscerated prey as gifts to me. He and Beso played and played. Milo could have kicked Beso’s ass in a New York minute, but he always let Beso think he won.

Then, two years ago, the three of us moved back down lower in the Canyon – a stone’s throw from the first spot with Liam. Within thirty-six hours Milo was missing. My friends were tremendously concerned. Perhaps he had been attacked by a coyote, hit by a car, kidnapped by aliens. I don’t know why but I was not worried in the least. That cat is tougher than a coffin nail. No coyote could outsmart him. Hell, he’ll outlive us all.

A few months later, on a hike, I noticed an old faded sign that read, “Lost Cat”. And there was a picture of Milo.

Guess where he was that whole time?

At our old house.

The new residents named him Claus von Boosboos. When they first found him and took him to the vet, the doctor estimated his age at six years. He was thirteen.

I tried to take him back but he would simply return to the old house. So we all decided that rather than have him running back across the street every time, risking getting hit by a car, he could continue living at "his" house -- the tenant was pleased with that decision.

When the house was sold and the owner moved we decided I had to take Milo for real. I tried everything (four times) but he kept going back. I even scaled the gate and broke into the property one time to retrieve him.

Finally I spoke to the new couple that moved into the house and we all decided – that is Milo’s house. Really, they’re just renting from him.

I think about him a lot. He was the coolest cat I’ve ever had. About a month ago I walked past the house and there he was, lounging on the stoop, in a sun-spot. Happy as a lark. I was sad, then happy, then sad, then happy.

Then I realized, Milo is Milo. It’s his adventure and his world, and he has found happiness and beauty.

Milo turns fifteen this summer and is still owning this canyon. 

Recent photo of Milo, at his house.

At the end of The Phantom Tollbooth, once Rhyme and Reason have been restored to Wisdom, Milo says goodbye and drives off, feeling he has been away for many moons. He then sees the tollbooth ahead and drives through. Suddenly he is back in his own room, and discovers he has been gone only an hour.

He awakens the next day full of plans to return, but when he gets home from school the tollbooth has vanished. A new note has arrived that reads, "FOR MILO, WHO NOW KNOWS THE WAY."

As I recall, my Milo didn’t care much about milk, but that cat loved him some tuna fish.

Classic Tuna Salad

 (makes two sandwiches, one each for Milo & Tock) 

Ingredients:

1 5oz. can solid white tuna packed in water

2 tbsp Duke’s mayonnaise

1 tbsp chopped celery stalk

1 tbsp chopped celery leaves

1 tbsp finely chopped red onion

2 tbsp chopped dill pickle

1 ½ tsp capers

Juice of ½ Meyer lemon

Salt & pepper to taste

Directions:

Place the tuna in a colander and drain well.

Shred the tuna with your fingers, breaking up any clumps until it has a fine and even texture.

Fold in the mayonnaise until mixture is evenly moistened.

Put the tuna in a medium bowl and mix in the lemon juice, celery, onion, pickles, capers, salt and pepper until well blended.

Salad can be kept covered in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Printable Recipe

This Late Summer Bubble AKA The Egg; Part 1

I don’t get to travel much. The last vacation I had was over two and a half years ago. So I think occasionally I create my own versions of vacations without actually going anywhere. More often than not these trips happen in late Summer. I think it’s because it recalls a time of sweltering heat, cicadas, fireflies, thunderstorms… The South. Tennessee Wiliams, sexy heat and malaise, secrets and debauchery. You know?

Well I’m in the middle of a doozy of something at present. I’m having a lot of fun. I’m staying up late. I’m sleeping late. I’m getting all of my work done. I’m seeing all of my friends. I’m making new friends.

But I’m not writing. And for this, I am frustrated.

I have so much to say. My brain is all swirly with ideas and thoughts. But I haven’t seemed to be able to put these thoughts to paper or, more accurately, computer. Much of my energy has been directed to my new roommate and, more importantly, friend, Maggie. We are having such fun hanging out at the house, cooking, watching trashy tv, going out to eat, going out to drink, shopping, sipping wine on the couch.  I have been sharing all those words and thoughts with her rather than with you. I guess we have been in this late Summer bubble, an at home vacation.

But I’m here now. And hopefully to stay.

I have been mulling over the egg for weeks, now. It began with deviled eggs. And Humpty Dumpty.

I know I have mentioned that I am quite accident prone. Who really knows why. Brandon thinks it’s because my feet are too small for my height. That’s sweet of him. I really don’t know what the reason is, but I suppose it’s somewhat irrelevant. Yes, I fall. But I always get back up. I knock into stuff. But I always heal. Lately I seem to be bonking into more stuff than usual. Bumps and bruises, but no breaks.

I’ve felt a bit like Humpty Dumpty. The egg-man that was irrevocably broken. But yet has lived, and will continue to live, for centuries in our lives.

Interestingly, "Humpty Dumpty" was also eighteenth-century reduplicative slang for a short and clumsy person. The riddle may depend on the assumption that, whereas a clumsy person falling off a wall might not be irreparably damaged, an egg would be. A deconstruction.

And another deconstruction of an egg concept: deviled eggs. We break the egg, or at least, its shell. The normally delicate, yet viscous insides become solid and strong, sliced in half and re-stuffed with its own yolk, reconstituted. It’s fascinating. The original form of the egg has vanished and become something else, something new entirely.

Not unlike Humpty Dumpty, broken. Shattered. But always remaining a whole egg again each time the story is repeated. And not unlike me falling down, bumping and bruising. I am re-alived and healed in no time. And not unlike this late Summer bubble, that will soon pop, but likely re-form, this time, next year in some new genesis.

Classic Southern Deviled Eggs

Makes 24

·  12 hard boiled eggs, peeled
·  1/4 cup Duke’s mayonnaise
·  2 teaspoons white wine vinegar
   2 tablespoons sweet pickle relish
·  2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
   Hungarian paprika
   Salt & pepper

Arrange the eggs in one layer in a saucepan. Pour in enough cold water to cover the eggs by at least 1 inch, and place the uncovered pan over high heat.

Time the eggs from the moment water boils and a few eggs begin to move around in pan. Reduce the heat to medium high. When the eggs have cooked for 10 minutes, turn off the heat and cover pan, let set for 10 minutes then cool the hot eggs by running plenty of cold water in pan, the egg will shrink slightly inside the shell, making them easier to shell. Let them cool for at least 20 minutes in pan with cold water before peeling.

Slice eggs in half lengthwise, and carefully remove yolks. Mash yolks with mayonnaise. Add relish, mustard, apple cider vinegar, a pinch of paprika, salt, and pepper; stir well. Spoon yolk mixture into egg whites. Garnish, with sprinkles of paprika.