Hail the Humble Frittata

No matter how fancy I try to get in the kitchen, in the end I am what used to be called "a good plain cook." But I must admit, I'm pretty adept at whipping up comfort food, particularly at this time of year. Roasted sausage with peppers and polenta, pasta with pancetta, greens and white beans, and a recent meal I served up: a lovely frittata rounded out with a green salad and homemade bread.

This one came about at the end of a long day. I was tired, and nothing was defrosted, but I didn't particularly feel like pizza or Chinese take-out. In the refrigerator were some leftover roasted potatoes with carmelized onions and a package of fresh mozzerella. Since I have a serious breakfast habit, I always have eggs on hand; ditto Progresso bread crumbs, a staple no Italian kitchen is ever without. I sliced the potatoes thin, estimated how much cheese to slice (then added six more slices) and scrambled up some eggs with freshly ground pepper, salt, grated Parm, and the flavored crumbs, making sure to get every last piece of sweet browned onions in there. I started it on the stove in the cast iron pan you see above, and finished it off in the oven. While it set up, I threw together a salad and warmed up half a loaf of bread. With a glass of strong red wine, that meal was nirvana. And I put it together in just about the time it would have taken me to get to the pizza place and back. Brava, buona frittata!

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My Life in Cook Books

My obsession with cook books started with this little volume:

I guess it caught my eye because it looked like fun. And it was. The Betty Crocker Party Book was a 60s classic, filled with recipes for party foods and ideas for favors and games. I remember my mom using it for holidays and for our birthday parties. I can't say I ever made anything from it, but just looking it gave me lots of pleasure. By the time I had a place of my own, this iconic volume became my culinary bible:

While I only played around with Betty Crocker, I got serious with Irma Rombauer. But she was a serious cook who took a nearly scientific approach to food. For basics--a perfect hard-boiled egg, a smooth white sauce, or flaky pie crust--she has few peers. And she taught me a whole lot about the craft of cooking. By the 80s and 90s, however, a new kitchen bible emerged:

Every young married I knew owned one of these. We were moving away from our mothers' cook books and embracing a new, yuppie-inspired cuisine that started with fresh, seasonal foods and put together with unusual ingredients, courtesy of Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukens. Which of us hasn't made the Chicken Marbella from this book, which pairs chicken with green olives and prunes? Exotic stuff at the time! I followed this one up with Silver Palette's New Basics Cook Book, and then both of Jane Brody's books. And while I had some favorite recipes out of both of them, those meals just didn't feed my soul the way Italian dishes did. My Sunday Sauce was my mom's recipe, handed down from her own mother. I made a lemon and garlic chicken based upon the memory of my Sicilian grandmother's version, but mostly I winged it. And then I came across this book in the bargain bin at Borders:

This oversized, nearly 800-page sucker fundamentally changed the way I cook. It's authentic, clearly written, and contains recipes for everything from antipasto to zuppa. (The recipe for Bolognese sauce alone is worth the cover price.) Most significantly though, it teaches me the process behind the great foods that are my heritage, like how to make a real ragu or the steps involved in a great risotto. And every time I open it, I learn something new about Italian cuisine. So what about you? Which cook books hold a revered place in your kitchen or a warm spot in your heart?

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Let Your Heart Be Light

To those of us of a certain age, this box might be a familiar sight: This box of ornaments, which sold for $1.59 back in the day, is one of my most prized possessions. In the 1960s, my grandfather owned a hardware store in which he also sold lots of odds and ends--toys, sewing notions, and Christmas decorations. A favorite Saturday jaunt was to go to "Pepa's store" for a toy and a visit. When he sold it, we bought a few of these Shiny Brite boxes, and my mom passed them down to me. I put them on my tree every year, as reminders of my beloved grandparents and long ago Christmas Eves as their house.

While I hang the ornaments, I either listen to or sing (badly and off-key) "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," because it so reminds me of them. They have been gone for decades, but remain a comforting presence, particularly at this time of year.

And so, as you hang your shining stars upon the highest bough (or light your menorah) may you be surrounded by those you love, whether in body or spirit. Happy holidays and all the best this New Year.

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I Heart James Stewart

He's all arms and legs, gangly as a teenage boy right after a growth spurt. He's got a scratchy voice that trembles and he stammers, particularly around women. He's cute, for sure--but he's no Cary Grant. But I find him sexy as hell. In two movies in particular, both of which are holiday films. The Shop Around the Corner is a charming little classic about department store co-workers who are each other's secret pen pals, but don't know it. And of course they hate each other. (It's the film on which that other charmer, You've Got Mail, is based.)

In the days long before email and texts, they write each other rather passionate little missives like the one below. (Not sure how it got past the Hayes Code.) Oh, my Dear Friend, my heart was trembling as I walked into the post office, and there you were, lying in Box 237. I took you out of your envelope and read you, read you right there. Whoa. But if you want real sex appeal, check out the telephone scene with Donna Reed in It's a Wonderful Life. Poor George Bailey, determined to get out of Bedford Falls, is stopped in his tracks when his childhood friend Mary, played by Donna Reed, is suddenly all grown up.

Once he gets close to the luminous Reed, he's a goner. And so am I. There's lots of sighing and panting, and a kiss that knocks your socks off. (At least mine, anyway.) Merry Christmas, Jimmy. You were one wonderful guy.

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After the Storm, 2012

I'm standing in a corner of my local library--where it's warm, safe, and dry--to do a quick post. Below are some pics of my neighborhood, where we actually count ourselves lucky, considering the devastation at my beloved shore. We're without power, but we're unharmed. For that I am grateful. Please keep in your prayers those who were not so lucky, and if you are able, consider helping via the Red Cross. Bless you all!

The Last Beach Day

We like to stretch out the summer as long as possible in my little state, and that includes visits to the shore well into the autumn. I had my last beach day recently when I visited Point Pleasant on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon:

What I Write

Today is the National Day on Writing, and this year's theme is What I Write. So here goes: I write food and sisterhood. I write people I understand. I write stories that are familiar, stories of kitchen tables and the boardwalk. I write cozy mysteries with romantic interruptions. But all my characters have motives of one kind or another. I write women who are funny and smart and occasionally pissed off. I write men I'd like to be friends with, go out with, and maybe marry. (Oh, wait, I did marry him.) My romances are real, sometimes rocky, filled with recriminations--but satisfying reconciliations. I write Italian-flavored prose with tears in the middle and laughs at the end. Words that say who I am. I guess you could say I write me. And I hope I write you, too.

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Pen Pals, continued

After my last post I heard from my Aunt Barb, who still corresponds with her British pen pal. I'm happy to share a bit of her story in her own words: Just read your blog about the aforementioned pen-pals— just loved it.  In the days before student exchanges and after WWII, we had a teacher exchange.  When Sylvie's teacher returned to London she looked at the list she had acquired at Connecticut Farms School and told this young girl, “Look, this girl shares your birthday,” and so it began. Not only did Sylvie and I correspond, but our Mothers got into the action also.  My grandparents were English, emigrating from England in the late 1800's.  So with the war behind them and many, many needs post war, they began to send care packages to London, with things that were at the time unavailable, i.e.: tea, sugar, flour, etc. (Bisquick was a total mystery, lol!) And now to the present past.  Bill and I left Florida the day after Christmas '11 for London, so that Sylvie and I could celebrate our birthday, the date January 3, 2012. I was 75 and Sylvie 77.  We celebrate this year 65 years of friendship.  She is truly my little English sister. Thanks, Aunt Barb, for sharing this wonderful story!

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Pen Pals

I have been reading with great delight As Always, Julia, a collection of letters between Julia Child and Avis DeVoto. DeVoto's husband was a journalist who'd written a piece in Harper's which included a rant about the lack of good kitchen knives in the United States. Julia read it and sent him a knife that she described as "a nice little French model."  Avis, who often served as her husband's secretary (though an editor and book reviewer in her own right) responded. Thus began a correspondence that bloomed into a dear friendship--long before the two women had ever met. Their letters are a delight, and got me thinking about friendships-via-words. My aunt began a pen pal relationship with a young British girl when they were both children during World War II. As far as I know, they still write to each other. My sister has a pen pal in Kentucky to whom she's written for more than 40 years; they've only met twice, yet consider each other dear friends. These days, paper and ink has given way to emails, virtual groups, live chat, and forum postings. We communicate with strangers, and from some of those connections comes the spark of true friendship. We hear each other's voices and answer in kind. Two women I consider dear friends began as my critique partners; we've met only a couple of times, but we sustain our friendships through words. So this post is dedicated to all my virtual pals, the women in my life who comment on this blog, exchange emails with me, share their writing joys and sorrows, and offer encouragement and a laugh. To the friends I haven't met yet (and those I have)--it's good to know you're out there.

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Ode to Autumn (In Handy List Format)

What John Keats called the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” happens to be my favorite of the year. Here are only a few reasons why: ~Pumpkin muffins ~Crisp mornings and chilly nights ~The first fire in the fireplace ~Halloween decorations ~Visits to the farmers’ market ~Apples in season; apples in pies; apples in my lunchbox ~Comfort food time—break out the soups, stews, and chilis ~Flannel PJs ~Candy corn ~The last blaze of color before the snow

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