With only 2 more days of school, my daughter is in a constant state of giggles over summer vacation. We have no major plans for the summer, but Sydney is so busy during the school year that she seems to enjoy "just hanging out with my mommy". Sydney enjoys cooking and learning about food, so for the past few summers, we have initiated some sort of culinary project for the summer. Honestly, it's more what I'm interested in learning but Sydney enthusiastically jumps in at least in the beginning, then it becomes more about eating the food and less about helping. In the past we've tackled bread making, pickling, Thai food, pizza and cooking competitions. This year it's cheese making. My husband and neighbor, Jen, have been most supportive, as they will likely be the beneficiaries (if all goes well); although, the fruits of my labor have also ended up in the trash. Anyway, I am proud to say that I just enjoyed a nice thick slice of ciabatta slathered with my first goat cheese, a few thyme leaves, fleur de sel and a drizzle of truffle oil. Dee-lish!
An entire day of steady spring rain left my garden so happy and a delight to behold. The front garden has been in the ground for about five years now and is really beginning to look as I had imagined. We did not install the garden immediately upon moving into the house, as I needed to think about it for a year or two before beginning. My street is lined with gorgeous live oaks just dripping with Spanish moss so I really wanted to do a landscape that said "Savannah". We started with a few mature camellias, some azaleas and a couple of dogwoods. I've always loved hydrangeas but was reluctant to base the landscape on them due to the fact that they are deciduous. Then I saw a photo shoot of a grand Buckhead mansion planted almost entirely with hydrangeas, and I just couldn't resist the temptation. This morning, I sat out front for a few minutes taking in the garden, thinking about what needs to be done and noticed that one of the few lace-cap hydrangeas is just beginning to bloom. The blooms on the lace-caps are just too short lived for me, but this particular variety, a Japanese cultivar called "Shisua" is worth it. The oak leaf hydrangea is in full bloom, as are the amaryllis, the climbing roses and, oh, the scent of the confederate jasmine. I counted the hydrangeas in front this morning--there are currently twenty-five and counting. Give it a few weeks and the show will be spectacular.
We had the most spectacular meal last night. I'm not bragging about my culinary expertise, it just that time of year that we get the most beautiful ingredients and it's impossible to make something less than fabulous unless you fiddle with it too much. I know that unless you are fortunate enough to live on the coast that soft-shell crabs are not an option, but if they are here's perfection. Dip soft-shells in milk or buttermilk and dredge in a mixture of half flour and half cornstarch, seasoned with a good amount of salt and black pepper. Dust off excess and carefully place shell side down in about an inch of hot oil. Sauté for about four minutes before turning and cooking same amount of time on the other side and remove. While the crabs are draining on a rack, brown some butter, add a couple of tablespoons of capers and and juice of half a lemon. Drizzle the crabs with some of the brown butter and capers and experience crab heaven! I served these with white corn and tomato salad and roasted okra with baby vidalia onions. It doesn't get any better folks and FYI, I credit one of my culinary idols, the incomparable Miss Edna Lewis for inspiring this version of soft-shell crabs.
Live oaks are practically worshiped here in Savannah. My street is lined on either side with twisted, old live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. In the summer, our front yard is the preferred spot during the hot days, as the oaks shade and cool, and the movement of the Spanish moss can fool you into thinking there really is a breeze. When we were renovating our home, I went to the Georgia Historical Society hoping to find an old photo of our home. At some point someone had replaced what were once casement windows with aluminum sliders. I'm tempted to go off on a rant against replacing wooden windows with vinyl ones, but will save that for another day. There were no photos of our home, but I did enjoy going through the hundreds of photos of Ardsley Park. I came away with an even greater appreciation for the original plan for our neighborhood. Seeing the photos or Ardsley Park without trees or only saplings was like seeing a totally different neighborhood. In my side yard, there is an old flowering cherry that does not flower and I just can't seem to get around to establishing a feeding regimen to produce blooms. I considered taking it down at one point and replacing it with a more suitable specimen, but never got around to that, either. Now almost daily, my daughter climbs that old flowering cherry (that does not flower) and I feel gratitude to the unknown gardener who planted it. Did she imagine that some day a beautiful child would climb up to her favorite reading spot to relax with a book?
My family has a collective obsession with houses. Sydney, age 8, enjoys looking at the houses we drive by and imagines the improvements she would make were the home hers. John, makes a living renovating and restoring homes and I sell homes. Yesterday, I listed a magnificent historic home that has decayed for many,many years. It is the kind of home that makes my husband and I weak in the knees--pretty much untouched, a disaster to many, a diamond in the rough to us. There are many of these homes in Savannah, but few in our very popular historic neighborhood. Ardsley Park did not experience "white flight" in the 1960's and 70's, so most homes have been fairly well maintained and updated through the years. Our home was not. When we purchased it 7 years ago, it had not been touched in over 50 years and was uninhabitable but was inhabited by an elderly couple. The clay tile roof leaked and huge chunks of plaster had fallen to the floor. The coffered ceilings were falling in, the foundation had failed and one side of the house had sunk more than six inches. It was infested with rats. I walked past what is now our home for many years, always intrigued by the mysterious, decaying home, stopping to look, dreaming of what I would do were it mine We wrote letters imploring the owners to call us were they ever to sell. Miraculously, a work acquaintance of John's lived across the street and when the couple died, asked John to walk through the house with him, as he was interested in purchasing it and needed an structural assessment. I remember the look on John's face when he came home that evening and told me which house it was, and that the scope of work was too extensive for his acquaintance, and that the house was incredible, in the best part of the neighborhood, the lot was huge, and that this was the home where he wanted our then nine month old daughter to grow up. We bought the house, John worked on it every weekend for a year and a half--it was truly a labor of love. Just the other day, Sydney asked when our house was built. When I told her that it was built in 1914 she excitedly asked if we could have a birthday party for our house in four years to celebrate the 100th birthday of our home. I think it's a fine idea. My hope is that someone will come along and see the potential in the house that I just listed, and that they will love and protect it and make it a home again.
My dear husband cooks dinner on Sunday nights and last night's offering consisted of burgers with potato salad. Just like the fried chicken quest, he is now searching for burger perfection. He even grinds the meat, but that's another story--this about potato salad. I consider myself to have a rather sophisticated, adventurous palate, but some things should just be left alone. Potato salad is one of these things. Admittedly, potato salad does have many geographic variations and I'm sure that most folks prefer the potato salad of their particular region. I do like the NYC deli variation with red skinned potatoes, but did not particularly care for the version served last night, which John said was a mid western style (lots of mayo, big hunks of boiled egg and cucumber). I generally prepare one of two versions--a southern classic based on Bubba's recipe or an upscale version with fingerling potatoes, artichokes and herbs in a lemon vinaigrette. Bubba, a great southern cook, who once worked with my husband brought his fantastic version to a fish fry, and I wrangled the recipe out him after a few months. He douses the hot potatoes and chopped onions with vinegar and lets it cool before proceeding and mixes in lots of paprika at the end. My great aunt, Kate, made another of my favorite versions, which I believe is a Texas variation in which the potatoes are almost mashed with vinegar, mustard and very little mayonnaise. I should become proficient at this variation, as it is the potato salad of my childhood and was always served at the family gatherings on that side. That potato salad and the gorgeous spring weather we are having bring back memories of Kate--her funny mismatched outfits, hugs, coke floats and the most fabulous peonies.
Spring has finally arrived here in Savannah, and I am busy planning and implementing my new landscape. Last weekend we removed massive indica azaleas, tons of walking iris (which was garbage picked), and other assorted mess. The actual plan is beginning to take shape and we have laid out the basic plan with stakes and acid green string. Until the current home in which I reside, all my houses had water features, which I absolutely adore. There is nothing like the gurgle of running water to make everything go away. Hell, I could probably give up that glass of wine at 5:30 once the water feature is installed. When we bought the house, seven years ago, the garden plan was to leave the large grassy areas for Sydney and then as she grew older, to replace with more formal garden rooms. And so for my lovely daughter, we begin with the fairy garden. . .
My dear husband is a talented and patient contractor who is much loved by his (mostly female) clients. A few weeks ago, a dear friend was visiting from out of town and after a few days pulled me aside to confide that he thought something was going on with my husband as he was constantly walking outside and talking to women on the phone. It's true, he does. In the mornings, sitting at the breakfast table, we talk about our upcoming day and John usually says something like, "oh, I'm going to Marsha's and then by Mrs. Owens, and then to Broughton St." They even give him little gifts--a nice bottle of wine, a jar of honey, or cookies. They meet for coffee or lunch, they even text. It's all fine with me (he's a trustworthy and loyal man ) except for one thing--the cobbler's children have no shoes. Pretty much the only time he embarks upon home improvement projects at our home is just before the holidays, when he knows that we will have a house full of guests. That's why I'm confused, things just aren't adding up. Last weekend, I bought a new chandelier which he promptly rewired and hung, as well as moved two others, and the weekend before, painted our daughter's room. Now, that is suspicious behavior.
I've been down and out with a nasty cold this week and dreaming of all the food that I would make were I able to drag myself out of bed. Chicken noodle soup is the obvious, but there's spaghetti with meatballs, squash casserole, miso soup and deviled eggs. The concept of comfort food is fascinating really--that there are certain things that we eat when we are feeling under the weather. For me, comfort foods may or may not be a dish from childhood and are not necessarily my favorite foods, but I suppose there is some sort of deep emotional attachment. Chicken noodle soup as a child came out of a Campbell's can; now, it's the real deal and I crave it but only make it when someone doesn't feel well. When pregnant, the only craving I experienced was for my mother's chicken casserole. I'm not sure that it ever had another name or where the recipe came from, but I make it from a stained recipe card that I copied the summer I moved into my first apartment. I don't think that I had eaten that casserole for 15 years, but wanted it then, by golly, and have made it fairly often in the eight years since my pregnancy. By the way, when I emerged from the bed yesterday, I made deviled eggs, but I only managed to eat two before my husband wolfed down the entire plate.
Why is it that all the well meaning and more experienced mothers give out more advice about babies and children than one could possibly want or need, but they seem to omit one of the most pertinent and relevant facts of life? Mommies do not get sick, it just cannot happen, it's pretty much equivalent, to let's say, the sun falling out of the sky. I can vaguely recall the days that nasty colds meant popping cold medication that, according to the box, made you drowsy and warned against operating heavy machinery; thus giving an absolutely perfect excuse for snuggling up and napping in bed all day. Now it's "I know Daddy said to let you sleep, but I can't find my tights" or as I'm making dinner, nose like Rudolph's and hacking away, my husband remarks "you seem to be feeling better, will you be able to take Sydney to school in the morning?" Sure, no problem. "Oh Mommie! You're taking me to school today--I'm so glad that you are well." Do you people who live in this house with me have eyes or ears? How about someone whipping up some homemade chicken noodle soup, just the way I like it with a little garlic and saffron?
My husband just spent the weekend painting a perfectly lovely, carefully decorated, but chartreuse, room a shade of pink called "Cat's Meow". The house was a disaster as all my daughter's furniture and stuff was in the middle of the living room. Sydney loved it--more new hiding places for hide and seek. Some background is needed to truly understand the anguish of all this. Just this weekend, one of my oldest friends made the comment that I should consider therapy for my aversion to electronics out in plain sight. I spend days or even weeks selecting paint colors and not due to indecision. Choosing a paint color involves thought, trips to the paint store to select swatches, putting up the swatches in the appropriate room and "viewing" the different shades in the changing light and then doing this all over to find that perfect swatch. My best friend knows that when she asks my advice on a paint color, that she needs to ask weeks before she actually needs it, and that I will be moving into her house for a day or so to select that perfect shade of whatever. Pink is not my favorite color. I really shouldn't say this because it does, well, date me and my daughter thinks that today is my thirty-second birthday, but I grew up in the era of Gloria Steinem. My daughter has a gender neutral name for heavens sakes! Princesses, tiaras and pink just are not my thing and I was surprised that my daughter so shamelessly embraced the Disney princesses in all their glittery, pastel glory. How could my very own daughter be such a self described "girly girl"? It has taken some time, but Sydney now has the pink room that she has wanted for years, the decor police are (temporarily) in the closet and I am struggling with the urge to close the door, but I think it's okay, because Gloria did marry, after all.
The possibility of snow makes front page news here in Savannah. According to the newspaper this morning, it has been 14 years since Savannah has seen snow. My daughter has never seen snow and is utterly convinced that she will this evening. If I were back in North Carolina, or even Atlanta, everyone would be rushing out to the grocery and liquor stores for supplies, just in case we were "snowed in". One of the many great things about the south, and Savannah in particular, is that pretty much any event, and certainly the possibility for snow, is an excuse for a party. It's 9:00 am, and 42 degrees (what does that tell you) and I'm thinking about who to invite and what to serve. I'm leaning towards pizza, but my favorite version topped with arugula, prosciutto, and an egg is an impossibility as I could not procure fresh eggs given that the farmer's market is closed for the winter. Perhaps Jaques Pepin's fabulous beef braised in red wine and chocolate mousse for dessert. . .now all we need is the snow.
I just can't stop thinking about the tiara--probably since my daughter is leaving it the car just in case she needs it, and I'm wondering just how common tiara wearing is these days. A few years ago, when my niece, Patricia, was about my daughter's age, she wore a tiara for her school picture. Fortunately, her daddy drove her to school that morning and it didn't occur to him that the tiara might be a problem so she got away with it and we still have that second grade picture to prove it. The only time that I can recall wearing a tiara was on my birthday two years ago. My daughter, good southern girl that she is, loves a tea party, and we went to The Whimsical Tea Cup for tea. I was promptly offered the birthday tiara and from the look on Sydney's face, I certainly could not decline. It was my birthday after all, and I never had worn a tiara, so I did. Perhaps it was the tiara, but I just didn't feel like being "meanie mommy" that day, so when Sydney, who has an enormous appetite, asked how many thing she could eat, I just said that she could eat what she wanted. Thank heavens that Sydney has her dad's good metabolism and height, because that girl can polish off some dessert! I reluctantly gave up the tiara just about the time that Sydney started to look a little green around the gills, and to this day, am sorry that I had to give it up. My birthday is right around the corner, perhaps I can get away with a tiara. . .just for the day.
Very likely due to the fact that we have both have fanatical, never miss a game, yelling at the TV sports loving fathers and brothers, my husband and I are not much for watching sports. This year we made an exception, as John is a New Orleans boy, and watched the Super Bowl (after chowing down on that fried chicken). We were pretty much guilted into it by John's mother, who after 40 years of complaining about his Dad's sports tendencies, has become the self proclaimed High Priestess of Saints football and world's greatest fan. We got an email this morning saying that she is currently dressing only in black and gold and has a donned a black hat and gold wig. At least it was a good game, and I must say I was a little surprised to see that football players still wear decent uniforms and look, well, the way professional athletes should. I first saw signs of the demise in basketball with those long baggy shorts, then baseball players traded in those cute knickers for long baggy pants, even swimmers stopped wearing Speedos and wear some kind of full body thing. What's the world coming to and thank heavens for football players who still know how to dress!
Since one of our friends was given the boot by his wife (deservedly), my husband decided to take over Sunday night cooking. He has been cooking for about 5 years now and has become quite good at it. What began as a genuine attempt to be more helpful around the house, has developed into a weekly adventure for him in that he has come to the realization that the chef writes the menu. Thanks to the South Beach Diet, I rarely make pasta. John decided that it really could be fun to pull out the hand cranked pasta machine that Mom had given us years ago and went on a four year pasta binge. On a given Sunday you could walk into my kitchen and see hand cut pasta draped over the top of my cabinet doors or little raviolis drying on the counter and John proclaiming that this was the best yet-- that he'd finally rolled it thin enough. Of course there have been some not so great Sunday meals, too. Like the time that one of the standard poodles helped himself to the pasta, or after three trips to the grocery, dinner didn't make it to the table until after 8:00 (our daughter goes to bed at 7:30), and of course, the time that Louis, the crazy poodle, snatched a rib eye off the counter and raced around the yard taunting us with it. My dear husband is now on a quest for perfect fried chicken. The chicken last week was perfectly acceptable southern fried chicken, it could have used a little more salt, he just forgot to make any side dishes. This week, John is more confident about the chicken, he has the basics down, just needs some tweaking so he goes to the master of complicated, Thomas Keller of the famed French Laundry, for his recipe. As this one requires a twelve hour brine, he started last night making the brine, cutting up the chickens, etc. I' sure that the chicken will be delicious and I'm impressed that he would even attempt a Thomas Keller recipe, but it's just too bad that my grandmother isn't around to teach him to make fried chicken because I seriously doubt that even Thomas Keller's could be better.