Eggs Benedict -or- The Rookie Mistake

Last week I boldly poached an egg, which I have never done before. This week I am taking it a step further, throwing some pig meat and hollandaise sauce into the mix to make my first eggs benedict.

This was how I saw it in my head, at least.

I was excited to make eggs benedict, because my culturally starved sweetheart had never actually tried them before. I know, I'm in love with a strange one. I'm working on him, I promise. Anyway, I pulled up Tyler Florence's hollandaise sauce recipe and figured that there was nothing else to know.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a rookie mistake.

The most important thing to know is that sauces share a common trait with chihuahuas, Siamese cats, and brides: they are attention whores. One should never walk away from a sauce recipe. It doesn't matter if an important call comes through; hold the phone with one hand and stir yourself into early arthritis. Because of this it is ideal, sometimes essential, to have all sauce ingredients pre-measured and on hand to add as needed.

I was not prepared with ingredients at all. I was already whipping up my egg yolks when I noticed that I was out of lemon juice. When you're missing one fifth of the listed ingredients, two of which are needed in pinch increments, you can expect a long hard road ahead. I tried two versions: one without lemon juice, and one with lime juice instead. LIME. JUICE. I wish I could claim massive inebriation, but I can't (nor can I say which version was worse).

Ben didn't seem to mind my massive breakfast blunder. He liked the entire combination, and while he didn't ask for seconds he did ask to try it again (for real next time).

I will spare you the photos, as the end result was not that pretty.

My Father's Daughter

I cannot credit all of my cooking know-how to my mother. Actually, I probably spent more hours in front of my father's stove, making all sorts of dishes that would piss off the average single dad. He would take his time in explaining recipes and techniques to cooking, but I started blocking him out when I realized that he just loved to hear himself speak.

I wished I had paid more attention on Christmas, when Dad would make milk-poached eggs on sourdough toast. I was too busy paying attention to presents to remember anything, except that it takes a ridiculous amount of milk to do it properly. I cannot remember how to properly poach an egg, or whether the sourdough toast needed any prep work aside from slicing. I do remember that it was delicious; that memory stands out the strongest.

Yesterday when I asked Ben how he wanted his breakfast eggs he told me to surprise him. Aside from wondering who this sexy Ben-like stranger was in my home, I decided to try out my dad's old holiday special. I really pulled a Captain Kirk on this one, doing a quick scan of poached egg techniques and hoping that the rest would come to me like some ancient family spell.

Amazingly enough, my family magic came through. The eggs were soft, delicious, and creamy. The milk made a great topping for the sourdough toast, as well. Ben and I polished off a dozen eggs between us, and I was ready for more. I have already scheduled a breakfast date with Father Augustine so I can share more family food secrets with him (he's practically family at this point, anyway).

The only drawback is that I crave poached eggs EXCLUSIVELY today. Pancakes? No thanks, I want eggs. Caramel candy? No, eggs. Anything else in the history of anything, ever?!

Nope, I made more poached eggs instead. I'm pathetic.

And the Sky is Gray

I miss California in every way possible. I miss the culture, the opportunities, the art and refinement, the friends and the nights out.

I miss the sun most of all.

As if living in a glorified den isn't frustrating enough, these late May days have been either torrential and cold or sunny-ish and cold. I have walked to school under an umbrella that vaguely resembles the roof of Denver International Airport, only to have the sun taunt me once I finally found a cozy corner of Knight Library. In California my winter clothes would already be collecting dust, to say nothing about my nonexistent umbrella. The only sunlight today has been my research paper, which is finished as of last night and ready for final editing. While it is an elating accomplishment, it still doesn't compare to a genuine spring day (about which Oregon clearly knows jack).

I now find myself with a boatload of free hours, palpable homesickness, and the lingering belief that I carry California with me wherever I stand. As I love making food that speaks for my mood or the important events in my life, it made sense to make some truly Californian food to mark my loyalty.

What constitutes Californian food? There are many cultures that have made a home in California, and the state has a proud agricultural legacy. I could go about this in many different ways while still accomplishing my goal. To figure it out I made a clear picture of what I missed most at the moment, which was sun-drizzled Central California. With that I thought of a casual lunch by the beach, surfing, and the lazy afternoons that I used to enjoy before moving northward.


The end product was turkey burgers with Swiss cheese, avocado, and green tea with orange, which were absolutely perfect. I was eating more than the products behind California's best ad campaigns; I was munching on a little bit of sunshine. Ben liked it so much that we are having them again tonight. For a few minutes I was at home, and the feeling lingered until I could almost feel it in my fingertips.

My apologies to any Oregonians who feel that I am snubbing your state. I promise this isn't the case at all; surely you can understand how it feels to love something so much that any alternative pales in comparison. You have your state, and it works for you. I have mine.

California dreaming, on such a spring day.

Cool Water

I am damned fortunate, more so than I ever truly know. Every morning I wake up to a solid roof, the certainty of a meal, the rich challenges of graduate classes, the love of a good man and beautiful friends, and the chances to simply create. I forget to focus on my luck quite often.

Today in class I was reminded of a blessing I hardly even acknowledge: water. I am no stranger to droughts (I am Californian, after all). I even panicked once when I saw Ben pour a half-finished glass down the drain. I still never give it much thought because I can always count on a cool glass of water if I need one. The Dining Room in Eugene offers as much water as you like with your meal. Fresh, cool, clean water.

I hope that the following image will speak for itself. In case it does not, let me remind you to think about how lucky you are to have even a glass of clean water.

La Vie en Romance

Bon anniversaire à nous.

To be truthful, I had no intention of celebrating a year and a half with Ben for two reasons. For one, it seemed like a silly and staggered time to be romantic. For another, I had spent the past two weeks with nary a moment away from my research. For all the intensity of my well-guarded sentimental side, the research was the true driving source behind distraction. I interviewed subjects during coffee breaks, read academic journals during long drives with Ben, and even worked through our lovely beach weekend. The poor man has hardly eaten this week, no thanks to me.

To keep him from forgetting his love life entirely I promised that I would not do any work on Friday, which also happened to be our year and a half anniversary. I spent the entire week drafting and interviewing, classifying and arguing, cramming my hours with as much as possible so Friday could be spent study-free and guilt-free.

As the days went by I became more enamored with staring into the eyes of the mythical free evening. What would this beast look like, I wondered, and where is its home territory? Ben had been so long around a manic thesis nut that he was strapped for ideas as well; to be safe I made reservations at several romantic restaurants in both Eugene and Portland. In the end we took a spontaneous trip to Portland and ended up at the steps of Brasserie Montmartre, a restaurant of which I have been dying to patronize for months.
This is where my night begins, and Ben's ends. You see, Ben and I radically differ in our idea of a good night out. I love nothing more than an artful meal, an inventive cocktail or two, and a thick dose of dancing all in a gorgeous setting. Ben loves food and cocktails, but finds the dancing and the added fancy details to be all too unnecessary. He fretted about nice clothes (of which he has none), stared at the wine list as if illiterate, and wrinkled his nose at the sight "beurre rouge" or "cassoulet" without ever asking what they meant. I don't even want to mention his tantrum over suggesting that he try escargot. We skipped the appetizers to spare him more panic and picked beer over cocktails, though I was deeply enamored with a cherry Manhattan called the "Don Draper". He played it safe with the rack of lamb, while I chose the chicken chasseur.

Though Ben was out of his element, he was dear company. He was able to pick out certain French words as our darling, fluent waitress and I conversed. Come to think of it, I think he picked out "cheese" and "Don Draper". While his rack of lamb was more architectural than my (outright sexy) chicken chasseur, he ate it like a good sport and discovered that he enjoys parsnip purée. He was also not the weakest link as far as dress was concerned; a man at our adjacent table was in plaid shorts and sandals. That this man found it appropriate to wear plaid shorts to a restaurant that offers port-soaked currants overwhelms me with both laughter and migraines.

The night was a slow-t0-start success. Though Ben was frightened at first, he got through it. We were able to enjoy a cool, cuddly night together to celebrate that we love each other. We also managed some time with our dear friends Ben and Alicia, whose wedding I am catering next month. What's most important to me, I was able to plunge into a nice night without fretting about my gallant graduate project. I have looked the mythical free evening in the eye, and I liked it.

Mark my words, though: before we hit two years, Ben will eat escargot.

A Dining Room to Call My Own

Before you congratulate me, I didn't move to a bigger apartment with a real dining room. I didn't move into a place with a real kitchen, either. I didn't move at all; I'm in the same cave with the same hot plate (and let's not forget Lenny).

What I do have is so much better than a bigger place to live. I have a volunteer gig.

I can thank Father Augustine for the nudge. He could plainly see that I was restless, that I needed to do more, be more, and (most importantly) give more. During another one of my frustrated fits he suggested that I could volunteer with some of the undergraduate students at the Dining Room, which is probably Eugene's most precious jewel. Imagine a restaurant where all of the food is donated, most of the produce is organically and locally grown, and the diners can come in and have a free meal. It sounds like a soup kitchen, but with so much more to it. As the staff likes to say, it's "dining with dignity". The place looks just like a restaurant, and even has diner-painted murals and a piano for the musically inclined. From Monday to Thursday every week the Dining Room's staff and volunteers feed the homeless, the travelers, and the working Eugenians that can't quite stretch their pay far enough. Booths are filled with families and new acquaintances, and for the most part everyone is happy to be there.


I signed up in late April, and I have been hooked ever since. I have the honor of scraping dishes, bussing tables, or serving beverages and desserts (depending on the staffing needs of the day) twice per week, sometimes more. I dive into my two-hour shift, singing for the diners the whole way through. If they let me I would be there every day for both shifts, singing and getting my hands dirty with whatever they needed. I now know some frequent diners (and all of the staff) by name, and no matter how my day goes I can count on being flooded with genuine spunk the moment I grab my apron. I leave feeling tired and grateful for the room that I do have, the love I share, and the belly that is either already full or will soon be. The room I lack at home is suddenly irrelevant, for in giving more I suddenly find more to hand off to others.

My time spent here is more than just giving back, and is more than fortifying my pledge that no one will go hungry on my watch. This is community in action, at its most splendid and loving. I cannot study development in good conscience if I don't live it at the same time. Perhaps I should write my thesis on my time here.

Beyond Brinner

Remember when I said that I was too traumatized from my first dinner party to have another one? I lied.

Before I go on I must confess that I am a comic book power dork. I devour the comics, debate the themes with ease, and once drove from Salem, Oregon to Sacramento, California in six hours and change because my friend scored us tickets to the much-coveted "Spiderman" premiere. I incurred a speeding ticket and severe hypoglycemic shock from that drive, but it was worth it.

Once midnight showings became de rigueur I would amass people at my house beforehand for dinner. At first the guest list consisted of Stephen (my best friend) and Scott (my roommate) with the rest of our movie group joining us at the theater. After a while, though, people began to see the brilliance of my plan. We comic book enthusiasts knew that the only way to see a comic book movie is at midnight, and the only way to preface a midnight showing is with brinner.

Until now I had been most famous for my "Dark Knight" brinner, which consisted of several frittatas with various organic sausages, exotic cheeses, and delicious potato crusts (I don't reveal the recipe because my family would probably behead me). From then on I was the legendary Brinner Goddess, and the twenty people who ate with me were convinced that every other brinner would pale in comparison.

They were WRONG.

Last night was the premiere of "Iron Man 2", a movie I have been anxiously awaiting since the credits rolled on the first "Iron Man" installment. As none of my Eugene-based comic book power dorks had been witness to my awesome brinner powers, I shrugged off this week's dinner party defeat and fired up the waffle maker.

Ben pulled out all the stops when he came home with groceries for the meal. He picked up slab after slab of the finest bacon, giant German sausages, organic berries for my famous berry sauce, flats of eggs, and beer. The best part about brinner is being able to justify beer with your waffles.

I had the electric skillet and waffle maker at the perfect temperature once my good friend Andrew showed up. He and Jen were the first to dive into a delicious waffle topped with bacon and eggs cooked to order (skipping the berry sauce, which was perfect). Ben and I preferred breakfast burritos stuffed to capacity with eggs, sausage, and bacon, with a side waffle drenched in berry sauce.


Andrew and my friend Duy showed up next, late as usual, with his roommate Jaleb and some beer to go with our waffles. Jaleb wasn't hungry, which was almost grounds for forcing him to wait outside until we were done eating. Duy was kind enough to eat Jaleb's share of the monstrous meal (pictured above).

Last (as usual) but certainly not least was our favorite Father Augustine, who remarked at the cultural mishmash that is a Belgian waffle next to a burrito. I expected him to just leave it at that. Instead, he took the mishmash a step further, using his waffle as a tortilla to wrap his bacon and eggs into a Belgian burrito of sorts. I would have snapped a picture of his genius work, but we were all frankly too stunned by it to move or speak.

True to brinner's form, it was the perfect preface to an amazing midnight movie. I dare say that it was even more epic than the "Dark Knight" fritattas of 2008. My friends in California have been sending me messages all morning expressing their disdain for not being there, either for brinner or the movie. Perhaps the most forlorn is my good friend Shine, who was witness to the "Dark Knight" brinner and is in Taipei for the next indefinite length of time. He still doesn't believe that this brinner could have been better than the last one, though. No one in California does.

Only my Eugene friends know the truth.

The Dinner Party -or- The Three Stooges and a Studio Kitchen

Augustine, Ben, Jen, and I secured a date for my first dinner party at the studio (tonight at 5). I finalized the menu (blade steaks with marsala mushroom sauce and angel hair tossed with garlic, basil, and tomatoes). I sent Ben out for wine, gave myself an hour to cook everything properly. The angel hair did its thing in my (now priceless) electric skillet, while the steaks broiled in Lenny and the sauce mingled on the hot plate (in a sauce pot, of course).

Five minutes passed. Ten. Augustine has a habit of running late, but this is excessive. Perhaps he and Jen stopped to get wine?

The phone rang. Jen has been waiting for Augustine at the dorms. She called and texted him, asking if he would rather meet at the church, but he had not answered. My calls to him went straight to voice mail.

I stared at my finished (and lovely) dinner creation in horror. I had no idea how long they would be, so I couldn't in good conscience let dinner get cold (microwaving is murder in my house). I also couldn't keep it warm forever, lest the steak dry out and the sauce boil down to mushroom-flavored cream-infused Jello. I did what I could by brushing the steaks, lowering Lenny's temperature, adding way too much marsala wine to the sauce (and having to balance it out with other frantically-measured ingredients), and setting the already tossed angel hair on top of Lenny to keep warm.

I was assembling a rescue party for Jen at half past five, just as Augustine showed up. I barked at him; he barked at me. (We love each other, but neither of us handles hunger in the most adult way.) He ran off to get Jen, I looked in despair at my dehydrated meal, and tried my best not to use a blade steak as a Frisbee.

By the time Augustine and Jen had arrived I had given up on the meal. I was outside, feeding apples and carrots to the deer and envying them for the delicious freshness of their meal (and their meat, to be perfectly honest). Everyone still had dinner, but it consisted of a dry blade steak drowned in a mushroom sauce that was now too sweet and angel hair primavera that had gone stiff. Augustine and Jen still complimented the meal and thanked me for the invitation, but it was a serious blow to my surge of confidence. It will probably be a while until I have another dinner party.

Das Deutschdiner

I have finally come to terms with this apartment. I still hate it, but I have accepted that I will not get to live elsewhere for some time. Much like buying a pair of jeans in the hopes of fitting into them later, I must stop being delusional and stupid. I have to embrace what I have, harsh consequences be damned.

I am going to start inviting friends over.

My first dinner guests will be the famed Father Augustine and Jennifer Gubbe, who will both forgive Ben and my modest circumstances. Jen and I were in RCIA class together, but didn't really converse until the church gala almost two weeks ago. Like a triple bonded carbon atom it took a lot to bring us together, but now we're stuck and happy with it. She also lives in the dorms at UO, and is in need of a home-cooked meal (even a cave-cooked meal, in my case). Jen was thrilled with the invitation and suggested that we schedule dinner for tonight.

Unfortunately, Father Augustine is not available for dinner until May. Even more unfortunately, he didn't tell this to Jen. I received a text from her today asking what I was going to make for dinner, since she took his silence as tacit compliance. As Ben says when he is short on answers, that is an excellent question. I was unprepared, but it is not the way of my people to turn away the hungry.

In the midst of trying to find common ground for my shy boyfriend and equally shy new friend to bond over, the Idea Fairy sounded a little chime in my head. I would make them German food so they could meditate on the glory of their people and pity the poor Irish cook (who speaks better German than both of them, so ha.) I quickly threw together chicken schnitzel with roasted potatoes and sautéed Brussels sprouts, which was the best I could do on short notice. I personally love schnitzel, especially when there are leftovers that can be diced and put into the next morning's omelet (but Ben never, ever leaves a schnitzel behind). It was enjoyed by all, even if it lacked that certain "Ich weise nicht was."

Keyword: Coconut

Poor Ben has no decision-making abilities when I am around. He had to have some in the years before I moved here, as his exes did not cook and he had to eat somehow, but my presence apparently raises a white flag in his brain. This isn't the worst situation in the world for an alpha like me, but when I am tired or distracted by support mobilization strategies pertaining to international community development, nothing is more infuriating than a hesitant silence.

Did I forget to mention that he's very picky? And extremely xenophobic when it comes to food?

He does have his moments of brilliance, though. Just last Sunday we were watching a "Survivorman" episode filmed in Costa Rica, which involved surviving off of delicious coconut milk. Ben's eyes became fixated to the television, to the point that his computer game grew impatient with him. Ben loves coconut; I'm thoroughly convinced that he could eat his weight in haystacks in a single sitting. After a minute or so he asked, "Can we have dinner with coconut in it?"

Sure! I whipped out my laptop and went straight to Epicurious's Advanced Search to look for dinner, keyword: coconut. Coconut shrimp it is!

"I don't like shrimp."

Of course he doesn't. I am sure that there are plenty of Thai dishes that I can use.

"I'm not so sure about Thai food."

I am getting closer to throttling him. At least I found a delicious-sounding crab sauté with spicy coconut sauce. He has eaten crab several times before without complaint.

"I don't remember if I liked crab."

You bastard.

At this point I decided to just plan the coconut-based dinner for midweek, and just use my own judgment so he could neither protest nor convince himself that he wouldn't like it. To tame the experience I radically gutted the recipe. Goodbye turmeric, chiles de árbol, cloves, coriander, anise, and cumin. Crab legs were exchanged for crab cakes (partially for a more innocuous look, but mostly because I am poor). I also threw in a tablespoon of curry powder and a little hot spice blend of my own for some kick, and some diced green onions for color.


Everything turned out beautifully. The spice was punchy enough to distract Ben in case he didn't like the crab (he loved it), and the end result was neither Thai nor shrimp-laden. The coconut was unfortunately too shy a presence among the spices, so tweaking is definitely in order. It was a grand first try, all the same. I personally had a difficult time putting my leftovers away once I got full, but it was almost as good as an early lunch the next day.

Hopefully now Ben will remember that he likes crab.

Bougie Food

I hope I am never one of those women that cooks for her cats. I come from a long line of obsessive pet-mothers, so the odds don't look good for me. My mother has slapped me away from chicken on more than one occasion because it was made for her fluffy, effeminate old codger of a Siamese cat. (Believe me, nothing is quite humbling as falling short of the pet.)

While three of our cats are quite content with some dry food and a tummy rub, my three-legged kitten has designs on me becoming my mother. Bougie (aka The Bouge) is a clever little monster, capable of rendering men into minions with a single squeak. She was also a top-shelf hunter back in California; despite three legs and a bell on her collar, she would frequently bring in squirrels, rats, and birds that were bigger than her and stare intently at me as if I was expected to dress the thing and serve it with roasted potatoes. My apologies to the greater Sacramento zoology, but it doesn't speak well for the gene pool when a three-legged bell-wearing kitten can best you.

Oregon has been hard on The Bouge. As our studio apartment lacks a pet door and the Lane County animal control policies are barbaric, Ben and I are reluctant to let her outdoors off of her (extremely degrading) leash and harness. When she isn't peeing on the bathroom floor in defiance or wrapping herself around my neck as I try to study, she stares out of our one and only window, longingly growling at the birds and squirrels that strut by.

Recently I discovered that I have an excess of bread crumbs in the pantry. I left a few crumb piles on the back patio, partially to watch the wildlife come nearer but mostly to screw with the cats. It worked, and it worked brilliantly. The whole cat family had their whiskers pressed to the window, barking and clacking as stellar jays and squirrels amassed. They were shy at first until they became certain of the window's thickness, and then flaunted their security with a full swagger. The Bouge was, in a word, pissed.

If she had a thought bubble right now, it would involve a white wine butter sauce.

When I Go to Vegas

This post is not about cooking; this post is about sweet, sweet plans come to fruition.

Last weekend I went on a trip that was a month in the making. Ben and I flew from Portland (stopping at PDX Rogue before our flight, of course), my best friend Cortney flew from DC, and Fr. Augustine drove from LA all to meet in Las Vegas for the Muse concert. Sure, Cortney got trapped in Dallas overnight because of a delay and Augustine didn't show up until we were all poolside, but the best possible combination of people were in one place for one awesome show.

I say that we were the best possible combination because all of us absolutely love food. We could have easily spent the entire time restaurant-hopping like I did the last time I was in Vegas. We did manage a few great stops while we were there, actually. Ben and I had 2 am pizza at New York New York (it's a can't-miss if you're a night owl).


Once Cortney arrived, we had breakfast at Studio Cafe in MGM Grand. Also a great spot, but the orange juice is sinfully overpriced.

It was once Fr. Augustine arrived that we really went nuts. Guster Bunny can put away food like no one else, which is a startling feat for such a skinny guy. Behold the madness that ensued at the More Buffet at Luxor Hotel; not only did he have more plates of food than all of us, he also put away twice as many desserts.


The first, a cream puff to which he obviously holds great reverence, died in one fell swoop.


The look of fear on Cortney's face only got worse when she realized that there was no stopping him. At that point Ben just put the camera on the table and started taking pictures of Augustine in different stages of gluttony.


Between the concert (which was life-changing), the company, and the food, it was a delicious trip. I am already looking for excuses to travel with these three again, mostly to see what else we can get Augustine to eat.

Special thanks to Augustine, Ben, and Cortney (my ABC), MUSE, and SFO airport for having the best airport food in the country (it was a delightful layover thanks to that!)

Jet Engines on Pasta Night

Though my Christmas blender has been getting a lot of use lately, I have yet to give its food processor attachment a try. I have thought of making pesto or a good aioli for Wednesday's Pasta Night tradition, but Wendesday is such a rushed night that I barely have time to throw noodles in water.

You see, on Wednesday I have RCIA meetings at 7 pm. I get out of work anywhere between 5:30 and 6 pm. It takes me about 15 to 30 minutes to get home, and about 10 to 15 minutes to get to RCIA. That leaves very little time to make food, and even less time to eat it. Couple that with my current vegetarian stint for Lent, and eating properly becomes a wicked challenge.

To make things a little easier (and healthier) on me, I asked Ben to start the pasta noodles and decided to whip some tofu into my pasta sauce with the use of the food processor. It would be healthier for me, and I doubt that Ben would noticed the pureed tofu.

He noticed, but not because of the taste. He was unaware, as was I, of the fact that our extremely powerful food processor sounds exactly like a full-scale jet engine. I jumped in terror. Ben backed into a corner, eyes bulged in fear. The cats all hid. Once the noise died I had to explain what I did, so Ben didn't think I was trying to kill him.


Ben has not forgiven me, nor has Murray.

Slainte!

Corinne Lopez is a tricky one. She is the director of faith formation at my beloved St. Thomas More Newman Center, as well as being the leader for the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults group. She has tried my cooking a few times to her enjoyment, but my cooking is nothing compared to Laura Thompson Parras, the reigning culinary queen at the Newman Center. No bitterness, I promise.

One Wednesday in February during an RCIA meeting Corinne was giving announcements about what to expect for Lent. I was busy working on a difficult stitch in yet another scarf, so I wasn't paying full attention. I did hear "St. Patrick" and "Irish", but it was shockingly not enough to make me look away from my scarf. That was when I noticed the silence. I looked up and saw both Corinne and Laura staring intently at me with a look that was far too innocent to be innocent.

I think they want me to cook for St. Patrick's Day.

This required some serious coordination. I cooked several dozen of my Guinness chocolate cupcakes the night before (they were finally perfect), woke a priest up early to let me plug in the Crock Pot before work, and fretted during Mass about the timing of the corned beef glaze and boiling cabbage. I had not made any potatoes, and was starting to feel the wrath of my ancestors boiling within my blood.

Everything turned out perfectly. Good friends and RCIA members brought salad, scalloped potatoes, beverages, and the like. Tables were set out for the dozens who attended. The smallish corned beef was somehow able to feed everyone, and the cabbage turned out buttery and delicious.

I would like this to be on record: when I die, this is how I hope heaven will be. I am possessed with a palpable joy when I see people I love gathered in one place, sharing food, talking, laughing, and simply enjoying what the moment has brought us. I was surrounded by RCIA members, priests, my cousin Annie and her boyfriend Lincoln, Ben, my Irish friend Jack, and anyone else who followed their nose to the church. The holiest of holidays continued at our tiny apartment with some beer and Annie, Lincoln, my friend Ari, her girlfriend Allyse, and Fr. Augustine Hilander. I had never invited people over to the wee apartment before, but we all fit in fine. What's more, we were all happy to be there with each other. This sort of joy is all the proof of God that I need.
That, and the expression on Fr. Augustine's face.

The Family Ascends -or- Attack of the Swedes

Please understand that my family is so close-knit it's almost annoying. Where one goes, the rest surely want to follow. If one member has a baby, the rest congeal there to help raise the thing. At least I can count on eager babysitters if Ben and I breed.

My mormor (Swedish word for mother's mother) was very upset that she didn't get to see me for Christmas when my mother did. She wrote to me several times expressing her regret and frustration for not being there, and insisted that she would soon have herself a little road trip from Los Angeles to Eugene, stopping in Sacramento to pick up my mother. I didn't entirely believe that she would pull it off, as our family is known for promising the world and then scrambling to deliver.

Mormor delivered, all right. She and my mother arrived early on the 26th of February, anxious to give my kitchen the Swedish Seal of Approval. It obviously did not, because they insisted on eating everywhere but at the apartment. Sure, I come from a long line of food tourists, but I was a little miffed. The food at Taste of India, Studio One, La Perla, and Sweet Life is all fantastic (and the Sweet Life patrons sang "Happy Birthday" to Grandma on the 27th), but I was eager to strut my culinary stuff in front of my teachers.

I can forgive our dining experience on the 28th, though, because it was my idea. We all got up early to drive to Portland for breakfast at Mothers Cafe (where better to go with your mother and mormor, right?) The ladies oohed and aahed over their food more than they had for all other Oregonian meals combined. If I can't win them with my own talents, I can win them with my good taste.
Ben was nice enough to take this picture of Mom, me, and Mormor from above the waist (as we had just eaten).

We talked about food during the entire drive back to Eugene. Eventually the talk veered toward my small and sad little cooking setup. I was starting to get annoyed until the ladies mused about what they could buy for me that would strengthen my kitchen.

Did someone say shopping?

We hit Target at God-forsaken-o'clock for an electric wok (essentially a second burner in the house) and an eight-quart Crock Pot. I can already tell that these will be powerful tools in my arsenal, and am musing about the time that I will save in cooking pasta with sauces, vegetables with fried chicken, etc ad nauseum ad infinitum.

Thank you, Mom and Mormor. I love you very, very, very much.

Sans Viande

Happy Mardi Gras! This is the day to stuff yourself silly with all of the food and vices that you intend to do without for the Lenten season. Last year's Mardi Gras was filled with alcohol and bad language (sadly, so was Lent). This year is going to be equally challenging, but I will prevail.

For forty days, I will go without meat and threats or acts of violence.

Ben does not like this idea. He is the sort of person who likes to share whatever he is eating, and the boy loves meat. He is already crestfallen at the idea of me making steak for him and tempeh for myself. You'd think that I was forcing him to be vegetarian, too.
As a gesture of support, he promised me a delicious steak dinner tonight. Imagine my reluctance when we pulled up to Bates Steak House, a run-down and wholly cowboy-themed restaurant with country music blaring. Can I order my steak with a side of white trash and a Dolly Parton song, please?

Good Lord, was I wrong; the food was fantastic. I humbly yummed my way though an inventive vegetable and bean soup, an achingly tender prime rib, and perfect roasted potatoes (I traded my share of rice pilaf for Ben's share of potatoes, since he hates them). Included with dinner is your choice of liqueur or a root beer float (Irish cream for me; root beer for Ben). The food was so good that I am tempted to relent something else so I can come back next week.

My sincere apologies to Bates for my elitist and prejudiced nature. Please forgive me.

So long, and thanks for all the beef.