This weekend, I am off to Portland, Maine, for Passover. Sadly, I will be missing my monthly wine club society meeting — we meet the first Sunday of every month. When I told my neighbor, who organizes the wine club society, that I would be home for Passover, he responded, correctly, “but Passover’s on Monday.” “Yes,” I replied, “but we’re having our seder on Sunday because it’s easier for everyone.” He rolled his eyes in disgust. “You guys are changing the holiday for convenience?” “Um, yes.” “How very religious of you.”
Now, I know that some might categorize me as a bad Jew. I eat pork and shellfish, often together. One of my favorite culinary delights is the pancetta-wrapped shrimp at ‘inoteca. I only go to temple on high holidays. I have a tattoo. I don’t like lox. But, strangely enough, I generally fast on Yom Kippur. I keep kosher for Passover (or at least I make a valiant attempt). And, I might add, these behaviors definitely make me the Jewiest Jew in my family. In my family, attendance at temple is not mandatory by any means, even on high holidays. My Dad always does a bizarre editing job on The Concise Family Seder, our Hagaddah of choice, so that it is even more concise. He tends to edit out pieces of the story and keep in the random commentary. I also think I’m the only one in the family who remembers the Passover story year after year. Yes, it’s the same story. I have even suggested that we rent The Prince of Egypt, just to keep it fresh in everyone’s minds. Oy vey. But — we are definitely a Jewish family, with Jewish values. Every holiday is an excuse to gather friends, family, and strays for a good meal. We give back to the community in many ways. All three kids were bar or bat mitzvah’d (well, the twins were b’nai mitzvah’d together), and I’m pretty sure we all like gefilte fish.
In other news this weekend, I am making my very last excusable visit to college (with the exception of my brother’s graduation in May). My brother is playing in a steel drum concert at Bates, followed by a Yo La Tengo show. So, I’ll be hangin’ with the college kids. And speaking of Jewish culture, there’s a Klezmer band up at Bates called Gefilte Dog — I always loved that name.
I’m also looking forward to my second annual Passover seder at Sammy’s Roumanian steakhouse next Tuesday (an official seder night, for those keeping track). Stay tuned, and Happy Pesach!
I had a wonderful time in Philadelphia this weekend. And yes, I got my provolone with. But — that was hardly the highlight of the weekend, culinary or otherwise. Although I don’t think I’d ever want to live in Philly, it was certainly a good place to visit. My favorite way to learn about a city is to wander around, and of course, visit the local markets. On these two fronts, Philly certainly delivered. I got a chance to wander around a bit before brunch on Saturday, and discovered one of many murals — Philadelphia has a huge mural collection, and many of them are made from beautiful and colorful mosaic tiles.
A few years ago, my friend Geek lived in Philly. I visited him one weekend, and, knowing me well, he made sure that we went out for authentic Philly cheesesteaks. He also took the time to prep me on the proper way to order. First of all, a Philly cheesesteak comes with Cheez-Whiz unless you ask for something else. The only other options are American and Provolone. John Kerry embarrassed himself by asking for Swiss Cheese on his cheesesteak during a campaign stop in Philadelphia. The only other choice that you need to make is “with” or “without.” Translated, this means with or without fried onions. Now, I can’t remember if we went to Pat’s or Geno’s on our trip, but I do remember having a great cheesesteak.
I just returned from a long weekend in Lyme, New Hampshire, visiting my sister. She is 22, currently living in a house with five other people, most of whom are med students at Dartmouth, which about 20 minutes away in Hanover. I had a wonderful weekend, but it is almost laughable how opposite our lives are at the moment. We’re like the city mouse and the country mouse (yeah, we’re both shrimps. I think she towers over me at about 5’3″).
I live alone in a studio apartment with a kitchen the size of a closet. She lives with five people in a bright, airy house with a huge kitchen, and has a closet the size of my kitchen. I shop for one, cook for one, or more often, eat out. She and her roommates shop at Price Club, buy enormous amounts of food, and cook and eat meals family style — we had lasagna, waffles, and tacos while I was there (no low-carb diets in Lyme, NH). Katie plans her days around her outdoor activities. I try to squeeze in the gym when I can (at least in the winter — it’s different in the summer, I swear). I am addicted to my high-speed internet, cherish my cable TV, and use my cell phone incessantly. At her house, they have dial-up internet service, a TV, but no reception (it’s only for movies), and no cell phone reception whatsoever. And then, there’s Jack, her boyfriend’s chocolate lab, who is being trained to be a hunting dog. Sadly, I have no dog, let alone one who I’d take hunting. As my dad likes to say, when he is asked if he’s going to take his German Shorthaired Pointer, Lucy, out hunting — “Jews don’t hunt.” (or at least he thinks that. I don’t think he’s ever said it out loud).
Anyway . . . on Saturday we went cross-country skiing, something I hadn’t done since I was about fourteen. Despite that small obstacle, I managed to ski a 15-kilometer loop and not fall asleep during the party they had back at the house that night. The party was nothing like parties I go to in New York. First of all, everyone was a decade younger, trying to relive their college days by playing beer pong, and flip-cup. Second of all, there was a bonfire outside. Don’t see that much in Manhattan.
All in all, I had a fantastic, relaxing weekend, and I fell in love with Jack. And the dishwasher. And having people cook for me all weekend. Sigh. Thanks to the gang back in Lyme — you can see pictures here.
As you may recall from an earlier post, I went on a ski trip this weekend. Sadly, the weather didn’t cooperate, so there wasn’t as much skiing involved as we had originally hoped. Regardless, we had a great time on our girls’ weekend away.
For a long time, many of my closest friends were all male. Particularly in law school, the people I hung out with on a day-to-day basis were guys. Since then, I have met more and more smart, interesting, creative, and funny women, and many of them have become very good friends. I am learning to treasure “girls’ nights” and “girls’ weekends” more and more each day. Our ski weekend was no exception. Starting on the car ride up, the four of us talked about our two favorite things — boys and food. Since three out of the four of us are currently in dating mode, we swapped potential setup ideas, sort of like trading baseball cards — “oh yes, I saw that one, but you might like him better — let’s swap! What have you got in your pile?” Then on to food — what we should and shouldn’t be eating, craving sweets versus craving salty snacks — followed, logically, by exercise — yoga, tennis, hiking, biking. And this was all before we even got there.
Once we arrived, we were greeted by less-than-stellar accommodations. We all agreed (did I mention that we are extremely smart?) to upgrade to the nicer hotel a little further up the mountain. You get to a point in your life where money can, on a small scale at least, buy happiness. For a little extra, we had a much nicer room and much more space (also important for four women getting ready to go out to dazzle the boys at après-ski).
Despite the lack of snow, but since we were in skiing mode, I was craving fondue (which I’ll be getting this weekend, just as a side note — here’s the one I’m making). Couldn’t find it anywhere, so I modified my quest to French onion soup. Clearly what I really wanted was just melted cheese (I’m the salty-snack-chick mentioned above), so it definitely did the trick. Here’s the result of my quest.
* A tribute to Cyndi Lauper, and one of my all-time-favorite songs for karaoke.
Happy New Year, everyone! I ended 2003 and started 2004 with a bang, and got all dolled up for the big night in a 50’s retro pink satin dress with black polka dots and a crinoline. Why the hell not, right? I think it’s the first pink item of clothing I have owned since I was about three. Did a bunch of party-hopping, drank way too much champagne, and still feel rather hung over. I will admit, however, that lunch at Sammy’s Noodles and dinner at the Corner Bistro did help quite a bit. Nothin’ like a little grease to help a hangover. That, and a lot of Advil.
I’m off skiing for the weekend, so no new posts for the next few days. I know — I can almost feel the disappointment oozing through the internet. I am slowly realizing, though, that my readership is steadily increasing. I think we may be up to about 10! It helps to have a big family. See you next week!
Happy New Year, everyone! I ended 2003 and started 2004 with a bang, and got all dolled up for the big night in a 50’s retro pink satin dress with black polka dots and a crinoline. Why the hell not, right? I think it’s the first pink item of clothing I have owned since I was about three. Did a bunch of party-hopping, drank way too much champagne, and still feel rather hung over. I will admit, however, that lunch at Sammy’s Noodles and dinner at the Corner Bistro did help quite a bit. Nothin’ like a little grease to help a hangover. That, and a lot of Advil.
I’m off skiing for the weekend, so no new posts for the next few days. I know — I can almost feel the disappointment oozing through the internet. I am slowly realizing, though, that my readership is steadily increasing. I think we may be up to about 10! It helps to have a big family. See you next week!
After Thanksgiving at my Mom’s, I traveled to Virginia to meet my Dad, stepmom, brother and sister at a farmhouse in the Shenandoah Valley. The farmhouse belongs to friends of the family from back in the day when we lived in Washington D.C. — they have a set of twins a month younger than my brother and sister, and a daughter a year older than the twins. We have kept in touch over the years, and decided to join them for a second Thanksgiving. We arrived late Friday night, after some flight delays and hideous weather, and proceeded to cook the first of the weekend feasts — the Maine contingent had brought lobsters (I brought NYC bagels for the next morning). When we finally got settled, we all sat down to our lobster dinner, with plenty of wine to go around. Somehow, during the course of the conversation, we started talking about the internet, discussing things like Friendster, and how it served as a way for people in our generation to meet new people (I am in the process of adding Stephanie, Josh, and Jon to my “friends” list). I mentioned, without really thinking, that I had just met someone through my weblog. “Your what?” Oops. So now they know — it’s really no big deal. There’s nothing here that’s particularly scandalous or embarrasing (at least I don’t think so). Yet.
So — to the family and friends of the family who are now reading my blog for the first time — Welcome! (Gulp.)
The weekend was centered around family (10 people in the two families), friends (who joined us for the feasts — I think there were 25-30 people for the second Thanksgiving), and, of course, food. One of the culinary highlights for the weekend, in my opinion, was Kim’s pumpkin cheesecake with bourbon whipped cream (from Cooks’ Illustrated). Kim subsituted crushed peanut butter cookies for the graham crackers in the crust. Yum. The other culinary highlight, or more accurately, fascination, for me was learning about something called “hotdish.” For those of you, like me, who were unfamiliar with the term “hotdish,” it seems to be a Midwestern (Minnesotan?) term for anything that you throw into a casserole and bake. A quick google search for hotdish led me to my favorite definition: Hotdish: 1) midwestern colloquialism for a hot entree that is similar to a French casserole except that it is often inedible; 2) the bastard offspring of canned Cream of Mushroom soup.
As those of you at the farm this weekend recall, I spent a great deal of time snapping photos. Here’s a quick preview, but you can find the rest of them here.
After Thanksgiving at my Mom’s, I traveled to Virginia to meet my Dad, stepmom, brother and sister at a farmhouse in the Shenandoah Valley. The farmhouse belongs to friends of the family from back in the day when we lived in Washington D.C. — they have a set of twins a month younger than my brother and sister, and a daughter a year older than the twins. We have kept in touch over the years, and decided to join them for a second Thanksgiving. We arrived late Friday night, after some flight delays and hideous weather, and proceeded to cook the first of the weekend feasts — the Maine contingent had brought lobsters (I brought NYC bagels for the next morning). When we finally got settled, we all sat down to our lobster dinner, with plenty of wine to go around. Somehow, during the course of the conversation, we started talking about the internet, discussing things like Friendster, and how it served as a way for people in our generation to meet new people (I am in the process of adding Stephanie, Josh, and Jon to my “friends” list). I mentioned, without really thinking, that I had just met someone through my weblog. “Your what?” Oops. So now they know — it’s really no big deal. There’s nothing here that’s particularly scandalous or embarrasing (at least I don’t think so). Yet.
So — to the family and friends of the family who are now reading my blog for the first time — Welcome! (Gulp.)
The weekend was centered around family (10 people in the two families), friends (who joined us for the feasts — I think there were 25-30 people for the second Thanksgiving), and, of course, food. One of the culinary highlights for the weekend, in my opinion, was Kim’s pumpkin cheesecake with bourbon whipped cream (from Cooks’ Illustrated). Kim subsituted crushed peanut butter cookies for the graham crackers in the crust. Yum. The other culinary highlight, or more accurately, fascination, for me was learning about something called “hotdish.” For those of you, like me, who were unfamiliar with the term “hotdish,” it seems to be a Midwestern (Minnesotan?) term for anything that you throw into a casserole and bake. A quick google search for hotdish led me to my favorite definition: Hotdish: 1) midwestern colloquialism for a hot entree that is similar to a French casserole except that it is often inedible; 2) the bastard offspring of canned Cream of Mushroom soup.
As those of you at the farm this weekend recall, I spent a great deal of time snapping photos. Here’s a quick preview, but you can find the rest of them here.
