* special equipment needed – slow cooker

Ingredients:

1 1/2 – 2 lb. beef brisket, all fat removed or
trimmed away

1 medium onion, sliced

2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

1 beer, preferrably a dark brew

(1) 14. oz can tomato sauce

1 tbsp. dark brown sugar

2 tbsp. Worchestshire sauce

1 tsp. mustard powder

1 bay leaf

1 tsp. ground cumin

Dash cinnamon

Dash cayenne pepper (if you really want heat plus the hip
factor, add some smashed canned chipotle
peppers from a small can)

Coarse grain salt to
taste

Black pepper to taste

3 cans of beans – white, kidney, chili, black, or pinto – drained

Optional: 1 jar of artichoke hearts in
oil, drained

My husband won’t let me add but I
love to: corn, especially when I use black
beans

What completes this: cooked elbow
macaroni or cavatappi pasta, biscuits, a huge baked potato, or French bread

Method:

Brown brisket in olive oil on both sides over
medium-high heat. When browned, put brisket into
slow cooker.

Into the pan the brisket was
browned in, add onions, sautee until softened.
Add beer, tomato sauce, brown sugar,
Worchestshire sauce, mustard powder, bay leaf,
cumin, cinnamon, cayenne, salt and pepper.

Bring to a boil.

Carefully pour over brisket in slow
cooker and put on low setting for approximately
six hours. If liquid level gets low, add some
beef broth or chicken broth to slow cooker during cooking.
When done, add drained beans and artichoke
hearts.

Garnish with grated cheese of your
liking, or crumbled goat cheese, sour cream (in
which case the goat cheese is superfluous),
diced red or green onions, chives, parsley.

I dig this over a potato or with the cavatappi pasta.

Footnote:

Okay, so, the chili.

All 5 people in my house freaked for it. This
makes plenty of leftovers. The brisket pulled
apart so easily, the flavor of the chili was
sweet, the beans kept their shape and added a
creamy factor, I paired it with whole wheat
rotini, and the toppings made it personalize-able for everyone.

Here is a breakdown of how we take our
chili:

Child #1: Alex: sour cream and many Tabasco

Child #2: as much sour cream as she can get away with

Child #3: with grated cheese

Hubby: yellow mustard, half a bottle of Tabasco

Me: 1/2 cup at a time, still doing this portion
control thing, and yellow mustard, plus few Tabasco
shakes

Here is what I will do differently next time,
but please, please try this chili, people. Let
it slow cook and fill the house with meaty,
tomato-y aromas during a football game on
Sunday. It is honestly healthy and pleases everyone.

The night before (I forgot to mention that I did
this): marinate brisket in tomato paste, 1/2
cup Worchestshire, brown sugar in a Ziploc bag. Work in the marinade well.

Change out the artichoke hearts for diced potatoes, if you want. Or neither.
I didn’t use an onion after all!

Instead of beer, beef broth or stock can be (and
was) substituted. Seems I drank all my IPA.

I am specifically stating chili beans and white beans.

Toppings bar…sour cream…pita
chips…chopped red onions…chopped green
onions…grated all kinds of
cheese…corn…chopped tomatoes…chopped
herbs…corn tortillas…tortilla
chips…mustard…french fries…pasta…crusty
bread…jicama…avocado…fried eggs…baked
potatoes…roasted garlic…crumbled goat
cheese…french fried onions…chopped bell
peppers…mini burgers/sliders…sausages…hot
dogs…buns…bacon…diced jalapenos…Tabasco

…just to give you and idea of how you can run
away with something, make people happy, and be
terribly satisfied, even if your team doesn’t win.
I have never really been into chili. When I
worked at Sea World, we had Chili Cook-Offs and
the San Diego Padres would send players to be
judges. That was interesting, but I never tried
the chili. It’s when I bought this brisket a
couple of weeks ago that I was hoping to make 3
meals out of it, stretch my dollar, that brisket
chili crept into my mind. One package of meat, a few cans of beans and tomato sauce, a package of
pasta and if you do your shopping right, chili is a great budget meal.

Or you can play it up for a party, and watch a
great budget meal become an annual event your friends hope they get invited to.

Come Tuesday night I won’t be home making
dinner, helping with homework, preparing for the
next day like usual because I am actually doing
something I never do – going out to Taco Tuesdays with some friends.

I never do this because somewhere in suburbia,
sometime during my experience in this idyllic
community, I became a person who likes to play
hide and seek, but not get found. Years of being
friends with women – and all the stuff that
comes with having women as friends – has sent
me into a Gollum-like seclusion, coveting
self-preservation like Smeagol coveted his Precious ring.

It’s not that people have been unkind to me or
my family. My neighbors and friends are
forthcoming; there is a good deal of involvement
in community sports and schools. We live among
other people with interests and histories
similar to ours, and have made friends with many of them.

But. Within these community organizations, at
school functions, I can not help but notice
little things that become bigger things in my
overly-analytical mind. Without trying, I pick
up nuances and dynamics, which to me are more
telling than gossip or here say.
Getting-to-know-you systemizations that I
willingly participated in, I now believe, take
one additional sentence or question to become
socially disastrous for some of us. And silly
me, I got attached to certain families, who less
than one year ago sat at my dinner table, our
kids jointly destroying my home, but now are
separated and living apart, jointly sharing custody of their kids.

Things aren’t always what they appear to be and
that scares me…in a primal, selfish, but mostly maternal way.

Going to Taco Tuesday with friends, though, it’s
tempting for the pack animal buried within me. I
usually repress my pack animal instincts for the greater good of our collective family character. But one evening out with a group of female friends doesn’t mean I have to
morph into a character from [fill in television
melodrama]. I know how to be me by now. I don’t
have to give any juicy details of my relatively
normal life away. I have become a master
segue-er, clever conversationalist, and polite
answer decliner. Fortunately, the people I
attract of late seem to be content to keep their
minor pseudo-scandals and
we-all-have-them-secrets behind their picket
fences, just like me. (I don’t have a picket
fence though, to be accurate, just a wisteria
that thinks it’s a wooden structure).

At Taco Tuesday with my friends I can balance
the knowledge of what I’ve learned and what I
have yet to learn. I can admit freely that I
once naively believed everything signed on a
dotted line was forever. Marriages, mortgages,
the safety net of good intentions.

I’m careful of the promises I make – and keep -
because while the diamond may be the hardest
substance on Earth, it represents things that crumble all too easily.

So, while the cynic in me says I should shy away
from all social invitations, I’m thinking instead of
a shredded beef taco with pico de gallo and a
margarita on the rocks, not blended, while my
family at home eats the hearty, reliable chili I
made for them in the slow cooker before I ventured out into the fire.

After all, this is suburbia. What could go wrong?

I understand now why some meals stay, and others
go. As a Mom, trying to save as much money and
time as possible, certain meals and mainstays of
Americana make sense to me: Meatloaf. Roasted
chicken. Tomato sauce. Casseroles. It’s
comforting when your family smiles as their
bellies fill, but it’s also nice to leave the
market as the victor against high prices,
corporate chains and the squeeze of hard times.
We’re all hurting on one way or another, so our wits become refined.

Let me get you some chili (how do you take it?)
while I give you a rough breakdown of how to beat the high cost of cooking…

Brisket*: $6 on sale

2 cans of beans: .99 each, $1.98 total

1 package of rotini: $1.00

1 can tomato paste: .63

Canned tomatoes: $2

Sour cream: $2.50

…everything else, the sugar, spices,
Worchestshire, toppings, I had in my pantry

It comes to under $15. Divided by 5 people, that
is about $3 a person for dinner, not including
leftovers.

How good does that taste going down?

* Note: I bought a 5 pound brisket for $17 and
change, using approximately 1/3 of it for the brisket chili.

TEA SCONES

2 cups flour

1/2 tsp. salt

2 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 cup sugar

1 stick (4 oz.) cold, unsalted butter

1 egg, plus enough milk to make total 2/3 cup liquid

Optional: 1/2 cup dried or fresh berries

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.

Combine flour, salt, baking powder and sugar.

Place in bowl of a food processor or in a mixing bowl.

Add butter and blend until well distributed and mixture resembles oatmeal or tiny peas.

Lightly beat egg in a measuring cup, then add enough milk to produce a total liquid measure of 2/3 cup. Ad the egg/milk mixture to the dry mixture.

Beat gently until mixture holds together.

Gather dough into a ball, place on a lightly floured board and knead gently about 10-12 strokes.

Pat dough into a square evenly with hands to 1/2 inch thick.

Cut this large square into 4 smaller squares and each smaller square into 2-3 rectangular pieces. (You can use cookie cutters for this).

Place the scones on an ungreased baking sheet about 1 inch apart and bake for 12-15 minutes.

Serve warm, with butter or jams, or use to make tea sandwiches.

Makes 8-15 scones.

1) Celebration (autumn, holidays, birthdays, a friend coming home from Iraq).

2) Distraction (working off nervous energy or trying to reason something out).

3) Craving (I have the job of eating the corners of the brownies because all my co-habitants like “the middle pieces”).

Today I went to the store to get stuff for cookies and tea scones. She’s three, my youngest, and as much as I like to think I have control of my little world, I am honestly just at the mercy of her whims.

Take for instance, what I call the MELIA BATHROOM TOUR ‘09.

The second we walk into an eating establishment, the market, a recreation center, or department store, she exclaims “I have to go to the bathroom!” But I try to ignore her for as long as I can.

“I have to go to the bathrooooooooom, Momeeee!” I try to divert her into different store sections, market aisles, or pointing out things that she really couldn’t care less about.

When she starts pulling on her clothes and yelling “I am going to peeeeeee in my pants, then!” I realize I’m dealing with a savvy negotiator, she knows she’s got me, that all eyes are upon us after she exclaims that she will soon soil herself if I don’t comply.

So I give in.

And chalk it up to another stop on the the MELIA BATHROOM TOUR ‘09.

I should make t-shirts listing all of the bathrooms we’ve visited in various cities and locations – that would be our family’s version of homemade tie-dye. Or make her baby book into an event program highlighting her extensive restroom experience – it would have more integrity than the most foo-foo pink scrapbook or prettiest picture of this kid that I could ever paint.

Parenting – girls or boys – isn’t always pretty.

My kid likes public restrooms. It is what it is.

She’s never sat patiently and quietly in the kiddie seat of a shopping cart, nor has she been content to color or dot-to-dot on a kid’s menu. She has her own agenda, which includes investigating foam vs. lotion soaps in the varying dispensers restaurants have. She enjoys being scared by aggressive, loud flushing mechanisms, and must display her independence by climbing onto the potty all by herself.

She especially likes motion-activated paper towel machines, and full-length body mirrors by bathroom doors. Sometimes she walks into a stall, places a toilet seat cover onto the toilet, and says “Mommy go pee.” Other times, she walks into a public restroom, takes a look around (behind the doors, under the stall, what not) and looks up at me with a smile, saying “I’m done now.”

Maybe she’ll be a health inspector.

Maybe I should stop trying to figure out what is so fascinating about touring public bathrooms. I think I’d have to be three-years-old to know. All I know is that this little quirk of hers keeps me from ordering a side salad or grabbing a carton a milk and getting into the check stand quickly.

While shopping today, she waited until we were checking out – items on the belt – before she did the potty dance, adding emphatic vocals. Making this more difficult was the fact that I was doing the self-checkout. I looked at her, teeny little thing that she is, trying to think of a workable solution that didn’t inconvenience other shoppers.

I came up with none.

So I gave in.

I picked her up, ran her into the bathroom, tapped my foot on the tile floor until she was through, then rushed back out, smiling the smile of “please feel sorry for me I have a toddler”, not actively seeking out any eye contact from anyone. A sweet, young market employee had bagged some of our items for us while we made this latest bathroom detour, all of which took less than three minutes.

I’m getting kinda good at this.

No one else seemed to notice we had to stop our productive inertia and make said detour. Only me.

Me, who is at the whim of a 3-year-old (not to mention the 10-year-old, or the 7-year-old). On a bathroom tour. It’s one of those things about being a parent I couldn’t have thought up. No way.

And those are the things you remember most.

So I give in.

And I bake.

CRISP CURRIED SHRIMP

2 tbsp. all purpose flour

1/2 tsp. curry powder

1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper

3/4 lb. large shrimp (about 12), shelled and deveined

2 tbsp. olive oil

1 bunch scallions, cut into 2-in lengths

In a bowl stir together flour, curry powder, cayenne, and salt to taste. Add shrimp to flour mixture, tossing to coat.

In a large heavy skillet heat oil over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking and saute scallions until well browned and almost tender.

Add shrimp to scallions and saute, stirring occasionally, about 4 minutes, or until shrimp are opaque throughout.

SPICY BAKED SHRIMP (another from Jen)

1/2 cup olive oil

2 tbsp. Cajun or Creole seasoning

2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice

2 tbsp. chopped fresh parsley

1 tbsp. honey

1 tbsp. soy sauce

Pinch of cayenne pepper

1 pound uncooked large shrimp, shelled and deveined

Lemon wedges

French bread

Combine first 7 ingredients in 9×13-inch baking dish. Add shrimp and topss to coat. Refrigerate 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Bake until shrimp ar cooked through, stirring occasionally, about 10 minutes. Garnish with lemon wedges and serve shrimp with French bread.

4 servings

(”For this one you don’t have to use as much olive oil which will cut down the fat. Actually for this one [and any oil based marinades] you only count the oil/fat that is absorbed by the meat not all of it. So it isn’t quite as fattening as one might think.”)

“I like all of thes recipes because they are all really easy to make. I always keep enough shrimp for a couple of dinners in the freezer so if I’m in a hurry or want something easy to make I just take them out. If you like the shrimp that Len made then you’ll like these recipes.”

– Jen

One of my most successful recipes – Bayou Shrimp- is based on a dinner I ate in Mountain View, California at an old friend’s apartment back in 1993.

Jen is the old friend, one I have lost touch with. And I miss her. Can’t find her on Facebook or Twitter. Googled her and got a result from a Boston newspaper, about staycations.

But she still isn’t in my inbox, unlike years ago.

Back in the early 90s, we worked at Sea World together. The quarrelsome, trouble-stirring, feline parts of our personality clicked and we became fast friends when I transferred to her department. We realized we went to the same college, and we hung out in between and before classes.

People called Jen and I Anastasia and Grisella – after the wicked stepsisters in Cinderella – because we tormented each other (and often times other people) at work, you know, to pass the time. She would sneak up behind me at my desk and pull my hair as hard as she could (while I was on the phone with clients), causing me to yelp in pain. I locked her in her office I recall, or I piled numerous boxes of my sales kits inches behind her chair, limiting her mobility which drove her insane; that, or I stacked the boxes up to the ceiling of her teeny-weeny office on her days off. I hid her favorite green pens.

Never one to concede gracefully, she would methodically wait until after I had spent twenty minutes getting my hair into a French Twist, then she would walk casually by me and pull the clip or pins out, leaving my hair flat, me in distress, and her with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin every time. And through Jen, I was introduced to the phenomenon of horns growing from the head of a person who needs to eat every two hours but sometimes skips these important meals.

In ‘95, Jen followed the boyfriend who would become the husband to San Jose. In ‘96, she was my tallest bridesmaid, in ‘97, I was her shortest bridesmaid. Then she and her hubby traveled all over Europe for his work, finally settling in New England. I have the ceramic bowl still that she brought me from Prague. But not her current e-mail address. Which is so odd.

But also typical.

I believe when I think about Jen, I have probably crossed her mind too. I think one day we’ll connect in cyberspace again. I know she is up to her ears in kid stuff, marriage maintenance, and watching time get away just like me.

And when I make Bayou Shrimp, or put my hair up in a twist, sometimes I laugh at how bratty I got away with being for a while, and how just because someone isn’t around anymore doesn’t mean they’re gone. Yes, I have this theory stuck in my heart and I feel I can’t let it go, that to do so would be irreverent.

Jen sent me letters for a long time from San Jose/Mountain View, or postcards from Europe, and holiday cards from her home outside Boston. I recently came across four shrimp recipes Jen sent me sixteen years ago (no, sixteen years!?), including Bayou Shrimp.

Hey Jen, Evil One, drop me a line sometime. Or just think some happy thoughts about me, like when you powdered my nose right before I walked down the aisle, or when my husband stole a golf cart at your wedding and caused a ruckus. Because the more happy thoughts and less regret anyone has, the highest energy we release to the world, the better place we make it, right?

Right.

Thanks for the recipes.

GRILLED FLANK STEAK

Slice the meat and use in steak tacos.

Marinade:

1 cup honey
¨2 cups soy sauce
2 cups brown sugar
1 cup Worcestershire sauce
4 shakes Tabasco sauce
fresh ground pepper to taste
2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
4 cloves minced garlic
1 tsp. red pepper flakes

2 flank steaks, approximately 2 lbs. each

1 package tortillas

Marinate steak overnight, or at least 4 hours, turning steaks once if possible.
Drain off marinade and set aside.

Grill steaks according to grill; approximately 8 minutes per side.

While steaks are grilling, reduce marinade in a saucepan on a burner.

When steaks are done (see note below), tent with foil and let rest for 20 minutes.

**Note

Depending on how you want the steak done, a meat thermometer inserted into the meat should read:

Rare: 130 – 140 degrees
Medium: 140 – 160 degrees
Well Done: 150 – 170 degrees”

Prep the tortillas; either wrap 2-4 in foil and warm them on the grill over indirect heat, or grill tortillas one by one over flames, requiring only a few seconds per side of tortilla.

Keep tortillas in tortilla warmer or wrap in foil.

When steak has rested and juices have redistributed, slice steak against the grain, the slices about 2 inches thick.

When marinade is reduced by at least half, it should have the consistency of a sauce.

Serve alongside steak with other toppings such as guacamole, salsa, chopped onions and cilantro.

What does summer mean to you?

Summer means steak sliced and juices revealing themselves from within. Burgers with bleu cheese crumbles inside, peppers, brats and baguette slices on a grill while kids hit baseballs.

Summer means braving the pool water still on the cooler side, while the sounds of watermelon cracking, toddlers squealing and old friends catching up fills warm air of high, clean gray clouds and oceanic blue.

Summer means seeing red, white and blue everywhere and loving it more every time it flashes by your eyes, it means overhearing the star spangled banner and falsely exclaiming “Those aren’t tears!” during the fireworks finale.
Summer means packing for vacations, and trying not to count down that vacation day-by-day while on it, the typical New Year’s Resolution being the “Live in the moment” thing, after all.

Summer means kids beginning a new grade, a new stage in mach speed lives, and inevitably, that those kids will need bigger (probably more expensive) back to school clothes.

Summer means coconutty sunscreen, and aloe vera on the pink spots.

Summer means the sound of ice cubes hitting the inside of pitchers filled with lemonade, teaching kids about capitalism as they ambitiously scribble on lemonade stand signs with primary colored crayons.

Summer means an occasional storm, and the musky smell that bounces off the hot pavement – a poignant reminder of youth.

Summer means eating outside, asking friends for the salad recipe that really cooled down the burn of the barbeque sauce.

Summer means this: you STOP. It’s the season of wanting time to stand still.

Take in the scents, listen to the laughter, look at ski boats on the lake or a sailboat on the horizon, taste what comes off the grill, and try to touch something that you will never, ever be able to hold, but will try again and again to grasp…Next summer.

BEACH FOOD

Besides juice boxes, diet sodas, baby carrots, crackers and chips, the following two recipes compose our family’s idea of perfect beach food. I make tuna sandwiches in a pinch, but the Deviled Eggs and Sonoma Chicken Salad are as ritualistic as washing beach towels and bathing suits over, and over, and over, and over…

1 dozen eggs

2-3 tbsp. mayonnaise (Best Foods or Hellman’s)

½ tsp. dry mustard

½ tsp. Old Bay Seasoning^TM

Dash of cayenne

Salt and Pepper to taste

Paprika for dusting

In a pot of cold water, place eggs. Bring to a boil over high heat. Cover and turn off heat, leave covered for fifteen minutes.

After eggs are cooled in water, peel and discard shells.

Slice all eggs in half and place cooked yolks in bowl.

Mash yolks with a potato masher, or just a fork.

Add mayonnaise, mustard, Old Bay, cayenne, salt and pepper. Mix well.

Scoop mixture into open egg halves. Sprinkle paprika on top of eggs.

Keep eggs refrigerated until ready to serve. When taking to beach, pack as close to cooling mechanisms as possible in picnic basket, cooler, etc. If they are in a Tupperware, put it on ice, and keep in the shade of a big beach umbrella. These usually disappear quickly, so you won’t need to worry about spoiling.

SONOMA CHICKEN SALAD

I came up with this recipe after tasting a sample at a store. I begged the vendor to share the recipe with me or at least supply me with truckloads of it, but they told me they were done producing it for the season. This is a salad for all seasons, so I devised a version of it myself. It has made me popular.

3 or 4 cans chunk chicken (light meat preferably)

q cup sour cream

1 cup mayonnaise (Best Foods or Hellman’s)

2 tbsp. honey

1 tbsp. poppy seeds

1 pinch salt

1 pinch freshly ground pepper

1 package seedless red grapes, all sliced in half

4 stalks celery, diced
½ – 1 cup chopped pecans

Make base of salad: mix together sour cream, mayonnaise, honey, poppy seeda, salt and pepper. Set aside.
With a fork, break apart the chicken, add grapes, celery and pecans, mix well.
Add to base of salad, stir all ingredients together. Keep chilled until ready to serve.

Today is our first official beach day of the year. My children are practically coming out of their car seats waiting to get a primo parking space in the beach parking lot so they can grab their sand toys and run for the shore. I tell them to pray to the parking gods and they obey.

I pull into a space in the parking lot closest to the sea wall and I tell them their obedient behavior has brought us good parking karma. At this age, if it gets them in the waves and under the sun, they’ll believe anything. Still mystified why I brought a seven year old, a four year old and a seven month old to the beach sans hubby, I unload the beach chair (it goes over my shoulders like a backpack, you can get them at Costco), the cooler in one hand, the beach bag around my neck, and the infant carrier with my eighteen pound bundle and we walk towards the Pacific horizon. Phfew, we’re here. And the kids even carried the sand toys and towels without complaint!

As we toss off our flip-flops in the sand and walk towards my girlfriends and their kids (I just follow the voice of my girlfriend, Seni who shouts at her son “Dante! Don’t eat the sand!”) I notice the lifeguards are out in full force (My, what a nice new Jeep you have). And just as I glance out to the water to get the pulse of the temperamental, early-summer ocean, the voice of the Lifeguard God says over his loud speaker (I need one of those for my house), “Please stay in front of the lifeguard tower. We have a strong rip current today.” Well, we picked a great day to go to the beach! Not only do I have a baby in tow, but also two very energetic and free-spirited children who have no idea what undertows and rip currents are. I drop the loads of beach gear and decide my kids need a crash course in Undertows 101, and how to avoid getting pulled out to sea.

After giving my kids the lecture I got at camp some thirty years ago, I put the baby into the Bjorn and stay about fifty feet back from where they are playing in the waves. I take a lay of the land to check for any faces I saw on the Megan’s Law website (okay, yes, I do this wherever I go). Somewhere I hear a radio playing “Because of You” by Kelly Clarkson, something about being safe and not getting hurt. I notice a lot of college kids drinking beer from those new plastic beer bottles. The water is so damn cold my kids can barely stand to go in it, but they have discovered that sitting in the shallow surf is kind of fun, and I freak. “You do that one more time and we are going home!” From what I remember, that is an easy way to get pulled out into the pounding surf; did they not listen to my lecture? Goodness no, my inner child says, they were politely pretending to listen until I stopped talking so they could return to playing. I’m just standing at the shore threatening my kids as they cavort.

I flashback to a day at the beach when I was the child, and my mother screamed at me from three hundred yards away, “STAY AWAY FROM THAT DRAIN PIPE SAMI!!” All of the other kids glared at me and I had no choice but to acknowledge my overprotective mother. I swore I would never do that to my kids, such embarrassment. So I’ve become my mother and it is evident in front of all the natives and tourists on the beach this day. Here I am, eating my words and Salsa Verde Doritos as my baby tries to pry them from my fingers.

Since the crash course in rip currents and undertows didn’t work, I decide to use the fear factor on these ambitious tikes. I look behind me at my girlfriends sitting the beach chairs and they give me a nod, a silent approval to scare our children into submission. “You know what, you guys, last night I was watching the news and I saw the news helicopter filming sharks right offshore. Big ones.” This is not a lie. They were probably just big leopard sharks, completely harmless, but whatever works, you know? Maybe I am going a little overboard on the swimmer beware thing. Just as I am starting to feel guilty about using fear as a parenting strategy, Mr. Lifeguard walks up to me and asks me if the group of kids chasing the waves belong to me “Yes, some of them,” I say. “Well, I’m a bit overprotective, so I’d prefer to have them stay a bit closer to the Lifeguard tower”. Yes! The affirmation I was looking for. If a lifeguard admits to being overprotective, it’s definitely suitable beach protocol for a mom to be. Mr. Lifeguard has a quick chat with our sandy babes, and tells them that the sea is very strong today. They listen to him much better than they listen to me (must be the bright red swim trunks and shiny whistle around his neck, he looks so official). Mr. Lifeguard departs. He wishes us a fun day at the beach. Okay, let’s recap. There are super strong rip currents, there are sharks past the shallows, and drunken college kids being pulled from the surf. A fun day at the beach? When my kids are in their car seats, body parts intact and cheeks sun-kissed, then I will agree it was fun, as we made it through unscathed.

To my amazement, the kids stay in front of the lifeguard tower. They take Mr. Lifeguard’s warnings seriously. Maybe, just maybe, I can relax now. This is the place I came to relax or find answers before I had kids; maybe I can feel that way again. I used to be one of those college kids here at the beach, living for myself, eating Hawaiian Shaved Ice, studying for finals. The scents of chlorine from the pools of the nearby resorts, of hot dogs on outdoor grills, and the sound of children giggling as they play Frisbee define the beach now, as they did then, in my twenties, my teens, as early as I can remember. Not much has changed, except me. What concerned my mother thirty years ago resounds within me now. The undertows, the predators, the dangers of life beyond the safety net of home are ever-present. Sure enough, there will always be forces of Mother Nature, and human nature that can rip my children from my arms, no matter where we are. And can I do anything about it beyond lectures and the vigilant mommy-watch? No, not a damn thing. Even this paradise called the beach comes with dangers, just like the park, the school, the store. But this is still an idyllic scene, and I absorb it all, because we’ll never be here, in early June 2006 again.

The waves crash, then they calm, and then they gather up their strength, and crash again. The kids play, oblivious to the dangers around them. “Hey Mama, you said that sharks stay way offshore where the tuna swim”. Oh, so now my son’s a marine biologist! Did I say that about sharks and tuna? Probably. Either that or he heard it during Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, which is my favorite week of the year. I am just amazed by what lurks under the surface of that beautiful blue sea. Peaceful one minute, torrent the next. Similar to my children. Similar to my life!

Now in a rational state of readiness, I smile at the kids who run back up to base camp to bury each other in the sand. I give my kids a smile of reassurance to let them know that that I’m here, unobtrusive to their age-appropriate rambunctiousness, and I love them. I’ve got an overprotective gene, hang up, or whatever, and as long as I balance it with practicality while still encouraging their curious nature, it’ll be okay. My daughter is the one getting buried in the sand and she is so happy to get the attention of the older kids. I grab my tuna fish sandwich and a Coke and I sit in the chair I brought. I’ve got plenty of bottled water to wash sand out of their eyes, plenty of sunscreen to keep them from getting burned, in fact, between my girlfriends and I we probably have everything we need to handle whatever crisis arises (but we could still use Mr. Lifeguard’s loud speaker). That same song is playing again, the words eerily appropriate, “I learned not to stray too far from the sidewalk…” The sidewalk. The shore. Life in general. I do not want to raise kids afraid of their own shadow, afraid to bask in the sunlight, or so worried about the power of an awesome wave that they never try to ride one. I want my kids to be aware of the risks, but willing to take steps toward independence, even if it means going further from the shore and away from me – as long as I am within minimum safe distance should they get in too deep.

Finally, a new song starts on that radio that is playing nearby. Still in the Bjorn, the baby squeals every time she sees a seagull. She is just discovering beach life. I haven’t spotted any shark fins. The lifeguards haven’t issued any rip current warnings in a while. My kids pause sand burying and castle building for a deviled egg break. “Thanks for making my favorite beach food, Mama!” Anything I can do, baby. Anything to make your day at the beach spectacular. I’ll be here if you need me.

CARNE ASADA

for marinade:
juice of two oranges
juice of one lime
juice of one lemon
1/2 cup soy sauce
1-2 tbsp. cumin
1 tbsp. ground coriander
2 tbsp. chili powder
2 tbsp. dried Mexican oregano
one bunch fresh cilantro
one chopped yellow onion
1/2 cup honey
2 tbsp. tomato paste

2 lbs. flap steak

Let steak marinade overnight, rotate the meat within the marinade a few times to make sure flavor gets integrated. Grill about five minutes per side.

FOR CARNE ASADA FRIES:

carne asada, cooked and kept warm, sliced into strips

fried potatoes, either from scratch, or a good quality frozen brand, cooked according to package instructions

1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese

fresh salsa (recipe follows)

fresh chopped cilantro

sour cream

guacamole

Lay fries on a platter. Top with carne asada. Add cheeses (at this point, you may want to zap in microwave to get the cheese melting), then the sour cream, salsa, guacamole, and cilantro. Serve.

FRESH SALSA

4 tomatoes, diced fine

1/2 white onion, diced fine

tomato paste (little bit)

garlic puree (you can find this in the produce section, or puree a few peeled cloves in a mini-chop processor)
lime juice

serrano pepper, diced fine (remove seeds – handle and discard carefully)

jalapeno pepper, diced fine (remove seeds – handle and discard carefully)

white pepper

coarse grain salt

chopped fresh cilantro

I haven’t listed many measurements here because salsa is so subjective. Start out with small amounts of ingredients (except for those indicated with a specific amount), and add the other ingredients from there to your liking. For example, if the lime is particularly juicy, you needn’t squeeze it dry. If the lime is small, squeeze until the last drop is released from the fruit, and add the zest, if you like. Trust yourself. Act like you’ve been making this all your life. Sometimes mojo begins with an illusion.

I begin with half of a serrano and half of a jalapeno. I then set aside some of the salsa and add the additional jalapeno and serrano, making a “spicy” bowl for my husband and son. I like mine mild, with extra cilantro.

If you just don’t like how it looks, maybe the veggies are not diced fine enough, or whatever, puree the salsa in a blender. The chips don’t know the difference!

Make sure you clean that blender well before getting started on the margaritas. When you get into college and beyond, you need more than a Coke to wash this food down.

“When we travel to California, we make sure we go to Roberto’s,” out-of -towners confess to me. Roberto’s, Royberto’s Aliberto’s, and Mariscos are all euphemisms for the prototypical western United States taco shop where Mexican fast food reigns among other fast food.

Since I was high school – we had off campus lunches – the taco shop to me has been a sure thing, a routine destination, and an icon of youth and southwestern culture. My college campus had taco shops, because trips and purchases there cured pre-exam jitters, post-exam hunger, hangovers and deliciously filled the need of between class re-fueling.

In the days before children, when I worked (I should say, got paid to work) and had strict one hour lunch breaks, the taco shop read my urgency and hunger, and complied every time. When I began this mommy thing, and my first child had to be driven around at night to get to sleep, the taco shop once again became a destination, as many taco shops are open 24/7. A new Mommy with a good memory, I would sit in my Jetta, baby in the back, watching singles leaving the bars or parties to reunite at the taco shop in the wee hours. It was cute. Or it wasn’t pretty. But it has never changed.

Taco shop food comes wrapped in a waxy yellow paper or styrofoam boxes. The goodies found within are representative of the many levels of our lives, now that I think and write about it. Tortillas filled with cheesy, gooey, meaty, sour cream and salsa, or the enticing crunch from a rolled taco chronologically take me from ravished teenager eating while driving to 20-something, image conscious-female trying to limit carbs and up the protein.
I’ll never stop eating this food.

These days, I haul taco shop food to play dates, the park, soccer and baseball tournaments.

Or shamelessly polish off the leftovers while everyone sleeps. (”Mom, what happened to my burrito?”)

The taco shop aroma, it’s just the familiar scent of home – grilled, spiced meat intermingling with salty sea air, smoke from a brush fire, or eucalyptus trees. It makes even the worst day better.

 Every city in the United States has a McDonald’s, but taco shops in the southwest, I think, must be like delis in New York or Cracker Barrels in the Midwest. Rustic regional food – it’s just comforting to know there’s culinary salvation on almost every corner.

When they closed down the last Bob’s Big Boy in San Diego, the first taco shop I ever saw went up in its place, the smoke emanating from the roof somewhere. Plastic tables sat out front, nailed to the ground. It was a newly built establishment, this eatery that uprooted Bob (another column), but the new taco shop looked antiquated, faded red and white vertical stripes giving it a street food cart meets beach cabana look. It seemed like that taco shop had been there for years. No matter what time of day, people gathered there.

So I gave it a shot. One taste, and I traded burgers for burritos.

The taco shop era of my life began. From junior high on, I fell in love with cilantro, easily afforded quesadillas, and only recently, discovered carne asada fries. Carne asada fries – strips of lean meat marinated in spices (these vary), placed atop French fries. That alone make this meat-and-potato girl curl my toes in anticipation, but the toppings make this dish; first, you’ve got the fries, then the grilled and chopped meat, then shredded cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese, sour cream, guacamole, cilantro, and salsa fresca. Potato nachos if you will, a meal that all three of my kids agree on. For pure indulgence, I get the California burrito – carne asada fries wrapped inside a tortilla with pico de gallo.

Many taco shops have up to 20 combination plates; enchiladas, tamales, rolled tacos, open tacos, with rice and beans. I usually get stuck deciding between rolled tacos – tortillas wrapped around shredded beef or chicken then fried – or chicken enchiladas. When I can’t decide on that, I’ll move over to the burrito menu and vacillate between machaca, chorizo, pollo asada, or fajita. My husband never deters from his standard carne asada burrito. Everyone has a favorite.

In my experience in the food industry, I have met some masterful Mexican chefs who immigrated from south of the border. The best taco shops are backed by guys like them.

And I believe good food should be accessible to everyone, not just through a drive-up window in southern California.

“Macario, I need to know how to make the white sauce for fish tacos!”

“Does the chef share his ceviche recipe?”

“How did your abuela make it?”

“You’re family is from Mazatlan? No kidding? Tell me about the beans!”

“Auntie, let’s talk menudo while the kids are swimming.”

When it’s a recipe I want, I know how to talk to people. With some luck and their spirit of generosity, I now treasure my archives of fifty plus original Mexican recipes from artistic, ritualistic, innovative chefs with roots in Mexico who displayed – in the kitchens where I worked – instinct, good ingredient choices, and common sense: the food must taste good. Period.

I see these philosophies demonstrated every time I drive by a taco shop, the drive-thru packed, the service lines deep. Sometimes, I just don’t want to wait in one of those lines. Sometimes – Quetzalcoatl forbid – traditional recipes are tinkered with and flavors thrown off.

So I made up my own. Chef Macario, retired chef Mr. Gutierrez, and my Aunt Rose Marie would be proud of me.

Here is my recipe for carne asada. I am reluctant to tell you that I used soy sauce which is probably not an original ingredient. However, I ran this by a friend of mine whose family routinely makes carne asada and she didn’t hit me when I told her I used it.

I grilled carne asada last night before we went to Alex’s ball game, and when we got home, I served salsa, guacamole, sour cream and corn tortillas with it. There was none left.

The meat is lean, the flavor is taco shop worthy, it’s the perfect cure for Mexican food jonesing, little bodies enduring growth spurts, and family re-grouping after each one of us goes in a different direction during the day.

For this dish ­ a perfect example of using ethnic pantry items withh fresh ingredients – I either dice meat from a rotisserie chicken, add cooked chicken strips found in the deli section, or the canned shredded chicken, drained. It all works fine. If you prefer, replace the cabbage with glass noodles, and add Hoisin sauce at the end.

For salad:

1 green cabbage, shredded

1-2 carrots, shredded

1 lb. frozen shrimp, defrosted

1 cup cooked chicken

1 bunch cilantro, chopped

Toasted sesame seeds for garnish

For dressing:

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 lemon

½ tbsp. canola oil

1 tsp. sesame oil

½ tsp. fish sauce

dash of coarse grain salt

Mix cabbage, carrot, chicken, shrimp and cilantro together. Set aside.

Mix dressing together.

Toss salad and dressing together.

Garnish with toasted sesame seeds.

PANTRY CANNELLINI BEAN SOUP WITH VEGETABLES

I tried to make this soup in the slow cooker. But the pantry way proved tastier. Many canned and frozen vegetables are just as healthy as fresh, so no health benefits are sacrificed by using either the canned or fresh options that I list.

4 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil, divided use

2 cans white cannellini beans, drained

1 14.5 oz. can of corn, drained (fresh option: 2 ears white corn)

1 14.5 oz. can diced tomatoes, drained (fresh option: 2 large heirloom tomatoes, diced)

3 cloves garlic, crushed and/or minced

1 4 oz. can roasted chilies (fresh option: 1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and chopped fine)

1 onion, diced very fine

1/2 tsp. ground cumin

1/2 tsp. ground cumin

32 oz. vegetable broth or chicken broth

1/2 cup water

coarse grain salt & pepper to taste

green onions (scallions) chopped for garnish

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

If using fresh corn, cut the corn off the cob carefully.

Place corn, diced tomatoes and garlic on a cookie sheet lined with parchment or coated with non-stick spray. If using a fresh jalapeno, add it to the tomatoes and garlic as well.

Drizzle over 2 tbsp. olive oil, salt and pepper. Toss around a bit.

Roast corn, tomatoes and garlic (optional diced jalapeno) at 425 degrees for 20 – 30 minutes.

In the meantime, add diced onion to a pot and sweat in 2 tbsp. olive oil over medium heat.

When onion is soft, after about 3-5 minutes, add broth and water.

Add cumin, coriander, beans and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat to simmer. Add corn, tomatoes, and pepper/can of chili peppers.

Simmer for 10-15 minutes (don’t cook too long, you just want the ingredients to get to know each other and begin to unify).

Serve with chopped green onions.

Optional garnishes – cilantro, parsley, sour cream, creme fraiche, Tabasco, shredded Cheddar cheese, crumbled goat cheese, Cotija cheese, crusty toasted baguette slices

Optional additions: roasted, torn chicken, homemade turkey meatballs, prosciutto, bacon.
Considerations: adding some heavy cream at the end.

Japan. Italy. Morocco. India. Greece. Mexico. Thailand, the Phillipines, France, Spain.

My pantry, even though you may not care, is painted white, it has pewter handles, it is actually simple and minimalistic looking. Open it up, however, and in the Mason jars, vacuum seals, and recycled boxes, there is possibility and potential hoping to take the hand of belief, experience, and commitment.

My pantry came alive several years ago, right before the Y2K hysterics in our first home, a smallish single family unit. It didn’t boast a traditional pantry, but every square inch and right angle ­ under the kitchen sink or overhead cabinets I stood on a chair to reach – soon became stocked high with canned tomatoes, packages of noodles, bottles of spring water, and canned broth.

This was my nuclear bunker. I see that now. I quickly became addicted to feeling prepared for the end of the world with foodstocks to save me. I never let my culinary inventory dwindle again after the year change from 1999 to 2000.

This foodstocking thing, when paired with spring vegetables and bright sunlight after lots of rain, equals feasts outside and happiness to spare.

So I learned that a full pantry is a metaphor for joy.

I’m not a psychologist, an Iron Chef, MBA or chicken farmer. Not that any of these things would qualify me as a sage or get me paraphrased all over the place for a thousand years. It’s just me, a home cook with a full nest, telling you from behind an apron that what we need, we have already got.

Really. I’ve done some soul searching, perhaps, and I find most answers at the helm of my own culinary providence.

As good things go, too much is never enough, happiness included. After the world didn’t end, I started buying things like sesame oil, tomato paste, every kind of flour, yeast, capers, anchovies in olive oil, canned vegetables, noodles, dried beans, bread crumbs, Hoisin sauce, peanut oil, dried mushrooms, artichoke hearts (jarred in oil, canned in water)…I sshould stop now.

Actually, I should have stopped then. We outgrew our first home, the lack of cabinet space to blame. My first child turned two and I searched, then found a home with a large enough pantry.

That Spring of 2001, my mad stocking habit somewhat contained with room to grow, I began organizing shelves by ethnic cuisine type. My silent, neglected self now was given a name by the media: “foodie” A foodie who was the mother of a mobile and curious toddler, wife, and Surprise! Expecting again.

Another reason to hoard.

Pregnant and integrating playgroups, somehow I started forgetting to defrost chicken breasts or put dinner in the slow cooker each morning.

I fretted not. I reached into my pantry. I had taught myself to cook, taught my neuroses to be quiet with caper berries imported from Italy, and in the process balanced motherhood and marriage, like holding one plate shoulder level in each hand (with food plated miles high, of course.)

Cookbooks and parenting books helped, doomsday was a motivating factor, but the real answers came as instinct, as a voice in my head, or ­ on the days I was really lucky ­ naturally. Like the flower that just knows it’s time to grow and break through the soil again. In the Spring.

Spring of 2009 here – practices, games, lessons, daylight savings time – I’m not next to the pantry as often. But I still hear it knocking. Talking. Evolving.

When I tell my kids “No, we can’t go play outside, I need to constantly stir the risotto, they don’t buy it. What can I do? I give in to their whims now, but I can feed us all this way. It’s been a few Springs.

I reach in, deep inside, and grab what I need.

A stocked pantry, a good imagination, and healthy approach to things – That kind of joy can last you a really long time.

Really.

GREEN BEANS AND POTATOES

1 white onion, diced or pureed

1 lb. fresh green beans

1 ½ tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

1 lb. white or red potatoes, peeled and halved

1 large vine ripened tomato, core removed (or 1 can diced tomatoes, drained)

3 cups water

Salt & Pepper to taste

Put olive oil in pan, add onion. Sweat the onion in the olive oil over medium heat.

Add rinsed, raw green beans, incorporate into the onion and olive oil.

Add three cups water.

Add peeled potatoes and tomato, salt and pepper.

Simmer for half hour.
Recipe Courtesy of Harriet Gianulis

My first attempts at gardening were windowsill herbs in our first apartment. They attracted annoying little bugs, a bad smell, and rotted pretty quickly. My second attempt at gardening was to plant snapdragons in the front porch planter of our first home, and herbs in the backyard. Well, my dogs did a great job smashing the seedlings and the snapdragons died because I simply did not know how to take care of them. It seemed to me that a hobby like gardening was relaxing only to the people who liked to work, perspire, and get dirty all at the same time. I gave up. When I wanted fresh flowers, fruits and vegetables, I went to the farmers market.

In the spring of 2001, we bought our second home. An adorable home, with a monochromatic landscape in the front and backyards – Cypress trees and green bushes everywhere, not a hint of color except the temperamental camellia bushes that lined the walkway with ornamental white rocks at the base. Armed with some equity money from our old house, I hired a gardener remove the cypress bushes. Pete and I went to our favorite nursery, Summers Past Farms, and bought English lavender, French lavender, cornflower, blue salvia, and several herbs. Among the herbs we planted were sweet basil, which thrived in the heat, rosemary, tarragon, thyme, and curled parsley. Among the herbs that died were the thyme and parsley. The sweet basil withered away in the fall, but voluntarily grew back the following summer, until the gardener cut it, as he thought it was a weed. Poor little resilient basil.

The next Mother’s Day I asked my husband, not much of a gardener either (although he will tell you otherwise) to get rid of the rocks, rototill the soil, and plant me another herb garden and some hydrangeas. He obliged, and I now have three hydrangeas, foxglove, gerbera daisy, and jasmine. But my herbs bring me the most enjoyment…garlic chives, two sweet basil, Thai basil, Greek oregano, orange mint, lemon mint, pineapple mint, chocolate mint, lemon thyme and even kale. To ward off evil, I planted sage between the two front bedrooms, which belong to our children.

My husband and I figured out after five years that mulch is a good thing; they sell it for a reason. It doesn’t hurt, either, that we planted drought resistant, durable plants. Some days, watering the plants is simply just another thing to do, another daunting task on the honeydo list. Better to stick with low maintenance varieties.

When I say my herbs bring me the most enjoyment, it is because every night, I use herbs from my garden in my cooking. There is nothing like it. Bright flavor, stand up color, the scent and taste of fresh adorning my culinary creations. I can’t imagine what it will be like to one day even grow and enjoy vegetables or fruit from my own garden. I’ll have to learn to enjoy perspiring.

For now, I pillage the gardens of my in-laws. They own a house with a large canyon that opens onto a main street in the neighborhood. Driving on that street, you will see a fence that extends to encompass every square inch of land that they own. On that land, they have planted fruit trees, herbs, and vegetables, as their parents did in the villages in Greece. It’s an ancient practice, growing your own food so you never go hungry, and maintaining the land for future generations. Pa O’Hara himself said, “Nothing matters but the land”. I’ll tell you what that means to me…the most important thing you can do for your family is ensure their survival. The antebellum south is hardly ancient, but we have inherited our way of living from our ancestors – every one of us. Hunt, gather, breed, nurture. The Native Americans, Iipay, as they called themselves in our corner of the world, did that very thing on the land we dwell on now. And did you know many tribes were matriarchal? That’s right.

I have watched my mother-in-law for more than fifteen years now, planting seeds, tending gardens, first feeding her children fresh vegetables and fruits from her garden, now chasing our kids around her house with persimmons or tomatoes so they get their five-a-day. This organic thing, by the way, is not so new. Think about it. There were no grocery stores or pesticides five thousands years ago. There were gardens, farms and fields, and common people working them.

I was never as smart or as humble as when I decided to cultivate my own land with an open mind, and lots of anti-perspirant. It has brought me surprise, disenchantment, aromatics and delayed gratification.

To cultivate your land, you must become knowledgeable of your environment. The best way to do this is by examining your surroundings, and listening to your elders. Your grandfather, your mother, great-uncle, whoever is willing to teach and has the experience that will enrich your knowledge base. Keep your eyes open, your ears tuned in, and your mouth shut. You may learn something in spite of your new world values.

Get a head start. It is wise to awaken early and get to work. If you do this you will almost always be ahead. This leaves you time to contemplate your next move, or decide how to spend your free time. After you’ve completed your tasks and it’s well before twilight, you can find a shady tree, peel a juicy tangerine, and enjoy doing nothing. I say again, doing nothing. You can actually enjoy complacency after you have worked the day away with noble intentions.

Be prepared for the unexpected. Droughts happen, history teaches us that floods and hurricanes will hit – and sometimes our worst fears will come true. Insure what you have, and embrace every moment of good fortune and harmony. Should disaster strike, these memories will get you through, and give you something to work towards.

Don’t get overzealous; you must be thoughtful and patient with your soil if it is to give you sustenance. Do not plant more than you can take care of. Also, it is tempting to work more than necessary, so as to benefit from having a surplus. But if you are lucky, you understand the concept of having enough. Call it a day; spend your evenings with your loved ones. Otherwise, you could be left alone with a bunch of rotting fruit.

Nothing gives my in-laws more joy than when they have the opportunity to share the food they grew, usually sautéed in olive oil and lemon. For the food that they do not grow on their own, they frequent the farmers markets in our city. In my opinion, the markets remind them of a simpler way of life, a metaphor of the way life should be, as it was when they were children in the villages of Greece. They buy produce directly from the people who grow it. An even, fair trade without the gloss of a corporate chain and devoid of the bottom-line gimmicks. My father-in-law is well versed in quarterly earnings and market share, however, which is why he buys from the little guys. I have listened to more discussions in a fast-paced diction of Greek and English about which stocks to buy and sell than I can recall (I’d so much rather chat about the drinking habits of Dionysus). But here is how I tolerate the dinner table NYSE rants; enjoying a meal with homegrown food while talking about the market is simultaneously acknowledging the world we live in, while encouraging traditional and meaningful values. Corporate America isn’t changing anytime soon, but you can save a simpler way of life, one farm at a time. At least that is what I think they said, and certainly what I believe.

In the canyon and gardens of my beloved Greeks, you will find butternut squash, zucchini squash, sunflowers, corn, amarinth, figs, tangerines, avocados, persimmons, oranges, lemons, tomatoes, red potatoes, grapes, pistachio trees, greens, basil, apple trees, and so much more, if you pay attention. Fresh, untainted, plentiful and homegrown. Cultivated just enough to carry on.

SUN-DRIED TOMATO AND GOAT CHEESE PIZZA.

Ingredients:

(1) Ready-to-bake Pizza Crust

3-5 cloves minced garlic (or 5 cloves roasted garlic).

(1) cup shredded Mozzarrella cheese

(1) 4 oz. container goat cheese

(1 ½ ) cups sun dried tomatoes (oil packed, julienned work best) *

Diced Italian parsley for garnish

Optional: Italian seasoning, artichoke hearts, Kalamata olives, Prosciutto, Pancetta
Prepare uncooked pizza crust to package instructions (usually meaning unroll, place on greased cookie sheet and cook at 400º for six minutes or until crust browns slightly)

When crust begins to brown, remove from oven and add the following toppings in order:

Minced garlic (or spread the paste made from roasted garlic cloves and olive oil)

Mozzarrella cheese

Sun dried tomatoes

Goat cheese

Any optional ingredients

When all toppings are on pizza, put back in oven at 400º until all cheese is melted and outer crust is brown, about 10-12 minutes.

Remove pizza from oven and top with diced Italian parsley.

* Alternatively, you could use thin slices of good quality, vine ripened tomatoes in place of sun-dried.

The other night at bedtime, I must have been thinking about a cornmeal dusted, fennel-seed crusted pizza, glued to itself with mounds of cheese, a silky tomato sauce peeking from under the cover of Mozzarrella, and my favorite toppings resting on the throne of this masterful food, eaten in one form or another for thousands of years.

Pizza. You say it and suddenly, a culinary solution graces celebrations, busy evenings, or brainstorming sessions. It’s also a very subjective food – for me, once I hear someone call it a pie, I must have some. With my favorite toppings (what are yours?). Preferred pizza toppings give insight into regions of origin, childhood memories, and probably, what night of the week it is. Some nights I pick up the phone and order a pie from the closest Mom & Pop Italian restaurant, but other nights, I roll off the day as I roll out the dough.

Now, I know the California-style pizza (read: anything goes) I am used to has not made it to every town in America. I mentioned to a friend across country that my sentimentally favorite pizza was comprised of sweet chunks of pineapple and salty, flat Canadian bacon, known in these parts as the “Hawaiian”. My friend had never heard of the “Hawaiian”. However, she lives in Vermont, and the revolutionary pizza chain California Pizza Kitchen hasn’t gone north of Massachusetts. I understand the quandary.

It was then that I decided to confront the dilemma facing much of America – we’re stuck in PepperoniLand. Make no mistake, the traditional pepperoni pizza has a circle shaped place in my heart, but why not branch out – for fun, for nutrition, for an easy dish to get our kids familiar with cooking, and because markets have never had such variety?

Pizza dough is a canvas waiting to be drawn upon. My kids began rolling pizza dough onto a pizza stone since Kindergarten. Taking turns rolling, spreading garlic with the back of a spatula, placing vegetable slices in hearts, shapes or faces onto the dough, we accomplished more than dinner. We did more than simply eat.

Pizza fans – you, me and everyone else I know – we’re all from families trying to figure out how to eat wisely, be together at the same time, and fit healthy choices in between what tastes the best. Our motto for pizza is simple – pile it high, and bring it on.

I encourage you to design your own pie. Take your favorite toppings and give it a try! Don’t be limited by tomato sauce or meat in casings. I’m going to give you one of my recipes for a distinctive pie, devoid of pizza sauce, pepperoni or sausage, endorsing flavorful, albeit non- traditional toppings. I haven’t used pizza sauce to make a homemade pizza yet, rather, I spread on minced garlic or make a paste of roasted garlic cloves and a few drops of extra virgin olive oil. Fresh or sun-dried tomatoes provide the pizza with an authentic, common-denominator taste.