The Whitneys: Unwitting Victims of the Montclair Pudding Attacker!

Okay, this is going to be a little gross for a minute, so bear with me.

On Sunday, both my husband and noticed a pile of, um, something shiny and brown in our driveway. With two large dogs, we came to the same immediate conclusion (no explanation necessary here). But upon further investigation, it appeared to be some sort of chocolate pile. At first, we thought, "ice cream"? Perhaps, but then it didn't have that characteristic melt as the day wore on and well, neither of us had had a rogue chocolate ice cream cone.

Eventually, thanks to the abundant, pollen-spewing trees that hover above our driveway, the pile was covered and concealed. I stopped obsessing over it. Forgot about it. But then on Monday, I noticed a group of happy squirrels hanging around it, lapping it up joyfully. It was weird. What was it? I had been too afraid to clean it up and now, the squirrels had done the job for me.

The strange chocolate pile was now just another greasy stain in our driveway, but its memory haunted me through Tuesday and Wednesday. But on Thursday, I got a break in the case as I was cruising our trusty local news source, Baristanet.com. There was a passing reference to the "Montclair Pudding Attacker," and I found my answer. Read here, for further unsatisfactory explanation of the deranged criminals: http://www.baristanet.com/2009/03/riding_in_cars_with_pudding.php

I don't know what would posses someone to throw perfectly good chocolate pudding at his neighbors, but what I do know is that I will no longer say, "those things just don't happen to the Whitneys."

GiGi: a Salad, a Meal, a Sexy Lady's Name!

Oh, it was so hot this weekend. The Whitneys didn't have an air conditioner and yet, the Whitneys had multiple dinner guests. The worst part, Mrs. Whitney developed a sweat disorder when she got pregnant and it hasn't subsided. The dilemma this weekend was, obviously, how to make a nice dinner for friends without sweating in it. Ewww... I know.

So, I put on my thinking cap and remembered my favorite salad from the Palm and subsequently, several other "steakhouse" style restaurants on the eastern end of a Long Island. I wish I knew the true origins of the GiGi Salad. If you know, please share in the comments section.

GiGi Salad for Four (with some leftovers for picking)

Ingredients:

2 lbs. 20-25 peeled and deviened Shrimp, marinated in garlic, olive oil, the juice of one lemon, and plenty of salt, pepper and Crazy Jane's salt.
1/2 lb. cleaned French Beans
3 medium Tomatoes, small diced (locally grown without slave labor)
1 large small diced sweet Red Onion
6 sliced crispy Bacon, chopped to just before a crumble.
2 ripe Avocados, small diced
1/2 c. cold Goat Cheese, crumbled (totally optional and not traditional. I just love goat cheese, so I put it in everything these days)
1 cup homemade Balsamic Vinaigrette
Butter Lettuce leaves to serve as the bed for the chopped salad


Technique:

First, find a charcoal grill in your backyard that you didn't know was there. Send your husband to the store to get charcoal and make him start the fire, watch the coals and yell at you when its time to put the shrimp on.

Grill the shrimp, being careful not to overcook. As soon as they are nicely curled into themselves and they are opaque all the way through, they are done. Take them off immediately and allow them to cool while you prepare the rest of the salad.

Combine all other ingredients, except the goat cheese and shrimp. Chop the shrimp into thirds, roughly and add to the salad. Then, at the last moment add the goat cheese, toss one last time and serve over a bed of lettuce, preferably a few leaves of butter lettuce for presentation, but any type you have on hand... or not, if you don't.

Wipe the sweat from you brow and serve to your grateful, hungry and too polite to complain about the heat, friends. Finally, send your husband out for ice cream.

Goodbye Dear, Sweet, Wonderful Monty.

Last night, I lost one of my dearest friends. He hadn't been the same goofy, curious boy for quite a long, long time. And though, it was his time to go, the loss hurts so deeply that I don't know if it will ever go away.

I have been trying to heed the advice I recently gave some friends, "remember the joy he brought in his life, not the sadness of his passing." In the dawn of this first day without Monty, it's hard to think of anything but how much I miss him and how much it stung to feel the life drift from his body. But I have so many wonderful memories of this most special dog and one that stands out as a testament to his profound sensitivity and empathy was when I was laid up with one broken ankle and one sprained one in the mountains of Montana about 6 years ago. He couldn't seem to understand why I had gone from the girl who took him running through the snow in the mornings, to the girl who was unable to walk to the bathroom on her own. He was so sad and it was all he could do to comfort me. He finally figured it out. He jumped up on the couch with me and laid his long, lean body between my legs and propped his funny, funny face on my shin. He laid there for what seemed like forever... days, weeks. He didn't want to be anywhere else. Even when his friend, my dog Otis, was barking to go for a run, Monty looked at him as if none of that mattered in light of the job he had to do. He was so sweet and so giving.

Perhaps, it was his giving nature that led him to me to end his struggle with the tumor that was pushing against his little brain. I believe that he came to me as a gift, in his final days, to both say goodbye and give me the opportunity to struggle with the choice to put him down and the actual putting down. Without Monty, the first time for me would have been with Otis, the closest friend I have. Monty didn't want that. He wanted me to know the feeling, so I would be better prepared. I am so grateful to him for that. And for everything he brought to my life over the last nine plus years.

I love you, Monty, and I always will. For the rest of my life, I will miss you.

Baby's First French Kiss!

It's finally happened: two of my most favorite people (one very small and the other covered with fur) have fallen in love.

It made me realize that I have successfully given Adela an important gift: the lifelong love of animals and specifically, dogs.

While there are many who would object to an infant rolling around on the floor with two giant Labradors, to me it's a thing of beauty and love-- a magical introduction to the purest and most unconditional form. I think that's a good thing for a baby to learn very early on. More than developmentally challenging flashcards that accelerate her ability to process meaningless information and more than irrelevant puzzles, loving a dog teaches her to value life and a soft, gentle touch.

You Give Me Fever

This is somewhat divergent from my typical food-focused blogs, but I have to vent about the most stressful, to date, week of my life.

Last week, my little baby bear was afflicted. It started on Monday night, when Stefan was away. She was uncharacteristically fussy. On Tuesday, I packed her up for a visit to her grandma and cousins. We arrived, she cried. She got hot. I got nervous. Her fever registered 102.2.

In typical new mom fashion, I raced to the doctor who told me "not to worry. Babies run high fevers." I breathed a sigh of relief. Later that night, her fever was up to 103.7. I panicked, called the doctor, who told me, "not to worry. Babies run high fevers." Hmmm... I worried regardless.

On Wednesday, her high reading was a whopping 104.7! She felt like a tiny oven and it almost hurt to touch her. It hurt my heart to see her in such discomfort. I was a wreck and she was in agony.

On Thursday, there was no improvement and her mood was markedly worse. Friday, more of the same. I ran to the doctor, again. Again, "not worry. Babies get high fevers, but come back on Monday if there's no improvement."

Well, thankfully, by Sunday, she seemed to be back to herself, with the exception that she was a little tired and worn out from the week of cooking her insides.

I guess the moral of the story is: "Not to worry. Babies get high fevers."

Quick Tip: Pain Free Whisking

Phew... it's been a busy week. What with Sesame Street, the rainforest jumperoo and mommy and me yoga, we've hardly had time to take a breath (except for the ones we took IN yoga). I do, however, have six new and incredible recipes to share including: Thai Beef Salad, Whitney Minestrone, AsianAhi Poke and more. BUT, I am too busy to compile them now. However, I am adding a new weekly feature: The Quick Tip. Pain-Free Whisking is the first of many to come.

When I was a child, everyone in my family had a hand-held electric mixer. You know the kind with multiple inserts that you pop into the bowl of cream and sugar and within seconds, you've got a lovely whipped cream? I have, however, noticed that many of my contemporaries DO NOT have one of these, myself included. I think we're all waiting for the day that our shiny, new Kitchen Aid arrives. But until then, there's the manual whisk, that with few notable exceptions can do any job the electric can. BUT, if you've ever hand-whipped cream or hand-whisked a vinaigrette, you know there can indeed be some cramping involved.

The solution is so simple, yet known to so few. First, make sure your ingredients and your tools are very, very cold. This is especially true in the case of cream. By putting your metal mixing bowl into the freezer a few moments before whipping, you'll cut out at least two to three minutes of whisking time. Secondly, DON'T USE YOUR ARM. This was something I learned from the greatJacques Pepin (he was on TV; I am not pretending to have had one-on-one time with the man) and something I chant to myself each time I pick up the whisk. Use your wrist. There are a multitude of ways to use your wrist; I like to repeatedly push away from my body where others prefer to whisk towards themselves. Whatever it is, just don't use your arm. You'll thank me the next time you're in the midst of whipped cream or salad dressing crisis. And I promise, your friends and family will be SO impressed when you turn a liquid into a solid in minutes flat.

Say What? Enslaved Tomato-Pickers!

I try hard to ignore the hype and eat the foods that I crave, when I crave them. No politics. Just food. But a recent article in Gourmet Magazine inspired me to rethink the way I grocery shop. Seriously, don't eat tomatoes in the winter (it's not as if they taste like anything anyway)... unless they come in a can. Just don't. Read the article here:

http://www.gourmet.com/magazine/2000s/2009/03/politics-of-the-plate-the-price-of-tomatoes

Tomatoes, like any seasonal fruit or vegetable, are best at their peak and invariably worth the wait. Just think how euphoric it will feel to bite into that first ripe, juicy, robust Jersey tomato when the time comes!