madriguez

FOOD FOR THOUGHT: WHY WE REGISTER

2008-09-29T11:52:00.001-07:00

I don’t have enough hobbies.

Following the mantra of “grassroots organizing,” I set up shop at 3 different sites to hunt for new voters: Homeboy Industries on Friday, the Westside Costco on Saturdays and St. Augustine’s Catholic Church on Sundays.

I don’t need volunteers, infrastructure or permission as long as I’m on the public sidewalk. With one rickety TV tray, a folding chair, two clipboards with forms I pick up at the post office, and some hand outs I made which compare Obama vs. McCain views on major issues – I’m in business. In a few hours I get anything from 5-25 people to stop by. Most are re-registering because they’ve moved. The rest are voting for the first time in their lives.

Yes, I’m a Obama supporter but I choose to make mine a non-partisan table. Because of this I’ve registered Republicans, Independents, Libertarians and many Decline to State. If they ask I give them the Obama pitch. But first I want to them register as they see fit. The next month will be a wild ride. Some will change their minds every day up until November 4th. That’s the beauty of democracy.

An old Balkan immigrant (who is not a citizen) asked me what I got paid for doing this. When I told him nothing, he laughed, patted my shoulder and walked off. I have wondered why I do it, especially after the rare crank mouths off to me against Obama, or declares that it’s useless to vote, why should I register? I’ve figured out my answer after this weekend: I do it because people have a story to tell that they will only share at this moment. They’re angry, scared, hopeful, resigned, inspired, baffled, but engaged in a conversation about a government that they thought they had no part in. They share bits of their story with me as they sign that registration form.

I’m a sucker for good stories and this week I heard from:

• a Mexican immigrant who just took the oath as a citizen but has been working so hard he didn’t have time to register

• an Iraq War vet who was homeless but now has a residence

• an old couple in their 80s who moved from their home to an assisted living facility but couldn’t remember the address

• an ex-gangbanger who said he can’t read or write but really wants to vote

• a lovey-dovey young couple who filled out the forms as if they were filing a marriage license

• a parolee who couldn’t register but asked to keep a form so he could fill it out as soon as he was eligible

• a woman who filled out the info for her husband and made him sign right there because she said he procrastinates.

Folks, this is the best show and only I get to watch it. It’s frustrating and folksy. Some people just want to vent but not vote. Still, I get many thanks, thumbs up and even handshakes. One guy I signed up on his way into Costco brought me a soda and hotdog on the way back to his car. He thought I might be hungry. I was.

You have until October 20th to register to vote on November 4th. If you can’t find a table like mine on the sidewalk, you can get a voter registration form at your local post office to fill out and mail. Or you can now register online (in California) at:

http://www.sos.ca.gov/elections/elections_vr.htm

If you don't receive materials within two weeks contact (in Los Angeles):

Dean Logan, Registrar - Recorder/LA County Clerk
(562) 466-1310 Phone
(800) 815-2666 (LA County Only)
E-Mail: voterinfo@rrcc.co.la.ca.us

This election is probably the most important in decades. If you don’t want to vote for either Presidential candidate, still register and vote in the state and local elections.

Not voting is still voting for the status quo. And you lose.

CUCINA POVERA

2008-09-11T13:05:00.000-07:00

In studying the world cuisines, I’ve learned that most cultures have 2 cuisines: 1/ food of the rich classes and 2/ food of the poorer or peasant classes. The Italians call the latter “cucina povera” – a kind of cooking that consists of very few basic ingredients and was rarely written down in recipe books since most peasants couldn’t read or write. These were the same people who grew and harvested the food for nobles and the rich. They cooked elaborate dishes in wealthy kitchens, even though they themselves could not partake of this food.

Ironically, cucina povera often turned out to be the healthier diet and was passed up the social line as servants shared their humble meals with the master’s children. The children came to regard this as every day comfort food. In the Americas, we inherited the tradition. Think of red rice and beans dished out in the best New Orleans restaurants, grits, collard greens, refried beans on bread, potato soup, pasta fagioli, egg flower soup. The food of former slaves, famished immigrants and struggling sharecroppers is part of our national identity now.

The rich dishes of the upper crust gave them kidney stones and gout and sent them to “take the cure” in Bath, Baden Baden or Aix les Bains. Manuel labor kept any excess in the poor man’s diet in check. There was rarely any excess.

As a writer, my social class rises and falls constantly. My regular diet has stayed at the “povera” level now out of choice. It controls my weight and budget. The biggest surprise is that I don’t feel that this food is “poor” anymore. It turns out to be actually very healthy and I regularly crave some of these “poor” dishes.

My weekly habit now is to boil chicken thighs, backs, legs, wings. I strain and skim the broth and freeze it in quart containers. The meat goes into salads, sandwiches, noodles. One of my favorite quick lunches is a piece of boiled chicken, salted and peppered (skin and all) with a tomato or green salad. One quart of the broth is used in a weekly soup I make which is the staple of my diet – Sorrel Soup. I learned the recipe as a poor, broke student in Paris. Some version of it is on the menu of many restaurants as well as on many working wives’ dinner tables in France.

Sorrel is a hard herb to find since Americans aren’t used to its tart flavor. I grow mine in a pot outside my back door. You’ll find many bourgeois apartments in Paris with a sorrel plant in a pot on their balconies.

This is the quickest way I know to make this soup. I even cheat -- using dehydrated mashed potatoes. No lumpy potatoes here.

SORREL SOUP
1 medium onion, small dice
1 cup sorrel leaves (remove the hard stem)
2 cups chicken broth
4 cups mashed potatoes
1/2 cup milk or half-and-half
2 tbls butter
salt and pepper to taste
a dash of sugar or sweetener
2 tbls chopped parsley or chives

Sweat the onion. Add the sorrel leaves until they “melt”. Pour in one cup of chicken broth. Stir. Add mashed potatoes. Stir again, adding enough of the remaining chicken broth to make a medium thick soup. Puree with an immersion blender until it is smooth and velvety like a blended pea soup. Add a touch more of milk or broth if soup is too thick. Return to heat and add butter, stirring until it melts evenly. Season to taste.

If your sorrel leaves are especially tart, you may want to add a tiny bit of sweetener.

If you don’t mind the extra calories, garnish the soup with a little sour cream or crème fraiche and toasted nuts.

I eat this soup at least twice a week.

No Executive Left Behind

2008-07-08T17:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader:

Today I post food for thought. Something to chew on. Maybe something to laugh at -- if it weren't so appalling.

We've got a presidential mandate to shove kids into rigid programs designed to goose test scores up a few points. Then they get an email account and jump onto web. Sure, they'll read plenty betwen URL addresses, IMs and tons of posts in chat rooms and Myspace pages.

But will they be able to write a business letter? A term paper? How about an apology?

Below is my recent communication from the head of a movie studio in my neighborhood.

I can't decide whether to thank him or correct his grammar and spelling and send the message back.

Maybe it's just a joke. You must see it to believe it. (Names have been changed to protect the embarrassed.)

MER

In a message dated 7/3/08 9:35:41 AM, jxxx_cxxx@thecxxxxsxxxxs.com writes:

Dear Ms. Rodriguez:

I apologies for any incontinence that you, your family and your neighbors incurred last week. I can give no explanation as to why when you called the main number the guards did not call you back or have me or one of my staff call you back for that as President of the Culver Studios I take full responsibility and apologies to you for the inexcusable behavior . The Guards will fully informed of what was going on and to notify me or the construction company supervisor to any and all problems that occurred over the weekend which they did not do. I have put in place a policy do deal with this in the future should a situation like this happen again .The person that called your neighbor was Rxx Vxxxx who is the head of Client Relations not Community Relations.

The situation that occurred last Friday and Saturday had to do with a 10” Fire Sprinkler Water Mail that broke. The replacement and repair of that line had to be done in a expedited manner at great cost to the studio for Fire and Life Safety reasons not for our connivance or that of our tenants this was a major inconvenience for our tenants who changed their schedule around so that this work could be done. We believe this water main break to be a result of the inconstant water pressure from Metropolitan Water and Golden State Water company that supply us water over the past few weeks. We have experience fluctuation in the water pressure coming into the studio which has taxed our system. The Work was partially completed on Sunday with the Fire Department making their inspection however work shall continue today with the jack hammering to complete the work and sometime next week with the reinstallation of the storm swear line in the rear ally behind stage 2 and then the repaving of the area sometime shortly after that. No work will be occurring this weekend .

Should you have any questions please feel free to contact me. And Once again I am personally sorry for any incontinence that this may have caused you and your family and neighbors.

Jxxxx

Jxxxx C. Cxxxx
President & Chief Executive Officer
The Cxxxx Studios
9336 Wxxxx Wxxxx Boulevard
Culver City, CA 90232
Ph: (310) xxx-xxxxx
Fax: (310) 202-3336
Email: james_cella@theculverstudios.com

From: Madriguez@aol.com [mailto:Madriguez@aol.com]
Sent: Thursday, July 03, 2008 1:40 AM
To: james_cella@theculverstudios.com
Subject: Culver Studios and our Neighborhood

Dear Mr. Cella:

I am a resident of Van Buren Place who was also disturbed by the loud jackhammering noise the early mornings of Friday, June 27th and Saturday, June 28th. Like several of my neighbors, I called the general studio number to complain. A baffled guard said he would look into it and call me back. The noise continued. I received no call. I then dialed the Culver City Police to protest this disturbance of the peace.

Today (7/2/08) one of my neighbors finally received a response from your studio's VP of Community Relations. He apologized and explained the urgent repairs to a water main for a sprinkler system. He said the work would continue next Monday through Friday.

Sorry, but this perfunctory explanation 4 days late is just bad business. Waking up a residential neighborhood at 6:30AM on a Friday and then doing it again on a Saturday at 8AM with no warning and no mechanism for your own staff to inform callers is simply patronizing and arrogant.   Delegating the matter to Community Relations after the fact almost makes a mockery of the department.   What kind of relations with the community do you expect with this kind of service?

Productions based on your studio have strict rules to follow when shooting on location on our streets. They start with notifying residents in a timely manner before the disruption begins.   You may not be required to follow these location rules on the studio lot but we residents are not required to tolerate unreasonable noise at your convenience.

We expect Culver Studios to be a considerate neighbor in this community.   We have accomodated a lot of construction on your lot the past couple of years. Last week's disturbance was beyond acceptable.   I hope you have instituted measures to prevent it again.

Thank you for your time.

Maria Elena Rodriguez

Father's Day

2008-06-04T15:32:00.000-07:00

One of the few food memories I have of my dad is his trying to make the perfect fried egg. He had supposedly been a cook at the start of WWII. But military mess food then was powdered eggs, ersatz coffee, canned and mystery C-rations covered in “chocolate.”

My sister and I were 7 and 5 respectively when he decided to show us he could cook breakfast in our newly renovated “modern” (for 1962) kitchen. He braved the spattering bacon and fired up a separate frying pan for the eggs. He put a pat of butter in to melt and was explaining about the difference between fried, sunnyside up and easy over, boiled, poached and scrambled eggs.

Any line or short order cook will tell you that working the breakfast rush is a particularly miserable gig because every egg order is a “custom” order. Every diner has a personal relationship with his eggs, given his childhood experience. “Scrambled” can mean “scrambled wet” or “ scrambled dry.” “Lightly beaten” can mean where threads of the whites show in the yellow. “Sunnyside up” might mean with a set, cooked skin on top gained by putting the pan in a broiler or salamander for the last 5 seconds. But “easy over” always means: “no popping the yolk.”

I stood on a chair and watched our dad demonstrate the proper way to turn over a fried egg in the hot pan. His first attempt broke the yolk immediately. Daddy put that popped egg on a side plate and instantly reached for another. That sizzled up nicely and he turned it at the right moment…but pop it went, too. He scraped it off into the side plate. He let us have sips of his coffee. He told my sister to drain the bacon on paper towels. Then he wiped out his pan, figuring something was making the egg stick to it. Then he cracked a new egg started again. And again. And again.

When it was all over, he had gone through the entire carton, and scored only two eggs easy over with yolks in tact. My sister and I had eaten up all the bacon. We had a nice caffeine buzz too. The side plate was overflowing with sloppy, popped-yolk fried eggs.

Our mom screamed at Daddy when she saw this. In our family nobody wasted food. Especially not when trying to show off in front of the kids. The popped eggs looked kind of gross but Mom said we were going to have to eat them all anyway. Then she fried some rice and mixed the botched eggs into them with green onions and tomatoes.

He died a year later. Fried eggs and rice is still a breakfast dish in our family. (It turns out to be a common breakfast in Cuba, the Philippines and other former colonies of Spain.)

Sneak into the kitchen of any diner and you’ll find a pan or half chafer full of popped eggs. This despite all the advances in equipment, techniques and culinary school grads. You don’t serve botched eggs to customers. You make them believe professionals don’t pop yolks.

In the event that I ever have to work a breakfast rush again, I practice egg cooking on my own. I experiment with different kinds of eggs, pans and fats (butter, pam spray, olive oil). Most restaurants and cafes use commercially raised eggs. These have the weakest yolks. No wonder they pop. The more expensive natural, organic and “artisan” hen’s eggs have incredibly strong, resilient bright orange yolks. You can just about throw one of these raw yolks on the floor and it still won’t break. Restaurants also use a lot of grease on the griddles and pans. They mop up the excess before they plate your order. They use greased cookie cutters or rings to make fried eggs uniform in size and shape.

Lesson #1: Use the commercial eggs for your scrambles, omelettes, frittatas and in baking. Save the organic and artisanal eggs for frying, boiling and poaching.

Lesson #2: Dads, please cook with your kids –- even if you think you can’t cook. The food here is your time. It’s the greatest gift you can give. Your kids will savor every morsel.

When Food Isn't Just Food

2008-04-16T01:31:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I became a head chef flunky at the Culinary Stage of the Los Angeles Times Book Festival. It was a way to keep up my prep cook skills, meet some heroes (Suzanne Goin, Lidia Bastianich, Martin Yan, Mary Sue Milliken & Susan Feniger, Govind Armstrong, Nancy Silverton) and TV star chefs (Giada DeLaurentiis, Tyler Florence, Dave Lieberman, Cat Cora). The stage’s consulting producer, Michael Weisberg, took a leap of faith and allowed me to bring along Patricia Zarate and a few of her girls from the Homegirl Cafe to assist the celebrity chefs. This will be their third year at the Culinary Stage.

Patty founded the Homegirl Cafe as a one-room diner near Plaza Garibaldi in Boyle Heights. It’s part of Father Greg Boyle’s Homeboy Industries, a non-profit which trains and employs young men and women leaving the gang life. They run a bakery, landscaping and silk screening businesses as well as the cafe/catering company. I first came to Homegirl as a customer and then as a TV writer interested in developing a series about the place. The TV project never got off the ground but I was hooked on Patty and her girls.

If you've never been hungry it's hard to understand how cooking can change your life. I don’t even mean war refugee hungry. I mean poverty hungry -- where food runs out and regular meals don’t happen regularly. Parents are absent because they’re struggling, working 2 or 3 jobs. Maybe they have substance abuse problems. Or are incarcerated. Dinner around the table becomes a lost tradition. Nobody is cooking at home. Ask any public school teacher about their most disruptive students and you’ll likely find kids who are hungry. They can’t concentrate. They’re angry. They’re embarrassed. They don’t do well in class. They drop out. They can be quick to violence. Some end up in gangs.

I’m not a sociologist or criminologist. I’m a just writer and cook whose independent research has concluded that a person who can cook is empowered. You can feed yourself. You can feed others. You can knock something together out of the humblest ingredients or of the most exotic gourmet stuff you can't pronounce. Cooking is portable knowledge that expands with every experience and aspiration you have in life. The better you get, the braver you become in the kitchen -- and beyond.

The other day at Homegirl, I gave a little workshop on knife cuts. One girl said she didn’t really cook and that she wasn’t good in school. I pointed out that she had just done math, French and science while learning to cut large and small dice, brunoise, batonnet and julienne. Another girl grumpily washing dishes laughed when I told her Tyler Florence and Anthony Bourdain started as dishwashers. Still another recounted how she botched a pot of beans. I told her Giada DeLaurentiis burned her pizzas at last year’s Book Fest and Mario Batali accidentally set the stage on fire a few years ago.

This is just beginning for these girls. If they can master the basics, they can get past the drudgery. If they develop the discipline, they can stand with professionals and work in the best kitchens in this town and elsewhere. And even if they choose another job or career, they will be able to cook for themselves and their families.

Food is not just something to eat. It’s second chance. It’s a future. And cooking it is control in this very tumultuous world.

This weekend at the Los Angeles Times Book Festival, you can see the following guest chefs demonstrating recipes from their cookbooks at the Culinary Stage. We’ll be there assisting them.

The Culinary Stage presented by South African Tourism

Saturday, April 26th

11:00am – Reuben Reiffel, Reuben's Restaurant in South Africa
12:30pm – Sherry Yard, Desserts by the Yard
2:00pm – Steven Raichlen, The Barbecue Bible
3:30pm – Sara Moulton, Sara’s Secrets for Weeknight Meals

Sunday, April 27th

11:00am – Reuben Reiffel, Reuben's Restaurant in South Africa
12:30pm – Anne Willan, The Country Cooking of France
2:00pm – Brian Malarky, Top Chef, The Cookbook
3:30pm – Padma Lakshmi, Tangy Tart Hot & Sweet

For a map of the Festival on the UCLA Campus, go to:

http://www.latimes.com/extras/festivalofbooks/eventmap.pdf

Visit the Homegirl Café for breakfast or lunch Monday-Saturday at 130 Bruno Street at Alameda, across from the Chinatown Metrolink station.

St. Paddy's Day

2008-03-18T02:06:00.000-07:00

I used to hate St. Patrick’s Day.

I grew up with working class Irish-American kids in one of the biggest Catholic parishes in San Francisco. All the nuns and the priests were Irish. They spoke with thick Irish brogues. Many of my classmates’ parents had brogues. On St. Paddy’s Day everybody else faked a brogue. They’d play that grinding fiddle music and make us do these silly step dances. Then somebody would pass the hat for the IRA.

If you weren’t Irish, you couldn’t wait for this holiday to be over.

Years later I visited Ireland. I found that St. Pat’s Day wasn’t a big a deal there. In fact, St. Patrick wasn’t even Irish. He was a Roman taken slave by pirates or some other “pagans” and brought to Ireland. Corned beef and cabbage was not the national dish. As a B&B owner explained to me, a true Irish dinner was probably potatoes and seaweed. A poor family in Ireland couldn’t afford meat. Only in America would they be so lucky.

One thing they always had was soda bread. Tonight I cranked up my Irish playlist (The Chieftains and Van Morrison, The Waterboys, Donal Lunny, U2) and baked a loaf. It’s the best non-yeast bread around. It makes great toast in the morning.

QUICK IRISH SODA BREAD

Sift into a large bowl:

2 cups all purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbls sugar

Cut into flour mixture with fork or food processor:

1/4 cup chilled shortening

Stir in (optional)
1/2 cup currants or
2 tsps caraway seeds

Mix flour/shortening mixture with:

1 beaten egg
2/3 cup buttermilk

Stir well. Knead briefly with hands. Place onto a greased 8-inch round pan. (Press down dough until almost flat.) Cut a cross into the top. Brush the top with milk.

Bake 35-40 mins in 375 degree oven. Check doneness with a knife.

Obama Campaign Cocktail

2008-02-03T13:54:00.000-08:00

Okay. I’ve come out: I’m supporting Barak Obama. Lately I’ve been walking precincts in the wind and the rain for this dude.

Wet shoes and damp clothing brought back Paris again. My student year there was a soggy one. I caught a cold every month. Friends gave me the “French” cure for my perpetually runny nose, sore throat and congestion. They called it “le grog” because they thought is sounded very British. (They claimed that it rained more in England than it did in France.)

I made this drink for some water-logged canvassers last week after we braved huge puddles on the Westside in Hillary country. It was good for “la sante and l’esprit.”

Hot Lemon “Grog”

1/2 cup boiling water
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
honey to taste
1 oz cognac or brandy.

Stir all the ingredients in a mug. Sip slowly. Note: This being California, tequila is a good substitute for cognac.

This recipe is for one serving.

Remember to vote on Super Tuesday.

Paris Feast

2008-01-21T18:44:00.000-08:00

I learned to eat the year I starved in Paris.

Like so many American kids, I lived the cliché of being a poor, broke, foreign exchange student there to lap up some culture and meet some romantic French men. All the myths came crashing down the first month. The guys were scruffy, unwashed and uninterested. The universities went on strike. The dollar crashed against the franc, sending Paris food prices beyond the reach of U.S. students. I was 19 and living in a 12th century building on the rue Seguier and I refused to go home.

So, there were few hot meals in bistros, let alone at temples of fine-dining. Nevertheless, I was transformed into a foodie by reading the handwritten menus outside of establishments in that illegible French script. I gawked at displays at traiteurs (take out caterers) and patisseries (pastry shops) and stalked the weekly farmers’ markets where I’d sometimes score a free cabbage or some overripe berries. My supermarket trips were limited to staples like eggs, yogurt, coffee, cheese and some toiletries. A “date” with a French guy was never dinner out but a bummed cigarette and a drink standing up at the counter in a local café. I kept a notebook, jotting down names of dishes I would learn to make some day when I could afford the ingredients.

Lucky for me, when I came back to the U.S., home was Berkeley where a food revolution was in full swing. I couldn’t afford Chez Panisse but I could afford to make most of the dishes I wrote down in my notebook: blanquette de veau, cassoulet, beouf bourgingnon, tarte aux oignons, quiche lorraine, clafoutis, oeufs aux lait, soupe St. Germain. I still make them today.

Two things sustained me during that frugal year: 1/: the poor man’s version of pain chocolate (chocolate croissant); and 2/ Croque Monsieur, the Paris version of grilled ham and cheese.

Some days I couldn’t afford a croissant but I could buy a fresh, still-warm, half baguette and a 3.5 oz bar of Lindt or Valrhona bittersweet chocolate.

CHEAP PAIN CHOCOLAT
1 crusty demi (half) baguette, as fresh as possible
1 half bar of bittersweet chocolate (about 25 grams or 2 oz)
(in the U.S., Hershey’s semisweet will do. NEVER use milk chocolate here.)

Tear the baguette open lengthwise with your fingers, keeping one side attached so your chocolate doesn’t fall out. Break up half the chocolate bar into pieces. Stuff, flat, into the bread. Eat like a sandwich. Save the rest of the chocolate for the Metro ride home.

CROQUE MONSIEUR
2 pieces of pain de mie or white sandwich bread
soft butter
1 slice of good ham
2 slices or 8 oz of grated Gruyere, Ementhaler, Raclette or Swiss cheese

Preheat an oven or use a toaster oven or a skillet with a lid.

Butter the bread on one side each. Place the ham between these buttered slices. Put the cheese on top of so it will melt and dribble over the sides. Bake the sandwich (on a heat-safe pan or plate) in a hot oven or toaster oven for 5-10 minutes until cheese is melted and is slightly brown. Or, place the sandwich in a slightly greased skillet, covered, for about 5 minutes over medium heat until cheese melts.

Eat with a knife and fork. Great with a side of green salad with beets and vinaigrette or cup of potato and leek soup.

Winter Lemons

2008-01-06T11:55:00.000-08:00

It’s rainy, stormy weekend, but the Meyer lemon tree just outside my back door has a hundred ripe lemons. Winter is the season for these Meyers. From January until April, I’ve got free fruit. I peel off the rind to make limoncello and chop up strips for cooking and baking. I squeeze the juice into jars for picata sauce, vinaigrettes and fresh lemonade. A stash of juice and rind are in my freezer to use after April when the season's over and I have wait for next January.

These Meyers are much less tart than the usual year-round lemons They’re not exactly “sweet” but are a special kind of “sour.” Think of sunshine with a spike of white vinegar and oranges. Capture it and share it in these intense bites of lemon bars.

Meyer Lemon Bars

2 cups sifted, all purpose flour
1/2 cup powdered sugar

1 cup melted butter

3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 tsp baking powder
4 slightly beaten eggs
4 tbls lemon juice
2 tbls grated lemon peel

powdered sugar in a shaker

Melt the butter.
Sift the flour and powdered sugar together.
Add butter to flour and sugar. Combine quickly to make a dough. Don’t overwork it – i.e. let it get too soft or wet. Add a little more flour if necessary.

Press dough into an 7 1/2”x 12” rectangular pan.

Bake at 325 degrees for about 20 minutes until lightly browned and fully cooked in the middle. Remove from oven.

In a bowl, stir together the beaten eggs, baking powder and granulated sugar. Add lemon juice and lemon peel. Taste this mixture. (Yes, while it’s still “raw.”) Depending on sweetness of the lemon, you may want to add more juice, peel or sugar. Pour this mixture into the baked crust.

Bake for 20 minutes at 325 degrees or until lightly browned on top.

Cool completely. Carefully slide a knife around the pan to loosen the crust. Sprinkle lightly with powdered sugar. Cut into bars. Remove from pan with a spatula.

Enjoy.

Chili Party

2007-12-31T00:25:00.000-08:00

Strike captain Lorin Wertheimer had a great idea for a cheap potluck party: Chili and nothing but. We crammed into his cozy Hollywood apartment on a cold Saturday night and partook of 5 or 6 different kinds of chili. Condiments of cheese, sour cream, chopped scallions and cilantro accompanied. Ditto corn bread, salad and wine and beer. Cheap eats, good company and great conversation. For most of us, Writers Guild members on strike, this is a welcome feast.

I promised to post my recipe. Here it is:

Maria’s Mole-like Chili

l lb stewing beef
1 large onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 tbls olive oil

1 bay leaf
water
2 tbls red wine vinegar

2 30 oz kidney beans , drained and rinsed
(or 2 lbs dry kidney beans soaked overnight)
1 15 oz can diced tomatoes (pulp and juice)

spices:
1/4 tsp dried chili flakes
1/2 tsp whole cumin seeds
1 tsp ground oregano
1 tsp pipian mole powder (if available)
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp cocoa
1/2 tsp sugar or pinch of artificial sweetener

1 6 oz can tomato paste

salt and pepper to taste

Salt and pepper the beef. Quickly brown meat over high heat. Remove meat and drain on paper towels. Lightly brown onions. Add garlic, bay leaf, vinegar and meat to pot. Add enough water to cover meat . Simmer on low heat for 2 hours, adding water to keep meat covered. Stir occasionally.

Add tomatoes and juice to meat. Continue to simmer another 30 minutes.

Remove meat. Discard bay leaf. Add kidney beans and spices to tomato mixture and continue to simmer 20 minutes.

Cut meat into strips. Add back to pot. Stir well with beans and tomatoes.

Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Note: This is a short cut mole sauce -- not meant to compete with the REAL thing which requires 25 plus ingredients. The best mole I know in LA is Patty Zarate's Rosa's Mole (served over chicken) at the Homegirl Cafe in Chinatown. Go eat theirs and let me know what you think. -- MER

Ego Trips

2007-12-25T16:56:00.000-08:00

Everything happened the year I turned 40. My boyfriend dumped me for another woman. My literary agent said good-bye. My freelance work dried up completely. Jobless, loveless and repless, I faced that milestone birthday with dread. So, I did the one thing any woman with a shred of self-respect and good humor could do: I went and worked cattle.

I chose a ranch in Arizona halfway between Phoenix and Flagstaff partly because a photo on their web site showed the whole crew – ranch hands and paying guests – sitting around a long dinner table. That is how I wanted to spend my birthday – among strangers over a simple dinner after a hard, dirty day of physical work. Nobody would care how I looked or that I arrived alone. There’d be nothing to talk about other than horses and cows.

It rained on my birthday. Nevertheless, 77 head of cattle had to be branded, inoculated and dehorned. We awoke while it was still dark, grabbed a hearty breakfast around the long table, slapped together some sandwiches for our lunch break and headed for the barn to tack up our horses. For some reason, the ranch’s only visitors that week were all women, including a vet from Australia and two gals from Ireland who’d ditched their husband and boyfriend to experience the American West. Another solo woman, a recent divorcee from Minnesota, completed our crew. About the only thing we all had in common was that we were avid horsewomen who didn’t particularly need a man that week. In fact, the only men on the ranch were the head wrangler and the cook. Nobody planned it that way. It’s just what was.

I had arrived with a mild cold which became a bad cold in a couple of wet days. Still, cowboys don’t call in sick. We gals trudged in the mud, lining up the cows in the chute. One by one, each was held in a clamp while one of us branded and two of us administered inoculations using fat syringes with long needles. Only the gutsiest among us took a turn at clipping off horns of the protesting animals. I kept a pair of those clipped horns – still bloody and smelly, as a souvenir. That evening, we washed up for dinner. The simple ranch fare was topped off with a surprisingly elegant birthday cake: a tower of cream puffs welded together with caramel, known as a Gateau St. Honore. Having a cold, I declined to blow out the candles. My cowgirl buddies did the honors and blew them out for me with the wish that I find whatever I was looking for. It was the best 40th birthday party I could have asked for.

Since then I’ve learned the value the of “ego trips.” I’ve jumped on a plane to Paris on Valentine’s Day instead of staying home to mourn not having a date. I’ve picked up the phone and called a travel agent just moments after being fired. If you’re going to be miserable, go somewhere beautiful if you can afford it -- even if only for a couple of days.. The change of scenery will melt your misery for a while. Giving yourself this gift will go a long way in fortifying your soul for whatever awaits on your return.

These trips can be cheap or expensive as you see fit. And the best thing about going alone is -- it’s all about you. That's the whole point.

The Sixteen Euro Bellini

2007-06-25T12:48:00.001-07:00

The U.S. may be the last great superpower but you wouldn’t know if from the exchange rate. It seems that all of Europe has chosen to comment on our international politics with the one thing we Yanks understand: money.

This was all too clear on a recent jaunt to Italy. The U.S. dollar stood at a dismal $1.26 to the euro. My sister and I had planned a “budget” trip, just a few steps above the poor exchange student that I was 20 years ago. We knew prices were higher than in the States, but the dollar’s daily slide against the euro hit us like sticker shock.

I’d booked us into an 80 euro per night hotel in Mestre, a middle-class town just outside of Venice. It was still low season, but even one star and no star double rooms in Venice proper were over 200 euros per night. A one euro bus ride from Mestre would give us the Grand Canal plus a quiet, comfortable sleep in a room with cable TV and private bath with a hair dryer. My sister, the corporate traveler on whose frequent flyer miles we had flown, was grumpy about the location. All this frugality had to be rewarded somehow and she decided it would be on Bellinis at Harry’s Bar In Venice on the Grand Canal.

Well, that was our Alamo, our Saigon, our Tikrit. Sixteen euros for a peach juice and champagne cocktail. After drinking one apiece, neither of us felt a buzz. We were sober enough to do the math: At that day’s exchange rate each Bellini had cost $22.46. We scurried out of Harry’s, regretting whatever Yankee arrogance or stupidity had led us there in the first place.

From then on, the Bellini became our point of reference for everything. In Mestre, we indulged in three course dinners with wine, proclaiming “This whole meal cost less than that Bellini.” An ornate Venetian mask was just “a few more euros than a Bellini.” Laced espadrille shoes were “cheaper than a Bellini.” We calculated our cab fare and tip to the airport at “about two Bellinis.”

Last week , my sister called me from a bar in Half Moon Bay, a sort of Mestre to our hometown, San Francisco. She informed me that she was looking out at the wide blue ocean and drinking a Bellini that cost less than half of what we’d paid in Venice. And yes, this time, she was buzzed.

In the Blink of an Eye

2007-06-11T23:21:00.001-07:00

This weekend two of my nephews graduated from middle school and from high school, respectively.

Unbelievable. As far as I’m concerned, they’re still 2 and 6 years old. Or 8 and 12 at the most. Those are the photos that have lived on my bulletin boards for years. Along with their crayon drawings which hang, framed, next to museum prints on my walls.

I am a professional aunt and take the job quite seriously. It’s for life and it’s 24/7. It comes with responsibilities and privileges that range from being in the delivery room to sleeping in a bunk bed on Pokemon sheets, telling scary stories by flashlight. In the line of duty I’ve been peed on, vomited on, spat at, punched, had hair pulled out and done a thousand diapers. I’ve lived the saga of food fights, tantrums, carsickness and pre-nap crankiness. I’ve been to Disneyland more than I can bear and I hate Disneyland. I go broke every Christmas giving gifts, as well as on birthdays and at milestone events like straight A report cards and graduation.

But being an aunt comes with special perks too. You get to break the rules from time to time. Like letting the tykes eat frozen yogurt for breakfast, saying “At least it’s yogurt.” Or letting the older one-paint bikinis on gingerbread men when decorating Christmas cookies. I’ve left an economic and nutritional imprint on kids whose idea of eating vegetables means onion rings and French fries. Instead of overpriced pop corn and soda at the movies, I bribed them into munching power bars we sneaked in and taking them for sushi afterward. (It was actually cheaper.)

I’ve seen all of the good, bad and mediocre kid movies of the past 15 years as well as their video sequels. Since they were boys, I grew up with arcade, Nintendo, Playstation, X Box video games. By coincidence, I’m the aunt who worked in the animation business for years who took them to different studios to see animators at work. This was to teach them why they should sit and watch all those long credits at the end of a movie and not make pirate copies of those video games.

About the time they started to play marathon rounds of Halo, I noticed a change. The older one’s voice deepened. He grew more than a foot taller one summer. Their crayon drawings and scribbled notes become misspelled email messages, then occasional IMS. Instead of going to movies with me they’d mumble: “Just give us the money and drop us off.” They even started challenging me in conversation, saying: “That’s just an opinion, Auntie Mia. I don’t think so.” They love gangsta rap and blaring hip-hop. The last time they rode in my car, they changed the radio pre-sets to the loudest urban stations.

They’ve grown up. They’ve become young men. They won’t give me any updated photos but I can check out their My Space pages. These aren’t the same little buddies I knew a few years ago. Like a parent, it’s time to let them go. They belong to others now.

I guess I can take down their framed crayon drawings.

The question is: What will put up instead?

My Dinner with Martin

2007-05-26T21:33:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I was the head kitchen flunky at the L.A. Times Book Festival Culinary Stage. One of the guest chefs I had the pleasure of assisting was Martin Yan. Not only is he a superb chef but the original cooking entertainer. His fans in the first row brought their own plates to grab a sample of his demo food. He's like a stand up comedium with a cleaver. He demonstrated his cutting techniques on stage, including cutting up the chicken in this photo in a mere 16 seconds. I carted it home and stuck it in my freezer. Today I made a classic French dish using this special chicken. I can pretend Martin cooked it for me.

COQ (COUPE PAR MARTIN YAN) DU VIN

1 chicken, cut up into 8 pieces -- a kosher stewing chicken is best
1 bottle of good quality red wine -- 2 Buck Chuck Gamay Beaujolais or Shiraz are fine - no Merlot!
a bouquet garni of bay leaf, sprig of fresh thyme, parsley stalks
coursely ground black pepper

Marinate the chicken in wine with the bouquet garni and pepper. Let sit overnight, at least 8-10 hours.

In a heavy Dutch oven, heat on medium flame:

2 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Add:

1/3 lb smoked bacon, chopped and blanched for 1 min

Cook for a few minutes, stirring constantly. Add the chicken and brown on both sides a few pieces at a time.

In a ladle, add and carefully flame with a match:

2 tablespoons Cognac

Pour flaming cognac over chicken. Shake to loosen chicken from pan and add:

1 tablespoon flour

Stir well. Cook a few more minutes. Strain and add the wine marinade with the bouquet garni to the chicken with:

2 peeled and crushed garlic cloves

Cover chicken and wine and simmer for 45 minutes on low heat. In the last 10 minutes, brown in a separate pan:

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 medium white onions and 2 medium shallots
a sprinkle of salt and sugar

Turn regularly to brown evenly on medium heat. Add to pan:

1/4 lb small white mushrooms, washed, dried, cut in half
juice of 1/2 lemon

Cook for 5 minutes.

Add onions/shallots and mushrooms chicken and wine. Stir gently. Skim off visible fat. Season to taste.
Serve with a crusty baguette. Eat well. Laugh hearty.

On Worship

2007-05-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's Sunday. For the record, I didn't go to church. I never go to church.

Actually, I take it back. Saturday afternoon I ended up attending part of a Catholic Mass celebrated by Fr. Greg Boyle in honor of his birthday. I'd dropped by the Delores Mission to pay my respects to someone I admire, the founder of HomeBoy Industries. Little did I know it would include a religious service I'd proudly boycotted since I left Catholic School. Had I known, would I have even shown up at all?

I'm of the generation of Catholic School kids who saw the tail end of the "old school" Church. We sang in Latin. We felt the whack the of the nun's ruler or wooden pointer on our knuckles and behinds. We won prizes for reciting whole chapters of the Baltimore Catechism. We named our pets after God's martyrs and saints. We hooted Sr. Mary Ignatius on Broadway. But most of us aren't practicing Catholics anymore. We haven't signed up with any other faiths and aren't searching either.

Are we just Godless heathens or spineless agnotics?

Me? I'm somewhere just outside the fold. I know when to stand, kneel and cross myself during a Catholic service. I can recite all the prayers along with the other worshippers. And I realize it's all rote. I could do it in my sleep. When worship becomes something you do on automatic pilot, you might as well not do it at all. An omnipotent God knows when you're just going through the motions.

Some years ago I tried explaining to my devoutly Catholic mom that I had found another way to "pray." I assured her that sending us to Catholic School was not a waste. It had imprinted on me the practice of doing good works, donating time and effort to good causes with no thought of personal reward. In fact, I know that self-serving intentions are tantamount to Original Sin. I no longer believe in Heaven, so salvation isn't the point of good deeds. You do it because it's the right thing to do. And how do I know that? Because I was raised Catholic.

The past few months, some charity has been sending me fundraising mailers with religious key chains. I'm surprised at how offended I feel. These trinkets aren't like a rosary you can pray with or be buried with. They're tacky, mercenary pieces of marketing aimed at people who respond by rote to icons. I'm not having it.

I've pinned them up on my bulletin board crowded with family photos, notes and reminders. They help me remember what's a chore a what's a prayer.

Every Amen has to be earned.

That's Democracy, Babe

2007-05-19T00:15:00.000-07:00

A friend emailed in a panic, asking my advice on how to "get out of" jury duty. Somehow, he's managed to be excused from or postpone service for years. He reminded me that, as his boss, I used to write great letters and faxes that got him out of this chore.

Now I'm no longer his boss but I'm telling him to bite the bullet and do this noble deed. Afterall, jury duty rules have been revamped. You can't wheezle out of it anymore. For those who managed to stay untraceable by not registering to vote, they're hip to you now. They use DMV records for the jury summons.

At $15./day plus mileage reimbursement, L.A. Superior Court is a hardly a reward for good citizenship. But think of the other opportunities that await you: Another former employee met his future wife in the jury assembly room. A director friend ran into an old exec during jury selection which led to a directing assignment. On the last civil case I served on, I actually made a few friends. We recently got together for coffee. In our tight, insular career circles, we would never have crossed paths at all.

Jury duty is the most unrefined, unabashed manifestation of democracy today. All races and social classes are thrown together. Nobody gets special treatment. It's equally slow and tedious, no matter what your educational level. A trial is not the Hollywood show we're used to watching. But a jury deliberation can be more absorbing than a good night of American Idol. On my last case, I was surprised by the intellect and eloquence of fellow jurors I'd written off as dense or had caught dozing off during the trial. We argued and debated passionately, even though our case was a mind-numblingly dull civil suit. The guy who led us to a verdict was not the jury foreman, but a schmoe who sat quiet as a mouse until he rose and proposed a compromise with such clarity that we all bought in.

It was like a Hollywood moment. Only this one was real.

So, go and catch this show. The worst that can happen is that your boss will miss you. Or you'll nod off in court. It's okay. Someone will wake you. You never know who. Prepare to be surprised.

How Can This Be Good?

2007-05-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

Tripe is one of the few foods of childhood I will not eat today. Ditto okra. I'm fine with beef tongue and calf liver now. But tripe doesn't cut it, and that's across all ethnic cuisines.

Why? It's bland, white, beautiful to look at. Looks like bee honeycomb. It has no strong smell or flavor. It's basically harmless. On par with tofu: a cheap protein cooked and eaten by many cultures world 'round. Peons and prosperous folks all partake of it. So, what's to dislike?

Food isn't just food. It's emotional. It's the baggage of childhood, familial relationships and teenage self-assertion. Tripe with tomatoes and garbanzo beans is my grandmother on a tirade about "During the war..." Tripe is about enforced gratitude. It's what follows after saying grace at the table. It's the swallow and gag of eating what you don't like. And it's the dread of another meal with another appearance of that thing that gets tougher and tougher every time you reheat it.

Tripe to me is about control.

Today I'm old enough to not have to eat it or buy it. I can laugh at it on a menu in Italy and Mexico. I can take an artful photo of it in a butcher's shop. I can appreciate the rest of the world that wants to eat it.

To all of you, be my guests.

I'll feast my eyes. And that's all.