Fat Birds

What is so appealing about fat birds? And how can we translate that to me?

Outside my window right now is a fat chickadee. He is so darn cute, I want to grab him and love him right up. He’s everything I could want in a playmate. He’s cuddly. He’s elusive. And he’s well dressed, sporting his jaunty black cap.

I’ve been watching him. He and I have much in common. Seems he was much thinner just a month ago. As was I. Perhaps he, too, used the recent holiday as an excuse to throw a cheese and carb festival at his house. Perhaps, he, too, used the “company’s coming” defense in whipping up a batch of Ina Garten’s Peanut Swirl Brownies. [You know the ones—with a whole pound of butter and over two pounds of chocolate. And peanut butter. Unlawful.] Perhaps he, too, grew up in a nest full of siblings and always thinks there are twenty-five people coming over. When there are only six. I mean, why else would he I bake those too-rich-for-human-consumption brownies, PLUS chocolate chip cookies, thumbprint cookies, banana bread, and Danish wedding cookies?

He’s fattening up to survive winter. Maybe I am, too. The way it’s been snowing here, I could again be blocked from Trader Joe’s for whole days at a time.

If the game is survival of the fattest, me and the bird will win.

Thoughts from a Belgian Bakery

We moved to Bellingham from the east coast five and a half years ago. We wanted the fresh, crisp air, the recreational opportunities, the laid back, liberal atmosphere, and the cultural opportunities we'd have in a college town. And a bakery. Specifically, the Mount Bakery. During our weeks of online research deciding where exactly (more targeted than “as far away from here as possible”) we wanted to move, one of us (can’t remember which) found this little jewel and said to the other, “and there’s a REAL BAKERY! A REAL BAKERY!” and that pretty much sealed the deal.

Have you clicked on the link yet? Do it! Listen to the delightful accordion music and let it transport you to a Parisian sidewalk café. Imagine that you’re lifting a flaky, buttery croissant or pain d’chocolate to your eager mouth. Visualize the crumbs all over your lips and chin. Revel in the orgasmic waves of pleasure that engulf you.

Ahem. Before this becomes a post for an erotica site, I should digress immediately.

I was sitting in the Mount Bakery a couple of weeks ago, awaiting the arrival of my breakfast date. My friend and I meet for breakfast once every month or so. We don’t meet for drinks (she’s a non-drinker) or for lunch or dinner, or for shopping. We don’t visit each other at home. We see our respective spouses at occasional community events. But other than our breakfast dates, we’re not in each other’s lives. And that works for us.

Except for when she forgets and doesn’t show up. Then I have the pleasure of sitting in the café, sipping their delightful organic, fair-trade, shade-grown coffee and just looking around. All alone—just me, my fellow breakfasters and my observations:

• Deep, not-too-bright red and mustardy-goldy yellow is one of my favorite color combinations. Vivid and cheery, with just the right amount of depth. And perfect for a breakfast café (or a fast food hamburger joint, come to think of it). Hmmm . . . would that work in my home office?
  

• Apparently some people in this world actually sit around and eat chocolate croissants on regular, old, average Wednesdays in April. And they don’t look the least bit guilty or worried about it. Imagine that.





• Is there a more beautiful word than creperie? But then, there are patisserie and boulangerie. Ooh, and I also love toile. Why, oh why did I have to be born in New York instead of France?? The injustice.

• I can’t decide whether to be a pastry chef or a brewmistress when I grow up.

Either way, I’m guaranteed to be happy. (And fat. But happy fat.) And I wonder. . . what am I waiting for? Like George Burns said, “I’d rather be a failure at something I enjoy than a success at something I hate.”

Isn’t that a delicious way to think?

My Stolen Food Story

Last month, I was lucky enough to attend a fantastic writers conference close to my home. One class, led by Deborah Madison, prolific cookbook author and promoter of the Slow Foods Movement, was about journaling life through the lens of food. We all shared how food shaped our childhoods, and how we associated food and our mothers and our fathers. Then Deborah asked us to write about the stolen food in our pasts. Stolen food? Puzzled looks crossed many faces as if to say, Moi? And then, delicious, mischievous expressions replaced the haughty ones as each writer put pen to page.

As it turned out, no one in the class had difficulty crafting an essay right away. One gentleman, about my dad’s age, wrote that he and his friends fed themselves during the Depression by stealing green apples off of trees, grapes from the vine, and watermelons from railcars. The lady who owned the grapevines always chased the boys from her field—while never picking any grapes herself. And since those long-ago days of his youth, the man won’t eat sweet apples—he longs for the tartness of the unripe fruit from his youth. They just never tasted as good as they did when were stolen.

Another writer shared her story of stealing a block of Vermont cheddar cheese from a Manhattan gourmet market—when she could well afford to buy it. She secreted the two-pound chunk within the folds of a voluminous coat and likewise kept her secret all these years, wrapped in layers of shame and need.

As for me, I had a hard time getting started—I couldn’t think of a time I had stolen food. I was the kid who NEVER stole penny candy because being raised Paranoid Roman Catholic, I knew beyond a doubt that stealing would ensure that, upon leaving the corner store with my precious stolen Boston Baked Beans or Devil Dogs, I would immediately be flattened by a passing delivery truck and go STRAIGHT TO HELL. I have never stolen any food, I thought. And then a thought bubble appeared over my head.

Ahhhh, yes. The cupcake.

This is my stolen food story.

Have you ever been inside a real Italian bakery? Have you witnessed the piles of chewy pignolis, flaky butter cookies, the gleaming tortes, the orgasmic cannoli? You know what I’m talkin’ about, eh? If not, fuggedaboudit, because readers reader, you have not lived. To taste authentic Italian pastries is to dance just outside the gates of heaven.

Unfortunately for me and my chubby thighs, I grew up right next to the Italian part of town, and my daily walk to elementary school took me past Rossi’s Bakery. (It also took me past a bowling alley, two bars, a pizza joint and a corner diner, but they were meaningless then and now.) The sweet smells wafting through the air set my mouth to watering as I peered through the plate glass window—my daily exercise in frustration and longing.

Once in a while my mom would let me accompany her while she picked up a loaf of Italian bread or some snowflake rolls. (Oooohhhhh, snowflake rolls! Your rich, buttery insides are exquisite beyond belief, outdone only by your soft, flour-dusted crusts!) On certain, perfect days when the birds were singing tra la la, the counter lady in her starched apron and white polyester uniform would grab a waxed paper square, pick out a chocolate chip cookie, and hand it over to me. “Say thank you,” my mom would say.

“But I’d rather have a cupcake,” I would think, gobbling the cookie anyway while I stared through the glass case. I had never seen cupcakes like these: each a perfect replica of the next. Each with exactly the same number of swirls in the frosting, the same pattern of multi colored sprinkles or even silver sparkles.

Oh, yes, I wanted one. And each time I asked my mom, the answer was the same: “NO.” Dammit, life was as unfair as it could possibly be.

But my luck was about to change. One day, mom called me to the kitchen. “Run to the store and get a loaf of bread, nothing else, and bring me my change. And hurry, dinner’s ready in twenty minutes.” Off to the corner market I went, bought the bread, wrapped one chubby hand around the tie wrap of the bread bag and the other around mom’s change, and walked back home.

Where the miracle occurred. Instead of putting out her own two hands—one for the bread, one for the change—mom only asked for the bread. I slyly slipped the change into my pocket—I think it was twenty-eight cents—and quickly left the room.

For days, I waited for her to ask me for the change. She never did. After a few weeks, I figured she had forgotten all about it. The coast was clear! My chance was upon me! Cupcakes filled every dream while I hatched my plan.

The morning of my heist, I walked past the bakery on my way to school, just like every other day. I peered past my reflection through the plate glass window, just like every other day. I spied my perfect cupcake waiting there for me, taunting me, just like every other day. But I knew that this day was not just like every other—this was one I had been waiting for.

At school, the hours shuffled by until at last the bell rang and I was free to claim my sweet prize. I anticipated the sugary frosting and dark chocolate cake as I flew out of the building and through the gate, down the street and around the corner. For the first time, I boldly entered the bakery knowing that finally, I would have what I wanted.

I faced the white starch lady and asked for a cupcake. She looked at me incredulously, but bent over and slid the mirrored door open on the case anyway. “That’ll be twenty-five cents,” she said. Smiling, I handed over the money that I had secreted away from my mother all those many days.

My eyes glowed with expectation as I left the bakery with my treasure. For a few blocks, I carried it in both hands, admiring its curves and swirls. Then slowly I peeled away part of the paper wrapper and took a bite. Nothing could have made me any happier. Down the street I walked, savoring my sweet, sweet cupcake in surprisingly small bites. Frosting coated my upper lip. I licked the paper, trying to make it last as long as possible, but knew I must finish it before I arrived home and raised the suspicion of my entire family.

In my sugary stupor I lowered my guard, forgetting that I was Up to Something, when suddenly I heard a shout: “Hey! Where did you get THAT??”

Jolted out of my bliss, I looked around in dismay to see who had ruined another of the relatively few good days of my early adolescence. It was my brother. My brother, who knew that I didn’t have money of my own to be spending on cupcakes. My brother, who knew that if our mother had given me money for a cupcake, he damn sure was going to get one, too. I was busted. I managed a lame “none of your beeswax” or something, and gobbled up the rest of my suddenly oversweet cake. It went down in a big lump.

I dreaded the confrontation that awaited me. Sure enough, when I reached home, brother John (taller, thinner, swifter) had already told mom what he saw. I knew this the moment I met her in the kitchen, and I knew that she knew where the money had come from. “That was my change, wasn’t it, Claire?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling ashamed and full of regret.

I don’t remember my punishment, but I’ve never forgotten how it felt to get away with something (quite an accomplishment in a family of my size, when twelve sets of eyes were usually upon me), to have something I really wanted (of course it was food-related; many lifelong issues around that subject), and to be caught in the end, ensuring that my joy was short-lived and ultimately guilt-inducing.

While the joy was fleeting, the feelings around the incident shaped much of my young life. Who was I to have such pleasure? I didn’t deserve it. Silly me, enjoying a treat out in the open like that—it’s far better to be sneaky with food. Then, no one can harass you about needing to lose weight. The guilt and shame piled up, over and over, like so many layers on a cake, until I pushed it back down with a squeaky clean plate at the dinner table, a trip to the cookie jar, or a big piece of mom’s home baked blueberry pie. With ice cream, of course.

Bugs in the Food, Part II (Lunch Spoiler Alert)

Oh, good Christ. This was in D.'s sandwich just now, dead from either the freezer, microwave or broiler. The poor thing didn't stand a chance of surviving that triple-whammy. Luckily, he found it before he ate it. After a "What the. . ." he put it in a tissue and brought it to me. My ohmygod ewwwww get that thing away from me!!!! reaction could not be described as kind, as I had resolved to be, but neither was it profoundly bitchy or sarcastic, so I gave myself a pass.

I do not like this particularly crunchy-looking insect at all, particularly its pincer parts. What do they DO with those, anyway? Must go to Wikipedia and see.

How did it get into a sandwich in our house? I'll tell you my theory: D.'s favorite bread in all the land is a seeded baguette made by a local bakery. It is perfect in every way, crusty outside, light inside and covered with poppy, sesame, and caraway seeds. Or are they fennel? No matter, they're spicy good. Now, you'll recall our bug-infested jumbo shells from Christmas weekend. Is it a mere coincidence that said local bakery sells their breads in that SAME grocery store? I daresay it is not, but a deliberate plan to keep me from shopping there ever again; indeed, to keep me from supporting a local (albeit huge corporate Republican type) company and to force me to continue my new love affair with Trader Joe's!

If only all my problems were this. . . well, tiny and insignifcant. But why focus on the big issues, when the wind is howling outside, our animals are safe and secure and at our feet inside, and all of our needs: shelter, water, companionship, books, tea, cute eyeglasses and plenty of (bug-filled) food are met? Life is good today in the House of Earwhig Earwig (thanks, Melanie!).

Groaning with Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: La Parte Tres

Greetings and welcome to the final report on our Christmas International Food Frenzy. Now, Claire's father may not appreciate foreign cuisine, but his daughter surely does. I love real Mexican, and it loves me back (and me thighs, and me upper arms). The chiles! The cheese! The tortillas! All good and so good for you.

Christmas was our last night together as an extended family for a while, and while we probably did not need another meal after the previous evening's Indian feast, we started cooking again anyway. It was great fun.

On the Menu:
Chile Quilles (supplied by friend D.)
Three Sisters Burritos
with roasted squash, pinto beans and corn

from

Take a peek at their menu. Creative, healthy food that makes me swoon. Not unlike Mrs. G. swoons over Hugh Jackman.

This is a good dish for company. It presents nicely. You are going to dirty a few pots and pans, but oh, is it worth it. I serve this often to serious carnivores and they act like they really like it. Raves! I get raves!

The Ingredients:

3 pounds butternut squash

1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon vegetable oil, divided

1 1/2 teaspoons ancho chile powder

1 1/2 teaspoons salt, divided

1 tablespoon maple syrup

Juice of 1/2 lime

1 1/2 cups corn, fresh or frozen

1 14 oz can pinto beans, drained and rinsed*

1/2 bunch cilantro, stemmed and chopped

2 teaspoons chipotle puree (follows)

3 1/2 cups grated white cheddar cheese

6 whole wheat tortillas*

Mesa red sauce (recipe follows) or other favorite red sauce

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Peel and seed the squash, and chop into 3/4" cubes. Toss with 1 tablespoon oil, ancho powder, 1 teaspoon salt, maple syrup and lime juice and spread out in a glass baking dish. Roast until tender, about 20 minutes. Transfer the roasted squash to a large bowl, and spread the corn in the same baking dish. Toss with 1 teaspoon oil and a pinch of salt and roast 10 minutes. Combine the squash and corn and cool. Toss in the beans, cilantro and chipotle puree and season to taste.

To roll the burritos, lay a tortilla out in front of you and spread about 1 cup of filling across the middle. Top with 1/3 cup of cheese and roll the tortilla around the filling to form a cylinder. Place seam-side down on a lightly oiled baking dish and repeat with remaining filling. Spoon sauce over the tortillas and sprinkle with remaining cheddar. Cover the pan with foil and bake 30 minutes at 350 degrees until heated through. Remove foil for a final 5 minutes to melt the cheese on top.

*Notes: I have often omitted the maple syrup when I was out of it.
I sometimes use chili beans and don't rinse them all the way.
Trader Joe's homemade whole wheat tortillas are very good.

Chipotle Puree
Buy a little can of chipotles in adobo sauce. I buy this:

Whirl it all up in the blender or food processor and put it in a jar. That's it. This stuff is so good--it's smokey and hot and flavorful. ONLY USE A LITTLE BIT. You can add more, but you won't want to. Use it in and on everything. Really really good mixed with butter for corn on the cob. Equally yummy in chili. Add some to sour cream and dollop on Mexican food. Put a little in mac and cheese. Adds zing to guacamole. Makes barbeque sauce lip-smackable. The rebar gals are on my secret girlfriend list (now there's a posting idea) for introducing me to this heavenly flavor sensation.

Mesa Red Sauce
Put DOWN that canned enchilada sauce and make this instead:
The Ingredients:

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/2 yellow onion, diced

6 garlic cloves, minced

4 tablespoons masa harina

4 tablespoons ancho chile power

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

1/4 teaspoon cayenne powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon cracked pepper

1 tablespoon minced oregano

4 cups vegetable stock or water, heated

2 tablespoons tomato paste

1 teaspoon brown sugar

Heat the oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onions and saute until translucent. Add garlic and cook 3 minutes. Sprinkle in the masa harina and stir constantly as it cooks and turns golden.

Add the spices and oregano and stir for another 2 minutes. Slowly whisk in the warm vegetable stock and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and whisk in the tomato paste and sugar.

Simmer partially covered for 30 minutes, stirring regularly. Season to taste.

This Christmas will be remembered as one of my favorites. I was surrounded by friends and family that I love, and we simply enjoyed our time together without artificial deadlines and unnecessary expectations. I hope 2008 will be a year of happy memories, good health, and peace in all of your homes and hearts. Happy New Year!

Groaning with Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: Part (how do you say “two” in punjabi?)

Our to-die-for Indian feast took place on Christmas Eve, that holiest of nights when families observe sacred traditions, passed on through the generations. The Midnight Mass tradition. The “just one” gift opening tradition. The visits to loved ones tradition.

Or in our case, the visit to the brewpub tradition. Each year since we moved here in 2002, we have stopped by “our” brewpub on Christmas Eve. Devoid of crowds (I mean, who goes out drinking beer on Christmas eve, geesh! Scoundrels!), dark and quiet, it is as sacred to us as any cathedral. The gigantic tree sweeping the thirty-foot ceiling made us feel all festive inside—or was that the sublime IPA or seasonal winter brew we quaffed? No matter, we were sure happy to be there.

And this year was no exception, but for the MASSIVE CROWD OF SCOUNDRELS that preceded us. Where normally about a half-dozen worshippers shared the sanctity of the place with the proprietors (all the staff was off duty), this year the word got out and we could barely get ourselves a table. Behind the bar, where once the owner pulled our Christmas pints (and give them to us for free), were two bartenders scrambling to keep up. In place of the manager, stopping by our table to visit with a plate of homemade macaroons, was our favorite friendly, but frenzied, waitress, who was trying to get home to be with her kids. Our manager friend was swamped in the kitchen, and we had to go back and stick our heads in the door to get a Merry Christmas! in. Worst of all—there were so many people drinking WINE* in the place that I thought we had entered the wrong building by mistake. Oh, it was sad, alright. We could not believe our eyes. The owner even apologized to us! I’m sorry, guys, he said, I don’t know what happened this year.

And so another Christmas tradition has become commercialized and ugly. I don’t blame all those folks for wanting in on something good. Oh—wait—of course I do. They should have kept their wine-drinking asses at home where they belong! Sniff, sniff. This was OUR tradition, dammit. *I love wine, oh I do, but not in a brewpub on Christmas Eve when the beer lovers can't get a table.

Afterward in years past, we would head over to our Unitarian Universalist fellowship for the Christmas Eve service, buoyed by the happiness in our bellies hearts.

This year, we had another service in mind: make some gooooood Indian food and serve it up as soon as possible. So we went home and got busy.

With no casualties or cut fingers this time, and no bugs in the food to deal with, we measured, chopped and stirred, and presto! presented the following for our friends’ and family’s enjoyment (and kids, DO try this at home):

Christmas Eve Indian Feast Menu

Dal with Basmati Rice (simply the best ever)
Lentil, Pea & Potato Curry, courtesy of Mediterrasian, a lovely website by a New Zealander and an Australian
Basmati Rice with Dried Fruit, Almonds, and Coconut (I'm eating some now. Yum! Friend D. brought it, let me know if you'd like the recipe and I'll post it)
Some chicken dish that our friend D. brought over for the carnivores in the house
Naan from Trader Joe's (so easy! and so good! why make it yourself?)

The Lentil, Pea, and Potato Curry was one of the best I've ever made or eaten anywhere. Note the recipe is for two servings, so double or triple at will. It is soooo good.

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We make the Dal often. It is a combination of two recipes: Dal with Coconut Cream and Red Lentil Dal with Aromatics from Vegetarian Cooking For Everyone, by Deborah Madison, food goddess:

Ingredients:

1 cup red lentils

3 cups water

½ teaspoon salt

1 garlic clove

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro stems

2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger

3 tablespoon ghee or clarified butter*, divided

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, sliced

1 jalapeño chile, seeded and chopped

½ teaspoon turmeric

1 15 oz can unsweetened coconut milk

salt

2 shallots, sliced

1 dried red chile, broken into pieces

3 bay leaves

1 teaspoon mustard seeds

Wash the lentils thoroughly and drain well. Combine with 3 cups water and salt in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer until they have disintegrated and turned mushy, about 20 minutes. If needed, add more water.

Meanwhile, pound or puree the garlic clove, cilantro stems, and ginger together. Add them to the cooked lentils.

Heat 2 tablespoons ghee over medium-high heat, then sauté the onion, garlic, and jalapeño chile for 1 minute. Add turmeric and sauté everything until the onions are soft. Add to the pot of lentils. Pour in the coconut milk. Taste for seasoning and add salt if desired.

Heat remaining 1 tablespoon ghee over high heat. Add the shallots, dried red chile, bay leaves, and mustard seeds, and sauté about 1 minute, until mustard seeds turn grey. Stir into lentils and serve with cooked basmati or jasmine rice.

*Note: I always use regular butter, because I am far too lazy to clarify it or to make ghee. However, I recently read that ghee is the only acceptable fat to use in Indian cooking, and that it makes all the difference. I plan on making some soon, and will likely regret every dish I ever made without it.

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Perfect Basmati (or Jasmine) Rice
from Rebar Modern Food Cookbook


Rebar is our most favorite restaurant in Victoria, BC. Amazing food! You will see more in Part Tres of our Holiday International Food Frenzy

Prepare yourself for rice ecstasy!
Combine in a heavy saucepan:

3 ½ cups water

2 cups uncooked rice

1 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon butter

Heat to a boil. As soon as it starts boiling, put a tight-fitting lid on the pan and lower the heat to the lowest possible setting and set the timer for 18 minutes.

When the timer goes off, turn off the heat and let it sit for 5 minutes.

Fluff with a fork, and amaze your friends.

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And it came to pass that a new Christmas Eve tradition was born, on a star-filled night in the Pacific Northwest.

And peace abounded in the hearts of all who shared it.

Dad's Food Comment

In the midst of our Christmas food frenzy, my phone was passed from my my sticky, onion-and-garlic-covered hand to my brother's clean one (he appreciated that) so he could send good wishes to the thirty New York relatives on the other end.


Brother: "Hey, Dad, we're having a great time and eating some great food! Sunday we had Italian, last night was Indian, and tonight is Mexican!"

Dad's deadpan comment: "What's wrong with American?"

Sorry, we were fresh out of hot dogs.

Groaning With Christmas/Seasonal/Holiday Joy: Part I

Our goal was to have family and friends over and spend QHT while eating good food and drinking better beer and wine.

We certainly succeeded.

After a late Friday night at a club, listening to a favorite band (as if still in our twenties), we slept in on Saturday and then tried to clean the house for awhile. Having no fun, we ditched that plan and watched Christmas (“the little lights are not twinkling”) Vacation instead.

On Sunday we got ready for company and cleaned for a few hours, then headed to the grocery store where we spent a whopping and ridiculous three hundred bucks, seventeen of which went for a single bottle of olive oil I had picked up in error. In my righteousness, I accused the grocery store of overcharging (in my humble defense I offer that they do indeed overcharge us on a regular basis, which I thought was nearly impossible with the ubiquitous bar-coding of our society, but they do).

Way behind schedule, I was just putting away the last of the groceries when company all arrived. Together we started preparing the first of our Amazing Meals: welcome to Italian Night! I had stuffed shells on my mind, and dug out my favorite cookbook cooking website and thanks to that skinny Italian chick, had a fab recipe just waiting for me. I substituted this



for the pancetta. (If you’re just joining us, D. and I are vegetarians. Well, I am, and D. tries. Real hard. His heart’s not completely in it, but it’s 98% there.)

While my sister-in-law and I were chopping, chopping, chopping (and I was cutting my left index finger and my right thumb), D. ran back to the grocery store to apprise them of their grievous error and collect our cash. Turns out I had really chosen a $17 bottle of olive oil. Sheah, right?? I like my family, but. . . no. D. returned the bottle and purchased a more reasonably-priced model. Mass-produced and probably environmentally unfriendly (oops) to boot, but affordable.

Meanwhile, I dumped a box of jumbo shells into boiling water and up to the surface floated not only a few of the shells, but a handful of tiny brown things. Upon closer inspection, the little brown things revealed they were each sporting a pair of wings and a few dozen legs. WHAAAAT??? I inspected the box, searching for some sort of explanation, while my cousin offered, “Oh, they’re just a little added protein.” Chuckle, chuckle, upchuck. The glue holding the box ends together was littered with bug bodies and there were a few survivors still crawling around.

ICK. When D. returned from the store, I showed him the pot of doom and the box o’bugs. He grabbed both boxes for evidence and headed back to the store for another refund (this time truly not my bad). He called me from the store to report that every effin' box was crawling with creepy little insects (just going about the business of survival, but still). The clerk who assisted him with his return and subsequent empty handedness said, “Yeah, we’ve been having problems with bugs in these boxes.”

“Great—thanks, I’ll head to Trader Joe’s,” said D., barfing a little as he left.

Without our shells, the rest of us were stymied: we couldn’t do anything beyond making the sauce, mixing the filling, and shredding a pile of mozzarella. So we drank beer. And chatted and chatted. And looked up favorite You Tube videos to share. Nothing better than Brenda Dickson's Welcome to My Home to make you laugh so hard your beer comes out of your nose. . . but that wasn't me.

D. called from the road. “TJ’s is out of ‘em . . . I’m heading to the other store.”

He called again. “They’re out, too. . . I’m heading to Fred’s.” Who knew that stuffed shells were such a holiday tradition in the Pacific Northwest? In New York where I come from, Italians are everywhere and each family makes at least ten pounds of pasta per person for the holidays. I don’t think I’ve met the first Italian-type person here. But I’m sure they exist, because they bought all of my shells.

Finally D. arrived back at the hacienda with pest-free shells. We proceeded with our dish, the girls stuffing and spooning sauce and the boys watching and drinking beer. (At least they stayed in the kitchen with us.) I messed up the recipe, though (could it be the beer?) and dumped the mozzarella into the ricotta instead of putting it on top. Pity—it made the filling a little heavier than I preferred, but nobody complained.

We sat down to dinner at about 10 p.m. How very European of us. How very Italian of us. At that rate, we should have followed dinner with Midnight Mass, but. . . no. We followed dinner with Trivial Pursuit. My cousin, who is beyond brilliant, and would have won had he stayed, left for home at about 1:30. The rest of us could not, would not stop playing until the game was over.

I actually won. It was 3:20 a.m. Our friend D. went home and the rest of us went to bed.

That was food, drink, and game night #1. It was grand.

The next morning I got out of bed at 10:52 a.m. Wow. I needed the sleep to prepare for our next gastronomical adventure: Indian Night! Details to come. . . .