For as long as I can remember I have wanted a chalkboard wall.
I have suggested: the back of the front door, the interior kitchen doors, the children’s exterior hallway doors, the outdoor fence.
It has all come to naught.
No one in my family has understood this deep longing.
Until now.
A few weeks ago, driven by one of the energy-rich auras that is the only good thing about the migraines I sometimes get, I drove to the paint store, bought the paint, the rollers, the foam brush, the drop-cloth, and Finn and I painted the door separating the office from the dining area of our kitchen.
The result: a blackboard, a backdrop, a place to announce the daily menu, or list snack options, or brainstorm, or party plan, or simply write a story or learn letters.
It’s been a big hit. I write our menu daily. Ella adds to it & then some. In between, she writes lists, teaches FInn letters, writes stories. Both kids get a big kick out of it. We tend to have little complaining about dinner. Now we have almost none. Though I do expect the novelty to wear off. Soon.
The first night, pictured above, we had a new dish: Potato Leek Soup, a cheese board, roasted peppers, yellow beans, bread.
Another night, it was all about pie: Cheese pie (actually, quiche, which in fact has no cheese in it, but more about that in another post), Green Beans, Apple Pie.
And it helped to have an artist in the family on Halloween for the party. The Horror D’oeuvres Menu looked like this:
It’s for breakfast, lunch, and everything in between. It may not have improved our cooking, but it’s somewhat improved the dignity of our meals.
I realize that just by writing that title, I run the risk of losing once-happy eaters from our dinner table; somehow they will sense that I consider this meal a winner, and they’ll cringe and complain next time it appears on the table. Eli, using the phrase he adopted from our winter-long reading of the Pooh books, will shake his head and say mournfully, “I’m not in cauliflower corner anymore.”
But, in the interest of spreading the word about a couple things that have worked for us, in the hopes that they might work for you, here is one dinner that my children have, at least in the past, reliably eaten. Check in next week to see if the power of the blog has somehow reduced its appeal.
Pasta with Roasted Cauliflower
1 head of cauliflower
1/3 c pitted olives, very coarsely chopped (or more, to taste)
2-3 tbsp capers (again, more or less depending on how salty you like things)
1 pound of pasta
olive oil
freshly ground black pepper, grated Parmesan cheese, and chopped parsley to taste; toasted bread crumbs would be a nice addition, too, if you happen to have them
Preheat the oven to 400 and put up a big pot of water to boil.
Break the cauliflower up into bite-sized florets (this is the most time-consuming part of the recipe). Toss the cauliflower onto a large baking pan, with the olives and capers, and drizzle a couple tablespoons of olive oil over the lot. Roast, stirring once or twice, for about 20 minutes, until the cauliflower is tender and starting to brown a bit around the edges.
Toward the end of the cauliflower-cooking time, boil the pasta. When it’s done, drain, reserving a half cup or so of the pasta water. Toss the pasta back into the cooking pot with the roasted cauliflower, olives and capers. Add some of the pasta water if it seems too dry. Serve with lots of freshly ground black pepper, grated cheese, a sprinkling of parsley, and some bread crumbs.
Kory was supposed to take Ella and Finn to soccer while I cooked dinner in peace and let the medication work.
Instead we had a fight. Someday Kory may tell his side of the story in his own, excellent blog in graphic form. However, this is my blog.
Somehow, he could not manage, as sometimes happens with X-chromosome-challenged beings to get the children out-the-door-on-time-without-screaming (by which I mean on the part of all involved parties), nor could soccer socks be found, etc, etc, which led to the rescinding of bike-riding promises, which led to the utter devolution of the generally sane family culture we imagine we maintain, which led to the utterance, on my spouse’s part of a tirade of language which is absolutely Not Fit to Print in a family friendly blog, especially when said writer is trying to sell said anthology to a reputable publishing house. And so, in a final burst of anger, guess who walked both children to the park–late– for Finn’s soccer class with her ratty nap clothes and her bed head and her lingering migraine and two still sniffing, shaken-up children?
My only revenge was that I had uttered the stern caveat, “Dinner better be on the table when we get back.”
On the counter was a jar of pizza sauce and a bag of premade pizza dough.
It was not so bad at the park. It was a beautiful afternoon and we had one of those half hours that’s more of a meditation than anything else. Ella and I kicked around the soccer ball a bit, then cheered for her brother then sat quietly on the sidelines. Finn ran around joyfully. Ella & I talked a little about what had happened, how her Dad was wrong to use that language, how I wasn’t quite sure what we’d find when we returned. That Dad might not be at home, which was something he had threatened in his anger. Emptily, I imagined, but there might always be a first.
“You mean he might go to a hotel?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Well, I hope he doesn’t do that,” she said. “That would be a big waste of our money.” To which I could only laugh. It was turning into an okay afternoon.
But we did consider that the kitchen might be a disaster. Which is generally the state of things when Kory cooks. That there might not be dinner. But that I would I make dinner if he hadn’t. We prepared ourselves for whatever might be waiting for us, and that whatever it was, would be okay.
We walked home, less than an hour later. I prepared both kids to be respectful and calm, whatever lay inside. They took off their cleats and we opened the door.
The table was set beautifully, with all the utensils in their proper places.
There were little pots of carrots.
A little pot of sliced pinot grigio salami.
A bowl of steamed, dressed broccoli di cicco.
A plate of fried pimentos di padrone (little hot and sweet fry peppers which are addictive).
The deer tongue lettuce was washed and ready to dress.
The pizza was ready to cook.
The oven was actually preheated.
The counters were clean and the floors were swept.
We got an apology, but as soon as I had seen the table, and the food, and the care he had taken, I hadn’t needed much more.
A very long time ago, the late and much loved chef Barton Rouse taught me that food=love. This does not mean that you reward with food, or anything so simple as that you give a kid food to show them how much you love them, but rather that the context and culture of how you eat says something about how you take care of each other.
It means that food means something.
It means that the small gestures we make every day can sometimes matter in very big ways.
The fact that my husband took the time to forage for the things we loved in the refrigerator, that he prepared them with care, and presented them beautifully, that he cleaned up after himself–that was him loving us. That was him saying he was sorry. That was him saying that our family matters–not through food, exactly, but through the culture of the meal. I would have cooked exactly the same thing, but I was glad nearly to tears that I didn’t have to.
I made sure that both Ella and Finn saw exactly what Dad had done. I made sure that they both saw that the kitchen was clean. Ella was duly impressed. Finn was hungry.
After, we lit the first fire of the season and watched Hercules. The Muses sang.
After that, when I mentioned how great the meal had been, and that I would have to blog about it, Ella corrected me. She insisted I would have tell the whole story, and when I asked her what, exactly, that was she gave me my title.
There’s no way to soft peddle this one: We like the luaus.
Last year, we attended a really terrific one at the Grand Hyatt Kauai: great food, fun entertainment, and an unparalleled site in the garden at the edge of the beach. The appeal was doubled by the fact we could walk there, so there was no limit on the mai tais for me and Kory. Which meant no limit on the juice for the kids. Which was much fun for all, even though we didn’t know that our children were capable of using the bathroom 47 times in 3 hours. This year, Ella and Finn knew a little about what they were getting in to: the music, the dancing, a big feast. They dressed up.
This year, we opted for Smith’s Tropical Paradise, regularly voted “best on the island”, which we had to drive to, but we hoped the spectacle and setting would balance out the restricted liquid consumption.
And Smith’s gardens are gorgeous, well worth a visit even if you’re not there to eat and see the show.
Abundant native fauna, roving peacocks and other fowl, and a short tram ride that can take those with more limited walking capabilities (like those with young children) to the farther corners of the property. We bought bird food, and lobster boy and luau girl had much diversion feeding them.
The center of any luau is the imu pig. An imu is an underground Hawaiian oven, in which one can steam a whole pig, sweet potato, breadfruit, rice puddings, etc. It’s filled with porous rocks, and wood, then lit on fire, the fire heats the rocks, and after the food is lowered, covered with banana leaves, and sealed with dirt, the rocks’ residual heat cooks the food over several hours.
Smith’s has several ovens on their property which at the end of cooking look like this.
The exhuming ceremony begins with a blessing, and a resonant blowing on conch shells to the four points of the compass, after which the earth is dug out.
And yes, it is sort of sexy. Ella and Finn were spellbound.
The banana leaves are lifted, out, then the pig.
And the pig is a wonder to behold.
After the ceremony we proceeded into the open air dining area to eat. There were long tables, and we sat with some other nice tourists, and as Kory & I helped ourselves to the mai tais, Finn & Ella helped themselves to the hawaiian punch, which may well have been the very thing we drank in the 1970s. It was red and sweet and probably full of corn syrup, and they thought it was just great. Finn, especially, drank it in enormous gulps, like a fish, or a boy who had been deprived of liquid sustenance for many hours.
We had to wait for our turn at the food, which was served buffet style, but there was some great live music, to enjoy with the drinks. And a hula lesson which lobster boy and hula girl had been looking forward to.
The food was good, if not excellent, and it was pretty standard luau fare. The centerpiece was the pig, about which the kids were very excited. And even though it was delicious, I had my doubts about whether they would eat it. It’s very brown, and shredded. But when we set the plates in front of Ella and Finn, the imu pig got 4 big thumbs up.
In spite of the juice jag, they ate pretty well, and so once more, it seemed to be the case that the more they know about where their food comes from, the more likely they are to try something new. It was certainly not just about the taste of the pig, which was excellent–tender, highly seasoned–and by far the best part of the meal, but about the whole culture of the meal: the grounds, the train ride, the peacock, the imu, the unearthing ceremony, the fact of the entire enormous pig cooked to perfection right in front of them, the music, the dancing, and even the company of the other guests at our table. They knew that it was special, and that the new food was part of the general excitement. It didn’t matter to me so much that the food was not as good as it had been at the Hyatt, or that they drank more juice in one night than they had in the previous year, but that they had a night where the food was really different, and they began to understand it was part of a larger and different culture, even though, of course, it was a big tourist event.
And, yes, after dinner, there was a show, in an open air theater, with a live volcano, and a lagoon separating the dancers from the audience. It seemed to be the case that this celebration of Pacific Rim cultures has likley not changed since the 1950s, but parts of it were pretty great. The kids, of course, loved it.
And as we left, the tiki torches were lit, which are always magical. And a good photo opportunity for our little warrior.
After a week in Paris, we headed south for a week unlike any we’d ever experienced (or likely will again). To celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary, my parents gathered our family on a barge that toured rivers and canals in the south of France. We were the only passengers, cared for by a crew of five including –most importantly, for this blog’s purposes–a chef named Charlie.
Charlie had his work cut out for him. Among the 13 of us are five vegetarians (two of whom sometimes, depending on the circumstances, eat fish), one vegan, two on low-salt diets, one who tries to avoid chocolate (quel dommage!). We had been in touch about our dietary preferences ahead of time, but in Charlie’s broken English and my faltering French, we spent an hour the first afternoon going over the details, a conversation that resulted in this list:
Later it was simplified to this:
Only Ben and Eli never learned how to eat Charlie’s cooking, and he never quite learned how plain they really wanted their food. By the end of the week, when even unsauced pasta didn’t appeal, I realized it wasn’t his food that they were objecting to; they just wanted home cooking. Failing that, we rationed our one precious jar of peanut butter, spreading it ever-more-thinly on each day’s crusty baguette. The rest of us learned to eat like royalty, trying unfamiliar flavors and combinations, indulging in rich sauces and a week’s supply of wine and cheese served at every meal; the boys stuck with the most prosaic meal of all: pb&j.