goods and heroes

gravy, part 2

We celebrated Thanksgiving on Thursday  . . .  and on Friday . . . we celebrated it again! This time we joined my friend Suzanna at her home in Oak Park. She had a friend visiting from Germany who wanted to experience an "authentic" American Thanksgiving. (!!!) There were to be about 10 of us total and when we arrived the bird was pretty much done as was the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and the cranberry relish. Suzanna's friend Brad made the bird, he pulled it out of the oven and I can say without histrionics that it was the most gorgeous cooked turkey I have ever seen. He had tucked sage leaves under the skin and it was caramel-colored and smelled like heaven.

A few of us were standing there, slightly in awe of its beauty when Suzanna came into the kitchen, took one look at me and said, "So, you're making the gravy, right?" And I did one of those look-over-your-shoulder-for-the-person-that's-not-there moves. "Me?" I said, almost squeaking. "Yes, you. You're always talking about your mother's gravy and how kick-ass it is." (It's true, I even mentioned my mother's gravy when I spoke at her memorial service.) "But that was my mother's gravy. It's not, like, genetic, you know," I said a teentsy bit defensively. "Well, I am sure you and Brad will figure something out," she said grinning in the way she does, as she walked out of the kitchen. And so I smiled at this Brad person, who I'd just met like 17 minutes prior, who seemed really nice and obviously knew his way around a turkey. "You good at gravy?" I asked. "It's been a few years," he said quietly. Oh jeez, I thought to myself, I will just do this. I can do this. I mean, how many years can you watch people over their shoulders and not do it? So I did it. I couldn't make the gravy directly in the pan that the bird had been roasted in (which was always the Sally method) but that didn't thwart me too much. I channeled my mom, remembered Ira's steps the night before and melted a knob of butter in the pan. Once it was frizzly I sprinkled on the flour. I then browned the flour and scraped it around the pan. Then Brad gave me a pot full of pan drippings that were so aromatic and rich tasting, I knew I wouldn't need to use salt or even chicken broth. I poured in the drippings, cranked up the heat and just stirred my little heart out. The gravy started to darken and thicken. I then added some chopped giblets.

It was beginning to look, smell and even taste like gravy. Suzanna came back in. "Is that gravy done, girlfriend? I'm starving." I got a wink but I knew I needed to finish it off. I let it thicken a bit more, gave it a sprinkle of pepper and then Suzanna helped me finish it off with just a lacing of milk. (She's good for these kind of final and light touches, whether it be with food or design.)  It wasn't as thick as I would have liked, but it wasn't watery either. I guess my frame of reference is for really thick gravy. But not everyone likes it that way. And also, I had just whipped up this pan of gravy in something like thirteen minutes. You get what you get with a thirteen minute gravy.

It was good, it truly was so flavorful because the pan drippings had been so amazing. (And the turkey wasn't just good looks, it was rocking and moist and fabuloso.) But I did it. I made a pan of gravy on the fly and without any kind of recipe or measurements or instructions from any friend or higher power. I just went with my gut. And now I know I can do it. And if Ira decides to go to Costa Rica for Thanksgiving next year, or I actually want to cook my own turkey one day (gasp!) I know that I can step up and make a decent maybe even delicious pan of gravy. And for that, I am thankful.

gravy, part 1

I hope you had a festive and happy Thanksgiving.  We celebrated with Grandma and Grandpa (and all the Chicago cousins and Aunts and Uncles) in Hyde Park on Thursday. Over the years this has evolved into a such a happy and easygoing gathering. Franny makes the turkey and the guests bring all the sides. I woke up on Thursday, skipped the parades on TV and made my bread, sausage and water chestnut stuffing. I just love the simplicity of bringing one pot to the celebration and adding it to all the others on the table (Larry's bread, Carole's sweet potatoes, Rachel's cranberry sauce, Allison's salad). It sounds corny as all get out, but I think this communal approach is very much in the spirit of the original Thanksgiving gathering, no? Only, I don't think the Pilgrim's stuffing (if they even ate it way back then) came to the supper in a much loved Le Creuset after rattling around the back of an old Volvo wagon . . .

No matter, do you know what my very favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal is? It's the gravy. Ah, the gravy. I believe strongly that the gravy can make or ruin a turkey gathering. A so-so turkey, most people are willing to overlook and happily douse some gravy over the top. Ditto for dry stuffing or too lumpy mashed potatoes. But if you have bad or (gasp!) no gravy, well it just doesn't seem like Thanksgiving to me. Of course, I am biased and sentimental since my mom made a righteously good gravy and it was the very last thing that was set on the table. When the gravy appeared, we had the green light to start passing all the other platters.

But the last five or so years we have celebrated Thanksgiving here in Chicago and we have looked to Ira, a second cousin of Ted's (by marriage)  to make the gravy at Thanksgiving. And every year, he totally delivers. He melts the butter and then makes a roux with flour and then adds the pan drippings and stirs and stirs and lets it reduce. I am usually standing around, watching, talking, being somewhere between a busy-body and a truly interested witness. As I am typing this, it is dawning on me that I almost always hung very close to my mom as she did the final phases of the gravy, so I bet I like to be by Ira and his gravy making because it is where I was always was as a kid. But to be totally honest, in those first years of the Ira-graving-making, I stood close guard because I wanted to make sure he was doing it "right." Not that I am any whiz at gravy-making, that's for certain. But I am an obsessive observer of how proper gravy is made. That seems to be an annoying culinary skill of mine, I can tell you how it's supposed to be done, even if I haven't made it or haven't stepped forward to make the thing itself.

But back to Ira and the gravy. It's not as rich as my mom's, and it's actually lighter in color, but I also think it has half the fat, which isn't necessarily a bad thing at all. But it is thick and full of the flavor of the bird and so, so good. Plus, Ira is able to make the gravy and entertain the ever changing throngs who zip, bump and waddle through the kitchen, ranging from pets, toddlers and guests who want to chat and even a certain pesky cousin-in-law who insists on peeking at her stuffing in the oven.

Just as you know, things often don't go as planned, especially around the holidays and when you are in the heat of gravy making in a kitchen that isn't yours. And so Ira had his gravy done and was ladling it into the two gravy boats. As he was ladling the gravy in, something happened, I still don't know what, but I came in and the pan was upended and there was a glorious rich, thick wall of golden gravy flowing over the top of the stove (think Niagara Falls) and onto the kitchen floor. Ira was standing there, with his wooden spoon in his hand, sort of frozen and gasping and chewing back words that would make a sailor blush. It really did feel like slow motion the minute I saw it. But then a spoon was grabbed and a wide bowl came into play and we managed to sort of squeegee all the gravy floating on the stove top into the second gravy boat. The gravy on the floor was lost, lapped up by the dogs and an assortment of wet rags. 

Ira was blue for a short spell and I so understood why . . . after stirring and making this liquid gold, this humble but beautiful concoction, he had to watch more than half of it literally be washed away. Onto the the floor. But after a little time to breathe and a Zen-like moment to be reminded that we had two very full boats of gravy, his spirits were up and he was ready to enjoy the gathering and the array of dishes. And so we went and piled up our plates with amazing food and yes, poured the wonderful gravy on the parts where we wanted it. Every last drop of gravy from those two boats was devoured. Scoured out in happy gleaning.

That was grace under fire, for Ira and that was good gravy.  I am so thankful for that.

wellness

It's a tricky term, "wellness" . . . sort of smacks of New Age action and health-care spin. But there is one thing I do believe about wellness -- it can be whatever it is you want it to be. I'll give you an example. When I was living in Boulder, CO (certainly a contender for the wellness capital of the US if there were to be such a distinction) and working for my sister at the Fresh Ideas Group, the employees were given a monthly "wellness" stipend. At first I was flummoxed. I am not big on fitness classes or fancy gyms and hadn't even tried yoga yet, I was basically dreading having to sign up for some sort of organized exercise class. But then my sister reminded us all that wellness can mean whatever we want it to. It can mean renting a kayak or taking a cooking class to learn how to make green curry or even buying fancy red leather cowboy boots. They simply wanted to support us to be happy and relaxed and to feel well. I can't remember all that I did with my monthly fun money but I think I bought a new tent and maybe some tickets to see a concert and I think I also used it to get my hair lightened. (I definitely feel better about myself and the world in general when I don't have scary dark roots on my scalp.)

Anyhow, long gone are the days of having a monthly stipend to feel well, but happily a lot of different versions of wellness happened in my life this week. Some of them even pertaining to (gasp!)  . . . fitness!

That's right. On Wednesday I went with a friend to her favorite yoga studio and it was by far, the most athletic and fast-paced class I have ever taken. But the teacher was sassy and supportive and the next thing you know Bonnie Jean Tawse was doing hand stands and head stands and even this crazy backwards bridge against the wall pose. I was terrified for a few seconds (spunky yoga teachers says to me, "Honey, you've got to keep breathing, okay?") but I got over it/breathed and didn't collapse into a heap on the floor. I get so jacked up in the best way when I get pushed to the place of being scared but then doing something difficult and new. I think they call that adrenaline, right? 

And after the class, my friend B. took me to this Chinese Reflexology Foot Massage place. It was supremely simple and beautiful and I want to go back right now. They soaked our feet in hot water, rubbed every inch of them vigorously with scented lotions and even threw in a temple, head and neck massage just to seal the deal. It was $30 for 40 minutes. There was no speaking, just some classical music, the sound of bubbling water and an over-sized chair to melt into. What a glorious treat! My only concern is that we were the only people there and the only ones on the books for the day. Frankly, I want this business to survive (and so do my feet). So if you live in Chicago, check them out at 2512 N. Lincoln Ave, the phone is 773-244-3797.

On Friday night there was a Holiday Party on Millennium Park's Pritzker Stage. I've only been on the stage once before, and that was years ago, before I even worked for MP. So to be standing there, looking out into the night with the Modern Wing beyond, with a fancy-pants Peartini thing in my hand, a little make-up on for a change and my co-workers laughing around me, well, that was certainly good for me and my spirits.

 
And lastly, wellness came to me last night in the form of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. (You knew there was going to be food involved at some point, right?) We had a send-off party for my boss who is moving to Portland, Oregon. And while it was certainly a bittersweet affair, I was very much honored that she chose my place as the location where she wanted to say good-bye. I made homemade tomato soup and two different gussied up versions of grilled cheese: one with Gouda and sliced pear and the other with carmelised onions and blue cheese. There were about 20 of us packed into the kitchen and the dining room, the room smelled like hot apple cider and people were talking plants and pancakes and about what makes a place great and I was flipping grilled cheese sandwiches and making comforting food for people in my tiny kitchen. It felt good, it made me feel like I was even spreading a little wellness and cheer. And when you get to share it, it feels even better.

I hope you have some happy moments of wellness, in whatever form works for you, as we veer right into the holiday season. If you want to join me for a foot massage, do let me know!

weekend

Here are a few images from this weekend . . .

 

 

 

We managed to to hit the MCA, enjoy a cool little park, do lots of our own art at home and then ended the weekend with a cookie caper party over at Binth (with great goody boxes to boot!) and then green chile burritos with an old friend. Art, sand and leaves, butter, burritos and friends? Not bad. Not bad at all.

dia de los muertos, part 2

We had ourselves a little Day of the Dead fiesta here last night. I figured it was time for me to get together with friends and honor my mom in an upbeat, colorful and communal way. (It was her birthday on Friday and so it made twice as much sense to celebrate.)

Both Sam and I really enjoyed the art activities they had at the Mexican Fine Art Museum when we went last week. So we set up a table for the kids where you could decorate a skull and make a couple of ofrendas. Over at Secret Agent Josephine's blog I found this whimsical ofrenda download, so I printed some of those up. 

I went to the Dulcelandia store to get some cajeta lollipops and I noticed they had blank sugar skulls for sale. Blank as in you get to decorate them yourself. I was so excited when I saw them I let out a little yelp. I bought a box of 20 and the lollipops and smiled all the way home. For the party I made a super basic royal icing, dyed it different colors and set everything out.

It was messy going with the skulls but the kids dug it. I mean, come on--hyper-bright sugary icing stuck to your fingers which you have to lick off? Not such a bad deal. Plus, I put out these tiny gum drops which the kids used as little fetching hats and then popped a few in their mouths. 

 
Oh and we ate, how we ate! I made sopa de tortilla and picked up a couple dozen tamales down in Pilsen. My neighbor Beth brought an enormous bowl of guacamole, my friend Sarah brought a gorgeous bowl of brothy beans and my other neighbor Maria brought dozens of delicious chicken and green chile burritos (made with chiles we brought back from Colorado) and a wonderful bowl of Mexican red rice. It felt like an old fashioned neighborly pot luck, in the best way. We had good conversation, the kids were tearing around the house, we went back for seconds and we just got to hang out with each other. It was exactly what I wanted it to be. Exactly. 

 

dia de los muertos

I've been kind of stuck on what to post, what to say, really. I don't want this blog to be this morose, sad place and yet I don't think I am ready to totally switch gears and my tone and tell you about say, a really righteous doughnut experience or a cutesy craft I stumbled upon. But I think I found the perfect segue for where I am at . . . Dia de los Muertos. Day of the Dead is a day in Mexico and parts of Guatemala where you don't mourn the people in your life that have passed away, you celebrate them. It's a way to happily remember your loved ones and their favorite things. One way to celebrate them is to create an ofrenda, an alter where you put photos and momentos and little bits of foods and sweet things.

Last Wednesday I was feeling kind of lost and blue. It was a rainy, dreary day and I didn't have to work. I wasn't sure what to do with myself and then I remembered that at the Mexican Fine Arts Museum down in Pilsen, they sell sugar skulls right around Dia de lost Muertos. So I hopped in the car and first went and enjoyed a very large plate of chilaquiles at this funny family restaurant I like. And then, with a happy, warm belly I made my way over to the museum. The museum gift shop was buzzing with kids on a school field trip and sure enough, behind the main counter were sugar skulls in a super wide range of sizes--those as small as a gum ball to those bigger than a softball. I picked a medium size skull out, it was covered with bright candy colors I knew my mom would adore. I also picked out a couple of chocolate skull lollipops for the boys. I paid and was ready to head back home when then woman behind the counter said, "If you would like to have a name put on it, the Alvarez family is on the other room decorating the skulls."

I had forgotten, but yes, every year the museum brings a family from Mexico for Day of the Dead. They bring thousands of sugar skulls that have been painstakingly made in molds in Mexico. They are "bare" and then once they get to Chicago the family members start embellishing them with colorful frosting and bits of shiny foil and even simple sequins. And sure enough, in the next room, behind two tables covered with all sizes of sugar skulls was a couple, probably in their 70s if not older, and they were both quietly decorating skulls. I came to one end of the table and the man had me write down the name I wanted. Then he picked up a small plastic bag filled with pink icing and he slowly, somewhat shakily piped my mom's name on the skull. When he carefully and thoughtfully handed it back to me with such modesty and grace and just plain purpose, my whole day went from dreary and down to happy and bright. My Mom adored the folk art of Mexico, she surrounded herself with it and this was certainly a thriving, vibrant folk art being placed right in my two hands. I waited for the icing to dry and then slowly wrapped the skull in tissue paper. "Mom would love this," I thought to myself.

I left the museum, bought a sack of warm churros from a tiny old man standing out in front of the museum and ate one of them happily in the front seat of the car. I brought my Sally sugar skull home to my growing/evolving shrine for my mom. It is so her and wherever she is, she's loving it. I am grateful to have a concrete and celebratory "place" to channel my thoughts, emotions and memories. (By the way, I purchased the sweet little etched glass pedestal that the sugar skull sits on at the thrift store last week for 69 cents. In the spirit of Sally, of course!)

 

Tonight me and Ted and the boys are headed back down to the museum together ("juntos") as a family. They are hosting their Community Celebration of Dia de los Muertos. There will be music and crafts and snacks and alters made by local artists to view. It promises to be a bustling, bright and I hope, happy gathering.