Tag Archives: Food

Give Me Some Sugar!

03 Tuesday Feb 2015

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Bryce cake

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

Kids love sugar.

Who am I kidding? Just about everyone loves sugar. But it’s not very good for us. That’s how I got to be 60 pounds overweight. Be it cake, candy or ice cream, I crave sweets. I often joke that I wasn’t born with just a sweet tooth — I have a mouth full of them. So when my blood sugar levels began to rise in recent years and my doctor began warning me of impending diabetes, I had to admit that I was addicted to sugar. I think this particular addiction is shared by most people.

Cutting back on sugar was key to my recent weight loss. I hope that it also helps me avoid diabetes. But sugar is the devil constantly tempting me. So when my grandson Bryce was born, his parents decided to have his first year of life be sugar-free. He has been eating fruits, and that is about as much sweet as he has been allowed.

But when his first birthday party came, the celebration included Bryce’s first cupcake with icing. To say that he enjoyed it is an understatement. He rubbed the icing all over his face and even into his hair as if to enjoy the sugar by osmosis. Bryce smiled from ear to ear as the sugar high registered in his brain. As his grownup relatives watched, Bryce became a sugar baby. Can candy be far behind? Oh, the humanity!

Pigging Out. We All Do It

23 Friday Jan 2015

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Leftover restaurant Caesar's salad doctored with my lamb stew and a glass of vino.

Restaurant leftovers with wine.

From Julie:

Is it not a great and guilty pleasure to stand in the kitchen and stuff your face with leftovers without worrying about calories or manners?

On nights when Steve’s out, I love emptying the fridge of teflon containers and plastic-wrapped bowls and pouring myself a glass of wine for my kitchen counter feast. It’s so wonderfully decadent. And because the rule is no holds barred, I am so grossed out by my excessiveness that sticking to a game plan of fastidious gym attendance and low carb entrees is a piece of cake, until the next urge to splurge descends with a vengeance.

From Lois:

My pig-out leftovers don’t make it to the “teflon containers and plastic-wrapped bowls.” I do like to stand, though. The best pig-outs for me are after a party. Once the party is over, I walk amongst the ravaged, scooped-out platters and taste everything. Just a fork-full. Unless there is an open bag of potato chips. That I need to sit down for. I can eat them until the corners of my mouth are sore and split from the salt and sharp edges — until I roll on the floor, content, but with stomach curdling, and arms and legs splayed out in a gluttonous tribute to the joy of just letting go.

When Noon is Midnight

31 Wednesday Dec 2014

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Me and Lo. 12.28.14 NYE-2

Just before noon on December 28, 2014.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Julie usually spends New Year’s Eve doing things like taking “the 7 train to Astoria, Queens with a couple of buddies to eat Greek food …” before they try to “grab balloons caught in the trees.” Or maybe she and Steve will “… make dinner and drink champagne and perhaps manage to hang out until the ball drops.”

This year she said she wants a New Year’s Eve party.

So who’s she gonna call?

I arrived at Julie’s beach house on December 28 promptly at 10:04 in the morning. Since we are both busy tonight, we put together a celebration when it worked for both of us — a Sunday morning. No one else was invited.

10:14 (a.m.). Waiting for the party to begin.

10:14 (a.m.). It’s officially a party.

We glittered. Her dining room table hosted hats, horns, sparkly 2015 sunglasses. Vodka iced in the freezer. Champagne chilled in the fridge. The cheese was creamy and smelly. Fig jam sweetened up the saltiness. In between pumpernickel bagels, we pulled and gnawed at a loaf of French bread. We even had a log of salami. And cookies.

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We splurged. Julie scrambled up some eggs, over which we grated a whole, pungent, earthy, magnificent white truffle. (Thank you, Anita.)

truffle

This is how Anna Magnani would smell a truffle.

We overindulged. And partied hard. We tooted horns. We drank (just a little) too much. We ate a lot. And we ate a lot of food that we usually try to not eat a lot of. We said goodbye five hours later, both of us feeling fat. Bloated. Fulfilled. And 9 p.m. that night became my “morning after.” Wide awake at midnight, it felt like noon.dinner is served

Julie and I wish you all a celebratory night, a glorious day-after, and a 2015 full of smelly cheese, a toast or two, a splurge or more, white truffles, salami, sparkles, horns, daylight, friendship, love, a wad of good fortune, and a clean bill of health.

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Happy New Year.

This is One (More Like 600) Tough Cookie

19 Friday Dec 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Food

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Ripped recipe

BY DEBBIE NEELY

Every Christmas, I bake butter cookies. Not just a few dozen, but batches and batches and batches of them. Actually, I bake 50 dozen. I do this with no particular joy, nor just because I have loving childhood memories of eating them by the fistful straight out of the Charlie Chips cans with my sisters.

Cookie tools

The tools.

So why then do I spend an entire, miserable weekend every December baking? Because I enjoy creaming pounds of hard, greasy, sweet butter and sugar with dozens of painstakingly separated egg yolks? Because I experience a moment of Zen-like oneness while hand-mixing pounds of flour and bottles of almond extract into goopy, wet, yellow batter? Because I feel a surge of warm pride while pressing dozens upon dozens of delicate snow flakes, topping each with a bright red, finger staining Maraschino cherry?

Debbie dough

The dough.

No! I bake them every Christmas, and I mean every Christmas, because my grandmother baked them, and my mother baked them and because I just, well, have to bake them! It’s as if I’ve acquired a hereditary, seasonal mandate, or have some crazy genetic predisposition that, upon hearing the first tinny bells of the season, compels me to ransack the kitchen hunting down the old, family butter cookie recipe.

Debbie tins

The tins.

Though this inherited urge to bake each Christmas is a labor-intensive chore that leaves me cranky, it is also a labor of love. My family, friends and neighbors have come to expect their carefully packed tins of butter cookies delivered by a rather harried me. These cookies have become a part of their holiday memories; a part of their holiday DNA.

And so, before I change my mind, I’m back to the kitchen! Happy Holidays.

Cookies done

The End.

 

How to Throw a Party

20 Thursday Nov 2014

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Come in and have a drink.

Come in and have a drink.

BY JULIE SEYLER

This post is about the Perle Mesta’s of the world, those men and women that know how to throw a fete without sweat. Lois DeSocio, my friend and co-collaborator on The Write Side of 50, is an extreme maven in the field of party-giving. Her menu is never less than inventive: French bread slathered in Nutella and topped with hot sausage, sardines with avocado, swiss cheese, olives and mayo, and meatballs made with grape jelly grace the table. Odd as the concoctions may be, they are always displayed invitingly and usually work as conversation starters. The bar is set up and user-friendly. What looks like thousands of glasses are at the ready for wine and beer, water and soft drinks, distilled liquors and fruit mixers. Olives. The guest list is varied. The combination of every “thing” never fails to make for a great party.

flowers flowers2

From observing her over the years, I have deduced Lo’s tricks for converting hostess “responsibilities” into a really fun time:

She starts working on her guest list.

About 45 days ahead of the party day, she sends out Save the Dates.

Menu contemplation commences. Different ideas percolate, like whether she’ll have it catered, self-prepared, or a combo of each.

Then there’s the issue of space and place. She’s always thinking of the comfort factor — where people will sit, stand, talk and eat and not feel crowded and overwhelmed.

For herself, she starts the party the day before when she puts on Dean Martin, pours a glass of celebratory wine, and sprinkles the finishing touches on the food. This allows her to act as if she’s going to a party, not giving the party.

And the last most crucial ingredient to being a hostess with the mostest:

feet at party

She always has a fabulous time at her party. She’s not worrying. She knows she has given her love.

So here’s to those that know how to throw a party. May we learn from the best of them.

Morning after

(And of course, there’s Lo’s prized morning-after mess.)

 

A Few Bites from the Land of Dracula

14 Tuesday Oct 2014

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Enjoy this pictorial for the palate sent by Julie, who has been traveling through Romania for the past two weeks. Who knew? Romania is, apparently, a foodie destination — with menus rich in range and steeped in flavor. Meals, according to Julie, included “the best tabbouleh ever,” veal knuckles, and Spaghetti Bolognese.

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The square in Piata Mica, Sibiu Romania.

The food in Romania is decadent. From fried pork appetizers to papanash, a donut covered with cream and sweet berries, there is always something to make you worry about your cholesterol and waistline. Of course – salads are always an option.~Julie

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Julie said, even though “Martini” was “on” the menu, there were none.

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See below for what this is called …

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"Best Tabbouleh EVER!"

“Best tabbouleh EVER!”

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Bean and Bacon Soup in Bread.

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Salad.

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Veal Knuckles.

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Fried Pork with Raw Onion.

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Spaghetti.

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The servers.

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The desserts.

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Papanash (cheese and sugar).

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Corn with Marshmallow Fluff: Sweet!

28 Thursday Aug 2014

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Corn done

Dinner: Fluff on the left, Saffron and Olives on the right.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Presented with a food challenge, chances are, I will bite.

So last Wednesday night, void of a dinner idea, and starving, I came across this food piece from The Star Ledger, titled: “Would You Dare to Put Fluff on Corn on the Cob?”

You bet.

After all, I’ve topped a good crusty French loaf with Nutella and hot sausage, and I eat Sardines with Olive Mayonnaise for breakfast.

The Star Ledger piece had 10 new directions in which to take that corn on the cob. Consider making a meal out of corn – it is one of the few commodities, thanks to the wet weather in the Midwest, that farmers predict a glut of, and has seen a drop in price.

I picked an olive-infused spread: Saffron and Olive Cream Corn, and a dessert: Toasted Marshmallow Corn

The Toasted Marshmallow kept on giving after chomped, chewed and swallowed. (Probably not unlike filling your cheeks with a mouthful of candy corn.) I added my own twist: a sprinkle of nutmeg. It made it taste like Thanksgiving.

And the Saffron and Olive Cream Corn – a messy, sweet, savory, creamy, salty and crunchy festival for the tongue.

Also, since I don’t have a grill at the moment, I broiled both recipes. But I imagine that the Toasted Marshmallow Corn, especially, cooked over a campfire, would make me sing.

Here are the details:

Corn ingredients

Toasted Marshmallow Corn:

Skewer the husked corn, spray with cooking spray and grill until lightly charred. Spread with Marshmallow Fluff, and toast as you would a marshmallow – turning constantly.

Saffron and Olive Cream Corn:

Mix two tablespoons kalamata olives, 2 tablespoons mixed green olives, a pinch of black pepper, a pinch of saffron, with a quarter cup of marscapone cheese. Grill, boil or broil the corn, then spread the mixture on the hot corn.

Beach It in the Rain with Seven-Shake Bloodies

01 Friday Aug 2014

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Rain

Rain, and no shine.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Last weekend was cloudy, with on and off showers, which made for near-perfect beach days. As someone who grew up on the water, a sunny day over 75 degrees used to mean the beach was mandatory. A rainy day was a respite. No sun, no beach.

But as I’ve aged, and no longer sit in the sun, I’ve come to love the beach in the rain. Crowds stay away, and swimming under a slow and steady drizzle (sans thunder and lightning) is sublime – a rain-and-sea-and-me bond.

A rainy day on the sand is also ripe for a gathering under the umbrella for Bloody Marys.

So the forecast for this weekend is rain. Beach it. And bring along the bloodies.

Bloody clinkHere’s my Seven-Shake Bloody Mary recipe, as salty as the sea, and adapted from an old friend’s father, who used to make these for us 20-somethings on a hungover morning-after back in the 1980s, when we would spend the night, and wake up on the beach. (Always make one at a time so as not to lose count, and risk disturbing the chemistry):

*Stuff an 8-ounce shaker with ice, and add 2-4 ounces of vodka
*Add:
7 shakes of Tabasco
7 shakes of celery salt
7 shakes of Worcestershire
7 shakes of pepper
7 shakes of garlic powder
Fresh horseradish – add to your liking. Me: I like my bloody speckled. I add two heaping tablespoons.
*Top with Clamato juice

Shake lightly – pour the whole thing into a chilled glass (take out all the ice except for a cube or two), and garnish with either pickles, olives, celery, shrimp, lemon slices, cucumbers, bacon! – or all seven.

Mid-Life: As Adaptable as a Dewar’s Bottle

11 Wednesday Jun 2014

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Dewars bottle

Pestle with a punch on the inside.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

We are nothing, if not adaptable, by the time we reach the middle ages. We’ve adjusted our flow meter to “just go for it!” We navigate our midlife crises with aplomb and mettle that is unique to our generation. We’ve learned to turn our heads away from ageism, and we strive to live out this chapter with vigor.

But there are some things that should not be messed with. Some things that must remain intact as foundation for our adaptability. The leave-as-is, the indefatigable. Like our lucidity; our vivacity. Our awareness of the passing of time; our confidence.

And crushed garlic. Mortar-and-pestle-crushed garlic. Garlic that is pummeled and pulverized, along with oil and other herbs until it’s pasty; its aroma sulfurous. It has a swallow so pungent, it can push your inner cheeks to your teeth.

It was the flux between adaptability and the crushed garlic called for in this Radish Salad with Anchovy Sauce from the foodie Web site Food52 that recently forced Julie and I to grab a quarter-filled bottle of Dewar’s White Label by the neck.

Just a couple of days before The New York Times ran this piece on mortars and pestles, which included the quote, “I insist on it for certain things, like garlic …” from Marc Meyer, an executive chef and restaurant owner in Manhattan, Julie and I were cooking for a party we were throwing. We were working in a kitchen that was lightly stocked. We didn’t have the basics. Or a mortar and pestle for the radish salad.

“Insist.” Like Mr. Meyer, that’s pretty much what Julie inferred when I tried to talk her into adapting the garlic – just slice it!, dice it, smoosh with a mini ricer, let’s try the immersion blender, how about a fork? (I believe I also suggested donning sneakers and stomping on it ala Lucy and the grapes.)

After all attempts failed to do what apparently only a mortar and pestle can do, we hit the bottle. Our row of alcohol on the set-up counter bar included an old bottle of Dewar’s whiskey that has been hanging around in the pantry for decades – no one ever drinks the stuff, but it is always put out at parties. It’s shaped like a big pestle.

So our pile of garlic got hammered on that bottle of whiskey.

And hence the radish salad was sublime – a riot of garlic, salt, and radish pop-and-tickle – all a result of midlife aplomb, mettle, confidence (the indefatigable), and a bottle of whiskey.