There have been many challenges this past week or so since my stepfather died, but honestly, the one I feared the most was melding my baking style with my mother’s.
Let me explain.
My mother belongs to an online cooking group called Tuesdays with Dorie. Twice a month, she and approximately 500 other dedicated bakers from around the globe try their hand at creating an assigned recipe. The group is currently working their way through the book Baking with Julia, which was compiled and written by Dorie Greenspan. My mother was a recipe behind, so she suggested that we bake together to help her catch up.
Baking with Julia
Herein lies the challenge:
I am a by-the-seat-of-my-pants baker. I read a few recipes and then make it up as I go. I skip steps, omit or add ingredients, and rarely measure. Much of the time, my end results are good if not great, but occasionally there are some big flops.
My mother, on the other hand, is a by-the-book kind of gal. If she doesn’t have the precise ingredients on hand (may God strike you down if you substitute regular vanilla when it calls for Tahitian Vanilla), she will either run to the store or not make the recipe. She checks accuracy of liquid measurements by squatting to eye level, and she times everything to the second. As she says, “I don’t waver from the exact.”
I knew we were especially doomed when she opened the weighty Baking with Julia to page 315, and announced we were making Hazelnut Biscotti. “My biscotti always turn out awful,” I confessed.
“Mine too,” my mother countered.
Hazelnut Biscotti made by Katrina of BakingwithBoys.com
I would have considered throwing in the dishtowel right there, but I didn’t want to leave my mom in the lurch and I figured that during this biscotti round Julia Childs AND Dorie Greenspan had our backs. With uncharacteristic politeness and restraint, we began to bake. She got out the ingredients while I scanned the recipe.
We decided to make pistachio biscotti as those were the nuts we had on hand. (Thank goodness Greenspan offered them as an alternative in the preface of the recipe or we would have been in the car on our way to the store.)
Our first disagreement was over the merits of splat mats versus parchment paper. My mother had misplaced her silicone splat mats and felt they were too expensive to replace at $7.00 apiece. I couldn’t live without my splat mats and felt they were a more environmentally-friendly alternative to parchment.
“Well,” said my mother as she ripped a length of parchment paper from the roll to prepare the the biscotti baking pan. “Dorie advises the use of parchment.”
“Heaven forbid we should use something else,” I thought but smartly did not verbalize. I was on my best behavior.
Pistachios
My mother measured the 2/3 cup of pistachios on a cookie sheet (no parchment needed for this step) and put them in the oven to toast. We set the timer for ten minutes, and then got into a minor squabble about the necessity of mise en place. I preferred the grab-it-from-the-cabinet-as-you-need-it-and-then-put-it-back method, while my mom quoted Mary Sue Salmon, her first French cooking teacher, who said you always prepare a mise en place before you start cooking. Midway through our discussion and with four minutes to go on the timer, I smelled something burning.
“The nuts!” I yelled as I lunged for the oven. I pulled out the pan only to discovered that the nuts were already overdone. I examined one closely and then retrieved the bag of already shelled pistachios from the pantry.
“Mom,” I said carefully, we were both just barely hanging on this week and I didn’t want this to totally push her over the edge, “Um, these were already toasted.”
We looked at each other and started to laugh.
When we finally pulled it together several minutes later, we got serious about our biscotti. This wasn’t about baking styles anymore, this was about getting something posted. We both realized that we needed to join forces to make this work.
Chopping pistachios
We cleared the counter and started again. I chopped the nuts and my mom finished getting out the ingredients. I even measured the dry ingredients into a separate bowl rather than throwing everything together willy-nilly as usual.
“Where’s the baking soda?” I asked. According to Greenspan, “It’s the baking soda in the dough that gives the biscotti their wonderful open, crunchy texture.”
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” said my mom, in a near panic. Before I could respond, she had grabbed her keys and flown out the door. “I’m just running over to a neighbor’s,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
While she was gone, I mixed up the rest of the batter. Earlier that week I’d read a baking hint that suggested always doubling the amount of vanilla you add to a recipe. So I did, hoping that Childs and Greenspan would approve. I couldn’t find the brandy, so I made a mental note to ask my mom when she returned.
Once I added the baking soda to the dry ingredients, I mixed everything together. I was just about to shape the dough onto the cookie sheet when I remembered the brandy.
“Oh man, I forgot the brandy and I’ve already mixed the wet with the dry,” I told my mom.
She retrieved the cognac from the pantry and handed it to me. Forgetting myself for a moment, I failed to measure, and simply chugged some into the batter, probably about three times the suggested two teaspoons. The room filled with the smell of alcohol.
“I hope these turn out,” said my mother as she retreated to the kitchen table where she’d set up camp since her baking soda run. She poured herself some more Fritos, her comfort food of the week. “I don’t want to get kicked out.”
No pressure there.
Batter complete, I began to shape the dough. Greenspan suggests making two chubby logs 12 to 13 inches long. “Chubby logs” was a vague description, so my mom got out a measuring tape and pulled up the food site Vintage Kitchen Notes. Paula, from Argentina, had kindly posted a photo of her biscotti logs before they hit the oven.
Chubby biscotti logs
After much shaping and reshaping, we put the biscotti in the oven for the first and then the second baking. As my previous biscotti attempts had been undercooked, I left the crescent cookies in the full fifteen minutes for the second go-around. For good measure, when the timer dinged, I turned off the oven and left them in another three minutes.
As you might imagine, with all that baking time, the biscotti were a little overdone. “Hard as a rock,” according to my mother. Nonetheless, we filled a special tenth anniversary bowl of my mom and Michael’s with our baking feat and headed over to a friend’s house. Adriana and her parents are originally from Sicily, and we knew they would be hard, yet fair critics.
Anniversary Bowl
I explained to our tasters that the cookies were a little firm. “Be careful not to break a tooth,” my mother helpfully interjected. I suggested they not only dunk them in a drink, but maybe soak them a while.
The verdict: Overcooked by several minutes, but great flavor.
Pistachio Biscotti
I guess my mom and I learned a little something from each other during our baking challenge: Exact is good as long as you are willing to throw in something extra now and then.
(If you are interested in the retro kitchen mixer tshirt I am wearing in the photo above, please visit Caustic Threads located at Etsy.com. Shop owner Erica Voges creates and prints these original designs for an amazingly economical price. Check out her wares and support a small business today!)
Erin, a fellow Coloradoan who blogs on Dinners, Dishes and Desserts is hosting an on-line bake sale to raise funds for the Colorado Disaster Relief fund. All of the proceeds will go to the Colorado Disaster Relief Fund c/o Red Cross to help with fire victims. Devastating wild fires have caused massive destruction in our home state, and you can help by bidding on some marvelous treats starting at 8 AM mountain time this Sunday, July 8. If you’ve never participated in a virtual bake sale before, take the opportunity to peek at this site. It’s fun. I’m already gearing up to bid on the Oatmeal M & M cookies that Liz who blogs on that skinny chick can bake is making.
Pop on over to Dinners, Dishes and Desserts to take a gander at the preview and support this good cause. We thank you.
(My daughter Melissa, who is also a writer and has her own site, flyingnotscreaming, wrote this week’s French Fridays with Dorie post.)
by Melissa Myers Place
One of the things I admire most about my mother is her unwavering determination. When she sets her sights on a goal, she works steadily and doggedly, looking neither left nor right, until she reaches her destination. So when she called last week to tell me that her husband of twenty-six years died after a decade-long struggle with Alzheimer’s, I knew that in the days that followed one of the things we would be doing was a little French cooking. It is with no disrespect to Michael that in amongst making necessary phone calls, discussing future plans, and revisiting favorite memories of the man we both loved, we would be making sure my mother did not miss her French Fridays with Dorie deadline. And Michael, who was always the most proud of Mary, would not have wanted it any other way.
For those of you who don’t know, French Fridays with Dorie is an online cooking group. Members are cooking their way through Dorie Greenspan’s latest book Around My French Table, and each Friday they post their results on their own foodie site. (All 50 or so members cook the same recipe each week.) It is a Greenspan love fest, and some followers have taken to calling themselves “Doristas.”
Despite the fact that at one point in my life I earned my living by cooking, I was a little intimidated when my mom handed me Greenspan’s weighty volume. I know from following my mother’s weekly posts for the past eighteen months that these Doristas are SERIOUS about cooking. And the French Fridays with Dorie commitment is not for the faint of heart. Week after week, these dedicated food enthusiasts fearlessly venture out onto a new cooking limb, and yes, Greenspan has simplified each dish as much as possible, but it is still Frenchcooking for goodness sakes.
“I hope it’s an easy recipe,” I said, as my mother looked up our Friday cooking assignment. What I meant was I hoped the recipe didn’t require the mysterious technique of braising or call for ingredients outside of my comfort zone such as phyllo dough or lamb shanks.
Luckily for me, this week’s recipe was Crunchy Ginger-Pickled Cucumbers. I love cucumbers, pickled or not, and had picked up two at the market earlier that day. I skimmed the recipe’s preface. Greenspan describes these pickles as a “hotter, hunkier take on traditional thinly sliced cucumbers in vinegar.” The description tickled me. I haven’t heard a variation on the word “hunk” since I was in junior high. I flipped to the back flap and took a good look at the bespectacled Greenspan who the New York Times calls a “culinary guru.” I decided if Greenspan could use the words “hot” and “hunky” to describe a French dish, then I could make it.
As my mother read aloud the ingredient list, I prayed we didn’t have to make another run to the store. These days even the simplest errands seem momentous. “Can you substitute ingredients?” I asked.
My mother looked horrified. “NO!” she whispered, as if afraid the other Doristas could hear.
I realized at that moment that this was even more serious than I previously thought. And, that I would have to be on my best cooking behavior because I tend to be a sloppy cook: I don’t measure and I rarely follow a recipe exactly or even closely. I hadn’t felt so much pressure since I caught a frying pan on fire during a tryout for a cooking position, but for my mom, I was going to try with all my might to channel the Dorista spirit.
“Are you going to create your mise en place?” She asked as she headed to the other room to sort through some paperwork.
“What does Mikhail Gorbachev have to do with it?” I asked. My mom sighed, and I yet again regretted not paying more attention during my French language courses in college.
“Just take a lot of photos” was my mom’s parting advice.
Consulting the Dorista Bible closely, I gathered all the required ingredients, and arranged them carefully on a cutting board. Forty photos and twenty minutes later, I was finally ready to begin.
Mise en place for Hot and Hunky Cucumbers
“How’s it going?” my mom called. “It’s pretty quiet in there. Are you okay?”
“I’m just about ready to start,” I called back. “Could’ve made this five times by now,” I mumbled to myself.
And it was true. As I am committed to avoiding processed food, I have to cook fast to keep up with the food needs of my family of four. But taking the photos and documenting each step on the notepad by my elbow slowed the cooking process considerably. My admiration for Greenspan’s followers was growing by the minute.
I was glad I’d happened to purchase seedless cucumbers so I could eliminate a couple of steps, but I had to call my mom into the kitchen to double-check that I was cutting the cucumbers into the correct hunky shape. I carefully salted the cucumbers (holding back a little as I doubled the recipe and a full teaspoon of salt seemed like a lot), and while they stood for the required 30 minutes, I prepped and mixed the remaining ingredients.
Salted cucumber hunks
I have to confess that I have a love/hate relationship with fresh ginger. I love when it comes to the party, but don’t like when it hogs all the attention. I’ve found in the past that fine grating the ginger helps release the flavor, but eliminates the unpleasant stringy texture. Not able to locate my mom’s fine grater, I used her larger-holed grater and then minced the strands finer with a knife, hoping that Greenspan wouldn’t mind.
Grated and minced ginger
I combined the seasoned rice wine mixture with the drained cucumbers . . . and that was it. I scanned Greenspan’s recipe again to make sure I hadn’t overlooked a step. It had been almost too easy. I tasted a hunky cucumber chunk. I was disappointed by the blandness and wondered if I had been mistaken in doubting Greenspan regarding the salt amount. With a disappointed sigh, I put my Hot and Hunky Cucumbers (as I’d taken to calling them) into the fridge to chill.
Later that night, even though my mother and I were especially missing Michael and feeling pretty low, we headed to a small Fourth of July gathering with a few close friends, pickled cucumbers in hand. We were warmly welcomed by our lovely host and hostess, and each party member bravely took a spoonful of pickled cucumbers onto their plate. And to my great surprise, the cucumbers were good. As Greenspan already knows and I am beginning to learn, sometimes nothing helps like time. It helped my cucumbers, and it will help the grieving, sad hearts of my mom and me.
Although I will be happy to return to posting weekly personal essays on my own site–a much easier feat than the French Fridays with Dorie commitment–I enjoyed my foray into the world of Greenspan. I learned a thing or two, but mostly I discovered what a wonderful group of people you all are. My mother and I have been so grateful for the outpouring of kindness and support from the French Fridays with Dorie community this past week. It has been truly remarkable, and has proven that you Doristas are made of the very best ingredients.
(My friend and neighbor, Michelle Morgando, who is a professionally-trained chef, is my guest contributor today. Although Michelle, who is also a judge and lawyer, is about to launch her own food blog, she has generously agreed to help me and share her expertise with my readers during this time. Thank you, Michelle, and, to all you American readers, Happy 4th of July.)
by Michelle Morgando
Pane-Siciliano and my sourdough story
I must make a confession, my name is Michelle and I am afraid of bread. Well, I am not afraid of reading about it, drooling over pictures of it, shopping for it or most importantly, eating it. Last year in Italy I think I ate half of my body weight in bread in one week. No, I am afraid of making breads, particularly those that involve yeast. I must also disclose that I am a professionally trained cook. I went to culinary school at the very young age of 42 and loved every minute of the two years I spent in school, with the exception of the bread and pastry classes. I had wonderful instructors but I was so intimidated by the process. I often wondered why I was so afraid of bread, it has so few ingredients. All you need are measuring cups and spoons, or a reliable scale, and infinite amounts of patience. Actually, what you truly need is an ability to give up control. Once bread is mixed, scaled and formed, all you do is put it in the oven and wait. Maybe that is my problem. I can fix a broken Hollandaise, shuck bushels of clams and oysters without losing an important body part or calling 911 and I can grill you the perfect steak. Those things I have control over from start to finish. Bread, on the other hand, can’t be remedied once it goes in the oven. I have learned in the past several years that bread is like a horse or a dog; it can smell your fear.
For the past year or so, I have contributed to a forum that has many wonderful cooks as members. One of the members, Nancy, started a thread on bread baking. She is not professionally trained but is as fearless as anyone I know in the culinary industry. We have never met in person but e-mail almost daily and have spoken on the phone one time. Nancy decided that it was time to experiment with sourdough starters. She tried to make her own with no success and then found a wonderful website that will send you, at no cost, an 1847 Oregon Trail Sourdough Starter. It comes to you in a little envelope and is dehydrated so you must bring it back to life. After reading her posts, I decided to face my fears and begin my own sourdough trail.
I patiently waited for a couple of weeks for my starter to arrive as I kept track of Nancy’s efforts. Her breads were so beautiful and she posted step-by-step instructions along with great photographs. My starter finally arrived so I set about rehydrating it with water, flour and some dried potato flakes. It sounded simple until I was reminded that I have to give my starter a name. All of Nancy’s were called “Bob” and a one point she likened them to Tribbles (all you Star Trek fans will get this reference). I decide to name mine “Bettie”, after my mother who passed away last year. I was hoping she would bring me good bread karma.
So, as you see in my opening picture, my starter is all fed and ready to go. You can tell it is doing well by the amount of “action” it has. It should be very bubbly and alive. Lo and behold, here is “Bettie” after two days:
“I often wondered why I was so afraid of bread, it has so few ingredients. Actually, what you truly need is an ability to give up control. Once bread is mixed, scaled and formed, all you do is put it in the oven and wait. Maybe that is my problem.”
MY PREMIER SOURDOUGH EXPERIENCE
I decide to start with the most basic of breads, the sourdough baguette. I found a recipe from a site that I have trusted in the past and followed the recipe as written. I was a little suspicious because not only did it call for the starter to make the initial “sponge”, which is later mixed with flour and water to make the final dough, but it also called for additional yeast and vital wheat gluten. Yeast I have, vital wheat gluten entailed a trip to Whole Foods. I was tempted to leave out the additional yeast and/or wheat gluten but given my past disasters, I figured the experts knew what they were doing so I ignored my suspicions. The sponge rose beautifully, as did the final dough. Encouraged, I deflated the dough to form the baguettes and all I can say is the consistency was like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree. It was sticky, runny and downright impossible to work with. Disappointed, but determined not to waste two days of work, I dumped it on the counter, added a lot of flour, kneaded it and put it in an oiled sheet pan. I brushed the top with olive oil, added some coarse salt and dried herbs and baked a focaccia. My lovely Italian neighbor, Adriana, took it to her parents’ house that night and they had it with antipasti. They said it was delicious, maybe they were being nice.
I began to suspect that I just did not have what it takes to be a bread baker. I still had more of the Bettie starter so I then attempted sourdough biscuits. These are the same as a good old Southern biscuit but are made with a sourdough starter and no butter. To my complete surprise, not only did they turn out but they tasted terrific:
No sourgrapes needed…… my first attempt at sourdough biscuits worked.
Meanwhile, Nancy had moved on to increasingly complicated recipes. She sent me the recipe for Pane Siciliano, a wonderfully moist and dense olive oil based bread using the sourdough starter. I was scared of trying the baguettes again so I decided to try her recipe. This was truly a three day labor of love between making the biga (the sponge), making the final dough, forming the loaves, letting them rise and finally baking them in a 500 degree oven with steam. I thought since I failed at making the most basic of breads, I might as well go down in flames with a really complicated recipe. The difference was, I was not afraid of this recipe. The final results were spectacular as you can see in the opening picture.
Pane Dough, oven-bound…
I am slowly gaining more confidence and am now experimenting with creating different starters from my “mother” starter. More on that later, and my second attempt at the baguettes. Wish me luck, I already have the courage.
Two books that I find invaluable are: Baking With Julia, by Dorie Greenspan (based on the PBS series) Le Cordon Bleu, Professional Baking, by Wayne Gisslen (3rd Ed.)
(My daughter, Melissa, a writer who has her own site, flyingnotscreaming, will be a guest contributor to my blog for the next two weeks. Last Thursday, I lost my husband Michael. In this post, Melissa shares some of her memories of her stepfather that happen to revolve around food. –Mary)
by Melissa Myers Place
I first met Michael Hirsch when he was courting my mother. I was a sophomore in college and back in Des Moines for a winter break. Just after I’d awakened my first morning home, Michael pulled into my mom’s driveway. He was on his way to his OB/GYN practice, and was looking dapper in his suit and bow tie (few men can pull off that combo). He rolled down his window and handed my mother a heavy crystal glass full of fresh-squeezed orange juice. My mother explained to me with a blush that this was their morning routine since meeting several months previously. It was enough to gross out the nineteen-year-old I was back then, but still, I couldn’t ignore the obvious: Michael was crazy about my mother and she was pretty smitten with him.
Several months later, my mother married her handsome doctor. Since I had pretty much left the nest and already had a close relationship with my biological father, Michael wisely suggested that we just be friends. Soon after, we settled into an easy and comfortable relationship.
Mary and Michael Hirsch
Since my mother’s call last Thursday morning to tell me that Michael died peacefully in his sleep after his decade-long struggle with Alzheimer’s, I have been thinking about our twenty-six year friendship and the memories he and I made together. As I have, it occurred to me that many of our shared experiences revolved around food. In no way, shape, or form was Michael a gourmet, but he had specific food preferences that tickled us and irked us, occasionally at the same time.
As I learned that first day in my mother’s driveway, he insisted on fresh-squeezed orange juice each and every morning. He was borderline rude to any wait staff who tried to serve him “that fake stuff from a concentrate.” Each winter, Michael had cases of Honeybell oranges shipped to Aspen, Colorado, where he and my mother relocated after his retirement from medicine. Honeybells, which are called the “diamond of the citrus world,” are only grown in Florida and their availability is limited to the month of January. The other months of the year, Michael had to make do with ordinary oranges, but nevertheless, morning juice was always fresh-squeezed and always served in a crystal glass.
Other than juicing oranges, Michael didn’t do much in the kitchen, but he was a master when standing out on the deck beside his Weber. He even used his grilling savvy to bolster my love life. When I brought home my new boyfriend midway through my senior year of college, Michael, with his typical generosity, packed us into his Jeep Cherokee, stuffed my wallet with money, gave us a key to his condo in Aspen, and sent us on our way. Before we pulled out of the driveway, he handed us a huge tupperware container of barbequed chicken that he’d spent the afternoon grilling (after clearing the deck of snow: it was January in Iowa). My boyfriend ate that chicken as we drove through the night towards Colorado. The white shirt he was wearing was never the same again, but he loved every bite. And I loved Michael for his matchmaking efforts. That boyfriend and I have been married for twenty-three years now.
“The Boyfriend,” Melissa, Mary, and Michael
But where Michael really shone was as a grandfather. He came to grandparenthood late, at seventy-two, but he enjoyed every moment of the the years he had with my children before the disease took too much of his mind. He would watch their every move as newborns, toddlers, and then preschoolers, his eyes shining with pride. Grinning from ear to ear, he’d say, “Aren’t they wonderful? They’re just wonderful. Aren’t they wonderful?”
Grandpa Hirsch with his youngest granddaughter Clara
“Yes, Michael,” we’d all groan, teasing him for sounding like a broken record, but his appreciation and adoration of his grandchildren was wonderfully endearing. And I learned early on that when it came to my girls, there was nothing he wouldn’t do. Even if it meant driving twenty-six hours round trip to pick up me and my newborn who was wearing me out from her constant crying.
“I’m so tired,” I sobbed during a call to my mom and Michael six weeks after my oldest daughter was born. “I need help. She cries all the time and I don’t know why.”
Michael and Mary as proud new grandparents with Emma.
My mom and Michael were at my doorstep in Bishop, California the very next day. Without a single complaint, Michael settled my new baby and myself in the backseat and we headed back to Aspen. It was a long, long drive with a nursing newborn, but as always, Michael was a good sport. And he needed to be because my mom and I together are a force to be reckoned with. We are quick-witted and quick-tongued, a tad bossy, and uproariously funny (or so we think). Often, especially during that visit, our humor was at Michael’s expense.
As we made our way home, Michael, despite our protests, made a stop at a melon stand in Green River, Utah to buy several (FIVE!) huge melons. This stand was known for its casaba melons and Michael loved melons almost as much as he loved fresh-squeezed orange juice. But my mom, my newborn, and I were tired and cranky, and we did not appreciate the delay. We were impatient and annoyed as he squeezed the melons into the already full trunk, and kept talking on and on about how these were the best melons in the whole world and how we were going to love them.
Shortly after leaving Utah, Michael, as usual, was driving too fast. (Michael was skilled at many things, but driving was not one of them.) He was unable to slow in time to avoid a construction bump in the road, and he hit it hard, jarring us all. Both my mom and I started upbraiding him about the newborn in the backseat and demanded that he slow down and pay more careful attention.
In the midst of our verbal tirade, I noticed that the whole car started to smell like melons. My exhaustion got the best of me, and I started to laugh. “It smells like melons,” I shrieked with near hysteria. “I think the melons broke.” Soon my mom was helpless with laughter as well. Michael was not amused. He didn’t talk to us the rest of the way home even though we would sporadically break into uncontrollable giggles and the scent of melon lingered in the air.
Whether or not any melons actually broke in the trunk, I don’t know. He never told us. And with uncharacteristic selfishness, he ate every bit of those melons without offering us a single slice. My mom and I brought up “the melon incident” at every family gathering, and each time Michael looked at us as if he’d just tasted something sour, never cracking a smile, which, of course, made us laugh even harder.
He was a good guy like that. He let us laugh and be who we were, and secretly he relished every moment of it. The last joyful memory I have of Michael, before the light went out in his eyes and he became someone I couldn’t recognize, was during his final visit to Bishop. The night before he and my mother were scheduled to leave, he lay down on the floor where my girls were playing. He was exhausted from the busy weekend (he was probably seventy-seven years old at the time and we’d kept him hopping.) As he lay there on his back, my daughters setup a tea party on his belly–little cups filled with water that inevitably spilled on his shirt and bits of cookies that he’d periodically snitch from their plates. “GRANDPA HIRSCH!” the girls would shout. “No stealing the cookies!” He’d feign innocence and chuckle at their outrage.
At one point, as they played, he turned his head towards where I was sitting, careful not to disturb the set up on his belly, and said, “This is the happiest moment of my life. Aren’t they wonderful?”
Yes, Michael. They are wonderful and so were you in many, many ways.
Grandpa Hirsch with Emma and Clara
No one knows what happens in the afterlife, but I hope with all my heart, that Michael, my friend for over half of my life, is somehow reliving the memory of that happy tea party with his grandchildren. And that he is being served fresh-squeezed orange juice and slightly damaged melons.
