When I was a kid growing up in Iowa, I thought only old women with blue hair, forty cats and a husband wintered (their word, not mine)in Florida, Arizona, California, states with no snow. It seemed rather silly to me.
For the past three months, I have wintered in Cambria, a small and sleepy community on the central California coast. In addition, many of my friends, husbands in tow, no cats, have headed for warmer climes and greener golf courses. We’ve all checked our hair. It’s not blue.
Wintering, in a word, is bliss.
I no longer play golf. The climate in Nevada, where I presently live, is heavenly. Many people come here for the colder months. Why leave? It’s simple. After more than a decade of caregiving and more responsibility than I ever wanted, my well had run dry. When a good friend rented a home overlooking the Pacific and invited me to visit for the winter, I considered the possibility. My family, my friends, and my husband’s professional caregivers encouraged me to go west. In all honesty, I felt they were a bit more encouraging and enthusiastic about my leaving than was necessary.
Cambria, California shore
I loaded my car, leaving only the kitchen sink at home, and made the 8-hour trip to Cambria. Admittedly, the first two weeks were rocky, abandonment guilt ruled each day. Twice, I packed my bags to return home. Constant reassuring calls from the professionals, the daily, “It’s okay, Mom” e-mails from Melissa and my strong-willed friend’s insistent, “Leaving here is not a good idea” mantra, saved each day until I settled down and settled in.
Why is it so hard? According to 2011 government statistics, 5.4 million Americans now have Alzheimer’s. If you’re over 65, it’s one in every eight. Although fifteen million of us provide unpaid care to our loved ones, assistance from paid professionals adds another $183 billion dollars to the care costs. This is the good news because, in the future, these numbers will grow astronomically. Most of us in that 15 million group have no training nor idea how to respond to this catastrophic illness. We’re just frightened and grief-stricken, bumbling and stumbling through each new and unexpected challenge. For us, there is usually no offense. It’s all defense. It’s exhausting. So I am not the only caregiver that needs a break, I was just a lucky one.
Hanging out with the neighbors, Elephant Seals
What I discovered in Cambria is that once I gave myself permission to relax and be happy, I could do that very, very well. Each day was a gift. There was no To Do List pasted on the refrigerator. My alarm didn’t ring at 5 a.m. No two to three hours in the car everyday, navigating around Las Vegas. Since, in Cambria, I’d always walked everywhere, I didn’t even realize gas was over $4.39 a gallon. My telephone was off but for an hour-a-day. The three-bedroom house was quite large so I had my own writing desk, reading chair and office. There wasn’t a minute, day and night, that the doors weren’t open for me to hear the ocean calling. It was soothing.
You get the picture.
So it was with some foreboding last Monday morning, when I left the Cambria city limits to return to reality, my real world, all I’d left behind. Sitting next to me…….. yellow pad, pen in hand, To-Do List.
I was headed back to Henderson, my adopted-home of eight years, located just a blink-of-the-eye and two neon signs from the Las Vegas Strip. It’s a place we’d moved to not by choice or desire but from necessity and process of elimination. Although the move had been a good one, for all the right reasons, leaving our Rocky Mountain home of 25 years has never been easy.
Anthem Country Club, Henderson, Nevada
But something wonderful started to happen after crossing into Nevada, just an hour away from Henderson. I was still doing “happy” very, very well. How fortunate I was to have been offered a lifeline to heal and re-charge the Mary-motor. (Is this a good time to say, once again, that gasoline in Calli is $4.39 a gallon?) Although I had, to some extent, been selfish for three straight months, I’m a member of that group of 15 million who, just maybe, had earned the right.
Anthem Country Club, Henderson, Nevada
When I turned into Anthem Country Club, my tiny gated community of 1800 houses, it felt like home. For the very first time. It’s beautiful here this time of year. Everything’s in bloom. Like always, the resident heron was on its rocky perch, on-the-grab for an unsuspecting fish. Our abundant quail coveys were skittering to and fro, fro and to. They’re crazy.
The elderly gentleman who always stands in his driveway, smiling and waving, was “on duty”, smiling and waving. Skateboards and bikes, as always, were scattered dangerously close to the road, causing everyone to take a wide berth. To my chagrin, a neighbor who uses a walker, discovered my front yard is well-positioned to allow her to have a cigarette, twice a day, without being discovered. As I pulled in my driveway, there she was, cigarette in hand, welcoming me home. Does it get any better than that?
All of you reading this essay either are Me or knows a Me or may sometime be a Me. Although those of us who are losing loved ones to Alzheimer’s know we will not win our battle, may I suggest that you can extend a hand of kindness to help us stay the course that we’ve been handed. You cannot walk in our shoes but you can stay at our side.
“As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had more of a tendency to look for people who live by kindness, tolerance, compassion, a gentler way of looking at things. Martin Scorsese
My daughter, Melissa is a gem, a real jewel. Through thick, thin and thinner, she has always been supportive of her Mother. I must admit, however, that her finest buoy-up-Mom time may have been during the past two months.
We’re talking Baking.
Dorie Greenspan’s Around My French Table recipe book. Photo: Elise, Simply Recipes.
When I joined this French Fridays with Dorie group, more than a year ago, everyone who sits at my table was licking his chops. If only for the Garlic/Lemon Chicken in the Pot shown on the book cover, they would have been happy. But they’ve also enjoyed many other dishes, including Spinach and Bacon Quiche, Roasted Rhubarb and Pissaladière, It is true, however, that in this cookbook, the focus is more on cooking than baking.
That’s why my call to Melissa, saying I had also joined the new Tuesday with Dorie Baking with Julia group was met with silence (This, I know, is when she counts to 10 and takes 3 deep breaths.)In my family it’s acknowledged by everyone but me, that I am not much of a baker. I attribute my poor baking results to living in the high-altitude. Who the hell can bake bread and make cookies at 9000 feet? The fact that I was going to blog about my baking? Not good, she felt, but supported my enthusiasm, misplaced as it might be.
Simply put, my family does not ever judge my Tuesday with Dorie baked goods with gold stars, accolades, or empty platitudes. They talk ‘scars’. Each week my oven and I do battle and, often, the oven wins. To say I’ve become a ‘marked woman’ is not an understatement.
COCOA SABLÉS, my square version.
Which brings me to the recipe for this week’s FFWD. It’s baking. We’re making Cocoa Sablés, the French version of a shortbread cookie.
Girl Scout Shortbread Cookie Photo by justfoodstuff.wordpress.com
Sablé means sandy and correctly describes the slightly crumbly texture of the pastry. It’s much different from my traditional butter cookie memory. Remember the Girl Scout cookie made in the shape of the trefoil emblem? Shortbread à la Americana.
Sablés are sometimes called a Breton Biscuit because they originated in Normandy. Although they are not chocolate, Dorie channeled pastry wizard Pierre Hermé and came up with this week’s version. The verdict? This is a two-scar cookie and produced my best burn yet. A real winner!
Slice and bake, it’s as simple as that. Before baking the cookies, the dough must be chilled, of course, for at least three hours or days in the refrigerator, or two months in the freezer. The addition of 1/3 cup of Dutch-processed unsweetened cocoa powder provides a deep intense chocolate flavor which was a bit too bitter for me. As Dorie suggested, I rolled half the cookies in sugar, creating sparkle edging and a bit more of the sweetness I needed.
Flour, Sugar, Salt, Unsweetened Cocoa and Vanilla. Ready to roll, meaning round.
Last Thursday morning I shot off an e-mail to an East Coast friend suggesting we coordinate a time for a long chat. She quickly responded and we set up a time on Friday between her book club and a doctor’s appointment. She mentioned, however, that she was quite busy putting together her NCAA March Madness Brackets but would expect my call. Did I not detect a lack of enthusiasm here?
Although I understood her apparent time constraints, I was puzzled by her NCAA Brackets remark. After all, Judy and I are both on the high side of Baby Boomer-eligibility and, in the many years I’ve known her, she’s never expressed any interests in sports. Although I didn’t want to annoy her, interfering with her “putting together her brackets”, curiosity trumped good manners and I called immediately.
Unlike my friend Judy, I was born into a baseball family so I cut my teeth on catcher’s mitts and Louisville sluggers. To this day, all my friends have a healthy respect for my over-all knowledge about sports. March Madness, I know, is that crazy period in the NCAA basketball world when 68 college teams compete down to just one winner. The losers sit, dejected and crestfallen, on the bench with sweaty, smelly towels hanging off their heads. The winners, who bring sweaty and smelly to a higher level, hug, squeeze, high-5, and run around the basketball court like demented people.
NCAA Basketball Tournament 2012. Bench of losing team. Photo by newstime.com
To my memory, it’s also the time when “the guys” hang around the water cooler, trash-talking their colleagues’ picks for the twenty-dollar office pool. “Jeopardy” gets shoved aside for the countless games that are played in venues throughout the country. It’s a time when college alums return to their “roots”, wear looney costumes and paint their pusses.
There’s a reason this is called March Madness.
Tournament Pep Band Getty Photo
NCAA Basketball Tournament 2012 Fan. Photo by getoffmylawnkid.blogspot.com
But, back to Judy and our conversation. Every year, she told me, she picks the Winners/Losers in the four NCAA divisions, starting with 64 teams and working down to one. This all has to be done prior to the first shot being dunked. (By this time in the conversation, my respect and admiration for her had climbed to an all-time high.) This started, she added, about 20 years ago when she was persuaded to put her picks (and, money) in her son’s fraternity pool at the University of Pennsylvania. To Judy’s delight and the chagrin of her son and his “brothers”, she won the Pot.
This got me thinking. Is this such a “guy thing” after all? According to Bob Scucci, Race & Sportsbook manager for the Stardust in Las Vegas, it’s not. “It’s growing every year,” he says. “The interest (in the tournament) is crossing over into other demographics. It’s not just the male population from the ages of 21 through 50 like it was years ago. It’s crossing over now and you are seeing a lot more women who have their favorite teams that they want to follow and they get caught up in the excitement of the tournament. You see a lot more people of all different ages. It has crossed over to different segments of the population.”
It seems March Madness is big business in the gambling world as well as at the office.
Although the Nevada Gaming Commission does not keep specific records, they estimate that March Madness could possibly bring in more money than the Super Bowl, the single-day biggest betting event in the world. Las Vegas alone could bring home as much as $90 million. Holy LeBron James!
Now I’m thinking perhaps I’d like to “get in the game.” After all, both my alma maters, Florida State and Iowa State, are competing. I live 40 minutes from the UNLV (University of Nevada at Las Vegas) campus. They’re playing as well.
SO, HERE’STHE SNAP: Why not give yourself permission to participate in something, anything, you know absolutely nothing about. A screwball idea? Go for it. Get crazy. Shove the “better you” aside for some hijinks. And, prepare yourself for failure. It’s character building.
Emboldened by Judy’s encouragement, I asked a good friend (male sports fanatic who always makes picks)) if I could piggyback onto his NCAA Bracket choices. While cutting off his right arm seemed more palatable, he agreed to let me participate and share in the effort with the understanding that next year I’d be on my own. Right………
NCAA Basketball Tournament Brackets Photo by basketball.org
Last weekend there were 48 ball games played. My job was to record the winning teams, moving them up in the brackets. We tumbled a bit, like everyone, when highly-seeded Duke and Missouri were upset. The field was cut, however, from 64 teams to the “Sweet Sixteen”. Starting again, on Thursday, these winners will compete to reach the “Elite Eight” and, then, the “Final Four”. (Those names seem silly to me but I’m keeping my mouth shut.) Many of “our” picks are still marching on and our choices for the “Final Four” are all alive. GO TEAMS!
OUR CHOICES:
The Final Four: Kentucky, Michigan State, Ohio State and Kansas.
Don’t you just love to be vindicated in your rightness? The issue was Irish Soda Bread vs. Cardboard. Since ISB is this week’s Tuesday with DorieBaking with Julia recipe choice, I stood firmly (and, alone) in the beleaguered bread’s corner. My family crowded themselves into the opposite one. Now, look below at my first photo, snapped as I pulled the ISB loaf out of the oven. Add butter and preserves. Is there any question who carried the day?
And, the Winner is Irish Soda Bread.
Moral of the Story: Never bet against Dorie, Julia, and the Lady of this House (me).
ISB is just four ingredients. Most important is the non-perishable bicarbonate of soda (ie bread soda), developed and introduced in Ireland in the early 1800s. Since most Irish families had no ovens, this meant they could make bread in a bastible (lidded, cast-iron pot), laid onto the turf fire. With buttermilk from Bossy the Cow, wheat from their fields for the flour, and salt, an Irish family, for the first time, could make good bread very cheaply every day.
FOUR Ingredients: Flour, Baking Soda, Salt and Buttermilk
I mixed one cup of raisins, a non-traditional addition, into the dough.
It’s easy to put together the dough which is sticky, soft and malleable. It’s more difficult to turn the dough onto the lightly floured work surface and NOT knead it to death. Think: one minute, knead gently. Ça suffit.
Continuing in the gentleness-mode, pat the dough into a 6-inch disk and slide onto a greased pan or baking sheet. Slash a 1/2-inch deep “X” across the top. The reason for the slash? Take your pick: a religious symbol; to let the fairies escape; to let the devil out; or, to more easily expand and divide into four quarters. As for me, I’m going with the fairy theory.
Ready for a 350-degree oven
“X” marks the loaf.
Three-hundred–fifty degrees and fifty minutes later, the bread was golden brown, the “X” had expanded, and the fairies had flown. Here is when I totally broke the rules. Although Dorie suggests we allow the bread to cool , I decided bragging rights were far more important. Not a crumble was lost in the slicing. Breakfast was glorious. I tried not to gloat.
To Let It Cool or Not To Let It Cool, that is the question????
Not a crumb in sight
Here, I think, is the reason ISB gets such a bad rap. Because there is so little fat in this bread, it turns, Dorie explains, “as hard as the Blarney Stone” by the end of the day. For this reason, I wrapped up the remaining 1/2 loaf, grabbed a slicing knife, butter and preserves and dashed to my nearby beauty shop. It was St. Patrick’s Day, after all. I saw there was enough bread to share with all six beauticians and their clients before disappearing into a room with Christine for my own manicure.
What followed, that next hour, was a steady stream of visitors, all throwing accolades and food memories my way. One gal, eyes a-puddle, stepped into the room. “I am channeling my Mother and all the years I spent with her in the kitchen making Irish Soda Bread,” she said. “She has been gone three years but I remember her making it every St. Patrick’s Day. Back East, we’re all Irish, we even have two Irish cops in the family.”
When I asked how mine differed from her mother’s, she replied, as she started to leave the room. “There’s no difference. It’s identical, even the aroma. That’s why I’’m leaving right now…….to cry.”
All in all, it was the perfect bread for the perfect day.
All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his. Oscar Wilde, an Irishman
Lumière, the character who adds a spark to “Beauty & The Beast”, disney-clipart.com
Preparing a Feast for Belle and the Beast, Lumière and his Cup Chorus, infamouskidd.com
Be our guest! Be our guest! Put our service to the test. Tie your apron ‘round your neck, cherie, and we’ll provide the rest. Don’t believe me? Ask the dishes. They can sing, they can dance. After all, Miss, this is France. Beef ragout, cheese soufflé, pie and pudding “en flambe”. We’ll prepare and serve with flair, a culinary cabaret!” Lumière & Chorus, Beauty & the Beast.
Who doesn’t remember Belle’s first dinner in the Beast’s castle? Lumière’s menu was on target. A soufflé announces itself. Élégance at its most high-brow.
When I think of myself, élégance and high-brow don’t come to mind. I met this week’s recipe choice, however, with a feeling of determination and a “What the hell?” attitude, more my style. With Dorie’s pushing, prodding and reminder, “There’s nothing complicated about the dish, although there are three things you should know,” ringing in my ears, I triumphed.
Dorie’s recipe, to my mind, is a classic, using techniques most of us already have in our culinary skill set. Although mine are a bit rusty, it wasn’t hard to put the soufflé together. Nerve-racking, yes. Difficult, no.
A savory souffle usually begins with a béchamel sauce, enriched with egg yolks. The egg whites are later whipped and folded in, to lighten the mixture. For the cheese, I chose a 8-ounce chunk of well-aged gruyère and grated it, easily and to perfection, in my food processor.
Béchamel Sauce
Béchamel Sauce, enriched with egg yolks and grated cheese
I initially introduced one-third of the whipped whites into the béchamel sauce, and then delicately folded in the rest. That step is difficult for those of us who tend to be heavy-handed. I was careful, also, to delicately turn the batter into a soufflé dish coated with butter and bread crumbs.
Ready to fold the last of the whipped egg whites into the batter.
The soufflé dish, coated in butter and lightly dusted with breadcrumbs
Since a soufflé is baked at high heat and must be “left alone” to rise, I waited 25 minutes before opening the oven, sliding a piece of aluminum foil over the top to prevent further browning. (If you recall, I am currently in a rental home with a temperamental oven.) After a total of 40 minutes, it was well-risen, firm to the touch and jiggly at the center. Although it had browned more than I would have liked, it did not affect the taste. In fact, I loved the crusty topping.
Table-ready. Move quickly and carefully.
Life is Good………….
All we really needed to make this dinner complete was two spoons! Knowing Dorie would probably disapprove, I added roasted asparagus, the first picking purchased at the local farmer’s market, threw a warmed baguette on the table, and poured Harmonie, a Paso Robles white table wine. This is a lovely, light blend of Chardonnary, White Reisling and Muscat Canelli produced by Harmony Cellars, a small winery on California’s central coast. Perfect We even enjoyed it for breakfast the next morning with croissants and raspberry jam. Warmed leftovers, even better!
Once again, Dorie was right in saying, “Really, the soufflé should be ashamed of itself, scaring off cooks for no good reason! There’s nothing complicated about the dish.” To see how other Doristas fared with their own soufflé drama, go to http://www.frenchfridayswithdorie.com/ Oh, about Dorie’s three secrets to souffle perfection? Buy her book: “Around my French Table, more than 300 recipes from my home to yours”. (Page 150.) It costs about the same price as a pound of the cave-aged gruyére I used in this recipe.
The cheese soufflé, safely to the table without deflating
