What I want to do is surprise Husband with an elaborate dinner, one that involved hours of wrapping homemade puff pastry around fancy cuts of meats stuffed with equally extravagant aphrodisiac delicacies like oysters or asparagus or shaved truffles.
Of course, I’d wear the strappy stilettos.
“What strappy stilettos? You only wear those nasty slip-on sneaker things. You always say your feet weren’t designed for heels.”
Ignore that. That is my child in the background.
I do have strappy stilettos. They are midnight black and come equipped with thin sparkly straps that secure themselves around my slender (yes, slender) feet with the same expertise Christian Grey would secure Anastasia in his Red Room. There is no safe word with these shoes.
That’s how I’d start the evening.
“What about us? What are we having for dinner?”
That’s the other kid. Excuse me while I kick a box of cereal in that direction.
The house would be aglow in romantic scented candles.
“Fire hazard, Mom. Gosh. Don’t you know ANYTHING???”
That’s the sixteen year-old. Of course, that’s the sixteen year-old.
“And you can’t do scented anything, remember? Cause YOU…GET… HEADACHES!!!”
Okay. That was really, really loud. Where was I? The house aglow in romantic, scented candles. Me in sexy shoes.
I’d be wearing a silk something or other, something to show off that amazing flat stomach.
…One second please.
“STOP THAT LAUGHING! It was flat before YOU PEOPLE RUINED IT!!!!!!!”
Anyhow, there’d be smooth jazz playing, maybe some Miles Davis Autumn Leaves…
“Hey, isn’t that the song you wanted papi to learn to play on the saxophone you bought him? The sax that’s been sitting there gathering dust for a hundred years?”
Ignore them. As I said, Autumn Leaves would be playing in the background. I’d serve dinner. I’d look amazing. Husband would gaze into my eyes and…
“Ewwwww…get a room!”
“BTW papi isn’t here, remember?”
So they are in stereo now?
Okay fine. I’ll make this quick:
I look hot. I’ve made this fancy dinner. There’s dim lighting and sexy music.
There’s no children. There’s no children. There’s no children.
There’s just Husband and I. Maybe he’s gotten me roses or a gift or both (I don’t need it, I don’t need any of it, just him, but, hey, it’s not like I am going to say no) and we gaze into each other’s eyes and smile and say, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
But here is how it really goes guys:
Husband is off in some other country for work, as usual. These kids, good God, these kids that I sometimes wanna kill (in the most loving way) are here. And they’re hungry. And dinner isn’t ready yet. So I’ve gotta do something quick. Something simple. I’ll throw a steak on the grill, make some mashed potatoes, offer up a nice green salad.
“We hate salad, Mother…”
Okay, whatever. Hopefully one day they’ll eat salad. One day after meals and meals and meals of watching their mother eat salad, something will click and they’ll eat a salad.
And then dessert, because after all, it’s still Valentine’s Day.
I need something to commemorate my love to my man, albeit apart and long distance. Something that would follow that amazing entrée I’ve made up in my head.
I’m thinking crepes.
Don’t be afraid!
Crepes are easy, really.
You can super cheat and buy them premade. (I’ve super cheated, yes I have.)
Or you can whip up a batch and keep them in the fridge- just pull them out whenever you want. They’ll last up to two weeks like that.
Raspberries go great with crepes and feel fancy. And you’re gonna love this: all you do is spread your favorite raspberry jam inside the crepe, roll it up, and sprinkle the outside with raspberries, confectioner’s sugar, and fresh whipped cream. Seriously! That’s it!
“Wait, did you say crepes?”
“Yes, yes! We want crepes! Can we have crepes?”
Oh no. They’re still here?
“Can we just have dessert for dinner, Mom?”
“Ooooh, yeah, dessert for dinner! Dessert for dinner! Dessert for dinner!”
Throw everything into the blender (start with the wet ingredients first.)
Blend until smooth, about 1 minute.
Let batter sit for at least 30 minutes. If you are organized and plan ahead, letting it sit overnight in an airtight container is the die-hard way to go (just mix it up when ready to use)! But don’t worry. I am unorganized and impulsive when it comes to food cravings which leads me to wanting crepes RIGHT NOW, i.e., letting the batter rest a half an hour works just fine.
Heat a 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium heat.
Lightly coat with butter or Pam.
Add 1/3 cup of the batter and swirl it around so it coats the whole skillet.
Cook for 2 minutes..
Use a spatula to carefully flip. Cook 1 minute.
Slide crepe off and repeat, coating pan each time.
You can keep crepes warm in a preheated oven or just store them in the refrigerator in a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, taking out what you need as you go. To heat, just microwave on high for 10 seconds.
Use 4 crepes (2 per person.)
Pick your favorite raspberry jam. Add 2 teaspoons in center of warm crepe and spread all around. Roll up crepe.
Sprinkle with fresh raspberries and confectioner’s sugar and add a dollop of whipped cream.
If you want it super fancy, include a sprig of mint for extra color. Repeat.
The first person I met who wore bright, short silk scarves tied tightly around her tan neck was Signora DiLeo. She also pulled off elegant button-down blouses with jeans and loafers flawlessly. It was back in the 80’s, when I was a teenager trying hard to navigate through the many ridiculous messages thrown my way about beauty. Aside from big hair and bigger shoulder pads, that included electric blue mascara, Sassoon jeans (worn two sizes too small), and miniskirts, the shorter the better. When I walked into my 6th period class of Italiano 1, however, and saw Signora DiLeo’s effortless elegance and class, I knew everything Seventeen Magazine was screaming at me to do was wrong.
Signora DiLeo’s room was in the farthest corner of the second floor of my high school’s sprawled out campus, away from the main traffic of noise: girls crying over latest heartbreaks, boys playing basketball well past break time, teachers exchanging pleasantries on their way to the copy room. We heard none of that in her hidden alcove. We were privy only to Signora DiLeo’s singsong voice as she conjugated verbs.
Eventually, we arrived at the verb “eat” and Signora DiLeo’s friendly hazel eyes brightened.
“Questa settimana impareremo sui cibi italiani!” She announced, her words gliding quickly and comfortably in her native tongue.
“To eat: mangiare!” She proclaimed, gesticulating with her slender hand.
We all understood this much Italian and even the boys in the back, the ones that were always joking around and being disruptive, suddenly grew attentive at the subject of food, which really sounds quite beautiful in Italian.
For that week we learned to conjugate the verb “to eat”:
Lui, lei mangia
We learned how to order food in Italian: antipasto, primo, secondi, and of course, dolce. We learned about pasta: agnolotti , bucatini, conchiglie, and pappardelle, to name a few. When we were delirious and dumbfounded by those options, we learned about the sauces: arrabiata, bolognese, burro e salvia, fra diavolo, marinara, ragú, puttanesca.
“And then, of course, there’s pomodoro, tomato sauce,” Signora DiLeo whispered. “The best sauce. Simple.”
She raised her chin and closed her eyes for a second, falling back into a happy memory that I assumed included this sauce.
“Tomato, onion, garlic, olive oil, a pinch of salt, a pinch of sugar, and of course, time,” she told us, her eyes still closed. “È davvero così semplice. Le cose migliori della vita sono le cose più semplici. The best things in life are the most simple things.”
She translated the last part, for good measure. This was a lesson she didn’t want us to miss.
When Friday came around, we got a taste of Signora DiLeo’s cooking as well as her wisdom. The hallway leading to her room was enveloped in a luring scent of onions and garlic simmering in olive oil, making the whole school wish they had signed up for Italianio 1. Signora DiLeo stood in the front of the classroom, her stylish outfit covered up by a spotless white apron with the Italian flag flanked across the front and, just to hone in on the point, the proclamation, Italia!, scrawled underneath it in vibrant red. She was stirring sizzling onions over a portable burner that had magically appeared in the front of her room.
Signora DiLeo explained the steps involved on how to make the easiest of all Italian culinary treasures: salsa di pomodoro, pronouncing each ingredient carefully as she added it: olio d’oliva, cipolla, aglio, pomodoro, una presa di sale , una presa di zucchero.
When she was done, she pulled out bowls that she filled with spaghetti and ladled up pomodoro sauce for us to eat. I’m not sure where or how she made spaghetti, but I do remember the sauce. The sauce was memorable. The sauce was magic. The sauce was elegant, classy, and sophisticated, just like Signora DiLeo.
1 28-ounce can of tomatoes (if you find San Marzano tomatoes, use those!)
½ teaspoon sugar
salt, to taste
In a medium saucepan, heat up olive oil and sauté onions and garlic over medium-low heat, stirring every so often for 10-15 minutes. The onions should get a caramelized look to them.
Add remaining ingredients, raise heat to bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and cook, partially covered, for 45 minutes-1 hour, stirring once in a while, crushing up tomatoes with back of a wooden spoon.
When sauce is done, you can add fresh basil (3-4 leaves, torn) and/or ¼ cup heavy cream.
I know I’m a bit old to be writing you this letter, but no one around here listens, so I’m hoping I’ll have more luck with you.
2014 has been fine. However, as I like to tell my daughter, there is always room for improvement. I don’t end up telling this to her, I end up telling this to the lovely oil painting I have of an exasperated woman, the one where she is resting her head in her hands in complete resignation (can so relate!) That fine artwork hangs in my living room right behind my daughter, above an electrical outlet.
The outlet is what lures my daughter there regularly, charging a phone or a computer or both. Fingers are quickly composing a witty text, eyeballs nervously checking social status on Instagram (I need more likes on that picture!!!) or maybe she’s perusing Facebook, just biding time until it is 9:00pm and she can tune into the season premier of PLL.
That’s Pretty Little Liars, Santa. Come on, get with it.
Look, I’m not going to ask you for the big stuff.
I’m not going to ask you for a larger house.
With an infinity pool.
Perhaps an ocean view.
That would be outrageously abusive of me.
But maybe, could you do something about the stovetop?
The thing is, it’s electric.
And yes, fancy shmancy electric, seriously high-end German electric, with an eco-friendly Ceran glass surface that claims to heat up faster than you can say omelet, with double and triple size elements that make the whole thing have more rings on it than the Olympic emblem.
By the way, Santa, I don’t know how savvy you are in the kitchen, but, if the brochure tells you it heats up faster than you can say omelet, the brochure is lying to you. Or you aren’t reading the German properly. Something.
I could walk over to my neighbor’s house, make an omelet there, clean up, come back home, and then my skillet would be ready.
I’ve learned to roll with this electric stovetop situation ever since I moved to the Florida ‘burbs a kazillion years ago, but my children don’t get a break, I am constantly kvetching about this. You know about kvetching, Santa, you must have some complaining to do as well, say, when the elves slack off or that darn chimney somehow becomes more narrow.
I fill their heads with stories about the perfectly simmered black beans I enjoyed growing up in Venezuela or the fantastic puttanesca pasta that I’d whip up in a flash in New York, or the spicy Moroccan chicken couscous I’d dazzle their dad with when we lived in Boston.
It’s not that I can’t make these dishes here. I can and I do. It’s the experience of making them over a gas stovetop that is so different, the ease and control of creating them under the embrace of a real fire that makes a difference. Maybe it’s that primal, caveman instinct of cooking with actual fire that makes me happy. Maybe it’s the hypnotic dance of the blue flame and the way it instantly heats up my skillet, even the heaviest cast iron one, making my heart flutter just so.
The year we lived in Mexico, my kids witnessed this jubilation first hand.
“Look, see! See how fast the water boils?” I’d scream, vindicated, drunk with joy.
“Crispy, crunchy hash browns in seconds! “ I’d revel.
I admit, I had gone a bit mad. But it was a happy mad, one in which everyone seemed to benefit and eat a lot.
The euphoria ended upon returning to our South Florida home where my German engineering quietly awaited to disappoint me.
The kids poke fun at me, Santa.
There seems to be two lethal attacks they inflict on their mother regularly:
1) Commenting on how lovely whatever sunset we are currently enjoying would look from a beach home (because they know I am an ocean girl through and through)
2) Reminding me of how grand it would be if we had a gas stovetop.
They know I’d pretty much give one of them up for either one of these two things.
I’d definitely give up the dog.
But hey, they say Christmas is a time for miracles.
And Hanukkah, which is the holiday I celebrate, is filled with stories of miracles.
So, I’m writing you this note (because I don’t have Hanukkah Harry’s address, and, let’s face it, you must have more pull.)
I’m asking: amongst the tricycles and trucks and dolls banging around your bag, could you possibly spare a gas stovetop?
Because I live in South Florida and on occasion will overhear “chévere” or “chamo” or “pana.”
Because I fill my children’s heads with stories about this wonderful place I grew up in, this place filled with sunshine and pristine beaches and majestic mountains. This place that nurtured me with amazing food and happy-go-lucky people.
Because my children won’t know this place, a place that has been replaced by rampant crime, inflation, and tyranny.
Because I miss Venezuela, I make arepas.
Arepas are round corncakes that can be grilled or fried and that are stuffed with anything savory, making them a sure win for picky families with specific tastes and needs. Rebel-without-a-cause teen just announced she’s a vegetarian? Arepas go great with any version of cheese, from fresh white mozzarella to shredded sharp cheddar. Other child craving a bit more protein? Dice up last night’s rib eye and toss it in, along with whatever condiment inspires you. You can all sit together and no one will complain/argue about what they are eating/forced to eat/refusing to eat, making me wonder if perhaps, I should suggest they serve these in the next United Nations General Assembly as a reminder that our differences can be enjoyed in the enveloping embrace of an arepa.
If global peace is feeling too ambitious for you, then keep the whole issue domestic: arepas serve as a useful excuse to clear out your fridge! Have half a pork tenderloin from Monday’s supper? Great in arepas! How about that roast beef you made for the in-laws that night they just wouldn’t leave? Arepas! Let’s not forget Thanksgiving leftovers…if your turkey was a big as mine, you must still have some balanced in the Tupperware on top of the Tupperware on top of the other Tupperware crammed with side dishes. Guess what? Turkey with a generous slab of mayo inside an arepa…amazing!
Sunday night is often roast chicken night at my house, which means, by Thursday, I’m ready to clear the fridge of what’s left of that meal in order to make room for newer items. Leftover chicken is perfect for Reina Pepiada, which is the Queen of all Venezuelan arepa dishes. Nestling this chicken and avocado salad inside a piping hot arepa fresh off the griddle brings me back to so many wonderful places/moments of my youth, whether it be a lazy weekend lunch out with my family or a quick pit stop at La Sifrina with my boyfriend, well past my curfew, once again. We’d devour these while slurping on fresh fruit shakes, and even though it was only a few hours before dawn, the day was alive with possibility, hope, and happiness.
Because these are things one should never forget/always strive for.
The Venezuelan arepa has its origins hundreds of years ago, cooked by the various indigenous tribes across the country (Arawak, Carib, Timoto-Cuica, Cumanagoto, Karina, among others.) What was initially made with fresh corn is today made using pre-cooked white corn flour, called “Harina Pan.” Arepas are eaten by Venezuelans in almost every meal and can be eaten just with butter or stuffed with all kinds of meats, cheeses and salads. In Venezuela there are places called “Areperas” that serve only arepas and fresh fruit juices and are open at all hours: this is our fast food!
For the arepas:
1 cups Harina Pan, white (pre-cooked maize, if you can’t find Harina Pan, you can use Goya)
1 ¼ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons corn oil
2-3 cups warm water
For the Reina Pepiada:
1 cup shredded chicken (great with roasted chicken leftovers.) You can use white meat, dark meat, or combo.
¼ cup microscopically minced onion (seriously, you want the flavor, but you don’t really want to feel them)
¼ cup mayonnaise
¼ cup sour cream
1 Haas avocado, ripe
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
3 tablespoons fresh cilantro, minced (optional)
salt and pepper to taste
For the arepas:
Combine the harina pan and salt in a large bowl and mix well. Add oil. Slowly drizzle in warm water and knead it into the cornmeal. There should be a soft but firm consistency. If it still feels too dry, add more water.
Form arepas: grab a handful.
Size varies according to preference (get your head out of the gutter, we’re talking arepas!) Some people prefer large arepas, I tend to like them smaller (that way I can have more of them!!!) so my round is about the size of a golf ball, maybe a wee bit larger.
Roll into a ball shape and then, moving the dough in a circular motion, slowly start flattening it out. Your arepa should be approximately half an inch thick.
Cook on a heated and greased griddle pan over medium heat for 6 minutes on each side, then pop them in a 350° F heated oven for 5 minutes.
Cut lengthwise about ¾ down.
Here’s another debate amongst Venezuelans: to scoop or not to scoop. Some folk like to scoop out the soft, warm, extra dough inside the arepa, and thus leave basically the shell that has been on the griddle. This makes for more stuffing space. Others enjoy a bit of that comfort texture to meddle with their stuffing. Totally up to you.
Makes 10 arepas
For the Reina Pepiada:
So, pretty much stick it all in a bowl and mix it up. The avocado needs to be mushified. No slicing or dicing. Just smash it up.
Now if you are a die-hard mayonnaise person, feel free to up the mayo to ½ cup and ditch the sour cream.
Cilantro adds a tad of brightness, a term they all throw around in the cooking shows, so, I’m throwing it around here. It’s a preference thing, again. No right or wrong. Want to be a rebel? Add parsley instead. That would be killer good, actually.
The weather dipped the other day in South Florida.
It did, real quick, but, it did.
In fact, if you are a late riser, if you’re not privy to dark, pre-dawn alarms piercing into peaceful slumber so you may assemble prosciutto and tapenade sandwiches for school lunches while simultaneously flipping gruyere and wild porcini omelets for breakfast (because culinary requests are very high in this household) you may have just missed it.
The chipper weather forecaster on the morning news was as ecstatic as when she was crowned Miss Florida years ago. She eagerly urged her viewers to “dress in layers,” which, even I, who am perpetually cold, thought was a bit much. She continued to inform us that the temperature was a chilly 66 degrees and would only climb up to a mild 85. That would explain the goose bumps on her tight-fighting atomic tangerine dress.
Chilly 66. Mild 85.
I’m not big on tattoos, but that is one I’d consider getting.
You know, as a reminder.
We may have a lot of crazy things going for us in South Florida, a lot of nut jobs seem to hatch from the glorious Sunshine State, but Chilly 66, Mild 85 is something I can deal with.
With breakfast for the children already plated, I opened the front door to grab the morning paper, and instead of being greeted by the familiar frizz-your-hair humidity, I got a crisp, cool caress that left me pleasantly chilly. To experience cold is so unusual in South Florida that it made me wonder if I was dreaming.
Or somehow transported to Ithaca.
I realize folks in Ithaca don’t get caressed by the weather. I’ve seen their winters on television. It’s the no-nonsense type of winter. The type that makes national news. The type that most definitely doesn’t breed chipper weather forecasters in candy-colored dresses. You’re more likely to get a weather person akin to a stern officer in the army: Gimme one hundred pushups and grab a shovel to dig yourself out of your house! Now, do it again!
We’re softies here in South Florida when it comes to cold weather. It’s still cute. Celebrated. Fun!
Watch and see.
We have about seven days when things get cold. People will pull out their Ugg boots and designer fleece. Die-hards may sport that winter coat as well. The friendly weather gal will tell us all about it: warn us about frost and frostbite, about wrapping our children thoroughly in scarves and mittens and hats. Keeping body heat starts with a warm head, she’ll say. She’s trained hard for this moment, for this week.
Oh and it is such fun! Who cares if by 11:00am, once that South Florida sunshine is beaming down on us, the thermostat is climbing to 70, then 80, then…you stop looking because you are so damn hot in all your brand new winter gear. You wonder why the svelte weather chick didn’t educate you on how feet regulate your body heat- yours are shvitzing up a storm in those sheepskin boots, the ones you refuse to take off no matter how many beads of sweat are falling down your back or how dizzy and dehydrated you may feel. You now remember (and understand) her sexy, strappy sandals.
It’s South Florida in winter! Glorious! Fun!
It also gives me an excuse to make heartier food: saucy, rich, meat-laden, pasta-slapped, oozing cheese type stuff one needs to survive a cold winter night. I’m thinking specifically of pasticcio, which is like lasagna, only, if you can believe it, better. It’s like some kooky person took a look at lasagna and thought, “yeah, I can improve upon this,” and then did! Crazy right? Impossible? No. They got it down on the pasticcio.
There are several versions of pasticcio, from Greek, to Italian, to Egyptian, but they all rely on four main ingredients: meat, pasta, cheese, and some sort of a béchamel sauce. I favor the Italian version, which my mother used to purchase from our local Italian market on those nights we were rushing around and she’d have no time to cook dinner herself. I grew up in Caracas, Venezuela, which witnessed a heavy influx of Italian immigrants in the 1940’s, resulting in, amongst other things, a bountiful access to homemade pastas, salume, and Nona-style pasticcio. The principle of layering meat, cheese and noodles is the same, only tucked away for added flavor are slices of ham, and then, just because, the entire thing is coated in a creamy béchamel. Oh, and sprinkled with more cheese. Why not? It’s cold outside, remember? On some survivalist level you need this.
And if you have any leftovers, you can always send them to some shivering, shoveling soul in Ithaca.