Little Green Children

I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a rose of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green.
~ Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mosses from and Old Manse

Nate was right. The feeling that overtakes one when you go out to check on the garden and to give all one’s little green children a nice long soaking drink. You train a light, caressing shower over each verdant row, telling yourself that soon, soon there will be flowers and then fruit, but not yet. Patience. Patience. And then to spy tiny fruit!! Ecstasy!!

Such was my joy last evening. I was chatting with a neighbor, with whom we enjoy a wee bit of friendly garden competition. I had not been able to visit the garden in the last four days or so (never fear, there has been so much rain here, we need to start designing an ark!) and I was already pleased as punch to see how lovely and green and robust everything was. But I was not expecting our tomato plants, in all their bushy glory, to have any fruit yet. But low and behold, there they were, tucked away beneath lush, protective leaves. Still so young and tender, they were still fuzzy. Ahhh!

There really is nothing quite like standing over one’s garden and breathing in the odour of “green.” And in this Nate is also correct: it is "a love nobody could share. . .who had never taken part in the process of creation.” I am sure if anyone had chanced by at that moment, they would have thought me quite a loon, standing in breathless rapture, clapping my hands excitedly over the voluptuous basil plants, cooing at the tomatoes and praising the green beans.

But I shall have the last laugh over dinner. ;-)

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

The Human Connection: Unplugged

How we treasure ~ and admire ~ the people who acknowledge us!
~ Julie Morgenstern

When one takes public transportation on a regular basis, one begins to notice a strange phenomenon: roughly 99.9% of one’s fellow passengers have wires growing out of their heads. As a staunch Doctor Who fan, visions of Cybermen spring into the imagination. On more than one occasion, I have found myself being slightly annoyed with those whose MP3 players (which are attached to said wires) have been turned up so loud that I can hear a distinct yet still vague beat ~ but no melody and no words. When one is trying to catch a snooze between stations, this is highly bothersome. But there is more here than meets the ear.

One of the cardinal (and unspoken) rules of riding the metro is to never make eye contact and heaven forbid don’t speak to anyone either! But even though these rules are understood by all, there is a level of non-verbal communication that still exists; some semblance of connection remains.

Put the headphones on and this tenuous thread is broken. How does one connect with someone who not only truly cannot hear you, but who is a million miles away in thought?! Plugging one’s ear with headphones seems as anti-social as plugging one’s ears with one’s fingers. I should know ~ I tried it today. Everyone else was doing it, why not me? An added incentive was a new pair of headphones and a replacement USB jack for my iPod Shuffle. (I misplaced the original docking station ~ it is lost in the Black Hole of my room for another three years I am sure!)

Everyone knows how much I adore music ~ it is more then the air I breathe. I could not live without it. But saying “Good morning” to the bus driver with an echo in my ear and keeping my eyes averted the whole commute (as is proper, you know!) I felt strangely disconnected from my surroundings. I wondered: “Is this how those other 99% feel too?” But then why continue to plug one’s ears and consequently one’s mind? Perhaps they have just become accustomed to the disconnection. Or perhaps they are already disconnected from themselves and their surroundings in other areas of their life, so this one does not strike them as odd. Or yet again, maybe they enjoy being slightly removed from the situation at hand. Now, I am not saying that exude effervescent sanguinity on either my morning (are you serious!?) or my evening (I once missed my stop because I was so exhausted I fell asleep!) commute. And there were days in the recent past when I wished with the fervency of a Ralphie Parker that I had my iPod with me to drown out the obnoxious Valley Girl conversations surrounding me. (What is it with that?! Where is Henry Higgins when you need him!?)

Now I am not so sure. For all the annoying noises or hair-pulling conversations, there is something to be said for staying connected, being aware of one’s surroundings and acknowledging one’s fellow travelers.

Otherwise, we become just big machines plugged into smaller ones.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

. . .and Pretty Maids All in a Row

One of the most delightful things about a garden is the anticipation it provides.
~ W.E. Johns, The Passing Show

A gardener is an optimist by nature. One has to be, or one would never plant another garden! This would certainly be true in my case. Last year I had a beautiful crop of tomatoes ~ each plant dripping with emerald fruit. I looked forward to frying some of the green ones and leaving the rest to ripen. In two days ~ 2 DAYS! ~ all gone. Stripped by those nasty little rats with bushy tails. I still have not figured out whether they were tree squirrels or ground squirrels.

But I did not let last year’s tragic loss deter me this year. As I mentioned on Tuesday, eight tomato plants went in on Memorial Day, along with five green peppers and several seeds: sugar snaps, radishes, arugula, swiss chard and three rows of beans ~ this after we said no more beans ~ three rows really is not enough for me to use for a dinner party. I knew the sugar snaps went in very late and will probably not grow, but I figured we had nothing to lose.

In addition to the vegetables, we put in at least six or eight basil plants. Basil is the crown jewel of the kitchen garden ~ rosemary comes a close second in terms of flavor and versatility. But basil is king. We had a little trouble with our basil plants last year as well ~ a tad wilted, very few leaves and stunted height. I am still not sure why. Other gardeners I talked to either had a huge crop of healthy basil or had the same experience I did, but neither group had answers.

So instead of bushels of basil being ground into oodles of pesto, I had to make do with spinach ~ which by the way, makes an excellent pesto too. This year, however, I am holding out hope (and organic fertilizer) that my basil will be better. And I have even more incentive this year. I have discovered a grilled chicken sandwich with fresh basil that will drive your taste buds batty.

The original is at Vie de France bakery ~ which unfortunately for me is located a short walk from my office ~ and consists of thin grilled deli chicken, mozzarella, fresh basil, and a smattering of pesto, all crushed between two slices of ciabatta bread. After having it for lunch three days in a row and turning my coworker into a fan as well, she suggested I come up with a version to bring in. So without further ado, here it is:

French Bread
Blue Dairy Mozzarella (or your own local dairy), sliced into thin rounds
1 beefsteak tomato, sliced
2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, pounded thin and sautéed in 1 T butter
Fresh basil leaves
1 Clove of Garlic
1 Cup of fresh Parmesan or Pecorino-Romano
½ Cup of walnuts (you can also substitute pecans or pine nuts)
Olive oil
Various herbs

If you are pressed for time, you can buy chicken already cooked, but I like to season my own. The same goes for the bread ~ there are several great bakeries in the area and Colin Cowie says that if someone else can make it better then you can, let them. ;-) I find bread making quite relaxing, however, so I make my own when I have an “at home” day. It is better if you let the chicken marinate in the herbs and olive oil overnight. Same could probably said of pesto, but I like mine fresh out of the processor.

What is that, you say? You have never made fresh pesto?! And it is too difficult?! Fie! That is no way for a foodie to talk! Now, go pick some basil (or trot along to your local farmer’s market tomorrow morning and buy some) ~ don’t worry about chopping it, the processor will do it for you. Put a bunch of it in, drizzle a goodly amount of olive oil (no I am NOT going to tell you how much, eyeball it) add some walnuts to taste, a pinch of salt, about ½ c of shredded parmesan or pecorino-Romano and 1 clove of garlic. Do not make the mistake of adding more than 1 clove. I love garlic and thought adding more would be a good thing. Alas, not so. And basil is a terrible thing to waste. If it seems a little dry, keeping adding olive oil until the pesto is a thick paste. Just the thought of it makes me want to break out into song.

Spread some of the fresh, homemade pesto onto the bread, layer the chicken, mozzarella and tomato and finish with a few whole basil leaves on top. I made this for dinner last night (minus the pesto) and almost died in basil ecstasy! Serve with a nice tall glass of sweet tea and your guests will think you are a culinary genius!

Here’s to a successful summer of gardening and cooking!

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

With Silver Bells and Cockle Shells...and Wrens?

The best gardening books should be written by those...
who still feel awe at the miracle which follows
the setting of a geranium cutting in its appointed loam.
~ Beverley Nichols

La Belle's Garden went in on Memorial Day. Glorious! And already, the radishes have sprouted, along with one row of swiss chard, arugula and three rows of green beans. The sugar snaps have yet to put in an appearance, but hope springs eternal. It must. The sage is practically the overlord, rosemary his queen and Prince Oregano holding his own between them. However, with eight healthy and viral tomatoes growing like weeds on the other end, we shall see where the balance of power ends up. ;)

Forced abed the past two days with a very inconvenient case of strep, I managed to stumble out of bed this evening and visit the garden and give it a good shower. And lo, I had a visitor. The most curious and brave little bird I have seen in many years. He kept walking a little closer on his tiny little bird legs, then he would cock an eye and peer at me, and then fly to the other side of the yard and sit on top of the fence peering at me some more. I am not sure what he thought of me, but I think he liked the fact that I was wetting the dirt and driving out some worms. At least I hope so. I did tell him he could eat any bugs he found, just no seeds.

He looked sort of like this little guy:

Although he was a little more bluish-grey on top of his head. My neighbor thought I was out of my mind, chirping and talking to my tiny visitor. But said he would only get really worried if the bird began answering me. Why, that would be like living in the Wind in the Willows ~ how marvelous!

Alas, my wee friend flew away after I admonished him about eating any seeds. I think he was either offended, or very sly and just waited until I put away my watering accoutrements and came inside. I do hope he returns. He was very friendly sort of chap and quiet. Just the sort one likes to have with one while puttering in one's garden. ;-)

Oremus pro invicem,

~Mikaela

New Farmer's Market in Fairfax, VA

The greatest delight the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

For those of you in the Washington, D.C. area, another Farmer's Market is set to open in Fairfax County this weekend. As my readers know, I am a big fan of buying and eating fresh and local. An article in the Washington Post today says it best: ". . . there are four seasons and that until the advent of global trade, there were only certain times of the year when you could find, or at least afford, a juicy tomato."

Amen, brother! And anyone who has ever tasted a tomato fresh from the garden knows exactly what he is missing in the cold winter months when he is surrounded by nothing by monster tomatoes or hydroponic nonsense that passes for tomatoes.

In other green news, the garden is planted! More on that next time I post.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

"How Does Your Garden Grow?"

Life is full of beauty. Notice it….
Live your life to the fullest
and fight for your dreams.
~ Ashley Smith

It has been entirely too long since I wrote to you, my dears. Not that I have stopped writing of course. Only that other duties have stolen my time and attention. The stereotype of the starving artist is all too true, I fear. So when one is offered a stable job in a time of great instability, one must take it ~ even if it does not make you spring out of bed in the morning and sprint to work. But then I was never that type of a morning person anyway. . . .

This morning, however, was my kind of morning. If only it were Saturday, then I could have spent as my being ached to. Temperatures are just reaching seventy-five and there is a pleasant breeze that counteracts the sun’s touch. A day best spent in the country amid blue birds and fruit trees and a tall glass of sweet tea.

Alas, I am chained to concrete and steel.

Tomorrow, however, I hope to work in the garden. My housemates and I are very late this year. Life has a way of exploding at the most inconvenient times and so our little patch is a battleground upon which the weeds seem to be winning against last year’s hardy sage, oregano and rosemary. I believe that my one roommate is feeling a tad discouraged over the loss of our tomatoes last summer ~ the rats with bushy tails carried every last one off and we could only shake our fist at the trees.

Gardening is difficult, back-breaking work. And more often than not, the fruit of your labors is non-existent. But something about getting your hands dirty; feeling the earth yield to the spade; inhaling the scent of dirt and heat and spray and plant perfume; watching the green shoots poke their little heads up and reach for the sun. The soul is fed, if not the body and memories are made that last a lifetime.

As many of you know, I grew up in the country. Just five acres but those five acres were my world. For several years, at least two to three of those acres were covered with vegetables: zucchini, eggplant, tomatoes, corn, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, snow peas, sugar snaps, green beans, black beans, peanuts, squash, carrots, potatoes, cucumbers and of course, okra. I think we even grew watermelon one year. Some of my most cherished memories are those lazy summer days spent between the rows, squishing my toes in the soft mud, cooled by droplets from the old sprinkler, picking sugar snaps and eating them pod and all.

Something inside of me aches for the ease and innocence of those times. The ache becomes almost unbearable this time of year and on days like today. Perhaps that is why I garden.

To remember.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

In a Manner of Speaking

Manners are a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others. If you have that awareness, you have good manners, no matter which fork you use.
~ Emily Post

Cutting down on as much carbon emissions and gasoline usage as possible by taking public transportation as often as you can is something I advocate but had not until recently been able to do. Happily, a recent job change enabled me to leave my car at home and take the metro every day. I discovered that in addition to saving me time, gas and money, the switch also: 1) provides me with some much needed “think” time in the morning and evening; 2) greatly reduced my road rage; 3) potentially saves lives and limbs as I no longer wonder what happened in between leaving work and getting home, so engrossed in my thoughts I usually am; and 4) enables me to people watch. And let me tell you, colour matters! ;-)

Don't believe me? Take a ride on the Orange Line during rush hour ~ either in the morning or in the evening. Then take a ride on the Blue Line the next day at the same times. I have been doing this for five weeks straight now and I have noticed a marked difference between the manners of Orange Line riders and Blue Line riders. If you are so unfortunate as to be stuck on the Orange Line, make sure you get up and wiggle your way to the door AT LEAST two to three stops before you need to get off. Noone moves out of the way for passengers getting off at a stop on the Orange Line. And if you dare to clear your throat, or murmur a polite “Excuse me”, you get everything from out right glares to blank looks. But no movement.

My road rage may be gone but not my exasperation with stupidity and down right rudeness.

Riders on the Blue Line, however, are much more accommodating; some will even step off the train to let others off, before getting back on themselves. And I have observed this when riding in either direction ~ into the city or out of it. Now, grant you, the Orange Line does have more passengers on it, generally speaking. But that does not explain the attitudes of the people. Blue Line riders are just as tired after a long day, but they still smile and move out of the way. Even when they are packed in tightly during rush hour.

And as long as we are keeping score on rider manners, Blue Line riders are three times more likely to give up their seats for someone older or disabled. I have witnessed this myself. I have yet to see it happen on the Orange Line. But I will allow that I am not on the Orange Line all the time. In fact, I tend to wait an extra four minutes just to ride the more mannerly Blue Line.

So to all your Orange Line riders out there: take a moment and kindly let your fellow passengers through to their stop.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

Caesar is rolling over in his grave!

What is food to one, is to others bitter poison.
Lucretius, De Rerum Natura

This past Wednesday a friend and I went to hear Mariza in concert for the second time in two months. At this rate, we will earn the title of fado groupies for sure! As anyone who has ever heard Mariza sing live, she delivers an incredibly moving and passionate performance every time.

Alas, I wish I could say the same for our pre-concert dinner. Neither of us had given much thought to where we were going to eat. The University of Richmond (where the concert was held) has a beautiful campus surrounded by large estates, ponds, lush green hills…and little else. We decided to play Russian roulette with his iPhone and found a little Italian place called Azzuro’s which touted itself as the “best Italian restaurant in the Richmond area.”

This may indeed be true, but I will reserve judgment until I have sampled some other Italian restaurants down in James River country. If it is true, it is a sad day for Richmond residents. To start, they brought us bread that I am certain was purchased from a grocery store three to four days ago: dry, flavorless and utterly unremarkable. I think sandpaper would have been a better choice.

For our first course, I chose the Creamy Avocado Crab Salad and my friend ordered the Oven Baked Scallops in Gorgonzola Cream Sauce. I was curious to taste the scallops as I myself have never baked them before. To give the chef his due, they were not unpalatable, but the scallops were a little over done and all I tasted was the gorgonzola cheese. I may end up trying a spoonful of gorgonzola with mine, but no oven baking. Scallops are delicate little creatures and generally like a short hot butter bath ~ five minutes maximum.

When I took a forkful of my crab salad I wondered aloud what the poor thing had ever done to the chef to warrant such crass torture. Its own mother would not have recognized it, drowning in a pool of mayo like some cheap chicken of the sea! Red onion had been added for colour, but it overpowered any other flavor, including the avocado, so that the battle for my taste buds and culinary respect was lost in one bite.

One would think this was torture enough, but no. We had already ordered our entrees and it was too late to turn back now. Yellow fin tuna for my dining companion and a chicken dish with artichokes for me.

Honestly, I do not think I have ever had a worse dish in my entire life (not including my mother’s chicken livers). I almost asked to the see the chef. Again, there was no sense of balance or respect for flavors and texture. Tomatoes and mozzarella covered the chicken in a red and white oozing mass ~ it looked more like a crime scene than dinner. And not an artichoke could be found in that swamp. None. A few mushrooms lurked about, but other than that…..whew. My friend did not finish his entree either. We literally could not eat another bite, our foodie sensibilities were in such shock. Dessert was unthinkable at that point. We just wanted to run far away!

The wine we each had was quite good, however ~ mine was a smooth shiraz that practically danced a pirouette on my tongue. But as my friend pointed out, the chef had not made the wine!

Mariza made it all better, of course. But just a word of caution ~ when in Richmond, avoid Azzuro’s and do some foodie research!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Lenten Leavings

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.
~ Lao Tzu

I love Lent. It is a great time to take stock (again) of one's life and re-adjust what needs re-adjusting, relinquishing some goods in order to make room for others. That is what "giving up" something for forty days is about, a spiritual, mental and emotional spring cleaning.

Letting go can be a frightening exercise, but it is a necessary aspect of life. Either we willingly and lovingly surrender or we waste precious time and tears when things are taken from us. Sometimes letting go can be as simple as clearing our schedule to make time for loved ones. Plan a quiet dinner or simply be in the same room together. Sometimes it is making time for ourselves. When is the last time you took a retreat? Just you and the wind and God (however you define the Supreme Being). A year? Two years? Never? Maybe it is time to take a couple of days and head out of the city and re-prioritize.

Sometimes it is letting go of vices masquerading as virtues. For me this means spending less time agonizing over the plans for a sit down dinner for sixteen and to plan simpler meals with friends ~ where they actually get to see and talk to me, instead of watching the mad chef in the kitchen wear herself to a shadow getting every dish perfect.

There is, of course, a place for perfection and doing the job right. But this is a time to reconnect and enjoy the simple things in life. It is not a time for showy recipes and decadent desserts. Those things will be more appreciated on Easter Sunday ~ welcomed like friends after a long absence. It is a time for hearty soups and stews. Fried chicken and fresh baked biscuits. Chili and homemade cornbread. For the next few weeks, I want to let go and just breathe and refocus my time and attention where it matters most: my loved ones.

May this Lent be one of joy and peace for all my dear readers as well.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Food, Fado and New Fans

Worries go down better with soup.
~ Jewish Proverb

A fellow singer asked me the other day if I were Portuguese. She overheard me regaling my friend Jeanette with the details of the fado appreciation dinner she had missed. No, dear readers, I am not Portuguese. But as you know, I love fado. And I love to cook. It is a marriage made in heaven. And one which brings great rejoicing to my friends.

Introducing more of my friends to fado has been on my to do list for over a year now. Since the last Mariza concert, actually. But I did not want to simply play fado for them, or even tell them the history behind the genre. Such passionate and soulful music calls for a proper setting. And I could think of no better setting than to cook a (somewhat) traditional Portuguese meal. This meant doing a lot of gastronomic research.

The first thing I learned was that no matter what else I cooked, I must cook caldo verde, a staple of Portuguese cuisine. It means, quite literally, green soup and although I found several variations, the basic ingredients are potatoes, onions and kale. Sometimes cabbage is also included, but the recipe I chose did not include it. Several cooks suggested making the soup the night before to allow the flavors to seep into each other. The recipe calls for pouring the cooled soup into a food processor, but I have had two mishaps with a potato-base soup turning into glue that way, so I used a Cuisinart hand-held mixer and it was fantastic. I did everything but add the kale ~ which I left to do the next day before serving the soup. Two changes I would suggest to this recipe: one, add more salt. Two, saute or steam the kale in a little olive oil or butter before adding it to the soup. It came out a little too raw for my taste.

For the main course I came across a couple of schools of thought as well. More traditional Portuguese dinners consist of three main entrees ~ usually fish, pork or chicken and meat. In the interest of time and maintaining the sanity of the cook, I decided to make two entrees. This proved to be a wise decision ~ as I barely held on to sanity with just two!

So much of Portugal's identity is wrapped up in its coastline. It is still the economic lifeline for many Portuguese ~ as it has been for their great-great grandfathers. Portuguese tradition says that there are 365 ways to prepare cod, which is so plentiful it is practically the national fish of Portugal! So in deference to the Portuguese fishermen who are inextricably linked to pathos of fado, I made a gratin called Sailors Bacalhau Gratin. I used fresh cod (instead of salt cod) from the local fishmonger. If you make this recipe with fresh cod as I did, I suggest adding copious amounts of salt.

Both pork loin and chicken breasts were on sale, so I bought both. But I found a recipe for Chicken with Port Raisin Sauce that sounded absolutely wonderul, so I used that instead of the pork. It turned out to be incredible and the star of the table. To save time and sanity, brown the chicken the night before and then cook it the rest of the way about half an hour before serving. Chicken is so delicate ~ it can so easily become dry. This recipe did not dry out the chicken at all and the port-soaked raisins complemented the mushrooms. My friend Penafort even asked for thirds!

Coming up with a well executed dessert proved to be a challenge. There were some desserts with awesome names, like barriga de freiras (nun's belly) and papos de anjo’ (angel's cheeks). But as I was making this for the first time for my guests, I wanted to keep it simple, but still interesting. So I chose to make filhozes, Portuguese Cinnammon Doughnuts. Unfortunately, I cannot remember which recipe I used, but the one I have linked to has a dozen eggs, which is what my recipe called for as well. I had not made doughnuts since I was a Brownie in second-grade! I had forgotten how much fun that was. I think that my guests had as much fun watching me make them as I had frying them up. The oil may have been too hot as my doughnuts came out looking more like bear claws than little round puffs. But they tasted exactly like the recipe promised: solid but tasting like an eclair. I still have half a pitcher of batter left over and have been using it to make crepes, pancakes and the occasional doughnut.

While we all enjoyed either a twelve year single malt Scotch or a very smooth Reserve Porto, we watched the live concert Mariza did in Lisbon a couple of years ago. I have seen her three times in concert now, but it was a moving experience to see her perform for her countrymen. They understood not only her language but her heart. And it communicated itself to my friends watching. At the end of the evening, I had converted ten more fans.

Maravilhoso!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Awaiting the Final Chapter

In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight....
Not people die but worlds die in them.
~Yevgeny Yevtushenko

The scent of damp hay caresses me, its touch pulling memories out of the hope chest of my soul. As I breathe in the familiar and comforting smells of the country, my steps slow as I wonder for the millionth time if this is it. Is this goodbye?

It is not. It is only a pulled muscle or a sprained foot. But when one's father is in his mid-eighties, the shadow of the Reaper seems to grow a little longer each year and every physical and medical issue that arises is feared to be the final one. When the phone rings, I am sure that this will be call I do not want to get. I dream of wakes and Requiem Masses and what I will wear. I resolve to fight the local parish priest if I have to and get my way when it comes to liturgical music. I do everything I can to avoid really thinking about it. God forgive me ~ I have even changed the subject or only nodded noncommittally when my father tries to bring it up.

When I was a child, my father was the strongest, tallest, most talented and loving man in the world. The child in me is frightened to see him grow weaker and weaker ~ almost with every visit and see him shrink to almost nothing. This is nothing new, I know. Everyone dies. But, oh! the holes that are left when they leave!

I am quite aware of the proverb that says one cannot add one hour to one's life by worrying. And I am past mistress of the art of "what ifs" and worst case scenarios. It is a fault I struggle to overcome on a daily basis. But when it comes to dealing with this reality, I am wont to face it. I childishly cling to the belief that we will all live forever here on earth.

My father is indeed a very talented man. He speaks eight languages fluently, although some words escape him now from disuse. He is an adept artist, drawing the most life-like faces. A master storyteller, he would regal my sisters and I with stories from the Old Country. He still has an incredible green thumb. I honestly do not know how his tomatoes always grow three times the size and sweetness of everyone else's! Quick at math and all things engineering, he worked on electron microscopes for years and always brought home fascinating pictures of fly eyes and spiders. For awhile, we had an old one in our garage that he used for spare parts.

Still, my father is a mystery, a book which has chapters never read by anyone but God. And perhaps that is my fear. That once the book is shut forever, there is no way of finding out the story until we are together again ~ hopefully in Heaven. Yet, surely this is true for many people. No one knows us fully, not really. At times we hardly know ourselves!

Knowledge is at the heart of love. When you love someone, you want to know all about them. You wonder what it would have been like to have met them when they were children; when you do learn something of their past, especially if it is painful in any way, you wish you could go back and be there for them or even prevent the painful episode from occurring.

But more often than not, those painful episodes close doors that can only be opened from the inside. And who am I to say that my father, or I, or anyone else for that matter, has an obligation to unlock those doors. Certainly if someone chooses to open up, it is a great honor and one not to be taken lightly. But if it never happens, I suppose one must be content with the story as it is told on the outside.

And his is still being written.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Best Fashion Foot Forward

Elegence does not consist in putting on a new dress.

~ Coco Chanel

Recently I attended a party where the attire was requested to be "smart." It was further explained that this meant no jeans. And it was in searching my closet for something "smart" and "non-denim" that I realized something about my wardrobe and subsequently myself.

I am most comfortable in a pair of jeans and my favorite brown boots. At least I wear them like the girly-girl I am! I "clean-up" quite well too, and am incensed by people who attend the ballet or the symphony in jeans. There is a time and a place for everything, you know!

But as much as I enjoy dressing up in velvet and satin, I honestly do my best socializng, writing and composing in my old stand bys.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikeala

Developer's Circle: Dante's Inferno Revisted

Nobody in this town has ever said no to a developer. We spend tax dollars to encourage sprawl, and then it comes back to us as air pollution.
~ Don Steuter

There is a special circle of the Inferno dedicated to developers. Or there would be if Dante had known any developers. I do not think I have yet met a developer I liked. This need to tear down, rip apart and rebuild ugliness where beauty once rested is one I simply do not understand. As a native of southern Virginia, I have watched countless acres of beautiful, rich farmland give way over the years to steel girders, concrete and increased automobile traffic.

Equally, I have seen these same tabernacles to the American consumer fade away. And believe me they do not age with the grace and dignity of a Painted Lady or Federal-style home. No, these monstrosities show forth the truth of what they are: soulless, dirty grey concrete corpses.

This has always been something I have been acutely aware of ever since I was a child, fascinated by the beautiful old buildings in the historic section of town (which is really most of the town) and horrified by the ugliness of the glittering new shopping Mall. Since developers are the masterminds behind these monuments of consumerism, they have returned to the forefront of my thoughts lately because of two experiences I had this week.

I begin to wonder whether developers are shortsighted as a matter of course. Twice this week, at two separate stores, I had to drive around for a long time (one place: forty-five minutes!) to find a parking place. Let us forget for a moment that urban sprawl is intrinsically bad for society and the economy in the end. Let us pretend that I am actually a fan of sprawl. It strikes me that to build over twenty retail stores and restaurants and in turn build only two garages with limited retail parking is, well....stupid. If someone could explain this, I would be most appreciative.

As for all y'all developers: I have two words that will cure you of this dreaded disease you seem to have: STOP IT! ;)

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

January Chowder Dinner

Chowder breathes reassurance. It steams consolation.
~ Clementine Paddleford

Cooking on Fridays are always a bit of challenge for me. I generally keep them meatless and coming up with interesting and tasty dishes without beef, pork or chicken stretches me as a cook and hostess. My mother, from whom I first learned the art of Southern gastronomy, always opted for the simple approach: eggs, pancakes, pasta or the ever reliable cheese pizza.

This is all very well if I am cooking for one. I must confess, dear reader, that I am not one of those gourmands who must have white linen and candles with every meal I consume. I am afraid I am a bit too much of the social butterfly as well, so that does not always work with my social schedule.

Last night, however, I hosted an impromptu dinner as my friend Charlie was in town. I wanted to keep things light and simple yet not flat and boring. I scoured my Southern Living cookbooks and the Epicurious online database. In the end, I chose a recipe for New England Fish Chowder and made some additions of my own (okra, green peppers and celery).

Buying vegetables fresh and local becomes a bit of a challenge in January, when only apples, pears and root vegetables are the order of the day. So I broke one of my precious rules and bought green peppers ~ American yes, but trucked in. I ought to be beaten ~ or I need my own greenhouse! Onions I had in storage and potatoes as well, so I was saved there. As for the cod, haddock and red snapper that went into the chowder, I bought from our local seafood market, America's Seafood. I was also able to get the fish stock there as well. It is a great local store with some of the freshest seafood around.

For dessert, I made a Southern Living recipe for Pound Cake, which I poured into mini muffins pans and served with a warm chocolate sauce. It was a wonderful dinner that was simple to prepare and perfect for a cold January night.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Musica Sacra: Saint John the Beloved Latin Choir January Program

. . . liturgical music has the evocative capacity to interweave theological meaning and a sense of formal beauty and poetic insight.
~ John Paul II, Ad limina address to the bishops of France “On the Pastoral Care of the Liturgy”

Following is the music program for the remainder of January. Subject to change.

January 18, 2nd Sunday afrer Epiphany
Opening ~ Songs of Thankfulness and Praise/Introit
Offertorium ~ Tribus Miraculis, L. Marenzio
Communio ~ Ubi Caritas, M. Durufle
Mass ~ Missa Brevis, G.P. Palestrina

January 25, 3rd Sunday after Epiphany
Opening ~ O Lord, I am not worthy/Introit
Offertorium ~ TBA
Communio ~ Benedictus, M. Haydn
Mass ~ Klein Orgelsolo, F.J. Haydn

Oremus pro invicem, ~ Mikaela

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

The world is your snowball just for a song,
get out and roll it along.
~ It's a Marshmallow World

My life is a sitcom. Have I ever mentioned that to you, dear reader? Well it is. The antics and theatrics my household sisters and I get up to would have you in stitches. I am sure of this because it happens to us frequently. I thought it was just a local phenomenon. Apparently such hilarity and comedy of errors can follow one around.

My trip up went quite well. No missed trains. My friend Melders and I had a grand time of it around the large fireplace in the living room (seriously, you could have roasted a whole steer in there in the old days!) when I arrived and made our plans for the morrow over a most delectable roasted chicken dinner that her uber wonderful husband prepared for us.

The plan was simple. Our friend ET would come over, we would have a leisurely brunch cooked by yours truly and then we would all sally forth to Niantic to skulk around the infamous Book Barn, which it is reported, has at least six buildings full of books. They have cool names like Ellis Island (where all the "new" books are brought in preparation for sorting) and The Haunted Bookshop, where all the mysteries and thrillers are kept.

First, we ran a little late. Which was fine, because then HubbyD came back from the dry cleaners with Melders' fur coats, one for each of us. ET opted to keep her downy coat and Melders and I threw on the other two with great drama. Then ET could not remember the turn for the main Book Barn, so we decided to go to the downtown branch first and then to the main barn. It was glorious, dear reader. You would die of excitement to see it. Lucky for me, the overflow of culinary books and mysteries were located there. I tried my best to be good. I really did. And it was not so bad: I spent around $30-some and brought home several culinary books, a couple of Albert Campion mysteries and one very special treasure: Michael Jackson's Complete Guide to Single Malt Scotch: A Connoisseur's Guide to the Single Malt Whiskies of Scotland. And no, not that MJ.

Have I ever mentioned I love most things Scottish? Especially a nice whisky. Bliss.

Anyway, back to the comedy of errors. Everything was still going according to plan. We were on schedule to head to the main barn and then grab lunch and make it back to Andover ahead of an incoming snow storm. I was pleased about the snow ~ we have had sixty-degree weather here in Virginia. Sick for January if you ask me. Once we emerged from the Book Barn Downtown, we went to the car, deposited our bags, wherein I sniffed and said: "Oh, I hope that gas smell is not us!" I always say things like that. Usually only to myself when driving the U-mobile. And usually when I say it, it turns out to be someone else.

This time it was us. Sad to say, we turned on the car and pulled out in order to check. I can just hear my male readers groaning and see them clutching their heads. Ah yes. Well, there it was, a pool of something in our parking spot! I wanted to make sure it was gas and not just some harmless washer fluid or anti-freeze. I got out, took off the fabulous fur coat and Doctor Who-like, bent down, touched the liquid and smelled it. Unlike the good Doctor, I did not taste it. I did not need to ~ and would not have anyway ~ ewww! It was most certainly gasoline. Somehow, we had sprung a leak.

The Book Barn Downtown is right next to a Dunkin Donuts (those things are like Starbucks in D.C. ~ everywhere!) which is itself right next to a pub, The Black Sheep. We first retired to DD to get a cup of chai and some munchkins while we waited for AAA to come rescue us. ET also called her man Jed, since we realized that a tow truck only has room for three, not four. After an hour and a half of waiting, the tow driver informed us that he only towed locally in a snowstorm (oh yes, it has begun by this time) and that his company did not tow cars with gas leaks. Fair enough, but we were quite put out that we had not been informed of this earlier.

There was nothing to do but wait for Jed to come in his Ford steed to carry us all back to Andover. So drowned our sorrows at The Black Sheep, where I had some uncommonly good french fries and a magnificent Angus burger that they actually cooked medium rare. This is very ~ ahem, apologies ~ rare in today's restaurant world. Everyone is afraid of being sued by diners i their rare beef gives them a touch of bacteria. I was glad to find a sensible cook who understood the delicate nature of red meat.

In the end there was nothing to do but leave the car there overnight (hence the title of this post: we were not going to do much driving!) and have someone else tow it after the storm. This was fine, except that this, on top of the snowstorm, threw a wrench in our Sunday plans as well. We were to head to New York for a concert and dinner with friends of mine. But even if we had had a reliable car, the roads were not fit for driving until much, much later.

Despite or perhaps because of these adventures, I had a frightfully good time, including an incredible prime rib dinner, complete with Sexy Potatoes (not sure why they are called that, but they are wonderful!) and an Apple Crisp for dessert, made once again by HubbyD.

Traveling is good for the soul, but it is good to be back in Dixie again.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Little Christmas in Connecticut

The only way of catching a train I ever discovered is to miss the train before.
~ G.K. Chesterton

It pains me to say it, but I have a feeling this will be the case with me, as I rather enjoy spending my mornings with a steaming cup of chai or Creme de la Earl Grey and fresh-from-the-oven shortbread, not rushing madly after trains. But one of my housemates has kindly offered to drop me and my baggage at the station, so hopefully it will not be as ghastly an experience as I originally thought.

Traveling is wonderful; I love catching up with old friends, meeting new ones, sampling the local food and coming face to face with regional history. It is just the getting there and back that causes such anxiety. I notice that this anxiety does not rear its ugly visage when I am driving to my destination. But the thought of having to catch another mode of transportation and possibly missing it fills me with as much dread as Tristan Farnon when faced with Mr. Mulligan's Irish wolfhound.

But the prospect of spending a few days in the Connecticut countryside with one of my dearest friends overides any dislike I have for the arrival thereof. If I have any free time during the next five days, I shall post about some of my doings. Otherwise, dear reader, have a wonderful weekend!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

The Comfort of Music

...what I want from songs now is comfort. Not to be pushed forward or challenged, though this is occasionally necessary, but to hear music that says yes, we are tired, but we are alive.
~ Joel Hartse

A favorite resource of mine on all things related to art and culture is Image Journal, "a literary and arts quarterly founded in 1989." This morning I was reading Joel Hartse's top ten songs of 2008. I am always searching for new music and new artists ~ especially indie artists. I was intrigued by Joel's list (surely he is a melancholic!) and in looking for sample tracks, I came across Last.fm ~ a website similar to Emusic in that it makes independent music more readily available. This is always a plus for music lovers.

Making it on Joel's list is Jon Foreman's I Am Still Running. Jon Foreman is the creative force behind the band Switchfoot, whose music I do enjoy. But Jon's solo work is truly beautiful, comforting and accessible. Listening to In My Arms, I felt as if he would be quite at home at one of my musical soirees, improvising with my musician friends.

Have you discovered a new artist recently? Share your favorite tracks in the com box!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

From the Frying Pan to the Fire

Square meals, not adventurous ones, are what you should seek.
~ Bryan Miller

Perhaps there is some truth to the above quote. I confess I do not know the context, and context is exceedingly important. But taking it at face value, it seems to me that all meals are adventurous, or can be. I suppose it depends on the temperament and sense of humour ~ or lack thereof ~ of the cook.

Many people approach the kitchen with fear and trembling or avoid it altogether and I blame the microwave. May I say that it is the most interesting contraption ever invented? It has the remarkable ability to take a piece of perfectly wonderful bread and turn it first into rubber and then into stone. Our Lord's question of whether a father would give his child a stone when he asks for bread makes more sense since the appearance of the microwave. I loathe the thing and use it as little as possible. And I believe that more people would become better cooks if they threw their microwave out. It is like the television ~ it rots "zee little grey cells" and impairs one's imagination.

And one needs imagination in the kitchen. How many of us have stood staring blankly into the refrigerator, cooling off the entire house, without the slightest clue what to make for dinner? The anxiety this question produces only increases when you are cooking for more than just yourself.

Such was the case last night. My housemates and I celebrated "Little Christmas" with each other on the Feast of Epiphany, as most of us had been away for the start of the Christmas season. I, being home earlier than anyone else, was the chef du jour.

I love a culinary challenge. How and with what would I feed four people? I had spinach and mushrooms left over from my volunteer dinner on Sunday and would have dearly loved to make stuffed chicken again, but it needed to stretch to four and I only had three chicken breasts left over. I did not want to waste gas or money by driving to the grocery store and the organic butcher was closed by then. What then could I make with just what I had?

When in doubt, keep it simple. I cut the chicken breasts into small chunks and sauteed them in about three to four tablespoons of butter (Gregorio is rolling his eyes), a dash of olive oil and three green onions, chopped. While they browned, I put more butter in another pan and added three cloves of garlic and two packages of sliced mushrooms. After they had cooked a few minutes, I added a splash (or three) of sherry, with a couple of pours of evaporated milk and a few sprinkles of all-purpose flour and voila! I had a lovely mushroom sauce/gravy.

A word about cooking with alcohol. I do not know who said it first, but one should never cook with alcohol that one would not drink. Please, dear reader, do yourself and your guests a favor and follow this rule, if none other. I myself learned the hard way and once made a scallop dish with the nastiest white wine I had ever tasted. Not even the most hard up college student would have drunk this wine. Consequently, the scallops were terrible. So, no more of that!

The chicken was now nicely browned. I took it out and put it aside and added more butter. (Gregorio, if you are reading this, I just know you are clutching your heart and laughing in spite of yourself, but look at it this way ~ butter is organic and all natural and much better for you then margarine!) Into the pan went the spinach and my all time Southern favorite: okra. I left it on the fire long enough to soften the okra and wilt the spinach. Then I added the chicken back in and tossed it. I spooned orzo into a big white pasta dish and topped it with the chicken and spinach mixture and ladled the mushroom sauce on top and dinner was served, complete with a nice red wine, candles and the "good" china.

James Beard himself once said that he did not like gourmet cooking ~ he liked good cooking. And a meal does not have to be super fancy in order to feed the body and warm the soul. But whether it is a Sunday five course dinner for fourteen or a one-dish dinner for four, a wonderful meal is within one's reach and worth the effort of cooking without radiating one's food. And in that context, I wholeheartedly agree with Mr. Miller. Cheers!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Celebrate Me Home

He who receives his friends and gives no personal attention to the meal which is being prepared for them, is not worthy of having friends.

~ Jean-Antheleme Brillat-Savarin

Another year gone and a new one just begun. 362 days of endless possibilities. I began 2009 thinking of all I had to be thankful for in 2008. One of the most important blessings a person can have is the love of family and friends. Perhaps like most of you, some extraordinary souls who are true kindred spirits came into my life this past year. Having met, it is as if we always knew each other. And I grew closer to those friends who have been with me for many years and remained true and unchanging in their support throughout the sitcom that is my life.

Among all my friends there is a special group, though, that I felt needed special recognition. These were the brave and sacrificing souls who went above and beyond in helping me organize and execute some big events this past fall. And if there is one thing that I learned this past year, it is that nothing lasts forever and that each moment should be lived to the fullest and treasured.

So I did not want another day to go by without telling these special people how much I appreciate them. And since cooking is something I seem to have a knack for, I could not think of a better way to show them then by feeding them!

The menu for my appreciation dinner this past Sunday took some thought and the personal attention Brillat-Savarain calls for.

First Course ~ Scallops with Spinach and Calvados Cream Sauce

Second Course ~ Fresh Herb, Potato and Leek Soup

Third Course ~ Winter Greens with Sherry-Mustard Vinaigrette

Fourth Course ~ Chicken Stuffed with Mushrooms and Spinach, with a side of Molasses-Glazed Baby Carrots and Orzo

Fifth Course ~ Sticky Date Bread Pudding with Amaretto Zabaglione

I love scallops. They are so simple to prepare, take no time at all and pack a culinary punch. My guests thoroughly enjoyed them along with the Calvados sauce. But it was not one of my favorites. Too much garlic perhaps? I have prepared scallops in a garlic and white wine sauce and also did not care for the taste. There are only two ways I like my scallops so far: bacon wrapped or on a bed of fresh made pesto.

The Potato and Leek Soup was also a hit, although I did not puree it as the recipe suggested. I pureed a small portion and as with the Potato-Turnip Puree fiasco in November, this one looked suspiciously like glue. So I opted to serve the soup as it was. It tasted much better and was eaten with great aplomb.

Call me what you will, but what really can one say about salad? I am a carnivore at heart and salads bore me dreadfully. What I will say is that my friend Jeannette, notorious for avoiding all things green and healthy, ate all of her salad, due in part I am sure, to the delicious vinaigrette. It was quite a hit and a recipe that goes in the "Make Again" file.

One of my kitchen motto's is to use what you have and buy when there is a sale. In the current economy, thrift is king once again (and I think will come more into its own as the year progresses) and buying expensive cuts of meat is out of the budget of an increasing number of people. I wanted to give my friends a menu worthy of their time and sacrifice, but I had also resolved to spend less this year. So I looked at the sale papers, and then searched the recipe databases. This stuffed chicken recipe was quick and easy and plated with a side of sauteed baby carrots and orzo, is came out as beautifully as a filet mignon.

Ahhh, and now we come to my favorite course. After serving my guests, La Chef finally came out of the kitchen and much to my embarrassment, to rounds of applause, shouts of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow" and even a wave! Josef gave up his chair and I sat with my friends and took a bite of the Date Pudding. Dear reader ~ if there is one recipe you try this year, make it this one. I do not know what to say about this dish except that is better than anything else you have tried. (I made enough for Cox's army, so my discussion group tonight will get a taste of culinary heaven.)

Once again, I could not have pulled off this lovely evening without some help: Mon Aimee helped serve each course, plate by plate and from the kitchen, I heard phrases that warmed my culinary aficionado's heart: "Is this the _____ Restaurant and Cafe?" and "I feel like I am eating at a five-star restaurant!" Standing tiredly over the stove, preparing the fifth and final course, I smiled and knew that my gift of appreciation was appreciated in turn.

May the beginning of 2009 be equally as warm and inviting for you, dear reader.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela