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On Entertaining and Confidence…

Have you ever left someone’s home after sharing a fabulous meal and said to yourself “I wish my home could smell as wonderful, or I wish I knew how to entertain with such ease, or warmth, or If only I knew how to cook like that!”? If you let those comparative thoughts or feelings stop you from trying, I’d like you to remember how you felt after experiencing the first few rounds of a new sport. Did you feel like less, when watching a person on the next court who had a relentless back-hand, or when the skier, who flew by you on the slope, exhibited extraordinary skill?  I doubt it. Usually, we allow those people to inspire us. We use glimpses of proficiency to reinforce the notion that, if we make the act of practicing a priority then we too, could become more comfortable and knowing in that particular arena. Well, why should cooking and entertaining be any different?  

            Choosing to make quality home cooked meals a more regular part of daily or weekly life is one of the best ways to develop “cooking muscles,” which is what will give you the ease, confidence and ultimate ability that you admire in others. So, like with any sport or art, the only way to embellish your strength and endurance and to become self-trusting, is to “do” as often as possible.  And, believe me, it’s a lot easier to become a great cook, then it is to consistently hit a golf ball down the middle of the fairway. (No joke….)

            When new to entertaining, allow yourself to embrace the characteristics exhibited by those you admire, and be more “present” to the best parts of your experience, when in their homes. This is one of the best ways to learn more about yourself and about what makes you happy. Rather than setting out to do and be everything for others, ask yourself “What type of home life would make me feel the most comforted and the proudest to share?” Then, make yourself happy. Those around you will gladly come along for the ride!  Cooking and entertaining is all about sharing your individual interpretation of deliciousness with those you care about. So, instead of worrying that you’re not like someone else, figure out how to bring more of YOU into your home-life, using the proficiency of others to inspire and guide you.

 

 

 

 

Are You Nuts??!

Listen, I know the economy stinks but picking up “free” wild chestnuts and giving them out as edible gifts is NOT a good idea! Seriously, a few days ago a friend of mine, living in California, emailed me in the middle of the night (4:08 am, to be exact) to ask for my help, stating in the subject line “URGENT!”

This is what the email said:

 Dear Lauren,

I was horrified to just hear from a dear friend of mine out here that the chestnuts we gave them - found on a hike- are poisonous horse chestnuts! We told them to roast them and intended to do the same. (I’d almost emailed you to ask for tips…now I wish I had!)  They ate some before they Googled it….I’m a wreck! I never in my life have I heard of such a thing. I grew up in White Plains, New York picking them off the ground…Those were wrapped in a spiny, prickly cover. The ones we found on our hike were much larger and wrapped in a soft paper-like cover. I’m trying to Google info but not sure which is true…one site says inedible, another says no…

PLEASE, help me if you can…I’m horrified!

The first thing you must know is “is this species edible?”

Eating something (or giving it as an edible gift) that’s not 100% familiar, especially when it grows wild in an open field is NEVER safe unless you’re a trained forager or if you happen upon an orchard that’s run by real people who are actually there to vouch for the edibility of their crop. And you can’t always trust the internet! When my friend did her “research” she was looking at cooking sites, wanting to know how best to prepare chestnuts and, as you would imagine, there are lots of sites devoted to helping people come to a delicious conclusion when working with a food that’s deemed safe (as edible chestnuts certainly are). BUT, had she looked up “edible versus inedible chestnuts” she would have quickly learned that “HORSE CHESTNUTS ARE POISONOUS!” 

So, the first clue, stated in her email: “ the ones I had growing up were wrapped in a spiny, prickly cover…and THESE were much larger and wrapped in a soft paper-like cover.” … should have been more than enough to do the research to find out if this particular species is safe for human (or animal) consumption.

 I’m writing about this because you could be like my friend (like most Americans) who believe that “bigger is better.” While this might be true in some instances, when it comes to wild chestnuts, or wild anything, size has little if anything to do with edibility. 

In the end, all concerned were ok since the taste was apparently very bitter so only a small amount was ingested (although the son of the “gift recipients” had to have blood tests to determine if there was any internal damage). Having said this, had they gone to a cooking site and learned ways to incorporate these poisonous chestnuts into a dish that could/would mask their bitterness, all of these people could have been in a lot of trouble.

Oh…and as an aside. When we spoke, my friend told me that when she called Poison Control in California, they never answered the phone!! Can you believe that? Then, she called the national center for poison control and was told that because of “cut backs” there is a shortage of trained poison control personnel to answer the phones… Just unbelievable.

 So, to help you to help yourself, here are a couple of websites, one is a listing of poisonous plants alphabetically (but you’ll need to know the specific name of the species; for example, the word “chestnuts” aren’t included but horse-chestnuts are.

 Here is a link that specifically deals with horse chestnut trees (also called Aesculus hippocastanum  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aesculus_hippocastanum

 Also, here’s a website hosted by an expert on foraging which has books dedicated to educating enthusiastic hikers everywhere: go to  www.wildmanstevebrill.com  (Although I, personally, would not take a subjective description or a photo in a book as gospel…)  

I commend my friend for wanting me to share this information with you because, as she said, “I want others to learn from my mistake, which could have had catastrophic effects. Hopefully, reading this will  make a positive difference to someone else.”

Anyway, be smart, be cautious, be safe!  
LG

Yes, I Cut the Fat!…

Yes, I Cut the Fat!

 

 No, no, this isn’t a blog about reducing the saturated fat in my cooking. I was just putting some thinly sliced prosciutto on a plate for our dinner tonight and I saw that there as wide layer of fat surrounding almost every slice of meat which, to me, is not what I (or those at my table) want to eat so I simply cut it off with kitchen scissors. I’m writing about it because as I was snipping away I couldn’t help but think about all the snooty types who think they know everything about the dos and “don’t-dos” in the world of cooking and eating and about how they would hang me out to dry because I dared to remove the sacred fat. This also reminds me of how those same people (those I just mentioned) also get ALL bent out of shape when they see a cook rinse the skins off roasted peppers instead of allowing more of those acrid black specks to remain on the flesh. And let’s not forget when they (yup, the same folks) claim that “you can’t chop aromatics (onions, celery and garlic) a day ahead without sacrificing the integrity of their flavor!”…  Sheesh.

 

With so much happening in the world, how can people get so upset over stupidness?

 

Listen, one of the greatest blessings provided by the art of home-cooking is that we all can (and should) custom make our taste, texture and esthetic experiences to suit ourselves and those we’re feeding. That’s the whole point!

 

So, this little note is just to give all of you non-snooty types a vote of confidence when you decide to cook according to who you are and what you want!

 

Go ahead—Cut off the fat!  

 

LG

The Pursuit of True Abundance

Is abundance, which is something that we all want, a thing or a feeling? I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. I’ll bet many of you, too, might have also been tossing a question something like that around, with money being so tight and with the nose of the impending holidays pressing on the window. I mean, if “things” are a necessary prerequisite to being able to experience abundance, then it makes sense to think that we would (should) be forced to relinquish this experience when we have to live with fewer “things” because of outer circumstances that change.

 

Unfortunately, it’s this “common-sense” assumption that, I think, is at the crux of a problem that plagues many of us, me included, who like to live a life that reflects a tangible interaction with robustness and sensory lushness—both of which is what I’ve come to believe accurately defines what the feeling of abundance is and what’s at the heart of what we’re truly after. For me, it’s the spiritual essence buried within what a table bursting with aromatic, gorgeous foods symbolize; a life that exemplifies ones power to deliberately create a scene that evokes the feeling of fulfillment, and on several levels. So, what’s the problem?

 

Although the economy is a factor, I didn’t just start thinking about this. And, although I’ve had no trouble trimming the extraneous from my day to day existence, when I’m cooking, it’s different. I’m different. Since the kids have all been away at school, I’ve had a really tough time scaling down and adjusting my food purchases to reflect that I am now, on most nights, cooking only for Jon and I. Friends who’ve, over the years, experienced meals in my home would, I’m sure, laugh out loud since they know first hand (as do my children), that saying that I cook a lot of food is an understatement of huge proportion, regardless of how many people I’m supposed to be feeding. Trust me, though, no one ever complains. Who would complain about the opportunity to dive into the amazing look, scent and taste of a table sprawled abundantly with deliciousness? That doesn’t mean, though, that they don’t make some necessary adjustments….Some of my friends literally ”train” before dinner at my house; purposely not eating much and work-outing out extra-hard for two days!  Funny—we actually have one friend who always eats more than he can comfortably hold, and (like clockwork) this causes him to promptly have what’s become a ritualistic sneezing attack!

 

(OK, I do get a warped sense of satisfaction knowing that and, yes, I do love the look of abundance on the table, but I don’t like feeling captive to it; and I’ll admit that at times I do (but this blog is evidence that I’m seriously working on it…).

 

It’s not that I don’t know that I should be making amount adjustments in my food purchases, especially now that it’s just the two of us, because I do. And I’ve been getting better but, whenever I’m about to talk to “Dom” my butcher or when moseying down the produce aisles, I still feel this very discernable tug of war going on inside my head. One side (the “big-girl” side) always asserts that it’s really and truly time to scale down. But the other side–the feeling side (dare I say, the scared side)—seems to, most often, win. The victor, the voice of vulnerability, always jabs back with a defense like “but you NEED three bags of spinach (which is what I buy when feeding six) because it cooks down so much”—or “a plate of four double-cut lamb chops wouldn’t look nearly as sexy on the table as a platter of six would—And we can always use the leftovers (which I have yet to do) …And don’t forget that Mango, the dog who will always stand by you even when your children get married, she loves those lamb chops!” I must say that Miss Mango has really lapped up in all of this!

 

Back and forth the voices spar: “Leftovers are one thing, Lauren, but this is just silly!” And then the other (clearly, the Jewish mother in me) will chime in with “Oh, you’ll buy less next time, remember that someone could unexpectedly stop by and it’s always (always) better to have too much than not enough.” It’s as if both voices use this (uninvited) inner chatter to shake me by the shoulders; one urging me to wake up (maybe grow up) and the other, wanting me to stay stuck –fearing the feeling of experiencing something smaller. Clearly, to me, smaller (at the table) means something very big. 

 

Yes, I’m onto something….

 

So, a few weeks ago, instead of continuing to snuff these voices out like some annoying telephone solicitation, I finally decided to stop rebelling and, instead, slow down and spend some time listening and learning.  (I’ve found that once I decide to figure things out, it’s not nearly as gratifying to resist responding intelligently to my “issues.”) 

 

I began to understand that the importance I’ve attached to my adult-ability to create a sumptuous scene whenever I want (regardless of how many people are able to interact with it) represents how I transformed my home-life as a child into something more wonderful, and that’s good. But, I also learned that I secretly felt that scaling down somehow equaled living with less joy which was (is) not something I’m prepared to do. So what did I do?  I hung on to an old version of my definition of abundance out of the fear of loss. With this realization, I became determined to start to make the obvious alterations to my every-day lifestyle and prove that “size isn’t everything.”

 

The other day, I finally pushed myself to buy only one chicken. You might be thinking “so what” but (TRUST ME) toting home one lonely bird in a bag was, for me, a really big deal. When I think about it (and believe me I do)…I haven’t bought only one chicken in probably 20 years! When the kids were home I would never leave the market with less than three chickens regardless of how I planned to prepare them.

 

So, on this night I cooked one chubby roasting chicken until crisp and gorgeous and then I sectioned the bird and arranged the pieces slightly overlapping on a plate (no, not on a platter). I also served two kinds of fresh vegetables, which is what I always do, but this time the amount was appropriate for just us. I also had on the table a bowl filled with wispy baby arugula leaves and another with some home-roasted red and yellow peppers, which I always have in the fridge. There was a plate holding a wedge of soft, creamy blue cheese and next to that were two carafes; one of balsamic vinegar and the other, filled with a favorite extra-virgin olive oil from Lucca. I heated up only half of a crusty Italian loaf, saving the rest for the next night to make garlic toast and intending to slice, toast and pulverize the rest into breadcrumbs. The table was set, the lights were dimed, the candles were lit and the wine was poured. Jon and I ate together and, as usual, had a great time.

 

That night I came away from the table seeing (and trusting) that the “size” of the platters had nothing to do with maintaining the feeling I so valued in my home. That treasures of the heart, when fueled by nurturing intentions, are not shrinkable. And that the excitement and joy I feel when creating and sharing a colorful, texturally diverse, aromatic and love-filled landscape is something I will never have to part with (and neither do you!).

 

Anyway, these days I’m anxiously awaiting my children who are coming home this week for Thanksgiving. So, once again, I get to lug out my big pots!

 

 I’ll soon be exploring and sharing more about the concept of abundance, the desire for success and about  what’s at the heart of both of those; the on-going pursuit of achieving and sustaining the feeling of happiness …

 

Until then, no matter how many there are at your Thanksgiving table, enjoy every minute!

 

Love to you and yours…

Lauren

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One more thing about that most important word “change”…

The word “change” has been used a lot lately, especially politically. Treated as “occupied territory” on slanted slogans that insinuate that if a person (or a group) chooses to go in one direction (or not) they’ll then get to either experience or bypass change. As if change was an option, which it’s not. It’s not the actuality of change that should be the subject of debate, rather it’s the way we, as individuals and as a country, choose to take on the responsibility of shaping the quality of change that matters most and is what’s always up for grabs.

 

So, before the abuse of the word “change” starts to trigger America’s collective gag reflex (as did the obnoxious overuse and eventual condemning of the phrase “family values” during the Dan Quale era), let’s remember that using such consequential words in such a manipulative way is not only counterproductive, it’s truly dangerous in a country who’s prowess is measured more by its technological strides than in it’s ability and commitment to develop and strengthen the character of it’s citizens; especially it’s youth. 

Time to Embrace and Shape the Inevitable; Change

Time to Embrace and Shape the Inevitable; Change

 

 

A few weeks ago, as Jon and I got back from our usual morning walk, we looked up at one of our trees and noticed that the leaves on this particular one were, for some reason, the only ones in the neighborhood turning color. Almost to say “I’m ready; let’s get the show on the road!” I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be great to embrace all change that way?

 

This past year, for me, has been riddled with a wide gamut of change; most profound, a year ago August, after an all-of-a-sudden diagnosis and a five month fight, my father died from inoperable pancreatic cancer. Although this era was, for me and my family, beyond-belief heartbreaking, watching my father’s physical demise also taught me much about what life is so much about; doing our best to master the day to day quality of the inevitable; personal and collective transformation. To change on purpose instead of giving unforeseen shifts the power to take us down emotionally and, ultimately, spiritually. To use perceived hardship as an opportunity to uncover hidden strengths (and missions) yet unexplored. Watching my father die changed me forever; in some ways I will be forever scarred and yet in others, eternally grateful.

 

I’ve never enjoyed learning something and keeping it to myself. Teaching is what I do best and it’s what I believe is my life’s purpose. Up until somewhat recently, my teaching was limited to my professional acumen, as a Certified Culinary Professional who, in addition to sharing my technical skill, I would do my best to also let anyone and everyone know what I knew to be true, as a devoted mother and as a creative being, about the restorative powers inherent in a home that made shared meals and thoughtful home cooking a priority. Not just for parents and children, but for anyone of any lifestyle to, at whim, proactively reaffirm their ability to take what ever life in the outer world dished out and assert “the ultimate quality of my life is within my control.”

 

Since I began teaching and writing professionally I have often been called a “kitchen evangelist” which, up until these dark days with my father, seemed OK as a blurb to sum me up. To the public, I was led by my culinary know-how and a strong philosophical bent which I brought into a very wide range of places, including Rikers Island where, almost nine years ago, I raised the money and gathered the materials to create a teaching kitchen on the female side of this correctional facility. Specifically located in a space deemed a “high school,” this is where the adolescent population is mandated to study toward their GED. This teaching kitchen was put together through, and continues to be supported by my not-for-profit organization, Hands-On-Food, Inc.

 

What most didn’t (and don’t) know, though, is that for the last eight years, in addition to teaching cooking, I have also been on a very personal journey, voraciously studying human potential through metaphysics, the mind-body connection and ancient wisdom about spiritual truths. I leapt onto a new road toward personal growth and, with the confirming application of each new discovery I felt the oh-so-familiar tug to share what I learned; to deepen the scope of my teaching beyond the merits of the home kitchen. It’s in the spirit of sharing this new dimension that this is written, in hopes of helping you to benefit from what I learned during a tragic time about how to emerge a more awake and deliberate person; one with a deeper mission.

 

The daily downward progress of the cancer took its toll on everyone, especially my mother but I, too, was bordering a breakdown. The crisis in my family challenged my personal growth to the hilt and brought me to my knees. My father’s disease produced an enormous accumulation of fluid in his belly along with a persistent awful taste in his mouth, both of which totally robbed him of his appetite. Poetically, as a devout nurturer, I felt for the first time since my son, when in his teens, had his broken jaw wired shut for two months that the amount of restorative power that I, as a cook, could provide was paralyzed. Nothing worked. No matter what I did, no matter how many fruit tarts, buttermilk pancakes, blueberry or bran muffins, sautéed onions …No matter how many vats of red sauce swimming with tender meatballs I’d make or voluptuous sandwiches I’d tote to his weekly chemo sessions, the most he could manage was a couple of half-mouthfuls. My father was literally disappearing in front of us. I was a total mess, feeling completely helpless and unable to give him even momentary spurts of pleasure at a time that was so devastating. He rarely complained but would often sit staring out silently, only occasionally confiding his terror of the impending unknown. Once the chemo proved futile, he became resolved to die at home aided by hospice care. And, with the pull-back of that throttle came an even fuller thrust of helplessness; the realization, for all of us, that it was now just a matter of time.

 

Soon after, one pivotal morning, I woke up and my heart was pounding. It was really hard to breathe. I guess you would call that an anxiety-attack…I called it hitting the wall. I was drowning in grief—overwhelmed with sorrow and exhaustion. I felt spent, empty, crumpled up and over. (Not good.) I realized that I had allowed everything I learned and knew to be true about how to understand and utilize challenges to go right out the window. That’s when I forced in a deep breath and, to myself I begged, “Am I going to let what’s happening to my father kill me, too?” Then I remembered what I knew but just forgot; that I always have a choice. Not a choice of whether my father eats or doesn’t eat, or whether he lives or dies. My choice was to either get swallowed up by being privy to his process or to get up and become bigger and stronger in the face of something that felt insurmountable. Once I really saw that the nature and size of this problem wasn’t shrinkable, it became crystal clear that I wasn’t supposed to fix my father. I was supposed to use this situation to deliberately become more muscular, both literally and metaphorically, in comparison. To equate the enormity of helplessness that I felt in direct proportion to the degree of stretching I needed to do in order to accomplish the new life-level work I was yet to do. I needed to change from being one more domino in a slew of negative effects into a positive cause for those that I could help.

 

Before this chapter I had no idea how physically debilitating emotional grief could be. I saw myself internally as Rocky at his flabbiest. So my first move was to, quite literally, build up my stamina. From that day on every morning before I went to my parent’s house, sometimes before sunrise, I’d hit the gym. Determined to drip with sweat, this had nothing to do with my waistline, thighs, butt or biceps; it had everything to do with my inner core. My goal was to feel lighter, not in pounds but in my heart; stronger, not in my ability to lift but so I could plow through the space of mere enduring into the realm of creating positive change. In a few days I started to get itchy to resume my teaching in jail but this time I knew it had to be in a more far-reaching way.  Having been devoted for years to the sometimes grueling path toward personal growth and development, compounded by this now tragic point in my family, I felt truly intimate with the many challenges inherent in the process of changing into a version of myself I wanted to see. This made me continually more aware of and frustrated with the incongruent nature of my classes on Rikers. My own struggle taught me that having “the wonderful world of cooking” as my sole focus with these troubled teens, whether for personal or vocational purposes, just wasn’t good enough. Especially since I knew (and statistics proved) that upon their release most would likely revert to any or all of the destructive surroundings and behaviors that landed them in jail in the first place.

 

Just like I learned with my father, that even the most succulent roast chicken can’t fix everything, it was now time for me to also teach these teens the spiritual principals and self-mastery tools that have helped me to gain the inner strides and outer manifestations that I once only dreamed about. And now, after a year of teaching this course on the male side, I’m finally able to bring a new series of both, cooking and personal growth classes to the incarcerated adolescent females.

    

The Point: It’s often at the lowest times of our lives when we can also find the impetus (and muster the guts) to begin a higher form of service. It’s not what happens to us that defines us, it’s what we do with what happens that tells our story. We always have a choice; to either sink into the haze of darkness or to push through to reveal new dimensions of light. Either choice creates change in our world.   

How can I be sure my chicken will be tender and my stock will have lots of flavor you can smell down the street?!

Hi Lauren:

 

I am making a big pot of chicken soup to help my walking pneumonia. Anyway, I thought once I take the chicken out I would put the bones back in and make a stock. My problem is sometimes my chicken gets tough when I am making soup. I don’t let it boil even at the beginning. I keep it just under a boil and then turn it down to a simmer and cook about 30-40 minutes. How can I be sure my chicken will be tender and my stock will have lots of flavor you can smell down the street!

Thanks for your help!

Arlene

 

Dear Arlene,

I’m so sorry that you’ve been dealing with walking pneumonia. How awful! You should have someone bring you chicken soup!! (I would if I lived close…).

Re: chicken tenderness.

This is a very common issue since many will either cook the heck out of their chickens, wanting a flavorful chicken soup, which only leaves the meat terribly dry or they don’t cook the chicken enough because they’re afraid of dryness, which leaves chicken tough. Both scenarios are disappointing, especially when someone in the house is in need of nurturing in a hurry. If you check out my Chicken Stock video and Chicken Soup video, you’ll learn why (and see how) to make a few different types of stock in advance so it’s always available in the freezer. This is really the only way to, at whim, get a great bowl of chicken soup on the table–and in a hurry!

In order to accurately tell you how long to cook a bird, I need to know its size. If it’s a large hen, then 30 to 40 minutes isn’t enough (the older birds have more flavor but also need more simmering to render them tender and succulent). You are right, though, to never boil the chicken which only serves to dry and aggravate the flesh.

To perfectly poach chickens (or larger hens) Add your bird(s) to barely simmering water (with lots of aromatic vegetables like yellow onions, cut up carrots, sliced leeks and celery, some whole black peppercorns and a handful of parsley). Cover the pot (at this point it’s over high heat to encourage the water to come up to a bubble after being introduced to the cooler temperature of the bird(s)). Occasionally, lift the lid to check the movement of the water and, once the liquid starts to move (slow bubbles will just surface at the center of the pot) turn the heat to low and continue to cook very gently (covered securely) for 30 minutes (for a 3 ½ pound chicken) and up to 1 hour and 15 minutes (for a 7 pound hen). Then, remove the pot from the stove and allow the bird to cool until just warm in the broth, uncovered. This will allow the chicken flesh to settle down and reabsorb some of the flavor in the broth. At this point you’ll remove the bird from the tepid liquid and separate the meat from the bones and skin but don’t throw anything away. You can either eat the chicken separately, as you wish, or save it to use later, in your assembled soup.

To deepen the flavor in the broth, put the reserved bones and skin back into the poaching pot (adding any stray backs or necks from the freezer or a reserved carcass from last nights roast chicken…) and bring the liquid back up to a slow boil. Reduce the heat to low and simmer for another hour or two (now is when you want coax every last drop of flavor out of the solid ingredients and into the liquid. Remove the pot from the stove and, once again, allow the solids and liquid to cool together, uncovered, until just warm. Strain out the solids, pressing on them to get out their flavor and then cover the bowl of stock and chill it for 24 to 48 hours, so that the fat can rise to the top. Spoon off and discard the fat and use the stock now or freeze it, as you wish.

Again, to watch me make a few different types of Stock and also a very nurturing pot of Chicken & Vegetable soup, click here.

I hope you’ll try these recipes and let me know how you do!