Of Family, Pork Fat, Integrity, and Being an Extra

Insight: Doing yoga for the movies is not the most balancing activity in the world. Examples: no warm-up; many takes of down-dog to warrior one, all but one on the right leg (so the comedic actress could tumble over to the right out of warrior – it was funny!); after 10 takes of shoulder stand with no transition into or out of or counter pose, one’s shoulders feel, well, tight and sore. And, yes, I did do some of my own counter posing but was, all in all, kind of lazy about that.

Lesson: Go do a real yoga class after the film shoot, if possible. I had a margarita and some deep fried tamales instead and that didn’t work all that well. Franlky.

Additional Note: It’s not a myth that the camera adds weight (I watched the rushes). Because of this, if possible, one should avoid spending three solid days eating butter and sugar and cheese and pork fat before the filming day, as I did. Sure, I knew in advance the result. But honestly enjoying all that lovely food and company was more important to me than immortalizing myself on film five pounds thinner. Questionable judgment? You decide.

Still, what a novel experience, to be in a real feature film shoot. It was an interesting process to watch! No, no speaking lines. Just a slightly chubby yoga extra in the back of the room.

Chubbiness inducing factors aside, the family reunion was fun! Sure, I got a little cranky now and then, which is apparently my way. But it was nothing that a few hours alone in a quiet room couldn’t cure. As Gangaji would say, “this form” in which I am currently incarnated is just too sensitive to take in large groups of people for long periods of time. Hey, we get the nervous system we’re born with. The trick is learning to manage it.

I was really pleased by the response to my meal on Friday night. Cousin Miami told me the next day that people had used words such as “artistry” and, well, I don’t remember what else but it was cool to hear it, whatever it was. And I had a ton of fun putting it all together. Brother’s shrimp was good, too, but I am disappointed that whatever new chef they have at the Centralia House has corrupted his vision of the dish. Apparently they served it to him out of the shell, with rice. This is not the dish that won accolades in the New York Times even though the restaurant is in totally unknown Centralia, Illinois. The shrimp are, authentically, are large as it is possible to get them, served in the shell with finger bowls of water and a huge cloth bib. There should be tons of sauce to dredge the bread in. And, critically, the sauce should never be allowed to emulsify. It’s the separation of the tomato-based cocktail sauce and the butter that makes the dipping sublime. I have half a mind to call the chef and ask her or him what the hell happened, but I doubt I will. Still, it was really tasty.

I did several new recipes. Two appetizers that are reportedly from old New Orleans restaurants, Oysters Bienville and Crabmeat Maison. Bob’s Seafood in Saint Louis provided me with some really wonderful, sweet fresh Maine claw meat, flown in just that morning, for a mere $10 and change for a pound. They also solved my half-shell but I-don’t-want-to-shuck-them problem (couldn’t talk Brother into it, either) by stocking frozen oysters on the half shell. These worked beautifully for the Bienville, which is a bread crumb topping with aromatic vegetables, Parmesan, and cream; the full shells are baked on a bed salt with rosemary and cloves until the topping is golden and warm. I would have put some bay leaves in the salt if they hadn’t disappeared from my kitchen. What’s up with that? Scorpio 2?

Also, happily the crowd dumbfounded Mother and Brother by adoring the collard greens. Flash: cooking them with onions and bacon and ham hock is a lot tastier than my usual onions and garlic and olive oil. The collards from my garden have tasted really bitter to me, but those I cooked in all that pig fat had no bitterness at all. That I cooked them for more than six hours might have been a factor as well. Time for further testing! Also of note: pretty sure I’ve got the macaroni and cheese thing down.

The most lovely dish: French Lemon Cream Tart, from Dorie Greenspan. You can see the complete recipe at http://www.globalgourmet.com/food/ild/2006/1106/lemon-cream-tart.html. In the mean time, here’s a bit of what she has to say about it:

Of Lemon Cream and Pierre Hermé

I am thankful to Pierre Hermé, France's king of pastry, for many things, chief among them his friendship—we have written two books together—and his lemon cream. When we were just beginning work on our first book, Pierre explained the cream to me. In his typical fashion, he spoke softly, explained thoroughly and added just the meekest editorial comment: "It is nice," he said, with a sly little gone-in-a-flash smile. I immediately put two stars next to the recipe, a note to myself to try it right away.

At first glance, you would think that the lemon cream is just another version of lemon curd—the ingredients are almost identical. What's different is how they are treated, and it makes an enormous difference in the taste and texture.

In a curd, the eggs, lemon juice, sugar and butter are cooked together until they thicken. The result is silky, lemony and, above all, unmistakably rich and buttery. In Pierre's lemon cream, the eggs, lemon juice and sugar—but not the butter—are cooked together until they thicken, just like curd. The mixture is then poured into a blender and allowed to cool for a few minutes. Then the butter is added, in pieces, and the cream is whipped around for a few minutes. Here's the genius—instead of melting as it does in curd, the butter emulsifies (just as oil does in mayonnaise), so that the resulting texture is velvety and deceptively light. It is a stroke of culinary magic.

Like curd, lemon cream is a utility player. It can be spread on toast, used as a filling for cakes and pies, spooned over fruit desserts or just eaten off the spoon when no one is peeking. And, it can also be played around with, which is what I've done to create Creamiest Lime Cream and Meringue Pie (see the book) as well as Fresh Orange Cream Tart (see book).

And I will second her: this is the loveliest lemon dessert recipe I’ve ever encountered. And it’s not difficult to make. It came out perfectly the first time I tried it, and it wasn’t even in my menu plan. It emerged as a back-up after I broke the double batch of custard for Black Bottom Pies (it becomes clearer all the time that I can’t chat and cook focus-sensitive dishes at the same time), and didn’t have enough chocolate to make another double recipe, so had to come up with another pie. I had all the ingredients for this lemon tart. And I am so glad I did, it is just simply fantastic. Even my mother had no “tips” for me to improve it and believe me that just doesn’t happen.

I got great help from the Texas and Nashville Girls, and Brother-Wife was a great help, too, though I must say rather easily distracted. Hey, it’s the thought that counts (I think that’s what the Buddhists mean by intention).

Cousin Miami made a wonderful Sunday Brunch. Several breakfast casseroles, some sweets, salads, mimosas. Really nice.

But wow, that Sunday church service (we’ve developed a tradition of making our own private “church” on Sundays at the reunions). Mother set the perfect tone in the tribute that was given for my grandfather. She told a story about how, when they were teenagers, the minister at their church initiated a push to get the teens to sign an “Abstinence Card” promising that they wouldn’t drink alcohol. Apparently Papaw told his kids that they shouldn’t sign it unless they really thought they could stick to their promise. He could have used the whole card thing to try to corner them, and I can imagine how the religious right would advocate such as thing, as they do these days with sexual abstinence. But, even though Papaw and Mamaw were certainly not drinkers (though not teetotalers, either), the lesson about keeping one’s word outweighed even the preacher’s mandate. None of his kids signed it.

Additionally, as the story went, he was teaching Sunday school at the church at that time, and gave the same advise to his class: don’t sign if you can’t keep your promise. As a result he was fired from the job.

Not inconsequentially, that minister didn’t last long at the Grace United Methodist Church. Such strictures, and the others he tried to impose against dancing and other general liveliness, are decidedly not typical to “our” Methodist ways, and the congregation was fed up with him pretty fast.

My grandfather’s response to the whole thing, though, really illustrated the kind of integrity he has, by example, taught (or tried to teach) all of us. Being real, being true to one’s beliefs, being honest, keeping one’s word – all of these, I could see on Sunday, have been sent down as part of the family legacy. And I am grateful. Thank you, Papaw. And Mamaw, too. This is no small potatoes in this world. And no wonder I find the yogic prescription to unify mind and heart and word so resonate. Regardless of all the differences I’ve had with my family over the years, I can see now that this integrity is the foundation upon which I was wrought. OK, maybe my immediate nuclear family came close to undermining it. True, that crack in the floor was what I was rebelling against as a child, and now I see that it is a large part of my distaste for being around my father and his friends. Still, there is a reason or at least a larger prespective for or gained from that. I sense of choice: whom shall I learn from? With the solid ground of being true to one's word and self that I saw through my grandparents, I am now confident that I can learn from myself.

So, in short, way fun reunion, again. Love to see my coussies. They are all so fun and nice. And the men in my family, my generation, I must say, are extradordinary. Reading "women's" novels, cooking, thinking, nuturing their kids, loving their wives. Glad my kids love to come, too.

I remain afraid of speed boats, though, I am only now admitting it out loud. I really think the only fast things I trust are airplanes!

In other bright news our darling Princess is back from her humanitarian mission to Texas, and while there started a new e-mag of some philosophical weight a third of which she’s suggesting I edit, and her collaborator/friend will be reviewing me to form an opinion of her own. Wish me luck. and Yippee! More later as I discover!

Rules for a First Date With Me

After polling several women friends I find there is universal agreement that the whole slipping of the hand onto the back of the neck on the first date is creepy in the extreme (see Monday, July 02, 2007, More Precious Than Rubies ). With this in mind, I’ve developed a set of First Date Rules to help our disabled brothers navigate the cobwebs in their own brains and not sink the ship before they’re even out of the gate.

Ya, true, I’m still out of the dating game at present -- and have specifically eschewed all internet guys, whom so far I’ve found consistently creepy. Nonetheless, I feel it my social duty to use the ridiculous experiences I’ve accrued in the field to educate those men who just can’t seem to, well, stop being foolish and disgusting.

Note: Of course most of these apply to subsequent dates as well. But remember: you never get a second chance at a first impression!

Margaret’s First Date Rules

1. Do not show up to take me out in your shorts and T-shirt!

Are you kidding? Unless we are going on a true hike (and a stroll around the park or through the Botanical Gardens is not a true hike), you are still on a date and should at least show enough motivation to wear decent clothing. Seriously, I’ve had men meet me at nice restaurants in their freaking shorts and baggy T-shirts! Grown, 45, 50-year-old men, for Christ’s sake. What did this communicate to me? It said, “Hey, babe, you’re no big deal,” for one thing, and for another it said, “I’m a careless rube.” So, put on a casual button-down shirt, or a Polo shirt, or at least something creative, so heaven’s sake. And if we’re going out to dinner then wear a pair of slacks. Jeez. Believe me, I’m worth dressing up for. And if you’re all averse to dressing appropriately for the occasion, then let’s just save ourselves the trouble and, like, not go out.

2. Learn to make a plan.

If you ask me out, have a plan. Don’t sit passively on the phone with no idea where to go or what to do. (If I ask you out, I’ll have a plan.) Leaving it all up to me does not make me feel “in control.” It makes me feel like you still need your mother to tell you what to do. If you’re a man, act like one and make a plan. Show me that you can ease life’s stresses and show me a good time. I know you know how to use the internet! So use it. And when you have an actual idea, then call me.

3. Don’t be putting your hands on me, creepizoid, in any way, shape, or form!

There is only one exception to this rule: if I put my hands on you first.

4. For God’s sake, don’t cry, OK?

You just met me! I cannot possibly be important to you! Tearing up or looking dejected or getting pissed off (even silently) if you see or I say that I’m not going to want to have another date just show me that you are some kind of an emotional mess. Who is the guy who sits outside a woman’s house with a remote radio and a box cutter and six pair of cut-up panty hose? (Um, really, so far pissed off or tearful has happened three of the five times I’ve had these stupid internet dates.) (Oh, and by the way, tearing up or getting red in the face when you talk about your ex indicates you’re not ready to date again – and, yes, I CAN see these reactions!)

5. Don’t be wimpy about food.

In my sensibility, Food=Sex. The passions are the passions. If you can’t be brave and intense and playful in one, you probably can’t in the other, either. Food wimpiness, therefore, is as much a turnoff as a limp dick. More. At least the latter has some work-arounds.

I realized that the handontheneck guy, he was wimpy about food, and that’s part of what made his grabbiness icky. At Mangia Italiano, where I was raving about their fresh home made pasta, he ordered a freaking salad. Now, that might be ok if he were passionate about salad or really just wanted a salad, but it was clear that it was because the thought that was the only thing that was “good for” him. He wanted pasta, talked about the pastas, considered ordering them, salivated, hemmed and hawed, then ordered a salad. Then stared like a guilty orphan at my lasagna (ya, I gave him a bite). God. It wore me out.

I have nothing against salad, I love salad, but I said clearly on my eharmony profile that I was into food and wanted someone who could be adventurous about food! Being scared of any food that’s not salad? That disqualifies you. Also, this guy looked askance at my glass of wine. That is not ok. I will have a glass of wine with my Italian! And this is the too-touchy guy?

Now look: I could forgive, let’s say, Mario Batali or Anthony Bourdain if they touched me a few times on a first date. Why? Because those are guys who live for passion. They are no-holds-barred, travel the globe, eat pure pig fat and thirteen courses of slow-cooked shin and sauted thymus and twenty three bottles of wine in a sitting there-is-nothing-I-won’t-try-if-it’s-been-cooked-with-love, full-bore take no prisoners grab-ass students of the senses. These are guys who would rather die than confine their palates to some strict cold nihilistic wasteland of chill and bland. And I admire them for it. And if either of them were single I’d be calling them, in spite of the fact that neither is particularly good-looking and both are way too loud and obnoxious for me. It would be worth it. They would approach, [uh-hum] everything, I’m sure, as if it were the most hellacious and mindblowing once-in-a-lifetime meal.

But if salad guy touches me, well, it’s just creepy. He’s not living in his body. He’s not playing in the fields of the Lord if he’s tending toward all raw food. Sorry. It’s a prejudice. But guess what? When it comes to who touches me – and even who I date -- I get all the prejudices I want, for free! So, if you’re wimpy or frightened or you don’t know how to have fun with food, I won’t like you! And if I don’t like you, you can’t touch me! Stay home and eat a salad.

6. Tune in.

Don't be a jerk. Be sensitive. Learn to care for others. If a woman looks away or stiffens up when you touch her, don't do it again. Apply this principle to everything.

I think that’s it, for now, for the first date guidelines. I hope it’s been helpful.