Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The Party's Over

The phones (both cell and land – sometimes both at the same time) have stopped ringing, the cards have stopped dropping through the mail slot, the Facebook greetings and emails have ceased, the doorbell’s stopped ringing, and the UPS guy has stopped delivering. My 62nd birthday has come and gone, quick as a wink, so the party’s [definitely] over.

Our tasting menu of a lunch took four hours to eat, because there were so many courses and so much artistically prepared food delivered to our table by the window twenty stories up (overlooking Hartford and the Connecticut river). I lost count after the fourth course (I think there were more than eleven!), because I had to get up and take a walk around the restaurant, to redistribute my mussels, New Zealand cockles, head-on shrimp, and sous vided scallop to make room for more.

By the time our delightful waitress placed the so-called last plate of food in front of me, I was on the verge of tears, because I was afraid that leaving uneaten food on my plate would insult the chef (I ended up bringing it home), who’d stood at attention in his kitchen, cooking up deliciously-creative dish after dish, just for the two of us. I was unable to put one more morsel of food into my mouth, even though Hudson Valley foie gras and duck were staring me in my bloated face. I ate the leftovers for lunch today – and they were still delicious (even though I ate them cold, directly out of the take-out container, without heating them up).

I dried my eyes and watched my husband eat his portion, then I got up and walked around some more, so I’d be able to farci myself like a long-necked goose with a few tastes of dessert. I don’t know how I ate every morsel of the two desserts that were eventually delivered, but I probably managed to stuff them down the hatch because I have a separate compartment inside that opens its gates even after the regular compartments are chock full.

The icing on the cake of this birthday present extravaganza, though, my favorite present of the day (along with my newest commemorative UConn Women’s basketball T-shirt, and 3 Jane Austen paperbacks – which my husband will be reading aloud to me) was the lunch and learn portion of the afternoon. I was invited to come into the kitchen and watch the chef prepare four of our courses. I wish I could’ve helped him cook, too (he said a firm “No! No!” to the idea when my husband asked, because he works alone), but being a watcher still turned out to be a big treat for foodie me (I call myself foodmaven on Chowhound).

I was thrilled to my quickly-filling core to be allowed to step inside his stainless steel private Idaho and watch how a real artist works behind the scenes, because I never, ever slow down long enough to deconstruct or conjure up the origins of beautifully-presented food. I’m so glad I had a chance to stop being my usual little piggy eater self and smell the spices.

I loved watching, because I’m not (darn it) capable of creating culinary masterpieces like my idols, Hartford’s Noel Jones of On20 or world-famous Thomas Keller of Napa’s French Laundry and New York City’s Per Se. I’m a mere recipe-following cook (and pattern-following knitter), which is why my four forays into the kitchen were eye opening and delightful artistic lessons for someone like me, who, once food magically appears, gives it a quick oh-wow, isn’t-this-amazing glance, then slurp…inhales it. (I’m not referred to as Hoover for nothing.) My four instructive trips turned into welcome, concrete mini-lessons that reshaped and refueled my (un)orthodox foodieism.

In case you’re interested, we’re eating leftovers tonight, from the pedestrian dinner I cooked on Monday (eye of the round in special, secret sauce, cooked @ 300 degrees for three hours; a tossed salad with my daughter’s delicious lime dressing, fresh Parmigiano Reggiano cheese sprinkled on top), along with fresh asparagus (even though today’s New York Times food section had an interesting recipe for baking asparagus in parchment packets for an hour @ 200 degrees) and string beans, simply steamed, to perk things up. Oh – what the hey. I’m fancy-foodied out.

Monday, April 19, 2010

They Say It's [My] Birthday...

I just changed the name of my blog to 62 and Counting, even though it took an inordinate amount of time and energy to remember how to do this, because at 1:10 a.m. I will be turning a year older (and a whiter shade of pale).

62. Sounds old. Sounds even. Sounds like icky-poo. Sounds about right.

I guess this means I can stop lying at the movie theater kiosk, where I like to buy my tickets because I can click the “senior” button and pay less (ah, baby, that’s-a what I like). Just think, even though I’m not senior enough to get a reduced fare bus (or New York subway) pass, I will be in three more years, giving me something new to look forward to. So, look out, Cleveland

When people ask me about my birthday, I usually tell them that it’s the same day as Hitler’s. Now that I’m turning a year older, I’ve decided to try and act a bit less obnoxious (yeah – right), so I Googled April 20th birthdays to find out who(m) I share this day with, other than Adolf. I discovered that Juan Miro (one of my favorite artists), Senor Wences (“S’all right? S’all right”), Lionel Hampton, Tito Puente, Edie Sedgwick (oh, boy, does this mean I’m only six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon?), Carmen Electra (my brother will be happy about this one), Jessica Lange, Luther Vandross, Stephen Colbert (my sister will also be happy, since she’s always asking me if I watch his show), and way, way too many cricket and football players were also born on my birthday.

I’m also proud to share this day with all of my pot-smoking doper friends around the world (except in France, where they celebrate on June 18th), who will be lighting up a doobie to celebrate a day that Wikipedia calls “counterculture” but I call let’s go get stoned.

I won’t be smoking a joint, but I will be celebrating part of the day by chowing down on a 9-course tasting menu at On20, my favorite Hartford restaurant. I’ll spend the rest of the day gaining back all the weight I’ve tried to lose over the past week via the South Beach Diet (yeah, I porked up again), cursing my husband (who took off the day to celebrate with me - thank you, sweetie) for subjecting me to his idea of the perfect birthday present: food, glorious food, and enjoying the calls and emails from friends and family that (I hope) will trickle in, one by one.

In the words of my favorite band on earth, “it’s my birthday, too…” so I’m gonna have a good time! Oh me, oh my.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Wishin' and Hopin'

I’m baaaaack (as Tina Charles exclaimed to Barack Obama after she’d cut the net down, since the team will be returning to D.C. a second year in a row), chugging ginger-pineapple-carrot juice, made for me by one of my pseudo-daughters to help me get back on my feet from the cold, sore throat, and now fever that have taken up residence inside me and my iffy immune system (which doesn’t seem to be all that particularly immune from Alamodome, hotel and airplane germs, does it?).

I came, I saw, and I conquered San Antonio. I rode the water taxi and trolley, walked along Riverwalk and the streets above it (which we explored from end to end), cheered like crazy for UConn (thank God they won, or I’d have gnawed off my wrist at being stuck in Texas without basketball to look forward to), and ate at some off-the-beaten-path restaurants. (I posted my comments on Chowhound, which you can read if you’re a member or have nothing better to do.)

Even though I’m officially sick, I’ve washed, folded, and put away all my UConn-themed T-shirts, read all the back issues of the Hartford Courant, and finished reading Lee Smith’s newest book of short stories, Mr. Darcy and The Blue-Eyed Stranger. I’ve recounted my Final Four adventures to my friends and daughter, spent way, way too much time in bed trying to fight off this cold, and utterly enjoyed the silence of home, where neither the loud, raucous UConn pep band nor those high-pitched gaggle of cheerleaders can continue to blow out my already-blown eardrums like it did in San Antonio. (I bet you didn’t know that I was the only fan in the entire Alamodome who wore earplugs to block out the noise!)

I’m glad my we-only-live-once, UConn-obsessed husband made me go with him on this topsy-turvy, four days and nights of men’s and women’s basketball-filled trip. I’m now wishing I was a baseball fanatic, like my son-in-law, so I could continue to read the sports page each morning and cheer for my favorite players, like I do all fall and early spring. Unfortunately, I’m not (it’s hard to teach this old Husky dog new tricks), but, hey, hope springs eternal…so who knows what tomorrow may bring.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Queen of the Wild Frontier

Tomorrow morning I’m leaving on a jet plane for San Antonio, Texas – home of the 2010 NCAA Women’s Final Four. I’ve packed four, old, ratty UConn-themed T-shirts, sunscreen, a bathing suit, too many clothes and shoes, four library books, my iPod, and a tiny notebook, since I’m leaving my laptop home.

I’ll be putting on my great, big Girl Scout smile as I open myself up to the next five days of sun, river walks, Tex-Mex food, my husband’s UConn Women’s Basketball Team fanatacism, the hotel’s rooftop pool and Jacuzzi, and…last but absolutely not least…some great college basketball.

I’m ready for the challenge of being on foreign turf without a computer, across from one of my favorite childhood TV characters' (Davy Crockett) beloved Alamo. I thank my Uncle Justin for this early fascination of mine, which started on the day he picked up my brother and me in his convertible, a coonskin cap on his head, to take us on a fast trip to Howard Johnson’s. The waitresses flirted with him and admired his hat, and so did I.

I know that some girls are turned on by a guy’s muscles, but Davy Crockett’s hat does it for me.

I’ll be taking notes and pictures, which I’ll upload and share when I get back.

Westward, ho (and adios Fes Parker)!