Sorry, Beets On Hold

I hope they'll be ok in the fridge.

I got them trimmed, cleaned, and through their initial boil when my chest cold and sadness and the compelling prospect of drinking wine with a kind friend who'd come to cheer me up due to this current romance trouble of mine did me in. So I drained them off, sealed them up in a ceramic bowl and plastic wrap, and put them in the fridge. I hope they don't get mushy.

Reminder to all: grief settles in the chest. Take a rest if you need to. Better the beets bleed.

Love & Peace,

M

Mojitos and the Canning of Beets for Mamma

My mother loves pickled beets. I don't so much, for I am more of a Borscht kind of woman myself, or even a shredded upon the scape of a salad sort. But I do love my mother and she is now too feeble to can and I can't stand the thought of her subsisting on whatever she gets packed in metal from The Wal-Mart and 'tis the season of her birthday and I have beets in the garden begging to be eaten and so. You get the idea.

This is stage 1. Sterilizing the cans and lids and making the mojito. Tune in a couple hours from now and I'll show you Step 2. Woo!

My mess of beets, fresh from the garden this morning and rinsed. But they still gotta be scrubbed!

The modern canner's tableaux: large canning pot, smaller pot to sterilize lids, and laptop with the instructions up!

The cans waiting to be boiled. This enameled pot takes ages to come to a boil!

And at last, the Mighty Mojito!

Beef Pizzaiolla, from Cheryl Richter

Cousin Cheryl often claims to be an inadequate cook, but every morsel of hers I've ever sampled has been delicious. She did say of late that divorcing her first husband, a controlling kind of guy who liked to hover and criticize while she cooked, had a side of effect of making her a better cook. Maybe because she could follow her own instincts without distraction from some nutty jerk? Maybe. No offense, ex-husband.


So Cheryl's mommy is Italian. Old New York family. I won't name names. Let's just say I've been told not to sit next to the restaurant window when dining out with them. There's some cooking going on there, and no matter what Cheryl says she got the gene.

Since it's tomato season, here's a little beauty from Cheryl I think you might love:

Beef Pizzaiolla

Cheryl says: This recipe an be made with beef or veal, but I prefer the beef. I suppose you could do it with pork chops or chicken, but I haven't had it that way. Save any leftover tomatoes sauce and use it on a macaroni as a side dish.

Ingredients

2 pounds beef -- round steak cut 3/4" thick, or veal rib or loin cut 1/2" thick
1 1/2 pounds fresh or 1 20 oz can of good plum tomatoes
2 cloves minced garlic
1 tsp dried oregano
1/2 tsp chopped fresh parsley
salt and pepper to taste
grated Parmesan or Romano
good olive oil

De-seed the tomatoes, and put them through a food mill (alternately, put them through a food processor, then strain) until liquid but not mushy. Set aside.

Add the garlic, oregano, parsley, salt and pepper to the tomatoes, and stir.

In a large skillet, heat 1/4 cup of olive oil over medium high heat.

Sear the meat on both sides, lower the heat and leave in the pan.

Top the meat with the tomato mixture.

Let simmer on low heat for about 45 minutes, until the meat is fork tender.

Top with the grated cheese.

Serve with a nice rusty bread and a bottle of red wine.

Where Did You Go, Aunt Margaret?

I'm right here! And presenting the last of the Zach Week reports. In these photos of him eating spaghetti you can see that he's moving so fast, twirling the spaghetti noodles around and trying to get them into his mouth, that they make this really odd digital blur or transparent impression, or something. Check it out!

Can you see it? He's holding the noodles in one hand, and trying to spear them with his fork with the other. Quite an interesting experiment in physics.

*

Life has continued and now I am alone again, the blissful independence, the silence, the security. It was really, and I am not kidding, a true joy/Zen challenge to spend the week with my two-year-old nephew, and I am the better for it. I hope he is, too. We forged a bond, built of repetitious food choices and much time spent in the water; of lessons learned again in how to make for a toddler a rhythm of days that's comforting, interesting, and contained enough to feel secure and his experience that here is another adult who can be counted on to be always present and responsive; and of pure proximity. A whole 'nother part of my brain it took to do this job of "mothering" that I haven't done in, well, 16 years, quite this way. So I apologize for the lapse of four days here, but things did become a mite overwhelming there at the end, and there was no real moment at which available time and creative impulse converged.

Just couldn't get a clear shot. But I think you can see the layers of sauce on his happy visage.

After exploring the MOBOT Childrens' Garden (wow -- I highly recommend it, even though I haven't liked the way it looks in the Garden, from the outside) we had our most exiting meal of the week at Mama Campisi's on The Hill. I ordered him a child's meal of chicken tenders and fires (homemade, nice looking), but he was only interested in the comp bread and my spaghetti , big shock! I loved it when he said, after picking up a piece if the pre-meal bread and taking a bite, "Dis is good. Tank you!" Smile.

Is it actually raining noodles?

Surprise! Free spumoni!

Check out the smile behind the digital blur. He was having fun! Thank goodness the waiter was understanding.

*

So now back to my news cycle awareness and yoga and Tony Bourdain and long periods of undisturbed time. It's bitter-sweet, actually. Kind of makes me wonder if I wouldn't make a pretty good (& expensive of course) nanny.

It's a Zoo Around Here!

The zoo! I haven't been there since my kids were little, regrettably. Not to whine, but it's getting hard to see the animals for the vendors. You can't get to any exhibit without passing junk food and kids' shops. Zach, being a water fiend, adored the fountains, and spent more time playing with the streams of water and getting soaked than he did looking at animals. Excepting the penguins, which utterly fascinated him. They, as does he, like to shriek!

These were a huge hit with the little snicky-poo! I did cheat: I showed him the box before serving him the pasta. I'm wasn't born yesterday.

The presentation.

Food-wise, the child's zoo preference went toward the red, white, and blue popsicle, which I can only conclude is a ritual when visiting with he parents, who are zoo members and presumably frequent visitors. Other items were limited to snack we'd brought: shredded carrots and Pirate's Booty and cashews.

He had no interest in the corndog I offered, which was sad to me, since I adore the corndog and would have been thrilled to share one. However, in my quest to discover food he'll ear -- he's soooooooooooo much pickier than my kids were! -- I made a hit with Annie's Arthur-shaped mac and cheese. I know. It's still processed "kid" food. But at least it's organic and come from the health food aisle! Right? That I served with sausage links, which widely he loves, and more steamed broccoli, which he didn't touch this time.

Tonight: dinner at the grandparents'. I'll photograph and report.

Note: If you're in need to adult cuisine fix, feel free to travel to my other foodie stop: Food.

Zach, Day 2: No Help From Anthony

Ya, Anth came over, but was helpful only in that he stayed all night and warded off invaders. Ha ha. Basically sat on the couch and complained. Thanks, Bubby. When will he stop acting like a teenager?

I braised some chicken breasts in water, salt, and pepper. I know, bland. That was the intention. To get the little guy to eat some quality protein. You know, that hadn't been processed into the land of the mummies. And then there was Anthony who is not eating carbs past 6PM. So that did it for sauces, more or less.

Braised chicken, steamed broccoli, corn. A meal fit for a baby.

Zack ate the corn and two pieces of broccoli. He would not touch the chicken. I set the little bowl beside his plate for the bits he didn't want, to prevent him throwing them across the room.

Zach, Day 1: Molly Helps

OK, not really Day 1. Night 1. We got here yesterday evening, around 6. Molly, my teenage daughter, took the reigns of dinner without prompting in order to avoid having to watch Zach while I cooked, looked through the fridge, found a eggplant, and proceeded to make eggplant Parmesan with just a little consultation of me. She winged it, in other words, and it was excellent.

Molly fried up the eggplant in olive oil, which she'd dredged in eggwash, then in flour seasoned with some unexpected spices, like clove.

She puts the eggplant in the baking pan, then tops with warmed marinara sauce from a jar.

Then she spread so fresh ricotta I'd brought, left over from a cheffing gig, some pre-shredded cheddar and some Swiss cheese that she found in the fridge and asked me to slice.

Baked at 350 for about half an hour, it came out bubbly and beautiful.

She served it with rotini and marinara.

Zach, however, was uninterested it and opted for pseudo-food in the form of dinosaur-shaped "chicken" and orange slices. My theory, as of today, is not hold up (see yesterday's post).

My Week With The Two-Year-Old Nephew. What Will I Cook? How Will I Survive? Tune In To See!

He's Zach. He's two. He's my Godson.

I am staying in an undisclosed suburban location with him for a week, while his parents and older sister cavort around the Virigin Islands. Which end of the stick am I holding, here. :-)

Zach's improvisational pacifier design. Germs be damned.

I haven't spent more than an hour alone with a two-year-old in 16 years (since Molly was two). And the suburbs? Don't even talk to me about it. So here's my plan: Two-year-olds have to eat, right? And I have to blog. So, I'm going to cook for him. And I'm going to post same here. What will he eat? What will he not eat?

Thought:: Wasup with people always thinking there are certain things little kids will and will not eat, anyway? I am FULL of stories about kids suddenly eating things I've cooked that caused their parents to just fall over sideways in awe. Personally, I think that kids eat what they grow up eating, and are curious little monkey scientists just waiting to put new things into their mouths to see what they're made of. It was thus with my own two, who are now grown up and proud possessors of quite fearless, diverse pallets. I mean, really, what did cave people do? Run out for Gerber's and toaster pizza when the kids didn't like the roasted boar and root vegetables? Somehow, I doubt it.

Not that I'm going to torture Zach by making totally unfamiliar foods! That would be cruel. He'll probably be missing Mommy and Daddy, anyway. And food is a big source of comfort and familiarity. I'm going to play it by ear and see what arises. Make him his favorites, and then mix it up a little to see what he does without mom's and dad's expectations.

It's a mystery, right? Will he go for my variations on familiar dishes? Will he opt for only the packaged mac & cheez? Will he try the escargot or the beer braised brats? Alright. Kidding. I know better. The real point is, this week is going to be an example of love and care and nurture, and I'm going to catalog it here.

AND -- will I survive the week?

What could be more family-recipe-oriented than me cooking for little Zach Attach? He's a wild one. If I didn't love him (and my brother and his wife), I would even consider doing this (even though they are paying me pretty well). And, well, maybe the swimming pool and the Wolf cooktop help a little.

So tune in. I may not have time to write a million words, but I will post pictures and results.

And in the mean time, will you please pray/light a candle/cast a friendly spell/dedicate your yoga practice to me? Out there, in the suburban wilds, alone with a toddler, I may need it.

Remember the Sex And The City episode where Samantha sat for Miranda's baby? And then, remember when all the women went to visit their friend, who used to be a wild city girl but then got married and moved to Connecticut or wherever? And they show up out there for her baby shower, all of them dressed in black and looking all pale but then there were all the the suburban moms in their pastel outfits. I'm just saying.

A New Blog For My Birthday

It's my birthday. I'm 49.

Fabulous gifts: a Virginia Wolf doll, new copy of Mrs. Dalloway, NIN tickets, and visits or promised visits from my darling children.

And this official launch of my new blog so that this one can go back to focusing on family recipes and stories and I'll still have a venue for my narcissistic need to share my cooking adventures and photos with you (whomever you are): Food.

Weekend Herb Blogging: Texas Tortilla Soup, Featuring Cilantro

It's my pleasure to present, in simultaneous return to the families live for food and stories theme of this blog and Kelly's at Sounding My Barbaric Gulp! hosting of Kalyn's Kitchen's Weekend Herb Blogging, my cousin Nancy's Texas Tortilla Soup.




This recipe features cilantro, an herb common in a lot of Tex-Mex and some Mexican cuisines. It's also used in Asian, Spanish and Latin American, Vietnamese, Indian, and other Southeast Asian cuisines. A lot of people like cilantro, but then a lot of people don't. There are actual groups dedicated to the hating of it. Seems odd to me, because I like it pretty well.

Why? Is it really awful? Not to me. I don't find it any stronger than most other common herbs. Maybe there's some chemical particular to cilantro that some people's tongues just react against. Anyway, I like it. It has a brightness that really sets off the Mexican flavors, too. And of course it's full of vitamin C and stuff.

Cilantro, an annual herb of the family Apiaceae, is easy to grow in most climates that have a warm growing season. It just needs well drained soil, and can take a little shade in the hot afternoon. And if you let it seed out, you get coriander (the seeds).

A note on the cilantro salmonella recalls: I'm getting to where I don't buy vegetables and herbs that I'm going to eat raw from the grocery stores. I either get them from local growers, or I grow them myself. If you notice, most of the trouble foods (if not all) come from big growers and distributors. But before I eat any raw food with the peal on it I soak it in a mix of water and vinegar, threeTablespoons to a gallon.

Here is the recipe. The story I'm associating with it is below that.

Texas Tortilla Soup
from Nancy Thompson

Nancy Says: This recipe is adapted from one published in a newspaper, by the Houston' restaurant Rotisserie for Beef & Bird.

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons oil

1 large onion, chopped

1 fresh jalapeno, seeded and chopped

4 cloves garlic, minced

2 large carrots, diced

6 ribs celery, diced

1 teaspoon each: ground cumin, chili powder, salt, and lemon pepper

2 teaspoons bottled liquid hot red pepper sauce (such as Tabasco)

1 pound diced, skinless, boneless chicken breasts

1 can RoTel (tomatoes with green chilies)

4 (10 1/2 ounce) cans chicken broth, or equivalent homemade stock

1/2 cup flour

1/4 to 1 cup fresh cilantro, chopped

8 corn tortillas, cut in strips

oil for frying tortillas

salt to taste on tortilla strips

garnishes: diced avocados, grated cheddar cheese

• Heat oil in large skillet


• Saute chopped onion, jalapeno, garlic, carrots, celery, and chicken, and
  
• Simmer 5 minutes


• Add the measured spices and flour, and


• Cook, stirring, for five minutes


• Add RoTel, cilantro, and chicken stock, and


• Simmer for 1 hour


• In a heavy skillet, heat oil to medium-high


• Carefully lay tortilla strips into the hot oil, and


• Fry until crisp, then


• Drain on paper towels and salt to taste

To serve, put a few tortilla strips into the bottoms of your soup bowls, ladle the soup over, and garnish with the cheese and avocado. Serve with some longnecks, and lemonade for the kiddies!

The Story: Texas Camping Masacre

Nancy Thompson is my first maternal cousin Danny Thompson's wife. Thompson is actually her birth name, which was handy when they got married, I guess. I don't know if she was like me and not into changing her name, or if she wouldn't have minded, but either way it was a non-issue, obviously. They live on a ranch right outside scenic Fredericksburg, TX. Which means they eat Tex-Mex. They're both good cooks.

I'm sorry to say that I haven't been down there to visit them. Yet. And I don't know if the email address for them I have is a good one or not, because they never answer my emails (I'm not kidding) and they don't bounce back. Therefore, I will have to give you my own Fredericksberg, TX story, to set the scene. Maybe some day it will mean something to my children, if nothing else.

And there is a helpful hint in this story that could save your butt one day, if you're attacked by a skunk. And hint is food based.

I know.

Anyway, back in the early '80s my friend Carol and I went camping by the Guadeloupe River, in those gorgeous dessert-brushy hills west of Fredericksberg. Carol drove a brand new Porsche. She worked for Exxon. (I know.) We took my dog, Missy, with us. It took some talking to get Carol to let Missy in the Porsche. I sold the idea on guard dog grounds.

Missy was a Beagle I'd found roaming around a lake in Illinois, and taken home with me out of mercy and greed. She was a sweet, good natured thing. Not very old. Innocent and energetic. When we got to the hills and starting making camp, Missy instantly lit out chasing those fabulous TX jackrabbits, with their ears as tall as their bodies. Who cold stop her? There was hardly anyone out there right then, anyway, so I just let her run.

We lit a fire, made with mesquite we gathered from the brush. The river rushed through the valley down the hill from us, reminding me of all the time I'd spent with my grandparents canoeing in the Ozarks -- to me, a sound of happiness. On the fire, I showed Carol how to make the taquitos my Mexican boyfriend Rudy had shown me how to prepare on another camping trip in the Guadeloupe mountains: slice avocado; pull cilantro leaves off the stem; in iron skillet: cook chorizo and potatoes cooked over the fire, add Chiquaqua cheese at the end; on big flat rock: heat the tortillas; put chorizo-potato-cheese yumminess into tortilla, add avocado; eat. Wow. She liked it. Missy liked the leftovers. The longnecks (that 'beer' to you non-Texans) went well with it.

Then darkness, and bedtime. The tent. Carol had big ole six-shooter with her. Some guy she was seeing talked her into bringing it, in lue of talking her into bringing himself. In the tent, a little two-man pup, we kept it there between our two heads. I was more afraid it would go off accidentally and cause I big, messy tragedy than I was that some gruesome creature-man would come in after us. Wasn't that what the dog was for? To warn and snarl and attack?

But in the end it wasn't the gun or the creature-man that got us. It was the dog and the rain the skunk, it exactly the right combination.

The night wore on past midnight. Missy chased jackrabbits. It started to rain. There was a yelp. There was a terrible smell. Missy came back and wept outside the tent, dragging with her the strongest smell of skunk I can remember smelling.

Good Lord. Now here's a mess. The dog is whining and wet and sitting outside the tent. Now it's starting to thunder and lightning. The only possible shelters for Missy are the tent and the Porsche. I look over at Carol, and she shakes her head No. She has her hand on the six-shooter. That's not really necessary, I think. But I'm quiet. I can here her thinking: I didn't want to bring the d**n dog in the first place.

There was no immediate solution. She wouldn't let me put the dog in the car until I got the smell of her, and we were miles from everything and in the middle of a huge storm.

Waiting for morning. A long wait. Whining dog and skunk smell. Carol with gun. I didn't sleep much. Finally, it's dawn.

Rocky hills, mesquite, stinky dog, air that smells like fresh linens and moving water. The river down the hill. Angry friend with fancy car, no other way home (remember kids, there were not really any cell phones in the Old Days). What am I going to do?

Then I remember! My grandma Nonie, Ozark Lady (read: nature-loving hillbilly) that she was, had given me before she died the solution to nearly every problem in the universe. And sitting there nearly crying in the golden Guadeloupe morning her visage came back to me like a glowing Virgin with her foot upon a skunk, uttering the magic words: tomato juice.

I need to borrow the car. You wait here with the dog. I said to Carol. She made me explain. She gave me the keys. I drove down the blacktop and in short order saw a little country store, went in, bought six big cans of tomato juice, drove back.

I had to hold my breath while I pulled Missy into the Guadeloupe by her collar, but the pried-open cans of tomato juice were sitting on the near back, ready to go. I poured them, all of them,. all of the cans of tomato juice over the dog, one at a time, while she stood in the clear moving water and looked at me with her giantly soft brown eyes. Whata girl. I felt like defending her from mean TX women too attached to their cars, but didn't dare, considering.

Then I rinsed her off. She smelled wonderful! Clean and perfect. Tomato juice = goodbye skunkstink!

And off we all went in the car. Carol and I explored wonderful Fredericksburg, ate a German meal, looked in shops, and then headed toward Austin in search of a hotel that would let a dog in. We found one, and went immediately to sleep.

And so, in the the theme of Fredericksburg and tortillas and Texas and cilantro, we have Nancy's Tortilla Soup. Enjoy.

A Re-Ordering, & Return to Original Purpose

Ya, ya, I know. Where's my focus gone? Why have the family recipes been supplanted by my own wanderings through the landscape of this food and that one, with only occasional, lame references to something that might, at least in my own fevered mind, qualify as a family connection? Why?

Son.

I don't know. But I'm going to fix it now. I'm unveiling a second food blog, Food, on which I'll do all the things foodyrandom that have ADDed me over here. And Smith Family Recipes and Stories will return to its purpose, Smith family recipes and stories. Now that's some rocket science for you.

Daughter.

Sidebar: Wonder how many meals it took to grow these kids to these sizes? Not only that, they were raised on a fairly high percentage of organic stuff and fresh produce. Just think. And on an adjunct instructor's salary, too. OK, so maybe they seem a little quirky. So what? They're cool! And they're good people.

I'll be posting my family recipes, even though, given the sad lack of "typing" my extended family appears willing to express ("Oh, we love the idea, Margaret, thank you so much for doing this! We'll be sending in lots of things, very soon! And by the way, how do you work those internets, again?" NOTE to family: no internets or googles skills required; you can put it in an envelope and mail it to me if you want! Or call me on the phone! Like I've said a million times! And anyway, if you're emailing me to tell me you don't know how to do it, you're already doing it! Just put the recipe in the email! mygaud)(OK, sorry. I weakened and allowed myself to feel the frustration there for a minute).

Most of recipes will come from our photocopied family cookbooks. But what's wrong with that? That's ok, right? Maybe I'll just have to call people when i can't remember a story for the recipe. So tune in. Maybe the new direction will cause my darling son to quit aspiring to look like he's from New Jersey, or my darling daughter to (finally) quit growling at me.

Put de Lime in de Coconut!

I'll tell you, I'm so enamoured with the lime and the coconut (and the various other Southeast Asian flavors), I can't stop putting things together randomly to see how they turn out. Here's one that's so simple, and works so well, is so refreshing and unexpected and comforting, you're just crazier than me if you don't try it.

This recipe will serve four. If you want to make it for one or two, just use fewer bananas and store the left over coconut milk in the fridge for later.

Banana Towers in Coconut Sauce

1 can coconut milk

2-4 bananas, depending on size

1/4 cup sugar

2 limes

Nut butter *-- tahini, cashew, or other favorite (optional)

• Heat the coconut milk over medium heat.


• Add the sugar, and wisk until disolved; set aside.


• Slice each banana.


• Pour about 1/3 cup of the coconut mixture into a bowl.


• Make two "towers" of the banana slices in the pool of coconut milk.


• Squeeze 1/4 slice of lime over the whole.


• Drizzle on about a tablespoon of nut butter, if using.


• Set a slice of lime on top.


• Serve immediately.
  
  * If your nut butter is too thick to drizzle, thin it down by blending in a little coconut milk or citrus juice. I like to use a runny tahini, myself.
  
  
  Note: You are putting de lime in de coconut here. It may in fact settle an upset tummy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

Dishy Italian

Remember back when I made the Unnamed Italian Dish for the STL Foodbloggers' potluck? Well, I made an extra pan of them and put it in the freezer. Last week I got it out, and had it now and then until Frank came over for the weekend and I fried an egg, warmed a serving of the IDICR, stacked and sprinkled the two with salt and pepper and Parmesan, drizzled on a little olive oil, and knocked his hungry socks off.

So now I'm wondering how many baked dishes and casseroles have the potential to become fabulous breakfast dishes is a flash, like this one. Seriously. "Add An Egg 101." Maybe we should do it.

How to Survive Baseball in 111 Degree Heat

Quick answer: walk over to J. Buck's and get a cold cocktail. Stay and enjoy the game on the big screen TV until your super-sweet fiance comes in after the game to share a nice dinner with you. I like to think this is what any reasonable person would do. I did stick it out until the top of the 9th inside the big concrete, heat-absorbing bowl of a stadium that turned the 99-degree outside air into a 111-degree killer. I really think that's plenty tough-dame of me, don't you? Time to chill!





I chose to indulge myself with the marvelous Island Blue Martini, pictured above. Isn't it lovely? And so very delicious. The waitress said the bartender said the recipe goes like this:

Equal parts Malibu Rum and Blue Coraco

A splash of pineapple juice

Shake, of course, then pour.

Coconut. Pineapple. Blueness. Sweet anticipation; ordering this little drink was a joy. Like running toward the sea. Drinking it was even better. I'd have loved it just as much alcohol free. As a matter of fact, if someone could figure out how to make exactly this flavor and color purely, without chemicals, I'd -- she'd -- make a million bucks.

Stretch toward family recipe/story connection? My family loves baseball (yes, Cardinals baseball). My family loves cocktails. So there you go.

I know, I'm veering off focus here from the family thing. My darling relatives are really not engaging as fully as I'd hoped, with the exception of Ms. Lisa, and she has been busy with a new job lately. Therefore, I'm going to take a new approach to getting our family recipes and stories blogged here properly, which I will unveil in the coming weeks. In the mean time, the stretching toward connections will continue.

Travelogue: Detroit Rocks -- and Eats!

Frank standing under one of the massive tigers at Detroit's Comerica Park

Home of Elmore Leonard and Kid Rock. Francis Ford Coppola and Toi Derricotte. Leonard still lives here. People are moving downtown. I thought I'd be cowering in my room waiting for the zombied homeless and cracked-up gangs to break the door down (sort of, really I had kind of an open mind, but I was ready for the worst given the press coverage and my boss's assertion that I should "take a firearm").

Comerica Park. Our hotel is the very narrow red brick building directly left of the upper tip of the left tower behind the scoreboard. You can see how gorgeous is the skyline. And that's Canada in the background.

What I found instead was that I was cool about walking around by myself (just like Mexico!), even at night, sort of (there's no where I really feel totally safe walking around at night -- that's just me). Tons of fun. Character. Don't forget the current Stanley Cup Champions; those pesky Tigers, who almost robbed our Cardinals of the MLB World Championship in 2006; and well, I think they have a football team, too.

Plenty of good food in Detroit. The best? A little snacking we did at Vincente's Cuban Cuisine. The best mojito I've ever had, no kidding (matching price at $8 -- I had one), and a small plate of Cuban sandwiches and omelets, compliments of the tour company with whom we finished our three hours of purposeful downtown Detroit walking at Vincetne's. In retrospect I wish I'd gone ahead and had dinner there, even if it isn't native (to Detroit) cuisine.

Detroit Beer Company. Yum. My favorite?
The one on the left: People Mover, named after their mass transit train.
Ya, which I rode.

From there I took off on my own (Frank went to the ballpark, of course) for further adventures. After walking the floridly post-apocalyptic city streets for a bit in the dusty light of the fading sun I settled on trying some local beers, rather than the small plates place next door to it (called Small Plates). You know, I've had a lot of small plates lately and the menu looked pretty standard. And at $12.95 on apparent average for a small plate, I thought my money'd be better used sampling several small beers! I was right, and really too full to want much more to eat right then, anyway. I think I'd gone a little farther with the Cubans than I'd first realized.

In the Detroit Beer Company I ordered a flight, though it wasn't on the menu. The bartender forgot, and after 15 minutes I reminded her. It was quite busy, and I think (hope) she was new. By then I'd met a gaggle of local business men who'd gone to high school together (one had come in from Chicago) all of whom reminded me of my brother, on their way to the Tigers game. They were every bit as polite and fun as every other Detroitite we met on the trip. Just really gentlemanly. The beers on the flight, once I got them, were delicious. The glasses were a little larger than the usual flight-sized jumbo shot glass size, and there wasn't a key (like I'm going to remember what the bartender told me as she set them in front of me). But that was ok, because I got help from up and down the bar -- everyone wanted to know what I thought of the stout (yum, Guiness-y) or the cloudy wheat (fruity, sharp, hops coming up as an after thought). So that was cool, too. I was there to dig the local color, after all, and this was it.

(Side bar: I have really been way more into good beer lately than wine. I'm just liking how it sits in my tummy and makes me feel nourished. Plus, there's something very fresh-born and living about a good beer, brewed right there where your drinking it. In the STL I'm constantly craving Square One Brewery's Spicy Blond, with its ginger and creamy foam.)

Comerica Park is just a couple of blocks from the hotel we stayed in -- a basic Hilton. It's a pleasant walk. Detroit has a definite Bladerunner feel about it, gritty and gorgeous. Major pre-Depression, Gilded Age, and Art Deco architecture from Gordon Llyod and Louis Kamper. But some of the most important buildings are vacant, the windows blown out, story after story of broken glass. How many vandals does it take to break out 33 floors of windows? Or was it some unnaturally strong wind that blew through, then was forgotten?

Of course, Detroit is a water town. The name comes from French Rivière du Détroit, i.e. "River of the Strait." Standing high inside the Book-Cadillac building on our architectural-of-sorts tour, Canada was clearly taunting from the other side, all health-carded up and non-violent. It's kind of like a reverse-Juarez/El Paso situation, only no one seems to realize it. On the other hand, the city dwellers I met were passionate about the revitalization of their downtown. There is a new central plaza at Campus Martius Park -- yes, that's Latin for Field of Mars. And yes, it was, in 1788, a military drill ground. There are restaurants and coffee shops and music at noon and festivals.

Lafayette's, Our Coney Dog Tasting Winner

And there are scads and scads of (oddly cheerful) homeless people, everywhere. One downtown business keeps it's doors locked -- has to let you in to eat -- to keep the homeless people out. A Coney dog stand. Not a swanky joint at all.

But the homeless people I encountered seemed somehow to be taking themselves with a grain of salt. They were sort of laughing as they asked for a dollar, and if you declined they'd just offer an optimistic sports prediction (like, after a losing Tigers game, "We'll get 'em next time!")

Back to the ball park, here are Coney dogs. Tons. As well there should be, and prominently, since they are THE native food of Detroit. Sure, there's fried ravioli in my home town's Busch stadium, but you can hardly find it. And when you do it's not the real thing! It's some sort of cross between a fried rav and a Fig Newton. But you can get a Coney dog lots of places in the Tiger's den.

And local ice cream. And local soda. Local microbrews! And freshly made elephant ears! These things were fantastic! I don't know if they're native, but they sure beat the pants off the frozen-then-fried funnel cake they feed you at Busch. An elephant ear is a lot like a funnel cake, in principle: both are made from a basic batter of flour and water, then dropped into a hot deep fat and fried until they're golden brown, then sprinkle them with powdered sugar so that it melts into the surface. But the key to tasty in both instances is that you eat them immediately after they come out of the frier. Frozen then fried, they're ok, but there is nothing sublime about them. And sublime is, after all, what we're going for, right? The fresh elephant ear -- a large misshapen disk of half-inch thick, hot fried dough, topped with sugar and cinnamon, is really, really sublime. Comerica also offers cherry and apple topping. But I opted for the sugar-cinnamon so I could eat it with my fingers. Yum!

Yip, that's it, the Coney Dog

*

Now, apparently the question of deep food related importance to Detroit dwellers and visitors is the relative merit of Coney Dog offerings. A true, traditional Coney has a hot dog on a bun covered in chili, onions, and mustard (the mustard goes on top of the chili). There are loyalists for both American and Lafayette's, the two oldest venders in town. The stores are neighbors and once were owned by the same family. Naturally we had a tasting, and Frank and I agreed, Lafayette's is the best, in spite of being the younger pretender. The dog itself had a more "homey" look, with its hand crimped ends, and a bit more bite-back. There was more chili, and the chili itself was just slightly spicier -- though beyond that feature it really did seem like the same recipe. Also, more plentiful onions and mustard. And maybe I dig the smaller, stranger space, too.

So why go to San Fran or Maui and blow your carbon footprint out of the water? Why, when there are undiscovered crazy-interesting places near-ish to home. Like Detroit. I feel a little bit like a maverick, having vacationed there. And that makes me happy.

I Heart The Missouri Botanical Garden!

My little bed in the Lafayette Square Community Garden won an award!

Clockwise from the lower right corner: sorrel, pansies, a little wildflower mix, a broccoli, a rhubarb (the tallest plant), beats, and finally the tall, orange poppies. There are carrots hidden behind the beets, and a couple of Cherokee Purple tomatoes that will have more room once I harvest the root vegetables in about a week.

Thank you, Missouri Botanical Garden and Gateway Greening, for recognizing so many community gardeners from around the city. And for the free one year membership to the MOBOT! I've been wanting to get one since I moved into the city! I'm so happy! The garden is less than four miles from my house.

It was totally fun and inspiring to get my little Outstanding Bed award, and to drive around on the bus with all the garden lovers and gardeners looking at other neighborhoods lovely gardens. My great friend Robin showed up at the bus, and we had a wonderful time on the tour and at the luncheon.

Dr. Raven's remarks about community gardening were wonderful. 270 pounds of produce from a typical individual bed in a season? I can believe it. Just think. Community gardening could be a real god-send, now that we've exited the Holocene (see Davis in The Nation). Growing our own food here in the urban jungle may not be just a pretty pastime, any more. As fuel gets more and more expensive, fresh food that doesn't have to be shipped? Well, it's obvious. And the dearth of grocery stores in most city neighborhoods has been a reality for some time, ensuring the poor have yet another hurdle to good health (fast and packaged, processed food is always available).

And ya, I come from a family of gardeners. It's second nature. It's my link to the earth, the seasons, what anchors me on the planet. Guess what? Good gardens, good food. It's the most perfect equation in the world.

A view of my bed, with my name tag visible. At this angle the sage is right up front, with winter savory behind it, and the carrots to the left, beets to the right, the rhubard looking all tall -- oh, ya, and the sunflower that volunterred, and a couple of poppies peaking out!

Me accepting the award from Dr. Peter Raven, Director of the Missouri Botanical Garden. What a really sweet, rather brilliant man. He was just glowing. I know, horrible photo of me.


A bed in the Monsanto YMCA Garden. East bed has a really cool personalized sign.


Ladies of Wells Community Garden won the First Place Ornamental Garden Award.
Notice the blown-out house behind it. This north St. Louis community garden is a true oasis for
the neighborhood.

Gorgeous, huge hydrangea in the Ladies of Wells Garden. This garden reminded my of my grandma Nonie's yard.

My Little Award. I'm know, I'm a real nerd for showing it off. But I'm so proud!