Food Gone Wild!

The end of one year and the beginning of another is a time rife with reflection and revelation. Here is mine: I have a problem. I'm hoping that, by talking about it, I'll be able to finally get some help and work through it. The problem has flared up over these past weeks and is now completely raging out of control.

I can't stop cooking. 

Yes, I know you all have suspected this for some time. I'm not talking about your average weeknight dinners; I'm talking about multi-course, elaborate, balls-to-the-wall extravaganzas. App–salad–entrée–dessert. I can't stop myself. My kitchen has been overused so much that I actually murdered my KitchenAid mixer and both my ovens in the space of two days. But has that stopped me? No. Whip that cream by hand, boy, whip it!

It may have begun manifesting itself during the Thanksgiving Decathalon of 2011, but things really ramped up when my family's usual Hawaii Christmas became unexpectedly domestic. My L.A. sister and I hosted, and most of the big Important Meals were at my home. This included the Welcoming Ziti Dinner (antipasti–caprese–roasted peppers–beef ragu–peach pie–struffoli), the Christmas Eve Feast of Seven Fishes (calamari–mussels–octopus–linguine al vongole–broccoli rabe–crab–salt-encrusted branzinos–pear/cranberry ginger crisp) and the the Christmas Day Gorge-a-thon (standing rib roast–Yorkshire pudding–sweet and sour onions–shaved brussel sprouts with burrata–spinach pomegranate salad with pancetta-wrapped, blue cheese-filled dates–marquis au chocolat). It was like three Thanksgivings in a row.

And now, some Italian Food Porn:

THIS is struffoli.

During Fish Five of the Seven Fishes the ovens pulled a mechanical "Grandpa's gotta lie down right now" moment and died. Who knows what happened (a serviceman's coming out on Thursday). Surprisingly, it didn't throw me. I looked at the six whole fish un-crusting in the left oven, and the crisp un-crisping in the right, and found a moment of grace. "This is what happens sometimes, we're not a restaurant, no one is getting upset, there's plenty of food, Allison made a coconut cake, let's roll with it!"And fifteen minutes later the ovens woke up and forty-minutes after that we had a delicious final course.

A little help with the fish.

A LOT of help with the meals.

Will someone stop this man, and his 17-lb roast?

Unfortunately, I haven't found a way to stop the momentum derived from that moment of grace. New Year's Eve, our friends bring over a wonderful fish soup and corn muffins, but I feel compelled, with no beaters and an inconstant oven, to add to the meal corn blinis with caviar and creme fraiche, an endive-cress and goat cheese salad and a bittersweet almond torte. Plus fresh cranberry margaritas. Today I thought, "No cooking on New Years! I'll buy it all from the Farmer's Market!" but somehow I found myself making a roux for the homemade macaroni and cheese with pancetta. My Fine Cooking magazine featured it on the cover! It looked easy! I had the cheese and the bread crumbs! Of course, not as easy as just opening the Annie's packet of cheese and add it to the boxed pasta, no, I had to frigging MAKE THE MAC & CHEESE. All the while planning my black-eyed peas and chard dinner. My hands are raw from the number of pots and pans scoured. The refrigerator groans every time it's opened, the dishwasher is threatening to quit, and so is Doug.

The ironic thing is, it's all very well and good to cook for the masses who come to dine, but who am I cooking for now? Benjamin is famed for surviving on air, and Doug and I are trying desperately to return the holiday poundage we've received during Christmas. Someone's gotta stop me before I cook again! My kitchen is trying to send me the message ("She canna take much more of this, Captain!"), but it's not getting through. I envision myself in a chef's coat covered with blood and sweat and chocolate as I dice and sauté and deglaze myself into oblivion— the culinary equivalent of "The Red Shoes." 

Admitting you have a problem is the first step, yah? So I make a resolution— lay off the ladle. Surrender the whisk. Cook simply, and less.

At least until Chinese New Year.

Have a sweet 2012!

PS. I had a wonderful, underhanded birthday surprise which involved no cooking at all on my part! (Well, almost no cooking). You can read about it here.

Yes, Benjamin, There is Possibly Not a Santa Claus

The gig is up. Or could be. It's hard to say. After dinner, Doug calls out to me from where he is putting Benjamin to bed. I trudge upstairs begrudgingly (Why can't he put the boy to bed by himself? Doesn't he know I'm doing the dishes/checking Facebook/playing a round of Angry Birds: Seasons?) until I see Doug's sad little pout at the top of the stairs. "Benjamin would like to ask us a question," he says to me, in a loud mock-conversational tone that parents use on each other when they're trying to impart hidden information.

I enter the bedroom. Benjamin is under the covers, but rolling around. He's not nearly sleepy.


"You're Santa. Right?" he asks me, point-blank.

Ahh, this conversation. "Why do you say that?" I ask, in that loud mock-conversational tone parents use on their children when they're trying to buy time.

"Because how can Santa Claus go to everyone? It doesn't make sense. So you guys are Santa Claus, right?"

I look at Doug. It's about time. Ten years old. About a third of the kids in his class, I figure, already know the awful truth, and most of the rest are on the verge. To be honest, I'd be happy if the gig were up; it would save a lot of time on subterfuge. I  hedge, asking him the question we've used several times before: "Do you really want to know?"

"Just tell me!" He's already over the cliff, there's no turning back.

We look at each other and then at Ben. We nod. "I knew it!" he yells triumphantly. But, almost immediately, I see a slight widening of his eyes, an inward stare as he processes his new-found knowledge. "So you guys give me the presents and stuff?"

"Yup."

"You eat the cookie!"

I shrug and nod sadly.

Repercussions begin seeping into his brain, supplanting the thrill of discovery. "But... it can't be true."

"Why?" Doug asks.

"Because... you guys don't lie to me."

Ooooo. Ouch. I want to point out that we didn't actually LIE, that if he read the transcripts of our conversations re: Santa he would see that we have sidestepped every direct Santa identity question with an adroitness that is positively Clinton-esque. Comebacks like, "Why do you think that?" and "How could I be Santa?" and "Is that a Pokemon under the table?" have always kept us technically lie-free, but such parsing of intent is not going to wash, here.


Doug fields the question as I die a little inside. "We don't lie. But we play games. Parents play this game with their kids on Christmas."

I recover. "To make it more magical, more special."

But something has short-circuited in poor Ben's brain. He's sitting with Leonardo DiCaprio in "Inception" and the café is blowing up around him. And then, another dread revelation prompts him to blurt out another question: "Are you the TOOTH FAIRY?"

Oh dear. Benj has a long and intimate relationship with the Tooth Fairy. Really, she's more alive to him that Santa. They've exchanged pithy correspondence (written by Doug on fancy artisan paper). He knows her name, for God's sake: Edith. When Ben lost a canine at his grandma's in Illinois, he prepped doll furniture for Edith so she could rest after the flight from California.

I begin to see the downside of our creative and extensive lying.

I give him a frown smile and say, "What do you think?"

But it's too much. He's gone too far. A panoply of iconic holiday characters fall, like dominos, in front of his eyes. And he can't lose Edith."No, I know you're not Santa Claus."

"Why?"

"Because... you're not!  How could you get presents here when we're in Hawaii? And... you're not Santa. I believe in Santa Claus. I believe in Santa Claus."

"Okay... if you want to believe in him, that's great," Doug says.

He's backtracking furiously. "Yes, I believe in him because the reindeer, they're real, Donner and Blitzen and Dasher... and his handwriting, I know your handwriting and Daddy's and he has different handwriting."

We've had our friend Sherrie wrap the presents (with different, new paper), arrange them under the tree and write the notes all these years. Damn my attention to detail.

We nod, as if he's made a reasonable request. "Okay," we say, and edge out the door, leaving him teetering on the brink of discovery, and maturity. He's pulled back because, more than losing this iconic character (and said character's gifties), I think he realizes that giving up Santa (and Edith) will bring him that much closer to growing up, a place where, at this point, he firmly does not wish to venture into. He already knows, instinctively, that entering into adult reality means losing—I don't think he'd call in innocence— the possibilities of childhood.

Edith has saved Santa for another year. Maybe.


Ben has since dropped the subject. He talks about Santa and it's not ironic, or sly. It's as if we never had the conversation. He's willing to suspend his disbelief for at least another Christmas. Which is fine with us. 

After all, he's got about 15 teeth to go.