Good Bread

It was Father’s Day weekend. In an effort to avoid the always uncomfortable and usually uneventful Dinner Out (also logistically difficult, as I had neglected to begin thinking about it until the night before and, thus, was unable to secure a reservation before 10:30 PM), I offered to make dinner for my parents. Then I, without his knowledge, volunteered my son, Cesar, as sous chef. (Luckily, he fears me, and so agreed without protest).

I had originally planned some sort of pasta, a dish easily accomplished by myself and a 7-year-old assistant, without too much of a mess, or any later-regretted yelling or wooden-spoon chucking. This was clearly not a time for beef bourguignon. But, while perusing Whole Foods earlier that afternoon, I came across a beautiful, wild-caught fillet of salmon that I could not leave behind. You know… when you walk by something, remark on how lovely it looks and then how expensive, tell yourself you did not come for it and continue on…only to circle back and order it anyhow, speaking to the counter attendant too quietly, afraid your internal asset manager will shame you for your lack of willpower. You know you’ve done it.

I justified my impulse purchase by quickly recalling an impossibly easy salmon recipe my son and I made together once. This is even easier than pasta! I reasoned. And healthier! And my parents should really eat healthier. Yeah, that’s it. It’s for THEM.

I almost inaudibly requested a beautiful center cut (I’m sorry? The attendant asked me, twice), then tucked the smooth, white paper package behind puffed bag of olive oil-laced popcorn and a large head of red lettuce and proceeded to search for my remaining ingredients: good, grainy mustard, fresh honey, three big sweet potatoes, firm asparagus (that I had prepared far too often that week but argued that I had to eat as much as possible before the end of the season) and some good bread.

In reality, the bread was an afterthought. But, this dinner was supposed to be in honor of my father…my carb-loving father…who I envisioned would cringe at the lack thereof on his plate and offer generous amounts of entirely insincere thank yous and compliments on the cooking, sneaking down to the kitchen later that night to grab greasy handfuls from a bag of potato chips.

I approached the bread counter with low expectations…the store had been crowded that day, the pickings seemed slim. Women in khaki cropped pants and the same round-necked sweater I different, Easter egg colors vied for the attention of the bakery girls and inched their ways in front of me, though I had been clearly waiting, patiently, for service. But, karma is (as they say) a bitch. One by one these ladies approached the counter requesting a whole-grain variety of some loaf or another, and each time were turned down. We ran out, the girl explained, and then offered them a traditional ciabatta or French loaf, which they would reluctantly accept (no doubt silently counting the number of minutes they’d need to spend with their trainers to work off ALL those processed carbs). Finally, the mob dispersed, and I approached. No whole grain anything, eh? I mused, and prepared to choose a baguette or focaccia, when a lovely sound burst from the lips of one of the attendants. Oh! Actually, a fresh batch just came out of the oven!

Though jumping up and down gleefully on the inside, I maintained composure outwardly (so as not to tip-off the line-cutting, boring-sweater ladies to the sudden existence of hot-out-of-the-oven whole grain. In fact, I considered buying it all, out of spite.). Then, I chose a monster boule. Too warm to even place in a plastic bag, this secret, paper-wrapped prize filled my car with that almost orgasmic, fresh-bread smell. (“’Almost’ orgasmic?” you may be wondering, Yes, this blog is PG-13.) It was a dense, earthy smell, like golden, sun-warmed wheat fields.

My parents’ dinner was lovely. Though the salmon, potatoes and asparagus were quite wonderfully salty, spicy and sweet, all at once, and came together with minimal mess (and my son licked only half the jar of honey from his fingers), the bread was undoubtedy the star. The huge, perfectly round loaf, speckled with grains all shades of tan, was even visually exciting; my dad uttered an anticipatory “Woah!” when he saw it resting on the counter, and put away the box of Cheez-Its from which he was snacking to save room.

I sliced it into long, thick slices, and we each took turns picking pieces from the plate, some of us slathering on butter, others (me) leaving them nude. And as we sat around the table, my father, mother, son and I, each of us took long, slow bites, through the crunchy crust into the soft, airy, bubbly center, and the only sound we could utter was a resounding “Mmm.”



We took turns remarking, over the next few days, how great the bread was as we passed by the leftovers on the counter, as if remembering a great vacation. My parents toasted slices with honey butter for breakfast, I had one (or two) with my salad for lunch, we sliced more for the next evenings dinner. The bread seemed to travel with us from meal to meal, a trusty, comforting companion, and after each taste one of us would say, without fail, “Boy, was that good bread.”

As we packed up for the drive home at the end of the weekend, my mother offered that I take what was left, but I insisted we share it. She quickly conceded (who would put up a fight?) and when we spoke the next day, the topic quickly evolved to what we had used the bread for since parting ways… I made a grilled veggie panini with mine, my mother spread it with olive oil and garlic and broiled it to accompany a pasta dinner. Without thinking we remarked, in complete unison, “Boy, was that good bread,” and then burst into giggles.

My family came together a little, over that weekend. My dad did not pick at his salmon, as he is known to, but rather it disappeared form his plate quickly and he, licking his fork of the remaining mustard-honey glazed, reached for a second helping. Cesar, proud to have played chef to the creation of such a successful meal, said several times how much he loved the asparagus (Yes, the asparagus. No, I’m not kidding.) And, every once in a while, when my mother and I are chatting about recent happenings or the news on the phone and the conversation lulls, one of us will likely bring back that one moment we shared the exact thought, the time when we were most like each other, and say out of nowhere, in an overly-reminiscent tone: “Boy, was that good bread.” And we will both giggle again.

Alternative Media Take Notice

So, my op-ed for The Courant (reprinted below) is getting some good play!

Check THIS out. And THIS (even though this forum is a little wierd. But, I'll take what I can get!).

Cool, eh?

A Published Piece

Ladies and Gents, I am officially a published author. Ok, I sent in an op-ed piece to The Hartford Courant and they decided to print it and paid me a couple of bucks. So sure, I employ a loose definition of "published". But, it is a small sort of accomplishment, of which I am quite proud. So, in the spirit of shameless self-promotion, here is the piece:

Not One Or The Other
FRESH TALK
September 17, 2008

On the night Barack Obama accepted the nomination for president from the Democratic Party, though I have a strict aversion to television news in general, I sat in my parents' living room absorbing the overwhelming emotion, excitement and patriotism of the convention.

My father flipped from station to station, taking in as much political commentary as possible. My son danced along to Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered." My mother shushed me when I dared speak over Al Gore. It was a truly American scene.

I could not help but cringe, however, each time a news anchor welcomed the audience back to the program, informing us once again what we would soon witness: Obama was about to become the "first black Democratic nominee for president of the United States." And, they said it a lot. I was shocked that all of these programs were so blatantly and unapologetically inaccurate.

Barack Obama is not black. He is not white. He is biracial.



The daughter of a black father (he would not want me to use the term "African American") and white mother, I have consistently felt the societal pressure to choose sides.

As a child I recall the lonely feeling of my yellow No.2 pencil filling in the box next to "Other" on a standardized test, long before choosing multiple races was allowed. I persevered through years of mixed-race nicknames, the feeling of never looking quite like my friends and knowing when someone I had just met was studying my face for some sort of explanation.

I have become a seasoned pro at brushing off the always inappropriate question, "What are you?"

But I have never, not once, identified with one race over the other, nor have I ever described myself in that way. To the contrary, to me, I am neither. I am biracial, a group entirely unto itself, a completely separate entity. The world may see my background as two colors combined but still individual of each other, marbleized. To me I am a wholly new hue, the product of blending of those colors into one that no longer specifically resembles either.

Referring to Sen. Obama as black not only completely ignores his maternal heritage, but is also simply an incomplete and incorrect description.

Customers would certainly be unsatisfied if, when purchasing sandpaper, they asked only for sand, or just paper. Neither of these products would solve customers' needs, because they had not described the product in its entirety.

Those same customers (hungry after a clearly frustrating shopping experience) should not order a peanut butter sandwich and then, upon its arrival, question its lack of jelly. As a consumer it is counterproductive to describe something by only half of what it is. As a journalist, it is reporting only half of the story.

On the 45th anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s famed speech, and on the brink of one of the most historically significant events of the decade, I don't begrudge the media its right to use the most sensational terms in its reporting. It isn't surprising that much of the focus of Sen. Obama's nomination is on the racial boundaries he is breaking.

But as I watched the event unfold, I wished only that broadcasters had given the senator the most respectful, proper and accurate introduction. Barack Obama is the first biracial nominee for president. As a biracial American, I could not be more proud.

(In case you don't believe me, here is the article on The Courant website. It's ok, I wouldn't believe me either.

Weekend Away and a Kitchen Worth Cooking For

The boyfriend and I spent the weekend at the home of a friend so that he could enjoy some guy time ( a.k.a. video game zombie-ness) and I could enjoy the relaxing atmosphere of not being in our own home. So I sat by the pool in the sun listening to Frou Frou on the iPod and read Cooking Light magazine and munched popcorn all day Sunday, while the boyfriend and friends blew up other virtual dorks somewhere far enough away that I did not have to hear the bomb explosions and yells of “Ohhh, yah Tim yaaa!” ...which was just lovely. I also looked after the newest addition to our family, a praying mantis the boyfriend oh-so-excitedly caught and whom I like to call The Bugster. He lives in a washed-out plastic carwash jug with a couple handfuls of grass, 2 good-sized sticks and about a half-dozen other little buggies that are constantly frightened out of their minds while awaiting their inevitable devouring. I would imagine it is a little like being locked in a cell with Hannibal Lecter. A hot, plastic cell. With green shag carpeting. But, I digress.

The most satisfying and entertaining part of the weekend was, whith out a doubt, the kitchen. The house is huge, modern, and extremely well furnished...best of which is the kitchen. Living in the cramped apartment quarters that we do, the boyfriend and I (well, mostly I) hardly have enough counter space to house our few appliances, leaving little left over for any type of food prep. When concurrently occupying the space, we constantly step on each others toes or almost stab each other with random utensils (I only ACT like it’s an accident. Kidding.) And so, I always breathe a deep, deep breath when I enter Dave’s kitchen. Granite countertops line the longest wall and the huge island. A flattop convection stove sits neatly encased in the counter and, though I prefer the cook on an open flame and can never figure out exactly how to turn the damn thing on, it sure makes for easy clean up. Maple cabinets are filled with every container one can possibly imagine: plastic bowls, ceramic bowls, glass bowls of all shapes and sizes, cast iron pans and stainless steel pots and non-stick griddles, bundt pans and cupcake pans and spring form pans. Zesters and graters and a Kitchenaid standing mixer that I salivate about in my dreams. A coffee machine, and espresso machine, a double oven and so much, much more. It is the kitchen I have sex in, in my wildest fantasy. And so, when we visit, all I want to do is cook.

And cook I did. Saturday night felt like oatmeal-coconut cookies (some with chocolate chips, most without. I was vitoed on the chocolate chips). Sunday morning felt like lemon muffins with a lemon-zest glaze, and egg sandwiches. Of course, it being a bachelor’s home, the pickings in the refrigerator are slim to say the least. But, I make do. And soon I will learn to grocery shop on the way. But no matter what comes out of that kitchen, it is the experience of cooking with it that is truly worth it. And as I lounged by the pool and nibbled on what was probably my tenth lemon muffin (they were quite yummy), and the tiny kabooms of virtual hand grenades exploded somewhere in the distance, and the boyfriend was happy, and I was happy, it was a very perfect Sunday.

On Memorial Day

Memorial Day brought relaxation and pure enjoyment, all day long. And folks, in my life, this is a rarity. A typical free day equates to loads of laundry, grocery shopping, house cleaning and errand running. Holidays always equal cooking, cooking, cooking. However, after having worked 71 hours over the course of 4 days, I figured I deserved a break (I did, trust me). So the boyfriend and I treated ourselves to breakfast at our favorite (crazily overpriced and extremely slow) café, Brew Bakers. A Main Street, Middletown fixture (never been to Main Street, Middletown? Shocker.), Brew Bakers offers delicious and inventive salads and sandwiches, freshly-baked bagels and perfectly-brewed, exotic-flavored coffees. Brew Bakers has however, since its inception, suffered the poor reputation of incredibly slow service. I mean, SLOW. Recently purchased and placed under new management, I was hopeful this would soon change. Alas, the new owner of the establishment is a thin, manic, foreign woman with short dark hair and a heavy accent, and who bypasses the customer number system currently in place in favor of what she deems a much more efficient one: frantically running through the restaurant, asking anyone sitting down without food if they are waiting on the order she is holding in her hands. Usually customers of the take-out variety, the boyfriend and I often sit at the café counter waiting for our order and watch this display with much enjoyment…the slow service of the café, at the very least, comes with entertainment to pass the time. And so, we again found ourselves on a gorgeous Monday morning (I use the term “morning” loosely, unless you are one of the many who woke up at 12:30 p.m. as well) at a black wrought iron table under the bright purple awning on Main Street as the owner burst through the front doors depsperately searching for the orderers of a Tuscany Omelet Sandwich on a cheddar bagel (the boyfriend), and a Veggie Bomb Omelet Wrap (moi). I sipped a fantastic Coconut Iced Coffee and we shared a fruit salad, and it was a bright, warm afternoon, and it was just lovely.

We then hopped in the car for a ride over to our favorite hiking spot, and when we finally scaled our way to the top (The boyfriend scaled. I mostly crawled/scrambled.) he pulled two towels from his black backpack, and we lay on the warm rocks at the summit and sipped cool water, and looked over central Connecticut, green and lush and quiet, and the food filled our bellies and sun warmed our faces and our spirits. It was a moment that made me grateful for so many things, so many more than I have time to mention, and some I prefer to keep to myself. But I very much hope that they know that I am grateful for them.

The Return of the Sandwich

The PB&J is back. Recently banished, they have made their way back into my life over the past week after a few long talks, some good crying (a lot on my end, a little on his) some new promises, a 5-page long email (didn’t know sandwiches could type, eh?) and a genuinely hopeful feeling. But let me be clear: that which I have allowed to return will not be the same as that which I once blindly enjoyed. No longer assembled as the typical closed sandwich, contents hidden from view, it is now presenting itself to me open-faced: two pieces of bread, one covered in peanut butter, the other with jelly, sticky surfaces fully exposed. In this formation, the sandwich reveals more to me than simply its innocently soft, chewy outer-shell and protective crusty barriers. In this formation, it is leaving visible its insides and flaws, the possible chunk of fruit in a smooth, bright red square, or crumbs littering an otherwise creamy peanut butter surface. This way it leaves itself vulnerable to the possibility of a lifetime of pure enjoyment, or the potential for destruction… a finger, greedily and thoughtlessly jamming itself through the sandwiches very core, removing the very basis of its gooey deliciousness, licking it away and forgetting it, leaving it inedible and disposable.

But in this formation, the sandwich is showing me that it trusts in my love for and protection of it. It believes that I will guard its soft center with all of my being and will never ever be that destructive force that once, so long ago, stuck a finger in and tore it apart. I may be a fool, too hungry to reject the sandwich's offerings that sound too yummy to be true. But for now, the sandwich that I love is giving itself to me entirely and openly, without inhibition, and I would be even more of a fool not to accept it.


(If this post made absolutely no sense to you, read my first-ever post: An Introduction and a Sandwich.)

Loss and Comforting Cookies

I ate a whole lot of Bolero Hazelnut cookies last night. A fairly unknown brand, these delicate, crispy wafers in the shape of even -rolled cigars filled with a smooth chocolate hazelnut cream are my absolute favorites. Strangely, they come in a cylindrical package that I have only ever seen in the Marshalls gift department, and only sporadically at that. Perhaps the only purpose created for this cookie was a host offering for a dinner party? An office holiday present? I'm not sure, but it is a travesty that these cookies are not more widely available. I am only in posession of mine as a Mother's Day present from my own mom (who can somehow always track down a can). I tingle when I taste them.

Apparently, however, I misuse these cookies. Obviously meant as a symbol of enjoyment and pleasure, I ate too many of these cookies last night because the boyfriend is no more. Yup, it's all over. I will spare you the gross details, but sadly there will be no reconciliation.

Do not fret, faithful readers (she said, wishfully). If anything, the boyfriend only hindered my culinary adventerousness. I am now free to nosh on calamari (even the tentacles) without inducing feigned up-chuck motions across the table, and treat myself to my favorite spicy noodles at my favorite Chinese-fusion restaurant (The boyfriend claimed all chinese food is too greasy. Psh. Why else would we want to eat it?).

I will miss, however, the pb&js (see my first-ever post: An Introduction and a Sandwich for an explanation). Very, very much. Of course, it is not just the sandwiches that I will miss. I guess most folks you meet in life that change it in someway come with those dishes you will always associate them with, and sometimes cry when you eat.

Luckily, though my cookies are my only comfort in this sad time, the person they remind me of is my mom. And there is no greater comfort in the world than that.

A Welcome Visitor and A Good Feeling

I have been exercising willpower lately. Willpower is perhaps my weakest muscle, and I have recently taken to weight-training it. Many, many reps, several sets a day. At a light weight though, of course: I don’t want to build bulk. Long, lean willpower is what I am after.

My willpower has notoriously failed me in the past, consistently, and only when I need it the most. Not when I shouldn’t grab a single Hershey kiss out of the (evil and eternally filled) office candy basket. No, I am always strong enough to deny myself those 20 extra calories I can probably afford and the soothing effect the familiar milk chocolate can have on my most stressful of days. My willpower is lazy, and considers that a huge achievement. It is only when I am faced with a real, death-defying challenge, that my willpower runs and cowers in the corner like a puppy. It is when I am my hungriest, and find myself sitting at a restaurant table skimming through a menu of delicious-yet-sinful choices. Suddenly, I look around, and my willpower is nowhere to be found. The loveliest, fried, savory words jump from the pages and linger in the space between my upper lip and nose, and my taste buds and stomach become cohorts in convincing me that I can all but smell them. “Calamari!” my stomach cries. “Fried Zucchini!” “Fettucini Alfredo!” My willpower says nothing. A wrestling match inevitably ensues, in which my brain tries desperately to force my mischievous stomach into submission. The stomach absolutely always wins because, of course, the brain only functions at 10 percent of its capability (WHO decided brains were allowed to be the slacker organ?). Then, to my horror, the mouth, a helpless peon to the stomach, rambles off to a waiter a laundry list of terrible things I should not consume, which I, of course, will. As soon as they are placed in front of me. In their entireties.

What follows this display is an even more horrific one, I am afraid, as my brain and I spend the next 24 hours beating ourselves up for letting the stomach…well… beat us up (I try to comfort the brain, though it tends to be extremely emotional). The sadness is followed by denial (“Those french fries couldn’t have been that fatty. They were so skinny!”) and then anger (“Stupid stomach!”) and blame (“It was ’s fault for ordering burritos first!”). And so goes the cycle of mourning ones willpower.

But lately, lately my willpower has felt less helpless. A few nights ago, out with a friend at an Italian-American restaurant with good food and terrible service, my stomach eyed a deliciously-described dish of seared scallops over almond and cauliflower gnocchi, in a brown butter and white wine sauce, and the battle began. And yet, when my mouth began to order, it was my brain speaking through it. “Spinach salad with grilled shrimp, please,” it said. No one was more shocked than the brain, who later confided that it had only won the fight with the aid of my suddenly appearing willpower. “Willpower?” I asked incredulously, “Where did HE come from?” My brain simply shrugged.

My willpower has shown its strength with increasingly frequency in the days since. In line at the movie theater concession counter, as the boyfriend ordered a humungo (that’s a technical term) popcorn with plenty of butter, and my stomach greedily anticipated our finding seats and subsequently snatching the entire bucket from his hands, my mouth ordered me a soft pretzel (which was, by the way, fantastic) and a diet coke. My brain, willpower and I thoroughly enjoyed the movie guilt-free, while I assume my stomach (though full and satisfied) sulked like a 6 year-old.

What is spawning this sudden spike in logic? Perhaps it is the onset of summer-like weather. Maybe it is my recently implemented exercise regime. I don’t know, nor do I care. What I do know is this: My confidence likes the willpower very much, and it is welcome to stay as long as it likes.