Top 5 memories that remind me of my parents and of growing up in small-town Kentucky

I’m sure there are many more glamorous places to celebrate Christmas than a little town in Kentucky, but I suspect the special memories of my holidays there pretty much match any that can be shared – actually, I suspect they exceed most others immeasurably.

I grew up in Hartford, Ky., a small town in the western part of the state, which boasts 2,000 people and that at the time, was the largest town in the county. Most Christmas traditions revolved around the church. Each domination had their own traditions – but at that time of the year, there was crossover in attending the different religious events – we were all just celebrating the most wonderful time of the year.   

The memories of these days are among my most vivid as a child, so here are the top five recollections that most remind me of my parents and of growing up in that special Midwestern corner of our great country.

1. We didn’t have a lot of money and neither did our extended family – especially my maternal grandparents Pop and Honey who lived next door to my parents when I was born. They were the only grandparents I knew since my Daddy’s Mom died when he was six and his Dad when I was a year old. Even though there wasn’t a lot of money for extra things, Honey always had what I refer to as that “old-time hard candy that has holiday designs that show all way through the pieces.” The candy was placed in small decorative bowls around their tiny house – and I thought it was magical. I wondered at the time how the candy was produced (and now thanks to the Food Network’s “Candy Unwrapped,” we can find out).

2. Food, of course, was a significant part of the holiday. From middle school on, we always went to Florida for Thanksgiving. In those days, fresh fruit didn’t travel as much within the states so having citrus in Kentucky at Christmas was a big deal. Each Thanksgiving before leaving Florida, my parents would stop at one of the roadside stands around Clermont and buy huge bags of grapefruit, navel oranges and tangelos (my Mommy’s favorite). With careful storage, these fruits would last well into the Christmas season and would end up being delivered to various friends and family. (Today, my order of Indian River Fruit Company’s grapefruit, navel oranges and tangelos arrived at our apartment – I can’t NOT order each year).

3. As I mentioned earlier, many of my Christmas memories revolve around our church. Growing up, that church was Hartford First Baptist. It’s hard to count all the memories that exist within that classic Baptist sanctuary: the beautiful Living Christmas tree with countless adults, young people and children singing classic holiday songs; our hand bell choir performing “Carol of the Bells” (Google if you haven’t seen a hand bell choir perform) and numerous other carols; and for me, the many Christmas mornings I played the organ for the service – the beautiful carols, preludes and offertories that celebrated the holiday season (note: I’d work for months perfecting the preludes and offertories). I still remember when I played a very simple version of “Away in a Manger” – literally the melody – as people filed out of the service. My Mommy cried.

4. Speaking of Pop and Honey, I also remember their cedar Christmas tree and the amazing lights and ornaments that dressed it each year. They had these amazing vintage bubbling lights that were just mesmerizing to me. I bought similar lights years later after Larry and I had our Christmas tree in Gainesville, but they were nowhere near as beautiful (plastic versus stunningly gorgeous glass lights). I also vividly remember the icicles hanging from the branches and the way the colored lights reflected on the silvery tinsel. As a child, I tried to be so patient in hanging each icicle individually instead of just throwing a handful on the tree. Not sure if I succeeded.

5. Another memory of mine is of going caroling (and visits from carolers). Yes, people actually went caroling in those days.  Sometimes we’d get a group together and go caroling in a neighborhood, but more often, we’d go to Ohio County Hospital or one of the nursing homes. In addition to singing, sometimes we’d take the aforementioned bell choir and play an amazing repertoire of Christmas music to the residents. As you can probably tell, Christmas music is buried deep within my soul.

Honestly for me, there isn't anything more special than Christmas in a small town. Maybe this post will make you think of those Christmas memories that are most special to you. Love from our Vettel family to yours.

Not all harassment is sexual. My story.

After a 30+ year career, I can honestly say I’ve worked in several jobs that were dominated by men: college athletics, economic development, lobbying. My takeaway: while I didn’t deal as much with sexual harassment, I did encounter an almost consistent effort to be undermined and belittled by the men I worked with because they perceived that my gender meant I also had a lack of industry knowledge. Interesting enough, it more often came from my peers than from my supervisors.

It was most prevalent during my years in sports administration – in the early years after Title IX was passed. As a young woman with an interest in sports, I’d worked for four years in Western Kentucky University’s Sports Information Office. I was the first woman to keep official statistics for the Hilltoppers’ men’s football and basketball teams. In those years, women’s sports were strictly club sports so those talented young women didn’t have the opportunity to compete on the intercollegiate level. We worked solely for Western’s men’s sports. Interestingly enough, I didn’t feel any discrimination in those years – it only happened after I entered the field full-time.

When I graduated from WKU, I was fortunate to have guy friends I had worked with (who looked at me as an equal) seeking opportunities for me. When a University of Florida Sports Information position that would work primarily for women sports opened, one of my friends who was at Iowa State at the time recommended me for the job. Coming from what was then a Division I-AA university, working at an SEC school was an amazing opportunity. I was so excited when I got the job and moved to Gainesville.

While I was solely responsible for the women’s teams – basketball; gymnastics; slow-pitch softball; cross country, indoor and outdoor track and field; tennis; and golf – I also worked men’s football and basketball, and handled both the men’s and women’s swimming and diving teams. Needless to say, in an office of four full-time professionals (including our administrative assistant), we usually worked 70 to 80 hours a week.

I had a great boss – Norm Carlson – who really supported me as a young woman in a male-dominated world. He pushed me to improve my writing and have more confidence in working with coaches and administrators. My bigger issues were with my peers – young men either early in their careers as sports reporters and administrators or finishing their journalism degrees while working as stringers for the major newspapers in the state. They did their best to make me feel I didn’t belong.

One of my most vivid memories was the time a group of them came to me asking me to rank – one through nine – the difficulty of the major league baseball positions. While I’d worked hard to learn about sports (especially given that no one in my family had any interest), baseball wasn’t a sport I’d worked on at Western or had had the opportunity to learn as a child. I remember trying to come up with my list – and upon turning it in to these guys, listening as they made fun of my selections. Didn’t I know how difficult it was being a catcher? Or a shortstop, third baseman or center fielder?  It was humiliating.

Did I understand it at the time? I don’t think so. I was just working so hard to fit in and do the best I could at the job. For those young women like me who were hired in collegiate sports in the early ‘80s, there were no rules, no “this is how it’s done.”

Do I think these guys deliberately set out to humiliate me? I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. I think they weren’t sure what to do with young women entering their historically men-only world. Many of them became friends in later years – sadly, I have never told them how they made me feel.  I do hope that if they think about it now – given the climate we’re seeing today (including multiple sports figures being accused of harassing women) – that maybe they’ll recognize their role in the early years of women entering the field. It saddens me to hear today’s stories of women in sports and the fact that so little has changed, but I’m hopeful that maybe what’s happening today will finally change the sports landscape.

Our Thanksgiving memories

While I will give thanks for family and friends tomorrow and for our special life in New York City, Thanksgiving is not a holiday I remember in the traditional sense.

I’m sure as a young child we must have spent the holiday with my grandparents Pop and Honey since we lived next door to them, but I have no memories of those days.  My holiday memories with them are all focused around Christmas. By the time I was around 11 or 12 my brothers were serving in the military, married and/or on their own – and they didn’t typically come home for the holiday either.

My first real memories of Thanksgiving – interestingly enough – are when we went to Disney World for the first time in November of 1971, seven weeks after the theme park opened its doors in Orlando. Several families – the Rogers, Martins, Beards and us – stayed at the Polynesian Hotel that Thanksgiving, finding a lot of the hotel still under construction (that became apparent when checking in we noticed several of the rooms still didn’t have locks on the doors). The cost of a room in the Polynesian in 1971: about $25.

Disney World's Crystal Palace

I don’t remember if we ate Thanksgiving dinner at the Crystal Palace at the end of Main Street on the way to Adventureland, or the restaurant in the Polynesian Hotel’s Grand Ceremonial House. Wouldn’t have really mattered, Disney World’s early food was nothing to write home about. The Crystal Palace featured a Morrison’s-type cafeteria line with the greenest, crunchiest peas I’ve ever seen; turkey, dressing and mashed potatoes with a non-descript gravy; and crystal goblets full of shimmering lime-green Jell-O.

My Daddy fell in love with Disney World that first visit and our family spent at least the next nine Thanksgivings (including the four while I was in college at WKU) in the park. We’d typically spend 3-4 days in Orlando, then head to Ft. Myers Beach (or Treasure Island) for another 3-4 days. I honestly believe I didn’t miss a year visiting Disney World until after I married.

Once Larry and I married, we started creating our own Thanksgiving memories in Gainesville. Most of you know I love to cook so you can imagine we began collecting recipes for our own turkey-day traditions – the meal eventually evolved into a feast that featured an herb butter-roasted turkey, dressing, gravy, sweet potato casserole, a traditional green bean casserole, mashed potatoes (Larry always complained that we had to have both potatoes represented, but it’s not Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes), pecan pie and pumpkin bread.

Jenni got these for us from Publix when she worked there

Most years, my parents would join us for Thanksgiving in Gainesville and those years when the girls were young are among my most memorable. As the girls grew and started participating in extracurricular activities, and Larry began doing more and more play-by-play for Gator football and basketball (both of which were usually on the schedule for that week) we’d often find at least one empty chair at Thanksgiving. After my Daddy died in 2001, we made certain my Mommy joined us for the holiday.

These days, I still start planning for our Thanksgiving dinner weeks in advance, but now it’s even more likely that one of us will be missing. This year, Jenni is living and working in South Sudan so we’ll miss her around the table (and I’ll miss her help in the kitchen). We’ll join Dana and Nate tomorrow morning to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade over brunch, and then we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving dinner on Friday this year because of work conflicts.

While Thanksgiving brunch remains the same this year (three-cheese egg casserole, bacon, and brie bites), we’re mixing-up dinner a bit - serving ham instead of turkey, but my sweet potato casserole and Nate’s green bean casserole will still grace the table. The pumpkin bread is already made (and being consumed) and these days, we pass on the pie.

So, come Friday, we’ll pop open a bottle of bubbly (followed by a bottle or two of a nice light red), sit around a tiny table in Dana and Nate’s apartment, and give thanks – thanks that even though we may not all be in the same place this year and our dear Mama Doris and Daddy Quent are gone, our years of Thanksgiving memories are strong, and that they help sustain us and remind us of the love we share. So, Happy Thanksgiving from our family to yours.

My take on General Tso's Chicken

My favorite delivery/take-out Chinese is General Tso's Chicken (if we were still in Gainesville it would be Chicken with Snow Peas from Mr. Han's). Yes, I KNOW General Tso's Chicken is not really Chinese - it's our American take on Chinese. There are a couple of places up close to work where I can find a nice take on the dish, but closer to our apartment we're still struggling to find a good Chinese delivery place (unlike 20+ years ago when there were wonderful local Chinese restaurants in every NYC neighborhood.

So, against my better judgment cause my argument for ordering delivery is now gone, I've learned to make my own version - every bit as good or better than anything we can order out. If you are a fan as well, here's my take.

General Tso's Chicken - serves 3-4

Ingredients

1 1/2 head of broccoli
7 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
2 1/4 teaspoons salt, divided
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, divided
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken thighs, breasts, or a mix, patted dry, cut into chunks
1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon honey
1/4 cup soy sauce
1 large garlic clove, finely grated
3 tablespoons unseasoned rice vinegar
1 tablespoon Sriracha
1 tablespoon tomato paste
6 (or more) dried whole red chiles (easy to find on Amazon - if you can't find them, just substitute red pepper flakes to your degree of hotness)
2 scallions, thinly sliced
Cooked rice (for serving)

Directions

Blanch the broccoli to your desired crispness (in boiling water for 2-5 minutes then plunge into ice water) - can also roast broccoli in a 400 degree oven for 15 minutes or so if you prefer it that way).

Whisk cornstarch, 1 1/2 tsp. salt, and 1/2 tsp. pepper in a large bowl. Heat 3 Tbsp. oil in a large skillet  or wok over medium high. Add chicken to cornstarch mixture and toss to coat. Cook half of chicken, turning occasionally, until chicken is cooked through and a light brown crust forms, 5–7 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix honey, soy sauce, garlic, vinegar, Sriracha, tomato paste, 3 Tbsp. water, and remaining 1/4 tsp. salt and 1/4 tsp. pepper in a medium bowl.

Transfer first batch of chicken to a plate. Heat remaining 3 Tbsp. oil in skillet over high. Cook remaining chicken for about 5 minutes, then add chiles and cook, stirring and making sure chiles make contact with bottom of pan, until chicken is cooked through and chiles have toasted and puffed, about 1 minute more.

Stir in honey mixture. Return first batch of chicken to skillet, toss to coat, and cook until sauce is reduced and thickened, about 2 minutes. Add broccoli to the sauce and combine (or if you prefer your General Tso's chicken with the broccoli on the side, then just add it to the plate alongside the chicken.

Divide chicken betwen 2 plates. Top with a handful of scallions. Serve with rice alongside.

My 9/11 story . . .

I wrote this several years ago before we ever dreamed of moving to New York City. It still resonates today - and I still feel the loss of my Daddy every single day. Now that we live here, it is even more real.  

Everyone has a story about 9/11.  Maybe that’s why I want to share my remembrances – it’s a collective memory that is meant to share.

Mine? Well, it’s a bit complicated.  My Dad, Quentin, (in case you wondered where my name originated) died on the Friday before 9/11, after fighting his battle with heart disease for more than 24 years. We had his funeral on Monday, Sept. 10, 2001, in a town of 2,000 people in western Kentucky, where the sign leading into town says, “Welcome to Hartford, Kentucky; Home of 2,000 Happy People and a few Soreheads.”  The day before, more than 700 people – roughly ten percent of the people in their rural county – visited the funeral home to pay their respects.  We greeted these folks for more than nine hours. On Monday, my Mom – married to my Dad since she was 17 – guided the casket out of the church to the song, “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” 

On the morning of 9/11, my husband, Larry, and our two daughters, Dana and Jennifer, were in the air at 6 a.m. – roughly the time the planes were hijacked - flying Delta back to Gainesville from the Nashville airport.  There was no time for them to stay in Kentucky to mourn; there was school to attend for the girls and Gator games for Larry to work.

Thankfully, we didn’t have the television on in the family room of my Mom’s house that Tuesday morning.  Instead, my brother and I were talking with my Mom, planning the day ahead.  We still had legal issues to address, and final payments and arrangements to settle with the funeral home.  So when my daughter Dana called to tell me they were stuck in the Atlanta airport – which I immediately assumed was because of the incompetence of ASA – I never envisioned that Hartsfield International was as far as they would fly that day.

“No, Mommy,” Dana said. “You don’t understand.  Turn on the TV.  Planes have just flown into the World Trade Center.”  She didn’t need to go on and say what I could hear in her voice: that we’d had Father’s Day brunch at Windows on the World just three short months earlier or that her Dad had grown up in the Bronx and considered himself a New Yorker for life.

Suffice it to say that Larry and the girls finally made it home that day, thanks to a UF student from Atlanta who was on their Atlanta-to-Gainesville flight and after realizing no one was flying back to UF that day, asked her Dad to drive her and her new friend and his daughters back to Gainesville.  

Me?  I had a rental car in Kentucky (gold in those early days after 9/11) that was due in Nashville Thursday morning when I was supposed to fly back to Gainesville.  Instead, I drove it 11 ½ hours back to Gainesville on Wednesday and upon delivering the sedan to the Budget Rent-a-Car counter at the Gainesville Airport, said “You know that car you THINK is going to be in Nashville tomorrow.  Well, instead, it’s in Gainesville today.”  Budget didn’t charge another penny: no additional drop-off fee, no additional mileage – and to this day, if Larry and I have a choice, we rent Budget.

The toughest thing of the entire 9/11 experience for me?  It was and still remains today: it is difficult to mourn the loss of my father.  Instead, my loss was – and is today – wrapped up in the loss the collective country felt.  I wonder. Are the families of those people who died that day, or the citizens of the cities of New York and Washington, D.C., where life will never be the same, or for those Americans whose sons and daughters have died overseas in places most of us will never view, able to separate their loss from the whole? I can’t. 

My Dad – who landed on Omaha Beach on what we believe was D-Day +5 – would have been devastated to view 9/11.  The first words my Mom uttered after we turned on the television that Tuesday morning shortly before the first tower fell was, “Thank God your Dad didn’t live to see this day.”

My three favorite cooking magazine issues from the past 25 years

I think I've made it fairly clear I love to cook.  As you can read in a post from last July, I started learning to cook when I was in junior high when my Mommy was attending nursing school; I've been experimenting and having fun cooking ever since.  In addition to my favorite cookbooks I’ve written about earlier, I also love cooking magazines.  I get a ridiculous number of them (just ask Larry): Food and Wine, Bon Appetit, Saveur, Cooking Light – and before its demise, Gourmet.

I pour over these magazines each month and while I don’t make something from every issue, even today I study the articles and use what I learn to improve my cooking. If I do the math right, I’ve gotten at least one of these magazines for more than 25 years, starting in the early 1990s when I first started subscribing to Gourmet and discovered the amazing writing of Laurie Colwin, who tragically died in 1992 at the age of 48.

Of the hundreds of cooking magazines I’ve gotten over the years, I’ve saved just three.

The first is a Special Collector’s Edition of Bon Appetit from May 1997 that was my inspiration for tackling real Italian cooking. From it, I learned to make risotto and Pollo alla Marengo (Chicken with tomatoes, onions and mushrooms), and discovered how wonderfully diverse the regional cuisines are in this relatively small country.

The second magazine takes an amazing look at the history of American food. Also Bon Appetit, this issue from September 1999 chronicles the American century in food. Starting with 1900 it takes the reader through a century of food, restaurants, libations, cooking essentials and made-in-America food products.  Its timelines share the years when thousands of iconic items such as Tabasco (1868), Oreos (1912), Tupperware (1946), Cuisinart (1973), and Velveeta (1928) were created. The articles on each decade share those years' favorite recipes and the societal changes that impacted the foods Americans ate and the people who cooked them. It is a fascinating look at our country. (One of the most interesting articles in the issue is each decade’s take on apple pie).

Crab cakes

The third cooking magazine I’ve kept is Food and Wine’s 25^th Anniversary issue published in September 2003 that featured what they considered their 25 best recipes ever. From this issue have come many of our favorites: an amazing macaroni and cheese with buttery crumbs, spaghetti with Bolognese sauce, molten chocolate cake, and Mrs. Duvall’s (Robert's mom) pan-fried crab cakes. (Note: Jenni and I always got a kick out of the irony of the tofu with spicy meat sauce recipe that’s described as the “tastiest tofu recipe the magazine ever came across” – not hard to imagine why that tofu tasted good. LOL).

Over the years, I’ve adapted Mrs. Duvall's crab cake recipe to create my own version.  Here’s the recipe:

Crab cakes with mustard sauce

¼ cup mayonnaise
¼ minced onion
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
½ teaspoon dry mustard
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 pound jumbo lump crabmeat, drained (break each piece into a couple of smaller pieces, but don’t shred or get pieces too small)
Approximately 2 cups of panko crumbs

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

4 tablespoons vegetable oil

In a large bowl, combine mayonnaise, onion, eggs, Worcestershire sauce, dry mustard, salt and cayenne. Using your hands, gently fold in crab, being careful to not break up the crab any further. Start adding in panko crumbs with your hands, a 1/3 cup at a time until the mixture comes together and will form small cakes. Form into 6-8 crab cakes depending on the size you like. Coat the crab cakes on both sides with the remaining panko crumbs. (At this point, you can cook right away or refrigerate for a few hours.

In a 12-inch nonstick skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of butter and two tablespoons of vegetable oil over medium heat until it foams. Add half of the crab cakes, cook for 2-3 minutes each side. Place in a warm oven. Wipe out the skillet and heat another 2 tablespoons of butter and 2 tablespoons of oil and cook the remaining crab cakes.

Serve with mustard sauce.

Mustard sauce

1/3 cup mayonnaise
¼ cup sour cream
2 tablespoons of Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon of English dry mustard
Dash of hot sauce
1 tablespoon lemon juice

Combine all ingredients and refrigerate for several hours for flavors to combine.

Remembering the Fourth of July on Rough River Lake . . .

The Fourth of July is the holiday when I most miss my parents. Most people would probably choose Thanksgiving or Christmas, but not me. The Fourth of July always found us on Rough River Lake for at least two days; more often than not, we managed to stretch the holiday to three days. My heart aches just a little when July looms.

By early July, Kentucky temperatures would rise to the 80s and low 90s, warming the clear lake water to where it was refreshing (and not bracing as mentioned in an earlier post). The sun would sparkle across the water, the warm wind blowing through my hair as our ski boat flew across the water (my Daddy at the helm, a silly hat covering his head).  We’d spend countless hours on the lake (we’re talking 9-10 hours a day) water skiing and swimming.

The best part of boating in those days was the group of families (and the slew of kids) who spent those idyllic summer days with us.  Danny and Suzanne Schapmire, Kenny and Sandy Baughn, Bill and Phyllis Vincent, J.B. and Delores Eskridge, Joey Triplett.  Every family brought their best homemade goodies that when piled together, created lunches for the ages. Some brought desserts like oatmeal cookies and cherry cream-cheese pies; others’ favorites included bean salad, Watergate salad (Google it), cold fried chicken and cole slaw. My Mommy’s contributions were always blonde brownies, tuna fish salad and pimento cheese spread – sometimes she’d add in this wonderfully decadent banana pudding (with real homemade custard).

These foods are seared into my summer memories.  Even now, when the Fourth of July rolls around, I reach for my Mommy’s recipe box and make a few of her favorites.  This afternoon, I made blonde brownies – they are simple, don’t require a mixer and just melt in your mouth.

Here’s how to do it (the recipe also halves well – just bake in a small square pan).  I will warn you, it’s important to be careful with the measurements – if you put in too much brown sugar, they get runny; if you’re heavy-handed with the flour, they’ll be dry and cake-like. Here goes . . .

Blonde brownies

1 stick unsalted butter
2 eggs
2 cups of brown sugar, lightly packed
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup chopped pecans or coconut

Melt the butter, cool slightly. Then mix all ingredients together by hand.  Put in light metal 9x13” baking dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes or until the brownies start to pull back from the side of the pan and are a golden brown along the edges. Don’t over-bake or they’ll be dry and lifeless. Place baking dish on a wire rack until completely cool. Slice and enjoy (they also are wonderful with vanilla ice cream).

The world I no longer recognize . . .

My connection with Kentucky – the place of my birth – and the views of some of the people who still live there has recently caused me to question my current relationship with the Bluegrass State. While I have wonderful memories of growing up in Kentucky, the views I’ve seen from many of its residents over the past several years have caused me to wonder if the state has changed or if I have.  Maybe it’s both.

I lean – and have always leaned – socially and politically moderate. I have followed an interesting path: I lived in Kentucky for my first 22 years – nurtured by similar families living in our tiny, Protestant-dominated, dry county; spent the next 35+ years in a liberal college town (albeit in the South); and now have moved to New York City, one of the most liberal bastions in the country. 

Over the past few months, I’ve asked several people I trust who either still live in Kentucky or have strong connections to people who do if they understand the vitriolic comments I see on my Facebook news-feed on an almost weekly basis. Yes, I see similar comments from people who live in other states, but it surprises me by how many I see from my home state. My Kentucky-based friends call them UCs – ultraconservatives.

Growing up, I felt most of our family and friends were similar to us. My parents often went out of their way to help those in our community who needed assistance. I remember one fall day my Daddy and I went up to what is today the back part of the Hartford cemetery to help an elderly black man (I believe his name was Lucian) whose home had burned. My Daddy called businesses throughout Western Kentucky and finally found an old, silver Gulfstream trailer that we could help the man buy, and my Mom and I went through our extra household goods to find everything we needed to set up Lucian’s new home.  I don’t remember my family voicing anything disparaging about Daddy’s friend's race or those of his neighbors.

Today I wonder when I see racist, sexist comments, have the ultraconservatives always lived in those parts – and if so, did I not hear their views because my parents didn’t follow that mantra? Or in those days, did they not publicly voice those thoughts in places we entered? Did the parents of the friends I grew up with agree with the racist, sexist comments being strewn about by their children today?  Did I look the other way? What has changed in what I have always considered a kind, God-fearing place that would make some people feel comfortable in voicing the hatred I hear today? The not knowing the answer is what bothers me most.

While it’s not my place to pass judgment on the current political environment or the comments I see, I am thankful I’ve been fortunate to live in vastly divergent regions of our country that I hope have helped me learn tolerance through a cacophony of voices.

It has taken me a long time to consider the labels people apply to themselves and I’m not sure I still understand why they're necessary: liberal, moderate, conservative.  Even now, I’m not sure I know where I truly fit. I certainly didn’t understand this in my formative years in Kentucky or in my first few years in Gainesville where it was easy to just vote for the Democrats on the ticket whose names were commonly known around town - because let’s face it in those days, if there were Republicans on the ticket in Gainesville they had a snowball’s-chance-in-hell of winning. Thankfully, it’s gotten a little more balanced in recent years.

So what does this post mean? It means I’ve always felt I belonged somewhere in the middle: socially liberal, fiscally moderate, and committed to personal responsibility. I lived through the 1970s when abortions were hard to come by unless you had money to travel out of state, when LGBT friends were afraid to let others know their true selves, when minorities – especially those who lived in our part of the Midwest – were few in numbers and looking back, had even fewer opportunities. I’m proud of the gains our country has made in these issues over the past 40 years.

I have never voted a straight party ticket. I’ve supported both Republicans and Democrats for every public office, including President. I hope that this strong division we see today throughout our country is not permanent. That it, too, shall pass.  These thoughts, however, keep me awake at night.

Growing up on the water . . .

Growing up, Memorial Day weekend was the beginning of what was known in our family as “boating season.” My parents bought their first ski boat when I was just two – and I spent almost every summer weekend for the better part of the next 20 years on the water. I honestly didn’t know that you could take a vacation that didn’t involve a lake and a boat until we visited Florida when I was in middle school.

Daddy skiing

I still remember those Memorial Day weekends and those first dives into bracing water that had yet to be warmed by the summer sun.  Some people would ease into the water, one foot at a time, trying to acclimate themselves to the cold water. Me? I always felt it was better to just jump in.

My first few years of “boating” involved being engulfed by a lifejacket with my ponytailed-head bobbing around the water like a little cork. When I got tired, they’d either put me down for a nap on the shore (another term solely used in boating season) or they’d tuck me in around a bunch of lifejackets under the front-end of the boat. By the time I reached four or so, my Dad would put me on the front of his two skies and we’d ski around Green River. It was also on that aptly-named body of water that I learned to water-ski on my own when I was six.

Rock Quarry at Kentucky Lake

I still vividly remember when I learned to water-ski on one ski – also known as slalom skiing. Our vacation each year involved going to Kentucky Lake for anywhere between a week and 10 days, and it was the summer I turned nine – on the last day of vacation – that I finally succeeded in learning to slalom.

That last morning of vacation we checked out of our cabin at Moore’s Resort and spent the day on the water. While I had tried all week to slalom, I hadn’t succeeded in staying up for long.  It grew to be late afternoon and since we still had to drive a couple hours home, we went back to the marina and Daddy started loading the boat on the trailer that Mommy had backed into the water (she was better than anyone else at that).  As I wiped away a few tears that were rolling down my cheeks because of my disappointment, my Dad looked around and after realizing the reason for my tears, announced we were heading back out on the water.

Our second boat - Daddy at the helm and
Mommy in the blue shirt

Kentucky Lake has this wonderful little cove called The Rock Quarry that is tucked away in a corner of the lake. Because it’s protected from the wind and other boaters, the water is usually calm. We zoomed back across the lake to the Quarry, my hair flying in the wind, and over the next hour my Mom and Dad worked with me until I finally succeeded in staying up on one ski for an extended time. Exhausted (all of us), we headed back to the marina, pulled the boat out of the water for the second time and headed home. I’m sure I was exhausted and probably slept most of the way home, but even today, I’ll remember that summer day as one of the best days of my life.

So today – as I thought about the true meaning of Memorial Day – I also took a few minutes to reflect on my childhood in Kentucky, think about those lazy summer days on the water, and remember that on that one afternoon – as daylight waned on Kentucky Lake – all that mattered to my parents was my success.  They were the best parents ever and we miss them so.

The secret to delicious potato skins

So I consider myself a fairly decent cook – but there are just some things that always taste better at restaurants. For me, one of those dishes has always been potato skins. Although I’m hesitant to admit, some of the best potato skins I’ve ever eaten were at Bennigan’s in Gainesville.  You’re sitting there saying, seriously? Bennigan’s? I actually think that’s what I had for lunch after Larry and I went to the doctor’s office that morning and confirmed I was pregnant with Dana.

I hope you know what I mean when I talk about perfect potato skins – the ones where the potatoes are hot, the cheese is bubbling - but not gummy - and bits of bacon peek out from under the cheese. There’s a scattering of scallions gracing the plate and alongside, a heaping spoonful of sour cream. I’ve tried to replicate this dish for years, but always felt there was something missing in my preparation.

I’m excited to share that I’ve discovered the secret to truly terrific potato skins and I found it in one of my favorite cooking websites: https://cooking.nytimes.com. There you’ll find a recipe titled “Serious Potato Skins.” Now, I know what you’re thinking: really, potato skins in The New York Times?

So what’s the key? Bacon. Well, of course. Bacon makes everything better. But here’s the secret part: to make potato skins really delicious, you don’t just add the aforementioned scattering of bacon, but you bathe the skins in BACON FAT before adding the toppings.

Here’s my slightly edited version of The New York Times’ recipe:

INGREDIENTS

4 Idaho baking potatoes
8 ounces thick-cut bacon, diced
6 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1 bunch scallions
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 cup sour cream

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Rub the potatoes lightly with butter and bake them on the wire racks of your oven for an hour, turning halfway through and piercing each one once with a fork to release some of the steam. Transfer the potatoes to a wire rack and let cool for 10 minutes.

While the potatoes are cooking, assemble the toppings. Cook the bacon in a large skillet over medium heat until crisp, then transfer to a small bowl. Reserve the bacon fat (important step)!! Trim and thinly slice the scallions.

Cut each potato into quarters lengthwise to create four wedges. Using a small spoon, scoop the flesh from each wedge, leaving 1/4 inch or more of the flesh. (Save the scooped potatoes for another use).

Set the oven to broil. Place the wedges on a foil-lined baking sheet. Paint a bit of bacon fat on each, then top with cheese and bacon. Place under the broiler until the cheese is bubbling. Place the skins on a serving plate. Season with salt and pepper. Spoon sour cream alongside and scatter the scallions over the plate.

Trust me. These are amazing. 

Saying good-bye to Robbie and my Aunt Irma

Last Sunday in New York City was a glorious day. It was the first really warm day of the spring – over 80 degrees – and our favorite café along the Hudson River was finally open after a long winter season.  Our extended family of four – me, Larry, Dana and Nate – sat by the water for more than two hours, downing two bottles of Prosecco and a handful of Coronas. It was pure bliss.

It was during the latter minutes of sitting by the sparkling water that the first Facebook message came through sharing news of the death of a shining light of a man who had been a friend in our earlier Gainesville life. Robbie was just – it’s hard to explain – but he was just larger-than-life, with the most wonderful grin sharing space on his face with these marvelously twinkling blue eyes.  Robbie – along with his partner Dan – managed the wine shop whose door I often entered. He was one of a handful of people allowed to call me “Q” – and he gave me one of my more memorable nicknames: Chardonnay slut. I can still hear him yelling “Hey Q – I have several new bottles you HAVE to try.” Note: Thankfully, we’ve branched out a bit in our choice of wines, 15+ years later.

I still remember coming home from work and having my family (all of them – Larry, Dana and Jenni) sitting me on the couch and telling me they had awful news. I half expected them to share that someone had died. Instead, it was news that the wine shop had fired both Dan and Robbie – and that these guys who had become like family would help us no more. It took that wine shop a long time to recover – because Dan and Robbie had built a family of people who loved to shop with them. It was years before I entered its doors again.

We attempted to stay in touch with Robbie and Dan, but it was tough. Robbie battled demons – and after a while, news filtered through Gainesville that he and Dan had separated,and that Robbie had moved to a small Tennessee town where his family lived. We stayed closer to Dan - seeing him at a new wine shop he managed and having him handle the alcohol for the engagement party we threw for Dana and Nate. Later, with the wonder of Facebook, I connected again with Robbie and we’d occasionally chat online – sharing what life was like for him in a small, conservative town in Tennessee compared with my upbringing in an equally small Kentucky town. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him – can’t imagine any places more opposite than Gainesville, Florida and a rural Tennessee town.

Late Sunday afternoon – about the time I’d gotten my head around Robbie's death – my phone rang and my cousin Carla’s name appeared on the screen. While my cousins and I have done a better job of staying in touch over the past few years, I always figure when one of them is calling, it’s not likely to be good news. And it wasn’t.

Carla was calling to share that her Mom – my Aunt Irma, the wife of my Dad’s younger brother, Cecil – had died earlier that day. Aunt Irma was one of the two relatives from my parents’ generation – either side – still alive. She was a wonderful woman – who along with Cecil raised five children, the oldest a boy who died of muscular dystrophy at a young age. The only one left now from my parents' generation is Uncle Kenny’s wife, Florence. I hope this doesn’t sound mean, but Aunt Florence usually wasn’t at family outings because she didn't feel well, and my Mom – who could be quite feisty – said on more than one occasion that even though Aunt Florence never felt well, she’d likely outlive them all. She has.

I spent the rest of that Sunday night trying to figure out how to get to Louisville for Aunt Irma’s funeral. I didn’t succeed. Thanks to the ridiculous system we have for air travel in this country, I couldn’t find a flight from New York to Louisville for less than $900 – unless you count the almost $600 flight I could take from New York to Orlando – yes Orlando – and then to Louisville. You can’t be serious!?

So, this Friday, I’ll think of my Kentucky family as they say good-bye to my Aunt Irma – and I’m sure somewhere in Tennessee, Robbie’s family will celebrate his life and send his sweet soul soaring. I hope both families will know how many people – whether there in person or scattered around the globe – will be with them in spirit, and hope and pray that their memories will provide them comfort.

To Courtney with love . . . from Mama Doris

Dana presenting Courtney with the quilt

There were many special items that belonged to our family that we had to sell or give away because they wouldn’t fit in our tiny New York City apartment, but the beautiful, hand-made quilts that were so exquisitely sewn by the women in my life were not among those things that left our side. Those quilts today reside in a cedar chest (that also found its way north) that belonged to my grandparents Dana and N.E. Jones that I remember gracing the front bedroom of their home on Frederica Street in Hartford, Kentucky.

The quilts in that chest were made by various women in my life: my Mommy; Honey, my name for the aforementioned grandmother Dana; and her mother, Grandma Fuqua. The bright colors, the intricate patterns, the purple cross-stitch flowers that adorn some the most beautiful quilts that Mommy made – all of them reside in that cedar chest, awaiting their turn to adorn a loved-one’s bed.

This weekend we gifted one of Mommy’s quilts to Courtney, one of our girls’ – and our family’s – most beloved friends. Courtney has been a part of our family since she and Dana met in the fall of 1999 as two equally-geeky freshmen in the Gainesville High School band. Over the years Courtney

has spent many hours with our family, from days at GHS and Florida State University – to exploring Italy individually with both Dana and Jenni – to standing alongside Jenni as Dana and Nate married in 2014. Equally important Courtney became close to Mommy – or as Dana, Jenni and their friends knew her – Mama Doris. When Larry, Dana, Nate and I were in Italy during Mommy’s birthday in May of 2012 (and Jenni was a Peace Corp Volunteer in the Dominican Republic), Courtney took Mommy to dinner. She has always been there for us.

So, we can’t imagine anyone we’d rather have one of Mommy’s beautiful creations than Courtney – and Brandon, her soon-to-be husband.  We can’t wait to celebrate their nuptials this June – in the gorgeous Colorado mountains. Courtney and Brandon, we love you – and thank you for being a special part of our family!

Ode to Miss Mary Lou . . .

There was an interesting post earlier this week on my Facebook feed that probably made many of us who grew up in Hartford, Kentucky in the 1960s consider what an amazing woman might have been in our midst. It was a post about Miss Mary Lou Smith, the Wayland Alexander Elementary School principal who many of us feared. Yet, it took a comment from someone who didn’t even grow up in Hartford to point out how amazing it was that in the 1960s a woman was our principal. I’d never really thought about that accomplishment and the challenges Miss Mary Lou must have endured in reaching that level of responsibility in those days.

Yes, we feared her. She roamed the halls of our  elementary school, paddle in hand. She had no problem swatting the back-end of any student who didn’t abide by the rules, but it was only because she wanted the best for her students. I still remember third grade when our class was trying to decide on an end-of-the-year gift for our teacher Mrs. Byers and decided to get together in our classroom prior to the school day starting (which was against the rules – you were supposed to go to the flag room where everyone went before the start of school). Miss Mary Lou discovered our meeting and lined every one of us – backs against the wall – all the way down the hall. Once the bell rang for the start of school, the kindergartners walked by us on their way to class, wondering what on earth those “old” kids could have done to have 20+ of us lined up against the wall. As someone who at that point was quiet and very shy, I was humiliated and figured my life as I knew it was over.

Recently though in this time of renewed interest in women's issues, I've come to the realization that in those early days in Hartford, Kentucky, we were surrounded by strong women: Miss Mary Lou Smith, Ernestine McConnell, Alice Triplett, Lucille Shapmire and others. They instilled in all of us – boys and girls alike – the love of learning and the importance of caring for others. It was a community before we knew what that actually meant.

Looking back over the years, I have learned to appreciate growing up in a small town where we were enveloped by responsibility, community and love.  Today, as a woman who has grown up in an era where we women strive to be considered as equals and hope to gain opportunities that were typically afforded to men, I now wonder how Miss Mary Lou and those like her who in a time where it was unusual just to work – let alone be the leader of the elementary school – made it to the epitome of education.

May we always remember to thank these strong women who came before us – and who taught us that we could do anything, be anything.

Grocery shopping without a car

So it’s been roughly a year and eight months since I sold my fire-engine red Honda Accord with a V-8 engine (yes, it could fricking fly and yes, it was just a little bit of my mid-life crisis car since I couldn’t afford a BMW) and we moved to New York City carless.

So you might ask how does one shop – especially for groceries –when all you buy has to be carried home.  Well here’s how we’ve made it work:

Citarella's seafood counter

First, we don’t necessarily go with the adage of buy just what you need today, but we’re close.  The nice thing is there are multiple places to pop into when you do just need a couple of items. Whether it’s the small grocery a 2-minute walk from my Barnard office with good produce and meat departments or the fruit and vegetable stand guys on street corners throughout the Upper West Side where you can literally buy five bananas for a dollar or a green pepper for 25 cents. Or I can pop into Citarella (still my favorite grocery, albeit also the most expensive) for seafood, cheese or an amazing cut of beef or grab a baguette from my favorite bakery on the corner as I exit the subway station.

Next, Amazon is our best friend.  All the staples or anything heavy – they all show up in our lobby for a quick trip up the elevator to reside on the floor of our bedroom closet (aka the pantry). Doesn’t matter if it's canned black beans, diced tomatoes or Cream of Chicken soup (Healthy Request version for a comforting chicken casserole) or boxed chicken broth, oven fried mix or Missy’s food.  It’s so much easier – and cheaper – to go to Amazon.

The Duane Reade (aka Walgreen in other areas of the country) has a great food selection –dairy, ice cream (my current favorite is Haggen Dazs Carmel Cone), nuts, frozen appetizers and a small selection of grocery staples and household goods.

When it’s warm we walk 20 minutes on Sundays to the farmers market near the Museum of Natural History for a wonderful selection of produce, locally-raised duck, and all kinds of jam, honey and other canned goods.

And finally, we have a Trader Joe’s literally a five-minute walk away – yes, I know there are people who are incredibly jealous that it’s so close – but it is so crowded – not just sometimes, but always, that we only pop in there early mornings or late evenings. 

Burrito-less Breakfast Burrito: a yummy low-carb breakfast

Since moving to New York City we’ve worked hard to reduce our intake of carbs (okay, with the exception of wine, but w/e). One of my favorite recipes in Gainesville was to make breakfast burritos (with various meats, veggies, garnishes, etc.), but tortillas are the epitome of everything that’s bad about carbs. So we had to figure out how to make a special breakfast while cutting back on carbs.

So I started developing – as we call it – a Burrito-less Breakfast Burrito. The fun thing about this dish is you can add whatever you love about breakfast into this versatile dish.  Here’s what I do for two servings.

INGREDIENTS
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 small onion, finely chopped
1/3 red pepper, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
6 large eggs
Splash of half and half
Pinch of salt
Pinch of pepper
½ cup Mexican blend shredded cheese (or shredded sharp cheddar)
1 avocado, diced
1 tomato, chopped, seeded and drained on a paper towel (or substitute drained salsa)
1 scallion, sliced thinly
½ cup sour cream

Wisk eggs with half and half and season with salt and pepper.  Add butter to skillet and saute onion, garlic and red pepper on medium low heat until tender. Add egg mixture. Once eggs are mostly set, but still runny, sprinkle shredded cheese on top, cover for a couple of minutes and cook until the cheese is melted.

Place eggs on the center of each plate and sprinkle avocado and tomato around. Dollop sour cream around the edge of the plate and garnish with scallion.

Note: Can add sausage or bacon to the plate – or play with ingredients you love in an omelet or breakfast burrito. The nice thing is you won’t even miss the tortilla. It’s so delicious and fresh.

19 Months and counting: still so much to explore

We’ve just passed the 19^th month mark after moving away from a 35-year-life spent in Gainesville, Fla., to an urban existence in New York City. We’re sure there are more than a handful of family and friends who expected we’d be back in Gainesville by now, but those people didn’t appreciate the depth of the love we feel for this amazing city – and for the urban lifestyle.

Most people who visit NYC see the city through a certain lens: Times Square and Broadway, Rockefeller Center and the stores along Fifth Avenue, the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty. While these NYC institutions are certainly the city’s lifeblood and we’d never criticize those who visit these parts of the city, New York City’s charm is actually defined by the smaller neighborhoods that dot the metropolitan area. Those friends of ours who have been able to visit have been introduced to a NYC different than what they might have seen before. Kind of like if you visit Gainesville there’s a lot more to the city than The Swamp (football stadium) or Butler Plaza.

What do I mean? 

I mean a trek through Central Park – although not necessarily the John Lennon Memorial area or the skating rink or the Central Park Zoo. Head further north and you’ll find the Central Park Bramble and Lake, a wild, natural garden and lake far away from the horse-drawn carriages and $3-7 a-minute pedicabs rides. Or the 1.66 mile trek around the Reservoir.  Or the Conservatory Water at E. 74^th Street, an ornamental pond where model boat owners run their vessels across the shimmering waters in the spring and summer.

I mean a walk along the Hudson River – starting anywhere in the W. 110s all the way down to Battery Park. There are wonderful paths along Riverside Park that offer beautiful views – and if you want, you can grab a glass of wine at Pier I; catch a ride on the North River Lobster Company’s “Floating Lobster Shack;” tour the Intrepid Sea, Air, Space Museum; or take a 3-hour Circle Line tour around the entire Manhattan Island where you learn about Spuyten Duyvil Creek - which is a short tidal estuary connecting the Hudson River to the Harlem River Ship Canal - and view the boroughs from the water and the bridges that connect them. Yes, these places still attract out-of-towners, but they are a little different from the usual fare.

And let’s not even get into the other areas of the city? Brooklyn – great little neighborhoods and Coney Island. Queens, with its wonderful Asian cuisine that we have yet to explore, and Harlem – where we’ve just scratched the surface of this iconic community.

The wonderful thing about moving somewhere new – no matter your age – is the chance to visit the nooks and crannies around your new home.  We’re still finding all the ones around us – whether it’s the week we spent in the Catskills last summer or the upcoming visit we have planned for Philadelphia. Cause let’s face it – Philadelphia is to New York City as Gainesville is to Orlando, or Hartford, Ky. to the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. Just a hop and a skip down the road – and a whole 'nother world to visit!! 

Dorie Greenspan's ultimate rustic French food: Marie-Helene's Apple Cake

Several months ago I shared my favorite cookbooks and how they’ve changed the way I cook and the foods we love.  One of the cookbooks that was relatively new at the time of my earlier post has since become one of my favorites of all time. It’s Dorie Greenspan’s “Around My French Table” – an amazing cookbook where Dorie shares how she fell in love with France and its wonderful culinary history, and how she learned to make its amazing dishes.

 In addition to the earlier mentioned “Roast Chicken for Les Paresseux” – translated into “Roast Chicken for Lazy People,” I have also fallen in love with Dorie’s “Marie-Helene’s Apple Cake.” It is literally one of the easiest dishes you can make, and it’s just the pure definition of rustic, comfort food.

It’s one of those dishes I make when I’m feeling a bit down-in-the-dumps, when there’s two feet of snow on the ground or when I’m expecting someone to drop by for a cup of coffee and a small snack. It lasts up to three days – just hanging out on its own antique cake stand – and if anything, tastes better on day three than when it comes out of the oven. I often add my own twists to recipes, but there’s no way to improve on Dorie’s take on apple cake. Make sure though, that you choose four different apples – including at least one that’s nicely tart. Every bite will taste different depending upon the apples perched on your fork. You can add a soft dollop of whipped cream or a scoop of French vanilla ice cream, but honestly, it’s simple goodness on its own.

Enjoy – and appreciate how simple real French cooking is to make.

DORIE GREENSPAN’S “MARIE-HELENE’S APPLE CAKE”

INGREDIENTS
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch of salt
4 large apples (if you can, choose 4 different kinds)
2 large eggs
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons dark rum
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled

Center a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Generously butter an 8-inch springform pan and put it on a baking sheet lined with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper and put the springform on it.

Whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt together in small bowl. Peel the apples, cut them in half and remove the cores. Cut the apples into 1- to 2-inch chunks.

In a medium bowl, beat the eggs with a whisk until they're foamy. Pour in the sugar and whisk for a minute or so to blend. Whisk in the rum and vanilla. Whisk in half the flour and when it is incorporated, add half the melted butter, followed by the rest of the flour and the remaining butter, mixing gently after each addition so that you have a smooth, rather thick batter. Switch to a rubber spatula and fold in the apples, turning the fruit so that it's coated with batter. Scrape the mix into the pan and poke it around a little with the spatula so that it's evenish.

Slide the pan into the oven and bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until the top of the cake is golden brown and a knife inserted deep into the center comes out clean; the cake may pull away from the sides of the pan. Transfer to a cooling rack and let rest for 5 minutes.

Carefully run a blunt knife around the edges of the cake and remove the sides of the springform pan. (Open the springform slowly, and before it's fully opened, make sure there aren't any apples stuck to it.) Allow the cake to cool until it is just slightly warm or at room temperature. If you want to remove the cake from the bottom of the springform pan, wait until the cake is almost cooled, then run a long spatula between the cake and the pan, cover the top of the cake with a piece of parchment or wax paper, and invert it onto a rack. Carefully remove the bottom of the pan and turn the cake over onto a serving dish.

The cake will keep for about 2 days at room temperature and gets more comforting with each passing day. However long you keep the cake, it's best not to cover it - it's too moist. Leave the cake on its plate and just press a piece of plastic wrap or wax paper against the cut surfaces.

Chicken risotto: comfort food at its finest

When it's cold, rainy and dreary, I think of those comfort foods I've loved to make over the years.  Growing up in Kentucky, that would have typically been chicken and dumplings, potato soup or something equally warm. Early in our marriage, it might have been chili or mac and cheese. However, in 1985 while pregnant with Dana, I was fortunate to visit a wonderful woman who taught me to make what might be the ultimate Italian comfort food: chicken risotto.

Larry and I had traveled to South Florida for a Gator baseball game with Miami and were visiting our friend Don Mariutto and his family.  As his last name indicates, Don and his family were true Italians. They had many family members still living in Italy, had a business distributing beautiful Italian tile in the United States, and he along with his brother and parents often traveled to Italy.

Don's mom, June, was a lovely woman and I was fortunate that the day we visited, she was making chicken risotto.  She patiently walked me through the process, explaining along the way that risotto makes its own schedule - that it has to be constantly watched and stirred - and that it, not me, would decide when it was done.

A lot of people are afraid of making risottos - the main reasons being they have to be constantly watched (and stirred as I mentioned above) and the ingredients' measurements and the cooking schedule aren't an exact science.  Below, in my words, is how June taught me to make her chicken risotto that cool spring day. Sadly, she died several years ago - but when winter comes and I need something warm and soothing, June's chicken risotto is the first thing that comes to mind.

INGREDIENTS
1/4 pound unsalted butter
3 tablespoon olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon Italian seasoning
5-7 cups of chicken broth (here is where the measurements aren't exact)
2 teaspoons tomato paste (add to chicken broth)
salt and pepper (no salt if chicken broth has salt)
1 pound chicken breast, cut into small pieces (I cut mine about the diameter of a nickel)
2 cups Arborio rice
1 cup grated Parmigiana Reggiano

In a medium saucepan heat chicken broth and tomato paste to a simmer and keep warm on the stove. Melt butter and olive oil in a heavy saucepan on medium-low heat and saute onion for 10 minutes or until soft (I use a Le Creuset porcelain-enamel dutch oven). Add chicken, cinnamon and Italian seasoning and cook for 5-6 minutes, stirring constantly. Add rice and 1/4 cup hot chicken broth. Continue stirring constantly until the broth is absorbed.  When it appears most of the broth has been absorbed, add one cup of broth and continue to stir constantly. Continue adding the broth, one cup at a time, after each cup is absorbed.

It typically takes about 20-30 minutes of adding the broth one cup at a time and you have to continue to stir constantly (find a friend or partner to help when you arm gets tired). At some point, the rice will get tender and the dish will become creamy.  The only way to determine when it's done is to keep tasting.  You'll find that magical point where the rice becomes creamy - and loses that al dente taste you'll find in earlier bites.

Once the rice is tender and the dish becomes creamy, add the Parmiagiana Reggiano to taste.  Some like a little more cheese - you can also grate some extra on top of each individual serving.  If the risotto gets a little gummy, just add a little more broth. Don't be afraid, it's hard to screw up!

The key to making risotto is to not get in a hurry - you have to be patient, constantly stirring and tasting. At the end you'll have a bowl of pure comfort.  Warning = it is incredibly rich so it helps to serve with a salad and a glass of chardonnay.  Leftovers heat up well - just gently reheat on the stove top and add a little broth and a little more cheese to have a creamy consistency.