The Momosaurus

Number One is having his first teenage birthday party. We decided to deviate from the one-year, one-guest rule, and limit the number to a select few, but expand the party’s cool factor by making it an overnight with movies and soda and such.

As I walked the aisles of Trader Joe’s (hey, it may be junk food, but it’s good junk), I loaded in two six-packs of soda. I wonder if it is enough, and load in another. Ditto the tortilla chips and guacamole, hot dogs and buns. Cheese doodles, gummi worms, and popcorn round out the offerings.

But if I’m having trouble estimating how much these budding teen boys will eat, it’s not only because of my relative inexperience with teen eating machines: there’s the issue of the guest list. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, my Grandmother, a Socialitaurus, handed me a copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette. It contained all sorts of dated information, such as how much household staff I would need, and how long a woman was expected to wear her widow’s weeds. I gleaned that in times of war, one could dispense with the inner envelope for formal invitations. And I read all about writing an rsvp. There were only two possibilities: one, you could write a thanks for the invitation, but regretted you would be unable to attend. No excuse may be offered, just thanks and regrets. The other choice was an effusive thank you, expressing delight at being able to make it.

My Mothersaurus explained that while the information appeared dated to the point of laughability, I should keep in mind that etiquette is at its heart about treating people with kindness and respect. An rsvp served to let the hostess know how many plates to set out and how much food to prepare—and wouldn’t it be unkind as well as the epitome of rudeness to leave her guessing?

Number One invited six friends, with the understanding that one would not be able to stay the night. Two mothers responded, promptly, with a thank you and we’re delighted to be able to come. Then the others chimed in the week before the party: One Child would be able to attend only a couple of hours, until which time he had a another birthday party to attend, he explained; Another Child wanted to attend the other birthday party as well, and was planning to come here, go there, then return here afterwards. And the Third Child called on the day of the party (after the wheat-free birthday cake had been baked to accommodate his dietary restrictions) to explain that he would be, “one or two hours late.”

I so want to make Number One’s party special, for him to show his friends how cool he and his folks are (we’re even shipping Little One off for an overnight elsewhere to remove the uncool pesky little brother syndrome). Call me a Momosaurus, but am wondering what dear old Emily would think. Instead of choosing one invitation and honoring the host, I’m not sure that our guests realize that opting to run back and forth between parties may leave both hosts feeling slighted.

On cocoa and airports

It is mid-morning, time for my cocoa break, and my thoughts logically turn to cocoa experiences on the road.

A cup of cocoa at an airport Starbucks was predictably disappointing. While not more overpriced than normal, the pale drink was bland enough that even Number One took one sip and asked, “Is there any chocolate in here?” I was relieved to know it wasn’t just me, but the long line at the counter (the fog had delayed many flights other than ours) dissuaded me from returning and demanding more chocolate.

As I reach into the cupboard for cocoa, I hesitate between Ghirardelli and Green & Black. Against my better judgment, I took the boys to Ghirardelli Square, which one tour guide now rates as “nothing more than a shopping mall.” The child in me recalls the factory that produced chocolate stars, and if you were lucky, Mom would spring for the little cardboard box shaped like the chocolate factory. The chocolate tastes different, and the place has truly become a tourist trap. I caved and bought the kids overpriced ice cream (at least it was Dreyer’s, from Berkeley); while we were waiting, Number One noted that a waitress was assembling a massive clutch of balloons in the back corner. Hoping to avoid a balloon Grinch incident I hailed our wait staff, and let her know of my allergy, but to no avail. Ten bites into my eight-dollar sundae, the latex-bearing waitress headed straight to our alcove. I picked up my bag and dashed to the nearest exit, but the clueless cookie followed, wanting to ask how far away she needed to be to keep from causing a reaction. If she’d had an ounce of sense, she would have been able to deduce the correct distance by how far from her I kept backing away—on the sidewalk. And Little One was clearly torn: here was his well-earned ice cream, and leaving it wasn’t something he wanted to do. Balloon Lady was standing between us, waving kryptonite at this Mama Bear. Not a good situation.

Then Number One, now officially a teenager, did something to make my heart soar: he barked at the waitress, forcing her to back off, then proceeded to find a paper cup and transfer Little One’s ice cream sundae to it. Unable to locate a spoon, he grabbed a straw. I am immensely proud of his composure in this situation, especially given that I would think having your mother freaking out on the sidewalk would be socially mortifying. I do have to add that I was extremely disappointed at the restaurant: no wait staff offered to help him, or even acknowledged that there was a problem that might require a manager (or a refund). Even the surly cable car brakemen could teach them something about customer service.

On the last day of the conference, my favorite waiter added a few cocoa packets to the breakfast buffet. Nestlé’s in a pouch is not my idea of real cocoa (nor is anything declaring “just add water” truly food), but I discovered it could be made relatively palatable with the addition of cream from the coffee station.

I decide on the Ghirardelli this morning, but make a note to myself to try the Dagoba drinking chocolate that I’ve seen appearing on market shelves recently. They’re in Ashland, and they may have the space on the shelf that was once reserved for my childhood.

The Ferry Building

It was enveloped in fog, only coming into focus around 11 in the morning on the second day of the conference. Just about the same time as we got our bearings.

Our hotel was a small one with what is usually termed “historic charm.” It could easily have been a dive, but cheerful paint and IKEA furnishings made it just the thing. With cable cars dinging outside our window and Market Street trolleys a block away, transit options were clear. We grabbed a bus pass, and made it pay for itself within 24 hours.

I was born in the Bay Area, Berkeley to be exact, so this is not an unfamiliar place to me. The City and clime felt immediately comfortable, even if I was stressed and preoccupied with association goings-on. But with elections (and a shaky-handed speech) behind me, we headed down to the Bay and walked along the Embarcadero.

In my childhood, this spot was the site of a freeway. Not just any freeway, but the ugliest, dirtiest-grey double-decker monstrosity you can think of. In the wake of the Loma Prieta earthquake, it was condemned, and the wise people of the City clamored for its removal. Politicians predicted traffic disaster, but they were wrong. It is no loss.

I remember many things about the City from my childhood: the steaming crab boilers in Fisherman’s Grotto, Ghirardelli Square (when they still made chocolate there), the empty-warehouse feel of the Exploratorium, The City of Paris Christmas tree (now gone), the waves crashing against the rocks at Fort Point. But I don’t recall the Ferry Building even being there. It didn’t make sense when my father talked about all the trolleys and cable cars meeting ferry passengers in the Ferry Plaza. But now I understand. The plaza bustles day and night: tourists, business folks, skateboarders, musicians, artisans and farmers all converge where once traffic noise presided. Trolleys and pedestrians have reclaimed it as their own.

Inside the Ferry Building is the Mecca of sustainable foodieness: restaurants, bakeries, organic provender, flowers and chocolate can all be found. We had been subsisting on conference hotel buffets, picking out the least offensive foodstuffs to nourish ourselves. But we didn’t feel we were really eating. Here, though, were sandwiches, roast chickens, chili, fruit smoothies and jicama and grapefruit salads (and amazing tortilla chips and guacamole).

I had come to the City uncertain of myself, unsure if I had what it took to merit the trust of my colleagues. The fog lifted, reassuring me with their vote of confidence, and placing me in incredibly good company.

And as the fog burned off, it became amply clear: in times of stress, comfort is necessary. Here was ours. Food that was safe and good for us all. We found ourselves returning to the pale grey arcades over and over, to enjoy the sights and sounds and smells, and to replenish ourselves.

Golden sunshine

The sun is shining today, but it is a weak light, barely able to warm the floor where it casts its rays. We have turned the corner into deep autumn, and Old Man Winter is waiting in the wings. So it is no surprise that the part needed to make our boiler produce hot water did not arrive in a timely fashion. Friends have provided us with space heaters, though we have learned that we can’t have heat and run the microwave at the same time.

The effects of living in a cold house, though, are showing: Little One woke pulling and rubbing at his ear this morning and we suspect his cold may be becoming an ear infection. The windows in our bedroom have condensation on them, and the room needs airing, something we dare not do, lest we lose any precious warmth. We have not sat in the living room as a family for a week, and our stringed instruments refuse to stay in tune.

Upstairs, suitcases are out, piles of clothing are mounded on our bed, and my desk has been cleared. We shall pack our bags and decamp to California, to the city of my father’s birth for the rest of the week. A professional conference is our official reason, but the forecast of 68 degrees and sunny, typical fall weather from my childhood beckons us.

Before we leave, we’ll finish up the leftover lentil soup and the last cucumbers and tomatoes from the Redmond farmer’s market. The doctor will swing by this evening and look in Little One’s ears, and British Neighbor has promised to turn on the space heaters if Jack Frost threatens to freeze our pipes.

Our local South 47 Farm shutters for the season tomorrow, but we know there’s a bountiful farmer’s market across the street from the hotel in the Ferry building this Saturday. We’re ready for a little warmth.

Celebrate!

Today is National Chocolate Day, an auspicious occasion by any measure. I really want to take the opportunity to celebrate by getting up to my elbows in obscene amounts of the stuff, but am stuck at the keyboard, trying to overcome writer’s block on a campaign speech for election to the board of directors of ATA. Make no mistake, I have no aversion to intellectual effort, and I’d really like to be elected, but it really seems a pity to spend such an important holiday slaving away on mere words.

And then I recall the words of fellow chocolate-lover Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, that fabulous French gastronome whose day job was that of magistrate. He notes that chocolate is, “above all, helpful to people who must do a great deal of mental work.” (« Le chocolat est très convenable aux personnes qui se livrent à une grande contention de l'esprit »)

So there you have it. It’s not a matter of either/or. I must do the chocolate work to be able to write that speech. Which is why I’ll move the space heater upstairs to the kitchen and work on flavoring the latest incarnation of the auction truffles. In case you’re still searching for a suitable way to celebrate, I append the result of my mentally taxing research below.

8 ounces bittersweet chocolate
1/2 cup coconut milk
1 tablespoon extra virgin coconut oil

Coarsely chop the chocolate and place into a clean bowl. Heat the coconut milk and oil to nearly boiling. Add the milk mixture to the chocolate and stir to melt the chocolate evenly, working quickly. Refrigerate the chocolate until firm, about 2 hours. Using a measuring spoon, scoop up 1 teaspoon of chocolate, and quickly roll into a ball about 3/4-inch across. Chill until firm and coat as desired. Makes about 30 truffles.

Nipping at our toes

The frost is on the pumpkin this morning. This is usually one of my favorite days, a decisive turning of the season. The leaves have been changing color and dropping for so many weeks now that it hardly seems special anymore, just as we take the green leaves for granted by July. But today it is clear that there is no turning back: the tomatoes that we thought could take a few more days to ripen must come out, the flower containers should be tucked in unless we want leggy impatiens.

But Jack Frost beat us to the punch this year. I have been informed by the Boiler Guy that our boiler is in need of a new gas valve, and that I should be ecstatic that they even make parts for it anymore. I’m used to discussions like this with my Volvo mechanic, but the boiler is only half the age of my car. It was installed when I was pregnant with Little One, and he’s not old. And like the Volvo, the part has to come from New Jersey, and won’t be here before Monday.

No heat, and and Frost rapping at the window. We broke out the long underwear, filled the hot water bottles and bought a couple of space heaters, but Jack is laughing at us. Little One’s cough has turned all chesty, so I’ve kept him home, even though it’s warmer at school. We’ll add another layer and go hunt pumpkins this afternoon, but will plan to spend the evening eating out where it’s warm.

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The good, the bad, and the tasty

Sweet cream butter. Nope, sorry, butter is bad: you should use margarine or canola oil. No, wait, those trans fats can clog your heart up worse than a cork. Butter isn’t so bad after all, but only in moderation. Top of the pyramid.

We seem to be getting a little pudgy as a population: the finger points at fat. We should stick to fat-free foods, then we can have as much as we want, guilt-free. Oops, now we seem to have an obesity and diabetes epidemic. Maybe a little fish oil will help after all.

Everyone knows that you shouldn’t drink too much, it’s not good for you. But, wait, red wine keeps the French healthy. Two glasses a day should do. But hold on, drinking can increase the risk for cancer.

Chocolate. Clearly something this good must be evil. But wait, the bioflavonoids in high-cocoa content chocolate can be good for your heart. So eat your chocolate—for now. Someone will no doubt notice that chocolate bars are candy, and as vital as it is to my life, I know that I must enjoy it in moderation.

Honestly, it makes me wondered what happened to common sense. I can hear my grandmother repeating, “Moderation is the key.” (I somehow envision a woman I’ve never met cast in this role, in a flowered apron and snapping beans on her front porch.) Our fad-riddled society has us moving from the newest to the latest with lightning speed. Last year it was all blueberries and red wine. Now it’s pomegranates and 70% chocolate. Who knows what next year will bring? It really doesn’t matter: if we look to tradition to guide our choices, we will find that the wisdom of ages automatically builds in moderation.

With that in mind, I started recipe development work (a euphemism for messing about in the kitchen) for a dessert offering for the kid’s school auction. The dessert portion of the live auction can really move, as there are never enough to go around – by design. Add to that the fact that we tend to be über-responsible adults most of the time, and the desserts are usually out of this world.

I’ll fall back on my tried-and-true Chocolate Stout Cake, the richest chocolate cake I make, but I wanted a second offering to accommodate our vegan/allergic/pc-even-at-a-party compatriots without making them feel they were sacrificing anything. I had toyed with a pot of drinking chocolate and an assortment of cookies, but my tests weren’t going well. Even the boys were picking at our test subjects. Not good. Then Saturday, pure serendipity: I reached into the magazine holder and pulled out a Bon Appétit at random. It was a Christmas issue from 2003. I opened it, to see a page of truffles. The (compact fluorescent) light bulb went off. After a quick web search, I found a way to make truffles using vegan ingredients. Saturday evening’s ganache passed muster, and Sunday was spent trying different taste combinations, and learning hand-dipping (Darling Husband thinks that the clean-up for the latter should involve him—why should I get to lick my fingers all by myself?). A quick trip out for dessert wines, and British neighbor stepped up to the plate for the first round of testing last night. We have the wine chosen, and a few winner truffles. We’ll have to do at least one more round of tasting, but she’s assured us that she’s up for it. Brave woman.

Soy Truffles

1 cup high-quality dairy-free chocolate
1/4 cup full-fat soy milk
1/3 cup extra-firm silken tofu
1 tsp. vanilla or 1 Tbl. liqueur

Chop the chocolate and place in bowl. Blend soy milk and tofu together until smooth. Heat the soy mixture until very hot, but not boiling. Working quickly, pour the hot soy mixture into the grated chocolate, stirring constantly until smooth. Beat in flavoring. Cool in refrigerator 1-2 hours. Shape into balls and chill. You can cover and decorate them as for any truffle.

Of course, now that I’ve made these truffles using soy (which is still “in” for pre-menopausal women, but still a high allergen food), I’m wondering if I can find a way to use other non-dairy ingredients with similarly tasty results. Watch this space!