As a 14-year-old groupie of comedian George Carlin — thanks to my summer friend, Kathy Fay — I could not wait for 11:30 p.m. on Oct. 11, 1975. The Hippy Dippy Weatherman was the host of this new TV comedy show called, “NBC Saturday Night” and I was staying up to watch, dammit.
By 1 a.m. Sunday morning, my career path was set: I wanted to be a Not Ready For Prime Time Player and future host of “Weekend Update.” Gimme a break. I was 14.
Lorne Michaels‘ late-night show helped me hone my skills as a mimic and writer of comedy bits. My high school friends (Class of ’79) still remind me of my appearances on the St. Mary’s Academy Bay View stage as Roseanne Roseannadanna, a Conehead and one of the two Wild ‘n’ Crazy Guys. Ten years later at our reunion, Donna DePetro and I did a “Weekend Update” with funny news items about our classmates. I just couldn’t shake this “Saturday Night” thing.
During the early years, I even wrote to one of the show’s writers, Rob Schiller, who sent me back a cassette tape with he, Bill Murray, Gilda Radner and one other person (maybe Al Franken?) giving me career advice. As if my parents would ever let me run off to Second City or the Groundlings after graduation…
I have no idea what happened to that tape, lost in a move, I suppose. But it was GOLD. My aunt, Claire, still brings up the tape because it was mailed to her house during the summer I was, as they now say, “nannying” for my toddler cousin, Rusty.
As an aside, Claire went to school with original cast member Jane Curtin at the late, lamented Elmhurst Academy of the Sacred Heart in Portsmouth, R.I. Auntie was a freshman; Jane, who was a boarder from Wellesley Hills, a senior. Of course, I scoured her freshman yearbook for photos of Jane. I do remember in one snap poor Jane appeared to have thick ankles which endeared her to me. Hey, we all can’t have Gilda Radner gams! (BTW, ignore Jane’s Wiki page that lists her as graduating from Newton Country Day. Not true.)
Back to last night’s 50th Anniversary show … So there was pop princess Sabrina Carpenter kicking off the three-and-a-half-hour special by making us all feel like Methuselah. According to Mizz Thang, her parents weren’t even born in 1976 when her duet partner, Paul Simon, 83, and late George Harrison of the Beatles sang “Homeward Bound” on the SNL stage. Rude, no?
I watched this anniversary show like the Super Bowl — straight through, with commercials, no loo breaks — because I feared I would miss something. OK, I can’t lie. I may have scrolled the interwebs during Lil’ Wayne‘s performance.
Steve Martin, whom I’ve loved ever since high school, didn’t disappoint as Monologuer in Chief. “Black Jeopardy” was hilarious with Tracy Morgan, Eddie Murphy and Leslie Jones, although the spoof of “Jeopardy” with Darrell Hammond as salty Scot Sean Connery is still my fave.
I’m glad they rolled tape on Dan Aykroyd bleeding out as Julia Child in the kitchen. Sadly, the original NRFPT player was MIA. But we needed a little Land Shark with Chevy Chase and Candace Bergen though. And where were the damn Muppets? I loved Scred.
However, I did enjoy the show’s “Where’s Waldo” celebrity pop ups. Oh, there’s ScarJo and Kim Kardashian! Mike Meyers got verklempt! And Robert DeNiro killed it in the “Debbie Downer” sketch telling Rachel Dratch that “I came here tonight to get a little friggin’ break from our world right now. Which is like living in a full diaper.” (Speaking of which, the faux TV spot for ‘Oops, I Crapped My Pants’ remains a classic.)
Ooh, there’s Conan O’Brien. I forgot he was a writer on the show. I loved Meryl as Kate McKinnon’s potty mouth mama in the alien abduction sketch. I still can’t stomach Kristen Wiig’s characters. But Tina and Amy still rule. Sir Paul McCartney got the celebrity crowd on their feet. And I got a little verklempt when Jane and Laraine Newman held up a photo of Gilda, who died in 1989 of ovarian cancer at age 42, on stage at the end.
I could go on with more random, snarky bits but I’ll leave it here. Last night was a wild time machine trip for me, who, Mizz Sabrina, was lucky enough to be a teenager in 1975. During the 90’s I wasn’t a fan, but now I watch every week. However, we have to set the DVR. This high school comedian needs her sweet dreams and can’t stay up until 11:30 p.m. anymore — unlike Cher’s wig which looked like it was ready to go all night. OK, I’ll stop now.
Spider-Man may be ruling the box office right now, but today we gather to honor another superhero, my brother, John.
John, with his sense of duty, intelligence, physical strength and hard-to-read face, emulated…Batman. Think about it. Anytime any one of us flashed the Bat Signal, my brother dropped everything, hopped in his red GMC truck — he only wished it was the way cool Bat Mobile — and arrived to save the day.
Even when the Bat Signal didn’t shine in the sky, he was on the case whether it was helping our dad — and countless others — with pesky problems involving boats, pools, lawn mowers, cars, trucks and even my apple pies. John once concocted a compound to eliminate a nasty animal odor in my poor aunt’s cellar. And it worked. How, I ask you, did he know how to do that? Because he was Batman.
John’s passion for all things mechanical began early. It all started with keys. This life-long obsession with keys started when he was still in diapers. He played with a small ring of keys that my mother had to pin onto his cloth diaper because our father had keys hanging from his belt. One day, he thought he’d try a key out in an electrical outlet and he was thrown across the hallway from the electric shock. He never did that again. And from then on, all our electrical outlets were plugged, I think until he graduated high school. But the key thing stuck: As an adult, John carried on his person at least five hefty key rings.
We knew he was going to be a handyman when one night, during a family dinner at the old Eileen Darling’s in Seekonk. John excused himself to go to the men’s room. After 15 minutes, just as Dad was ready to go check on his whereabouts, John waltzed back to the table. So what took him so long? Apparently, a faucet on one of the men’s room sinks was dripping and he took it apart and fixed it. He may have been 9 or 10 at the time.
John also was the man of the hour during a Sunday trip to the New England Aquarium with our cousins, the Cintrons. Uncle Art and Dad had spent all their cash at the aquarium and at the restaurant. This was pre-ATMs and credit cards. So there we were, all eight of us sitting in the station wagon in the parking garage as the men tried to figure out how to pay the fee. All of a sudden, young John pipes up from the back seat, “I got it,” and slips a $10 bill out of his kiddie wallet. And John, rest assured, got that money back.
But let’s talk about his Batman sense of duty. I’ve never met a person who took all of his responsibilities so seriously — and without complaint — as my brother. He was a wonderful son, who not only ran the family businesses, but took care of our parents in the few off-hours he had. John was Batman at home, too: a dutiful husband to Donna and father to Nicholas, who, by the way, has grown up very quickly this week. John would be so proud of his Boy Wonder.
My brother, as the British say, “kept himself to himself.” But even Batman had Alfred as a sounding board. John had cousin Len, with whom he enjoyed Salmon Eggs Benedict every Sunday. He had his life-long friend, Scott Medeiros, too. And even his big sister, whom he affectionately called “The Foodsmith,” got the lowdown every once in a while. I was so very happy to be one of his Alfreds. And not just because I got all the good dish.
Today our hearts are broken, because two weeks ago our Batman ran into a problem he couldn’t solve. Not even superheroes, it seems, live forever. From now on when we flash the Bat Signal, someone else will have to answer the call. And someone will, we know. And when they do, we’ll always think of John, who solved our problems, brightened our days — and will always carry the keys to our hearts.
Tonight, I hung up my apron in the kitchen at Paraclete Academy, the South Boston after-school program where I have cooked dinner for 25 kids and teachers every Tuesday night since Dec. 2.
Miss Laura and her favorite taste-tester.
The Last Supper, as Linda, the secretary, called it, was bittersweet. Not literally though. The dinner program at Paraclete ends this week. And when the summer session begins in July, I will be rattling the pots and (baking) pans at The Foodsmith in Duxbury.
My volunteer gig was a gift. Amongst many things, it taught me to cook for a large group in a commercial kitchen (organization is key), deal with food issues and improvise with what we had on hand.
It’s the proverbial day at the beach to cook for one fiftysomething guy every night. But on Tuesdays, I dealt with finicky 4th to 8th graders – “I HATE tomatoes!” – vegetarians, kids (and a teacher) who refused to eat my food and others who were so grateful for the “home-cooked” meal, they’d hug me.
Paraclete kids LOVE salad!
I also made dessert every Tuesday, because that’s what I do. Fruit was abundant this winter thanks to Paraclete’s weekly delivery fromLovin’ Spoonfuls, the local food “rescue” operation. So there was a lot of apple crisp, apple-pear crisp, and banana-chocolate chip cake. Anything with chocolate won raves. Natch. However, I was surprised how much they liked the Greek yogurt-homemade granola-berry parfaits that I served in little cups.
“Don’t ask me why, but they love anything served in little cups,” the amiable Sim, one of the resident teachers, told me.
Tonight, for the last hurrah, it was strawberry shortcake with beauteous berries I scored at R & C Farms in Scituate. Ya think the kids were interested in the farm-fresh strawberries? Nope. I had four “helpers” jockeying for position around the KitchenAid bowl that held the freshly whipped cream. One of the older girls — who didn’t eat tomatoes, cucumbers or the ground turkey in her baked pasta — readied herself with an ice cream scoop!
But one of the reasons I was so grateful for the gig was that it got me out of my south-of-Boston suburban comfort zone. I overheard conversations that made me angry and sad. I helped the principal Jackie Parker box up extra groceries for a student to take home. Last week, I gave a Whole Foods chocolate angel cake to a little girl who said she needed something to bring home because her mother was mad at her. Maybe she was running a scam, but what if she wasn’t?
And I loved Louis, my taste-tester and chief critic.
“Get me a spoon,” he’d tell me as he wiggled his fingers in the air. “I’ll let you know if it needs something.” Or this gem: “Next time, don’t make brown pasta, Miss Laura. Kids HATE brown pasta.”
Roger that, Louis. No wheat pasta.
The Paraclete family, led by founder Sr. Ann Fox and executive director Eileen DeMichele, is a grateful bunch. I so enjoyed working with them. Sr. Ann told me she’s coming to Duxbury this summer and bringing another nun who just opened a bakery in Rwanda. Can I tell you I’m already nervous? It’s got to be a Catholic girls’ school thing…
Finally, I’d like to give a special shout-out to Chef Jeff Gates, who runs the nutrition program at Paraclete and teaches culinary students at the New England Center for Arts & Technology in Roxbury. The poor guy fielded many frantic texts from me on Mondays about the Lovin’ Spoonfuls delivery. “PLEASE tell me there’s chicken this week,” I’d write. “Nope. Beef. (smiley face)” Patience of the saints, that one. I’ll miss him.
I’m mathphobic. Numbers make me completely nuts, especially when I have to scale up or down a recipe.
“Who left this long division on the bench,” asked Flour baker Keith Brooks, waving a paper towel with calculations written on it. I ‘fessed up. Sheepishly.
“What? I’m impressed. It’s so old school. Everyone else here uses a calculator,” he said, looking around at the 20somethings buzzing around the bakery.
Damn, I miss Keith Brooks…
I love Keith. He was the only baker closest to my age – probably by a decade and a half – when I worked at Flour’s Fort Point Channel location two years ago. He, too, knew of this apparently lost science of long division. I miss him.
In King Arthur Flour’s bread baking classes, I was introduced to Baker’s Math — yes, there is such a thing. Bakers don’t think in cups and teaspoons. They think in percentages and that gives me a migraine.
And fractions? Don’t even.
“Laura, I have told you 500 times,” my exasperated husband yells from our TV room. “Three-eighths is .375.”
“Oh, right. Thanks, honey,” I say sweetly from the kitchen where I vigorously erase my calculations then growl like Marge Simpson.
Now, let’s talk about tipping. I need to pop an Ativan before I am faced with adding a percentage to a restaurant bill. I stare at the slip of paper for 5 minutes as I calculate in my head an appropriate gratuity — as in one that says “thanks for the great service” not “I want to have your babies.”
BTW, I wasn’t a fan of Gov. Deval Patrick, but the Dem was dead to me in 2009 when he hiked up the Massachusetts sales tax to 6.25 percent. So what if the old 5 percent tax wasn’t filling the commonwealth’s coffers? It was a godsend for the math-challenged that needed to triple or quadruple the tax in order to figure out a decent tip. As a foodie, the man should know these things.
Toast Point of Sale System
And if the sales tax hike wasn’t enough to send us screaming towards the funny farm, now there are these new-fangled, tablet point-of-sale systems like Toast, Breadcrumb and Square, where you are faced with tipping while the server watches you.
It’s too much pressure. Do check out my friend Beth Teitell’s story in today’s Boston Globe if you don’t believe me.
Look, I don’t need to break out in arithmetic-fueled hives in front of a hipster who just handed me an overpriced pastry. I’m already a nervous wreck for just ordering the damn thing for fear my mother will find out. (She doesn’t buy ‘research’ as an excuse – even if I just take a couple of bites. Did I mention I’m 53 years old?)
I first encountered this tip-while-we-wait technology atBlackbird Doughnuts in Boston’s South End. I paid $18 for a half-dozen ($3 each, right?) and $2.50 for a small decaf. Again, this is not an everyday occurrence. I just had to see what all the foodie fuss was about.
The bill came to $20.68. For those of you math whizzes, only the take-away coffee was taxed since I bought 6 doughnuts. If I bought 5, I would have been taxed. It’s a Mass. Dept. of Revenue thing.
Anyway, I handed over my debit card to the server and she swiped it on their Toast point-of-sale system. She then turned the tablet’s screen around so I could sign my name and do some math.
I looked up at the woman in horror and she smiled. But I got so flustered about being pressured into on-the-spot calculations, I panicked and didn’t leave one. It’s not because I’m cheap, just dumb.
The Blackbird girl didn’t look happy. Well, I wasn’t exactly thrilled.
In Beth’s story, she cites a recent survey that found when “the server is looking on, 41 percent of people are more likely to tip. An equal number said it would have no effect on their tipping, according to Software Advice , a Texas-based information technology firm.
“Eighteen percent said the server’s proximity would make them less likely to leave a tip.”
Damn right. Those people are mathphobics. Don’t. Pressure. Us. Because, in the end, it will cost ya.
I spent what little time I had in New York last Sunday morning scoping out — and sampling the offerings — at various Big Apple bakeries. Because that’s just what I do.
It’s really not my fault. My husband is still peeved that our family spent most of our time in Lisbon at Casa Pasteis de Belemmooning over its famous custard tarts, so it’s in my DNA. But since it’s a sore subject, let’s move on…
I had a list of possible NYC shop stops and absolutely no sense of direction. Thankfully, the concierge at our hotel, The Algonquin, was a Cronut™ fan, so she was more than happy to map out three possibilities that would get my friend and I back in time for check-out.
A cup o’ joe and coffee cake at Baked in TriBeCa.
First up, was Bakedin TriBeCa. The place is just too cool for school. Besides being an old burlesque house where hot pieces named Trixie, Gladys and Midge worked hard for their money, the pole is still there and has been made into a multi-layered cake stand. The big neon orange “B” on the back wall also pays homage to its hoochie mama history.
B for ‘Baked’ not ‘Burlesque.’
As for the Baked goods, I wanted to sample every single thing, but settled for a cup of Stumptown Coffee, a warm, flaky, light biscuit with ham and cheddar and a piece of Baked’s coffee cake just to see if it was an good as mine. Jury’s still out. But, day-um, that was one delicious morning biscuit!
My friend, Mary Helen, whose tastes skew more savory than sweet, opted for the veggie turnover. Very flaky, very tasty.
I brought home a big box of goodies for Steve that included a Brookie (think flat muffin top-shaped brownie with a chocolate chip cookie Baked in the middle); a big pain au chocolat; a large cinnamon scone; a cinnamon bun frosted with a sour cream glaze (whoa) and 75 percent of my coffee cake and biscuit. (I had to pace myself.)
After mooning over Baked for 45 minutes, we grabbed a cab to Magnolia Bakery, the West Village cupcake shop made famous in “Sex and the City.” It was rather disappointing.
The shabby chic atmosphere was tired, a framed photo of Sarah Jessica Parker and Cynthia Nixon sitting outside the shop looked exhausted, and the signature red velvet cupcake I bought was dry and ended up in the trash. But don’t mind me. There were about a dozen pretty cakes all boxed up ready for pick up that looked worth the calories.
Cynthia Nixon and Sarah Jessica Parker film a ‘Sex and the City’ scene at Magnolia Bakery.
Tick, tock, tick, tock…
Our last stop was Dominique Ansel’s Cronut™ emporium that, much to our dismay, was sold out of the French pastry chef’s highly-hyped, laminated confection.
According to a post on the Cronut™ etiquette board – yes, there is such a thing – the bakery can’t boost production because even though Ansel’s staff bakes the croissant/doughnut hybrid and other pastries around the clock, the teeny tiny kitchen can’t handle it. Cronut™ quality would suffer. And Chef can’t let that happen.
The Cronut™ Etiquette Board.
Compared to our other two stops, Ansel’s SoHo posh patisserie was packed with starry-eyed pastry pilgrims as well as put upon locals who just wanted a coffee and croissant to go, dammit.
Oh, if you want a sandwich before noon, forget it, according to another sign. Ditto for the madeleines that are freshly piped and baked to order. While the prospect of out-of-the-oven madeleines — made famous by Proust, not Ansel – got me all warm and fuzzy, it was 11:15 a.m. Did I dare ask? Absolutely not.
So I ordered a croissant and a pain au chocolat. What I received in my bag was a croissant and a “DKA” that stands for Dominique’s Kouign Amann. It’s described as “tender, flaky, croissant-like dough with a caramelized crunchy crust.” I remember the bakers making the Kouign Amanns at Boston’s Flour Bakery + Café during my internship. Very sugary. Very buttery. And like the Cronut™, it must be eaten within 8 hours. My bite of the DKA was after 8 hours, so I missed the choir of angels singing in my head.
Mary Helen, who more than got into the spirit of the trip, bought a little blackberry bombe with chocolate mousse inside. We were on the Bolt Bus for an hour before it called to her from her carry-on. It was a delicate, delicious masterpiece that deserved to be flying the Concorde than slumming it in the rear of the sold-out 1 p.m. bus to Boston.
Dominique Ansel = Pastry Boutique
On the return trip home, I plotted my next NYC bakery hit list:Levainfor bread and its famous chocolate chip cookies; Sullivan Street Bakery also for bread; and a second stab at Dominique Ansel.
I have already corralled my cousin, Sandra, who will be with me on my next trip to NYC, into standing in line at 8 a.m. for a Cronut™. When I proposed the pastry plan via text, she answered me back in a flash: “Of course! I will get up anytime!” See? It’s what we do.
As an over-the-top Anglophile and a bakery groupie, I was thrilled the other night when British director/screenwriter Mat Kirkby gave a shout-out to his local doughnut shop when he copped an Oscar for Best Live Action Short.
James Lucas and Mat Kilerby accept their Oscar for Best Live Action Short.
In fact, it was unclear if “The Phone Call” auteur was more excited by his gold statuette or the prospect of a free pastry!
“I’m particularly happy because this now means I can get a free doughnut at my local bakery, the Pump Street Bakery,” said Kirkby, who accepted the Oscar on stage the other night with his writing partner James Lucas. “They do fantastic doughnuts, but we should stick to the script…”
No matter. Mat, a regular in the Suffolk shop’s café, is going to be on a steady diet of his favorite rhubarb doughnuts, according to owner Joanna Brennan.
“I think the Oscar win deserves more than one free coffee or doughnut,” Brennan told the BBC. “So we’re definitely going to be giving him free doughnuts for good now, as a thank you for the mention.”
Pump Street Bakery in Suffolk, England.
It’s the least they could do. After the impromptu PR on the telly, the bakery’s web site crashed, it’s Twitter and Facebook pages blew up and, oi, the bloody Phone Calls!
Baked NYC, 279 Church St. between White and Franklin streets, www.bakednyc.com; Magnolia Bakery, 401 Bleecker St. at W. 11th Street, www.magnoliabakery.com; Dominique Ansel, 189 Spring St. between Sullivan and Thompson streets, www.dominiqueansel.com; Pump Street Bakery, 1 Pump Street Orford, Suffolk, IP12 2LZ, 01394 459829, www.pumpstreetbakery.com.
I thought I was done. Not only with the 3-feet-plus of snow piled up on my lawn, but with my kitchen.
After yet another weekend hunkered down in the house where I baked, seared, sautéed, slow-cooked and fired up my dishwasher every 2 hours, I couldn’t bear to re-enter the kitchen today. Besides, I think I’m low on butter. Again.
But, as aging Godfather Michael Corleone once said, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”
This time, however, it wasn’t the mob. It was the snow.
The Wicked Whiteness guilted me back to the stove this morning to prepare a bowl of hot oatmeal for my wet and rather huffy hubby who had just come in from yet another date with his yellow snow shovel. We only have the one.
Mind you, there was a pan of leftover raspberry sweet rolls wrapped in plastic next to the coffee pot, but how could I expect him to warm them up in the oven after his morning ordeal?
Cue the constant voice in my head – the one of my Italian mother – that forced me to shuffle back to the kitchen.
“Do I get points for setting the timer on the coffee pot to go off at 7:30 a.m. so he’d have a hot cup before heading out,” I asked Mom-in-my-Mind.
“No,” she said. “GET UP AND TAKE CARE OF YOUR HUSBAND!”
Old-Fashioned Quaker Oats, raisins, cinnamon, maple syrup, here we go again…
Last night, I had a perfectly good pot of slow-cooked short ribs in the fridge, but the thought of de-fatting, straining and warming it as well as stirring up a pot of polenta to accompany the beef just glued me to my comfy chair and fleece blanket. So Steve had cavatappi with Barilla marinara sauce (our If-the-Electricity-Goes-Out meal) and I nuked a little wedge of leftover eggplant parm for myself. There was a warm, homemade baguette to accompany the meal, so I don’t feel that guilty.
The trouble with this storm is that once I start in the kitchen, it doesn’t end.
After his bowl of oatmeal and many cups of Jim’s Organic Coffee, Steve decided to write from home, so that meant lunch. At least we nearly finished up the salmon and leek quiche I made two days ago when I tested a pair of pate brisee recipes.
Not satisfied with just warming up the quiche, I noticed a container of chopped clams, a packet of bacon and more leeks in the fridge, so I made clam chowder. And those nearly black bananas staring at me from the bowl? They dared me to mash and bake them into a loaf of banana bread. So I did.
See? I’m on my second dishwasher load and the afternoon is young.
I have the short ribs for dinner, but what about dessert? The banana bread is fine for accompanying a cup of tea but dessert? Nah. Though I’m pretty sure I have some pie dough in the freezer…
Oh, and this just in: WCVB-TV meteorologist Harvey Leonard, the dean of Boston’s weather trackers, said he’s keeping his eye on another storm that will land around Thursday. And shortly after the weather report, Massachusetts Gov. Charlie Baker declared a state of emergency (read: another day in the house).
So Wednesday is probably the only day available to brave the 30+ inches we have here on the South Shore of Boston and forage for more food for the rest of the week. Actually, pantry-wise, we’re not doing too badly. I haven’t had to dip into the freezer yet. But if I run out of dishwasher soap this week, I may throw myself in front of a snowplow.
But I learned something, too. Apparently, American Chop Suey is a New England thing. I was shocked. Just shocked, I tell you. I grew up on the stuff. Who knew it was colloquial chow?
I should mention that American Chop Suey should not be confused with Chow Mein Sandwiches, a “delicacy” on the SouthCoast. The sandwich is comprised of gloppy chow mein – complete with those crunchy sticks – in a white sub roll. I still don’t get it but it’s a staple at church fairs in New Bedford and Fall River. Blech. Excuse me while I go hunt down the malasadas. But I digress…
American Chop Suey is anti-fancy food: ground hamburger, chopped onions, chopped green peppers, elbow macaroni and tomato sauce. It has to be elbows, but I can live with the small shells in a pinch. I once saw my Aunt Rose dump chopped carrots into her version. I fled her kitchen in disgust, but I am sure I ate it.
As a chubby kid, nothing made me happier than discovering “American Chop Suey” on the school lunch menu. And the cafeteria stuff couldn’t come close to my mother’s recipe that was made with her own tomato sauce.
“Ugh, I make such a pig of myself when I make it,” Mom said the other night. “So I don’t make it that often. It kills me, you know, because your father and I love it.”
My vat of American Chopped Suey
Who doesn’t? My New York-bred husband, to whom I introduced this dish 28 years ago, will eat the entire pot of it topped with Parmesan cheese unless I don’t quickly scrape the rest of the pot into Tupperware. To slim things down (guffaws expected here), I now make it with ground turkey or chicken. But Steve still needs a sherpa to scale the mountain of American Chop Suey in his bowl.
So after last week’s fretful Tuesday in the Paraclete Academy kitchen wondering how many kids would turn their noses up at teriyaki salmon a la Ming Tsai (only two), I vowed this week to make something familiar that I knew everyone – except the vegetarian teachers — would eat.
And yes, I made my own marinara sauce.
My marinara bubbles away in the big stockpot
Even after the kids shouted out in unison, “Thank you, Miss Laura,” I noticed that the American Chop Suey didn’t wow everyone. It’s got to be a generational thing.
Others asked for seconds on salad topped with my own Italian vinaigrette, and a table scrum broke out over the extra warm garlic bread (real garlic, parsley and olive oil). Go figure.
My weekly kitchen helper/critic later told me — after his large second helping of suey — that not all kids like “the brown pasta.”
“Next time use the white,” he ordered.
Silly me. I thought they wouldn’t notice that I used wheat elbows or ground turkey instead of hamburger. This Tuesday night gig in the Paraclete kitchen is an eye opener.
Being my mother’s daughter, I made waaaay too much. Four tubs of American Chop Suey were stowed in the freezer — like that would ever happen in my house.
As for the apple raisin cake I baked for dessert, I noticed there were a few pieces left.
My girl, B, whose kitchen job was to sprinkle grated Parmesan over the 25 helpings of pasta, was despondent over dessert because it had raisins in it.
Mrs. Lamb’s Apple Cake
“I hate raisins,” she whined.
“Taste it,” I cajoled. “Please.”
So she did.
“Nope,” B said. “Still hate raisins. Now what am I going to have for dessert?”
It hit me when I walked in the door of the kitchen: the smell of eggs boiling on the stove. My stomach flipped. If this was how I was to begin my Tuesday cooking stint at Paraclete Academy, I was in for quite a ride.
As readers of this blog are well aware, eggs are my Achilles heel. Some people are afraid of spiders, others of clowns. Me? I have a panic attack in the presence of egg salad. It’s stupid, it’s irrational, but it’s my issue. And I didn’t need “issues” to dog me on Day One.
The aforementioned eggs belonged to a teacher at Paraclete, an afterschool program in South Boston where I volunteered to cook chicken pot pie, prepare a salad and bake apples for 25 kids and teachers. I had my prep list, a couple of scaled-up recipes on my iPad, all the ingredients and my big ass Cuisinart to make 3 pounds of pie dough.
Fail to plan, plan to fail, right?
Besides the wretched reek of egg salad in the kitchen, the 5 pounds of chicken breasts I ordered were frozen solid and the digital clock in the kitchen was an hour behind schedule.
Immediately, the chicken came out of the freezer to thaw, and the young, friendly teachers who lived on site, made themselves scarce. I think I scared them.
While I scaled the flour, salt, butter and shortening for the crust, principal Jackie Parker came in to greet me with a young girl in tow. Apparently, the Southie high school freshman helped her out on Tuesdays when the principal was in charge of dinner. (Monday and Wednesday a chef comes in to cook, another volunteer prepares dinner on Thursday.)
“She usually tells me how to do things,” said Parker, who offered up the girl’s assistance – after her homework was finished.
“Great,” I lied said with a big smile. “There are lots of things for you to do! “
Look, I’m a kitchen control freak. Unless you offer to wash pots and pans (thanks, Mom), please go away. I don’t need any help.
Doris the Lunch Lady from ‘The Simpsons’
Truth be told, the kid was my saving grace.
After homework, G peeled and cut all the vegetables, washed and prepared the salad, made vinaigrette and sweetly seasoned the 25 apples I had cored. She tackled the dish sink and washed down the benches. And I didn’t have to ask.
Feeling confidant as I rolled out the dough to top the chicken pot pies and played artfully with the crust, G called over from checking her iPhone, “You know it’s really 6 o’clock, right?”
DAMMIT. I jacked up the temperature on the ovens, threw in four pans of pot pie and two pans of cinnamon-spiked apples and prayed. I was working, after all, in a former convent’s kitchen, so there had to be some Divine Intervention still hidden in the walls…
“Don’t worry,” G said as she plated salad before her father arrived to pick her up. “They don’t care what it looks like just as long as it tastes good. And everything already is cooked in the pie, so it shouldn’t take that long to bake.”
Garden Salad by G
The kid was right, of course. At 6:48, the students and teachers lined up outside the kitchen door and I began service with two volunteer runners.
“We’re getting dessert tonight,” asked one excited boy as he got a whiff of the apple pan.
“Yup, there’s a little dessert – baked apples with vanilla yogurt on top,” I said. “’Cuz I’m a dessert kinda gal.”
“Hey, you guys, we’re getting DESSERT,” he called out down the line.
I laughed as I heard the D-word echo back about a dozen times as I dished chicken and vegetables onto plates.
Who knew a bag of mini Macouns from Sunnycrest Farmin Londonderry, N.H. – a gift from my BFF Mary Helen — was going to be the star of the show? So what if my pot pies didn’t have leaves cut free hand on the crust. THERE WAS DESSERT, GUYS.
After I washed the rest of the dishes and pots, swept the floor and packed up the Cuisinart, timers, rolling pin and my knife kit, I pulled out of center’s parking lot on E Street at around 8:30 p.m. -– or 7:30 p.m. PKT (Paraclete Kitchen Time).
According to my kitchen spies, Ming Tsai‘s Salmon would be a good choice for my next gig in the kitchen on Dec. 3. Since I have settled on my main dish, I’m now open to dessert ideas…
The Commonwealth of Massachusetts is of the opinion I’m a menace to the road. In fact, I’m such a threat to man and beast when I get behind the wheel, the Registry of Motor Vehicles threatened to pull my license if I didn’t pony up $125 to attend a day-long, re-education seminar called “Attitudinal Dynamics of Driving.”
The National Safety Council workbook.
First off, there’s nothing wrong with my attitude about driving. I love to buzz around in my wheels. Roadtrips ‘R’ Us. However, the RMV’s attitude about my car accident last month was a much different story.
I totaled my 2005 Saab wagon a few weeks ago when I rear-ended another Saab on Route 123 in Scituate. And back in 2012 I was cited for my failure to heed a stop sign in Wellesley and some other infraction that day that escapes me.
“Anytime a motorist is found responsible for three or more surchargeable events in a two year period, the motorist is required by law to attend and pass the Driver Retraining Program,” according to the letter I received in the mail.
Hence, my 8-hour “retraining” the other day in a windowless room in a West Bridgewater office building.
There were 14 of us road menaces in the cramped classroom rented by the National Safety Council. I was one of three women and the oldest of the bunch. Also, I was one of maybe three who was not a repeat visitor. One kid was on his fourth class. The girl in the pink hoodie had to take two classes – the one on Tuesday, another next week. Geesh.
I also had a valid Massachusetts driver’s license. Many did not. And the RMV, not the courts, had sent me there. Phew.
Before our re-education, ground rules were set: No one can leave the building except at lunchtime. And no one could hang around the front entry because it scares the patients who have appointments in the doctors’ offices next door.
“Some of you look menacing,” said the instructor, a gruff, no-nonsense guy in his 60s. “People don’t want to get out of their cars. It’s the landlord’s rule, not mine.”
For the illiterate amongst us, he continued with a recitation of the “Rules of Operation and Conduct Policy” posted on the wall:
A student may be dismissed or barred from the class for tardiness; intoxication; consumption of controlled substances on the premises; rudeness; vulgar or disruptive behavior; carrying firearms or smoking in the classroom; or for inattentiveness such as sleeping, reading materials not contained in the course of instruction during the class. Students dismissed from violating the rules of conduct may be readmitted at the discretion of the National Safety Council and the Registry of Motor Vehicles.
It seemed pretty straight forward, but students fail to remember them, get kicked out and must re-schedule another session. And, yes, pay another $125, said the instructor.
Next, he went around the room to find out why we were there. It was gold, Jerry. Gold!*
One guy from New Bedford who sat in front of me spewed vitriol about the cops and how one wrote him up because he left his car running while inside a 7-Eleven. Apparently that’s a no-no.
“I have no respect for cops,” he barked. “They’re supposed to protect us but all they do is violate our civil rights.”
In fact, the Hater was so angry he was bagged for something so stupid, he began to videotape the cop on his cellphone. I didn’t say he was a genius. This young father of two toddlers also proudly admitted he periodically outruns the cops in his souped-up Dodge Charger. Wanna bet this idiot’s photo is tacked up in his local police precinct? He also said he’s had 14 points added to his insurance. Only 14???
Another kid got bagged for drag racing in his BMW. He lost his license and his Beemer. I suspect there’s more to that tale…
There were more than a few OUIs, a couple of texting incidents, inspection sticker problems, lots of excessive speed (‘driving to endanger’), tailgating aka “aggressive driving,” and a rather nice, polite kid from the ‘burbs whose long rocker dude hair obstructed his view of the road and caused a three-car pile-up.
When it was my turn to tell my menacing back-story, I held back a few of the details. I offered up that I was distracted and rear-ended a car that was stopped to make a left-hand turn. Period.
I chose to edit out that I took my eyes off the road when I glanced to see if my farm stand had cornstalks for sale. I wanted to decorate my porch for fall, you see…
Look, I already stuck out like a sore thumb in my hoodie-less J. Jill ensemble, Barbour coat and prescription reading glasses. I just wanted to fit in, dammit.
Barbour Classic Beadnell Jacket
Seated to my left in the back row was a 40ish African-American man with a file folder filled with summonses, warning letters and a few other official looking documents. He dropped into a conversation about his new 15-seat passenger van that he had 23 kids, three of whom were 3-years-old from three different women.
“You sure you don’t play in the NBA,” I joked.
“No, I don’t,” he said obviously oblivious to the reference. “I’m a businessman and none of my kids is being taken care of by the state. I put my older kids through college. I work hard, man,” he told me.
“You sure do,” I said much to the amusement of the class.
Later, he told me he owns real estate, a vending machine company and plays the stock market. He bought Converse stock cheap before Nike bought the local company in 2003 for $305 million. And when Facebook’s shares took a Face-plant after its IPO, he bought at the bottom. It’s now trading around $80 per share.
I decided I liked this guy and we kind of bonded. He razzed me about my workbook doodles (‘Grapes? Boxes? Flowers? Can’t you draw nothin’ else?) and when it was my turn to call on somebody in the class, I picked him. “No one makes fun of my doodles,” I told him.
Other tidbits from my neighbor: He was stabbed in the back – literally – and has a medical marijuana license. I knew there was a reason he was so chill.
The driver’s assessment questionnaire.
The class instruction was a mix of anecdotes from the teacher (many of which went on waaaay too long), exercises in a workbook as well as a standardized driving self-assessment survey.
I scored high in the Power/Competitive category, but I also scored points for my courtesy to other drivers. Yes, yes, I did, Gayle Fee.
Power/Competitive? Moi?
Since this blog is usually about food, at lunchtime I drove across the street to Chili’s where I ordered a mediocre chicken enchilada dish, a cup of soup (that arrived cold) and iced tea.
While awaiting my meal, I flipped through issues of Saveur and Fine Cooking to check out holiday recipes. Somehow I don’t think I could have done that next-door at Wendy’s with my fellow road terrorists without being mocked. Besides, I felt so grateful for a valid driver’s license in my wallet, I had to use it!
Moving on…
During the latter half of the day, we were shown a couple of National Safety Council videos. The acting was so bad in the first flick it was comical. But like the proverbial train wreck, you couldn’t help to watch. So maybe there was a method to the madness. This vid was shown during the “don’t drive under the influence of alcohol, street or prescription drugs or over-the-counter meds” part of the program.
I don’t know who was my favorite – the high schooler who wheeled his bike erratically after he downed two cold medications or the annoying 20something who took a handful of anti-anxiety drugs as she bitched about her boyfriend while on the phone with a friend. Later, she then hopped in the car to drive her younger sibs to a concert. None of these scenerios ended well. But you knew that already.
The next video showed drivers breaking the law and you had to pick out the infractions. Wait, you can’t pass on the right on the shoulder? You can get ticketed for beeping your horn or tailgating? Yup.
Truthfully, I didn’t remember the rule about keeping your distance from the car in front of you. The instructor said you’re supposed to count “1-1000, 2-1000, 3-1000” from the time the car in front of you passes a landmark.
“Come on. Who does that,” I asked. “Isn’t there some rule about car lengths?”
The teacher got a little testy with me – but not as p.o.-ed as he was with the Arab student who said he understood English but couldn’t speak it very well. Ooooh, that was ugly, especially after he was bagged going out to his car during a break.
The instructor said I should have learned the tailgating rules in driver’s ed. You mean that course I took 37 years ago?
“Cut me some slack here,” I laughed. (He didn’t.)
He offered up an alternative: Keep back 100 feet for every 10 miles per hour the car is traveling. So if it’s 50 mph, it’s 500 feet. That seems excessive but I didn’t want to belabor the issue. Besides it was getting late and Father of the Year next to me had a meeting to get to by 5 p.m. It was probably with his broker. Or maybe the medical marijuana dispensary was going to close. I didn’t ask.
The high drama came at the end when the anonymous course evaluations were completed and collected. The instructor became furious over one evaluation that gave him a poor score and elaborated on his performance in a F-word-laced tirade.
However, the kid began his venomous eval with this, “Please excuse the profanity, but it can’t be helped.” (Of course I read it. I even played Sherlock Holmes by comparing penmanship on the course sign-in sheet. I concluded it was the down-on-his-luck kid seated to my right.)
Nice deerstalker, Mr. Holmes.
A couple of class veterans chimed in that he was the best instructor they’ve ever had. Even Cop Hater gave him a good score. In fact, the guy’s chip on his shoulder didn’t seem as deep by the end of class.
I stayed after class was dismissed and tried to placate the shaken instructor. One idiot’s poor assessment shouldn’t cause him to change his teaching style. After I thanked him, I drove out of the parking lot with both hands on the wheel, my seat belt fastened and my eyes straight ahead.
When I got on Route 24 North, I tested the “1-1000, 2-1000” tailgate rule since I can’t eyeball 100 feet never mind 650. But the process distracted me. So I put on my directional and changed lanes. Seemed safer that way.
