This will be the last official post on this blog. I've renamed and redesigned over here, but it is still me - just
think of this as our moving announcement.

We're moving! Please visit us at Simmer Till Done

Sharing the ups and down of our "new old house" with you has been my sincere pleasure. But now
the house is standing on its own two feet. Its slab foundation. Whatever.

Clearly, the house doesn't need me prodding it into the light anymore - perhaps it's gone all adolescent
and would rather not be seen at all.   Still, there are stories to tell, and things to eat, and burning
questions you might need answered. I think most of them are in the kitchen.



For example - why did I photograph butternut squash soup but never post it?  Why?



How did blueberry scones lead to a night of lonely crying in a Santa Monica hotel?



Does banana bread really solve any problem?



Will pizza still taste good if you don't spiral the sauce? 



Did Josie and her pal Emily really have a Bobby Flay-style throwdown using Thin Mints,
jelly beans and cream cheese?



What's so great about Free State Brewery, anyway? 

And the most important answer at Simmer Till Done...



...what does Greg eat for lunch?

Please change your links and your emails as we bid this site farewell - and thank you again
for your support and your comments, and the way you keep making me show and tell.

        

It's bad enough, the way I peek at their pink bricks and the tall windows.



Now I also want to have tea in their garden.



I live just a block away but we haven't met, so I walk past their magnificent house every
day with my dog and her pretty red leash - who knows? It's spring, and Cleo is very shiny
in the light.  One morning they could step outside, wave and say "my, that's a sweet dog."

Cleo blinks like a baby seal.

"You wait there," friendly brick-lady will say. "I'll just bring out some tea." 

Then I will play it cool.

"Me - wow, okay! Can you wait like 45 minutes?"  I start jogging backwards.  "I'll go home
and bake some madeleines...be right back!"

I am a cool customer.  "Can I make a centerpiece? Some daffodils?"



Isn't there always a place we'd like to be invited, but wind up invited somewhere else?

Tea in a neighboring garden is where I'd like to be. 

Everyone has a happy go-to image - one you summon when you are where you'd rather not be. I have
my breezy would-be tea under the trees -   two wire chairs in the grass, a plate of cookies on the table,
a kind neighbor and the first hours of spring. 

Ooh, that is a thought.  Time to butter those shell-shaped tins.



Madeleines do make fine introductions.  Carry these and every door is open!

Madeleines

Beautiful scalloped madeleine tins are traditionally used for these French cake-like tea cookies,
but try shallow mini-muffin pans for a similar effect.

yield: 2 dozen cookies

2/3 cup superfine sugar (granulated sugar is fine)
3 eggs
1 egg yolk
juice of 1/2 lemon
pinch of salt
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, sifted
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, melted

Preheat oven to 350º F  and butter or spray 24 madeleine molds.

Beat the sugar, whole eggs, egg yolk, lemon juice, and salt in an electric mixer bowl on low speed
until well-blended.  Fold in the flour until well-combined.  Slowly add the melted butter to the mixture,
and stir to blend.

Spoon the batter into the molds, filling no more than 2/3 full.

Bake the cookies for 20-25 minutes, or until slightly golden.  Unmold and cool cookies on
wire racks.  Sift powdered sugar lightly over cookies and serve, preferably warm.

from The Charms of Tea, Reminiscences and Recipes

        

Yes, our magnificent Kansas Jayhawks won the NCAA National Basketball Championship last night. And
yes, over 40,000 people - with us, 40,003 - poured down to Mass Street last night to party "like it was
1988" - that's when Greg and I were college students and the last time KU won a national championship.

Surely it's no coincidence that we moved back here and they win again. Our pleasure to help
out, Coach Self - any time!

In other news (there's other news?) Lawrence landed on Prevention magazine's list of the 100 most
walkable cities in America.  Woo-hoo, number 38! If you live near the historic center of this college town, it's
true - you can walk to school, banks, drugstores, restaurants, movies...and a lot of very good coffee.

I was going to write a whole serious-sounding piece on why it's really important to have walkable cities,
but last night's basketball bonanza reminded me why living near a lively downtown full of sidewalks isn't
just important...



...it's fun!



Oh yes indeed it's fun to run right out the front door, walk two blocks and take your kid to
a drunken all-night street party. It builds character.

Are we parents of the year, or what?



Rock Chalk Jayhawk -- 'cause who knows when it will come again.

The 1988-2008 circle is complete.  I can now resume my schedule of not really caring about
sports - until next season.

Editor's Note:  Readers have been asking why my husband and daughter look green, and well, a
lot of people looked green that night, and also hurled at policemen's feet - but that's not it.
Their green faces are attributable to our beautiful old downtown street lamps, which cast a greenish
white light over everything.  It made the party even more surreal, like an alien championship win!

        

In 1907 the author Carolyn Wells wrote Marjorie's Vacation, in which a high-spirited girl rides a train and
summers at her grandmother's well-appointed country house. The book was part of a Marjorie series, and
though I don't know who loved them in 1907, I know at least one edition passed seven decades' worth of
readers before it got to me.

In 1976 Marjorie and her pals Molly and Stella mesmerized me with their summer tale, and I read and re-read
it by flashlight until it was torn and nearly spineless. I took Marjorie with me as a clothbound lucky charm, faithful
to the red book despite teen boys, a ratty college apartment, young married life and finally, our new old house - she
arrived in moving box #28.
  
My plan was to keep the book safe enough for my some-day Josie's some-day shelf, and that's where Marjorie
lives today, still well-loved, mostly by flashlight.

Nothing much happens in Marjorie.  She finds kittens, presses wildflowers, and - this is key - falls off a roof
and sprains her ankle.  Laid up by her own foolishness, Marjorie must spend a month in bed.  A month? Years
later I would think, my god - slap on an Ace bandage on that girl and move it along! 

While she heals, wacky Uncle Steve-from-the-city brings Marjorie a stack of ladies' magazines and a blank
journal so that she may spend her days in freshly ironed pink pyjamas, making house-scenes in her book. 

I'll bet you six glue sticks Carolyn Wells never dreamed she'd inspire a pony-tailed 70's girl to do the same, much
less her thoroughly modern daughter - but here we are, one hundred and one years after Marjorie took her
vacation, still cutting and pasting the only house book we'll ever need.












Josie's red room.




my English room



You rock, Carolyn Wells, and your curly-headed Marjorie does, too.  Thanks!

        

The Kansas Jayhawks play the North Carolina Tarheels this evening.  Soon.

They will play in San Antonio, but here in Lawrence, people are losing their minds. I know, I know, it's just a
stupid game - but when you live in the very center of the game, the damn Naismith birthplace of said stupid
game - well, there is no beating them.  So you might as well join them.

And that means Rock Chalk - please!

It's a pretty even match, but everyone can use a little luck, right? Good luck. 

The kind of luck only a bronze pig snout can bring.



This big beautiful guy is on the "Country Club Plaza" in Kansas City, Missour-ah, one
of the first outdoor shopping-leisure-pleasure zones in the country (thank you!), dating
from 1922.  It's home to incredible art, great shopping, and amazing Spanish-style architecture. 

Yep, right in Kan-sas City.  BBQ and Seville-replica clock towers make an oddly perfect match!

This boar sculpture - he's one of the only early reproductions of some famous Florence sculptor's
work - Borricelli, Botticelli, Vermicelli, I don't remember - but he is more than that.  He is a lucky pig.

I know ths because everyone who walks by him on the Plaza has been rubbing his snout for
luck.  For decades. As you can imagine, and as you can see, above, this has not left a lot of bronze
on the snout.

But he has, apparently, brought luck to a lot of people.  That's Josie's hand up there, rubbing off
bronze -- please, well-sculpted lucky boar, let it be for the Jayhawks. I want a happy family in the off-season.

Porky PS:  the post title is inspired not only by Chinese food - just writing "Lucky Bronze Pork"
made me want to dial up some twice-cooked, and a few dumplings - but by the very funny
and talented cartoon blog Lucky Pork, she of the amusing drawings and the delicious name.  Thanks
to Jean for the blog tip - and be sure to check it out!

        

I've been using the same fluted cutter for years and I never saw it coming.



If only that dough had talked to someone!

        

Now on your snack bar, Cranberry Chocolate Chip.

Eat some sugar, pour that coffee and wakey-wakey! Only three hours 'til dinner.

You're welcome.

        

Our house this morning, 7:34 am.



I am just running Cleo out when I turn and snap a picture of our dirt. A truck pulls up and
the driver watches me, but short-shorts girl across the street doesn't bat an eye.

Walking that dog with a camera again. What-ever!

Since we moved in on December 15, the sky has only poured rain, snow or ice - so instead of
living with benign dry dirt, we've had a moat.

A muddy moat. If you wished to get to the yard you'd have to cross soggy bits of carpet, moldy
moving boxes and wet gray boards shot with rusted nails. Day after muddy day, Greg would frown
and say "god...it looks like World War I out there."



Our house at 5:00 pm - peace on earth!  The guys in the truck were sod guys, and spent
the day rolling out a miraculous green carpet.  I can't believe it. 

Greg beams at the grass.  It's worth noting that my husband likes plants about as much
as he likes aquariums.  Greg, want to go the aquarium?  Eh - fish.

Okay, how about some gardening? 

We were walking today and I said, "oh, wait, I want to get a shot of that forsythia."



And Greg said, "who?"  Eh.

But show him a truck filled with perfect rolls of grass...



...and suddenly he's cruising the sprinkler aisles.

Seriously, in 14 years of marriage we've never had a decent lawn.  At our first place, a three-flat in
Chicago's Wrigleyville, we had a fabulous urban garden courtesy of Tad & Kirby, the uber-gay power
couple upstairs.  They had pugs and Stickley chairs and green thumbs, but one day Kirby packed his
Fiestaware and split.  Tad nursed his broken heart and the yard went to hell.

At our 1929 ex-house here in Lawrence, we battled dry shade, acorns, and seed-strangling tree roots. We
killed everything from grass to groundcover to mulch before accepting that even Astro Turf could not, would
not survive that spot.

So imagine our pleasure - our immense gratification - at a few instant yards of soft, green lawn. 



We stood and looked at it, amazed.  Then I said "why do we have lawns, anyway?"

"I believe we have the English to blame,"  said Greg.  He knows I love the English.  Damn.

"Well, it looks good there - in the gardens and everything.  But here - I mean, how did everyone
come to need their little square, anyway?  Isn't it just some kind of symbol of man taming nature?"

"Yes," he said, "it is."  And then he went off to find the hose.

        

Last August, the new old house needed a chimney, and as we are not third-generation bricklayers, someone
else was going to do it.

Builder Dan gave us a list of proposed subcontractors. He wanted Company X, or maybe Company Y, but he did
not want Dick Chilton. As in, “I hope we don’t need to go to Dick Chilton.”

Why? It seems Dick was a masonry prima donna, and had built two reputations: one as "the best around," and
the other as an abrasive, thick-headed jerk.

When X and Y weren’t available, we were forced to go with Dick, and he more than lived up to his reputation.
He worked at a glacial place without interruption, glaring at assistants and scowling at bricks. He also scowled
at mailmen, truck drivers, birds, leaves, and the stupid people who were paying him well.

We started referring to him as  “Dick Chimney," and don't bother asking why – I don't remember, and who
among us knows how private jokes begin, anyway? He didn’t speak to us, he would not be introduced to us,
would not look at us, but his name was Dick and he worked on the chimney, so he was Dick Chimney.

I confess that between us, we have a lot of private names for people. But this one struck us as especially
hilarious, because let's face it, the title had a certain X-rated ring.

”Who’s on site today?” we’d say.  Heh.

“Dick Chimney.”  Heh heh heh.

I think we play this shorthand game as a function of both humor and ignorance. We are either cowards who
snigger at people from afar, or we really just don’t know their name.  Maybe it's funny, or maybe it's not, but it
is an unbreakable habit, the naming.

Let's take the petite young barista with a haughty tone - clearly it was our privilege to receive her coffee -  Princess Pissypants.  Credit Josie for the brilliant Pissypants part.

It is a neverending list of shame.  The waiter who rushes dinner is Abrupt Guy.  The crunchy fifty-something Nepal trekker is Buddhist Woman.  (my e-mail to Greg - "Buddhist Woman's here.  Headed home.") A pear-shaped retiree
holds court in the coffee shop daily at nine.   He is Pontificus Blohardus.

Our friend’s southern husband, the one who looks like Morrissey?  Kentucky-Fried Morrissey - KFM to those
in the know. 

I'm sure that listening to us would be quite appalling.  I might hate us. 

The pale local weather girl is Ghosty.  Dreemy is the Thai food server from another planet, and the restaurant
host who habitually over-estimates the wait time is The Voice of Doom, as in, oh great, the Voice of Doom
is working today.

Some of our other Hall of Namers include Chuck Wagon (sweaty and stout, brings onion sandwiches
to the library) Suspicious Guy (why is he looking at us?) and certainly Senor Crappuccino, a barista who
repeatedly made lousy drinks and what's more, filled them only halfway.

But we talked, he improved, and guess what?  Senor Ex-Crappuccino.

I'm afraid it's too late for Josie, who frequently knows people by their pretend-names.  Regarding one
young college neighbor who likes to run in a rather bouncy manner:

“Booby Girl got home really late last night,” she’ll say.  “She was wearing shorts and she was not alone.”

I fear that both of our moms are right, that we are in fact mean and terrible people, but then again, we
amuse ourselves and we hurt no one.  Come on, if a guy worked on your house every day for six months
wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with "P-O-R-N,"  wouldn’t you call him Porn T-Shirt Guy?

The Name Game generally doesn't apply to anyone we like, and though we're not looking too kind right
now, believe me, there are a few.   There was the nice quiet guy our handyman used to bring around -  the one
with no nose.   It's true - he lost his nose in some freak prison accident years ago, and now breathes through
two little holes like a gentle, pint-sized Voldemort.  So we named him No-Nose. 

Mean!  Oh, mean, you say? Don’t kid yourself.   Once you see a guy with no nose, that is their name. 

And then there is Old Shoe.  Old Shoe has since moved away, but one night, years ago, his wife drank too
much Pinot and casually told me that sleeping with him was like putting on an old shoe. 

Oh, Shoe, I’m so sorry.  In our little naming world, you are among the sad and unjust. Don’t get me wrong,
it gives me a giggle, a fine old Dick Chimney giggle. 

But Shoe, I’m just so glad you don’t know who you are. 

Dick Chimney at work.  Don't talk to him.

        

Right now I'm about done with March Madness, as in my eyes are two basketballs and I'm reciting
beer commercials by heart. Here in the final days of the Final Four there is an ugly turn toward
March Mystery - will I stay sane? Does the game really hold life-altering consequences? Will we ever
watch a movie again?

Well Rock Chalk Jayhawk and all that, but the only game I control is in the kitchen, and that means
whether our beloved Jayhawks win or lose win, the situation calls for serious snacks.

So I make Sugar Curried Almonds.

They have easy grab-ability and hit every major snack point: crunchy, salty, sweet, and plentiful.
Nutritious almonds redeem the crystallized crust, and believe me, that's good - because on the
muncher's addiction scale, these toasty little gems rate very, very high.



Time to get nuts!  Almonds, curry powder, sugar, salt, egg white.




Toast the almonds on a baking sheet and cool slightly. Transfer to a bowl, and breathe in their
sunburned goodness; now you know the meaning of almond joy.



Whisk the egg white to frothy with a little water, and pour over the cooled almonds.



Add sugar the way Chef Kader, my mentor, would - "like the fallen snow."



A little curry and a little salt...



...and now we stir.  And fold, and stir.  And fold...



..and stir.  Fold and stir until the mixture comes together and completely coats the almonds.



Spread the almonds on a lightly sprayed baking sheet, pressing to make an even layer.



Bake about one hour, occasionally pulling the pan and carefully turning the almonds.



You may leave the kitchen, but it won't be for long.  Few aromas are this cunning and
spicy and curling.  This is a smell that demands you stand by the oven and wait.

It can linger in your kitchen for days -



- but the snacks won't last quite that long.


Sugar Curried Almonds

1 pound (about 5 cups) whole almonds
1 egg white
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons curry powder
1 tablespoon salt

Preheat oven to 250 F.

Toast almonds on a baking sheet about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until fragrant.
Cool to room temperature.

In a large bowl, whisk egg white with 1 teaspoon water until frothy.

Stir in the almonds and sprinkle with sugar, curry powder and salt.  Mix well.

Lightly coat the baking sheet with vegetable cooking spray.  Spread the almonds in a
single layer on the sheet.  Bake approximately 1 hour or until nuts are dry, stirring
once or twice.

Store at room temperature in an airtight container, up to one month.

Nut note:  This recipe is also the perfect cocktail nibble.  Put in bowls around your
party and watch them disappear.

recipe adapted from Real Simple