'Sinthe I Met You

"Do you see this?" my aunt said, pointing to a small glass in the hand of a wild woman on an album cover, "I think it's absinthe."

"What's absinthe?"

"It's illegal, and it makes you see things."

The album was Pearl. The wild woman was Janis Joplin. The year was 1971.

I was 8 years old.

God, I love my aunt.

There began my lifelong obsession with absinthe. I was fascinated by it. Maybe because it was forbidden, maybe because it was such a pretty color, or maybe just because I always secretly wanted to be able to pull off a feather boa as an everyday fashion accessory like Janis. I really don't know. But that brief moment stuck with me. Someday I would find that elusive liquid.

As years and luck would have it, I found myself in Paris in 1983. Although it was still contraband, I was convinced that someone would have a bottle tucked behind the bar, and that if I asked nicely enough, and offered plenty of francs, I would be secreted into some back dusty room and allowed entrance into the world of the Fairy.

Between my ears my life plays out like a 1940's movie. The reality is never as glamorous. I must have popped into fifty bars during my stay and every bartender denied my request, and at least half of them muttered something nasty under their breath. Was I really just a 'Stoopit Amerikhan'? Yes, yes I was. So, I quenched my thirst with something delightful: bottles of Dom Perignon purchased with my strong 12 to 1 Stoopit Amerikhan dollar. I had so much champagne in my bags when I left that customs refused to stamp my passport. I felt smug with my vast assortment of vintage bubbly, but it couldn't fill up that tiny part of me that left without the one thing I came for.

As the years rolled on, and baby bottles replaced champagne bottles and play dates replaced trips abroad, I forgot about my green obsession; until one day during a half-hearted dusting session I was interrupted by a faint voice on the Travel Channel.

A gentleman by the name of Ted Breaux was talking....about absinthe! I dropped my dust rag and was all ears. Transported instantly from housewife to Bohemian, my sole thought was how to get around not paying the electric bill in favor of getting my hands on some wormwood-laced euphoria. Needless to say, the electric bill was paid; but shortly thereafter I did receive a lovely green box as a gift from my husband. And, how convenient that it came complete with an absinthe spoon!

I waited a few days before I actually opened the bottle. I just kept staring at it on the kitchen counter, and although I now know that the stories of hallucinating are just myth, and that it is no longer illegal, I almost felt guilty about having it - and a little saddened by the fact that a lot of the mystique is gone. It really would have been so much better if I had had the privilege of a clandestine glass in Paris, as opposed to a sample in my kitchen with my daughter snapping pictures for my blog. C'est la vie.

I carefully prepared my brew. Slowly pouring ice water over the sugar cube poised on the pretty spoon, I watched in awe as the liquid changed. I closed my eyes and entered my own little world of make-believe, lifted the glass, and took a slow sip.

It was strong. It was a bit like anisette. But most of all, it was wonderful. Finally, after 37 years of wanting and wondering, I knew what the proverbial buzz was all about.

It makes you feel lovely, and it makes your lips numb. There is definitely something different from the average drink going on here. I know that the absinthe aficionados will disagree, and that maybe my imagination was running wild, but there was almost an instantaneous change in my demeanor. A happy change.

I am looking forward to many more tiny glasses of opaque giddiness. And, the next time I lift my glass, I'll lift it to my aunt, who made my childhood very cool.

Sometimes you just have to ask....

Just a few short blips on the calender ago, I was bemoaning the fact that I couldn't get into the spirit of the season because, among other things, it was 65 degrees and sunny. Well, the (almost) impossible has happened....it snowed in Las Vegas.

Yes, snow...in the desert. There is something slightly apocalyptic about seeing snow on palm trees. It's like one of those "find what's wrong with this picture" games. But, for a few brief, wintry hours, I felt like I was home. I wrangled my winter coat from the depths of the closet, and made my way to the store. I was thrust into hibernation mode, and needed to stock up in case we were snowed in. And, in true first-snowfall-of-the-season fashion, I made a hearty pot of chili to warm the bones and the soul.

When I woke up this morning, water was running off the eaves, and the sun was shining once more. By noon, the roads were almost completely clear, and I looked like a fool still traipsing around in my winter coat. Someone even mocked me by asking where my snow boots were. To them, the snow was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

To me, it was much more. It broke me out of my tiny 'bah-humbug' box, and pushed me right into merry mode.

'Tis definitely the season!

While I was shopping....

Generally speaking, I do my daily food shopping on semi auto pilot. Yes, I said daily. I shop every day. I experimented once about five years ago with doing a weekly shop, but I wound up with a fridge full of rotting food. I just can't anticipate what I'll feel like cooking four days from now.....

Anyway, a few days ago my daughter and I were taking an unusually long, leisurely stroll through the aisles, basically because we were bored and had nothing else to do. At the end of one of the aisles the store had a small display aimed at inspiring shoppers to do a little holiday baking. There were the usual suspects: cookie mixes, peppermint chips, almond paste, mulling spices.... nothing to raise an eyebrow at really, until we saw these two jars.

You know how you can walk down the same aisles for years and just zero in on your necessities? Every once in a while those dusty jars on the top shelf catch your eye, but nothing registers - at least not for me. I have no primal instinct to inspect anything above eye level; especially anything jellied or floating in some sort of murky liquid. So when these top shelf relics were suddenly thrust into the limelight, we had to take a gander.

OK, I suppose I kind of 'get' the chocolate flavored ones. Chocolate covered cherries are a holiday favorite, so chocolate flavored cherries are along the same lines. Maybe. But the wild berry flavored cherries? I admit, they were a very pretty shade of blue, almost an indigo really. The amount of FD&C Blue #1 used to make them that color probably makes them visible from space, and I'll bet they glow under a black light.

My real question is: why re-flavor cherries? I know that I could find at least a hundred items in that same supermarket that are cherry flavored. It is obviously a very popular flavor. So why, when you actually have a real (albeit preserved in syrup) cherry, would you feel the need to change it? Besides all of the cherry flavored candy, there are literally shelves full of medicines that boast of being cherry flavored; especially for children - it seems to be THE flavor of choice for the 'under 10' set. We also have cherry cola, cherry yogurt, cherry oatmeal, cherry applesauce, cherry frosting, cherry brandy, cherry Jell-o, cherry water, cherry tea, cherry wine and cherry lip gloss. There are even cherry flavored dried plums. Why re-flavor plums? But I digress......

I think it is a question that I will never find the answer to. Especially since I don't ever see myself happening upon a new recipe calling for electric blue cherries that will have me scrambling for my measuring cups and sugar. I'm just not that brave, or creative, or careless with my intake of copious amounts of artificial colorings. I'll just stick with the boring, old, cherry flavored cherries. The red ones.

(Kudos to my daughter, Paige, for the fabulous photo!)

Christmas in Nevada?

It is 65 degrees outside right now.

The problem is, it's December 10th.

I've put up the tree. I've sent out the cards. I've even put a candy dish full of red and green M&M's on the coffee table. But when I open the blinds, I see only clear skies and sunshine.

I'm a NY girl; and try as I might, I just can't seem to get that Christmas mood going in NV. This is the time of year that we should be making sure that the snow blower is working and there is enough salt in the garage. The fridge and freezer should be stocked to the brim. The clothes that I'm wearing right now (short sleeves, mind you) should have been packed away last month to make room for sweaters and thermals. And, I should already be planning our biggest feast of the year. That's one thing I can still do, but I just keep putting it off. I actually even let the thought cross my mind that maybe we should (shudder) go out for Christmas dinner.

Christmas is the ultimate day of feasting at our house. We, literally, eat all day long, even more so than on Thanksgiving. Rolling out dish after dish, the oven cranking all day long steaming up the windows, the dishwasher on a seemingly endless cycle; we indulge and enjoy. I try to do that here and I'll wind up having to put the air conditioning on. Who cooks a roast in this weather?

I was talking to some fellow displaced NYers about entertaining for the holidays and such; about how I haven't unpacked my china yet, and asking if they knew a good butcher, etc. They laughed and told me to leave my china in the boxes, that no one entertains like that here. As for the butcher, no such luck. At least there are a couple of delis around so I can put out a half-decent antipasto.

So, what to do? I guess I should just toss aside my inherent need to go from butcher to salumeria to fruit stand to specialty grocer to baker bundled up against the elements in order to produce my annual feast; and just put on my sandals, run to the supermarket and get over my praying-for-snow self. Old habits are hard to break, especially the ones you enjoy. I just don't know if I can muster up the love. I find it hard to be passionate about a feast that was procured at the Trader Joe's down the road. Did I mention that I'm Italian? Did I have to?

Do you think Trader Joe's will have a bottle of Sambuca and pfferneusse cookies set out at the register? Now do you see what I mean?

If you've never had the experience of shopping in an Italian neighborhood at Christmastime, you won't. There is a sense of celebration; of joy and community and goodwill in every tiny storefront you enter. As cold as it was outside just moments ago, you are instantly warmed by the blast of heat as soon as the door swings open. Tastes of everything are given freely, and tiny boxes of Torrone are tucked into your bag as a gift. A paper cup full of Sambuca and a cookie and you're back out onto the sidewalk en route to the next shop. I can smell the provolone as I type.

Ahhhhh, those were the days that turned bags full of goodies into feasts. The spirit that drove me to make my way through cold and ice to prepare a celebration for my family. That feeling of relief when I walked through the door knowing I had purchased everything I needed, and would not have to go back out until the day after the last fork had dropped. The giggles that only tiny cupfuls of Sambuca can produce. How I miss them.

See, for me, the build up to the meal helps make the meal. It creates the energy, the passion that fuels the preparation and the anticipation. That's what I'm missing. It's like taking half of the ingredients out of a recipe and expecting it to still turn out.

There will be a Christmas feast. I'll locate as many of the expected delights as possible, and I'll put on a smile and plate up the food. I'll keep the blinds closed and pretend it's freezing outside. Maybe I'll unpack the china.

And maybe I'll even keep a little Sambuca in the kitchen while I'm cooking.

Can you kill a turkey twice?

Well, I sure did.

It had worked fine in the morning, warming bread and rice balls for the antipasto. But as I heaved my well-dressed bird in for the grand finale, I sensed a twinge of doom. Not that I'm psychic, I just tend to anticipate the worst when the game is on the line, so to speak.

The little electronic display assured me that my fears were unwarranted; it was on. But ten minutes later, I realized that my oven was a liar.

I played with it, I begged it, I cursed it. I put the bird back in the fridge and scoured Google for a quick-fix. There was none, and I now had to find a way to salvage the holiday meal.

I took the turkey back out of the fridge and my meanest knife out of the drawer. I have to admit that my heart sank. I take a tremendous amount of pride in not only the way my bird tastes, but how it looks. And this year, it was particularly beautiful. The unblemished celery leaves crowned by the half lemon dipped in Herbes de Provence gracing the petite cavity, the glistening oiled and buttered skin decorated in hand blended herbs and briny sea salt, the time and tradition worn roasting pan loaded with pride and anticipation of a most fragrant and tasty pan gravy.....

But, I had mouths to feed.

I picked up the knife, and systematically dismembered the bird. Tossing pieces into the oiled pan on top of the stove, I felt a bit relieved, until I realized that the stuffing and sweet potatoes were still in the fridge. OK, I guess I can cook the stuffing in a pot, but the sweet potatoes? They looked so pretty; slices arranged in concentric circles, covered in brown sugar and butter, intended to succumb to caramelly goodness in the oven. What else could I do? Into the microwave they went.

Of course, all this last minute decision making took my attention off the turkey pieces. They were a bit overdone now, but the stuffing was still cold, and the microwave was still buzzing. Bad turned to worse as I tried to assemble platters and serving pieces to dress up the catastrophe.

Finally on the table, I was greeted with half hearted comments that it still tasted good. Gravy can cover all manner of mistakes, but the uncooked turkey carcass that still languished in the kitchen was haunting me. I had saved the meal, but I had killed the turkey. And, just in case you were wondering, microwaves do not a caramelly goodness make.

The leftovers are still in the fridge.