BABBO

I know I promised to limit myself to a maximum of five library books. But today I found myself standing in the library (again) with about ten books to donate (after the ten or so I donated yesterday.) I am proud to announce that my MIA poetry books "Late Wife" and "Southern Selves" resurfaced after a good search and after a bit of my Irish luck drew them out of their excellent hiding places. Now don't get me wrong, I love the public library and my husband and debit card breathe a sigh of relief every time I forgo my pilgrimage to Barnes & Noble or Borders.

Today, I found books on appetizers, a collection of recipes for the modern "cook", a lovely book on the recipes of Monet (I can't wait to dive head first into that one) and a book on Italian cookery called BABBO by executive chef Mario Batali owner of a restaurant that shares the same name. You may recall Mario from the Food Network and his show "Molto Mario."

Interestingly enough, along with exquisite food photography, Mario fills the book with recipes on antipasti, pasta (I adore the name Pumpkin lune with butter and sage, for full moon shaped pasta), Mare (from the sea), as well as recipes for duck, veal, pork and venison. Mario caps these with delicious recipes for cake, compote, ice cream, fruit, and finishes with the cookie platter served with affogato- a tiny cup of chilled espresso with a scoop of gelato and whipped cream.

I imagine osso bucco with toasted pine nut gremolata or a perfectly grilled guinea hen with pomegranate vinaigrette followed by a dessert of olive oil and rosemary cake. But tonight I cater bacon wrapped scallops, thai steak skewers, mixed field greens with hearts of palm, lemon chicken and orzo. I will cook nothing especially Italian and my customer will provide her own dessert. It would be lovely to plate a cool meyer lemon semifreddo with huckleberry sauce but tonight I will do as I must. As I work beside my excellent staff, I will dream of home and a hot cup of camomile tea while sitting on my vintage black and brown sofa with my feet propped up studying Monet.

Firefly's Fist Fight

My name is Mary Margaret McGee but my daddy calls me Firefly partly because of my unruly red curly hair but mostly because Mary Margaret McGee is a true tongue twister and too tough for my daddy to get out when I am in trouble (which is most of the time.)

My parents own a little cafe in Sister's Oregon on the corner of 3rd and Main called the Cooking Connection. Daddy makes the savories and Momma bakes cakes. I'm learning to do both along with my eleven year old brother Jimmy.

Tuesday before last our chalkboard sign read "Special, Monte Cristo sandwich, fries and tea $6.95" A bargain it seems as the cafe was packed with people and the phone kept ringing. "Cooking Connection, Mary Margaret speaking..." "Yes, sorry but we don't take reservations and lunch is almost over..." "Sure, two Monte Cristo specials to go."

Just then my nemesis Ricky Polley and his gang walked in. Impatiently, he said "Hey, Mary Margaret, what about me? I'm tired of waiting and we want a seat." "It'll be a few minutes" I said. Ricky shook his head and turned to walk out the door but stopped short and said "No way, we're not gonna wait for a seat in this run down cafe." Getting madder by the minute, I followed him outside. Doubling my stride, I caught up with Ricky and his gang and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned with a sharp reply "What do you want?" I answered him alright with my good aim. I drew back and hit him center in his left eye and said "You should have ordered dessert. My momma makes a wicked chocolate fudge pie."

Changes

“There are no mistakes” my Lorilynn states. “Take your journal and write or doodle.” I can’t draw but my new friend Martha can and I am learning to write but my grammar stinks. I’m learning to be married (again) and I’m learning to compromise and how to breathe when he does something not so right. I’m learning to be a mom to the most incredible sixteen year old but I am in a continual struggle with his independence and the need to nurture the brown haired boy holding a colored ball outside his Aunt Kristie’s house on Thanksgiving day. I’m learning that my parents are getting old and how I’m scared as hell to let go. I’m learning that friendship is more than a word and how mine can be misinterpreted. I’m learning that saying goodbye can hurt and how memories center in my heart which aches. I’m learning to garden and to knit. I’m learning to limit checked out library books to five and that it is OK to remember my sister when I look into her son’s blue eyes.

Cherry

Funny world,this place called poetry. Your words move and inspire. I may never know the classical music you speak of or the poetry of Browning, Shelley or Keats. But, I know your cherry thoughts and how they lead me to carnival rides and kissing red wax lips. Cherry takes me to Sherry or Sherry Berry from culinary school. Cherry takes me to my cherry red '73 bug and early morning drives. Cherry takes me to angel food cake topped with cream cheese and powdered sugar drizzled with cherry pie filling. Cherry finds my favorite popsicle flavor. Cherry takes me to my sister's hand painted coffee table. Cherry takes me to your poetry and to New Jersey pasta makers. Cherry leads to many places where I dream of open spaces and a long Sunday drive in a beat up bug.

Sunny-Side Up

Now rise and shine, my sleepy head,
Let's have some fun breakfast in bed.
I'll serve you up cafe au Lait,
Infused with smiles to start your day.

Just woken up, your sleepy eyes,
That sparkle bright at my surprise-
You see this dish and lick your lips,
Served right on time with swaying hips.

Perhaps a toast from your French maid,
Who plotted as your dreams were laid?
Melons are ripe this time of year,
And plentiful, how 'bout it dear?

One omelet whipped
made fresh for you,
With ham and cheese,
red peppers too!

One yellow rose adorns your plate,
Tomorrow, Love?...
You have a date!

*Author's Note*
Pondered while catering the US Open

Table for ten, please.

My Wednesday night writing workshop is certainly growing by leaps and bounds. Our group went from four to three to Joanie and I staring across the table at each other going hmmm...what next? How would we advertise to form the writing group that we both wanted (and needed) to help us stay on track (Joanie) or to find a track to stay on (yep, that would be me.) Finally, through Craig's List and visits to local libraries and coffee shops, we were fortunate to find our Jenn, Kat and Alisonn. A few weeks of strong female bonding (and Starbuck's coffee) cemented us as a group of five committed women writers who were all moving towards the same goal of publication (and finishing, or in my case, starting projects.) . Last week we were joined by Dave, Chris, Tom, Zack and Tim and we found ourselves in a negotiation over meeting dates and submission deadlines. Thankfully, Chris and Tim are fellow poets and I am looking forward to speaking a common language with them. Tim mailed me several of his poems and I must say he is quite talented and a great resource for us all. I'm excited to be moving forward once again. Now, what was all that Venus and Mars talk about? Welcome to the Walnut Street Writers, guys!

Totally Twisted

Gone are the sun-kissed curls of seventeen.
Prom bound, blond ringlets, wrapped tightly on top.
Loose curls flew freely, crusin' in his Carolina blue bug.

Long they laid as she learned to make love;
her curls, tucked tight under veil
witnessed marriage vows spoken,
clipped shorter, they fell, like his promises-
broken.

Gone are the sun-kissed curls of twenty-one.

Romancing Robert Browning

Who thought I would find
my own Robert Browning
writing and reviewing poetry?
Together, we were two pie-eyed love poets
whose words wooed.

Welling emotion, he wrote of dreamy kisses,
I shared poems of Miami nights.
In time, his heart was mine.

We ran his lucky dog
down the Carolina shore.
I counted the waves
and the ways
as they crashed Johnny Mercer's pier.
We stood as two wordless word-smiths
feeling the sea's salty spray.

We dined at the Oceanic;
shared crab cakes and risotto,
watched the stormy nighttime sky
and precious time pass.

He was my Robert Browning
And I, his Sherry, though only for a while.
For us, time was counted,
taking my poet far, far away.

I stand alone, beside the Atlantic
counting the waves.

Poetry is in my blood. Literally speaking, poetry is in my blood. My middle name is "Lynette" after Alfred Lord Tenneyson's "Gareth and Lynette. I'm not quite sure of the origin of my first name. If I were to reach way back, I might recall that my mother's, friend's, sister shared my name (or rather I shared hers.) My daddy gave me "Smothers." He said way back the name was changed from something to Smothers and that something's someone rode with Jesse James. My daddy was a fisherman and he could have stretched the truth.

Facing the Dragon

Writers write, right? I'm either reading about writing, thinking about writing, dreaming about writing or reading someone else's writing. Tonight at Alice Osborn's creative journaling workshop, Alice spoke of "facing the dragon," facing our writing fears. This leaves me to ponder my own writing dilemma on not writing. Tonight I mustered a couple of draft poems and several pages of writing ideas to help me say exactly what it is that this muse of mine insists that I say. Now, I need to determine exactly what that is.

Poetically Speaking

“If you are a poet, you read other poets
for inspiration, that is, for opportunities to steal,
or for the possibility that another poet
will open a door for you that you never knew
existed.”

--Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate 2001-2003

Sentimental me

Call me romantic
but I like to be wooed with poetry;
your lips shaping the words of
Byron,Tennyson and Patmore.

Nourish me with wild flowers,
steamy lavender baths,
cups of camomile tea.

Sentimental, a girl who survived
Miami nights, Latin love, cooking school--
hours spent classically French--
perfecting lobster thermidor, foie gras,
buckwheat blinis topped with crème fresh & caviar.
I provide refinement
for those who can afford my price.

But my sentimental side sees the value
of a sandwich served
on great-grandma’s chipped china plate,
or the old green chair that sits empty
waiting beside my sister’s books
and worn copy
of Elizabeth Barret Browning’s
Sonnets Of The Portugese
inscribed

My dearest love,
Louise
Christmas 1946


Sherry Pedersen-Thrasher



"Everything to excess. To enjoy the taste of life, take big bites. Moderation is for monks."--Lazarus Long

Meeting Homer (Hickam)

Tonight I had the pleasure of meeting author Homer Hickam who wrote his memoir in the book "Rocket Boys" which was later adapted to film in the movie October Sky. Currently, Homer is on tour promoting his latest book.

Lovesick

No chicken soup can cure my ill,
no Dr. Seuss, not Dr. Phil,
no bag of tricks, no little pill,
I've got it bad but what a thrill!

Simply stated, I feel elated.
My temp. is up, infatuated;
my pulse is racin', eyes dilated-
straight to my heart, a shot updated.

To tell the truth, this time it clicked-
no urge to run, no nervous tic.
I'm feelin' fine, one smitten chick
been diagnosed case solved-
lovesick!

French Candy Kisses

Many thanks to poet John Barrale from Poetry Circle for allowing me to post his poem on my blog. This is certainly a sweet addition to his portfolio. Thanks John!

French Candy Kisses

Praline is from a candy family
she is her Father's daughter
made from nuts, bound in clusters
her sugar syrup sweet

on her European side, Breton married Provence
in almonds and hazelnuts, ripe songs of loveliness
fallen from the trees, sweet cream, long legged maids,
all fluttering lashes, coupled to short stocky men
in dark chocolate moustaches

down New Orleans way, her pecans sweet as bells
cling like fat vines on praline patties, a common delight
sultry candy Louisiana lover, everyone's darling,
enjoyed on a hot southern night,
inviting, they smile, sashaying out of the box

hey boy, want a benne seed wafer
to go with your soda water?

like Louisiana, her family's founder
merci, oui oui, was French
said to be Marshal du Plessis-Praslin
alive 1598 to 1675
the Candy's name originally prasline
but that's jive
any good candy lover knows
the inventor was his cook
Clement Lassagne

but I hear the stuff’s older still
in the Garden, the Big D told Eve
come here sugar, Daddy's mouth is full
I got French praline candy and sugar promises,
for you-all

by John Barrale
June 2007

Purple Speedo Man

Strolling right beside me,
he's kicking up the sand-
his body buff and bronzed,
red flip flops in his hand.

He's sporty in his cut-
offs, with a sexy, manly stride.
I grin at my friend Sandy
(who sits gawking by my side.)

The heat from this Adonis,
(can't be chilled by chewing ice)
and leaves me scheming how to have him --
choosing 'naughty' over 'nice.'

I peek above my ray bans,
perusing perfect thighs-
then wander up his body,
stopping at his steel grey eyes.

The eyes whisper "catch me,
girl, catch me, if you can-"
he winks and lets his cut-offs
slide slowly to the sand.

Embarrassed that he's caught me
I giggle, smile, then sigh-
and quickly glance back to my book
with no place left to hide.

He turns and jogs into the surf,
oh God! He's ripped and tan-
Have mercy! What a derriere!
On purple Speedo man!

Rising above the crashing waves,
he turns to flash a grin-
then shakes his golden curly mane,
and dives down deep again.

My mind begins to wonder
and wander every stride-
he's cast the spell I'm under,
with peak contracted thighs.

He waves from his Miata,
and gives a Cheshire grin-
then brakes to yell "tomorrow,
you can catch me here again!"

High five to my friend Sandy,
our books tossed in the sand-
as Fabio pales when compared
to purple Speedo man!

Sherry Pedersen-Thrasher

Red Delicious! (Musing Apple Varieties)

I just heard Granny Smith yell out to McIntosh...."Little apple dumplin' didn't fall too far from the tree! I'll just roll on over there and give that little feller some homemade cinnamon applesauce." Uncle Ben Davis peeks over his bowl of Captain Kidd and exclaims "Ah, Mama, it's still early harvest and his Mother, you know Priscilla, the one men call the pink lady. Remember her-- she wears that yellow dress with the polka dot puffy sleeves? They say she's a real rome beauty, got all that red wealthy, old family money. Shes not much on company. I hear her husband's not round. He's a real wine sap who got into his yellow newton and took off real fast screamin' somethin' about a goldrush way over yonder in Gloucester county. Yep, took off yellin' and screamin' discovery! while poppin the top on another twenty ounce. We all thought Lord Lambourne! and raced to find Doc Hogg. Poor fella, still thinks he's Jonathan some kind of northern spy." "Stop that right now!" Granny said. "You just have yourself another bowl of Delicious while I go get ready for the gala of the season. I'm gonna put on my Sunday best and dance the waltz with old Lord Nelson. Were gonna ride off into the sunset sippin' Canada Red."
Uncle Ben Davis just shook his head. He knew Granny Smith had stories to tell, stories that would make the maidens blush. He stepped onto the porch and sat in his favorite rocker. Back and forth, dreaming of Edith Smith and their trip to Fiji, where he was careful not to get a sunburn on his benoni. He remembered smoothees shared and felt like blushin golden.

Scarlet Dreams

I never wanted to end up in this three-dollar diner.
My mother, the family matriarch, showed no mercy
when it came to choosing my path.
I could have been a doctor's wife but Mama said
“Why marry a doctor, when you can be one?”

She never saw me as passionate, the artisan,
her child of scarlet dreams.
I was her oldest daughter,
the one who slept between cotton sheets,
reading poetry, listening to the music of a gentle rain.
I was a child of gumption never weighing the price of fancy thought.
Never understanding the intricacies in the equation of life.
So, here I stand, securing my future,
flipping eggs, one at a time.

Sherry Thrasher


Herbed Baked Eggs
(serves four)

1/2 teaspoon minced fresh garlic
1/2 teaspoon minced fresh thyme leaves
1/2 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary
tablespoons minced fresh parsley
2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
12 extra-large eggs
1/4 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Toasted French bread or brioche, for serving
Preheat the broiler for 5 minutes and place the oven rack 6 inches below the heat.

Combine the garlic, thyme, rosemary, parsley, and Parmesan cheese and set aside. Carefully crack 3 eggs into each of 4 small bowls or teacups (you won't be baking them in these) without breaking the yolks. (It's very important to have all the eggs ready to go before you start cooking.)

Place four individual gratin dishes on a baking sheet. Place 1 tablespoon of cream and 1/2 tablespoon of butter in each dish and place under the broiler for about 3 minutes, until hot and bubbly. Quickly, but carefully, pour 3 eggs into each gratin dish and sprinkle evenly with the herb mixture, then sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Place back under the broiler for 5 to 6 minutes, until the whites of the eggs are almost cooked. (Rotate the baking sheet once if they aren't cooking evenly.) The eggs will continue to cook after you take them out of the oven. Allow to set for 60 seconds and serve hot with toasted bread.



All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast. ~John Gunther

My, Oh, My...Candied Coated Kisses!

I'm angel cake, you're devil's food,
this sweet surprise has set the mood
for chocolate covered candied kisses
sifted powder sugared wishes.

Just pave the way for creme brulee,
'cause fruit gelee will top our day,
chantilly seems to make us scream-
light butter cream now that's my dream!

We'll top the charts as candied hearts,
be set apart as lemon tarts-
infuse my head with gingerbread,
to dine on our delightful spread.

Berry coulis finds me foolish,
acting like a school girl, clueless-
A bit absurd in lemon curd,
delightful dreams as vision blurs.

Complete my night with sweet delight,
our blended culinary flight-
Make me goo-goo for your cluster,
more now Buster...muster, muster!

I won't begrudge you double-fudge,
to feel panache in dark ganache,
I'm falling fast in candied pieces,
begging for our sweet releases.

I'm flying high on key lime pie,
not asking why, Mmmm...my, oh, my!
Lets dance the waltz on custard sauce-
denying all confection's cost.

Our ice cream dream, is on it seems
Marshmallow King and Pastry Queen,
we'll graze the way to love's buffet-
greeting the day, Cafe au Lait!

Lemon Bars
Makes 20 squares or 40 triangles

For the crust:
1/2 pound unsalted butter at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

For the filling:
6 extra-large eggs at room temperature
3 cups granulated sugar
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest (4 to 6 lemons)
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 cup all-purpose flourConfectioners’ sugar, for dusting

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

For the crust, cream the butter and sugar until light in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Combine the flour and salt and, with the mixer on low, add to the butter until just mixed. Dump the dough onto a well-floured board and gather into a ball. Flatten the dough with floured hands and press it into a 9 x 13 x 2-inch baking sheet, building up a 1/2-inch edge on all sides. Chill.

Bake the crust for 15 to 20 minutes, until very lightly browned. Let cool on a wire rack. Leave the oven on.

For the filling, whisk together the eggs, sugar, lemon zest, lemon juice, and flour. Pour over the crust and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until the filling is set. Let cool to room temperature.Cut into triangles and dust with confectioners’ sugar.



Cookies are made of butter and love. ~Norwegian Proverb

To Kiss a Prince

Yesterday I attended a writer's meet at a local community center. This group has been in existence for around twenty years now. In all, the group consists of about twenty five writers who share their work in fiction, non-fiction, memoir, and poetry. One man had his completed novel with him and is working through the process of having it formatted for possible publication. I was thankful to see a finished manuscript as it gives me hope of finishing my own.

I discussed my work and read a few of my poems. I was asked to submit my poem To Kiss a Prince to be placed in the group poetry anthology. This is a poem that I wrote some time back under the name Nelliebelle. I must admit that it is refreshing to be among writers and share our work as well as discussing poets and poetic styles. I hope to continue with this group as well as my alternate Wednesday night writer's workshop.
Afterwards, Michael and I attended a get together with many of the employees from the catering company that I work with. One of the chefs made a flourless chocolate cake that was fantastic. The recipe follows as well as the poem I submitted for the group anthology.

Sherry


To Kiss a Prince

Oh, Nellie B-B Bellie,
Why do you muse so on love?
My quandary it seems,
to write of hope and love
romance, a world
of passion and dreams.

Expand your voice-
Write on! Set sail!
Be free! Rejoice!
Shine!

"It's time to
ditch
metered
rhyme."

Though still I find
inside my mind
With pen in hand
I'll get my man.

Flourless Chocolate Cake with Chocolate Ganache

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for greasing the pan
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
6 large eggs, separated
5 tablespoons instant espresso
6 tablespoons Dutch-processed cocoa powder
6 tablespoons dark rum or Marsala
1 1/2 cups ground, toasted, blanched almonds
All-purpose flour, for coating the pan
Confectioners' sugar, for dusting

Chocolate Ganache:
1 cup heavy cream
12 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F.

Melt the butter in a glass bowl over simmering water. Once the butter melts, whisk in the sugar and the egg yolks, and cook for 5 minutes, stirring constantly so that the eggs become ribbon-like and light in color (don't scramble.) Whisk in the coffee, cocoa powder, rum and almonds, and continue cooking, stirring constantly, until the mixture becomes smooth and creamy. Transfer the cake mixture to a mixing bowl and set aside.

Ganache: In a small saucepan bring cream to a boil over high heat. Remove from heat and whisk in chocolate. Let cool, stirring occasionally, until thickened, but still pourable.


Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan. In a clean, separate mixing bowl, beat the egg whites until the just begin to stiffen and hold soft peaks. Be sure to stop before they form hard peaks. Gently fold the whites into the chocolate mixture. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until firm and beginning to separate from the sides, about 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and allow to cool 30 minutes more. Flip cake out to a serving platter.

On a cake rack set over a baking sheet. Pour ganache and smooth over top and sides with a palette knife until evenly coated. Let icing set, about 1 hour. Cut cake into wedges and serve.



"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well." ~Virginia Woolf

Nellie's Garden

If I could plant a flower dear,
for every thought that draws you near,
in my garden you would find
endearments fertile in my mind.

I'd gather up the summer phlox
and whisper soft forget-me-nots,
each sweetheart rose then sown true blue
along my garden path for two.

Tulips would smile each sunny day
and gently lift our cares away
I'd offer sprigs of sweetest thyme
penned in notes of floral rhyme.

The coralbells would cast their spell
upon our thoughts and pray "be well."
I'd clip away each bleeding-heart
and toss it in my garden cart.

Good Morning!

I stayed up way too late tinkering with the blog last night and it looks like a very busy morning. I wrote the following poem when I was catering private parties for the US Open in Pinehurst, North Carolina. I cooked breakfast each morning and had a break before dinner preparation which left a little time for writing poetry. I've followed with a simple recipe for chocolate-dipped strawberries. Bon Appetit!


There are four basic food groups: milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and chocolate truffles.
~Author Unknown


Sunny-Side Up

Now rise and shine, my sleepy head,
let's have some fun breakfast in bed.
I'll serve you up cafe au lait,
infused with smiles to start your day.

Just woken up, those sleepy eyes,
that sparkle bright at my surprise-
you see this dish and lick your lips,
served right on time by swaying hips.

Perhaps a toast from your French maid,
who plotted as your dreams were laid-
Melons are ripe this time of year,
and plentiful how 'bout it dear?
One whipped omlette made fresh for you,
with ham and cheese, red peppers too!

One yellow rose adorns your plate,
Tomorrow, Love?...You have a date!



Chocolate-Dipped Strawberries

1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips
3 tablespoons heavy cream
12 long-stemmed strawberries

Melt the chocolate and cream together in a bowl set over simmering water until just melted. Stir and remove from the heat. Dip each strawberry in the chocolate and set aside on waxed or parchment paper to dry.

Ode to Spring

Oh Spring, you bring
the birds and bees-
again the trees are full of green!
I sing at last of sweeter scenes--
bright daffodils and sunny skies,
the fluffy clouds that float on high.
At last, at last, I drift all day,
singing the dreary grey away
that circled me all winter long.
You bring to me the season's song,
a symphony and choral throng,
kaleidoscopes' shined wondrous hues
in yellows, purples, pinks, and blues.
Grand visions bring me to my knees,
a tulip's grace, the dogwood trees--
fresh flowers scent the gentle breeze
that greets my window these spring nights
to burst forth dreams crayola bright.

With pen, I'm hearing nature sing,
while writing this, my ode to Spring.

My bottom line

I should be impressed with the way you dress;
bought at a fine boutique.
Or shout "hurray" for your MBA
plucked from an Ivy league.

Dare I feel complete sitting in the seat
of your Bee Em Double-You?
Or swoon too soon from the spell you sell
cast Sonoma Valley brew?

You steal a kiss after lobster bisque
giving promises of more-
“One crème brulee, two spoons” you say,
drop a bill and hold my door.

So dazzle me honey with all your money
and the game that lets you score,
I‘ve analyzed, cross multiplied
your balance sheets galore

and know this simple southern girl
won't offer up my bed;
my goodbye wink, and now my door,
"Darlin', you're in the red."



*Author's Notes*
Sad but true. Written after dining at the Wild Orchid Grill


Lobster Bisque
serving size
Serves 4.

ingredients:
One 3-pound live lobster
1 medium onion
1 celery rib
1 carrot
1 vine-ripened tomato
1 head garlic
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon leaves
2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme leaves
1 bay leaf
8 black peppercorns
1/2 cup brandy
1/2 cup dry Sherry
4 cups fish stock*
1/4 cup tomato paste
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons water

*available at fish markets and some specialty foods shops

Preparation:

Fill a 6-quart kettle three fourths full with salted water and bring to a boil. Plunge lobster headfirst into water and cook, covered, over high heat 8 minutes. Transfer lobster with tongs to a large bowl and in a measuring cup reserve 2 cups cooking liquid. Let lobster stand until cool enough to handle. Working over a bowl to catch the juices, twist off tail and claws and reserve juices. Reserve tomalley and discard head sacs and any roe. Remove meat from claws and tail, reserving shells and lobster body. (Lobster meat will not be cooked through.) Coarsely chop meat and transfer to a bowl. Chill lobster meat, covered.

Chop onion, celery, carrot, and tomato and halve garlic head crosswise. In a 6-quart heavy kettle heat oil over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking and sauté reserved lobster shells and body, stirring occasionally, 8 minutes. Add vegetables, garlic, herbs, peppercorns, brandy, and Sherry and simmer, stirring, until almost all liquid is evaporated, about 5 minutes. Add stock and reserved tomalley and cooking liquid. Simmer mixture, uncovered, stirring occasionally, 1 hour.

Pour mixture through a fine sieve into a large saucepan, pressing on and discarding solids. Whisk in tomato paste and simmer until reduced to about 3 cups, about 10 minutes. Add cream and simmer bisque 5 minutes. In a small bowl stir together cornstarch and water and whisk into bisque. Simmer bisque, stirring, 2 minutes. (Bisque will thicken slightly.) Add lobster meat with any reserved juices and simmer bisque 1 minute, or until lobster meat is just cooked through. Season bisque with salt and pepper.



"Find something you're passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it."
--Julia Child

Carolina Sounds

An ocean breeze finds me,
breathlessly, missin' him.
With the current I drift,
cause the shrimp boat knows
I'm kissin' him, across the miles.

While the band plays on
the ocean hears my song-

darling, you...send me,
I know you...send me,
honey, you...send me-
honest, you do...

Calling his words on the eastern winds;
O, honeyed words-hold me, kiss me,
as I breathlessly dance alone
beside the sea.

Sweet memories of chardonnay
under a live oak tree;
My infatuation grows, '
cause the sea gulls know-
he's thrillin' me-
across the miles.

*Author's Notes* Written after catering an outdoors wedding at a house called Live Oaks on a beautiful sound in Wilmington North Carolina.

"Why, then the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open."
--William Shakespeare, 'The Merry Wives of Windsor'

Shrimp and Grits

My own rendition of a recipe by Paula Dean.

Serves 8 as an appetizer or 4 as a main course

Ingredients
1 cup stone-ground grits
seafood base or crab boil
Salt and pepper
1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup heavy cream
1-1/2 cups shredded sharp Cheddar cheese
1/2 cup shredded parmesan cheese
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined, left whole if small and roughly chopped if medium or large
6 slices bacon, chopped into tiny pieces
2 cups diced tomatoes,
1 tbs. garlic minced
1/4 cup dry white wine
4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
1 cup thinly sliced green onions, white and green parts

Method
1. In a medium saucepan, bring 4 cups water to a boil. Add 1 tbsp seafood base or crab boil. Add the grits and salt and pepper to taste. Stir well with a whisk. Reduce the heat to the lowest possible setting and cook the grits until all the water is absorbed, about 10 to 15 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter, heavy cream, and cheese. Keep covered until ready to serve.
2. Rinse the shrimp and pat dry. Fry the bacon in a large skillet until browned and crisp, then drain on a paper towel. Add the shrimp, tomatoes, garlic and white wine to the bacon grease in the skillet and sauté over medium heat just until the shrimp turn pink, about 3 minutes. Do not overcook! Immediately add the lemon juice, and green onions. Remove the skillet from the heat.
3. Pour the grits into a serving bowl. Pour the shrimp mixture over the grits. Garnish with the bacon bits and chopped fresh parsley.

Note: If you are serving this as an appetizer, spoon 1/4 cup grits onto a bread or salad plate. Top with 1/4 cup of the shrimp mixture. Garnish with a sprinkling of crisp bacon bits and parsley. Serve immediately.

No offense to Rachel Ray

I'd probably like Rachel Ray if I were to meet her in person but I must admit that I find her cooking a little scary. More specifically, her knife skills make me cringe. Upon close examination I might find a finger or two missing. Now, I imagine that if Rachel and I were cruising south beach (like I did in Miami, in my '73, two-toned, Carolina blue and white convertible Volkswagon super beetle while I was in culinary school) she and I might find something to talk about while spending our forty dollars a day on mojitos. I could possibly give her a run for her forty bucks in the spunky department and definitely in the kitchen. I must however offer kudos to Rachel as she has the tv shows and is the queen of the Food Network. Yes, I believe that mojito would be yummy. I'd drive and let Rachel pick up the tab.

Bon appetit,
Sherry

"Hey lady, write what you know!"

I know food

good food, bad food, feelin’ glad or sad food
once upon a time
I've cooked gourmet or fast food

I know food

roastin', bakin', broilin', sautéein'
fine tuned the art of chocolate truffle makin'
schooled just enough to know
Rachel Ray is fakin'

I know food


"Noncooks think it's silly to invest two hours' work in two minutes enjoyment; but if cooking is evanescent, so is the ballet."
--Julia Child

Welcome

Thanks, Rob! Thanks for introducing me to this software. Even a nontechnical computer person can start with a template like this. I'll return when I explore this world.

Sherry