NYC

Bryant Park Skating

Socks

I’m wiping a tear right now. Bryant Park skating is over for the season. We had some fun there this year. First, there was this event. And a few weeks ago I headed back there with the kids in tow.

I have to be honest here: skating with kids is challenging. If you’ve got a kid who can skate, fantastic. If, however, you have the misfortune of teaching someone to skate, Godspeed.

Although I haven’t actually done any of these activities, my reading of 19th Century literature suggests that cotton picking or perhaps coal mining are activities that would result in similar back pain.

There’s the obvious hunching, the lifting from odd angles, the propping, dragging and carrying. It’s enough to make you the star of your own Salonpas commercial.

But the kids really do love it, which makes it all worth it.

At first we had plans to skate at The Standard Hotel, which is walking distance from our apartment.  But an employee hockey tournament was underway, so we needed to change venues. We pivoted, flagged a taxi, and headed north to Bryant Park.

Stepping out of the taxi, I was pleased to find out that Lauren’s water bottle had upended into my skate. Never mind that it was below freezing and were about to spend the morning at an outdoor rink. The skate would go on.

I got the kids ready first.

With my 100% non-sporty eyewear and beat up hockey skates, we were ready to rock & roll.

Me
Rink

One of the great things about Bryant Park is that you can skate at the foot of some of New York City’s tallest skyscrapers.

After skating, Sam chased some indoor pigeons, not realizing that if he actually caught one with his skates on, we’d have blood on our hands.

Pigeon

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Savory

Speedy cassoulet

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When I was first learning to cook, I was game to try anything that sounded fancy and impressive, irrespective of the grunt work involved. I had time on my hands, lazy weekends with nothing to do but visit the farmers’ markets and make a mess in my kitchen.

Cassoulet was one of my early dishes. With loads of slow-cooked beans and plenty of pork fat, it’s the kind of food that speaks my language.

My first attempt was a several day affair. I had to source the salt pork, boneless lamb shoulder, and fresh pork skin. I made my own chicken broth, and pre-soaked my beans. Although I couldn’t get my hands on real Toulouse sausage and didn’t make my own Duck confit, it was a decent first try.

And it was good. A hardened French peasant might have questioned my technique, but I’m certain that I could have fooled most people on this side of the Atlantic. 

If you’re eager to try your hand at authentic cassoulet, I recommend the book Real Stew by Clifford Wright. Along with the cassoulet, it’s full of inspiring stew recipes from around the world, from Bedouin Lamb and Mushroom Stew to Veal Paprikash and Czech-style Goulash. And of course, there’s a fantastic selection of chili recipes, which, have inspired me to make this, and this, and this. It’s one of my dog-eared, wine-splashed favorites.

Now I’m guessing that most people don’t have the desire or the time to spend 3 days preparing a dish. Even Clifford Wright’s quick cassoulet takes serious effort. But I don’t want you to miss out on making this dish at home because a simple version can be made in an hour. I make mine with ingredients that you’ll likely have on hand. No Toulouse sausage, no pork skin. Just raid your pantry and most of the items should be there. 

Flavorful sausage is a must. I’m lucky enough to have a butcher in the neighborhood who makes some of the best sausage in the city – Cotechino with parmesan, Lamb Merguez, Irish bangers, Wild Boar. For this recipe, I used his famous Porchetta sausage flavored with fennel, sage, and bay leaf. The sausage gives this dish most of its flavor, so if you’re using cardboard, your final dish will taste like cardboard. 

Along with the support cast of good smoked bacon, white wine, baby white beans and fresh bread crumbs, it’s one of those meals that  you can’t really screw up.

If you screw it up, put an egg on it.

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cassoulet-feedmedearly-egg

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100 new foods

Red lentils

Red-Lentils

We already knew that we liked brown lentils, but figured that we’d give red lentils a try. When cooked, red lentils fall apart much more easily so they’re not great for lentil salads or other dishes where they need to keep their shape. But they have a wonderful flavor, and a less-gritty texture than brown lentils making them a hit with two of our guys.

Apologies for side-tracking about rum, but this mystery food challenge drove me to the bottle.

ME: Guys, who’s ready to get their mystery food on?

LAUREN: I just tried it.

ME: You can’t try it yet. Hang on until everyone is here. Where’s Fay? Emma get your booty over here.

ME: Guess what we’re trying for mystery food (shakes red lentils), red lentils! Who’s tried red lentils before?

EMMA: Those are chips.

ME: What do they look like?

LAUREN: The littlest cherry tomatoes in the world.

ME: Oh they do.

EMMA: It looks like juice.

ME: Sam what do you think?

SAM: Uh nothing.

ME: Can you believe that when you cook red lentils it turns to this! (shows the brown mound of lentils). Doesn’t it look different?

SAM: That’s glass.

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Family

No rest for the weary

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Can a weekend start poorly when you’re baking Almond Joy brownie bites?

I have scientifically proven that it can.

First my brownies gave me the middle finger when they came out of the oven and broke in half during the pan extraction process. I had to dig out some Hello Kitty polka dot mini cupcake wrappers to save them from the compost heap. Fortunately they were edible.

Lauren, who is nut allergic, wanted to know why on Earth I’d made brownies with nuts in them. After explaining that they were for a dinner party that night, she broke into tears, begging that I make a second nut-free batch of brownies.

So now, instead of enjoying the first 50 degree day of the winter, we were trapped inside like brownie lab rats, testing our dedication to the sport of baking.

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And of course, when we make food, I must photograph. Because that’s what this food blog has done to me.

Laure-brownies-2

Yes, those would be my feet. I’m either perched on a chair, lying on the ground, or climbing onto my countertops to get my food shots. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. If so, please tell me because I’m spending a lot of time cleaning my countertops.

After baking all morning the kids started to pace like a pack of anxious wolves; they were ready to enjoy some sunshine. Our sunny day didn’t disappoint.

And I was eager to enjoy a little of the great outdoors myself. Forgetting that everyone swarms to the park as soon as we get a glimpse of warm weather, I suited up for our visit in a pair of stretch iridescent snakeskin pants, a yellow sweatshirt, and a wool vest that I bought in 2001. Witnesses will corroborate. Upon seeing friends and acquaintances in their skinny jeans and leather boots, the obvious choice was to run for the hills, which I did under the guise of a dog walk, leaving my husband to look after the kids.

With a quick fist bump to my girl, Jack and I took off.

Sam-park
Goodbye

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Sweet

Marbled baked French toast

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When I was growing up in Toronto we used to be members at a place called The Granite Club. It was every bit as stuffy as the name implies, but for our athletically inclined family it was our home away from home.

The Granite Club sits on the edge of a ravine, and offers a smattering of waspy sports – lawn bowling, squash, badminton, and the like. And of course, that curious cult-like Canadian sport: curling. Although I never curled regularly, I did try it a few times, and can tell you convincingly that it’s not my thing. Sweeping floors seems more like a chore, not a sport. I hope I haven’t offended anyone.

Although I dabbled in skating and swimming, my favorite activity was tennis, where I took lessons each week with my coach Gary.

Gary was an affable guy with furry legs and tight white shorts that fell within the club’s 10% color regulation. I’m still prudishly judgmental when I see Serena Williams take to the courts wearing black and neon pink. This type of violation would have been punishable by law at The Granite Club. Security guards would have whisked you away like some kind of White Collar criminal.

Maybe The Granite Club was too clean cut for my image because I fought back with some early stage rebellion. On my 10th birthday I begged my mom for a short haircut and a triple piercing in each ear.

She gave in. I appreciate the fact that she was so supportive of my personal style choices, however misguided. The problem arose when I asked my hairdresser to leave a rat tail in the back. “Keep it short, but please leave a long stringy tail” I suggested to Gerald as the manly haircut took shape.

The end result wasn’t pretty. Rating lower than a mullet on the Hairstyle Attractiveness Index, it was the kind of cut that would have gotten me laughed straight out of middle school.

Which is why Gary saved my life. Hours after the cut, I arrived for my lesson and was greeted by a blank stare. “Wow, that’s a horrible haircut.”

I was crushed. I liked Gary; I respected his opinion. We were usually all business on the tennis court. I was there to improve my game and beat my nemesis, who was lazy but precise. Style wasn’t ever a topic of conversation, nor did I want it to be. Here I was with a foolish haircut that was distracting both of us from the job at hand. It was like playing a game of Chess with whipped cream on the end of my nose.

I had to put a stop to my self-inflicted mortification. As soon as I got home, I snipped the tail.

Tennis was the name of the game at our next session. I still had the short hair that would take me a nearly a year to re-grow, but my other, more serious transgression had been eliminated.

Also back to normal was my after-tennis routine, which involved heading upstairs to the cafeteria for some cinnamon toast and a Peach Snapple chaser.

For a club full of women in knee-length plaid skirts and muted locker room conversations, the cafeteria packed some heat. Greasy burgers, sloppy grilled cheese, and of course the cinnamon toast, which was two pieces of Wonder bread, toasted and slathered in a chocolate-colored cinnamon spread.

I hadn’t eaten this cinnamon toast for 20+ years, and last week had the sudden urge to make it .The kids will be at day camp this summer and tennis is on the agenda. In a reverse Proustian moment, Lauren’s Junior-sized tennis racquet triggered a flood of Granite Club food memories.

Why hadn’t I made this in over 20 years? I’m still berating myself.

It’s so easy a caveman could do it! If they weren’t so busy buying GEICO insurance, they’d be making cinnamon butter all day long.

And hide those thoughts of buttered bread with a delicate sprinkling of cinnamon sugar.

This is Texas-style cinnamon butter. To be honest, I don’t know if they make it in Texas, but I’m pretty sure that if I asked Tim Love to make me some cinnamon toast it would look just like this:

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