“Come to the Table” is my quirky food column that appears in The North Star Monthly and Vermont Woman, having first run in The Caledonian-Record. Through the column, I hope to provide readers with not only a range of recipes for weekday meals and celebrations, but also share a little humor and insight as a single parent trying to kick-start a career in midlife while managing a household full of teenagers and other semi-domesticated beasts. Look for a “Come to the Table“ cookbook of essays and expanded recipes in early 2008.

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Come to the Table

November 2006 -- The North Star Monthly

There’s a pale-pink lace dress -- a little too tight -- hanging in my closet and an unnervingly accurate scale resting on the bathroom floor, and only four days left to persuade the inches on my hips and the weight on the scale to align in efficient, algebraic harmony and allow the whole of me to squeeze into the chemise, so to speak, for a grand morning wedding in upscale, upstate New Jersey.
The calculations aren’t looking good. Especially given that, as I write this, I’m eating chocolate ice cream.
It’s been an “ice cream therapy” couple of months. On too regular a basis, something seemed to be hitting the fan or coming close. I suppose self-medicating with fudge twirl is far better than pouring glass after glass of Peruvian pisco, though the squishy effects on one’s physiology are downright disheartening.
I’m in good company, reaching for ice cream to relieve stress, an informal survey of friends attests. No problem seems quite so overwhelming when tempered with gelato, baked Alaska, or a brownie sundae. No wonder it’s tradition in some cultures to serve ice cream to mourners after funerals. The emotional sustenance found in a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey beats that of nearly any other food stuff. If only the human body didn’t have its bothersome need for protein, complex carbohydrates, vitamins and minerals and such.
Mankind, at perhaps the bidding of womankind, has a longer history with iced drinks and refreshments than one might imagine. The ancient Chinese constructed icehouses well over 3000 years ago, and during the Shang dynasty, mixed salt and ice to freeze sweetened, fermented milk delicacies, the earliest ice cream on record. Nero, first century emperor of Rome (and of debauch), commanded his slaves to cart down ice and snow from the mountains to cool his drinks and possibly his fevered brow while the city burned.
It’s said the pharaohs of ancient Egypt had ice shipped to them down the Nile. We might imagine Cleopatra enjoying a mix of shaved ice and fruit syrups, honey or wine -- a rustic sorbet. One doubts, however, that a woman accustomed to being worshipped as a Goddess every questioned herself or her obsequious entourage, even upon readying for her appearance before Julius Caesar, “Does this oriental carpet make me look fat?”
But fat happens. There’s something of a primordial failing, a Garden of Eden-like disgrace, about reveling in a the sensual excess of cream, sugar, rich vanilla or chocolate or luscious fruit, only to be so soundly punished later on. We end up bargaining like calorie-crazed clerics with the Gates of Heaven in view: “I promise tomorrow I’ll eat a radish salad.” Tomorrow comes, and vows and vegetables alike fall far to the side.
Wallace Stevens, in his famous poem “The Emperor of Ice Cream,” describes a twofold, allusive scene. An old woman has died; her corpse lies unattended on the bed in her room, while in the kitchen, young women loaf about, languidly preparing for the wake. Ice cream is to be served. A muscular man, a cigar maker, has the tiresome task of cranking the machine.
The woman’s horny feet protrude beneath the hem of a too-short sheet. The lamp exposes the mute coldness of death, and its loneliness. “The only emperor,” Stevens writes, “is the emperor of ice cream.”
Life in the kitchen is messy. The life of ice cream indulged in after a death, of young men joining the “wenches” in the kitchen, carrying cut flowers wrapped in triangles of old newspapers, is chaotic if sweet. But as poet implies, it’s all we have.
On hot summer evenings long ago, my family staged ice cream celebrations of our own. Butter almond was my father’s favorite. I can taste it even now. He’d peel back the waxed sides of a half-gallon container, grab a long knife and cut thick slices for each of us. Then he’d claim the rest for himself, a block with the gravity of stacked bricks, to feed his raging appetite and metabolism. We’d carry spoons and overflowing soup bowls from the kitchen and sit together contentedly on the porch, where the breezes were cool, where the stars sparkled though the limbs of tall pines.
I never worried then about fitting into my jeans the next day. My few concerns those childhood summers focused on what creatures I might come across while walking the hundred acres of woods around our house, whether I’d find more lilac-hued lady slippers growing in a shady spot to record in my journal, a la juvenile Thoreau. And when, of course, we’d have ice cream next.
So today, too, I’ll renounce better judgment and eat ice cream. And at the wedding, I’ll wear the clingy dress. Though maybe with a long, flowered shawl that falls just below the hips. Camouflaging, however briefly, the sins of the flesh.

Pumpkin Ice Cream

In honor of the season. My family likes this so well, it will replace the traditional pumpkin pie at our Thanksgiving table.

• 1 1/3 cups canned pumpkin, unsweetened
• ½ cup brown sugar
• ½ cup granulated sugar
• 2 teaspoons cinnamon
• ½ teaspoon nutmeg
• 1 teaspoon ginger
• 2 teaspoons vanilla
• Pinch of salt
• ¾ cup whole milk
• 2 cups heavy cream

Combine all ingredients except the milk and cream in a large bowl. Beat together well. Add the milk and beat until smooth. Pour in the cream and mix on low speed, scraping the sides and bottom, until thoroughly incorporated.
Process in an ice cream maker according to manufacturer’s directions, generally about 20 to 25 minutes. Place ice cream in a 1 ½ or 2 quart plastic freezer container. Cover and freeze for a few hours until firm. Makes about 6 cups -- 8 to 10 servings. Nice with a dollop of sweetened whipped cream and sprinkling of cinnamon.

Pound Cake and Pilates

August 26th, 2005 --The Caledonian-Record

Early in the acerbic and sad movie "Wit," a woman scholar and professor, dressed in hospital regalia, patiently reciting personal information gathered no doubt many times before, is asked by an oncology resident what sort of exercise she does.
"I pace," she says.
My children can attest that this is my chief form of exercise as well. "Where are you going and when will you be home?" I inquire as they head out the door, car keys in hand. Then I worry until they return.
Keeping fit requires more than wearing down the floorboards with your slippers. But it's a little tough after years of only pacing to suddenly acquire a sport or aerobic routine. I daydream that I could become a woman who skydives, or climbs mountains, or races thoroughbreds at a full gallop around the rail of a half-mile track. Unlikely. Or that I could run. I admire runners, marathoners, especially; in college, I jogged about a bit myself. But I never managed to reach that runner's high. So unless dashing for the phone counts, it's probably not the work out for me.
There's always walking the dog. My Husky is a couch potato of a pooch and could do with more than the occasional jaunt. Truth be told, he's a little spoiled. Okay, he's a little fat. Going for a walk with him is more like going for a waddle.
Deciding lately that I had to do something, I caved into hype and bought some Pilates equipment. Not one the "studio" installations that take up half a room and look like a cross between a jungle gym and a torture chamber. Just a couple of inexpensive devices I call The Gizmos. One is simply a heavy, somewhat flexible rubber ring about a foot in diameter. You squeeze it together and pull it apart, with arms or legs, feet or hands, inciting isometric contractions and muscle stretches which will no doubt help you acquire the long, lean limbs of any of the assorted gazelle-type creatures the fashion magazines most want us to emulate this month.
Generally, though, I just toss the ring in the air and catch it. This is fun, of course, but has no cardiovascular or muscle strengthening effect whatsoever. On the other hand, should an intruder enter my home, I could knock him out cold with the thing.
The Other Gizmo almost belies description. It's shaped like the legs of an isosceles triangle, joined at the vertex with a hefty spring, with wide handled grips at each end. It's supposed to work wonders on the thighs. Given that this is a family newspaper, I'd best not describe in detail how it's put to use. Suffice it to say that after exercising with it, those of a squeamish nature might feel compelled to seek the counsel of a priest.
I keep The Gizmos, along with a pair of 5 pound dumbbells, in a wire basket by the television set. Now and then, when I lose all hope in an afterlife, I move the coffee table, switch on the Food Network or CNN -- depending on how much aggravation I can stand -- and spend 15 minutes Getting In Shape. I throw the ring in the air and catch it. I throw it to the dog, who generally does not. I pick up the isosceles contraption. I put it down. I wave the dumbbells about until a state of boredom something akin to a coma sets in. And that's enough of that.
Apparently, it takes more than 15 minutes to get in shape. Who knew?
Which brings us to this week’s recipes: Perfect Lemon Pound Cake. What, you might ask, does pound cake have to do with Pilates? (I suspect my editor would like to know as well.) Frankly, very little. Except that I’d rather have a slice of pound cake than do Pilates. I’d rather rearrange my sock drawer, or spend an afternoon memorizing Scandinavian postal regulations than do Pilates.
But I work with The Gizmos every so often. I make the effort. Because I want to eat pound cake without regret. And because one should only pace so much.

Perfect Lemon Pound Cake

This recipes is adapted from one found in the 1943 edition of the Boston Cooking School Cook Book. Substitute a good-quality vanilla extract for the lemon if you prefer.

• 1 cup (2 sticks) butter, room temperature
• 1 and one-half cups sugar
• 4 or 5 eggs, room temperature
• 1 tablespoon lemon extract
• 2 cups cake flour
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• Pinch of salt
• Confectioner's sugar, if desired

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Lavishly butter a 9 x 5 inch loaf pan, and put the pan in the refrigerator to chill while preparing the batter.
Be sure to use eggs and butter that are at room temperature for this recipes. Cold butter will not incorporate the air necessary to provide the cake its lift. And if you add cold eggs to even a perfect butter and sugar combination, the mixture will seize and you'll literally see the volume reduce. So do set the eggs and butter out on the counter for a good hour before you begin.
In a large bowl, beat the butter until light and creamy. Gradually add the sugar, beating until well incorporated and smooth. Add the eggs one at a time, beating after each addition. (Five eggs will lend a richer and of course "eggier" taste to the cake, but 4 eggs will make a fine cake as well, if you'd rather cut back.) Then beat in the lemon or vanilla extract.
Sift the flour with the baking powder and salt, and gently stir or fold into the eggs and sugar mixture with a large spoon or spatula. Do this thoroughly but lightly. Spoon the batter into the loaf pan, smooth the top slightly, and bake in the middle of the oven for about one hour and ten minutes. The cake will rise nicely and turn a lovely golden color. A skewer inserted into the middle of the cake should come out clean.
Allow the cake to cool in the pan on a rack for about 10 minutes. Then remove from pan and cool completely on the rack. Dust with confectioner's sugar if desired. Lemon pound cake pairs beautifully with sweetened raspberries or blueberries. Vanilla pound cake with a scoop of frozen yogurt and sugared slices of apples or peaches is heavenly.

Not Your Mother’s Mother’s Day

May 6th, 2005 -- The Caledonian-Record

Mother’s Day is Sunday, and in honor of the event, I was fully prepared to write a traditional Mother’s Day column, in which I’d describe how to pull together a lovely brunch, one which could be accompanied by a bouquet of delicate flowers and gentle hugs from children or grandchildren, the underpinnings of a celebration suitable for all ages. The sort of spread you’d find described in any proper women’s periodical.
And then I had a frozen black raspberry margarita that changed my perspective.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging Mom’s special day with a plate of cinnamon-spiced French toast, maple-infused sausage and a couple of eggs over easy, along with a gift of a potted hydrangea, perhaps, and a very pretty card. That would certainly be a fine way to start the morning. But as evening falls, something a little stronger might just fill the bill.
Because being a mother isn’t all soft-focused memories of quietly sleeping babies with clean, wispy hair, and sterling report cards brought home by freckle faced youngsters. Being a mom means being right in the thick of the action, down in the dark trenches, with no hope for combat pay or vacation leave. The rewards are plentiful, indeed, but they accrue over time, and occasionally, while you’re wading through the latest child-related conundrum, all you want is a little peace, a little space, a little guilt-free self indulgence.
You might ask yourself, “Do I really deserve a frozen black raspberry margarita, or should I be content with French toast?” Well, frankly, if you’re a mom, you’re already there. But to satisfy all doubts, here’s a quiz to judge your margarita-worthiness. Feel free to give yourself as many points as you feel appropriate.

The “Am I Worth it? You Bet I Am” Motherhood Merit Test

Please take a deep breath and answer truthfully, to the best of your recollection and the strength of your nerves: In the course of bringing children into the world and guiding them safely along the path toward adulthood, have you . . .

Carried multiples to term, or otherwise been so huge as you approached delivery that you felt like a walking circus act and had strangers ask to rub your stomach for luck?

Endured 17 hours of back labor, or given birth in a teaching hospital with a dozen residents looking on?

Caught the chickenpox along with your children, just so they wouldn’t feel alone?

Rushed a child with a fever of 105 to the emergency room, and screamed at an admitting nurse who didn‘t seem to get it?

Had a teacher complain about your fourth grader’s disruptive burping in the lunchroom, which she says has incited other children to burp disruptively as well?

Worn out a set of Goodyear radials and the bulk of your patience with zealous, sports obsessed parents over the course of several seasons of interstate travel soccer?

Explained to your child why it may not be wise to keep a python as a pet?

Seen through the entire process of extricating your child from the clutches of a third-grade teacher you’re certain was a guard in Buchenwald in a previous lifetime?

Driven upon an ambulance only to discover it’s your skateboarding son lying by the side of the road about to be put on a gurney?

Initiated a conversation about the birds and the bees, then realized your child knows more about the subject than you do?

Pulled off any major holiday or birthday as a single parent (extra credit for multiple Christmases)?

Discussed your child’s behavior or driving techniques with someone dressed in blue and displaying a shiny badge?

Dealt with repeated requests for body piercings, tattoos, or blue hair without deciding to ditch it all, buy a Harley and leave no forwarding address?

Been told by a child, in yet another state of abject misery brought on by a parental decision, “You have ruined my life”?

Actually, that last one happens so frequently, most of us have grown fairly used to hearing it. And if we’re not ruining our children’s lives at least occasionally, we’re not paying attention.

So, ladies, are you with me? Is there a frozen margarita in your future? Of course, we don’t drink and drive, and we believe in moderation in all things. So, here’s a recipes to serve two, to share with a good friend who’s been there as well --and who wouldn’t trade a moment of it for the world.
Well, a few of the moments, maybe. Only a few.

Frozen Black Raspberry Margaritas

Apparently, the type of tequila, silver or gold, will make a difference in the final outcome of the drink. It will also make a difference in your wallet. Silver is preferred by some; given that, I used gold, with no ill effects. Chambord is the premier black raspberry liqueur; it too isn‘t cheap. However, less expensive versions are available.

• 3 tablespoons sugar
• 3 ounces tequila
• 2 ounces Chambord
• 1 to 2 ounces freshly squeezed lime juice
• Wedges of lime, optional, but nice
• 2 cups crushed ice, approximately
• Kosher salt (optional)

If desired, rub the edge of two margarita glasses with the wedges of lime and dip into a saucer filled with Kosher salt. While it’s traditional, the salt is something many people pass up. I do.
Put the sugar into the blender and blend on high for ten seconds, to bring it to a “superfine” consistency. Then add the tequila, Chambord, lime juice and crushed ice. Blend together on high for 10 to 20 seconds, or until of desired slushiness. Avoid over blending. Pour immediately into two glasses. Garnish with wedges of lime, if desired.
For a lively variation, add to this recipes one and a half to two cups of frozen black raspberries. Cut the amount of ice to one cup and increase the sugar to taste -- perhaps one quarter cup. Blend briefly to desired consistency. Serve in chilled margarita glasses, without salted rims. Makes a fine if adults-only dessert. Check ID’s before serving.

Next week -- a recipes for the perfect quesadillas to accompany the margaritas.