How To Make Caesar Dressing!---and correctly pronounce Worcestershire Sauce.

Nothing is as ubiquitous to a restaurant menu as the Caesar Salad.

From white-linen French restaurants to the newest farm-to-table offering to your neighborhood Applebees----the Caesar salad is everywhere.

Restaurants all over NYC offer myriads of variations on the simple salad, as well.  Some switch up the standard romaine lettuce to raw baby kale or even grill the romaine over open flames.  Some will do it old skool with raw eggs and a tableside presentation.  Other places vary up the croutons and make them out of corn bread or some house-baked sourdough.  And then comes the plethora of “additions” to your salad---chicken, salmon, shrimp, and I’ve even seen grilled baby octopus.

All these things in an attempt to make a simple salad that everyone likes more complicated.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m all for variations on the theme.  But I worry it encourages a belief that the Caesar Salad is too complicated to make at home.

‘Tis not!

Without going into the hotly debated origins of the salad, it is definitely Italian in origin.  Now, whether it was one Italian guy in Chicago in 1903 or one of two Italian guys in Tijuana in 1924 OR 1927…

I am not here to create a ruckus.

I will dispel one myth, however.  NO Caesar dressing uses raw eggs.  It employs one-minute coddled eggs.  Yes, this is a very fine distinction.  There’s a line from an old British comedy from the 1930s where an elderly Lord complains to his butler, “Are these eggs medium-boiled?  They are NOT!  They are in the same virginal state as when they left the hen!” 

That would be the sort of egg we're talking about here.

Chef Ernest Gonzalez and I were chatting about Caesar Salads the other day.  He is the owner and chef of Harlem Food Bar.  And (in full-disclosure) I work there as a waitress.  Ernie makes all his dressings and sauces in-house.  Yes, it may be more cost-effective to buy them out of large tubs from the big distributors (and frankly, most restaurants do just that).  But when you make your own dressing, you control what goes into it.  You control the salt, sugar (or corn syrup in most bottled dressings) and you avoid the preservatives. 

They also taste WAY better!

Chef Ernie doesn’t use coddled eggs in his dressing as a precaution against pregnant women (who should NOT consume eggs that aren’t fully cooked).  But he STILL manages a flavorful dressing that customers (and staff) crave.

How does he do it?

Well...I know, because I’ve been making Caesar Salad dressing for years. 

In fact, I’ve been known in SEVERAL restaurants I’ve worked in to “save the day” when we ran out of the bottled stuff.

“We will NOT 86 Caesar Salad as long as I’M in the house!  Step aside!”

You need 8 simple ingredients that you may have in your kitchen right now.

Mayonnaise

Garlic

Black pepper

Worcestershire Sauce

Dijon Mustard

Parmesan Cheese

Lemons

Olive Oil

That’s it!

Just a few notes on the ingredients:

Mayonnaise:  Yes, I make my own.  But I’m a bit of a mayonnaise fiend.  So I ALWAYS need to have a fresh supply handy.  And being one of those naturally thin people everyone hates, sometimes in the summer when I lose my appetite to the heat---the only thing keeping my weight on is mayonnaise.  But I only buy Hellman’s.  Anything else is crap.

Garlic:  HAS to be fresh.  And fresh isn’t that pre-chopped stuff packed in water and preservatives.  All the health benefits of garlic are leeched out when you use that stuff.  If you don’t enjoy chopping garlic (Chef Ernie finds it relaxing---I find it irritating) get one of these babies.   

 

My aunt bought me this little mini-chopper as a stocking-stuffer.  I don't know how I lived without it.

Black Pepper:  If you don’t have a pepper grinder, getting one will change your life completely.  Pepper never tasted so good.  That being said----until you get one, the pre-ground stuff in a can (as long as it hasn’t been sitting on your shelf for the past two years) will do just fine.

Worcestershire Sauce:  People seem to have a wee bit of trouble pronouncing the word “Worcestershire”.  It’s a three-syllable word.  The emphasis is on the first syllable, which is pronounced Wuh.  The last syllable is like New Hampshire.  Shir.  All together it’s pronounced:  WUH-ster-shir.

Here’s a handy video tutorial, as well:

How To Pronounce Worcestershire

Also a note:  Worcestershire Sauce will make this non-vegetarian.  There’s a tiny bit of anchovy in there.

Dijon Mustard:  HAS to be Dijon.  Any brand, really.  But yellow mustard is not going to cut it here.

Parmesan Cheese:  Yes, obviously if you can get your hands on some Parmigiano Reggiano—it’s definitely the way to go.  But this is salad dressing.  Yes, if you get spoiled with the real Italian stuff, you’ll notice the difference if you shake some Kraft powdered cheese into the dressing-----but most people won’t.  Grana Padana (another hard Italian cheese) is also a good substitute.  It’s a bit milder and sweeter but it works---in some cases, better.

Lemons:  Do NOT buy lemon juice in a bottle.  I don’t know what exactly is in that bottle---but it’s not lemon juice.  I can’t even begin.  And supposedly a TRUE Caesar Salad actually uses limes.  The word for lemons and limes is the same in Spanish.  A simple error in recipe translation.  If you ask a Spanish-speaking line cook in NYC for a lemon, he'll likely hand you a lime.    

Olive Oil:  HAS to be olive oil----but needn’t be extra virgin.  In fact, I prefer regular olive oil in my Caesar dressing as the flavor is lighter---but any sort of olive oil will do.

Into you blender or food processor, put:

½ cup mayonnaise

1 Tbs Worcestershire Sauce

2 Tbs lemon juice (basically, one lemon)

½ tsp pepper

1 Tbs Dijon Mustard

2 Tbs freshly chopped garlic

2 or 3 Tbs Parmesan Cheese

Once everything seems to come together, drizzle in:

4 Tbs olive oil 

  

I often add an extra bit of cheese at the end because I like a slightly crumbly texture to my dressing.

At the end, I always do a taste test to make sure I have the balance I’m looking for, so adjust to your tastes.

I put the dressing in a jar and pop it in my fridge.  It will become a bit thicker after “setting” for a few hours.

But no need to wait.  You can go ahead and plop it onto whatever greens you like.

Just please don’t tell me you’re using boxed croutons.

Sigh.

Why would anyone BUY croutons????

Okay, that will be my next post.

What To Expect When You're Expecting Your Farm Share

I can't say enough wonderful things about farm shares/CSAs.  

They provide you with a weekly batch of fresh, organic produce, allow you to explore foods you've never tried, and are (mostly) low-cost.  

You also make friends with the people you see every week.  You get excited about trying new recipes.  And you learn SO much about farming and fresh produce.

And you automatically eat better.  You just do.

When I have a bag of fresh vegetables on my shoulder, I NEVER go into the Popeye's on 125th St.

Oh, I still think about those spicy little fried shrimp perfectly-battered in corn starch...

But I walk right past the Popeye's and get my vegetables home to mama!

Last week, my summer farm share program had its first delivery of the season.  I was SO happy to walk in there and see old friends I hadn't seen in months and pick up my vegetables.  This is my second year doing this and I've talked with several friends about their programs, as well.

I don't have all the answers, but here are my tips:

If you don't already belong to a farm share program, you can usually sign up at any time during the season.  Some will deliver to your home (read---more expensive).  But most have pick-up sites not far from your home.  They tend to use community centers like the YMCA, churches, or food pantries.  This could potentially mean that you have to wait in the same building as homeless people waiting for the soup kitchen upstairs to open.  If you have a problem with that, um....

Get over yourself.  It's not a methadone clinic.  It's a food pantry.  You're there for the same reason as everyone else---to get food.  In fact, if you've got some free time, you might want to consider volunteering.  Food pantries are always looking for a few extra hands to cook and prep all the Meals-Without-Wheels that go out every day to people just looking for a decent dinner. 

Be a helper, not a hater. 

Don't know if there's a farm share in your area?

Just Google "farm share" or "CSA" and the name of your city or town or neighborhood.  You can usually sign up online and pay by the season or by the week.  Some even have a way to allow shareholders to pay with their food stamps.  

Quality produce is NOT expensive.  You're getting it straight from the farm.  You don't have to pay huge corporations and their thousands of employees and CEOs with huge benefit packages and their marketing companies and pesticide companies and the government agencies that THESE companies pay to keep their horrible farming practices a secret and keep the money "all in the family".

You're paying a farmer.  And the guy who drives the truck.

Being as it's "organic", they probably won't supply you with those demon plastic bags to get your little lovelies home.  Some CSAs will put everything in a box and hand it to you.  But others are more like a farmer's market.  You show up with your "reusable container" and pick the produce yourself.  Five potatoes, three onions, two cucumbers, one bunch of spinach, etc...

A cloth bag is probably your best bet. The first few weeks I went in with a wicker basket.  Not to say a basket isn't a good choice, but strolling thru Harlem in my hand-sewn skirt with a wicker backet, I looked like the "Bougie Girl" in "The Beauty and the Beat" video. 

Oh yes I did.

And now I give you my newbie mistake.

BEWARE OF THE EGGS!

Share programs will often offer the option to add-on things like cheese or honey or farm fresh milk.

Or eggs.

I'm not saying that eggs are a bad choice.  Add-ons can be a beautiful thing. 

I thought it would be a good idea to sign up for the egg share.  Because I bake a lot.  And I enjoy egg salad and deviled eggs and a poached egg on a piece of toast when I'm up writing late at night.  Not to mention my love of meringues and béarnaise sauce...

But I'm one person.  I can only eat so many eggs.  Unless you have a family to feed, a dozen eggs a week is a LOT.  At one point last summer, I had six dozen eggs nesting in my refrigerator.  I also gave away two or three cartons just to make room for the Swiss chard.  And then there was the week I was desperate and used eight eggs yolks to make ice cream and eight egg whites to make angel food cake.

I spent two days of my life just trying to get rid of a dozen eggs.

And then there was that horrible time I just couldn't take the pressure anymore and emailed my farm share claiming I was going to be "on vacation" and could I suspend my share for the following week?

I wasn't on vacation.  I didn't go anywhere.

I lied.  

I lied to my farm share! 

Twice!!!

You can see the frustration building in my very first post on this blog titled, "Love's Labor's Lost or How I Came To Hate My Farm Share".

At the end of the season, we were asked to fill out a questionnaire.  One of the suggestions I made was, "Could there possibly be an option for HALF a dozen eggs?"

I was happy to discover that this season they took my advice.  Half a dozen is now an option.  I would have enjoyed this small victory in my life, but last summer was like Nam.

Nam with eggs.

Not quite napalm or a scene from Apocalypse Now.  But I was mentally scarred by the experience.  Over the winter, I began buying my eggs from the "grass-fed, pastured" butcher shop in Harlem---Harlem Shambles.

I'm very happy with these eggs.  They're from Autumn's Harvest Farm in Romulus, NY.

It's possibly the only egg carton in the world with a review from the NY Times on the carton:

"For eggs from chickens that live in the sort of utopia conveyed by the images on most egg cartons, look for 'Animal Welfare Approved'." 

Okay---it's not a review of those particular eggs.  Just eggs in general.  I'm a savvy enough consumer to get that.  But the eggs are fresh and perfect and I can get them Uptown without trekking all the way down to the Union Square farmer's market. 

Down there is a guy who REALLY loves and takes wonderful care of his chickens.  He only sells eggs.  Occasionally, people ask if he can supply them with a whole, fresh chicken?

Well...of course, he can; but...

That's like saying to someone, "Wow.  You take such great care of your dog.  You cook homemade organic meals for him and he gets veterinary care and you take him to the dog park to exercise so he can just 'be a dog in his natural environment'.  And I can tell that you really love and care about him a lot.

Could we eat him for dinner?"

I mean, the guy realizes that it's a chicken.  And that people eat chicken every day.  And even he's had chicken for dinner, but I'm sure he's also wondering...

Who ARE you?

You show up at my booth with your hemp bag and your "Eat More Kale" t-shirt and want me to decapitate Henny Penny so you can look like "wife-and-mother material" for guy you met last week on JDate?

Who is this Mr. Big, anyway?

And why isn't he here with you?

Exactly how solid is the foundation of this relationship?

Could I...maybe meet him?  I mean, if he's going to be eating one of my pets...

Okay, I'm fully aware that I'm making up this conversation in my head.  But that's the kind of devotion this man has towards his chickens.

So this summer, I passed on the egg share----even with the half dozen option.

I just create too much inner dialogue between man-and-chicken to justify the stress caused by too many farm fresh eggs.

I signed up for the dried heirloom bean option instead.  If I don't have time to get to the dried beans...  Well, they're dried beans.  They keep for a long time.  And I have yet to extend my anthropomorphic tendencies to dehydrated legumes.

Not yet, anyway.   

The biggest piece of advice I have about a farm share (or even just a day at the farmer's market) is that once you get your goodies home---wash and prep them right away!

First off, this stuff is organic.  That means no pesticides.  Get where I'm going with this?

Last week I found a ladybug in my spinach.  Granted, who doesn't want a ladybug in their home?

A ladybug in the home means good luck.  I have a particular fondness for them.  If I were a painter, I think I would paint them with as much passion as Georgia O'Keeffe painted irises.  Of course, they wouldn't look like vaginas, so they probably wouldn't sell too much in the galleries.  But I was thrilled when the little guy crawled onto my finger.  I watched him for a few moments, and then I took him outside and let him go.  He took off flying the instant he hit the fresh air.

Every time they do that, I feel like a kid who just lost their balloon for the first time.  Because the first time little children lose their balloons to gravity, they don't cry.  They're too magnetized by the fantastic idea that something that was JUST in their hands is now flying up towards the clouds.  

It's not a loss; it's a wondrous mystery.

But I highly recommend that you wash everything.  Even if you don't actually SEE bugs, their eggs may be on the produce.  I haven't had anything like those stories of hundreds of baby spiders flying out of a bunch of Ecuadorian bananas.

But I've seen some larvae. 

Yes.  Larvae.  

I don't know what they turned into, because I took them outside.

I've released my share of "inchworms" to no longer have any regret that I never got the plastic riding toy of my dreams---The Inchworm from Romper Room.  Only Coca-Cola's "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing" was a catchier commercial tune than the one with the little blond-haired girl twerking on a worm across a pedophile's grassy knoll as the Emmylou Harris knock-off sang, "Inchworm, inchworm.  I love you." 

Root vegetables that are still attached to their tops may look pretty and poetic in your fridge, but the tops will suck the life out of the roots in a day or two.  You'll have gorgeous carrot tops, but mushy carrots.  Same with beets.  You'll notice that parsnips never come with the tops attached.  Why?  Parsnip tops are toxic.  This week I got kohlrabi (which sounds Japanese, but is actually a German root vegetable).  It looks so gorgeous and perfect; you hate to break it up.  But Brad and Jen both seem to be doing a-okay these days.  So stop putting your hopes and dreams into vegetables you don't even know.  Sometimes it's just not meant to be.  Let them live their own separate lives and just mind your own business.

My final word---eat this stuff!!!!

To make eating it all even easier, the first thing you do when you get your bounty home...

Okay, well...  If you're a total dork like me, the first thing you do is arrange your vegetables on a velvet bedspread and take some glamour shots.

But if you're not that much of a geek---clean them, chop them up, cook them, freeze them, can them, make soup...  

Anything!

They're not there to look pretty.  They're there to eat. 

Outside of living on an actual farm, a farm share is the closest you can come to how people ate from the land for thousands of years---only the Native Americans didn't have blenders and freezers to make a fruit smoothie.

A farm share forces you to be creative and adventurous and push yourself to new culinary heights!!!

Or to just eat more lettuce.

So join a CSA today!

(Psst---watch out for the eggs.)

"Go get the butter..."

This fall, some fresh butter appeared as an optional "add-on" in my farm share.

Cowbella Butter, to be exact.  Made from pastured cows in upstate New York. 

“Made with love in the heart of The Catskill Mountains”.

As much as I love butter (and food!), I never really thought there would be THAT much of a difference between whatever was on sale at the market that week and a more expensive brand.

Because I’d had butter in France.

The REAL stuff. 

The winter after my trip, I was snuggled up in a coffee shop in Midtown Manhattan with my French tutor.  I remember going on and on about the butter and yogurt I’d had in France and how I’d never tasted anything like it in my life.

“What do they do to it there?”

“Well,” he leaned in and lowered his voice, “truth is---we really don’t pasteurize a lot of dairy in France.”

He said it with embarrassment.  Kind of like an “Ooops.  My bad.”

The French are VERY protective of their dairy products.  Raw milk (and products made from raw milk) are VERY common.  The idea of pasteurizing their heritage by boiling the shit out of it and ruining the distinctive flavor of that particular region of France...

Well, they get all crazy and start passing laws.  And EVERY single law seems to pass because they're fucking nuts about this stuff.  Oh!---You should just see the rules governing the making of Beaufort cheese!  PAGES of details and rules and restrictions... 

And here's the kicker---Louis Pasteur was FRENCH!!!!

Oh, they'll never live that one down. 

So as time went on, I kept hearing how butters were different, yadda yadda, yadda…..

But I’d TASTED the best stuff imaginable.  The whole pasteurization thing kind of killed any thought that I could re-live the magical moment when I pulled that butter out of the mini-fridge in my 4^th Arrondisement hotel and spread it across a fresh baguette…. 

So butter was not on my radar.

But my farm share hadn’t let me down yet, so I figured I’d give it a try and pre-ordered a small tub.

The next week when I went to pick up my farm share, the woman who runs the location started gushing the moment she saw me walk in the door, “Yes!  You ordered the butter.  I’m so happy you ordered it!  You’re going to LOVE this butter!  You HAVE to taste this butter!  We opened a container last night at the office.  Oh my god.  You can just taste the love!”

They were so excited about it.  They even put out a tub of the stuff to sample. 

With crackers.

They went out and bought a whole box of crackers. 

To sell you something you had ALREADY BOUGHT!

That’s the kind of stupid, blind love I could write a play about.

So I played along and smeared a bit of butter on a cracker….

Let’s just say that I couldn’t wait to get that baby home.

Butter IS different!

Cowbella Butter is produced from cows that live on the Danforth Jersey Farm.  The farm’s been in operation since 1817 and it’s a family business---and the cows are part of that family.

These cows actually get to lead the idealized life you THINK dairy cows live.

Oh, I looked them up online.

There are photos of the barn.  And of cows relaxing in front of a lake and watching the ducks swim by…

They use Jersey cows (because their milk has the highest butterfat content of all the breeds) and they tell you ALL about their cows.  I’ll just pull a quote from their website here:

On their first day of life, we give them their name and as they grow we form bonds with them as we work with them every day through the years.  To us, the little brown cow is perfectly suited to life on our farm.  We have acres of green grass that the cows graze all through pasture season- from May to early November, they stay out all night and we put them in during the day when they come to stand at the back door of the barn and let us know they're ready.  In nice weather they only come in the barn for milking times, and even in winter they still go outside for exercise every day.  Each cow has her own personal stall with a mattress that is bedded with chopped straw every day and with her name over it, and they look forward to coming in the barn to be milked, rest, and eat.  In addition to grass and grain, the cows’ diet is made up of a fermented type of hay called baleage, traditional dry hay, haylage and corn silage, all of which we grow ourselves on our own fields.  We use manure from the cows as fertilizer.  We never have and never will use artificial growth hormones, we never dock tails, and we use antibiotics only when the health of the animal is in danger.  If antibiotics are used on a milking cow, she is milked separately and her milk is dumped until the antibiotics are out of her system.  Our farm is the home that our animals know their entire lives- we feel a great responsibility as their caretakers to make sure that we give them the happiest and healthiest life possible.

Can Land O’ Lakes say that?  I don’t think so.

Yes, the butter is pasteurized.  Because this is America and it’s what they have to do.  But you CAN tell the difference.  You can!

My eyes have been opened to The Wonderful World of Butter!

Tonight I made butter for the very first time.

I know.  I know.  "Um...you make lard but you've never made butter?  That's like getting your pilot's licence without knowing how to drive a car."

In all fairness, this was actually said to me by a guy I used to hang with in college.  I wanted to go to Ground School.  I'd read a lot of Antoine de Saint-Exupery in high school.  I don't quite know what I was planning on doing with a pilot's license.  Maybe I wanted to fly mail across the Sahara or something.  But I thought I would be a good pilot.  A Natural.  Because I'm a conscientious person who pays attention to detail.  And they were offering classes at the local airport.  If he could just give me a ride to the airport once a week...

"But you don't know how to drive!!!!  Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?"

Frankly, I didn't.  I didn't see what the big deal was.  To this day, I like to believe he found this charming.  

But probably not.  

Oh, we've kept in touch.  He's now a philosophy professor.  I think he teaches a class in reason.  A few years ago, we got into an argument over Descartes' Discourse On Method.  

He sent me a philosophy 101 textbook to "explain" Descartes to me.  Oh, I read it. But I still have a little problem with Descartes.  And I will stand behind my feelings on this matter.  And I've read validation by OTHER philosophers who agree with me!

Ultimately, perhaps we were always like Ludwig Wittgenstein and Karl Popper at Cambridge with a hot poker between us.  

He's now happily married and he and his wife keep chickens.  Just for the eggs, you know.  

I guess I wasn't as charming as I thought.

But anyway----here's how you make butter.  It's pretty simple.

Heavy Whipping Cream.

Pour it into a big bowl. 

Plenty of sites will suggest you use a food processor or a stand mixer with a splatter guard----this WILL make a bit of a mess.  I used a hand mixer.  I liked it because you could see and feel the process of "churning".  

Beat the heavy cream PAST the whipping stage.  Just keep whipping and whipping and eventually the butterfat and buttermilk will separate.  

Then line a strainer with cheesecloth, separate the two, and squeeze out the excess buttermilk as much as possible.  And now----you have TWO things!  Butter AND buttermilk!  

Put your buttermilk in the fridge to use in pancakes or fried chicken and let's get back to the butter...

You've got to "wash" it.  That's the word they use, but what you're really doing is squeezing as MUCH water out of it as possible.  To do this, you put your butter in a bowl with ice water.  Seriously, ICE water!  Leave the ice cubes in there even.  You don't want to melt the butter.  You want it as cold as possible and then you just smear it around the bowl with a spatula to extract as much water as you possibly can.  Keep doing this (dumping the cloudy ice water and putting in new ice water and squeezing again) till the water runs clear.  It took me four tries.

  
After that, you just put in some kind of crock or wrap it up.  I wrapped mine up in wax paper like a Tootsie Roll and put it in the freezer. 

You can add a pinch of Kosher salt, if you like.  I kept mine unsalted.  I put it in the freezer because unsalted butter goes bad quickly.  Especially the homemade stuff.  

I am now on a journey to learn everything I can possibly learn about butter.  

So if you'll just drive me to the airport once a week, one day I'll be able to fly you anywhere you want to go! 

A Sprout Grows In Manhattan

I hear people complain all the time about their inability to garden.  

"But I don't have a green thumb..." seems to be the cry.

But ANYONE can grow shit.

When I was a kid, my Aunt Joyce (my godmother and namesake) put some soil into a sunken basement window.  Then she bought some radish seeds.  Together, we sprinkled the seeds into the dirt, watered them, and waited.

And then one day she said, "Joyceee...I think those radishes are ready to pick.  Go get them, honey!"

As I harvested my radishes, she took this picture:

I was SO happy!

I made something!  And it was useful!  And you could eat it!  And everyone I knew and loved was proud of me!

It was the best feeling in the whole wide world.

Years later, when my little brother was at that age, I wanted to give that same feeling to him.

So we dug up a patch of dirt in our backyard, went to the nursery, picked up some seeds, planted them, watered them...

And then one day I said, "Bean..."

To this day, I still call my little brother "Bean".  Because when he was a baby, he was always jumping when I held him in my arms.  Like a jumping bean.

"Bean...I think those carrots are ready to pick.  Let's go see!"

And we did.

And then I took this picture:

My Little Farmer.  He looked SO surprised when he pulled on the leaves and an actual carrot came out of the ground.  And HE made it!  With his own two little hands!

As a big sister who was making plans to get away to make her own life, I grabbed every tiny opportunity I could to make some sort of imprint on his young life.

Because this was my brother.  This was a person I would spend the rest of my life with.  I wanted him to be someone I loved and who would love me, too.

Like any family, we were growing a life-long relationship on nothing but a bunch of seeds.

I often question my decision to live so far away from my family.  Lately, I question it almost every day.

This summer, my beloved baby brother is getting married.  To a woman my ENTIRE family loves and adores.

The day of the wedding, I will be so freaking happy!---but it will be hard to tell because I'll probably be sobbing and hugging people all damn day.

And then there will be wine...

I'm going to be a sobbing, hugging mess!

He and his fiance already live together with her daughter---and my new niece!

Like me, my future sister-in-law LOVES cooking and good food---and sometimes food that's so bad, it's good.  Having a meal with them is always a treat.

And now they have a garden!

Despite the fact that I live in the most fascinating city in the world---I REALLY envy that.

Because it's real.

It's there.  It's affordable.  It's reality.  It's not a pipe dream.  It's two people who love each other and are building a life together.  It's having someone there for you.  It's beautiful.  It's a garden of loveliness right in your backyard.

And it's real.

I have two waitress jobs, a pet fish, and a kitchen window with lousy light.

I know they say the grass is always greener.

But when you don't even have grass...

So I do what I can with what I've got.

And if a five year-old can grow shit---you can, too!

Lentil sprouts are DEE-licious!  They're crunchy and nutty and kind of tannin-y---I made that word up.

I can eat them raw two or three days old.  Just nibbling on them all day.  You can also sprinkle them on your favorite salad, toss them in a stir-fry, make a spicy cold Mediterranean salad or even cole slaw.  There are TONS of uses for them!

To grow them, you need two things---lentils and a container.

Fair warning:  The first time I tried this, my lentils did not sprout.  I was told that I had old lentils.

And what lady likes to hear that?

Any kind (except split lentils) will do.  I used black lentils this time.  

Honestly, I grow them year round.  But spring is the perfect time of year to get sprouting!

For a container, you want something that drains easily.  I use a classic glass and metal shaker that you see in your neighborhood pizzaria.  I got mine for $1.25 at the 99 Cents Store in Harlem on 125th and Frederick Douglass right next to the McDonalds.

Have I gone into that McDonalds?

Shut up.  Just shut up.

It was a rough brunch shift.  And the McDonalds doorman knows how to keep a secret.

Put just enough lentils to BARELY cover the bottom of your container.

Fill your container with water and leave it for about an hour.  Some say overnight.  Some say 24 hours.

I'm impatient.  I give it an hour.  Always works.

Then drain.

Put your container near a window.  Once or twice a day, fill your container with water, shake it up, and immediately drain/rinse and put it back.

That's IT!

In two days, you'll have sprouts.

I let this one go about five days so you could see the little leaves.

When your sprouts are the desired size, rinse them and put them in a plastic container in your refrigerator.  They'll stop sprouting and will keep for a few days.  

So stop whining about everything you DON'T have.  Go put some lentils in a jar and in a few days you'll have something REAL that you made with your own two little hands!

Seriously, why are you sitting here reading this?

Get off your butt and do this!

It's SPRING!  

Um...are you STILL sitting in front of your computer???

Don't make me take this outside....

At least the Black & Tan Macaroni & Cheese was good...

The other day I made Black & Tan Macaroni & Cheese.

I know the photo above isn't my best photography.  But I shot it in a restaurant kitchen with super bright industrial lights, aluminum container on steel counter, and my crappy cell phone camera.

And yes, like a Black & Tan---it's made with Guiness stout and lager beer.

It was incredibly delicious!  I even took some into work for the staff, told the cooks to just sprinkle some panko breadcrumbs on it and stick it in the oven.

Everyone LOVED it!  The chef even took some home for his partner to try.  Not only was it a roaring success, but my friends (even the ones who didn't get to try it) all wanted to know how it was made.  And just telling people the recipe sounds kind of fun and sexy, "You start by boiling the pasta in lager beer..." 

What the???

So I was riding high on the success of my exotic mac and cheese!  

And then the next day, I think I waited on Neil LaBute.

I'm a playwright.  He's a freaking AMAZING playwright!  

I noticed the resemblance as soon as he sat down and started looking at the menu.  

I walked over and greeted him with a glass of water.

Wow.  He REALLY looked like Neil LaBute.  He even sounded like him.  Oh my god, I think I'm waiting on Neil LaBute.  At least, I was pretty sure.  Or as Larry David would say, "pretty, pretty, pretty...pretty sure".  

But before I could even begin to process the fact that I'm possibly waiting on one of my literary idols, he looked up from his menu and noticed my t-shirt.  In fact, he did a double-take.

Oh no.

Of all the t-shirts I could have worn that day...

I could've worn my vintage Froot Loops shirt with Toucan Sam on the front.  Or my shirt that promotes a farm and educational center in Harlem called "Harlem Grown".  I could even have worn my sassy hot pink t-shirt that reads, "Ain't Nobody Got Time For That!"

But no.

The t-shirt I put on that morning read, "Careful...or you'll wind up a character in my next play."

Shit.

I know this might seem like the perfect t-shirt to be wearing while waiting on a famous playwright---but it really isn't.  I don't wear it for playwrights.  I wear it for defense.  The general public can be mean.  They don't care about you.  They just want to complain about something so the manager will give them free dessert.  

That's why I wear the t-shirt.  It's an extra piece of armor in a cold, hard world.

Maybe he won't say anything.  This will buy me some time to be 100% sure... 

And then he said something.

"Well...I'll be careful.  I certainly don't want to wind up a character in your next play."

It wasn't exactly snarky.  But it wasn't all jokey-friendly, either.  There was the faint hint of a smirky-smile at the end that sentence.  

It was, in fact, a very Neil LaBute sort of response.  I wouldn't have expected anything more or less of him.

And it was my opening.  He looked at me.  As if he were waiting for it.  "Here's where she tells me she's a playwright, too.  Let's just get it over with."

To be honest, it would be a perfectly natural thing to talk to another playwright.  Playwrights like to talk to each other.  We spend a lot of time alone with our thoughts and a blank page.  And LaBute was a teacher.  He's very supportive of playwrights.  Not exactly a good idea to ask him to read the new play you're working on...  But general stuff---absolutely!  I'm sure he would be more than generous with advice.  

Especially when he knows you're serving him his food and he's going to be stuck with you for the next half an hour.

He even gave me an opening!  Okay lady---you're wearing the playwright shirt.  You obviously want the world to know you're a playwright.  And I'm sitting here in your section.  This is your lucky day.  So go ahead...

But you see, I wasn't POSITIVE it was him.

I mean, maybe it was just some guy who LOOKED like him.  And sounded like him.  And responded like him.  

I'm a very cautious person.  I'm from the Midwest.  I can't just start telling this guy how much I love his plays when maybe he's just a mechanic.  

A mechanic going out alone to one of the top restaurants in NYC for a $50 lunch.

It could happen.

And let's be honest---Neil LaBute isn't exactly a fashion plate.  He "dresses down".  He looks like he could be a famous playwright---or a mechanic.  I feel okay saying this because I'm not a fashion plate, either.  Bear in mind, I almost wore a 20 year-old t-shirt with a breakfast cereal on the front that morning.

And practically every piece of clothing I own has a food stain somewhere.

And I'LL STILL WEAR IT!!!

Because it's comfortable and it fits me and I like it...

And because I'm a writer.  We're not really into the whole designer thing.

If only I hadn't been wearing the playwright t-shirt, he would never have known my secret identity as a playwright.  He would've gone thru the entire meal thinking I was just some waitress.  I could've bought some time to figure this out.  I could've just been friendly and helpful and maybe he would've just liked me as a waitress.  That would've been okay.

Lots of people like me just for me.

And maybe, when I was 100% sure it was him, and he now thought of me as a helpful, friendly waitress---I could've surprised him with a little something we had in common....

Or maybe he was a mechanic.  I didn't want to confuse the nice mechanic.  

And I just couldn't bring myself to say the old hack phrase, "Excuse me, but are you...?"

I couldn't do it.  Because I'm a better writer than that.  I swear I am.

So when I got my big opening:

"Well...I certainly don't want to wind up a character in your next play."

Looked me in the eye.  Gave me the smirky-smile.  And waited for my response.  Which went a little something like this:

"Um...yeah.  Yeah."  (look down at shirt uncomfortably) "You don't want that.  No."

And then it trailed off into something like Annie Hall mumbling, "la-di da, la-di-da..."

It was horrible!!!!!!  It was possibly the most uncomfortable moment in my life.  And I know I say that a lot.  But we could possibly have a winner here.

Because even if he actually WAS a mechanic, that was not the proper response.

And I studied improv!  At Upright Citizens Brigade, for crying out loud.

I quickly took his order.  I suggested the egg roll.  

"It's really good.  You should try the egg roll."

"What's in it?" he asked.

So I told him ALL about the egg roll in as few words as possible so I could get the hell away from him.

Because by now, I sensed that it had become painful for both of us.  No sooner did I leave the table, than he immediately took out his cell phone and took great interest in it whenever I approached the table.  

I could be over-imagining things in my head.  I'm aware that I do that sometimes.  But as I was ringing in (potentially) Neil LaBute's lunch order, all I could think of was the horrible dialog going on in his head as he sat huddled over his cell phone a few feet away from me.

"I'm one of the most famous playwrights in the world and she's walking around with this cocky 'Don't Fuck With Me, I'm a Playwright' t-shirt and doesn't even recognize me?  I even gave her an opening!  And 'la-di-da'?  What kind of dialog is that?  Good thing she has a waitress job."

Or maybe it was something like, "She's a playwright and has no idea who I am?  Seriously?  Wait---maybe it's me.  I feel like I'm connected to the theatre community, but...  Or maybe she DOES know who I am and she hates my plays so she's not saying anything.  Why does she hate my plays?  They're good plays.  Why doesn't she like me?"

Or maybe it was something more like "I promised Mr. Snider we'd have his brakes repaired by 4:00.  Where's that fucking part?  I texted every warehouse from here to New Jersey!"

Somewhere in the middle of his meal, I finally got up the courage to do something besides walk by his table with "silent service".  I finally spoke up again. 

"How was that egg roll?  Wasn't it good?"

He looked up from his phone for a moment and agreed that the egg roll was quite good.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I'm usually perfectly normal around celebs and all the VIPs of the culinary world.  I wait on them all the time.  I've been around them for years!  Doesn't phase me in the slightest.  I'm on top of my game.

When a former manager wanted to make sure that Carol Burnett's party was taken care of without being bothered, he called me at home and asked me if I'd come in on my day off to take care of Ms. Burnett.  

And I did and she was one of the loveliest celebrities I've ever waited on.  

But I KNEW it was her!  I knew it was Carol Burnett.  Not only because it's Carol Freaking Burnett---but the reservation was for CAROL BURNETT!!!

And I don't want to be Carol Burnett.  She's one-of-a-kind.  But I do want to be a playwright.

No.  I AM a playwright.

And I'm pretty fucking good.  

But this was (potentially) Neil LaBute.  And I couldn't hide behind the waitress mask in that stupid t-shirt.

I was clearly a playwright-slash-waitress.  A wanna-be.  Wearing my nervously-pounding playwright heart on my rolled-up waitress sleeve.  And doing it in front of a somebody.

Or a mechanic.

Either way, it felt the same.

But like a good waitress, I kept a smile on my face.  Some days, I don't know how I manage that.

My one ace in the hole was that at the end of the meal, he'd hand me his credit card.  It would either say "Neil LaBute" or it wouldn't.  

I had no idea what I'd say if it really was him.  But I really am a good writer.  I could do it.  I could say the perfect thing.  

Really I could!

I know it may not seem like it, but I'm normally pretty quick with the snappy banter.  I may only have about 30 seconds between the time I get the credit card and bring the receipt back to the table...

But I can turn words on a fucking dime.

And I'm a playwright, dammit.  Dialog is what I do.

I cleared the crumbs off his table, dropped the check, and took a deep breath.

And then he paid cash.

NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cue the international sound cue for loser:  "Whon, whon, whon..."

Oh, he tossed the cash on the table like a John who'd just seen a pair of balls peeking out of the Victoria's Secret and got the hell out of there.

I've spent the past two days over-thinking a lunch shift and beating myself up.  Because I possibly waited on Neil LaBute and all I did was suggest the egg roll.

But what could I have done differently?  What?

It was only late last night on the train that I finally figured out what I should have done in that situation.  It goes a little like this:

Extend my hand.

"Hi.  I'm Joyce."

"Hi.  I'm Neil."

Problem solved.

Why is my life so complicated?!?!?!  I mean, I know it's all my fault.  But why?

WHY????

But at least I had leftovers.

So finally, here is the recipe for Black & Tan Macaroni & Cheese:

I first heard about this concoction on a Food Network show several years ago.  It was a televised competition of home cooks.  These ladies (and a few men) were SO brave to take their home recipes (and their bad selves) on national television.  WAY braver than I was waiting on (most likely) Neil LaBute.  This recipe, in particular, caught my eye.  After the show, I went online to print it out.  They said the recipes would only be up for a limited time, so I'm not sure if it's still online.  I made sure to print out a copy asap.

But credit goes to Autumn Clements from Amelia Island, Florida.

I tweaked her recipe a tiny bit, but I was merely the dramaturg.

Ingredients:

6 cups water
24 ounces lager beer
16 ounces rustic shaped pasta
1 1/2 cup whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
12 ounce can evaporated milk
6 tablespoons lightly salted quality Irish butter
2 1/2 tablespoons flour
1 teaspoon dry mustard
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 cup stout beer
8 ounces shredded smoked Gouda
24 ounces shredded fine quality Irish cheeses
1/2 cup panko bread crumbs
1 1/2 pounds ground beef
1 teaspoon pepper
1 teaspoon onion powder
1 teaspoon garlic powder

Directions:

1.  Start by shredding your cheeses.  I used a smoky Gouda, Aged Irish cheddar, Irish Dubliner, and Irish Porter Cheddar.  The Gouda is not pictured because I hadn't bought it yet when I shot the cheese party pix.  But like an Indian curry---this is your flavor base.  The rest of the ingredients are inexpensive.  This is the money shot.  

   
2.  Put water and lager beer in a big 4 1/2 quart or larger pot over high heat.  Bring it to a boil and add pasta.  It's going to fizz and it will look pretty awesome.  Cook till al dente and then drain and keep warm.

3.  On your second burner, start browning your ground beef.  The original recipe doesn't call for this, but I wanted to make it a full stick-to-your-ass meal and give it that hipster Hamburger Helper feel.  Add 1/2 the salt (1 teaspoon), pepper, garlic powder, and onion powder.  I made it all even for the written recipe, but do as you will to taste.  But bear in mind, your primary flavor is going to come from the high-quality cheeses.  Don't go crazy on the garlic.  This is Irish, not Italian. 

3.  On a third burner, bring all your milks JUST to a boil over medium-high heat.  Use a medium-sized sauce pan for this.  

4.  On your fourth burner, in a medium-to-large-sized saucepan, melt 4 tablespoons of butter over medium heat.  Add flour, stir with a whisk, and make a light brown roux.  Whisk in your hot milk, mustard powder, remaining salt, cayenne, and stout.  Bring to a strong simmer.   Reduce heat to low and stir in cheeses until melted.  

5.  Combine pasta mix with ground beef.  Stir well.  Place remaining butter in a FIFTH saute pan over medium heat and stir in bread crumbs till golden brown.  Spread bread crumb mix on top of pasta.  Alternately, you can put this in an oven proof pan and bake for a few minutes.

Feel free to garnish with some applewood smoked bacon, if you like.

The leftovers keep well and will help you get thru even the most awkward and humiliating moments in your life.

Enjoy.