He shall be Levon

Ask any mother and she’ll tell you there’s no greater love than the unconditional love she feels for her child. To feed, to nurture, to protect, to watch that child grow and prosper in this world is life’s most beautiful journey.

Never have I experienced or even understood the gravity of such a wonder. That is, until now. Everyone, I have an announcement to make: my life is no longer my own….

Meet Levon!



To everyone else, he might not look like much, but as his proud mother, I think he is magnificent, a heaven-sent creature beaming with potential. Levon, dear readers, is a bread starter.

Unconventional perhaps, but Levon’s adoption was still a special one. Sitting at the bar at Irving Street Kitchen last night, a dear friend of mine handed me a small package. As I opened it, I gasped in delight. When I’ve read or heard stories of people who have adopted a child, they always say something like, “Once I laid my eyes on the child, I knew she was mine.” Maybe I didn’t travel halfway around the world to get him or sign adoption papers, and he may have been delivered to me in a bar, but he’s still mine. All mine. (Thank you again, A, for such a wonderful gift!) After I welcomed him with open arms, I indulged (in his honor, that is) in a Meyer lemon & mascarpone napoleon, with bergamot merigue, coconut tuile, huckleberry compote, and Meyer lemon sherbet. Holy moly, so good.

Experiencing his first night in his new home, Levon sat on my kitchen counter overnight and I pondered the name he should be called. This morning his name finally came to me: the babe shall be called Levon, I declared (to myself), for “Levon” sounds a little like “leaven”. I’ve always loved the Elton John song of the same name too, so I think it was meant to be. Whenever I hear “Levon, Levon likes his money”, I’ll now think of my baby. Maybe you will too.

I’m so excited to watch him grow and do some good in this world. I’d like to think I’m not going to be one of those obnoxious mothers, incessantly posting pictures of him and gushing about how wonderful he is, but I can’t make any promises. (This is probably tacky, but if you're wanting to send gifts, I have Levon registered at both Babies 'R Us and Pottery Barn Kids.) In the meantime, today I ask that you eat some really good bread (and berate all those gluten-free people you know), for this is cause for celebration! You are also allowed to eat a cupcake, because today is my birthday.

I think I may have just heard a faint cry from the kitchen. Mother duty calls - I need to go feed Levon.

clatter goes literary!

Bear with me, folks, this one’s going to be a novel. (Hardy har har…you’ll get my joke in a few moments.)

Sometimes when I'm at work, stumped on a tough case, I am forced to reach deep within myself to come up with an argument. Perhaps it doesn't have much viability, but I make the argument anyway because that's what I'm paid to do. Coming up with something when there's little to nothing to go off of can be a frustrating task, but it can also be fun to bring out that creative side that I often miss being in the legal profession. When I think with fondness back to my college days, I melt into those memories of small, intimate comparative literature classes like Symbolism & Decadence and Dada & Surrealism (if anyone is interested in a “surrealistic game night” let me know, I still have the book). As I worked through that comparative literature curriculum at USC, I read graphic novels, listened to operas, and pored over black and white photographs. I made comparisons and connections from one medium to another, sometimes so remote, so out there, that anyone outside of the department would likely exclaim, “Seriously? You’re connecting Jacques Lacan with reality television?” (Yes, that’s what I did for my senior paper.)

As bizarre and impractical as a comp lit major may seem (it’s no wonder I ended up in law school), I loved studying it because it allowed me to read/hear/see all sorts of things in the way I wanted to interpret them. Of course sometimes it's good to have black and white, to determine right from wrong, so that there's no room to falter or to get lost. But getting “lost” isn't always such a bad thing, is it? In the same space that there's room to falter, there's also room to grow, to flourish, to find something that wasn't there before. It may be so last season, but as far as I see it, gray is still the new black. It's good to realize that you can take something and read between the lines if and how you want to. That's what makes reading so enjoyable, and cooking so fun.

By this point, you may be asking, "Is this clatter from the kitchen, or clutter from the brain?" Well, friends, it's a little bit of both. This has been my attempt to introduce my challenge in the most convoluted way I know how. My apologies. As much as I love to read, I've found that in the craziness that is working the day job, maintaining good relationships, and managing to keep my kitchen (somewhat) clean, reading books has somehow fallen to the wayside. This has become a thorn in my side, a dagger to my book lover’s heart if you will. So, as part of my goal-oriented year, I've made it my intention to get back to my roots and read more, in the truest sense of leisure. I’ve decided to stick with American literature, specifically novels that I've wanted to read but never got around to.

Here’s where things get a little interesting: since I've used literature in my past to make comparisons in opera, graphic novels, and photography, I figured why not take it a step further and connect it to food? Don’t worry, I won't write comparative literature theses or complex ingredient-to-literary element analysis (although that’s not a half bad idea…). I'm merely going to share what I've read and take you back to what The New York Times’s food section was up to the year the book I've read was written. I'll admit that a big part of this project is a way to work my way through 150 years of recipe redux from Amanda Hesser's monstrosity, The Essential New York Times Cookbook. So far, all the recipes I’ve tried (both on and off the clatter record) have been superb, and I’m excited to tackle some more. Even if all else fails, I’ll try my hand as a book critic, as I’m afraid I’ve already reached my capacity in culinary-related adjectives to ever make it as a food critic.

So, does this challenge sound like a plan? If so, I’m glad – and I will be even more so if I’m found to be influential enough (of Oprah proportions) to inspire you to read. If not, you can just skip over those posts. Just don’t tell me you're not reading them, or I might cry.

Without further ado……..let’s give it a shot.

Book: Light in August
Author: William Faulkner
Year: 1932

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: I’ve read Faulkner before, but I had no idea what this one was about – I just knew it was one I should read. We have three characters, all of whom in their own way become obsessed with a single idea. Lena is on a mission to find the father of her unborn child by traveling alone, swollen, in the humidity of the South in the summer. (As one who once experienced Alabama in August, I would say that this was no small feat). Then there’s Joe Christmas, a troubled man with a disturbing past who can never seem to find peace with the fact that he is half-black. And finally, there’s Reverend Hightower, who has a weird fascination with his grandfather's death. Faulkner entwines each of these characters in the same intriguing way that made Lost such a good show. (I'm sure I just sent ol' Willy rolling in his grave by giving such a comparison, but it's still true. Oh, and don’t you dare tell me how Lost ends – I’m still a season behind!) He gives us some beautifully written passages, but also some stream-of-consciousness stuff (especially those visions of Confederate soldiers) that may cause your eyes to glaze over. Even so, I enjoyed the character angst, the thread of racial struggle in the South, and all those other elements that make this novel what many literary-inclined folk would consider one of America's greatest.

clatter’s favorite quotation(s): "'I reckon she knows where she is going . . . She walks like it.'" I strive to have people say that about me. AND "Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders." Hello, mind blower!

clatter’s food moment: Food and the act of eating are mentioned in several scenes throughout the book, but more in terms of the lack thereof (that poor starving Joe!). I made sure to have one hand in a bag of pretzels when I read those parts to make me feel less empty inside.

Recipe: "Pralines"
Date: November 14, 1937
NY Times: “The Housewife Welcomes a Bumper Nut Crop” by Edda Morgan

clatter’s thoughts: First things first, I love that title – think I can bring some street cred to the word “bumper”? Of course the first book I picked to read this year happened to have the copyright of a year when apparently nothing was happening. It’s not just 1932 though; there are a very few recipes throughout the cookbook from the entire decade (I’ll remember this for future book choices). 1937 was the closest thing I came across – and it was either pralines or Boston baked beans. Not only are pralines more appropriate considering the setting of the book, more than that – I’ve been needing an excuse to try my new candy thermometer! (If I hadn't already bored you to tears from such a long post, I would tell you the story of how I felt I was being actively pursued by the salad sample guy at Whole Foods tonight when I bought the pecans to make these.) But anyway, what a simple recipe this was – well, sorta. I’ve never been a candy maker, so I didn’t realize quite the warp speed that would be required of me to form the pralines in a reasonable manner. Instead I chose the run-around-in-circles-in-my-kitchen-screaming-because-the-caramel-is-burning-my-hands approach. They taste good, but I don't think they're worth the stress. I hope none of the neighbors in my apartment complex want to take a hot shower in the next 12 hours, because I used all the hot water to de-caramelize my entire kitchen.

The California Citrus Craze

In my final full day of R and R in the California desert, I have to admit that I am in no hurry to get back to the Northwest. It seems I timed my stay here perfectly. The temperatures have exceeded the averages for this time of year, my skin has taken on a less than pasty white hue, and I’m nearly done with my second novel (that is, reading not writing!). Give me a few more days and I might forget how to properly write a legal argument too.

Before I head back to the real world, I’d like to express my enjoyment of my time here, in clatter sort of terms. Oh desert living, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways....in what I will call "Notable clatter Desert Moments" (complete with sub-par iPhone-quality photography). I’ll do the countdown in semi-David Letterman form…since everyone in this town goes to bed about four hours before the show airs.

5. California-style shrimp and avocado salad. This Food & Wine-inspired salad paired with a crisp Bogle chardonnay made for a perfect dinner after a shopping spree on El Paseo and during a viewing of the Golden Globes awards. Not only was the salad delicious, it was much prettier to look at than some of the atrocious fashion faux pas of the awards show (ahem, Helena Bonham Carter, I’m looking at you). Wearing two different colored shoes is never ok.

vs.


4. Meyer lemon madness. "When life gives you lemons, make lemon drops!” –my mother. She may indeed have something major here. With the Meyer lemon tree on the property bursting with luscious, yellow goodness, we’ve found a way to incorporate the fruit in many different forms, most importantly perhaps being the inimitable lemon drop. My dad has perfected the art of making this mouth-watering beverage to the point that I’ve nicknamed his creation “toxic lemonade”. Dangerous, dangerous stuff.

3. Crooner at the pool. This one might not be food-related, but I had to incorporate this guy into my list because he made my pool time so much more entertaining. Imagine an old man, fully clothed, ‘80s-style water bottle, cooler, headphones, eyes closed, foot-tapping, sitting next to the pool, oblivious to the fact that there are other people within ear shot – singing, belting even, the tunes pumping through his headphones. He clearly was enjoying himself so much I couldn’t help but laugh at such a ridiculous sight (and sound). Maybe his singing wasn’t the best, but it was either that or my mother's gentle drone, as she dozed off in the chaise lounge next to me (love you, Mom!).

2. Espresso brownies. There may not be anything “desert” about this dessert (have you ever noticed how often people get the spelling of these two words mixed up?), but we were pleasantly surprised by this “light” brownie I whipped up one night after dinner. As you know, I’m a firm believer in not doing desserts the healthy way, but after polishing off a box of Good ‘n Plentys and a bag of peanut butter M&Ms after the first couple of nights, we thought maybe going light wouldn’t be such a bad idea, and these brownies from Cooking Light did not disappoint. Then again, how healthy is it when a pan of brownies is eaten by three people in two days? Probably not very.

1. Grapefruits the size of volleyballs. My parents have a tree growing in their front yard that was supposed to be a grapefruit tree and yet they found it to be yielding rather GIGANTIC fruit with yellowish, acne-scarred skin. My mother suspected the fruit to be pomelo, and after further research, she turned out to be 100% correct. Pomelo whaaa? I didn’t know what that was either. Here’s your mini clatter lesson du jour: The pomelo is a citrus fruit native to Southeast Asia that is related to the grapefruit that we all know and love, but it is much larger in size and much milder in taste. It’s a beast to deal with, with its thick layer of pith, but the peel is perfect to make candy…which is precisely what my mother did (and is currently doing in the kitchen as I write this). Think crystallized ginger but in a sweet citrus flavor instead. Brilliant. I can’t stop eating it.

There have certainly been other clatter-worthy experiences that could have made the list, but I had to draw the line somewhere. A squabble between my parents about how full to fill the waffle iron and a thought-provoking conversation about the phases of rock polishing just barely missed the cut. Take how interesting that topic sounds and divide it in half to know what I was dealing with (love you, Dad!).

I could really get used to writing outside like this (while drinking a "pomelo froth"), but something tells me it might not be realistic with the Portland weather. As much as I would like to savor this time, I must leave you now. This is clatter, desert edition, signing off.

This Desert Life

Last night a loyal clatter follower and his fiancée came over for dinner. I shamelessly broke the rules of entertaining and tried all new recipes (plus an original, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants dessert), at their expense: spinach & meat loaf and winter slaw with lemon/orange vinaigrette from The New York Times Cookbook (more on this tome at a later date), and Julia Child's pomme de terre sautées (that's sauteed potatoes with butter for all those non-French speakers out there). If I wanted to be really tough on myself, I would tell you of the improvements that could have been made had I tried these recipes beforehand, e.g. use one egg instead of two in the meat and cut the amount of butter even more than I did in Julia's recipe. I would perhaps describe how I used a faulty serving bowl for the salad which caused the vinaigrette to drip out of the bottom, or how I should have allowed more time to tweak the tomato sauce for the meatloaf. I'd also maybe reveal that I made the stupid mistake of adding a splash of cream to my melting chocolate, creating a fudge-like texture instead of the silkiness I was striving for. Then I would tell you how I used this misstep to make a crowd-pleasing, Dairy Queen-inspired dessert with chocolate hazelnut chunks, crushed sugar cookies, and vanilla bean ice cream. But I wouldn't want to waste your time on such stories of clatter kitchen blunders. So I will move on.

Meat and potatoes in the dead of winter to warm the body and soul are all well and good, but I will happily take a little break from all that heaviness. At the Portland airport now, I am on the cusp of enjoying the sun of the California desert for the next six days. While I've been looking forward to this and am very much overdue for a vacation, every time I'm in the Palm Springs area, I feel as if I'm caught in some kind of weird time vortex. My clients are often asked by the judge during their hearing what they do on a typical day. It seems like a simple enough question, but they often struggle with it. When I'm in the desert, I can suddenly empathize with them. The days go by quickly, but I’m left with that overwhelming feeling that I’ve accomplished exactly nothing...and I have aged about 50 years.

If I were questioned by a judge what that typical day in the desert looks like, my answer in the court transcript would read something like this: "Well, your Honor, I get up, grab some coffee, sit out on the patio, watch the golfers go by, and hope they don't judge me for still being in my PJs. I read a chapter or two in my book until I start to sweat from the warm morning sun. It's around 11:30 by this point, so I start to think about what I want for lunch. I prepare and eat lunch, put on my swimsuit, head to the pool and read a few more chapters of my book. Some days during this time, I will go shopping for nothing in particular instead and complain to and fro about how everyone on the road is much too old and slow to be behind the wheel. Once pool time or shopping is over, the sun starts to set and I can't focus on anything but the thought and execution of drinking a margarita. After all, it's a cardinal sin not to imbibe alcoholic beverages daily at 5 pm and not a minute after. After happy hour it's dinner time. I won't be very hungry because I will have just eaten a half of a bag of tortilla chips and guacamole, but I eat a full dinner anyway. Then it's time to wind down after such an exhausting day and get ready for bed. I will need lots of rest to do it all over again the next day."

I realize I've painted a picture that life in the desert is a relaxing one, but take heed it's not all fun and games. It has its share of major stressors too: an abundance of water hazards and bunkers on the links, nerve wracking ping pong games, and gripping rounds of Scrabble. And I thought being a lawyer was stressful!

Well, my flight is boarding, so it's time to shut down. Off I go to the land of early bird specials and streets named after old/dead guys!

Gooooooooooooooal!

Happy New Year from the clatter kitchen! I hope your clothes are literally bursting at the seams from your guilt-free holiday overindulgences. Now get thee to a gym to wrestle someone for the last treadmill! On second thought, don’t. I insist you continue to sit on your caboose – at least until you finish reading this post.

So, 2011 has arrived at last. Now that we're already in the fifth day of it, I think I may be getting into the swing of signing documents with the 11. Maybe it’s just me, but something about the double 1 exudes so much more power than a 1 and 0, doesn't it? (If I was a nerd, I’d make a joke here about the binary numeral system. If I wasn't a nerd, I wouldn't have even thought of that.) I’m taking the numbers as a sign that big things are going to happen this year.

Well, did you make any new year’s resolutions? The way I see it, the word resolution alone begs for a premature death and utter failure of anything following it. I much prefer the word 'goal'. It doesn’t feel so final, and if you make your goal a little too lofty, it's not that you broke it necessarily, you just didn't reach it. I for one have plenty of goals for 2011, including but not limited to traveling out of the country, taking sailing lessons, and reducing my number of blind dates to a single digit. Maybe I have too many goals on my list to reach them all (I’m really pulling for the latter), but I still love how a new calendar year gives me a blank canvas, as if I can fill it with anything the world throws at me and find success in anything I try. Since my optimism (or delusional state?) for the year often peaks in the month of January - I predict it will plummet soon after I turn 29 on the 29th - I best be riding this high while it lasts. And speaking of predictions, according to the psychic I heard on a radio show this morning, George Clooney will be getting hitched this year. Should these nuptials indeed take place, I might cry - I’ve really been holding out for ol’ George. I do hope, however, that we can still find a way to be friends, because I’d like to use his Lake Como villa next time I'm in Italy. I’m sure his future wife won't mind.

While many folks have resolved to eating less and exercising more in the new year, let's be honest, that's not really in the cards for clatter. In addition to my notions of greatness outside the kitchen, I also have big plans to take my culinary edification and cooking finesse to new heights this year. Do you feel the unveiling of some grandiose 2011 clatter challenge on the horizon? Me too.

BUT! Not just yet.

Since I have not yet completed the first leg of my new adventure, I want to leave you on the edge of your seat until I do. That’s just mean of me, isn't it? Alright, fine, here's a hint: the challenge is a delicious fusion of an under-utilized comparative literature degree, time traveling, and The New York Times. Intrigued much? Me too. I can't wait to see if/when/how I'm going to pull this one off.