Risen indeed!

Get out your number twos, kids, it’s time for a pop quiz!

What is your ideal Easter feast?
a) Classic Eggs Benedict (much like I had last year)
b) Baked French Toast
c) Honey-glazed Ham
d) Traditional Pork Roast

If I were taking this quiz, I’d leave the question blank, take my automatic F, and never look back.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ll be the first to commend my sister and brother-in-law for their delicious fontina/speck/onion strata served with bacon, fruit salad, and hot crossed buns that I had for Easter brunch earlier today. But even so, there’s been something else that’s had me suffering with hunger pangs for quite some time. For 40 days to be exact.

For Lent I gave up both candy and ice cream, and while I’ve done this in years past with only mild discomfort, this year has been particularly cruel (reading this a few weeks ago in MIX magazine did NOT help). When one of my friends asked me earlier this week how I would celebrate the end of my "probation," my mind started running wild. Sure, I had some Skittles and Jolly Rancher jellybeans earlier today to mark the occasion, but those were merely to tide me over until the main attraction.

I wanted to indulge in something so lip-smacking, so delectable, so downright good that one could not even fathom how it could ever be bad. So with that, I present you Allison’s ideal Easter feast:


Umpqua’s tin roof sundae (that’s vanilla ice cream with chocolate-covered peanuts and a fudgy chocolate ribbon) then drizzled very liberally with melted chocolate and peanut butter, only then to be adorned with crushed malt ball “eggs”

That’s right – it’s a sundae on a sundae on a Sunday. Some might say that my Easter ice cream treat is a little over the top, maybe even a little obnoxious. But you know what? I don’t even care because it’s so darn good. In fact, I’m still reveling in its glory and will continue to do so…well, at least until that stomachache sets in momentarily.

The Age of Asparagus

This could so very easily turn into a "my dog ate my homework" situation. Or even a "my baby brother peed on my homework" scenario. (True story. Ask my sister.) Instead, I'm going to own up to the fact that this should have been turned in a week ago. Here's my book report, Teach. Better late than never. Also, can I get an extension on my next one?

Book: The Age of Innocence
Author: Edith Wharton
Year: 1920

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: Another Pulitzer Prize winner, this novel I suspected would be one that, however wonderful, would still be very…dated. Of course in some regards it was, but I found myself constantly surprised by how much of what Wharton tells is timeless: the struggle of finding that balance between what is expected of you and what you really want (the tried and true theme of head vs. heart). She also kept me guessing till the end – one of which I was a big fan. I often got fed up with the pretension of the elite, but that was precisely Wharton's point - and she pulled it off flawlessly (probably didn’t hurt that she herself grew up in it). Strangely I found myself somehow relating to Newland Archer. You wouldn’t think I’d find much common ground with an affluent gentleman of New York society in the late 19th century, other than the fact that we both practice law (with over 100 years of Supreme Court decisions separating us). No, I haven't been engaged to one person and secretly pining for another, but still, we shared a few moments where I really understood the guy. But that might just be because he was created by a woman.

clatter’s favorite passage: It’s a little longer than you might care to read, but it’s worth it. I dare you.

"The young man was sincerely but placidly in love. He delighted in the radiant good looks of his betrothed, in her health, her horsemanship, her grace and quickness at games, and the shy interest in books and ideas that she was beginning to develop under his guidance. (She had advanced far enough to join him in ridiculing the Idylls of the King, but not to feel the beauty of Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters.) She was straightforward, loyal, and brave; she had a sense of humour (chiefly proved by her laughing at his jokes); and he suspected, in the depths of her innocently gazing soul, a glow of feeling that it would be a joy to waken. But when he had gone the brief round of her he returned discouraged by the thought that all this frankness and innocence were only an artificial product. Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile. And he felt oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow."

Isn't that great? I want to learn how to write like that (and did you notice how even Wharton embraces the use of the parentheses like me?). She could have dumbed it down to "His fiancée looks good on paper, and she should be right for him…except that she’s not.” But Wharton chose the verbose, slightly fancy, slightly sardonic avenue instead, and for that I tip my hat (see below for an example) to her. Had I lived when Edith did, she and I would have been friends. At second glance, I’m not so sure. Her dogs look a little mean.

I love this photo. If I ever need fashion inspiration, I know where to go – far, far from this place.


clatter’s favorite food moment: New York high society in the 1880s? You better believe there were some food moments. I especially liked this one: “He breakfasted with appetite and method, beginning with a slice of melon, and studying a morning paper while he waited for his toast and scrambled eggs.” Breakfast as a verb? Fantastic – and not used often enough. May this also serve as further evidence of why I’d never cut it as a true elitist. I may eat with appetite (very much so, in fact), but there’s nothing methodical about how I eat. And there’s no way I’d eat just a single slice of melon.

Recipe: Pointe d’Asperge

Date: 
 May 18, 1879
NY Times: “Receipts for the Table.” Recipe by “Chef of the B___ Club”

clatter's thoughts: I’m dying to know what the B____ Club is. My money's on the Babysitters Club. Oh! Or the Breakfast Club. I chose 1879 instead of the year Wharton wrote the book because I thought it might be fun to eat as the characters of the novel might. I knew I must try this particular recipe because I’m training myself to prepare and like asparagus, and it’s one of the season’s It vegetables. But more importantly, Hesser wrote this before the recipe: “This dish brings to mind silver salvers and Edith Wharton.” Ahh! See, it was meant to be! Pointe d’Asperge is basically blanched asparagus tips (I used the whole thing) with an “evanescent” sauce made of butter, onion, water, egg yolk, salt, and sugar. It was kinda good (mostly not), but I still tried to pull off my best Newland Archer impression and eat it with method.

So, can anything even come close to the illustrious writings of Edith Wharton? How about the movie version? It might be time to add a little Daniel Day Lewis to my Netflix queue, especially after coming across this on Food52 a couple of days ago. I swear, I finished the book weeks ago and have no affiliation to this post (for those of you who aren’t familiar, Food52 is an Amanda Hesser-run blog). These things seem to keep happening to me, but I assure you, all of them are of pure coincidence. I'm not a total fake, I promise. I may fill you with empty (or delayed, rather) promises about writing, but I do not steal ideas. Just thought I'd let you know.

Betting the farm

What a day the first of April turned out to be. First I led a tutorial on how to pick the perfect fruit at the pineapple bin at Costco, then I took a field trip with my sister’s family to a local farm, and finally I conquered a challenge in the kitchen. Way to be productive, clatter!

As for the farm visit, one might inquire, “Why would you do that?” Since you asked, I did it partly to enjoy the unprecedented warm temperatures of 2011, partly to learn what "cage-free" really means for some of Oregon’s prized hens, and partly to stake out locations for the next episode of Portlandia. The last one is my belated (and lame) April Fools joke, and I haven’t even watched any episodes of Portlandia, but from what I hear about the show, this place could have easily made a scene appearance.

While the “farm to fork” concept sounds enticing and glamorous (especially if we’re talking an agriturismo somewhere in the Tuscan countryside), my romantic notions took a turn and were soon replaced by piles of goose poop and swarms of gnats. The tour guide, Prairie (yes, Prairie), gave us a nice introduction to the crops grown on the farm (we nibbled on the remnants of purple broccoli) and to the portable hen house. At first things were fine and dandy (the hens seemed "happy" enough), but soon I found myself less than impressed with the lack of bee hives and the group of volunteers elbow-deep in mud as they dug out earthworms. Where’s the romance in that? I know I can’t wholly blame the farm for my disappointment and especially not for my poor choice in footwear. I can place blame, however, on the insect that went up my nose and the young mother in the group who couldn't get a hold of her loud, obnoxious boy running all over the place. Maybe farm life is not for me.

But I don’t think I was the only one who expected more from this farm visit. My two nieces found the most pleasure and continued interest not in the geese or the vegetable gardens or the tiny garter snake, but in the sticks they found to use for dueling. Watching them provided more entertainment than any hen ever will.

Meet Opponent #1:


and Opponent #2:

Fierce and focused poise shown by both. Appointment of the highest honor is still being reviewed by the officials.

Completely uninspired by the farm tour, I along with my sister, brother-in-law, and two nieces, rejoined civilization in NE Portland after the field trip to make dinner at my apartment. One might expect that a meal following a farm visit would consist of fresh local products…but not this time, my friends. Instead, I took the opposite approach and thawed some frozen tilapia to made fish tacos. There was much more at stake with this dinner than simply honoring ‘no meat’ Fridays during Lent. The objective was simply this: “I will prove to my brother-in-law that fish tacos are delicious.” Recently we had a heated debate about the virtues of the fish taco, and I could only speak of it in the highest regard, as it’s one of my favorite things to eat. Because words can only go so far, my sister suggested that we prepare fish tacos in order to settle this debate once and for all. I accepted the said challenge, and as such, I got to work in the kitchen, pan-frying the fish lightly coated with panko crumbs and seasonings, while preparing my very own signature slaw with green cabbage, cilantro, red onion, radish, lime juice, sour cream, and various Mexican spices.

As much as I tried to get in my element (I was, after all, in the comfort of my own kitchen), I’ll admit that it was still a little touch-and-go there for a while. Without kid-proofing the apartment beforehand, I had a tough time blocking out every clash and clang coming from the other room. Rest assured I was still able to execute the dish once I learned that the little girls had forgiven me for not having any toys to play with by resorting to jumping on the bed and getting into my make-up bag. That’s probably what I would have done had I been in their shoes. Oh yes, and there was also wearing Auntie Alli’s shoes and clumping around the apartment. I’m still waiting to receive hate mail from my neighbor downstairs.

So, was my brother-in-law able to let go of his less than favorable stance on the fish taco? I’m not about to put words in his mouth or say that he loved it (after all, he could have just been acting as a gracious guest should), but something tells me that his praises were genuine and that at the very least, he’s going to think twice before talking smack about fish tacos ever again. clatter might not be changing lives (one taco at a time), but I still feel as if my work here is done.

And speaking of work, perhaps you’ve noticed that I’ve fallen behind on my literary project. I’m trying to get my act together, so look forward to a couple of book reports this week.