Today is a good day.

I’m in a good mood. Like, a really good mood. Just when the week at work felt like it would never end and that my impatience would get the best of me, Saturday arrived and all of that is behind me now. A brighter future awaits, and I can barely contain the urge to do an Irish jig. Which leads me to….

I’m going to Ireland! And Spain! Today I booked my tickets to travel with three dear friends in September, and I’m so excited (and I just can’t hide it, I’m about to lose control and I think I like it). Since my travel partners and I are not currently in the same city to celebrate together, I have taken it upon myself to do it alone. Together or apart, nothing commemorates such a joyous event than a region-appropriate beverage, so I just uncorked (rather, untwisted a cap from) a bottle of 2008 Castaño Monastrell from Yecla, Spain. Of course I have no idea where said Yecla is, but I will. You better believe that in preparation of this upcoming adventure, I am fully committed to doing my homework and learning how I can fully appreciate cava, sangria, tapas, and all other things Spanish. Tonight I am merely taking a baby step in the right direction.

With a sprightly step and plastered grin on my face once I received the confirmation email that this trip was officially on, I headed out in the intermittently sunny skies of Portland earlier today to explore a new produce market on SE Hawthorne. Once a farm stand called Uncle Paul’s Produce (rumored to have sold ten cent avocados!), I read months ago that it had been closed, much to my dismay since I had not yet visited the place. But then, while driving past the red barn-like establishment recently, I noticed that it was yet again open, but this time owned by Kruger’s Farm of Sauvie Island. Selling produce grown on its own farm, other local farms, as well as out-of-area farms, Kruger’s Market seemed like an ideal place for me to throw down some cash and stock up my fridge with the spring’s best.

And stock up I did. As soon as I walked in the enlarged, quasi-farmers market tent, I knew I would not only be filling up my basket, but that I would soon become a regular of the place. The prices were more than reasonable for local (and oftentimes organic) produce. But even more than that, Kruger’s made sure to have a whole lot of my very favorite type of apple – the pink lady. I wouldn’t dare call the pink lady “cheap” (that would be more than a little disrespectful!), but 95 cents a pound is a stellar price for the variety.

I took my time carefully picking out my produce (what’s new?) and made out like a bandit. With a cloth bag chock-full of beets, watercress, asparagus, apples, a papaya, bananas, bosc pears, two heads of broccoli, and radishes, I walked out of the joint spending a mere $13. A homeless couple may have made fun of me for putting down my bag in order to take a picture of it on my phone, but I appreciated the sign posted outside the entrance.

Who doesn’t love a farmer with a sense of humor?

Food Lovers Unite

Today at work I met with a client who had some questions about his pending case. Many of the people we help, such as this particular man, are in such sad mental and physical states, sometimes such dire, even literal life and death situations, that most of the time I find it difficult to relate to them at even the most basic level. But today something amazing happened.

The client brought in a stack of documents, mostly medical records, with him to our meeting that he wanted to go over and discuss with me. As he worked his way through the pile, there was a colorful page that stuck out. It looked like a page from a magazine.

“Oh, this isn't supposed to be in here,” he explained, picking up the page. “See, I cut out this recipe for caramel nut bars and it got mixed in with all the rest.” Suddenly his rather sad demeanor began to lighten, and I noticed he had a glimmer of happiness in his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. I felt one on mine too.

Against my best judgment as the diligent attorney I strive to be, I suddenly perked up and leaned in to take a closer look at the picture. Instead of narrowing in on the more relevant records he brought in to discuss, I found myself more attentive to the contents of this particular page. Being the freak that I am, I detected the recipe’s publication from its font in one second flat.

"This is from Sunset magazine, isn't it?" I inquired. I couldn't quite see her from my peripheral view, but I'm pretty sure the legal assistant sitting next to me rolled her eyes at my question.

"Well, I'm not sure," he said. "You know what, I think it is. I got it from a magazine at the library." I restrained myself from lecturing him about ripping pages from library materials, but more than anything, I found myself utterly surprised by this entire interaction. I couldn’t imagine a less likely person to have any interest in baking, let alone carry around a recipe for caramel nut bars from Sunset.

"Those look really good," I replied, the glossy picture scratching me right where I itched. It was about 3:00 pm, and I could really use one of those bars about now, I thought.

Focus, Allison, focus. "So, uh, anyway, let’s talk about your appeal...."

As I carried on with business as usual, I noticed that something felt different. Maybe I couldn’t solve all of this man’s problems (heck, maybe I couldn’t solve any of them), but for a single, sweet moment against all odds, this man and I shared something in common. Something as simple as a ripped out recipe from a library magazine made me realize - hey, we might come from completely different worlds, but maybe we're not so different, you and I. This encounter gave me yet another reason to love food: sometimes it has the power to connect us in strange and wonderful ways.

What comes first: the chicken or the cook?

It's Friday night. I'm young. I'm single. The city is practically begging me to put on a LBD, 4" heels, and experience the vibrant nightlife. Instead, I'm at home. Wearing an apron. And Ugg slippers. With a chicken roasting in the oven. What happened?

A wise woman once told me that the true test in determining whether someone is a good cook is by the quality of her roasted chicken. This wise woman may have been Ina Garten (or was it Martha Stewart?), and she may have not been talking to me directly, but I've still taken her words to heart. I've asked myself many times before, and I will ask it once again: am I, in fact, a good cook?

Some may agree that the roasted chicken test is a fair evaluation of a cook's aptitude in the kitchen (for the record, I don't think it is), but it raises a number of questions, of which one that is particularly bugging me: how many cooks (even the "good" ones) still roast their own when they can pick up a rotisserie chicken at Costco for a mere $4.99? After all, it's roasted fresh daily, it's a good price, it tastes good, it goes a long way....why waste the time, effort, and money on roasting your own? Duh, because Ina says so! And because like so many other things, it's just so much more satisfying to do it yourself. Remember when Merrill Streep roasts a chicken and bakes the perfect chocolate cake because it's Alec Baldwin's favorite meal in It's Complicated? That doesn't really have anything to do with anything, but I love that movie and thought I'd give it a shout out. (I might also mention that I strive to have a house and bakery like hers in Santa Barbara one day.)

Meanwhile, back to reality in my little Portland kitchen, tonight I came face-to-face with a raw (free range, with no added hormones, of course) whole chicken for the first time ever, and I was a little on edge. There might be no judging panel or culinary authority watching over my shoulder, proctoring my progress and performance as I removed the giblets (gross), stuffed it with herbs and a lemon, massaged it with butter, and took all those other necessary steps according to Martha's Cooking School book, but I was still a little nervous. Having that glass of wine by my side as I write this certainly quells my anxieties some and I just keep reminding myself, "Allison, this is only a test", but still: what if my roasted chicken sucks? What would Ina say about me and my ability to cook? If I'm only as good as my roasted chicken...well, I could be royally screwed and my ego could be permanently damaged. On the other hand, if my test results show perfectly crisp skin and succulent meat, I might feel on top of the world. However, without an adjudicator in the testing center tonight, I'll have to battle with my own bias and judge for myself in the most objective way I know how. According to my oven timer, I have about 45 minutes until the moment of truth arrives... I'll let you know how it turns out.

For now, my recommendation to you is this: one of these days if you're feeling the need to sacrifice your social life to keep yourself in check as a cook, just roast a chicken! Or you could simply denounce the test, buy a Costco chicken, go have a night on the town, and save the oven to bake your ski boot liners like my brother.

Spring Cleaning

I’ve become a disgrace.

My laundry basket is overflowing with dirty clothes and towels. The bottom of my oven is caked with something that smokes and sets off my fire alarm. My walk-in closet has lost its “walk-in" feature. My stack of magazines presents an ungodly sight. My Christmas tree is still sitting on my balcony, for Pete’s sake. What the heck is going on? At times like these, I need someone to get in my face and scream a la Jillian on The Biggest Loser to some contestant about to collapse on the treadmill, “Allison, get it together!” (Side note: I once almost fell off a treadmill, and that was without someone yelling at me to keep going. It was very traumatic.)

Sure, I’ve been busy. There have been weddings to attend (wedding gown steaming and chauffeuring obnoxious drunk lawyers have both been added to my skill set; legitimate dance moves still have not), an out-of-town guest, a pseudo-Oscar party, spinning classes, work as usual, blah blah blah. Even so, I feel like my priorities and thoughts are all out of whack because 1) my apartment looks like a hurricane hit, and 2) I’ve had very little interest in cooking. As you may expect, number two is especially concerning for me. I may have whipped up some flaky scones for my guest and lovely hors d’oeuvres for the Oscars, but since then, my cooking (or lack thereof) has been a sad state of affairs. If you saw the lame lunches I brought to work this week, you would look at me, with sad puppy dog eyes and say, “Allison, I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.” You and me both, my friend. You and me both.

Well fear not folks, because now that I’ve recognized that I’m off my game, I’m determined to get it back. Spring might officially still be a couple of weeks away, but I am taking it upon myself to declare it early because frankly, I can’t take the rain anymore! (Of course if you live in the Northwest, you know that spring gives us just as much rain as winter…)

Allow me to share my declarations for a brighter immediate future: I will line up my shoes perfectly in my closet. I will scrub the crud off the bottom of the oven. I will rifle through some of those food magazines and find some recipes to try this week. I will make a grocery list. I will do as many loads of laundry as it takes to stop the overflow. I will throw my Christmas tree off the balcony and hope it lands in the dumpster below instead of on an innocent bystander. And then, I will relax with a cup of tea (let’s be honest, it will be a glass of red wine) and a book because believe it or not, I’m also a little behind on my next clatter selection.

We’ve got the list. Now for the follow-through….. Ready, set, go!

Let them be dumped!

Recently I’ve become very mindful of how extensively my life plays out like a comedy of errors. Caught up in such an awakening, I failed somehow to notice how long exactly it had been since I last posted. That is, until I went to the clatter page and saw in big bold letters: FEBRUARY 1, 2011. Oh how time gets away from us. Perhaps you wondered if I had hid under a rock until Valentine's Day came and went (not true) or if I was too busy stress-eating bags of conversation hearts from the woes of lawyering to notice (might be true). What I find to be most annoying about all this is that even when I think of interesting things to write, oftentimes before I'm able to get it down on the page, the ideas are gone as quickly as they've arrived. Oh how fleeting bright ideas are. Until I come up with my next one, let's rely on someone else's…

Book: Middlesex

Author: Jeffrey Eugenides
Year: 2002

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: It won the Pulitzer Prize. Need I say more? Of course I do. Do I take issue with the fact that the sticker for "Oprah's Book Club" is bigger than the line below the title which reads "winner of the Pulitzer Prize"? You bet your bippy, as my driver's ed teacher loved to say. Look, I completely get the underpinning of the book club sticker – it acts as an incredibly useful marketing tool to sell more books. It saddens me is all. Don't get me wrong, I'm an Oprah fan. And I would kill for an endorsement from her for just about anything. I only wish that incredible writing would be recognized and purchased by the masses for reasons other than a celebrity telling them they should read it. Is that too much to ask? Ok, I am now stepping off my soap box. Let’s move on, shall we?

Truth be told, I had absolutely no idea this book centered around the life and times of a hermaphrodite until I started reading (sorry if I just ruined the surprise for you). I bought my copy years ago at a used book sale, but apparently I never bothered to read the synopsis on the back (that’ll teach me!). Even with its unusual premise, Eugenides’ way with words gives new meaning to the first person narration. He brings such life and raw truth to Callie/Cal’s story, you may begin to wonder, as I did, how exactly a writer can reach so far into a fictional character’s psyche. It took me at least 150 pages to really get into it (I got a little bored with some of the Greek family history), but once I began to understand where Callie/Cal came from, who she/he was becoming and the struggles she/he endured, I couldn’t put it down. I’ll admit that at times when I was reading, I felt uncomfortable, squeamish even, but those were precisely the times I became convinced Eugenides is one heck of a powerful storyteller.

clatter’s favorite passage: With such lyrical writing, it’s tough to choose just one. But I particularly enjoyed the following exchange:
“But Milton persisted, ‘I’d say where thinking ends, stupidity begins.’
‘That’s how people live, Milt.’ – Michael Antonious again, still kindly, gently – ‘by telling stories. What’s the first thing a kid says when he learns to talk? ‘Tell me a story.’ That’s how we understand who we are, where we come from. Stories are everything. And what story does the Church have to tell? That’s easy. It’s the greatest story ever told.’
My mother, listening to this debate, couldn’t fail to notice the stark contrasts between her two suitors. On one side, faith; on the other, skepticism. On one side, kindness; on the other, hostility.”

clatter’s favorite food moment: Uhhh... I'm at a loss. This is why I should 1) take notes in the margins 2) not wait over two weeks after I finish a book to write a review, and 3) read shorter books. But I'll tell you what: I was craving feta cheese and Kalamata olives for all 529 pages of it.

Recipe: Chocolate Dump-It Cake

Date: May 12, 2002

NY Times: “Food Diary: Personal Best,” by Amanda Hesser. Recipe adapted from Judith Hesser.

clatter's thoughts: I first came across this recipe when I read Amanda’s Cooking for Mr. Latte a few months ago and have been curious about this alleged super easy, uber delicious chocolate cake ever since. The beauty of this recipe lies in the fact that you add all the ingredients into a single saucepan on the stovetop, whisk away, and then bake it in a tube pan. Everyone see now why it’s been named a “dump-it” cake? For me, however, the title has an even deeper meaning. After I made the cake last night (which really was as super easy as Amanda claimed it would be), I took an official taste-testing bite of my official taste-testing slice just in time to watch (warning: spoiler alert ahead!) Brad dump Shawntel on The Bachelor. Dump-it or dump-her cake? This got me thinking: not only is this cake an excellent dessert to eat while you sit through two hours of awkwardness on The Bachelor (why do I still watch this show?), this cake would also serve as the perfect accompaniment to “he dumped me” wallowing, “my boss dumped a bunch of work on me” whining, or a more general “down in the dumps” sort of disposition. With all these ideas in mind, I decided to take preemptive measures by preparing my very own emergency dump kit (I wrapped up half the cake and stored it in the freezer). What happened to the rest of the cake, you might ask? Well, I shipped it FedEx overnight to Shawntel - I think she needs it more than I do right now.

It's Always Snowy in Morocco

**I may be word-playing on the hit television show, It’s Always Sunny in Philadephia, but truth be told, I’ve never watched a single episode.**

Three posts in one week?! I hope you’re not sick of me, but I also hope you don’t get used to this frequency either, because I’m not likely to make a habit of it. It’s just that I wanted to get my second clatter book review out there sooner rather than later since the third one is already in progress. I figured you wouldn’t mind.

Book: Snow Falling on Cedars
Author: David Guterson
Year: 1995

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: It’s got the elements of a good John Grisham courtroom thriller, but Guterson provides illustrative, poignant writing that makes it anything but. While the book centers around the trial of a Japanese American fisherman accused of murder set during an unprecedented snow storm in the San Juan Islands, Washington, there is a lot more that fills the pages than that: a war veteran journalist dwells on a lost love, a wife stays loyal to her husband during an unbearable time, and a fishing community remains plagued with memories of war, Japanese internment camps, and deeply-rooted discrimination. Snow Falling on Cedars keeps you guessing until the end and you may find yourself hoping, like many characters in the book, that justice will rightfully be served. Cedar tree and strawberry field motifs woven throughout the novel, I could have some fun if I was writing a paper on this one! Despite the fact that as an attorney, I thought that both the prosecution and defense should have made more objections during the trial proceedings, I found this to be a lovely told story of redemption and justice.

clatter’s favorite passage: Ned Gudmundsson’s closing argument. It may not be quite that of Atticus Finch’s, but this is one that any criminal defense attorney could only dream of delivering. “What I see is again and again is the same sad human frailty. We hate one another; we are the victims of irrational fears. And there is nothing in the stream of human history to suggest we are going to change this. . . I merely wish to point out that in the face of such a world you have only yourselves to rely on. You have only the decision you must make, each of you, alone. And will you contribute to the indifferent forces that ceaselessly conspire toward injustice? Or will you stand up against this endless tide and in the face of it be truly human?”

clatter’s (and only) food moment: Ishmael Chambers, the unhappy journalist, checks on his mother during the snow storm. She gives him motherly words of wisdom over a bowl of soup – five kinds of beans, onions and celery, a ham shank, two small turnips. Sounds like a perfect meal to warm the insides during a blustery snow storm and frigid temperatures. Well played, Mrs. Chambers.

Recipe: Moroccan Carrot Salad
Date: January 8, 1995
NY Times: “Food: For Root Vegetables, Add Imagination,” by Florence Fabricant.

clatter's thoughts: Year 1995 gave me so many more options than 1932, but I’ll admit that I probably picked the easiest, least adventurous recipe of them all. That’s a lame, unclatter-like approach to the challenge I know, but I was lazy and found something I could make without having to make a trip to the grocery store. Laziness prevailed over lobster! Amanda (we’re on a first name basis now) notes that Fabricant pointed out when the recipe was published that this salad would work equally as well with grated raw instead of slightly cooked carrots, which is exactly what I did. I'm no proponent of the raw food diet, but I do believe that some vegetables really are best when raw - carrots and broccoli are two of them. So I charged on, albeit a little wary. Some of you might know that I have some issues with the grater (i.e.. I’ve shed blood in the name of cheese…more than once). However, after peeling and cutting the ends of the carrots to prep this salad, I grasped the first one in my fist, determined to make peace with the one kitchen tool that still scared me. With each passing carrot that I vigorously grated, my kitchen suddenly transformed into a place of Zen and I let my thoughts take me far away…to childhood memories of homegrown carrots in my mom's garden….to wishing that I was making a carrot cake instead of a carrot salad.... to the story a guy I dated told me about how he once drank pounds and pounds worth of carrots in a week as part of some fad diet until his skin literally turned orange....to how I consider myself to be fairly open-minded and non-discriminatory when it comes to dating, but that even I have my limits and orange skin = dealbreaker.....

I became so engulfed in these carrot-centralized thoughts that once I brought my focus back to the kitchen and my task at hand, I found my index fingernail on the verge of utter destruction by the grater. Thankfully I was able to stop the grating motion just in time to save a limb, but my sacrificial manicure may have still allowed some purple speckles through the cracks (polish isn’t toxic, right?). I tossed the grated carrots (and some broccoli florets just because) with the simple vinaigrette, which includes ground coriander, cumin, and lemon juice, and let it marinate overnight. Tonight for dinner I took a big spoon and ate a large helping straight out of the container I made it in. Fresh, healthy, and delicious. If I wasn't already aware (and sore afraid) of the colorful consequences of carrot overdose, I probably would have eaten more.

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.