maggiethecat

Obviously, this was a resolution I couldn't keep! I hang my head in shame. But I have a nice meaty turkey carcass and I'm not gonna screw around. Into a bubbling cauldron with it and some mirepoix, strain, then I'll throw in every good veg and herb that's lolling around the fridge. I hope to make gallons.

Melissa, it must be a regional thing, and I'm jealous of you Southerners. Pickled peaches and red spiced crab-apples? There's no display at my midwestern grocery stores, and I wish there were. The Olde English Bountiful Style is my style because my grandparents on my mother's side were English immigrants. Here in Chicagoland, unlike the genteel southeast, I'm not sure it's the traditional style at all -- in fact I'm sure of it. It's more likely to be Central European , Italian or Hispanic. Or plain boring white-bread American Everyman. Blush. My Thanksgiving decorations? Seriously thinking about running out to Joannes's for the supplies to make the pompom, felt and pipecleaner turkies that Martha features in the November "Living." (I am also a big Della Robbia fan -- but pale blue and white food is a bad color combo!)

So did you pet the sea cucumbers in the fish petting zoo on the pier at Manhattan Beach? They're really soft, those weird critters. My daughter, who lives in LA, has a new favorite spot: Blair's on Rowena in Silverlake. American bistro at its best, with the added attraction of desserts that crown the meal, not simply add some sweet at the end. And , come to think of it, my all-time fave strip-mall restaurant is on Sunset in Silverlake-- the Pho Cafe. I've never eaten better, cheaper Vietnamese in a cool space.

I totally understand what you're saying and actually agree with you. My chef's jacket was a sample from a manufacturer that I paid for myself. I was considering using them at a restaurant I was managing. If I really wanted to be self-important I'd have had my name embroidered on it. To me, it's a full contact apron. ← I have a chef jacket too, but it's left in the dust by my vintage cross-stiched Donna Reed aprons. My mother gave it to my husband for Christmas, and as you say, it's a full-contact apron, and handy when your caterer friends want you to show up in uniform. But I wander from the topic because I am a wonk on the subject of protecting clothing from grease splatters. The clothes don't make the chef. The job makes the chef.

Those Apple Charlottes look just beautiful, Marlene. (Well, everything does.) And I agree-- save the cheese course for another night. That dinner was one powerful blast of heavenly protein and starch! (Gotta ask: the sauce looked good. Did it taste good? Only so much culinary help is available via AIM!)

I always think of "Chef" the way I would a military rank: NCO or Field Marshall, the chef is the "Chief" and the person to whom the others look for leadership inspiration and a Plan. The person to whom one says"Oui, Chef" or "Yes, Sir" or "Yes, Ma'am." In my kitchen you may certain Kiss the Cook. But I wouldn't kiss the Chef during the Saturday night rush any more than I'd kiss Sarge while we're guarding the Green Zone. I'm a cook.

Recent chat at home and at eGullet about Limoncello, to say nothing of the fact that Walgreen's is all decked out in fake Yuletide drek, made me decide to give this thread its annual bump. I have about eighty pounds of Asian pears on my counter and my back lawn. Pearcello? Chutney? Exotic compost content? I've read back a bit, and I'd forgotten how many wonderful ideas this thread contains. What is your guest list receiving from your hard-working loving hands this year?

Mr. Ruhlman (my food-writing hero) and the many revered pros (Mr. Parsons, Ms. Wolfert, Ms. Chesterman, St. Anthony of Manhattan) amd others too numerous to mention have good reason to use their real names on this site: In the words of Bourdain: "Fame maintenance." And that's all good! I use my name here because 1) I am on staff and I must 2) I want some agent to see me and say: "My God! she's a cross between Colette and Erma Bombeck and she needs a huge advance!" (Hasn't happened.) Those of us who have a good reason to post under our real names have a wonderful opportunity to advance our careers and our opinions here. That's as much of a privilege as the cloak of anonymity is for others. Because someone called MethMommy wants to call us out about a sticky subject because we say who we are, and we suspect her of being a stalker/professional enemy/Mom doesn't take away her privilege of anonymity. Let's talk about the advantages of using our professional names, and how this works for us on the internet. To dismiss it is coy.

The ownership of an electric kettle is just a tell about how many generations you are removed from and Ango/Indian/Scots/Chinese/Irish tea-drinking family. -- Emphasis on tea-drinking. As we residents of the US know, tea is usually produced with a trollop of a teabag lolling over the side of a mug waiting for her closeup in a microwave. My Anglo/Scots Canadian parents insist on a real cuppa, brewed in a real teapot (Georgian sterling in their case, but they have a Brown Betty for breakfast.) Hampered as they are by Ottawa's mostly electric stoves, a good plug-in kettle does the trick. But I must say again: Occasional tea drinkers like me have a pretty pot and a Michael Graves kettle from Target. But the hard-core tea drinkers own electric kettles.

Babas au Rhum. Plum Pudding fits all your requirements -- brought to the table flaming and served with hard sauce and/or cinnamon ice cream it's festive, (sadly) now unusual and easy to prepare ahead of time. For a flamefest, make individual puds in ramequins. I like the Linzertorte idea too.

Long sear mark on left forearm -- dropped the dacquoise and my arm hit the rack. Two years ago, but still there. My hands are a mess, not from knife wounds but from oven scars. You may protect your palms by using potholders, but if the tops of your hands brush the rack you understand how that steak feels when it hits the grill! I'm trying to avoid perfect quadrillage.

Off the top of my head: Lemonade, Aviation cocktails, Lemon Drop cocktails, Sidecar cocktails, marinades, salad dressing, tabouleh... -Erik ← Defy tradition and add the juice of one lemon to your 'cello. It doesn't make it too tart, but it adds lovely lemoniness. Without the juice I find 'cello too sweet. We're picking the last of the Asian Pears from the tree in the back yard and are considering a maceration in brandy. That's the great thing about these infusions -- it's All Good. Did mandarin orange 'cello last year. Yum.

Me too! Deep fried duck..... But I suggest that you click on the links in Brooks's post. That is some fine food writing, (Cue commercial music)courtesy of The Daily Gullet.

Somewhere , I remember Bourdain saying that if he has a fault, he undersalts, because he knows that his smoker's palate might be suspect. Can fifty million fumeur Frenchmen be wrong? Sure. And I remember my mother saying that after she quit, her tastebuds were all of a twitter. But cooking professionally is a stressful job, and like cops and air traffic controllers. the narcotic effects of nicotine , and its memory-enhancing properties fit the drug profiles of the ladies and gents that do the real hustle in the real restaurants.

Kathleen: I'm a "bit of this, dash of that, cook until done" offender, but you make a great point. How many of us cooks in the infant stage were maddened by our mother's or grandmother's "Just look at it" or "Just poke it with your finger" cooking school? Thank goodness for your Auntie. But as you gain cooking experience and many pots of soup and braises under your belt, you'll click as we all have: it's all about the aroma, the consistency, the flavor. Even in the anal-retentive world of baking, experience is key. So, although it's relaxing and rewarding on the home front to let the tenor do all the cooking: Ascolta, cara: All those exercises you do for your diaphram, all that bel canto warming up --you're the mistress because of experience and repitition. Like singing, cooking isn't a twice a month passtime, it's daily practice. Maybe you could start as Sam's commis, responsible for a course a night, every night. Soup, veg, brownies... How do you get to the Met? Practice practice practice.

The magic of eGullet: I thought I had the chili dinner nailed, but I'm excited by the ideas here beyond cornbread and rice. I know Wendy's does it, but I love the baked potatos/topping thing. And cinnamon ice cream (Hot chocalate sauce!) and S'Mores are just brilliant, as is the flan -- a lime-flavored flan, perhaps, with chocalate-dipped lime icebox cookies?

Yup, that's it. And to give it even more cred: ronnie_suburban, cook and host extraordinaire, Honcho of the Heartland and my cherished macho buddy, is likewise a fan of this book.

It is to laugh! Bananas? Yoghurt? Even Doritos and brownies.. Pfui! Your instinct for the Whopper Jr. was excellent -- all the satisfaction of the burger thing, but almost a Health Burger in fast-food terms because of the medium meat patty and all the lettuce. A well-balanced PMS meal. I am a BK girl, so I'm sorry you had to visit McD's, but I'm glad it made you happy. My Boss announced her Time of the Month today and her lunch was: an Italian Beef sandwich from Portillos, double-dipped, a chocolate malt. onion rings, fries. She inhaled it. Hey, a lady has to keep up her strength, and makerel , blueberries and yoghurt just don't make it.

I don't have time to be more specific, but I can offer you this solid piece of advice if you're in the Nibbles Business: get a copy of Martha Stewart's "Hors d"Oeuvres Cookbook." For me it's the Bible: a huge variety of lovely bites, beautiful presentation, and great-tasting food. Sure, there are the usual number of Martha labor-intensive fiddley recipes, but it's still, for me, the last word on the subject. She started her career (well, after the modelling and the seat on the Stock Exchange) as a caterer. This is a Pro book, and everything looks gorgeous.

Brilliant. Twinkie Tiramisu. Post the recipe in eGRA, please!

Bubble tea. The horror! Blizzards: Bliss.

I'm interested to see a few references to desserts featuring pears, because I think that pears are a vastly underrated dessert fruit, and deserve a special place in fruit and dessert heaven. Like apples, they can be baked, poached, caramelized. Unlike apples, they take well to chocalate. And unlike almost every other fruit save bananas they can be bought green and ripen on the shelf. The shelf --that's where they were perched in the bars and trattorias in Tuscany in late February --giant, wide-hipped big-assed pears, pre- poached. The bartender would pull one down and smother it with dark chocolate sauce and conversation would cease while we really savored the pear and chocolate tastes and textures. Throw on some ice cream and would it be Poires Belle Helene? But these didn't need ice cream. Tuscany isn't exactly the beating heart of patisserie, but my second favorite dessert is also a Tuscan thang: bongo bongos. Available, again at every bar, restaurant and cafe: profiteroles in chocolate sauce, served in a wide bowl with a big spoon. The absolutely most beautiful and delicious sweets I've ever eaten in my life (and I consider myself so lucky!) were from the hands of out own nightscotsman. But the clean plain luxury of a big pear in hot chocolate sauce... almighty good.

97,270. (I really must order Paula Wolfert's SW France book!) And Bombdog, Steven's book -- or any book about food or the business of food -- does count.)

Ada: Thanks for the heads up: I might check for the issues (a couple) I'm missing. Some smart publisher should reissue them in one form or another. Are you enjoying your copies?

Did she have aspirations for sainthood? The saints who died of self-induced starvation are an interesting topic to consider (Catherine of Siena is the one that comes to my mind). ← Molly was a sweet, devout, poor hardworking woman who didn't have to fast herself to starvation to achieve sainthood. But you nailed it, Pan: she had a holy card of Catherine of Sienna tucked into the mirror in her hallway.