Heading Into the Home Stretch

9 Comments October 26, 2021 terrie gura

We are heading into Week 5 of our “life without a kitchen” project, and remodel fatigue is officially hitting me. I have been restless, tired, sleepless, pessimistic and flat-out grumpy over the smallest things, and biting off my husband’s head for having the audacity to relax on the sofa for five minutes after a long day of listening to his counseling clients’ problems.

Caution ahead: this post has a lot of pictures, but they tell the story so please bear with me. 🙂

At least we’re cooking!

I am dealing OK with the cooking-without-a-kitchen side of things—better than I expected, to be honest. It helps to have a few multi-purpose appliances, and I don’t mean Instant Pot. No, we are relying on old-school appliances we already had. The slow cooker that my husband, Les, used to make the thick and meaty bison chili posted yesterday also saved the day for me last week when I made a batch of from-scratch chicken soup, which began with an overnight roast of a whole chicken. A few days before that, I used the slow cooker to make a recipe that caught my eye on my blog buddy Bernadette’s site: PASTA FAGIOLI WITH KALE – not a love story – New Classic Recipe. I had to make a few minor substitutions, but it still turned out terrific—I’ve linked it here, in case you’d like to try making it in an actual kitchen. We have also employed our Cuisinart Griddler for hash brown waffles, panini sandwiches and bacon.

Thankfully, Les and I have both focused on cooking foods that provide ample leftovers, and that has saved a lot of time and effort during these kitchen-less weeks.

Slow cooking the chicken overnight produces a rich, flavorful stock.

Where did all these dirty dishes come from?

But the other concessions we have made to realize our dreams of a better kitchen are, quite frankly, pushing me to the brink.

For example, doing dishes in the bathroom has proven to be the single greatest pain in the ass. I had the presence of mind, at least, to purchase a plastic dish pan that travels to and from the dining room, on a schedule not unlike the trains moving in and out of Penn Station. That was one of my best under-$5 purchases ever. But even that has a couple of downsides—first, the dish pan never seems to be in the location where I most need it, so I am trudging back and forth to opposite ends of the house to retrieve it. Plus, the thing only holds about one meal’s worth of dishes at a time, and that means I am washing dishes three times a day, or else struggling to wash what is in the dish pan because it is too full.

On a positive note, at least I am not filling up the oceans with more plastic.

Thank goodness we are using disposable Chinet plates for most of our at-home meals, so the only things to be washed are pans, silverware, mugs and glasses, but I’m astonished at how quickly those things accumulate. It doesn’t help that it takes approximately five minutes for our water to heat up at that end of the house, but that’s another story.

Let me out! Let me in!

The long-term effects of the kitchen commotion on our pets remains to be seen, but we know the daily impact because we are constantly responding to their physical needs (or whims, in the cat’s case) to go outside. All doors to the kitchen are taped off in protective plastic so the doggy door is not available as usual. Even when the remodel crew is not working, and we are able to roll up the temporary plastic doors, the appliances are situated so that the door still isn’t easy to use. What this means for Nilla, who has enjoyed free, on-demand access to the backyard pretty much since she was a puppy, is that she needs to come find one of us (usually me, given that I work from home) when she needs a potty break. Bless her 13-year old heart, she has only had one incident that she couldn’t wait until her daddy got the leash on and the door opened. That girl is a team player.

And Taz, our sweet-but-demanding calico, is also missing the luxury of doggy-door, but in the opposite way. She enjoys being outside when the weather is nice (and it has been, for the most part), but she will spend hours surveilling the cul-de-sac and exploring the front garden beds, only to clamor at the front door to come inside, so she can use the litter box. As one of my friends put it, “she has standards.” We have only had one nasty thunderstorm since the kitchen project began, and when Taz scurried to the back door looking for protection that day, I had only one choice—to rip off the plastic door, lift the heavy blockage and get that baby inside, much the way someone might experience an emergency surge of adrenaline to lift a Volkswagen off their child. In further demonstration of Taz’s “standards,” this spoiled kitty refuses to drink pure, filtered water from an etched crystal bowl. No, she will only drink directly from the faucet in the bathroom sink—which, of course, is filled with dishes.

Thank God our discussions for getting a puppy this year did not come to fruition.

At least there’s takeout

We have, of course, taken advantage of the many take-out opportunities available to us, and for the most part, we have done so from a few of our favorite local places. But leave it to me to take a simple solution and push it into ridiculous territory. I could have called up a local sandwich shop that makes a perfectly good Reuben, but nooooo. I had to get online and place an order with Katz’s Delicatessen in NYC, paying through the nose for this package, “A Taste of New York,” delivered to my doorstep in huge, insulated boxes.

The shipment included a pound each of Katz’s incomparable pastrami and corned beef, a package of Kosher beef frankfurters, six New York bagels, a loaf of Katz’s deli rye, plus sauerkraut, mustard and full-sour pickles. It did make us smile, because we didn’t have enough time to visit Katz’s on our visit to N.Y. a couple of months ago. The only thing left from the Katz’s delivery is an enormous Kosher beef salami, which we will probably save for Super Bowl entertaining, and that will be here before we know it.

I whipped up a quick batch of Les’s favorite **Spanish onion sauce** to top the franks.

Trial runs in the kitchen

Our first meal from the Katz’s box gave us some disappointing, but helpful, information about the installation of our undercabinet lighting. Without intending to post any pictures of it, I plated up a pair of corned beef on rye sandwiches, along with the giant deli pickles. These pictures were not about the food, but about the orientation of the light strips that are supposed to be helping me with presentation of recipes on Comfort du Jour (not to mention cooking). What do you see here, besides the best corned beef this side of Manhattan?

Shadows. Lots of shadows. After two grueling days in the kitchen, the electrician had installed the under-cabinet lights at the back of the cabinets, rather than in the front, where the action is. Maybe that works for some people, and it would certainly illuminate the backsplash, but in all our discussions of under-cabinet lighting, we had emphasized that we needed task lighting.

On the same weekend, I intentionally decided to make breakfast pancakes on my large, dual-sided griddle, and we set it up on the counter in the kitchen so we could test another feature. The pancakes—made with browned butter, applesauce and cinnamon—were delicious, and so was the bacon we cooked on the Griddler, but I’ll share that recipe another day because the food isn’t the point. The plugmold outlet the griddle was plugged into, which was intended to help us keep cords out of the way, also was not configured correctly and the cord was dangling out into the middle of the counter rather than down from the underside of the cabinet. Plus, the “in-cabinet” lighting strip, which was supposed to be concealed inside the glass-door cabinets, wasn’t. Strike three. We put in a call to Matt, our contractor, to let him know we needed to pump the brakes and fix a few things before we could move forward. That was a rough (and sleepless) weekend for me.

This will light up the backsplash, but not the counter.

Les and I are reasonable people, and we don’t complain for the fun of it. Thankfully, Matt heard our concerns and even agreed on several of our points. I’m pleased to report that all the lighting and under-cabinet problems were corrected within the week.

And now, the good stuff

We are getting excited to have this project behind us in plenty of time to get organized and start cooking for our favorite holiday—Thanksgiving. With the electrical concerns covered, things are beginning to move quickly. The drywall has been repaired, soon to be sanded for a fresh coat of paint. The overhead wafer lights have been installed, throwing even more light onto our situation, and covering all the task zones of the kitchen. I am especially excited about the between-stud cubby that will host my most-reached-for cooking oils and my salt and pepper mills. And please, for goodness sake, have a look at this backsplash in the works!

Kinda makes that pile of dirty dishes in the bathroom a little more tolerable. 😉

Fiesta Madness!

15 Comments October 21, 2021 terrie gura

Controlled chaos. That was the scene inside the enormous white tent just outside the northern West Virginia factory where Fiesta Ware has been produced since 1936. It was the moment I had been anticipating for weeks, and as I stood among so many other Fiesta fans who, unlike me, knew exactly what they were doing, I realized all at once that I was in way over my head. I couldn’t articulate what I had expected at the annual Fiesta tent sale, but it definitely wasn’t this.

It was like playing Jenga, but with dishes!

Before I overwhelm you, dear reader, allow me to back up to explain how this most colorful adventure began. For many months, even before my husband and I began our kitchen remodel project, we had discussed ideas for buying new dishes to replace my beloved “Garden Harvest” pattern. The dishes you have seen so many times here on Comfort du Jour have seen me through some interesting times, and I was ready to bring in something new. I have been enamored of Fiesta dinnerware for as long as I can remember. My grandmother had some random pieces of it (from the original collections, no doubt), alongside a garage gallery full of Depression glass, some of which she used regularly in her kitchen and for serving guests. I loved the idea of bringing back a classic, I especially love the cheerful colors and Fiesta fit the bill for our “made in America” kitchen commitment.

When I started searching out the dishes online, I was quickly overwhelmed by the variety of colors and dish styles. Choosing a color became a near-impossible task, and amid the COVID crisis, availability was spotty with the usual online retailers. There are a couple of places in town that I could see and touch the dishes, but their options were also limited. Why not go straight to the manufacturer’s website, I thought, and see if their selection was better? That’s when I discovered that the Fiesta Factory has an annual “tent sale” at the manufacturing facility in West Virginia, and it was only a few weeks away!

I’d have to drive, I reasoned, because I would need to transport my purchases home. But my husband, Les, would not be able to accompany me, and going alone would not be as joyful. And that’s when a miracle happened! It was just after I had posted the Mexican street corn hash and eggs for Better Breakfast Month, and my friend, Peg, had commented on the dish, and the dish! It made me happy to know that someone else appreciated the Garden Harvest dishes that had been part of my cooking journey for so long. We connected on the phone and Peg was thrilled at my offer to pass along my Garden Harvest collection, and even more thrilled at an invitation to accompany me to the Fiesta tent sale. We would turn it into a girls’ getaway weekend!

Just west of Pennsylvania, and kissing Ohio across the river, that’s where you’ll find the Fiesta Factory.

Our journey led us across many state lines, as the Fiesta Factory is located at the tippy top of West Virginia, in the skinny finger of land between Ohio and Pennsylvania. We found accommodations in cozy Steubenville, Ohio, a stone’s throw from Newell, W.V., where Fiesta is headquartered. The town of Steubenville is anchored by the Franciscan University, which was across the street from our hotel, and it enjoys a flood of visitors every holiday season when it hosts the annual Nutcracker festival. Steubenville also happens to be the birthplace of Dean Martin, and so Peg and I set out on our first night to find a nice dry martini and raise a glass to the crooner.

Our best bet on that first night was a Bennigan’s, right in front of the hotel (the cocktail was just OK), and then we settled in, hoping for a good night’s sleep before we crossed the bridge (again) into West Virginia, where the Fiesta madness would begin in earnest, come daylight.

Our visit coincided with a big celebration for Fiesta.

And that’s where we return to the colorful scene where this story began—the Fiesta Factory tent sale, an annual liquidation of factory “seconds,” perfectly good dishes—all with some miniscule blemish, and I can attest that it is difficult to find any problem with most of the pieces in the tent sale. When I originally learned that the tent sale merchandise was not first quality, I recoiled. But I got over that quickly, in part because I spent a little over a year in ceramic wheel-throwing classes, and I know that minor imperfections don’t have to ruin an otherwise beautiful dish. I learned to call that “character.” The other incentive to consider the “seconds” was the price list. As an example, a perfect medium-size Fiesta canister with lid is $59.99. I bought two of them, for $20 each! It just took a little digging.

Some of the dishes I bought had a tiny dot of an incorrect color. Others may have had a slightly lighter-than-standard amount of glaze, and so the color was not a perfect match to its companions. Another has a nearly invisible spot where the glaze didn’t completely adhere, and it is honestly so small that I must take off my glasses to inspect the dish. And that is after I had already found the spot previously. I could live with these imperfections, but the scene was still overwhelming, with frenzied shoppers with grocery carts everywhere and stacks and stacks of dishes, but not particularly organized.

This was the first bin we encountered upon entering the tent sale. Where do I even begin??
Butter dishes! Oh wait, only butter dish bases…
The bowl plates seemed versatile, but aren’t these the official team colors of the Miami Dolphins?
These canisters were the only items I found with lids in the same place! I bought a blue one and a red one.
There were so many of these bowls. I bought 12, in different colors!

The controlled chaos I described turned to fun as Peg and I began to follow the lead of more experienced Fiesta scavengers. We met people who have been attending the tent sale for as many as 17 years, and one shopper, when I mentioned how impressed I was at her knowledge of the colors replied gleefully, “Are you kidding? I’m obsessed!”

Do we look like we know what we’re doing? 🙂

Though we had already spent several hours looking at Fiesta ware, Peg and I couldn’t resist stepping into the Fiesta Factory Store, which was filled to the brim with all the perfect-quality pieces you’d ever hope to find. It was absolutely gorgeous, and I bought a few more pieces inside, including two deviled egg platters, which I can’t wait to fill up at Thanksgiving and Super Bowl. It just makes me happy to see all those cheerful colors! 🙂

Inside the factory store, things are organized and beautiful, like a rainbow!

Almost three hours after we arrived, we pulled away from the Fiesta factory with a trunk full of darn-near-perfect dishes, and I found myself contemplating whether to attend next year’s tent sale. But I’ll need a better plan (and perhaps a larger trunk), so I’ll work on that and share it here for any fellow Fiesta lovers who might be up for an adventure. Who’s with me?!

Out With the Old!

14 Comments September 28, 2021 terrie gura

Things are getting real over here. Yesterday at exactly 9:16 am, a crew of three guys arrived at our front door, ready to start work on the kitchen remodel we’ve been dreaming about for so many months. And I will admit that on Sunday night, when my husband, Les, and I emptied out the final few things, there was a moment (OK, maybe half a moment), when I felt a little sad.

Not sad to have our project underway, mind you. We are ready after so much planning, and I have been getting a little antsy about the timeline following several delays on delivery of the new cabinets. We were firm about not tearing things out until we knew for sure the new cabinets were delivered and correct. It has been a classic case of “hurry up and wait,” but well worth it because we are investing in American-made products, from the cabinets to the countertops, sink and faucet, and even the new dishes we will be getting to replace the ones you’ve seen so many times in my blog photos.

What made me sad was my reminiscing over some of the things that have happened in this room we are overhauling. All the Thanksgiving meals, Super Bowl parties, family gatherings and romantic meals for just the two of us. Of course, there will be more of all those things when the new kitchen is installed, but not exactly in this same space where our memories as a couple began. It’s bittersweet. I fought hard to hang onto it this week, even baking one last loaf of sourdough bread on Sunday night, mere hours before the crew showed up to tear it down.

And then, just like that, the feeling passed. Because, yay! A new kitchen!

I was almost too tired to keep standing.

It’s going to be a little wild over here, and for the next week or so, please bear with me as I’ll be focused on the well-being of our pets, who are plenty confused with the state of things. We will be doing a lot of take-out this week, and then I will dive into the new challenge of cooking “kitchen-less.” In between, I have some catching up to do, with recent welcome-to-fall recipes that I’ve made, and more food stories and recipes to bring to the table from our vacation, including an authentic Puerto Rican comfort food dish, a couple of fab pizzas inspired by our visits to the amazing pizzerias in New Haven, Connecticut and (of course) a few fun cocktails that I’m sure you’ll enjoy! Here’s a little taste of what’s to come.

It will be weird to continue seeing and posting pictures showing the kitchen as it was, while at the same time I will be watching the transformation into what it will become—a bright and beautiful, made-in-America kitchen! There will be some frustrations, I’m sure, but we are looking forward to the finished project, and even the extreme kitchenless cooking we will do.

If you have done a full kitchen remodel, please tell me in the comments, what got you through the rough parts? Because here they come!

Time Flies When You’re Having Fun!

18 Comments September 8, 2021 terrie gura

On Memorial Day weekend this year (the unofficial start of summer), my husband, Les, and I enjoyed a few craft beers at our favorite local brewpub, dreaming up fun things to do for a late-summer vacation. We were hoping to make good on some travel plans that we had to cancel last year, and our decision to drive rather than fly gave us a lot of flexibility for how to spend a week away from home. We knew that we wanted to visit the Northeast, through New York and Connecticut, and we were game for just about anything.

On a whim that afternoon, my husband looked up the concert schedule for one of his favorite Jersey-based bands, and would you believe it? —they were scheduled to play on Labor Day weekend, right at the end of our planned vacation time! Our spontaneous decision to hit the “buy it” button on those tickets turned out to be one of our best moves ever. We counted down the months, weeks and days until our trip, and now the vacation that we had so eagerly anticipated has ended and it feels a bit blurry. The experience of time is an odd thing, and even more so after having spent nearly a year and a half not going anywhere. We are safe at home, exhausted, and still reeling from all the incredible adventures we had over 10 days and across more than 1,800 miles.

During our getaway, which was conveniently timed to coincide with Les’s birthday, we enjoyed visits with family and old friends, made new friends and met a few others face-to-face for the first time, including Bernadette, one of my blogging buddies that I met here on WordPress, and our musician friends, Glenn Alexander and Oria. Those experiences gave me joy that I cannot quite put into words. We also had some of the most incredible food, including pizza at three of America’s top-rated pizzerias and some chicken wings in Connecticut that were, quite frankly, better than any wings I have had from my time near Buffalo. Les and I walked more than 7 miles in one day in NYC, including lunch at Chelsea Market and happy hour at a classic tavern in Greenwich Village, mere days before the record-setting rainfall that wreaked havoc on the city and parts of New Jersey and Long Island, all locations we stayed during our trip. We visited a legendary music venue made famous by Bruce Springsteen, attended a fabulous outdoor concert by a favorite band, and did I mention all the terrific food?

I’m still trying to get my arms around these experiences, and also trying to resume the routines of work-from-home life, and it is a little overwhelming, but I promise more details are coming. Here’s a glimpse of what is to come in the weeks ahead, as I aim to replicate or re-invent some of the culinary experiences we had along the way.

Nearly every leg of our journey was tied in some way to Comfort du Jour, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the many ways starting this blog has changed my life for the good.

We are happy to be home, sleeping in our own bed and loving on our precious pets. It is back to business-as-usual status around here, but not really. This action-packed vacation was a pre-emptive strike against stress, as our kitchen remodel is finally about to begin, so brace yourself for some new posts that will probably be a bit chaotic at times. We still have a lot of pantry items to use up, and Les will be giving me a new “Chopped” basket this evening, and it will be the last one I am able to navigate before the kitchen is dismantled. And then we will have a new adventure, perhaps named “The No-Kitchen Challenge.” Oh, these are the good times!

Thank you, dear reader, for hanging on for the ride. ❤

“Plan B” Birthday Dessert

10 Comments July 28, 2021 terrie gura

Everyone has heard of delayed gratification, but what about delayed disappointment? That is the best way to describe the outcome of what was meant to be a super cool and special dessert for my birthday. If you were following my kitchen adventures back in February, you may remember the luscious chocolate-cherry tiramisu that I created for a Valentine’s Day dinner with my husband, Les.

I was so excited about putting a fun flavor twist on the classic Italian dessert, which is a favorite of mine, but not so much for Les, who cannot stand the flavor of coffee. My chocolate-cherry version of tiramisu swapped out the usual espresso in favor of a brewed cacao beverage, and it was oh so delicious.

After that successful twist on a classic, my creative juices flooded over and I created an array of other flavors for tiramisu—at least, in my mind. Every time another great flavor idea occurred to me, I opened the notes feature on my iPhone and added it to the list. To date, I have imagined six more flavor profiles, and one that was particularly appealing to me was pina colada. Could you imagine? The sweet flavors of fresh pineapple and tropical coconut, layered with the mascarpone and ladyfingers—oh, I dreamed about it for months. And my birthday, right in the middle of summer, would be the perfect occasion for it.

Except for one thing. Pineapple has some unusual properties, and in my excitement about what I envisioned would be a huge “wow” moment, I failed to recognize or plan for that.

Nope, I only charged forward with my plan, thinking through the flavor aspects and the presentation and what ingredients I would substitute for the espresso, the brandy and the cocoa powder. I would dip the ladyfingers into a delicious coconut smoothie concoction, spiked with a lovely golden rum from one of our local distilleries. I searched three supermarkets to find a version of pineapple preserves with ingredients that met my approval. I would fold that into the mascarpone mixture, as I had with the cherry preserves in my perfect Valentine’s Day version. Rather than cocoa dusted between layers, I’d sprinkle it with toasted desiccated coconut, and serve it on my grandmother’s vintage plates, and it was going to be great!

I started mixing, following the inspiration of the same Ina Garten recipe that led me to success the first time, and I got to the point of mixing a splash of pineapple juice and rum into the whipped mascarpone mixture, and suddenly the silky, creamy stuff in my bowl turned into a clumpy, curdled mess.

If I had been a contestant on Food Network’s Chopped, this would have been the moment that the judges would begin to panic, foreshadowing my disastrous ending. My favorite judge, Amanda Freitag, would have buried her face into her hands, whispering, “oh no, did she just put the pineapple juice in there?”

Yes, I sure did, and now I was puzzled. It must have been too cold, I reasoned, remembering that Ina Garten’s recipe made a big deal about starting with every single ingredient at room temperature. Not to worry, though. I’ve seen plenty of TV chefs fix broken sauces with an immersion blender, so I grabbed mine and whipped that mixture back into shape. It seemed mostly OK, and then I folded in a few tablespoons of the incredible pineapple preserves I had found at Trader Joe’s. This stuff was awesome, and I could almost taste sweet success. And then, dang if it didn’t curdle again!

And that was the exact moment I remembered about bromelain, the powerful enzyme in pineapple that does freaky things when it mingles with protein. I knew about this from years ago when I had marinated a pork tenderloin with pineapple and cilantro. The soaking liquid had smelled and tasted incredible, and I was sure my tenderloin would be remarkable. Oh, it was—remarkably mushy with a paste-like coating after grilling. Bromelain breaks down proteins into weird particles, and it happens quickly. This is why the splashes of pineapple juice wrecked the whipped egg yolk mixture, and I’m sure the immersion trick would have proved only temporarily effective. But I had not remembered any of this in time.

It was clear to me then that my pina colada tiramisu was not going to be successful, and I faced a tough decision to either scrap the whole mess or try to salvage it into some other kind of dessert. It was serendipitous that I arrived at this crossroads while making my own birthday dessert. Birthdays for me are weird occasions anyway, and for many very old reasons, I tend to steer clear of setting expectations of any kind. If I don’t make a big deal of it being my birthday, then it stings less when things don’t work out. But this dessert disaster was more disappointment than I was prepared for, partly because I had spent so much time dreaming up this tiramisu, and partly because the person disappointing me was me. So I took some deep breaths and made my decision. I wasn’t ready to give up, because then I was telling myself that my birthday wasn’t important. I had to be true to me and try to save it. But how?

I had a very successful grilled pineapple and jalapeno ice cream last summer, so maybe I could retrofit this mixture into ice cream—except no, because the egg yolks were raw and already mixed with mascarpone so I couldn’t cook the mixture now. Could I find a way to shift gears and make a pineapple cake? I’m not much of a baker (unless it’s sourdough bread), but I dug around on Pinterest and found a recipe that could serve as inspiration. It called for three sticks of butter, and mascarpone is kind of like butter. So I started whipping new ingredients into the clumpy mess in my stand mixer and I combined it with flour until it looked like batter. And then I crossed my fingers and baked it. Well?

At this point, I had no idea whether the cakes would even be edible. In my mind, another Chopped judge, Alex Guarnaschelli, was pursing her lips and shaking her head. The cakes were so dense and flat, and I knew they didn’t have near enough sugar, so I cooked the coconut smoothie-rum mixture with some turbinado sugar and made a syrup. I poked a toothpick all over the surface of the two cakes and spooned the syrup over them, hoping against hope that they’d soak up some flavor and sweetness. We ran out of powdered sugar for the icing, so I sent Les out to get more, and I pondered why I even bothered. Sadly, birthday disappointment was setting in, but I pressed on. I whipped more powdered sugar into the icing, but I couldn’t get the coconut flavor right, despite addition of coconut power, extract and actual coconut. But at least it didn’t look horrible. I mean, the frosting dressed it up, right?

OK, so it was flat. But it might still taste like pina colada.

I thought of the Rolling Stones’ tune, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” and I reassured myself that even if my heavenly pina colada tiramisu that morphed into a flat, flavorless cake turned out to be a total bust, it was not the end of the world. It didn’t have to ruin my birthday, and it would not be my last chance to create something spectacular. I stepped outside to call our kitty, and I saw this.

But if you try sometimes, well, you might find
You get what you need.

The cake didn’t look horrible, but it really was. It was dense, pasty, heavy and not very sweet. The cooked rum syrup had a strange metallic taste that was not at all reminiscent of pina colada, and it didn’t hurt my feelings one bit to slide the whole mess into the trash. My birthday dessert was, in fact, a bust.

I learned something important about myself, though, and perhaps that was meant to be the point of all the hours I spent on my project. I am not a quitter, and I have gotten better in my later years at changing course when a situation demands it. And though I didn’t get my birthday wish for a tasty pina colada dessert, I did have a front row seat to witness the reveal of my true colors. And that part wasn’t so bad.

Besides, this coming weekend, I’ll be making ice cream. 😊

The end of my kitchen as I know it

17 Comments June 26, 2021 terrie gura

My husband, Les, and I gave each other a high five on Wednesday morning, when we signed over a down payment for a shiny new kitchen. It is a big decision to chuck it all and start over, especially with such a hefty price tag. But nobody will be shedding a tear in our house when this kitchen goes. We are hopelessly cluttered, land-locked and in each other’s way. I am exhausted from complaining about our shortage of counter space and storage, inefficient flow that is result of a poor original design (who had the idea to put the refrigerator next to the wall?), and especially the lack of decent light. We have talked and dreamed about doing this for a couple of years, and after our year in lockdown, we finally decided that something had to give.

For me, the commitment to remodel is a personal one, and it is scary. I have been down this kitchen makeover road before, and it did not end the way you see the big reveal in so many HGTV makeover shows. I won’t terrify you with the details, but I will summarize my DIY misadventure this way—remodeling projects sometimes reveal hidden truths to the homeowners, and not only in the form of moldy walls or termite infestations.

In a previous life, I had a vision for restoring the kitchen in a new-to-us-but-chronologically-old home. Along the way, several previous owners had “redone” the kitchen, but not very thoughtfully and certainly not in keeping with the 1927 bungalow’s character. Removal of all the old stuff (including five clunky layers of flooring, which exposed the most gorgeous original antique heart pine) was amusing and liberating, but the installation of our new expectations went off the rails, and just kept going. Much of the trouble could have been avoided, but for my spouse’s loyalty of keeping peace with the contractor, who was a social acquaintance. My desperate pleas for reset fell on deaf ears.

As the weeks morphed into months, I watched in silenced horror as my dream eroded into something more aligned with the contractor’s abilities or undeclared time constraints or perhaps his own vision—I’m not really sure—and my confidence in the outcome quickly followed. It was during this excruciating, exhausting project that I learned two important truths. First, don’t hire a friend to do work on your home, especially if you are emotionally invested in the outcome. Second, a home renovation project can make or break a fragile relationship. Frankly, I think it should be a required exercise for people contemplating marriage. In my case, the “big reveal” was a glaring situation of irreconcilable differences. Of course, dear reader, it was never really about the kitchen. Cracks in any foundation cannot be repaired with a fresh coat of paint.

A few years after my past nightmare project began, I made a clumsy exit from the yet-unfinished kitchen—and also from my marriage. I put down roots in a tiny duplex apartment with the smallest kitchen known to mankind. It was quiet (except when the neighbor was home, which is entirely another story) and I was learning how to be me again. When anxious thoughts woke me up at 3 a.m., I calmed myself by making handmade pasta. Sometimes I had popcorn and wine for dinner, and nobody cared or complained. Other times, I invited friends over and basked in the joy of entertaining, something I loved but rarely got to do during the previous decade. I nurtured a sourdough starter and learned how to make beautiful bread. I got better at smiling and my love for cooking intensified.

Not all was lost, and I was reminded of this by a wise, unexpected philosopher who spoke a wonderfully hopeful truth:

Fast forward about two years to a vastly different scene, set in a different kitchen in a different part of town. I had been dating Les for a few months and on one evening, after much laughter and a bottle of wine and cleaning up dishes after a meal that we had cooked together in his kitchen, I felt a shiver run down my spine as my mind’s eye caught a glimpse of the future—it would one day be our kitchen. Don’t ask me how I knew, but two years after that, he became my husband. We have had some good times in this kitchen, and Les and I have turned out some incredible feasts, despite our less-than-fab space.

This kitchen we are giving up has no hold on Les, and I am delighted that we are on the same page with the updates we have planned—new cabinets and countertops, a new layout, better traffic flow and the promise of more storage. And lighting, lots of new lighting. We have replaced all of the appliances within the past couple of years, and we are keeping those. Well, except the microwave. In support of my passion for baking, we will introduce my own special space in a presently unused corner. I am so excited!

The contract we signed this week puts our project into the trusted hands of a reputable contractor whose design partners have helped us select some beautiful materials. We hope that we have designed the perfect solutions to our storage needs and spatial challenges. When the work begins at the end of summer, we will be expelled from the kitchen for about eight weeks, and we are doing some creative planning to make that part of the ride more tolerable and, perhaps, even enjoyable.

And we have a few fun surprises that will involve you, dear reader. Our cabinets are bursting with pantry items that we must thin out—and fast. In keeping with our playful personalities, we are turning it into a game, and I can’t wait to share that with you. Les and I will not break under the pressure of this remodel because we will be having way too much fun!

It’s the end of my kitchen as I know it, and I feel fine.

Our new cabinets are going to look great with my beloved gas range! ❤

Long Time Coming (a Juneteenth cocktail)

4 Comments June 19, 2021 terrie gura

On Juneteenth, my mind is littered with so many emotions I find it difficult to put my thoughts down. I am thrilled for the modern Black community, for whom Juneteenth has always been woven into the fabric of life. I am embarrassed to realize that the meaning of this occasion escaped me until last year, when the U.S. entered a long-overdue season of racial reckoning after the horrifying death of George Floyd. Most of all, I am disappointed and angry that the significance of Juneteenth was not spelled out in the history books of my small, lily-white upstate N.Y. town. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

Along with so many others in my age group, I grew up learning about the greatness of the men whose tremendous business skills built this great nation, including the forefathers and later the business and industrial magnates—Andrew Carnegie and J.P. Morgan and John D. Rockefeller and Cornelius Vanderbilt—you know, all the rich, white guys. But we did not hear the whole story, and that means we never got the real story. There is so much more to be said and taught about our nation’s history, but a great deal of resistance to teaching it, and I’m flat-out puzzled and pissed off about that.

Juneteenth, in case you have completely avoided all news outlets recently, marks a celebration for the last of the slaves being freed following President Abraham Lincoln’s famous Emancipation Proclamation. The news that slavery had become illegal spread throughout the land, but not exactly like wildfire. It was not until 2½ years later, when federal soldiers rode into Galveston, Texas, to read the edict out loud, that the enslaved African-Americans there even realized they were free. I suspect the delay of this information had a lot to do with the fact that the slaveholders had more to gain by keeping the joyous news on the down low.

Fast forward 156 years, and Juneteenth has at last become a federal holiday, under the pen of President Joe Biden, and it’s been a long time coming. We still have a lot of work to do to recognize full equality and taking the first step feels a little intimidating. Rather than assume what kind of celebration is respectful, I have done some research into the significant themes around Juneteenth, and I am responding with this bright red cocktail, created in honor of those for whom respect has been a long time coming.

It’s lively, refreshing and suited to this occasion.

Red drinks have always played a major role in celebration of Juneteenth, as the color symbolizes both the bloodshed of Black peoples’ ancestors and the courage and resilience that brings them to this point in history. Hibiscus, a deeply-hued flower, is a significant ingredient in red drinks for Juneteenth, as it was one of many favored foods that enslaved Africans brought with them to this land. Hibiscus has a delightfully tart flavor and somewhat astringent effect—not particularly sweet on its own, almost like cranberry, but with hints of floral. I first tasted hibiscus as a tea, and that is a very traditional way to enjoy it on Juneteenth, but I wanted to mix it into a cocktail for one specific reason: this whiskey.

You can visit the Uncle Nearest distillery along the Tennessee Whiskey Trail.

As part of my own “first steps” toward racial equity, I have made a personal commitment to seek out and support Black-owned businesses, and Uncle Nearest is one, founded a few years ago by a Black woman named Fawn Weaver. The story behind this new whiskey brand is rich and complex, just like the spirit in the bottle. There is so much to know about it—more than I can say here in this post—but the kicker of this true story is that Nathan “Nearest” Green, an enslaved man in Lynchburg, Tenn., taught Jack Daniel how to make whiskey. Yes, that Jack Daniel. This startling real story began to circulate a few years ago, and I think you’ll find the story linked here a fascinating read. I was elated this week to find that Uncle Nearest whiskey is already available in our local liquor store.

I’ve paired the Uncle Nearest 1856 premium whiskey with a couple of other ingredients that seemed right to me—hibiscus simple syrup, spicy ginger beer and a few drops of aromatic bitters, courtesy of Hella Cocktail Co., another Black-owned business. Finally, a subtle accent of vanilla, a flavor that seems so utterly common today, yet most of us would never have known it without the discovery and effort of an enslaved 12-year-old boy named Edmond Albius. I only learned about him last year when I went searching for the most popular flavors in America.

A cocktail will not fix the problems of racial inequity, but every little bit of awareness leads me into the light, and this is my small way of paying that forward. The drink is somewhat bittersweet—much like the story that inspires it—but refreshing and invigorating, nuanced with spice and freshness. It tastes exactly how I feel, now that I am finally beginning to understand the real story.

I’ve paired the Uncle Nearest whiskey with hibiscus syrup and ginger beer, plus aromatic bitters and a touch of fresh lime.

Ingredients

1.5 oz. Uncle Nearest 1856

0.5 oz. hibiscus-vanilla simple syrup* (see notes)

2 or 3 drops Hella aromatic bitters

Quick squeeze of fresh lime

About 2 oz. spicy ginger beer*

Lime wheel to garnish

*Notes

A simple syrup is made with water and sugar, and in our house, that means fair trade-certified sugar because I learned the real, true story about slave labor in the sugar industry several years ago. Profit-driven exploitation of human beings must stop, and as consumers, we have the power influence companies to do the right thing. Is it more expensive? The answer depends on who you ask.

Here’s how I made the hibiscus-vanilla simple syrup:

Turbinado sugar has a warm, rich, molasses-y flavor. The hibiscus tea adds tartness and deep red color, and the vanilla lends a familiar spice note.

If spicy is not your thing, any ginger beer or ginger ale will lend a nice little zip to this cocktail. I chose the Q brand “hibiscus ginger beer,” obviously for the hibiscus twist but also because it also includes spices that are celebrated in African-American cuisine. I stumbled onto this ginger beer by accident, and it turned out to be perfect in this drink.

Instructions

Combine Uncle Nearest 1856, simple syrup and bitters in a cocktail mixing glass. Add 1 cup of ice and stir until the outside of the glass becomes frosty. Strain over new ice in a double rocks glass. Squeeze in lime juice and top with ginger beer. Garnish with a lime wheel.

Finding and supporting Black-owned brands is a good start. 🙂
The hibiscus-vanilla syrup adds traditional Juneteenth color and flavors to the whiskey.
I am loving the brilliant red color of this cocktail!
The hibiscus ginger beer continues the “red drink” tradition, but a regular ginger beer would also be delicious.

Long Time Coming Juneteenth CocktailCelebrate!

You may be wondering if I’m a paid endorser for the brands and products I spotlight on Comfort du Jour, and the answer is “no.” I do not receive money or merchandise for my recommendations, and what that means for you is that you can count on me to give an honest opinion. If something changes, I will update my disclosures. Either way, you can still count on me to be honest in my recommendations, as I will only stand behind services and products I believe in. Fair enough? 😀
Terrie

Waste Not.

8 Comments May 22, 2021 terrie gura

For someone trained from a young age to “waste nothing,” dealing with sourdough discard has become quite the dilemma. From the time I first “birthed” my beloved starter, I have been in a regular habit of making homemade bread at least once a week, and that has kept me on a healthy schedule for feeding and refreshing the starter. But cutting off the edge of my finger on a mandoline slicer has messed up more than just my cooking goals—it has also suspended my favorite activity of baking, and that is tougher for me to accept.

I have my KitchenAid stand mixer, which is my trusty assistant for many of my bread recipes, but the mixer cannot replace my hands for stretching and folding, final kneading or shaping my loaves. I miss doing those things. And I imagine that my starter, Pete, is confused and lonely, sitting untouched in the dark, cold refrigerator with no attention. OK, probably not. It’s me that is wrecked inside, and I look forward to reuniting with bread dough, and I will probably go nuts and make so much extra that I’ll be dropping it off for all of the neighbors.

Until that time, I am finding other ways to use my discard starter—that is, the portion of starter that must either be used or thrown away at feeding time. When the natural yeast has consumed all the usable nutrients in the previous feeding, the starter becomes “flabby” and lifeless, and isn’t suitable for leavening anything. I don’t often waste starter, given that I am baking frequently, but these are desperate times. So this morning, I made my favorite sourdough waffles. The recipe begins the night before, when a generous lump of flabby sourdough discard is combined with flour, a dab of sugar and a cup of buttermilk. In the morning, egg, oil, salt and baking soda go into the mix and then—waffle magic!

This is my favorite way to use sourdough discard, and the best waffles ever!

Old-Fashioned Maine Sourdough Waffles | King Arthur Baking

This King Arthur recipe is the best I have found for making exceptionally light and flavorful waffles with a crispy exterior. Half the recipe is more than enough for the two of us, and we usually have at least an extra serving that we can toss into the freezer for a future “lazy” breakfast. We served up today’s sourdough waffles with real maple syrup (of course) and the best bacon we have had in a very long time. Simple, but delicious, and I am relieved of guilt because I have not wasted my starter. If you’re riding the sourdough train, but haven’t yet tried waffles, they are a fun way to enjoy the fermented goodness of spent sourdough. And please, share with me your favorite uses of sourdough discard, too. I will appreciate the ideas.

It’s Saturday, and we missed our chance this morning to visit the weekly farmers’ market for more of this amazing breakfast meat. I don’t know what has been going on in the world of bacon lately, but we have been repeatedly disappointed with our usual, favorite “no-nitrite” brands from the grocery store. And that’s a good thing, in the sense that it led us to the farmers’ market last week. We made a terrific haul of local, sustainable, home-grown foods. Something about the just-picked freshness makes me feel like I’m doing good in the world.

I was especially excited about the beets and the pork loin roast.

I’m always tempted to buy up everything that looks amazing, but we kept it reasonable this time, purchasing only what we knew we would finish in a week, and I took it to the limit with the collard greens, which I cooked as usual, but then I quick-pickled the stems with a couple of radishes and garlic cloves. You know, waste nothing. I will probably never be the wonder kid that my grandmother was—but I’m working on it!

A Quick Flick of the Wrist…

9 Comments May 8, 2021 terrie gura

First of all, I’m fine. As the Black Knight declared after King Arthur slashed off his entire arm in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, my injury also is “just a flesh wound.” And it is already on the mend. But as I scrambled this past Wednesday to rip off wads of paper towels to stop the profuse bleeding of my right ring finger, it sure seemed a lot worse.

My afternoon had been going swimmingly up to that point, as I had just finished making a perfect stack of fresh, handmade corn tortillas for our intended Cinco de Mayo-themed dinner. The wild-caught American shrimp were thawing in a colander over the sink, ready to be peeled and deveined. I had a lovely homemade ranch dressing that was ready to be spiked with green chiles. And as I sipped down the last of my dry martini, happily distracted by two separate texting conversations I was having on my smartphone—one by text and the other by email—I brimmed with confidence because all the prep for our shrimp tacos was done in advance of my husband, Les, walking through the door.

All, that is, except for shredding the fresh cabbage.

If only I had reached for the food processor to handle this task. But I really didn’t want to deal with having to take so much time to clean it later, and my multi-function mandoline was right over there anyway. Uh-huh. Friends, those things have a safety warning (not to mention a perfectly good safety feature) for a very real reason. It is a lesson I should have learned long ago, and one that I promised the doctor at our urgent care facility I would hold dear going forward.

“Cabbage doesn’t even fit in a mandoline,” Dr. Obvious declared. And of course, he was correct, and that was the reason I had skipped the safety guard in the first place. He was good-hearted in his teasing, though, and he fixed me up in no time, with assurance that my finger will be fine—I just need to take it easy in the kitchen for a few days. Les, who was ironically lamenting just last week that he never gets to cook anymore, is being a sweetheart and picking up my slack. In the meantime, I am constantly reminded how much we use even the lesser fingers for everyday essential tasks—including zipping up jeans, latching the seat belt, washing the dishes and using a cimputer keyb0ard (oops, there I go again).

There’s still plenty that I can do, including complain (ask Les), pour wine (from a screw-top bottle, anyway) and shop for more clear plastic containers (to hold all the extra kitchen things I don’t really need). I’ve been doing my share of all three since my little kitchen accident.

I’ve also been remembering a similar, but much worse experience many years ago—one that ultimately resulted in me leaving my upstate N.Y. home for greener pastures here in the South. I was 21 and nearing the end of my long shift in my tiny town’s only grocery store. I was about to clock out and get home to ready myself for an especially important job interview the next day. It was a Tuesday, and I know this because Charlie, the produce manager, was off on Tuesdays and he had trained me to be his backup for his days off. I wore a green apron and I loved working with the fresh produce, and Charlie had trained me well. I was a conscientious worker, proud to keep the fresh cases looking nice, and I noticed as I was about to remove my apron that the “moonlight mushrooms” were nearly emptied from their endcap display. On sale at 88 cents a pound, they would certainly be sold out before I even punched the time clock.

So, me being me, I went back to the walk-in, grabbed another wax-coated case of the white button mushrooms, rolled them on a produce cart onto the sales floor, and swiftly slashed open the case with my brand-new box cutter. First the right-hand side of the box, then across the front, and then down the left side—except by that time, my blade must have picked up too much of the waxy coating on the box because it slicked off the edge and landed on my left thumb, straight down and hard, through my skin, the tendons, the artery, the nerve, all the way down to the bone. I spent eight long weeks healing, four of which had me in a cast over my whole hand. Fortuitously, a hand specialist was on rotation that day in the E.R.

In the moment, as the doctor sewed my thumb back on, my biggest concern was how I was ever going to manage my next-day interview for what I had hoped would be a steppingstone to my dream career—as a radio deejay.

As an only child, who spent a lot of time (grounded, and for no good reason) in my room, I found comfort and kinship in the voices behind the radio that sat on my nightstand, and I yearned to one day be on the other side of the speaker. I grew up counting down the hits with Casey Kasem’s weekly “American Top 40” show, and listening to the real-life stories narrated by the legendary Paul Harvey. I stayed up late to listen to Dr. Demento and I can still sing the jingle for Chicken Man (“he’s everywhere, he’s everywhere”).

The day after my dreadful thumb accident, I was scheduled to audition for a small, part-time job at a radio station in Springville, N.Y., a burg that sits about halfway between Buffalo and my tiny hometown. A friend of a friend that knew the guy who ran the station had hooked me up with an interview and I was elated, though I had no previous experience and no idea how I would manage working weekends on the radio in another town when I was already on the weekend schedule at the grocery store. Thanks to my hand injury, that concern resolved itself. I was so doped up on pain meds on the day of my audition that I could barely recite my own name, let alone talk up a record intro in front of two strangers. The program director admired my persistence in making it to the interview (I had paid my cousin to take the day off from her waitressing job to help me wash my hair, get dressed and get there on time), but he wished me well and politely invited me to try again another time. And this turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

If I had gotten that job—and that is a big IF because radio is extremely competitive, even in small towns—I may have stayed in western N.Y., where I would still be bitching about the snow and the utter lack of adventure that made me so restless in my life. I wanted more than my tiny town would ever be able to offer, and so I packed up the next summer and moved to North Carolina. It was here that I later satisfied my career dream of being a deejay in ways that I did not ever imagine or expect, and in an unexpected but related turn, I also wound up in a concurrent, part-time gig at A Pinch of Thyme, the catering kitchen I’ve mentioned here previously.

I used a mandoline for the first time in the “Pinch” kitchen, and I remember being cautioned, ad nauseum, about the safety risks associated with them. And, given that I am not busy making food this week, I’ve had plenty of time to recall some very specific adventures and even a few of those recipes, which I can’t wait to share with you. First though, I’ll have to explain how I got there. And that, as Paul Harvey would say, will be “the rest of the story.”

Stay tuned.

You Can’t Win ‘Em All.

6 Comments April 30, 2021 terrie gura

Happy Friday! The end of this week is a welcome sigh of relief for me, as I am recovering from my second COVID vaccination. Thankfully, I’ve had no horrible side effects so far, only a very achy left arm and a general feeling of sluggishness. Now I can look forward to getting through the next couple of weeks so I will be officially on the “other side” of COVID—at last, my husband, Les, and I will be able to hang out with friends again without so much concern of contagion. And just in time for summer—yay!

April has been a month of reflection for me, in part because of my commitment to walk every day toward a 40-mile goal, which, I am sorry to say, I have not quite met. It has been fun to share my “official” progress with my walking buddy on the West Coast, but the Map My Walk app we have used to share progress is only helpful when I remember to actually start the timer on my walks, and so the other walks I have done without hitting the “start workout” button were not captured. I wish that I had remembered to hit the button on every shopping adventure, given that this trip to Walmart added 2.6 miles to my total. The app is helpful, but it is not fail-proof.

After all that walking, I still did not find the liquid hand soap I wanted.

My iPhone, on the other hand, which apparently tracks every single thing I do (whether or not I request it), reports that my steps during April have added up to 31.53 miles, leaving me almost 10 miles short of my goal. I can only imagine how many steps were missed while I circled laps around the house looking for my phone! That’s another problem altogether. The walks have been fun, and the challenge paved the way to a new friendship with my pal in California, so I’m hardly a loser. 🙂

What I have realized from all this reflection and walking is that I had made a gradual slide into a sedentary lifestyle, and that is not a good thing, physically or otherwise. I feel like a stronger person when I am busy and moving, and being out and about among neighbors and strangers has opened my mind and my heart. My walks have given me clarity to realize how frequently I tend to focus on the wrong things, and how quickly I call failure on something that did not end as planned. OK, I did not walk 40 miles, but I have gained knowledge for improving some other things in my life, and I’m quite sure that will not end with April.

I am also still learning to give myself some leeway to be less-than-perfect when it comes to the stuff that happens in my kitchen. Take, for example, these lovely “rose tarts” I planned to unveil, just in time for Kentucky Derby, and the “run for the roses.”

Beautiful apple slices baked inside puff pastry.

Aren’t they gorgeous?! Only one problem—that is a picture of someone else’s apple rose tarts. No, I’m not plagiarizing another cook’s work; I’m offering a point of reference to help explain the disappointment in my kitchen yesterday, when I attempted to make those tarts, but something went off the rails and I ended up with these doughy lumps, which were equal parts burned and raw.

Despite having followed the instructions of a Pinterest-inspired recipe to the letter, my apple rose tarts turned out very different, and I’m pretty sure it was a problem with the recipe, but it could have been my fuzzy, just-vaccinated brain. I could see halfway through the prescribed “40 minutes” bake time that this was headed south, but I stuck with it. I ended up leaving the tarts in the oven for over an hour, eventually moving them closer to the bottom of the oven. I laid a loose tent foil over the top (too late) to prevent over-browning—in other words, I pulled out every trick I had in my baking knowledge bag in an effort to save them. Finally, after much fussing and cussing, I gave up and pulled them from the oven. Les was brave enough to taste one, and he just looked at me and said, “Nope.” I love him for that kind of raw honesty.

Oh well. Sometimes we fail, right? And it may be that circumstances are to blame, or it may be that we are to blame. Either way, it doesn’t end the story, and in the case of the rose tarts (or anything else that doesn’t go perfectly in my kitchen), I will raise the bar and try again. Maybe we will see the tarts come to successful fruition this summer, unless I get distracted by something shiny, which is entirely likely.

Even though the tarts flopped, I had a fun interaction with Miss Nilla, my “at-home” walking buddy, who was more than happy to help by eating the ends of the apple. And if I hadn’t tried the recipe, we would have missed that. So, even though the rose tarts failed, I’m putting the experience in the win column.

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