The first rule in improvisational theatre, is never say, “No,” because once you do, everything stops. There is nowhere to go. Instead, if you say “yes, and ...”, the options are endless. For example, “Yes! I am a princess! And I live in the kingdom of Brooklynsylvaniabourg!” If you follow the same rule in the kitchen, all sorts of surprises can result. I was reminded of this a year ago when I was at my sister’s farm outside of Fredericksburg, trying to decide what to fix for dinner. Neither of us were up for a trip to the store, so we decided to make due with what was on hand. There wasn’t much. It was late September. The last of the tomatoes had been picked, and the peppers were long gone. The garden was bare. One little fig tree, tucked away behind the green house, was the only plant that still bore fruit. The figs on the tree were the tiniest I’ve ever seen-- Jewels of sweet earthiness no bigger than a quail’s egg. In the fridge was a block of gorgonzola and there was a box of rigatoni in the cabinet. I wanted to stuff the figs with the blue cheese and roast them. Emily suggested pasta. It didn’t sound good to me, but she was a new mother and feeling sensitive, so I gave a non-committal grunt and kept searching for more ingredients. The afternoon passed, and as dinnertime approached, I brought the subject up again. “What should we do with the figs and gorgonzola?” Emily gave me a steady look. “I’ve got sausage in the freezer. Lets make a pasta with all three.” I sighed, and went along with her idea. The dish was quick and easy to prepare and full of zesty cheese and bits of sweet earthiness. Even her husband, who isn’t a blue cheese fan, had seconds. Maybe he believes in “ Yes, and,” as well.
Cup of figs, cut in half
Cup of crumbled gorgonzola
3 sweet Italian sausages, casings removed
¼-1/2 cup white wine
3tbls olive oil
2/3 box rigatoni
Start water boiling for pasta. When water is at a rolling boil, add pasta, cooking until al-dente.
In skillet, cook sausages until well done. Remove cooked sausage from pan, and then add wine to the same pan, stirring over med-heat to de-glaze. When wine is reduced by half, add olive oil. Continue to stir. Season with salt and pepper (and sugar if the wine is too tart) to taste. Once wine oil mixture has a silky texture, turn down heat and add a tablespoon of gorgonzola. Remove skillet from heat.
When pasta is done, drain, but reserve ¼ cup liquid. Place the pasta and reserved liquid into serving bowl, and stir to incorporate. Add gorgonzola, sausage, and sauce. Top with the figs. Toss and serve.
Note—recently I wanted to make this again, but didn’t have any figs. I used green grapes instead, and it was delicious as well.
Tuesday
Birthday Cake Surprise
My belief in the magic of birthday cakes started early. When my twin sister and I turned 10, we had a roller skating birthday party at the Old Mill Skating Rink. What I most remember about that party was that the cake was a giant blue and pink roller skate. We were the coolest 5th graders ever! From that point on, I believed birthday cakes were supposed to be big, beautiful, and fanciful, and part of me will always fall sway to the perky pastel birthday cakes of the world. As I grew up, however, I realized that the cakes that truly satisfied me were usually the ones that had a more humble aspect-- The ones where the effort wasn’t in the appearance, but in the taste. The perfect example is the humble caramel cake. The lumpy golden brown frosting might not look “festive” but as that frosting melts on the tongue, one can experience pure bliss. But no matter what type of cake you prefer, one thing remains true. When the cake arrives, so do the smiles. That’s magic.
Sean has been in our lives for 20 years and for his 40th birthday, my mother and I wanted to make him the best cake ever. My sister Sydney, who is about 7 years older than me, first brought Sean home to meet the family when I was in 7th grade. He was a very quiet college sophomore with long dark hair that almost hid his sweet sad eyes. Emily (my twin) and I discovered he was funny. If we stopped talking long enough, he would actually have the opportunity to respond, and usually what he had to say would make us laugh. By the time Sydney and Sean got married, he had become the most adored person in the family. He would help Mom clean up after dinner, discuss his latest art project with daddy, and bring Emily and me his most recent comic books. Now, as a father of three boys, he rises at 6:15 am, makes coffee, and then gets the boys up. After breakfast, he walks them to the bus stop, making sure they’ve got all of their school supplies. He smiles with pride whenever the boys present the latest Lego starship they’ve created. He and Sydney still hold hands, and enjoy trying to gross the kids out by kissing in the kitchen.
In short, Sean has lived a forty-year life worthy of an incredible cake. Mom and I decided to make one of her favorites, a lemon teacake. Light, and plenty tart, with a lemon glaze, it seemed perfect for a hot July day in Virginia. However, we wanted to “fancy” it up for the birthday—the cake is delicious, but very plain looking. Mom pulled out the Cake Bible and turned to butter creams. Quickly we realized a traditional butter cream wouldn’t work because the recipe calls for 4-5 egg yolks, and my sister Sydney abhors eggs. She hates the smell, the texture, and the taste of them. And not just eggs by themselves, she hates them in baked items. If a pastry has an egg wash on it, she will refuse it. How does she know it has an egg wash? She’ll smell it. She can barely tolerate sitting at a table where others are eating poached or sunny side up eggs—the oozing yellow makes her nauseous. Chocolate soufflés are out of the question. Her ability to sniff out eggs in food items never ceases to amaze me. I think of this as her superhuman mutant talent. Needless to say, a butter cream that calls for 4-5 egg yolks was not an option.
Flip, flip, flip went the pages until we found a white chocolate butter cream. No eggs. Plus, it called for a bit of lemon juice, which would complement our lemon cake perfectly, and the white chocolate would add a silkiness and an additional layer of flavor to an otherwise standard icing. Cheered, we started writing out grocery lists, pulling items out of the fridge, calculating how much butter cream we would need.
At some point during all of this a neighbor called, telling us her blueberries were ready, if we wanted to come pick some. We were ecstatic because we both realized at that instant that blueberries were the final touch we were looking for. The sweet tartness of the lemon cake giving way to the burst of blueberry, soothed over by a touch of creamy decadence. The plan was finalized. The lemon teacake would have a middle layer of white chocolate butter cream studded with whole blueberries. The top of the cake would have the lemon glaze and more blueberries sprinkled about. In my mind, the cake had a look of whimsical elegance—the simplicity of the lemon glaze drizzling down the sides of the yellow cake checked by cheerful blueberries.
Picking the blueberries took an hour (between chatting with the neighbor and playing with her 4 month old puppy). Her blueberry bushes are over 6 feet tall, with branches sagging under the weight of the berries, and we couldn’t stop ourselves from picking more, more, more. Shopping took a couple of hours. By then, it was dinnertime. After dinner, we started squeezing and zesting 7 lemons, creaming the butter, measuring the flour. Next thing we knew, it was 10:30pm. With a sigh of resignation, we went to bed.
Next morning, we got up early, took the batter out of the fridge to warm, and by 9:30am were back in the thick of things. Butter cream, lemon glaze, and lemon syrup all had to be made. Cake to check in the oven. Wash dishes, wash dishes, wash dishes.
Once we were done with the baking, we put everything into separate containers, saran wrapped the cakes, loaded up the car and drove 2 hours to my sister’s house. There, my mother, my youngest nephew, Quinn (age 4), and I started assembling the birthday cake. Quinn loves to help out in the kitchen. He stands on a footstool at the end of the counter and will stir whatever is put in front of him. Mamma stabbed the layers of cake with a fork and then poured the syrup over the holes. After the lemon syrup has been absorbed, I spread the white chocolate butter cream on a middle layer, and Quinn dropped on the blueberries. Carefully, we put the second layer on top. As we assembled, it became apparent, this was not going to be a good looking cake. Did I mention it was rectangular? Two rectangular cakes, sliced in half lengthwise with a center of white butter cream and blueberries that left gaping holes of nothingness. The top of the cake started to look like a watercolor that had been rained on. Splotches of blue and yellow with smears and streaks ran down the side. The more blueberries we added, the sillier it looked. In the end, we propped the sections of cake against each other, threw some lemon slices on the top to cover up some patchiness, and put as many birthday candles on as possible. The cake was hideous. But! As the cake was served, conversation ceased. The only sounds were the scraping of plates and umms of pleasure until Sean, mouth full with the his last bite of cake said, “My favorite part is how the blueberries compliment the blue of my eyes.” Well, at least we got that right.
Sean has been in our lives for 20 years and for his 40th birthday, my mother and I wanted to make him the best cake ever. My sister Sydney, who is about 7 years older than me, first brought Sean home to meet the family when I was in 7th grade. He was a very quiet college sophomore with long dark hair that almost hid his sweet sad eyes. Emily (my twin) and I discovered he was funny. If we stopped talking long enough, he would actually have the opportunity to respond, and usually what he had to say would make us laugh. By the time Sydney and Sean got married, he had become the most adored person in the family. He would help Mom clean up after dinner, discuss his latest art project with daddy, and bring Emily and me his most recent comic books. Now, as a father of three boys, he rises at 6:15 am, makes coffee, and then gets the boys up. After breakfast, he walks them to the bus stop, making sure they’ve got all of their school supplies. He smiles with pride whenever the boys present the latest Lego starship they’ve created. He and Sydney still hold hands, and enjoy trying to gross the kids out by kissing in the kitchen. In short, Sean has lived a forty-year life worthy of an incredible cake. Mom and I decided to make one of her favorites, a lemon teacake. Light, and plenty tart, with a lemon glaze, it seemed perfect for a hot July day in Virginia. However, we wanted to “fancy” it up for the birthday—the cake is delicious, but very plain looking. Mom pulled out the Cake Bible and turned to butter creams. Quickly we realized a traditional butter cream wouldn’t work because the recipe calls for 4-5 egg yolks, and my sister Sydney abhors eggs. She hates the smell, the texture, and the taste of them. And not just eggs by themselves, she hates them in baked items. If a pastry has an egg wash on it, she will refuse it. How does she know it has an egg wash? She’ll smell it. She can barely tolerate sitting at a table where others are eating poached or sunny side up eggs—the oozing yellow makes her nauseous. Chocolate soufflés are out of the question. Her ability to sniff out eggs in food items never ceases to amaze me. I think of this as her superhuman mutant talent. Needless to say, a butter cream that calls for 4-5 egg yolks was not an option.
Flip, flip, flip went the pages until we found a white chocolate butter cream. No eggs. Plus, it called for a bit of lemon juice, which would complement our lemon cake perfectly, and the white chocolate would add a silkiness and an additional layer of flavor to an otherwise standard icing. Cheered, we started writing out grocery lists, pulling items out of the fridge, calculating how much butter cream we would need.
At some point during all of this a neighbor called, telling us her blueberries were ready, if we wanted to come pick some. We were ecstatic because we both realized at that instant that blueberries were the final touch we were looking for. The sweet tartness of the lemon cake giving way to the burst of blueberry, soothed over by a touch of creamy decadence. The plan was finalized. The lemon teacake would have a middle layer of white chocolate butter cream studded with whole blueberries. The top of the cake would have the lemon glaze and more blueberries sprinkled about. In my mind, the cake had a look of whimsical elegance—the simplicity of the lemon glaze drizzling down the sides of the yellow cake checked by cheerful blueberries.
Picking the blueberries took an hour (between chatting with the neighbor and playing with her 4 month old puppy). Her blueberry bushes are over 6 feet tall, with branches sagging under the weight of the berries, and we couldn’t stop ourselves from picking more, more, more. Shopping took a couple of hours. By then, it was dinnertime. After dinner, we started squeezing and zesting 7 lemons, creaming the butter, measuring the flour. Next thing we knew, it was 10:30pm. With a sigh of resignation, we went to bed.
Next morning, we got up early, took the batter out of the fridge to warm, and by 9:30am were back in the thick of things. Butter cream, lemon glaze, and lemon syrup all had to be made. Cake to check in the oven. Wash dishes, wash dishes, wash dishes.
Once we were done with the baking, we put everything into separate containers, saran wrapped the cakes, loaded up the car and drove 2 hours to my sister’s house. There, my mother, my youngest nephew, Quinn (age 4), and I started assembling the birthday cake. Quinn loves to help out in the kitchen. He stands on a footstool at the end of the counter and will stir whatever is put in front of him. Mamma stabbed the layers of cake with a fork and then poured the syrup over the holes. After the lemon syrup has been absorbed, I spread the white chocolate butter cream on a middle layer, and Quinn dropped on the blueberries. Carefully, we put the second layer on top. As we assembled, it became apparent, this was not going to be a good looking cake. Did I mention it was rectangular? Two rectangular cakes, sliced in half lengthwise with a center of white butter cream and blueberries that left gaping holes of nothingness. The top of the cake started to look like a watercolor that had been rained on. Splotches of blue and yellow with smears and streaks ran down the side. The more blueberries we added, the sillier it looked. In the end, we propped the sections of cake against each other, threw some lemon slices on the top to cover up some patchiness, and put as many birthday candles on as possible. The cake was hideous. But! As the cake was served, conversation ceased. The only sounds were the scraping of plates and umms of pleasure until Sean, mouth full with the his last bite of cake said, “My favorite part is how the blueberries compliment the blue of my eyes.” Well, at least we got that right.
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