Barbara Chepaitis's Blog: http://aliterarylunch.blogspot.com/2015/07/frying-mad.html, page 7

LADIES DANCING -- LORDS A LEAPING

Tango!

    Yes, I decided to combine these two because, well, it’s more fun that way.   Lords and Ladies should leap and dance in the same room, don’t you think?     So of course I’ve got two recipes, both of them warming because I imagine the dancing and the leaping going on outside, around a bonfire.   And the novel excerpt is a moment between Jaguar and Alex that’s leaping, dancing, and warming,  depending on your perspective.       When you’re done reading this, go outside and find a lord or lady and leap and dance.   Really, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?   




Excerpt from The Green Memory of Fear - A Leaping, Dancing moment.
    When Alex walked onto the mesa the night was as deep as it would get, and the immensity of stars overhead was a reeling of all time imaginable. Jaguar stood still and attentive at the rim of the mesa, looking out over the canyon. He walked toward her, then stopped a few yards back.    “Jaguar,” he said.    She whirled to face him, a long finger extended toward him. “I’ve never said I love you.”    He smiled. Here she was on the edge of doom, worrying this small problem like a bad tooth. Then, the words of the ceremony echoed in his mind. There will be no lies between us.     “Deny it,” he said.
    She opened her mouth, closed it again.
    “Go ahead, Jaguar,” he coaxed. “Tell me you don’t love me.”
Her lips moved, seeking the right words, knowing the ones she couldn’t say, unwilling to say the only truth she was allowed to speak.    “Alex,” she said desperately. “I came here to die. How can I do that if I love you?”   “Love beats death every time,” he replied. “You of all people know that.”   She held her hands out, pleading. “It hurts. Don’t make me love you.”   “I don’t have to,” he said, coming up to her and catching hold of her hands. “It’s already done.”    He pulled her close and a moan rose from the back of her throat, perhaps the back of her skull. Then his mouth was on hers and she moved against him, and he thought he’d go mad with joy.   She groped for his hand, pressed it against her heart so he could feel it beating hard against his skin.  He wanted to know what lived there.  He would do this in empathic contact. Wanted to make love to her that way. With full intent. At full risk.     This way, he said. All of you and all of me.
     Now, Alex?
     Now is what we have.
     Now.  All or nothing, here in the land where everything was necessary. He’d never tried it before, and from what she’d told him neither had she. They didn’t know what would happen. But at least here, if they achieved critical mass, nobody would be hurt. And the stones would remember them. The wind would sing their song.    She let herself wash into him and he joined her at the place where he was only Alex and she was only Jaguar. They washed into each other, sweet as evening. Sweet as cool sleep and waking in sun. He felt her shiver of pleasure as she felt his, and both felt the spark of what it meant to the other. They became fire feeding fire, the fury of her passion a song he sang back to her here in this deep place, hidden and nurtured like wild strawberries growing under long grass.    They dropped their robes onto the sandy soil and became no more than the animals they shared soul with, who danced with them here, elegantly, on the mesa.
   The Green Memory of Fear is also available at Amazon, as ebook or paperback.   Like the food here, it will warm you up through the cold winter nights.  
ITALIAN WEDDING SOUP
Buon'AmoreMeatballs:  About a pound of ground beef, or if you prefer a mix of beef, veal and pork1/2 cup locatelli romano cheese, grated2 cloves garlic, squished through garlic pressA palmful of dried basil, ground in your hands and tossed in the meat1 eggAbout half a cup of bread crumbsSalt and pepper to taste  
NOTE: This is my family recipe for meatballs.  We don’t use onion or oregano, and you may like it. If so, use it because you know the rule: PLAY WITH YOUR MEATBALLS
Put everything in a large bowl and start mixing it up with your hands.  Yes, your hands, and don’t go ‘ew’ at me.  It’s fun.  Like a tasty mudpie.  In fact, we always fought for the privilege when we were growing up, as well as the privilege of tasting the raw meatballs to see if they needed anything else.  Besides, that’s the easiest way to tell if they’re too wet or too dry, if you need to add another egg or more breadcrumbs.   
When you’re done, roll them into meatballs of about an inch.  We make these smaller than sauce meatballs, by the way.   Cover them, and let them rest.  They are young and about to have a big experience.
SOUP:
About 8 cups chicken broth (I make my own)  or veal brothFresh grated romano cheeseA cup of rotini, orzo, or pasta of your choice16 ounces of frozen spinach, some escarole, or swiss chard.2 carrots, peeled and sliced into ‘coins’  (Important for the newlyweds to have coins, you know.)
Get the stock boiling and drop in the meatballs.  Let them get themselves together and settle in for about five minutes, then add the spinach, the carrots, and the cheese.  Add salt and pepper to taste, and more garlic if you like it.  I do.  
Cook the pasta in a separate pot and add right before serving the soup.  

SPICY WARMING HOT CHOCOLATE 
Given the chocolate, sacred to the Maya, this is also an appropriate drink for an End of the World/Solstice Party on Dec. 21.   You’ll need the following:
Your favorite chili enhanced dark chocolate bar  (I used a good Mexican chocolate called Tazla), OR just a dark chocolate bar and some chili powder to taste Keep DancingMilkDark RumCinnamon SchnappsA vanilla bean
I’m not vouching for the proportions on this because I tested out a bunch of different variations, and am now going out dancing, and will let you figure out how to make this for a crowd.   
For one cup, I did the following:
Grate about two tablespoons of your chocolate into a cup. Add milk, but leave some space at the top.   Add the scrapings from a quarter of a vanilla bean.  Stir.
Put it in the microwave for 2-3 minutes, on high.
Remove it from the microwave.  Add about a tablespoon of dark rum, and the same of cinnamon schnapps.  If you’re adding more chili, do so now.  
Go out dancing.   Or stay home and read The Green Memory of Fear . 

EIGHT MAIDS AND HONEY PIEChaco is a Honey Pie &nbsp...

EIGHT MAIDS AND HONEY PIE Chaco is a Honey Pie
     Really.   There is such a thing as Honey Pie.   And it’s quite delicious.  I also thought it was appropriate to maids a milking because of the butter content, and because - well, really, I think you can figure out the metaphor for yourself.         I found out about it, appropriately, because my son’s fiancee, Amy, made it for Thanksgiving.  I mean, honestly.  Can you get a better future daughter-in-law?        As you read, you may think this pie isn’t so good for you, but you must remember that honey is full of nutrients.  So eat it, enjoy it, and thank the honeybees.      The excerpt for today is from Feeding Christine, a Christmas novel which is ever so much about the language of food.   

     Excerpt from  FEEDING CHRISTINE:  The food of love.
     Teresa and all her friends agreed that sexy food involved time and love.  Time to eat or lick or look at or enjoy, and the love necessary to think about making it right.       For Christine the sexiest food was champagne, licked from all the appropriate places.  It bubbled and frothed against the skin, making the most delicious frissons along the surface.         Teresa thought of honey, which was supposed to be good for the skin.  She had a very vivid memory from her childhood of watching her grandmother getting ready for her bath, wrapped in a thick terrycloth bathrobe, mixing honey and milk in a ceramic bowl.  She took this mixture and, as the water ran hot and steaming into the tub, slathered it on the deeply wrinkled skin of her face and neck.       Teresa could still hear the deep sigh of pleasure she'd given, and could still see her grandfather standing in the doorway, watching his wife do this.  He laughed and said something in Italian.  Grandma laughed right back, but there had been a look in her eyes Teresa never saw before, and she knew it had something to do with being married and in love.        At the time it had surprised and embarrassed her to think old people could still be in love, but she never forgot it.  When her own husband left her, she got herself a jar of raw  honey from a woman who kept hives outside of town, and before her bath she made herself a mixture of honey and milk to slather on her face and neck.      When she lowered herself into the steaming water, she thought of her grandmother, her grandfather, and what they felt for each other through years of marriage, of trouble and joy.     
       Feeding Christine is also available at  Amazon  as ebook, paperback, or hardcover.       
Two Honey Pies - Matthew and AmyHONEY PIE
Preheat oven to 350F.  Make one shell of the pie crust of your choice, and pre-bake it.  
Filling:1/2 c butter melted3/4 c white sugar2 Tbsp white cornmeal1/4 tsp salt3/4 c honey Yum!  Big Yum! 3 eggs1/2 c cream2 tsp white vinegar1 tsp vanilla paste, sugar, or beans1 or 2 Tbsp flake sea salt for finishing 
Melt the butter and combine it with the sugar, salt and cornmeal to make a thick paste. Add the honey, vanilla and vinegar and mix together.(NOTE:  Some versions like to add Cinnamon, ground roasted hazelnuts or pecans, or herbs such as lavender or basil.  I can’t vouch for it, but go ahead if you want because you know the rule: PLAY WITH YOUR HONEY!)
 Fold in the eggs, add the cream and blend until all these ingredients are singing in harmony, which will be no time at all.
Pour the filling into a pre-baked pie shell and bake at 350 F for 45 to 60 minutes. The filling will puff up like a marshmallow and the center will be a bit wobbly, as if mildly drunk on its own perfection
Cool for an hour, then finish with a sprinkling of flake sea salt.  Pink Himalayan is pretty, and worthy of fairy attention.  Slice and serve with freshly whipped cream.
    An original version of this recipe comes from Pie Stars  Melissa and Emily Elsen 

SEVEN CHIPMUNK LIVERS

Cricket Contemplates Chipmunk Liver
      Really.  That’s the line from   12 Kitty Days of  Christmas, because I once had a cat named Chaos who regularly left me the livers and paws of various rodents, arranged artfully on the welcome mat at our front door.   It was his gift to us, and in our own way, we appreciated it.       But don’t worry.  I won’t try to cook them.  You’ll get duck liver instead, and boy is this way of cooking them tasty.  Forget everything you ever knew about liver and try it.  If you can’t find duck liver, try chicken livers.        And the book excerpt, naturally, has to be from FEATHERS OF HOPE, this particular piece of it about Pete Dubacher’s father, who was a chef, and a most enchanting human being.  He died shortly before the book came out, but he got to read his part in it, and for that I’m glad.     Here’s to William Dubacher, a gracious host who raised an exceptional son. Thanks for the food, and good journey to your soul.   


Excerpt from FEATHERS OF HOPE.  SUNY press
    William Dubacher is of Swiss extraction but born in San Francisco, a five-star American veteran, meaning he took part in five major battles, including Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge. He and his wife Christine met at the end of the war, in Czechoslovakia, where he was staff sergeant and she was helping tend the wounded with a group of young women volunteers. He kept his eye on her, and after five days, he proposed.   “Only five days,” Christine tells me. “And you know what he says?” Dubacher Family    William interrupts, speaking softly, and I hear some of Pete’s kindness in his tone. “I asked her, would you like to grow old with me?”     She smiles, her face young with memory. “I decided I would,” she says.     Anti-fraternization rules kept them apart, and William left Europe without his chosen bride. They corresponded secretly for two years, through other soldiers, and then he was able to bring her to the states and marry her. This house was their summer home, an old farm on twenty-three acres of land, most of which is woods. Now they live here year-round, two exotic birds who receive special care from their son and daughter-in-law. And from their story, I understand that Pete comes by his persistence honestly. It’s in his blood.
     At lunch, William serves me a plate of pasta heaped with meat sauce. I’m fussy about pasta, having been raised on the real thing, and I’m surprised at how good it tastes. William watches me as I eat, waiting for my verdict.    “You know how to make sauce,” I tell him.     He gives a brief, secret smile. “They always said I put in too much garlic,” he says demurely.     “I don’t know if there’s any such thing.”    “He’s a chef, you know,” Christine chimes in. “He was executive chef for United Airlines.”     I knew that.  And he can still cook.  I plow through the pasta, followed by apple pie with a crust to die for, and Christine and William tell me more about their lives.       He was in charge of big events—executive and star-studded dinners, the gourmet flights of the late 1960s. He fed Johnny Carson and Bobby Kennedy. He had a personal letter from Johnny Carson, complimenting his food.     “I’d like to see that,” I say.     “I threw it away,” he sighs.     “Wow,” I shake my head. “You could’ve sold that on eBay for a pretty penny.”     “Story of my life.” I see a slow grin forming.      William kept his menus, however, which he shows me along with clippings of newspaper ads for the gourmet flights he ran. A much younger William smiles out at me, leaning forward, welcoming folks to his table. He’s debonair. A photo of Christine from that same era shows her as beautiful, with a bright smile and smokey blue eyes. A dashing couple. And in spite of passing years, the brightness remains.     I’m sipping coffee and perusing a book of William’s recipes —all very classic French cuisine—when I stop and askChristine and William, “Do you think you did something when you raised Pete that inspired him to run a bird sanctuary?” I ask.   Christine shrugs. “We always had a love of the nature world.  We had the horses here, and the garden.”    “Did you have birds then?”    “Of course. I love birds,” William says, subduing a grin. “But mostly I love them without their feathers. They’re easier to cook that way.”     I lift my face to his, and grin in return.  A chef he remains.  A man connected to his mainspring, just as his son is.  
    FEATHERS OF HOPE is also available as ebook or hardcover, at Amazon .  You can learn more about Berkshire Bird Paradise at birdparadise.org

DUCK LIVERS WITH CHERRY MARSALA SAUCE
Served on Truffle Bread



1/2 pound duck liversAbout two cups Marsala wineAbout 1/2 cup dried tart cherries, chopped up fineAbout a teaspoon of finely chopped fresh RosemaryA few dashes of garlic powderSalt and pepper to tasteButter for the pan
OPTIONAL:  Finely chopped onions could be added, carmelized first of course.  And you could substitute dried sage for the rosemary because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR LIVER!
Get your duck livers out of the container, and separate the ones that are attached, trimming any white membrane on them.  Sprinkle them with salt, pepper, and garlic powder.
Get a saute pan hot - I use my cast iron for this, because I LOVE my cast iron saute pan.  Put in maybe a tablespoon of butter.  Throw in a couple of livers, and let them sear on one side.  Turn them over and let them sear on the other side.  Remove them from the pan and put them in a bowl, then continue cooking the others in the same way.
The idea is that you don’t want to crowd the pan.  Though ducks are flocking birds, their livers prefer to have some space, and who can blame them after all that flocking?  If you crowd the pan, they’ll steam with anger rather than searing, and that’s not as tasty.
When the livers are all done, keep the pan  hot and pour your marsala in.  Scrape around at the bottom of the pan to get all the tasty bits floating in the wine, nice and drunk.  Add the cherries and the sprig of rosemary.  Turn the heat down and let it all simmer for about five minutes, until it’s reduced some and is happy.  How will you know when it’s happy?  Happiness is something you can smell.   
When it is happy, put the duck livers back in and let them simmer for about five more minutes.  Then remove all to your plate or a wide, shallow, bowl, or put them on toasted pieces of good bread, and amaze your guests with how much they actually love liver.  

SIX GEESE HONKING?

We Will Eat Artichoke Fritters!

     Yes, I know the picture is of geese, and those from Berkshire Bird Paradise .  But I didn’t want to cook them.  I mean, really.  Look how cute they are.   So instead I focused on the 12 Kitty Days of Christmas, which say that on the sixth day of Christmas my Kitty gave to me 6 hairballs.     No, I didn’t cook hairballs either.  I made these incredibly yummy artichoke fritters, using leftover mashed potatoes.    Then, of course, I had to figure out what from my novels might go with six hairballs.   Hmm.   Easy.     Here’s Jaguar,  being questions for a murder she didn’t commit, and having a bit of a hissy fit with cops and with Alex.   And below that, the recipe for Artichoke Fritters, a good way to use up those leftover mashed potatoes from holiday dinners.

Excerpt from Learning Fear
     “Look, I’ll say it one more time slowly, in English, then I go to Mertec since you’d probably understand that about as well,”Jaguar told the cops who kept asking her questions.  “I was in the tunnels when Emily died because I got an anonymous note requesting my presence in that general vicinity. I’m covered in blood not because I killed her, but because I was there when she was dying and I was trying to press her chest closed. Get it?”     A rather corpulent cop named Keene stared down at her and said, ‘Yeah. Right. Look, just say why you did it. C’mon. At least tell us what you did with the heart.”     Jaguar rested her head in her hands. “I ate it,” she muttered.     “What?” Keene asked.      She brought her face up to stare at him with fiery eyes. “I ate it,” she repeated, in a low growl. Keene’s eyes widened, the pupils dilating. He backed toward the door and exited, locking her in the interrogation room.        Jaguar sighed. That was better.  At least she could get a few minutes alone. They’d been at her for hours. She pulled up the only other chair in the room and rested her feet on it, slumped back in her own chair and closed her eyes. Maybe she’d practice sleeping. See if she remembered how.     She was burned and bruised, shocked and splattered with blood. Charred by explosion and wild eyed from the chant-shape, which was making her crazy.     But it was also keeping her alive.  Still alive, if she could stand the ride. As she began to feel the soft drifting of sleep encompass her, the door opened, and someone cleared their throat.     “Flu season’s such a bitch,” she commented.     “Funny,” a familiar voice said. “That’s exactly what these fine officers keep saying about you.”    She drew herself up in her seat and let her feet fall hard on the floor. Alex walked across the room, pulled up the chair she’d relinquished, and sat down facing her.   “Hello, Alex,” she said, leaning back, relaxing. “What’s the matter? Bored with the Planetoids and want a nice fat cop to deal with for a change? Or am I your next prisoner when I’m sentenced to Planetoid Three for murder?”     Okay, he thought. At least he knew her mood. He sidestepped the bullshit.      “Was Brad in the tunnel with you?” he asked.   “You should know. You sent him to watch me.”     “I did,” he confirmed. “Now I have to ID what’s left of him.”      “You must feel like hell about that, too,” she said.
     She was right. He did.
     She picked at a torn nail. “Go away, Alex,” she said.     “Why, Jaguar?”     Her eyes, hooded and cryptic, told him nothing. She pulled herself up and stood, turned her back to him, arms crossed at her chest.
  “Jaguar,” he said, “look at me.”
  “No,” she said. “You have to leave.”
   “Then look at me and tell me you want me to go.”
   She turned around and her face twisted into motion, but no words emerged. She made a sound of frustration and turned back to the wall, gave it a kick. He felt some sympathy for her. It was difficult, that truth thing. But right now, he would work the advantage.     “I came to tell you two things,” he said. “First, the army’s got you listed under Blackout. You’re in the middle of a very underground operation.”   She went completely still, which was her way of expressing surprise. Then her shoulders lifted and fell. “What’s it to you?” she asked.   “That’s the second thing I came to tell you,” he said.    He felt her absorbing his words. Her body tensed as if for flight, and then she swung around to face him, her eyes a holocaust of flame. Jaguar, as she really was. In her power. Beautiful and dangerous as lightning.   I choose you. I choose you.   He stood, pushing his chair over. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “I came here because I should never have let you go.”   She held a hand up to ward him off. “You don’t know,” she said through clenched teeth. “You can’t be here.”  “Jaguar, I am here. Where I belong. With you.”
  “Stop it,” she said. “You are not to think of me that way.”
   He walked to her, wrapped his hand around hers. “I already do.” She stood poised inside his thought, and he waited for what she might do next. Push him away. Hit him. She could do anything, if he could stand here with his hand on hers for one minute more.   Her breath emerged as a moan, a fury of longing in her eyes. She moved her hand to his face, exploring it as if she’d never seen it before. Then she pulled him to her and kissed him.   I choose you. I choose you.   Her lips were warm, the length of her pressed into his flesh a fire barely contained. He twined his fingers in her hair and held her here, tasting her, tasting the essential power she was walking in, tasting all she was, to the bottom of her wild soul.   Like finding the center of the universe and kissing it. Like having it kiss you back.   He knew now what that meant.     Learning Fear is available as an ebook and paperback , at Wildside Books.  ARTICHOKE POTATO FRITTERS    This is a pretty simple recipe, and an easy way to use both leftover mashed potatoes and leftover veggies.  Next time I’m going to try using the brussell sprouts and pancetta instead of the artichokes, which were left over from my quail egg and artichoke bruschetta. You can try other veggies, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!  1 cup mashed potatoes So NOT Hairballs1/3 cup cooked artichokes, chopped fine 1/3 cup Pecorino romano cheese
 1 teaspoon baking powder1 egg1/2 cup floursalt and pepper to taste
1 cup bread crumbs, seasonedOil for deep fryingLet everything come up to room temperature.  Combine all the ingredients (except the bread crumbs and oil) and form the mix into about 1 inch balls either with your hand or with a small ice cream scooper. Roll them in the bread crumbs, which will tickle and they might giggle, but that’s a good thing.  Get your oil hot, but not TOO hot.  About 350 should work.   Drop the balls in, but DON’T CROWD THE PAN!    Let them get nice and brown on the the outside.   Remove them from the oil and drain them on a brown paper bag or paper towels.   I find it’s good to put them in either the oven or a toaster oven for about 10 minutes, at 350, just to finish them off.   Get them on a plate and thank your kitties for inspiring you to cook something interesting.

FIVE GOLD RINGS

Golden and Knows It
   Well, okay, so in the 12 Kitty Days of Christmas, it’s 5 Bunny Heads, but really, what do your kitties give for gifts?        Since I didn’t feel like hunting bunnies and cooking their heads, I went with 5 Gold rings, which is tortellini in a squash blossom sauce - so touched with gold.   That also touches on the Italian side of my heritage, appropriate since this is the anniversary of my mother’s death, and I’m missing her.   Food is a good way to stay in touch with those you love.         So is writing.  That’s why the excerpt today is from my novel Feeding Christine, which pays tribute to family, friends, love, food, and crisis.  They seem to go together well around the holidays.     Per piacere.  Buona Fortuna, Bella Vita, Buon Amore. 




Excerpt from FEEDING CHRISTINE About  Cooking
    The best thing about people is what happens between them, and for Teresa Di Rosa the best thing that happened between them was food, which she believed should be cooked  ala famiglia, with stories and songs to help the work move along.  That was why the women who worked with her catering business, Bread and Roses, always cooked together for the annual holiday season open house.     This event was no small affair.  Through the course of the night more than a two hundred people would pass through Teresa's house, where she insisted it be held.  She was the cook, she said, and a cook should feed guests from her own kitchen.       For weeks ahead of time Delia Olson, Teresa's childhood friend who couldn't cook at all but who took care of the books and the PR, would be busy with invitations,  press releases, and the extra burden on the accounts.   Amberlin Sheffer, the baker, would be hard pressed to make enough raisin and carob cookies, which she only hoped were healthy enough to balance the egg and sugar filled dadaluce Teresa insisted on.  And Christine DiRosa, Teresa's niece by her sister Nan, put in a good deal of overtime getting the decorations and serving scheme in order.        It was a cold December.  Ice settled into the air early and determined to stay around.  Snow fell, but only enough to dust the lawns and branches with shifting glitter.   The women were in the usual state of disarray commonly known as daily life.   Delia was cheerfully balancing the demands of  children and husband and friendship and work, but she was a cheerful sort of person.   Amberlin, who was more solemn,  was solemnly negotiating a serious relationship as it advanced toward committment.  Teresa was maintaining her pride in spite of being recently divorced and stoically  facing an empty house now that her son was in college.   And Christine was perfecting a replica of a castle in stained glass as a wedding gift for her fiance.    As they gathered in Teresa's kitchen  all of this would would be rolled out with the sheets of dough and pounded into tenderness with the veal.  Amberlin and Teresa would have their usual argument over whether  to put a marischino cherry for a nose on the Rudolph cake. Delia would light candles everywhere, and Christine would sing in a high, sweet voice to the Christmas carols on the radio.  Teresa and Delia  would pause and listen, tasting  sorrow and joy when they heard Nan's voice in her daughter's song.             It was the season of miracles in Teresa's house, and while none of the women particularly expected a miracle, neither did they think they'd be needing one.      They were wrong.  
       Feeding Christine is available in ebook, hardcover, and paperback at Amazon.   


TORTELLINI IN SQUASH BLOSSOM SAUCE
Two things to NOTE:  First, I made my own tortellini, but you can buy nice ones frozen.   Second, you might wonder how I happen to have squash blossoms available in December.  That’s simple.  I picked a bunch in the fall and froze them.  Ha!  Tricky of me, right?   Next year, when you want to avoid an overabundance of zucchini, you can do the same.   

TORTELLINI
For the pasta, I went with a two egg recipe  - that’s two cups of flour (00, AKA Doppio is best) and two eggs.  I added a bit of water, and you may or may not need to do the same, depending on lots of factors such as humidity level, the kind of flour you use, and the will of the goddess.  But you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR PASTA!
For the filling, I used about 1 cup of ground veal, sauteed it with a clove of crushed garlic, salt and pepper, about a tablespoon of dried sage that I enjoyed crushing in the palm of my hand, about half a cup of frozen spinach, and a quarter cup of parmesan cheese, grated fine.   
I rolled the pasta out in sheets, cut it into 4 inch circles, put a teaspoon or so of filling in the center, folded it in half, and then made it into rings around my finger.
It’s a fussy thing to do, but if you put on good music and have a glass of wine, you’ll enjoy yourself.    It’s even better if you do it with friends, who are also having some wine and maybe singing.   Singing is good.  It makes the food taste better.
Once the tortellini are assembled, you want a pot of boiling water on the stove, with a goodly amount of salt in it.   Toss the tortellini in and let them cook for about 5 minutes.  Drain them, and ask them to wait patiently for their sauce.  
SQUASH BLOSSOM SAUCE
1 cup squash blossoms, chopped fine2 baby yellow squashes, sliced thinAbout a cup of heavy cream (If you’re worried about that, you can try half and half instead.) 5 Tasty Golden Ringssalt and pepper to tasteA few dashes of garlic powderA few grates of fresh nutmegAbout 2 tablespoons of parmigiano reggiano cheese, grated fineSome oil and butter for the pan
Get a saute pan nice and hot.  Put the butter and oil in.  When it’s heated up, add the squash blossoms and sliced baby squash.  Let them simmer a bit while they get to know each other.   
Add the garlic powder, nutmeg, and cream.  Stir it about, let it all meld.   Add the parmigiano.  
Get your cooked tortellini into a bowl or plate, sauce it up nice and eat.
That’s it’s baby!  You’re done!

FOUR VEAL CHOPS

Ziggy Longs for Veal Chops
      Yes, I know.  The traditional fourth day of Christmas is four calling birds.  Though, actually, it's four colly birds, which are something like crows, and which we translated as calling birds.   And just so you know, the 12 Kitty Days of Christmas is 4 Wet and Muddy Paws.   But I couldn’t make anything out of either, so I went with an ancient French version, which uses 4 veal chops.  Really.   They’ve also got 3 short ribs, 5 Pig knuckles and so on.  Culture focuses on what’s important to them.       Veal chops are not necessarily easy to cook, mind you.  They don’t have much fat on them, and the flavor is mild, so work is necessary.   That, to my writer’s mind, speaks of the publishing world lately.  If you write something you love that doesn’t fit the very very narrow parameters around lately, you have to figure out a way to sell it, or a way to make it fit within the parameters available.  Sigh.  I know.   Writers are supposed to write, not play PT Barnum for the literary world.  I also wish it was different, but it isn’t, so pony up.         At any rate, below is my excerpt for the strange world of artistry, from The Fear Principle, and my recipe for veal chops, which came out incredibly delicious.   Try both.  You’ll like them.  
Excerpt from The Fear Principle
   Neri leaned in close to Alex. “You’re right. There’s a new e-wave amplifier,specific for theta and omega. And it uses pyrite.”     Alex felt a tingle run along his spine. Jaguar was right.  They were creating a new Supertoy. “How far along are they?” Alex asked.   “Rumor says very far. Starting live subject testing soon. They hope to control all those naughty empaths like you. I swear, those guys and gals have such control issues, they ought to be in therapy.”     “But if they haven’t tested on live subjects, what the hell are they testing on?”   “Well,” Neri stage-whispered behind his hand— “there’s rumors of pseudogenic experiments.”    “What?”    “You know. Dead people. Keep the mainspring wound with a Supertoy and make them dance.”    “Neri—are they seriously doing that?”    “Why not?  Material costs are minimal. And dead people are so available, so much easier to work with than live subjects. The world prefers its artists and test subjects dead, after all.  They don’t form unions or ask for personal leave or start lawsuits or take coffee breaks. And quiet. You can imagine how nice it’d be to work with them.”
    The Fear Principle is available through Wildside as an ebook and paperback .   Dark and lovely reading for the dark time of the year.  

VEAL CHOPS
This recipe is for two veal chops, because I’ve had requests from people who need to make dinner for two.   You can double it for four.
2 Veal chops Good! Eat It Up!
1 cup white wineAbout 3 cups water1/2 tablespoon saltAbout a teaspoon of dried sage, crushed in your own little hands1 clove garlic, crushed1 cup flour, seasoned with salt and pepperSome oil for the pan

Get the wine, ater, salt, sage and garlic into a bowl or plastic container.  Put the veal chops in it and let them swim around for at least an hour, and as long as overnight. If you want other flavors in your chops, add rosemary, or truffle oil, or what you choose because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
When you’re ready to cook, take the veal chops out of their marinade and shake them a little to wake them up and get rid of extra liquid.   Dredge them in the flour.
Get a skillet on the stove, on high, and put oil in it.   When it’s good and hot, put the veal chops in.  Let them get all nice and browned on one side (About two minutes) then flip them over and let them get brown on the other side.   
Take them off the heat and put them into an oven at about 325 degrees.  Let them finish cooking in their, for about ten minutes.  
Eat them!   I used black rice and broccoli on the side.   You may choose the sides you prefer.   

Three French Hens

Hello!  Emu, not Hen, okay?
    Okay, so the Kitty Days of Christmas version is Three Blind Mice, and I wasn’t about to cook that, so I asked myself what the hell a French Hen is.  I came up with no answer, but it sounded fancier than regular hens, something a little special, so I decided the appropriate recipe had to do with quail eggs.  That’s below.        Before you get there, here’s an excerpt from my book, Feathers of Hope, that has to do with a much larger bird, but one that’s equally exotic.  The Emu.       

Excerpt from Feathers of Hope     When Pete Dubacher’s wife, Betty Ann, was pregnant, a few emu eggs hatched at the sanctuary, and Betty Ann took in the chicks that weren’t doing very well. Two of them regularly slept on her burgeoning belly, one on either side. She didn’t think they’d survive, but she wanted at least to give them what comfort and warmth she could while they were around.
     They did survive, however, and these same two emus, when grown, would flank her daughter Elizabeth as she toddled about the place, one on either side of her as friendly, protective sentinels. Betty Ann says Elizabeth didn’t really know what species she was for quite a few years.   “It took me forever to potty train her. Then, at meals, she’d squat under the table to eat. She’d stick her head in the tank with the emus to drink. But when other kids came around she was the one to reassure them if they were afraid. Elizabeth knew her birds at an early age, knew instinctively which ones to approach, which ones to leave alone.”
     She’s growing up now, and Betty Ann takes that process philosophically. “Everything needs a mother, and then, when it’s time to go, they go. I had a crow, Bubba, who followed me around. He was great. But eventually, he flew away. That’s what they do, and that’s really what you want for them. That they’ll find their own lives.”    You can read more of Feathers of Hope at Amazon .   And you can visit Berkshire Bird Paradise at birdparadise.org . Fairy Eggs!QUAIL EGG BRUSCHETTA
  This recipe is easy easy easy, and how much you make depends on how many quail eggs you can get hold of.  They’re like fairy eggs - tiny, adorable pouches of flavor, pretty however you make them.   And you should NOTE that I also hardboiled some, and served them with a spicy mayonnaise because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
12 quail eggs12 slices of good bread, baguette sized (I used my Truffle infused bread.  Sourdough or a good peasant bread or Italian bread would also work well.)1 can artichokes, diced fineAbout half a cup of Pecorino romano cheese, grated fineExtra Pecorino romano cheese, grated fine, for sprinklingPepper and salt2 tablespoons red wine vinegar Mouthful of Yum1 teaspoon olive oil

Mix your artichokes with the pecorino romano cheese, sprinkle with a little salt and pepper, and spread it on the bread slices.  Put them in the toaster to toast.
Put a saute pan on the stove and fill it with water about 3/4 to the top.   Add a teaspoon of salt, about 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar, and about a teaspoon of olive oil.   Let it come to a boil and CRACK two or three quail eggs into it.  Turn the heat down a bit and cover the pan, letting the eggs poach, but not so much that the yolks turn totally hard.   That runny yolk thing is sensual and good.   
As each egg is cooked, remove it to a plate, and add the rest, little by little, until all are done.
When the artichoke toasts are done, put a poached quail egg on each, and sprinkle a little more cheese, salt and pepper on each.  Put them all on a pretty plate, and serve.   Your guests will sing any song you want after they eat them.    

TWO CANS OF TUNA

Two Cute Kitties!
      Okay, this one is clearly not the traditional verse for Day 2.  It’s from the 12 Kitty Days of Christmas , because my kitties prefer tuna to turtledoves.          In honor of that, a tuna salad recipe, and an excerpt from Learning Fear, illuminating how Jaguar feels when she’s in touch with her spirit guide.  That’d be a big cat, in case you didn’t guess.         But just so you know, after I wrote this passage, I realized it’s also exactly how I feel about writing.  Other writers will understand.        Enjoy both food and words.   

from LEARNING FEAR, Wildside Press
Breath.     It felt like breath to her.  Being breathed into the night, and the night your skin and the moon your eyes.    She tilted her head back and sang her song, as the skin of the night took her in. Words left her and she fell into beauty, into ecstasy, this opening of time and space. Fell into the skin that was slippery as daylight on water, elusive as the shadow of moon on snow. She breathed out. She breathed in.    She glided across the grass soundlessly, the feel of motion a pure pleasure. The scent of the moon was a liquid prism in her hand and she brought her mouth down to taste it. Mist rolled over her like laughing silk. She stopped, glanced up, breathed in.     This is what chant-shaping was like. Being breathed into the heart of radiant sun. Breathed in to the source.      Like finding the absolute center of the universe, and kissing it. Like having it kiss you back.
    Enough.  Enough pleasure. There was work to do.
    Show him.
    Her feet down on the earth, moving now. Going faster with legs that would never know fatigue. She raced the speed of the turning earth, like fire coursing the hair of a sorceress. Space curled into corridors of time, and she ran like light. Energy skipped a beat in its natural flow. She licked the air, and what she tasted was a sweet river she could ride.  A way from here to there.    Show him.     She moved through thought and dreaming, through the pupils of an eye and into the corners of a heart. Motion brought her where she needed to go.    Where he waits. Show him.     She let herself be carried through stars, through no air, through air again, and into the room where he sat, waiting for her. His hand brushed her back and her breath brushed his hand. She drew a rough tongue across his skin.     Chosen, marked, and mine.
    She slipped back through the eye and the heart, through a river of moonlight, and into a more familiar skin.                                               ***********     Jaguar saw she was sitting in a pub, a shot of tequila in front of her.  She took the shot, licked the salt, and sucked the lime. Then she looked around.     The place was deserted except for an old man at the other end of the bar. He turned a grin to her, distinctly absent some teeth. As she checked the state of her own clothes, muddy and bedraggled, she didn’t blame him for thinking she’d be a good match. In the large mirror that hung behind the bar, she saw that her face was streaked with dirt. There was something wild in her eyes, and her hair had a mind of its own. She looked awful.     She raised her hand in the direction of the bartender. “Another one of these,” she requested.  One more, and then she’d try to figure out where she was, so she could try and get back home.
     Learning Fear is also available as an ebook at Wildside Books .  
CRISP AND FRESHLY TUNA SALAD
    This recipe is suitable for putting out at a party buffet, with crackers or bread, and is a good lunch snack for visiting guests. Nice and light, after all the heavy holiday fare.   I’ve given the proportions for One Can of Tuna, but if you need two, just double it.   

1 can of tuna (I use white, but you can use chunk.  Packed in water is best)1/2 cup chopped up black olives1/4 cup celeriac (celery root) grated medium or fine4 scallions, chopped fine2 tablespoons dill, chopped fine2 teaspoons GOOD dijon mustard1 teaspoon olive oil Two Crackers of Tuna
1 tablespoon or so mayo2 teaspoons capersPepper to taste

When you open your cans of tuna, squish out the water and put it in a bowl for your kitties.   They’ll be happy about that.
Then get the tuna and everything else in a bowl, and mix it up good.   Let the flavors dance and marry.  
NOTE:  If you prefer a stronger taste, you can use onions instead of scallions, and you can add a pinch of cayenne, or use kalamata olives instead of regular black because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!   

THE TWELVE DAYS

A Heron in a Hickory Tree
     Yes, it’s the season of giving, the season of miracles, and the season of very repetitive songs.  One of the most repetitive, of course, is the 12 Days of Christmas.     This song was originally a kind of memory game, and there are lots of versions of it. In its most familiar form, it refers to gifts given during the twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany, but I say why wait?  Now is when you need recipes, as family and friends gather round to celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, the Solstice, Kwanza, or perhaps the end of the world that’s supposed to occur on Dec. 21st.       Might as well go out reading and cooking, right?
     So, in honor of all that, I’m writing a blog a day for the next twelve days.  Each one will have one of the 12 Days theme in it, based on either the familiar tropes, an older French version, or my own version the Twelve Kitty Days of Christmas , which you can watch on youtube .     Each blog will include an excerpt one of my novels, and a recipe, both of them as appropriate as I ever get to the day's theme.        Consider it my gift to you, my readers.  Enjoy.  Cook something.  Eat something.  Write something.  Read something.  Kiss someone you love.     And whatever you celebrate, may the warmth of love and the strangeness of dreaming fill your midwinter days.   

EXCERPT FROM   FEATHERS OF HOPE , Suny Press 
   I was pulling out of my driveway one Saturday in August, on my way to the grocery store, and as I looked down the sparsely traveled road I saw a large bird standing on the grassy verge a few yards away. I stopped, peered, pulled my car back into the driveway and turned it off, then went to investigate.   Standing there, looking forlorn, was a Great Blue Heron, about three feet tall. A juvenile, I figured, since adults are about a foot taller, and have more marked plumage. When I approached, she ducked her head shyly and backed up, but didn’t fly away. A neighbor’s truck went by, and she still didn’t take off. I went and got my husband, Steve.  “Huh,” he said when he came back with me. “Look at that.”  “She’s not flying,” I said.
 “How do you know it’s a she?” he asked.
 “I don’t. But I know she’s not flying, so something must be wrong.”
  He sensed my tendency to intervene. “Call Pete,” he suggested. “Get his advice.”
   Pete Dubacher is my go-to guy for the frequent bird events I’ve had in the last fifteen years or so. Since my first trip to Berkshire Bird Paradise, I was enchanted by who he is, and what he does at his bird sanctuary.     When I got hold of him and told him about the heron, he said, “Oh, yeah. Juvenile herons. I had one of those.  Tangled up in fishing line. Maybe this one got kicked out of the nest because something’s wrong with it, or maybe it left too soon. Either way, it probably doesn’t know how to feed itself. You’ll have to get food into it quick or it’ll starve. Might be too late already. But just get a blanket over it, then bring it inside. Do you have any fish? Mush it up, and stuff it right down the throat. Don’t just put it in the mouth. Get it in the throat. They swallow whole trout, y’know? Oh—wear safety goggles. If they’re scared they go right for the eyes.”     I reported that unreassuring advice to Steve, and we went back to stare at the heron. She was pitiful, all hunched up, a lost little girl.    “We don’t have to try,” Steve said. “You know how you’ll feel if it—she—dies.”    I did know, because I’d felt that way every time I had a failed bird rescue, and all my bird rescues failed. Often I felt like a kind of Charon, my job only to ferry birds across the River Styx to the underworld. One after another, they hopped into my life, stayed briefly, and died. I’d never witnessed that flight away which should be the culmination of a rescue effort. And every death felt worse than the one before, an accumulation of failures that weighed heavily on my heart.     I also felt that way every time I got a rejection on a book, in spite of all the ones l’ve had published. No failure was ever anything to me except personal and deeply felt. My emotional barometer recognizes no other setting.Lately I’d been thinking it was time to stop trying quite so hard, for birds and books. I was at a crossroads in my career. A teaching job I’d loved was closed down by administrative fiat, a series of books I’d been working on were proving difficult. I sought something new for my life.    All current wisdom says you should follow your bliss, not your pain. That you’ll know when something’s right because it will come easily. Though I was raised Catholic and spoon-fed a philosophy of suffering, I’d been trying to embrace a more New Age attitude of following points of least resistance rather than banging my head into walls.    I could make a start by letting this bird go. The local coyotes would put an end to her story, and I could get on with my day. But staring at the young heron, her sadly hunched shoulders, her eyes half closed, I felt something important stirring within me. Some essential message about my own authentic nature.   This is a sad bird, and she needs comfort, regardless of your neuroses, the message said. And you are someone who tries. That’s who you are. That’s what you do. You might as well get on with it.  I sighed.  Deeply. “I can’t leave her,” I said to Steve.  Steve sighed just as deeply. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
     Feel free to visit Jaguar Addams on Facebook , and wish her a good solstice.
FROM A PEAR TREE
   These are suitable as appetizers, or buffet board party fare.  The flavor will make your eyes open as wide as my cats when they’re hunting birds in pear trees.  Really something complex and wonderful, like dreaming, in these.
Tiny Bite of Wonder and Joy!
2 cups fresh pears, peeled and diced 3/4 inchish1 tablespoon mustard seeds1 ounce chevre1/2 cup sugar2 bay leaves1- 2 teaspoons of your favorite hot sauce  (Tabasco, Piri Piri, roasted jalapenos, etc.)1 sprig fresh rosemary 2/3 cups   water1 package puff pastry, rolled out thin, but not transparent thin
OPTIONAL - about a cup of leftover fresh cranberry sauce OPTIONAL - about half a cup of ground up roasted hazelnuts
Get a saute pan hot on the stove, over high heat, and toss in the mustard seeds, the rosemary and bay leaves.   The mustard seeds will pop (brightly, like a song).  Let them sing about it for maybe a minute, then add the water, and the sugar and your favorite form of heat.  (But I don’t recommend just Cayenne pepper.  You want the acid in the sauce as well as the heat for this dish.)
Turn the heat to medium and add the pears.  Let it all simmer quietly and calmly (no spitting or hissing allowed!) for about 15-20 minutes, until the pears are cooked, but not mushy.  NEVER MUSHY!  Remove the rosemary and bay leaf sprig.  
Let it cool.   Get your puff pastry rolled out thin but not transparent, and prick it all over with a fork.   Cut it out into circles, to fit either the tiny muffin pans, or regular size pans, depending on what size you want your tartlets to be.  (I made the mini, because fairies like them that way.  If you’re pleasing pixies, use the larger size.)   
NOTE:  If you don’t like puff pastry crusts, you can use pie dough, phyllo dough, or bread rounds that you cut out and fit to the muffin tins, then toast before adding the filling.   Because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!

Add about a teaspoon of chevre to the bottom of each puff pastry crust, now in its tin.  Put a spoonful of pear mixture on top.   If you’re going with the options, add a dollop of cranberry sauce to top off the pear mixture, and sprinkle it with the ground hazelnuts.   Honestly, I tried all variations, and liked them equally well.   
Pop them in the oven at 350 for about 20 minutes, checking to make sure nothing gets burned.   Let them cool, remove them from the tin and share them with friends.  
Watch people’s faces as they take their first bite.  It’s quite amazing, a miracle of the season.     

THANK YOU EVERYTHING

Luna and Ziggy, Grateful for Feast
      I’m in the middle of the Great Turkey Prep Marathon, which started yesterday. I’ll have only ten to table this year, which is small for my family, but people are coming in early so I have to get rid of the rather threatening dust puppies here and there, which are beginning to whine and growl for food, as well as get all my cooking done.   In the middle of it all, I’m taking a few minutes to breathe, and speak the Thanksgiving Address.    What, you might ask, is that? It’s the central ceremony of the people we call the Mohawk, who call themselves The People of the Flint, or Kanien’gehaga. The name Mohawk, by the way, comes from the Narraganset, who called them ‘mohowauuck’ which means ‘they eat animate things.‘        Once upon a time they were a bloody people, until the Peacemaker came and brought them the message of the Great Good, and taught them how to put an end to their seemingly endless wars.   That story, one which is the basis for the United States government, created the confederacy of the Haudonosaunee - People of the Longhouse, which we call Iroquois.  And it’s a good story to think about as we celebrate a holiday we wouldn’t have without the people who lived here first.      You can read about it on thisGreat Blue Heron, Grateful Not to Be a Turkey    At the end of each thanking the ritual words are, ‘And now, our minds are as one.‘  That means your mind is one with the people who take part in the ceremony, but it also means your mind is one with what you’ve thanked.  Your mind is one with the trees, the rivers, the rocks and winds and tiny toads.  Just saying this creates a connection between you and the rest of the natural world.  Just saying it makes you appreciate the incredible bounty we’ve been given on this beautiful blue planet, spinning in space.  This planet which has spit out so many astonishing things, like hedgehogs, and wild leafy sea dragons, and cats, and us.      I highly recommend you try it.  You can find a version of it on this Mohawk website .  Say it alone.  Say it at your Thanksgiving table.  Say it in odd moments, when you should be cleaning your kitchen or chopping celery.  Say it when you’re chopping celery, and all the food you cook will taste that much better.  And when you do, imagine what’s possible beyond your reach, because so much is possible in the realm of love.         Happy Thanksgiving to us all.       


    If you want to read more about some of the rituals Jaguar Addams and Alex Dzarny engage in, you can check out their novels at Wildside Books .  You can also visit me at wildreads.com  


A GRATEFUL MENU
My menu for Thanksgiving this year includes Turkey, brussell sprouts, sweet potato pancakes with bacon and smoked gruyere cheese, mashed potatoes, dressing (one cornbread and one bread and mushrooms), 
Also apple pie, honey pie from my son and his fiance, and tiramisu.    

Here’s the recipe for the brussell sprouts, with pancetta.  If you want to know how I cook my bird, please see last year’s blog, Flipping the Bird .   (I brine, I rub, I inject, and I flip that bird.)

HAPPY BRUSSELL SPROUTS  
1 pound fresh brussell sprouts - ends removed and cut in half1/2 cup diced pancettaButter for the pan

Remove the ends of the brussell sprouts and cut them in half.  Put them in a bowl of water to let them soak.
Bring a pot of salted water to a boil and toss in the brussell sprouts.  Let them boil for about five minutes, then remove them, and let them drain.  
Put some butter in a saute pan and heat it up.   Add the pancetta.  Then toss in the brussell sprouts and let them soak up all the goodness, roll around in the pancetta and butter and get happy.    You can add onions if you like because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
When they’re just a little carmelized, put them in the serving platter and get them to the table with the rest of your food.   
Say THANK YOU!