When I first commited to undertaking this blog undertaking, my friend Joy suggested I include some of my recipes.

Recipes? I don’t have any recipes. I mean, I cook stuff. Good stuff, too. But recipes are lists, playbooks from which others can derive some scant hope of being able to recreate a dish in their own kitchen. Recipes are for people who think in complete sentences, linearly–from beginning to end, point A to point B. My claim to fame is getting all the way to point Q before I realize that I skipped point B altogether.

To tell the absolute truth, I can’t even follow recipes. I have to read the whole thing through a few times, figure out what the heck it is I’m trying to make, and then go for it. In the course of preparing a dish I might refer back to the recipe 12 or 13 times to make sure I have the measurements right or the order of steps in the correct order. More often than not, I just kind of wing it.

No, I told Joy, I don’t do recipes.

And then a few days later I posted about what I was making for dinner–I think it was Kefta (Morrocan meatballs). That post ended up with over 20 comments when it was all said and done. So I started thinking, maybe Joy was right. Maybe I could post recipes….

Who am I kidding?

Again, after my anniversary dinner with The Hubby out on our patio, my menu seemed to garner some favorable comments and curiosity. So I’m throwing caution to the wind. Here, for your consideration, is the first of what might be more than a few “un-recipes.”

19th Anniversary Menu: Bleu steaks w/ white wine reduction, served with asparagus and balsamic roasted tomatoes.

Balsamic roasted tomatoes:

okay, here’s the part where you realize that I really wasn’t joking about not being good at this whole “recipe” thing.
I used campari tomatoes, because they’re really sweet and juicy. But you could use Romas.
Cut the tomatoes in half lengthwise. Kinda poke holes in the flesh (don’t go all the way through) so that the balsamic vinegar can penetrate.

Drizzle some balsamic vinegar over tomatoes. “Some” is as specific as I can get, because I didn’t measure or anything. But I will tell you that whatever spills onto the cookie sheet (oh yeah–you should be doing this on a cookie sheet) is going to carmelize, which is a yummy-sounding word for “burn,” so you should probably line the cookie sheet with foil or else you’ll never get it clean.

Put the foil-lined cookie sheet with the drizzled tomatoes in the oven on….okay, here’s the deal. I had a busy day when I did this–in and out of the house. So I set the oven to maybe 300, cooked them for half an hour, then I had to turn off the oven (with the tomatoes in it) because I had to run to the store. I did that a few times, actually, and they turned out perfectly. That’s probably not very practical in terms of recreating it, though. But if you want them to be soft and squishy, you might want to cook them for half an hour. If you want them a little more firm, like sundried tomatoes, maybe an hour and a half. Either way, it’ll still be good.
Remove from oven and sprinkle with sea salt. Like a pinch, don’t get all crazy.

Asparagus:

Steam it. If you don’t know how to steam asparagus, then you’re probably already in way over your head. But don’t let that discourage you–I’m generally in over my head, and I’m okay with that.

Bleu steaks

beef tenderloin steaks (most people consider all tenderloin steaks to be filet mignon, but technically it’s only filet if it is the itty-bitty cut at the very end of the tenderloin. Just ask your butcher for tenderloin steaks, they’ll be perfect. They’re not cheap–about $15/ pound, or about $5/steak. Still, it’s a whole heckuva lot less than you’d pay at a restaurant, and this way you get all the accolades).
bleu cheese
salt
pepper (if you like the stuff. Me, I can’t stand it. It makes everything taste burned. But to each his own).
dried thyme
butter (how much? I dunno…have you had a cholesterol screening lately? I’d use that info to make this decision.)
olive oil
dry white wine (you could use sherry. I didn’t have sherry. I used to, but the bottle got all suicidal and leapt off the pantry shelf onto the stained concrete floor. I used Barefoot Pino Grigio.)
heavy cream
beef consomme (consomme is like broth, only it has gelatin added. Sounds gross to me too, but I guess it helps the consistency of the sauce. If you have broth, I’d say it’s probably fine)

My best real-chef tip: with a paper towel, blot the meat all over to dry. Seriously. If you cook wet meat, it steams. Eeeww. Steamed meat. This is steak, not potstickers.

Rub the meat with the salt (I used sea), pepper (if that’s the way you roll) and dried thyme. Place it in the pan in which you have melted (oh yeah–melt the butter) the butter and olive oil together.

Cook the steak a few minutes–1 or 2 minutes on each side will give you rare. 4 minutes gives you oh-crap-this-is-almost-not-medium-rare-anymore.

I read that you can tell how cooked your steak is by comparing it to your face. I mean by touch, not sight. If it feels like your chin, it’s rare; like the tip of your nose, it’s medium; like your forehead, it’s ruined because who the heck wants to spend $15 a pound on tenderloin and eat it well done? Anyway, you’re going to have a bottle of wine out to use for making the sauce, and if you’re standing over the stove touching your chin while you poke the steak, people are going to assume you’re drunk, so just cook it a couple of minutes on each side and call it good.

Take the steaks out of the pan and set them aside to let the juices redistribute. If you want, you can stick an oven-proof dish in the hot oven for a few minutes while the steaks are cooking (which requires a bit of advanced planning–if you’re actually reading as you go, it’s too late now) and set the steaks in the hot dish. I didn’t, because the idea didn’t hit me until I was finished.

Add wine, cream, and consomme. I dunno, maybe 1/2 cup each for 3 steaks? Scrape up all the little bits in the pan, simmer and stir the sauce until it’s reduced to the point where it looks like sauce and not juice. You’ll be able to tell, trust me.

Okay, here’s where it all comes together:
Pour some sauce on the bottom of the plate, set the steak on top of it. Crumble some bleu cheese on top of the steak, artfully arrange a couple of asparagus stalks on top (and serve the rest on the side), and drizzle a little more sauce over the top. Serve the tomatoes on the side (unless you couldn’t wait and you ate them all while you were cooking the steak).

I would post a photo of the steak, but the lighting was bad (that’s the thing about dining by candelight), and so the photos aren’t nearly as appetizing as the actual food was. But it’s all easy stuff…steak, tomatoes, asparagus–you already know what all that stuff looks like.

Dessert: Cheesecake w/ dark chocolate ganache

Okay, so I’m going to admit to cheating on this one. My kitchen was a wreck before I even started dinner, and there was no way I was going to pull off making a cheesecake from scratch if I wanted The Hubby to come home to a clean-ish kitchen. So I bought a frozen cheesecake. So sue me. If you want to make a homemade cheesecake, you can: a few bricks of cream cheese, 3 eggs, some sugar (I dunno–a cup?), vanilla, ooh–you could melt a cup of dark chocolate chips and throw them in, but if you do, make sure you let the melted chocolate cool first so it doesn’t scramble your eggs. Oh–beforehand you’ll need to make that crust with the crushed up cookies and butter. You’ve done that one before, right? Okay, good. Then pour the filling over the crust and bake it. I guess everything bakes at 350, so I think that’s what I use. I’d probably check on it after about 40 minutes and just see how it’s doing, and go from there. It’ll taste way yummier than storebought–the consistency will be infinitely better. But chances are, your Hubby won’t notice.

Anyway, what makes this cheesecake stellar is the ganache topping. And it is so simple. Honest. You’ll need (I am actually going to give you actual honest-to-goodness measurements this time. Since that is so out of character for me, I’m assuming you’ve figured out that I wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t really, really important. Crucial even.) 3/4 cup heavy whipping cream and 8 oz. (1 cup) dark chocolate chips, OR semi-sweet baker’s chocolate, chopped. DO NOT use that bark crap. You’ll be sorry.

Put the chocolate in a heat-proof bowl. Heat the cream in a saucepan on the stove until it’s bubbling. Get a whisk–once you pour the cream over the chocolate it’s too late to go searching for your whisk, because it’ll cool off. Pour the cream over the chocolate and whisk until melted. If you want, you can add a couple of tablespoons of liqueur or flavored coffee syrup. Hazelnut is divine, as I remember (I’m going on long-ago memories of the days before we had a nut-allergy in our family).

Spread the ganache on top of the cheesecake. You’ll need to do this before you take it out of either the pan (if homemade) or the paper edging (if you bought frozen). Put it in the fridge so the ganache can set. Serve w/ fresh berries.

There you have it–simple, elegant, and oh-so-delicious. The Hubby said it was better than any restaurant meal he’s ever had. I’m guessing he might have exaggerated a little. But not much….
Bon apetit!

I still remember how scared I was when I found out Mason had Down syndrome.

It wasn’t the intellectual disability that haunted me; I wasn’t bothered by the fact that he might not excel at mathematics and foreign language. It wasn’t that he would look different or talk different. It wasn’t even that I worried about other kids being mean to him. They’d have 3 older siblings to contend with, after all.

No, my overwhelming worry was that Mason would be passive spectator and not a participant in the grand adventure of life, watching from a distance, not tuned in to the world around him.

I am happy–and somewhat exhausted–to report that my fears were completely unfounded.

As I write this, I have just gotten back from a walk with Mason. To be more accurate, from a walk-jump-run-fall-monster stomp-sit in the dirt-offer fingers to the neighbors’ dog for a good licking-fire hydrant discovery-gravel inspection-sit in the middle of the road-run the opposite direction when Mom says come here with Mason.

Incidentally, if there are parts of this post that seem inconsistent or that just don’t make complete sense, it is no doubt because Mason has just swiped my notebook and used my freshly penned page to mop up the excess wet pasta slime from his high chair tray. Lovely.

Back to today’s expedition. It started out as a little time on the porch swing after Mason got off the school bus. It would have been a relaxing proposition, except for the fact that he insisted that I sing an original little ditty I composed in his honor called “Swing, swing.” It goes like this: Up and down, high and low, that’s the way we like to go. (repeat) Swing, swing, a marvelous thing, oh how we love to swing. (repeat). I am not a student of music, but whatever that term is at the end of a stanza that indicates “repeat without end,” Mason thinks this song has one of those, because the minute I finish he yells “Again!”

After the 23rd refrain, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to fortify myself for yet one more round. When I opened them, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Mason’s backside as he headed around the corner of the porch toward the driveway. Now, I should mention that most of the Mo’s have been sick this week, which means Mommy hasn’t had much sleep. Suddenly another refrain of “Swing, swing” didn’t sound so bad.

The caliche was already crunching under Mason’s hiking boots, so I had no choice but to pursue him. I tried to encourage him to stick to the paved road, but he immediately veered off into the high-grown grass along the neighbors fence, like he always does. We’re out in the country, so this isn’t a manicured parkway–it’s dirt and rock and stickers and ants. And stickers. Not those little burrs that are nothing more than organic velcro–no, these are evil, thorned, spawn-of-hell deviant stickers, the kind that have hooks and barbs when you look at them under a microscope (okay, the fact that they HAVE hooks and barbs isn’t dependent upon whether you’re looking at them under a microscope. But I’m tired. I haven’t slept. And reworking that sentence felt like it was going to take a lot more energy than I have at the moment, so we’re going to run with it and keep going).

First stop, the neighbors’ fence to greet Harley, their black lab. We have a perfectly good black lab of our own, who happened to be on our front porch–the front porch Mason recently abandoned in favor of coming to see THIS black lab. My older kids insist that this is a demon dog. I’ve always believed them, because he barks like a demon dog every time I walk down the road. So I rushed to the fence, hoping to beat Harley. He got to Mason first…and proceeded to lick every one of his pudgy little fingers through the mesh, tail wagging, ears flopping. Mason giggled the whole time.

We ambled right down the road onto the adjacent cul-de-sac (our neighborhood is shaped like the number “4.” Well, not the “4″ I just typed, but more the way you actually write it, where it’s open at the top. Anyway…), Mason told Harley goodbye, and we walked uneventfully to the leftmost edge of the ’4,’ then turned around to head home. I was elated at this point, because Mason’s idea of a walk is uni-directional, as in walking “away.” He is not into the return trip at all, and lets me know by thrashing and screaming. But this time he was actually okay with the about-face, which I took as a good sign. Because I’m an idiot like that.

About 15 feet into our back-the-way-we-came, Mason noticed the gravel at the edge of a driveway. Like the black lab, gravel also falls into the things-we-have-our-own-of category. But this was someone else’s gravel, exotic gravel. I tried to channel my “we’re-exploring-and-experiencing” mood as he sat down on the road–I really did–but it was hard. The sun had started peeking out through the clouds, playing mean games on my face with the humidity. I wiped off the sweat and bent to pick him up. Only Mason wasn’t exactly in a being-carried kinda mood. He informed me of this fact by stomping, screaming, and pinwheeling himself across the road.

Just before he threw himself to the ground, he noticed the out-of-service fire hydrant. You know boys and fire hydrants. No, he didn’t pee on it. That’s dogs and fire hydrants. But he did set to inspecting it. In detail. As if when he arrived home he would be called upon to create an exact clay model of it. Meanwhile that humidity is dripping out from under my hat and down my cheeks, and I’m wishing I could convince him to just let me carry him home.

“C’mon buddy, let’s go.”
“Nnnnnnnnnnnno.”
“Can I hold you?”
“No.”
“Look–it’s Harley! You want to go see Harley?”
“No. Nonononono. No.”
“You want some milk?”
“No.”
“Applesauce?”
“No. Nonononono. No.”
“Wanna go watch a show?”
“No.”
“If you don’t stand up, I’m going to carry you.”
“NO! NO! NNNNOOOO!”
“Well, I’m going home. Bye.”
“Bye.”
“I’m serious. I’m really going. See? I’m walking down the road. This is me, going home. See? I’m going.”
“Go.”
My bluff had been called. Dang, this kid’s good. I walked back, my mommy-tail between my legs.

Any mom who’s been on the job for very long knows there’s only one thing to do in this situation: cart the kid’s kicking-and-screaming booty home forcefully. Remember the whole ligament-laxity thing I told you about? (Clean up on aisle 6) Well, another implication of this condition is that a child with Down syndrome who does not want to be held is NOT going to be held. This kid can twist and torque and flip and writhe like that little weasel-ball they sell at the Cracker Barrel gift shop.

I tried anyway. And within seconds I was reminded that Mason had walked the whole way through the sticker patch. With each swipe of his feet, my forearms bore the brunt of those evil spikes.

Then, I saw it–my small, round, flourescent-yellow dimpled hope. Golf ball! See, Harley’s owner chips golf balls all the time. And this little stray baby was my ticket home.

“Look Mason! You wanna play catch?” Yeah, technically I intended to play fetch, but he didn’t need to know that. I tossed the ball down the road. After retrieving it, Mason sat down in the middle of the road and waited for me to do the same.

This would be so much easier if he would just let me carry him.

So I finally got him to stand up and showed him how this game was going to work. I threw the ball, he ran after the ball, I ran a further down the road so he could throw it to me, and all the way we’re making forward progress. Until the little yippy dogs came down a driveway toward us. It is a proven fact that 4 year olds cannot resist little yippy dogs.

Now, at the edge of the yippy dogs’ driveway was a toddler-sized pothole filled with muddy water from the storm the night before. If this were some predictable B-comedy, I’da said something like “Don’t step in that–” and then Mason would have tripped, falling right into the pothole, covering himself head-to-toe in mud.

Ummmm…..yeah….

He pulled himself out of the muck, wiped his muddy face with his muddier hand, stomped over to me with his mud-encrusted-sticker-covered boots, thrust his arms into the air and said:

“Mommy, HOLD ME!”

Tags: ants, black lab, caliche, Cracker Barrel, Down syndrome, exploring, fear, fire hydrant, golf ball, gravel, hiking boots, humidity, intellectual disability, ligament laxity, mud, porch swing, pothole, school bus, siblings, stickers, weasel ball, yippy dogs