Christmasing Week 2

My Christmasing has continued and seems to have picked up speed as well. Since my last post I've managed to make Cinnamon Ornaments, build a gingerbread house, make fudge, pecan sandies and ugly sweater sugar cookies and I sewed Christmas pillow cases to match my couch. 

Since the various recipes I mentioned are easily accessible and the gingerbread construction is a skill I'm still honing, I'll tell you a bit about those pillow cases. Being the lucky little girl that I am, I have a mother who is endlessly talented. This includes her ability to sew basically anything. When I decorated my first apartment for Christmas, she and I made sparkly red throw pillows together. They were fun and fantastic and matched all of my decor at the time. 

As you may have guessed from the cinnamon ornaments that I've made for the past few years, my decorations are more subtle than sparkly these days. As such, I haven't seen those Christmas throw pillows in some time. However, I recently found the pillow forms that used to fill them and was inspired to make some new ones. Luckily this adorable fabric was on sale the weekend after Thanksgiving:

I made 3 pillows that are each 16 x 16. If you plan to try this yourself, I recommend about 1 1/2 yards of fabric. And, much though I love plaid and stripes, it requires absolute accuracy in your ability to get the fabric straight--hence my choosing the above mentioned pattern. The pillow I made has an opening in the back where the fabric overlaps so there is no need for hand stitching or button holes and it's easy to change the cover with the seasons. 

Here's a quick step by step instruction. 

1. Cut your pieces. You'll need three pieces for each pillow. The front should be the full dimensions for your pillow (in my case 16 x 16). The two back pieces should be the same height and a few inches more than half the width (mine were 16 x 11).  

2. Once you've cut out all your pieces, you'll need to finish the exposed sides of what will become your flap. To determine which ends to sew, start by laying out your pillow. 

Lay out the large front side piece face up. Then, lay each back side piece on top of it face down. The edges that overlap are the ones that should be finished. 

Use a hem gauge to fold this edge under about 1/4 of an inch and press it in place. Then, lining the edge of your fabric with the edge of the presser foot, finish the edge. Be sure to back stitch at either end so your stitches stay in place. 

3. Once you've finished your flap edges, lay the back pieces in the same place (face down on top of the front piece). Pin around the edges and sew with a 5/8 seam all the way around your square. When you reach the end, continue sewing over the beginning to secure the stitches. 

4. Clip any hanging threads. You'll also want to trim the fabric around the corners being sure not to clip your stitches. Now when you turn your pillow case right side out, you'll have nice, sharp corners. 

5. Insert your pillow form and admire your work. 

If you're new to sewing and looking for more guidance on this project, please add a comment. I'd love to share what I've learned through my own trial and error and my mother's infinite wisdom. And check back next week for some more holiday spirit.

Christmasing Couture Style

I know I need to write a new post. I've been really slacking on y'all and I appreciate your patience. Between Paris and Thanksgiving and the beginning of Christmas, I haven't paused to "put pen to paper." But I have been busy crafting and I'm so excited to tell you about my wonderful Christmas-themed projects. And all of that Christmas-themed fun begins the day after Thanksgiving.

For me, Black Friday in itself is a holiday. I know, I know, who wants to go out in all that mess of Black Friday craziness? Me. I do. I don't really care about the deals. Just like Frank and New York, I want to be a part of it -- the holiday excitement that has been building up and waiting for Thanksgiving to have its day.

Once the shopping is done (by 10 am no less) and the obligatory "I got up before the sun" nap, that's when the baking begins. My mom and I always make biscotti. And we make biscotti almost exclusively at Christmas. I'm not even sure it's a Christmas cookie, but I have looked forward to dipping that delicious twice-baked cookie in my coffee since I can remember drinking coffee,

Initially we would make chocolate chip biscotti. It's actually still my favorite and I'm thinking about a second round of biscotti this year just so I can revisit that old classic. Now, we really did make it seasonal when we discovered the delectable nature of peppermint biscotti. Going home from Thanksgiving with my tree, a box full of decorations and a bag of biscotti, well, there really is no other way begin Christmas.

Once begun, I really hit the ground running on Christmas. Next post, I'll tell you about my cinnamon ornaments and the beginnings of my gingerbread village.

We Are All French

The Eiffel Tower in early morning fog.

Although I’m still stuck in India, my wandering spirit took me to Paris this past week. And, while I have every intention of telling you about the food and the places and the experiences I had, recent events have shifted my focus to the people. I’ve heard the rumors that the last thing you want to be is an American in Paris. I’ve heard that the French are soured on Americans and treat them thusly. Much though I’ve heard those rumors, I’ve never had that experience.

I’ve made friends in cafés, in queues and on street corners. I’ve found people who are genuinely proud of their culture and excited to share it. I’ve found people who haven’t forgotten that America’s beginning was reminiscent of France’s revolution; that we have always been friends and partners in the quest for freedom, even while disagreeing about the best way to achieve that lofty goal.

My parents enjoying a cafe in Montmartre.

This past week, America celebrated Veteran’s Day as we do each fall. I however, was in Paris for that patriotic holiday and had the unique perspective of seeing France celebrate veterans as well. While Americans take time out to celebrate all heroes, France uniquely remembers November 11^th as the end of the First World War. What’s more, I came to this realization when the proprietor of a café took a moment to chat with his foreign guests and shared this fact in almost the same breath with his love of American muscle cars.

I watched as he and my dad debated the relative merits of the ‘66 versus the ‘68 Corvette and then smoothly transitioned into an exaltation of the French and American soldiers who had gained a victory together.

“It’s a holiday tomorrow.  Victory of the First World War; you were there too!”

‘”We were there!” my dad smiled, proud of his service and his father’s service and his country’s service.

The Paris skyline from the Seine.

I am now, more than ever, so proud of our French friendships. They are a people who are infinitely compassionate and kind. I’ve always felt immediately at home and welcomed by them. I’ve been blessed to have the French welcome me into their lives, introduce me to their families, share their secret spots and their exalted dreams.

I am so thankful for those experiences. I look forward to more friendships in the future and for now, in the wake of the horrendous attacks, will be comforted by the thought that, as We Were All Americans on September 11^th, today, We Are All French.

Butter Chicken and Beyond (aka India Installment #3)

So I last left you with my high aiming goals of cooking Indian food. And, while it seemed smart to start with the simple and savory butter chicken that I enjoyed so much while I was there, I'm now second guessing my decision.

Butter chicken became something of a comfort food for our whole group while in India. I'm serious. At least one of us ordered it at almost every meal; and it was generally enjoyed by 2 or 3 of us dipping hot paratha or naan in the leftover sauce. In fact, I could use some comfort now and will take a short break to reheat my leftovers...

...mmm, I feel better now smelling that simmering on the stove. The butter chicken I made is good. And had I followed the recipe more exactly, it would no doubt be even better. For those new to Indian food and looking for a tasty dish rather than a nostalgic experience, I highly recommend the recipe I found from Foodess. It was pretty simple to follow and dinner was done in under an hour.

The one thing I changed that I was not happy with is that I pulverized my diced tomatoes in my food processor, not quite to a puree. If I knew then what I know now, I would have used a tomato paste or sauce as I saw mentioned in other recipes. This is mostly because I do not love the texture of cooked tomatoes and I do not have an immersion blender (not to self, add to Christmas list).

As I sit here having my leftovers (to which I've added additional tandoori masala and butter), I'm beginning to find that comfort I was looking for. It seems that Indian food is not unlike the lasagna my mother made when I was growing up--good the first night and even better the next day. With that being said, and Fall sort of, kind of, trying to make it's way into Dallas, I highly recommend letting a good curry simmer on your stove while you curl up with a book and maybe a lovely cup of chai. If you're looking for a "themey" read, I recommend Midnight's Children. I've also heard great things about Shantaram though I didn't get to dive into it as I had hoped and am still hoping to carve out some time for a novel with such high praise.

Until next time, Namaste.

India – Part Two: Culture Shock and Culinary Aims

Anytime you travel to another country, especially one so different than your own, you prepare yourself for culture shock. You think about the food you’ll be eating there and the food you’ll miss from home. Or you mentally prepare for the living conditions of another nation and the barrier of a completely different language. Even the currency conversion is an adjustment, but you manage. You understand that the way you relate to people will be entirely different in this foreign world.

What you don’t expect is that even your non-verbal communication will be different. The assumptions that you base conversations on, and the mannerisms you use to accompany “yes,” “no,” or “I’m kind of anxious and we need to go,” are completely different and ultimately integral to communication. I was in India for about a week before this realization had fully formed in my mind. I had read before that mannerisms differ depending on where you are, most particularly that nodding doesn’t mean yes and shaking the head does not always mean no. And, occasionally, the differentiation between the shake and the nod is tentative at best.

It was funny to see something I’d heard of so often played out in real life. I first noticed it with the waiters as we sat down to our first meal—they would tilt their head with a small bow of ascent and step away from the table.  I didn’t think anything of it; until the next day when we attempted to order breakfast in the evening and it took three tries. Then I began to realize, this was not a bow of ascent or a nod, but a polite backing away from a conversation. And evening meals are meant to be leisurely. It actually took the full two weeks for us to learn that we should order our evening breakfast (because we still worked on American time) an hour before we actually needed to leave but warn the waiter that we needed to leave in 15 and, yes, we would like the check now too please. If not, the food would never come. American expediency does not translate.

A traffic ticket as seen from the front of our car. Odd being that there don't seem to be any traffic laws. 

Almost everything is approached leisurely—everything except traffic that is. There is a high level of energy, akin to New York. But unlike the Big Apple, energy here is spent on celebrating life, loved ones and food, which is, in itself, its own form of love. In fact, it’s hard to say no to the food. In part, the food is good. Almost everything is slow-cooked and seasoned well and so delicious. On top of that, saying no to food is just not done. I can’t count the number of times I had to explain that I did not need a third helping and the one dessert would be just fine. One of my traveling companions joked that I wouldn’t eat for a week after we returned home. If I hadn't missed hamburgers so much that prediction would have been dead on.

Now, having been back for a little over a month, I’m missing the tandoori and curry and naan that I noshed on throughout our time in India. I brought back spices and hope to recreate my favorite dishes. 

Clockwise from Top: Masala Chai Spice, Black Himalayan Rock Salt, Nutmeg, Cinnamon Sticks, and Tandoori Spice

As we move into fall and the holidays, I’m hoping to put those spices and my culinary skills to work. In fact, this week, I’m hoping to make some butter chicken and authentic masala chai. Although it is not in my nature to measure while I cook, I promise to keep careful notes and report back next week on my success or failure. I promise pictures either way, and recipes if I succeed.

If you’re in Dallas, I have a taste testing position open. Comment below and you may get invited to this adventurous dinner!

NOLA Nostalgia

Don't worry, there will be more parts to the India Epic I've begun, but I'm feeling nostalgic this weekend. So, rather than regaling you with tales of my world travels, I've decided to tell you a story of my hometown. Being that NOLA is quite the tourist destination, perhaps my experience will inspire your own. 

I grew up in the Deep South; in a small town north of New Orleans where my mother knew everything about my day by the time I got home. Her omnipotence was in part due to the fact that she knew absolutely everyone and in part due to her voodoo-like sixth sense which I had learned never to question.

When I meet people out and about now, I tell them I’m from New Orleans. In a geographical sense, I’m rounding, because Mandeville is too small to find on a map if you know where you’re looking—and my childhood home was outside of those city limits. Most people picture Bourbon Street and a kind of Mardi Gras that I’ve never seen. What I remember most vividly about New Orleans proper has nothing to do with alcohol (be it in a drink or a street name).

My memory of New Orleans centers on three distinct images; the first two are images that everyone can conjure regardless of having been to New Orleans: Jackson Square and Café Du Monde. The third is so set in my memory I can still feel the butterflies in my stomach when I think about it.

I was probably 8 or 9 at the time. It was a school field trip that had taken us into the French Quarter. We were about to board the bus to head back across the lake to the Northshore. I was standing in some semblance of a line with the other children. A few of the boys were climbing on a stone wall nearby and swinging from light posts. Exhausted from the heat and the walking, I took a seat on a bench. Next to me was a life-size, golden statue of a man. He wore a top hat and seemed to be pondering the mystery of life with his head resting on his hand, his elbow propped on the back of the bench. I stared at him for a moment, wondering what secrets he held.

Then I turned my focus back to view in front of me, taking in the city one last time before leaving. I will never forget the blend of shock, fear and laughter that filled my belly when I glanced in the general direction of the statue and realized that he was no longer sitting in thought but was staring directly at me. I must have jumped 10 feet and screamed without making a sound before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

That’s how I remember New Orleans; not as an endless party or a more than filling feast, but as moment of trepidation and excitement that boiled down to laughter. I remember New Orleans as moment of pure joy in the slight roller coaster of my life. In that, the city is not unlike its signature dish.

Anyone who’s braved the line at Café Du Monde can appreciate the delicacy of a beignet. Delicious though they are, the building of suspense is much of the draw for such a simple pastry. It begins with disappointment. You’ve wandered Jackson Square for most of the morning and spent your energy on the cathedral, and the street artists, the performers who have cultivated a skill that could not be appreciated anywhere else. Being from cooler—and certainly dryer—climates, you are now exhausted, hungry, in desperate need of caffeine and sugar. It only makes sense that you should choose this moment to experience Café Du Monde.

Then you see the line. It wraps around the building and the people in the café move so slowly. Don’t they understand that people are waiting? Those who are truly hangry [the foul mood that results from being somewhere between hungry and angry] may walk away at this point, but locals and seasoned tourists know better. The line is itself part of the experience. I honestly find myself a bit crestfallen when hitting the strange off hour with no wait.

In my experience, there is always music while you wait—a saxophone and an open case with a few dollars. Despite the performer’s street-side status, it’s the best blues you’ve ever heard. You’ve forgotten your hunger and the need for a sweet treat. The notes creep into your soul, fill every crevice. The song alone is enough to sustain you. And just as you have stopped worrying about the line or the world around you, a young woman with a thick accent is yelling in your direction.

“How many dawlin?” She’s clearly years younger than you, but you’re in the South now; everyone is someone’s baby, everyone is someone’s “dawlin.” You hold up a number on your hand and blindly follow her to a table, still coming down from the high of the blues player. She points to a table. There are chairs enough for your party but the table top is no bigger than the trays being lifted high overhead by the waiters weaving between the patrons and pigeons. The hunter green awning flaps in the wind and the waitress is demanding your order. You look around for a menu.

“Here,” She points to the napkin holder in the center of the table. There is a short list of items in a foreign language. You recognize water and chocolate milk, order water for the moment, and she disappears. A local from the next table leans over and points to the words.

“If you like coffee, order the Café Au Lait—that’s half coffee, half steamed milk and its awesome. If you’re not a coffee drinker go for chocolate milk. The hot chocolate is awesome but I wouldn’t in this weather. An order of beignets is three and I’d figure on two a piece. Don’t breathe when you eat them.”  He winks and returns to the Times Picayune and his own Café Au Lait. It takes a moment to realize the guy is from this southern city. His drawl comes out quickly, like nectar seeping out of a peach.

You turn to thank him and find he is engaged in a conversation with what seems like an old friend at another table. The waitress returns, you place your order and relax in the familial comfort of the café. Despite your fear of birds and the presence of pigeons, this place is actually quite wonderful. (Okay, maybe that’s just my fear of birds, but be warned: there are plenty of birds and they are well-fed).

Then the waitress returns. She brings your coffee or chocolate milk—whichever option suits you. And it’s pretty perfect, but then there is the main dish. She sets the order of beignets in front of you. Three perfectly golden biscuits glistening from the deep fryer, puffed with air and heat. And the powdered sugar covers everything. It’s hard to find the corners of the pastry to lift it from the sweet snow covering the saucer. Still warm, you can just feel it melting in your mouth. Your neighbor’s warning not to breathe makes sudden sense. It is inevitable that you end the culinary excursion covered in powdered sugar, but you give it your best shot. You hold your breath, take a bite and involuntarily sigh at the pure bliss that overtakes you. And then you laugh, because, as I have said, New Orleans is an experience in suspense, followed by unadulterated joy.

To India and Beyond - Part 1

It's my goal to travel as much and as often as possible in the near future. I've always had a yen for travel and my recent trip to India only stoked that fire. After spending three weeks in that wonderful country, I have some great pictures, excellent stories and memories to last a lifetime. It's my hope to share the best of those with you, but I'll start with my arrival and the first impressions of a first timer in Asia. 
                  

My team and me and the wonderful people we spent our time with during our first two weeks. I'm right in the middle in the orange sari.

I love traveling; the actual act of traveling and not just the destination. For that reason, the 24 hours of airports and airplanes was just fine with me, especially since I had an aisle seat with no one next to me (win!) I was not so lucky on the way back, but that's another story. 

Despite my enthusiasm for a full day in a metal box, I was still exhausted when we arrived in Mumbai at 2 am and had a 2 hour drive ahead of us. The late hour didn't leave much opportunity for viewing the scenery along the way, but we since we were driving through the mountains, we also got to drive through a cloud. Yes, that's right. We drove through a cloud! All in all, not a life changing event, but I was pretty thrilled.

By the time we'd arrived at the hotel it was almost 4 am. And of course time for dinner. I'd love to tell you all about the excellent food but I honestly had the equivalent fish sticks and french fries. It's a cop out, I know, but at 4 am I prefer fried food. 

We did have excellent food, and a lot of it, throughout the trip. I'll tell you more about everything we ate in my next post. And, of course, all of the people I had the opportunity to share a meal with.