Cracking the Quiche Code

I have always been envious of amazing food presentation, especially when it comes to food targeted towards children. The first food book I received at my baby shower back in 2005 was Annabel Karmel's First Meals. Unfortunately this book sets the bar pretty high in terms of food presentation.

 
Along with my shower guests, I ogled and swooned over the adorable pictures of food. I was 8 months pregnant at the time and was pretty sure it'd be really easy to make dishes likes these to entice my child to eat.

Definitely assembled by someone who doesn't have kids

It's the movie 'Heathers' in burger form

Just another example of how unrealistic I was before I had children. Completely, utterly, hopelessly delusional.

When my son was old enough to eat food that wasn't pureed and I was back at work , it became apparent that I didn't have time to form his food into the shape of a caterpillar or a butterfly. I needed him to eat the same food as us. But for another year I was stuck in the pasta rut and dutifully served him some kind of pasta practically every day. It was my own mother who gave me the (obvious) advice and said, "Stop serving him pasta. Give him the same dinners that you eat. He will come around." I took her advice a step further and put cottage cheese on the table as a peace offering. I didn't anticipate World War III at the dinner table, but sadly it started out that way.

One day I made my mother-in-law's spinach feta quiche for dinner and I stood at the kitchen counter and stared at it. How was I going to serve this to a 3 year old? How could anyone in their right mind expect a preschooler to willingly eat quiche, for goodness sake? This was asking too much.

But then inspiration hit. I scooped up the quiche filling, tossed it with hot pasta and placed it infront of him with no pleading, no encouraging words and no explanation.

He looked at the dish in front of him and then looked at my husband and I, trying to make sense of what was in front of him. I didn't want to look at him (remember Happy Fun Ball?), so I stared at a speck on the wall and my husband tried to look distracted while polishing a fork. He took a bite. And another bite. And another bite. And then proceeded to eat the entire bowl...which was the equivalent of two slices of quiche with 1/2 cup of pasta.

A quiche fan was born and I am proud to report that he now eats quiche by the slice with no "slight of pasta" required. But the trick still works like a charm with my 2 year old. I feel like I cracked the quiche code with my kids.

So the moral of this story is to think outside of the quiche. I can't say serving your child quiche is a great idea, but try serving it mixed with or along side a familiar food is the way to go.

For the love of Gwyneth

If you ever need a good laugh, I recommend signing up for Gwyneth Paltrow's GOOP email newsletter. A few weeks ago, I received a Goop email about their New Years cleanse package that she is shilling selling... for a whopping $425.

Rather than pay that amount for a bunch of protein powders and pills, I recommend following Bon Appetit's Food Lovers Cleanse 2012 plan for a cheaper and far more sustainable way to be healthy. I'd rather put my $425 into food for the next month that is organic and healthy.

Criticisms aside, I truly enjoyed Paltrow's cookbook and successfully made quite a few recipes for my family with great success. Her green rice was a hit with the kids and the desserts were really good. Maybe when Dinner: A Love Story cookbook comes out, I can create a cooking challenge to cook exclusively from that book and see how the recipes go over with my family. Nice thing is, I pretty much know it's a sure fire win because all the recipes have been hits so far.

Also, the girl knows a thing or two about music. Not only is she hilarious on Twitter (my personal favorite tweet, "Who do I have to bang to get an advance copy of the new @coldplay album? I mean, really.") but she tweeted about Erato and now we all sing this song at home.

My breakfast with Jacques Pepin

About fifteen years ago, well before I had kids and right before I met my husband, I used to have breakfast with Jacques Pepin every single Saturday morning. Sadly I was hungover for most of our visits, but I treasured those thirty minutes of one on one time with him. And his daughter Claudine. And my roommate Erin.

Maybe I should explain this a little better.

Every Saturday morning, my roommate and I would meet up on the couch in the living room, flick on the television and watch the 10:30 showing of the PBS series 'Cooking with Claudine.' My roommate and I would sit and watch carefully as Jacques patiently explained to his daughter, Claudine, how to clean a leek ("Claudine" Jacques would say, "It should not take ten hours to clean a leek.") I loved watching their banter back and forth, particularly how Claudine would roll her eyes off camera about something her dad, Jacques, would say to her (in a condescending tone at times) or how he would heavily sigh about something she said, like when she suggested adding ketchup to a sauce. Seriously, Claudine?

I would watch this show every week and wish I could be in Claudine's shoes. I didn't have the best relationship with my dad growing up and maybe this was the father figure that appealed to me the most. In any case, I always thought I'd make a great partner on the show, one who would prep any vegetable he asked me to without any complaint. To her credit, Claudine always redeemed herself at the end of the show by picking some amazing wine to go with the meal they prepared together.

So now you can understand how I viewed this thirty minutes as "My breakfast with Jacques" every single weekend. Nowadays, I can't sit through any cooking show on the Food Network because they drive me to boredom. But Jacques could have a show about taking out the garbage and I would watch it. The man is that interesting to me.

I have made so many of his dishes over the years. I made them for my then boyfriend (now husband) in a lame effort to woo him. Together, we used his recipes for friends at dinner parties in our tiny apartment in the Richmond district. Now that we have kids, we make them now and then for them.

I rarely change his recipes. You can't mess with a classic.


Penne Au Gratin (or what we jokingly call High End Mac n Cheese)

Lentil and Barley soup

Quick Almond and Plum Cake

Got Books?

My friend Emma was kind enough to ask me to guest blog at her new home on the internets, Emma's Kids Book Database, about one of my favorite books from my childhood, The Giant Jam Sandwich. I love a book that combines problem solving with baking and sewing.

Go over and check it out and while you are there poke around for some great book suggestions for your children. Emma's new database showcases her passion for children's books, which if you were to go to her house, you would see this first hand. She has more bookcases than a library!

Anosmia and my nose

Congenital Anosmia is something I have lived with my whole life, I have never been able to smell one single thing. Many think that this would affect my cooking or my ability to taste. And they are right to a degree, I certainly am not comfortable with winging it when it comes to cooking (sewing is another matter). I tend to follow directions and ingredient lists to the letter. Parsley and cilantro taste exactly the same to me, cinnamon and cumin are like dust and lemon zest and orange zest are just pithy things that get caught in my teeth. But I can taste sweet, sour, salt, and bitter.

The reason I bring this up is that I just finished reading Molly Birnbaum's book, "A Season to Taste: How I Lost My Sense of Smell and Found My Way" and it was like suddenly someone finally could put into words what I could not explain for so many years - the complete absence of smell and how tied it is to taste.

A dear friend of mine, Katie, used to be my "Smelling Nose Dog" where she would try and describe a smell to me and I loved hearing her descriptions. The most memorable one was that cut grass smelled like the way you feel when you walk into a forest on a clear crisp day for a hike and the amount of oxygen around you just smacks you over the head. I loved that description so much. But Molly's descriptions blew me away and also humbled me. I realized how much I am missing, but at the same time how much I can taste. I don't think things taste like cardboard - ever. I judge what I taste on texture and flavors that I can discern. A doctor once said I probably taste about 40 percent of what the average person tastes. I can live with that.

Being a congenital anosmic has its downsides, but I really can't complain about them because it doesn't feel fair. That same doctor also told me, "Of all the senses to not have since birth, smell is one that I can imagine one could live without and not feel like you are disabled in some way. Be thankful you have your sight, your touch, your hearing. But no smell? You'll be just fine." Of course I'll be fine. I am fine. But I would love to know why I can't smell, everyone else in my family can. My children can smell just fine. I am just a fluke.

As a child and teenager I thought I was just stupid for not being able to smell. When people would ask, "Can you smell that?" I'd just play along and say yes, I didn't want anyone to know that I was different in some way and certainly with one that they couldn't see. I was worried they would confirm what I had been slowly saying about myself, "I'm not smart enough to smell things." Then one day while babysitting for some kids down the street, the Pop-Tart I had put into the toaster got stuck and started to burn. I didn't smell the smoke for some time and it had started a small fire in the kitchen. I only noticed the fire when the smoke came into the living room and I quickly (and foolishly) threw a jug of water onto the appliance and shorted out the entire electrical circuitry of the house. When the children's mother came home and asked why I hadn't smelled the smoke, I knew the jig was up. I told her I couldn't smell anything, so she walked me home and suggested to my mother that I get tested. A few years later I did get tested and the doctors that I had visited ranged from the one who accused me of lying to get attention, the one who said I probably had a bad cold at the time (I didn't) and then one who was so fascinated by my story that he went and got a medical book and we sat together, looking through it till he found the word "Anosmia." He did a battery of tests on me and confirmed what I had known all along, I couldn't smell a darn thing. Not oranges, not gasoline, not medicine, not flowers, nothing. However, we did learn that peppermint did cause a sensation akin to burning in my nose, so at least I can say I can smell peppermint.

I had heard of people losing their sense of smell from accidents and from surgery and I never understood this lamenting loss they all expressed, this depression they seemed to get into. I guess that is what comes when you lose something you once had. I never had it so it doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me. The only smell I wish I could have is the one of my children, I wish I knew what a baby smelled like - that powdery smell that is often described sounds like heaven to me. Other than that I am fine with what I don't have. I have gone from being embarrased about being different to embracing it and owning it. I can cook, my friends and family enjoys the dishes that I cook and I love to eat. I may not be able to tell the difference between some things, but I have the love for food.

SAHM Chronicles: Babysitting swap

It took my friend about four hours to process that I was going to be home for the next 6 - 8 weeks before she suggested a weekly babysitting swap. We did our first swap today where she took my daughter for three hours while I went to the paint store (lofty plans to paint the interior trim of our house while I am on leave) and did a few other errands that are tough to do with a two year old in tow. But the most indulgent part of those three hours? Buying these two magazines