BridgetGallablog

2009-08-31T20:18:00.000-07:00

Now that the September issues of Gourmet and Bon Appetit are sitting on my dining room table still wrapped in their cellophane until I'm prepared to admit the existence of fall (I'm happier about it now that the weather's cooled and my windows are open, and my A/C off, for the first time in weeks), I figure I'd better do a quick recap of some of the best August recipes -- the ones I'll cook again before all that lovely produce disappears (or would, anyway, if I weren't spending decent chunks of the next three weeks on the road):

It's all about tomatoes. This garlicky tomato sauce simmers on the stove almost effortlessly and makes a simple, lovely dinner over a bowl of noodles with a green salad on the side. This is one that I'll definitely make once more and freeze immediately for a reminder of juicy fresh tomatoes a month from now, when the farmers' market stands are filled with squash.

These vodka-spiked tomatoes are festive, colorful and easy; a perfect party hors d'ouevre. I have mixed feelings about the tomato-and-corn pie -- yes, its delicious, but wouldn't wouldn't be when it incorporates these ingredients? Bottom line, this would be a lovely dish for lunch for brunch with company, when just steaming corn on the cob, slathering it with butter and salt, and eating it over the sink while the salty butter drips down your chin is inappropriate. Even still, I'm more inclined to chop corn, tomatoes, maybe a pepper or two and some shallot into a quick succotash-type saute, and slather it with a fabulous basil vinaigrette.

On the fancier side, Bon Appetit's celebration of Julia Child's birthday (and the Nora Ephron flick) are a wonderful introduction to her cooking. The ratatouille is a fabulous use of the eggplant and zucchini that will still be plentiful for a few more weeks, and the poulet saute with its creamy, lemony, hollandaise-y sauce is simply exquisite. Mastering it will make you feel truly accomplished, and like you're sitting outside a bistro in Lyon. For more French inspiration, these halibut brochettes with their lavender-infused spice mixture make good use of those cute little multicolored peppers at the market.

What would summer be without ice cream? These lemony ice cream sandwiches, with their chewy, lightly sweet crust and their fresh blueberry compote, are shockingly easy for something that looks so slick. And this fresh strawberry ice cream is unctuously creamy, with just the right amount of fresh-fruit chunkiness and a pleasingly pink color.

The Night My "Sports Night" DVDs worked

2009-08-22T21:25:00.000-07:00

Before there was Mad Men, there was Sports Night.

Not as long-lived as some other Sorkin franchises, to me, it was a much realer, rawer encapsulation of the esprit de corps that arises and the quirky pseudo-families that are created in high-pressure, creative work environments than, say, "The West Wing". "Sports Night" is about a nightly sports newscast, and though the show kept its "dramedy" classification to the end, its comedy is of the wry, ironic kind. Its last episodes, in which there are vague attempts to account for everyone's happy end, echo the ends of every campaign (especially the losing ones, which are most of them) I've ever been on -- taking the time to thank and acknowledge the colleagues you've taken for granted, keeping tabs on where people are headed or thinking about heading, thinking about all the things you would have done differently, blaming the people who wield so much power but know too little to make the right decisions -- in the combination of remorse and relief that, seeing it here, makes me weepy.

Watching it more than ten years after its release heightens its pathos. The women with their big shiny hair, elbow sleeves, and Urban Decay Lip Gunk (they don't even make it any more, but I know it when I see it because I wore it to many a bar in those days); the chatter about Torre-led Yankees; talk about broadband being the future; a guy logging into his e-mail account and being greeted with "You've got mail!," as if there was ever a time when one didn't have mail when one logged on to one's account; the gratuitous shots of the Twin Towers -- it makes ten years feel like a really long time ago. The on-again, off-again romances/flirtations of Dana/Casey and Jeremy/Natalie gave me hope that overly articulate people could flirt in geeky ways/geek out in flirtatious ways, that you could have colleagues that you liked to hang out with after work as much as work with, and that there were all-knowing, reliable bosses who would always have your back. In my personal and professional experiences since then, I've been fortunate on a few occasions to work in environments which shared many of these characterists; more often than not, I've felt their conspicuous absence.

"Sports Night," like all Aaron Sorkin shows, appeals to the OCD/workaholics among us who dream of a job that is inseparable from us, and feels ok that way -- feels worthy of the time and passion we can't help but let it consume. Because of Disney Company's uniquely paranoid approach to DVD production, the DVDs from its 2002 release fare haphazardly at best in many players. So imagine my delight on a bored rainy Saturday when, flipping through my catalog, I tried a disc, and it worked. I can only echo Dana Whitaker's line from the last moments of the last episode: "My show is on!"

Cuisine Gone Mad

2009-08-17T19:05:00.000-07:00

Besides being great drama, what fascinates me about "Mad Men" is its portrayal of a world of absolutes -- things that you do and do not do, rigid gender roles, rigid dress codes, all all accepted unquestioningly and delivered unapologetically. Of course, the drama results from ambiguity and questions weaseling their way into the absolutes, but for one night only, I thought I'd take an unapologetic, politically incorrect attitude into the kitchen for a little culinary tribute to the show.

For cocktails, Canadian Club on the rocks and gin martinis (Beefeater, per this recent primer). For politically incorrect appetizers I discovered the wonderful treasure trove that is America's Best Lost Recipes. I don't know that I'd be all that inclined to try the Depression-era cakes without butter, sugar, or eggs, but there are some surprising keepers including these spicy (horseradish-y) deviled eggs, cheddar-crusted olive balls, and, most astonishing of all, this delicious and gorgeous (in a truly vintage way) bloody mary tartine -- all the ingredients of a bloody mary (yes, even the vodka), in jell-o form.

What's the only thing can that can credibly follow this orgy of old-school appetizers? Red meat. Lots of it. Plus baked potatoes with sour cream. (And roasted portobellos for the vegetarians, in a nod to progress.) Refreshing, recipe-free cooking -- knowing what you like, doing it, and asserting it as unapologetically right and good.

Toss in a pie made with August peaches to send your guests home and you can't feel anything other than all is right with this Mad world.

My Lemon Has a First Name, It's M-E-Y-E-R

2009-07-28T19:20:00.000-07:00

This is well past peak season, but these are worth keeping in mind the next time you run into precious, teeny Meyer lemons at the market, it's worth keeping these in mind.

Delicate and sparkly with sanding sugar, these cupcakes with Meyer lemon curd are baby- or bridal-shower worthy, and just plain delicious.

Olive oil lends moisture and smoothness to this simple, one-bowl, one-pan cake. I added layers of lemon curd, freshly whipped cream, and bountiful summer berries for a dessert that manages to be both rustic and elegant.

Dispatches from Commuter Hell: My Letter to WMATA on the Second Day of Orange Line Meltdown This Week

2009-06-03T08:12:00.000-07:00

THIS IS THE SECOND MORNING OF ESSENTIALLY NON-FUNCTIONING ORANGE LINE SERVICE THIS WEEK!I CONTINUE TO BE SHOCKED AND AMAZED BY THE DEPTH, BREADTH AND SCOPE OF METRO'S INCOMPETENCE. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES. BUT FIRST, LEARN HOW TO ACTUALLY DO YOUR JOBS SO THAT THE REST OF US CAN GET TO OURS, MAYBE EVEN ON TIME ONCE IN A WHILE.

I respectfully request a refund of the $1.35 I paid to enter, wait in and exit the Clarendon station, as well as reimbursement for the $20 in cab fare I had to pay when I neither rail nor bus could get me to work in a timely manner.

What's worse is the utter absence of communication from Metro. You managed to send out an update on weekend track work, but failed to give any indication of this morning's trouble on the orange line.

Regards,
Bridget

Feel the frustration of other Metro riders here.

Culinary Daring Aboard Acela

2009-03-11T18:09:00.001-07:00

"Are you sure you don't want to take a cookie with you?" asked a new acquaintance as I was leaving a meeting "Microwaved hot dogs await you on the Acela."

This guy is an urban planner who knows all too well the deterrent b ad hot dogs --and high fares--can be to a potential rider of passenger rail.

Fortunately, it ain't always true. Recently, due to an accrual of Amtrak rewards points, if one has them, I was able to upgrade a business class Acela ticket for free.

I don't know that the difference is substantial enough to pay for, but as a thank-you fordealing with the status quo, it was a pretty sweet deal.

The snacks and appetizers are more interesting and better tasting than the entrees, and everything is made better by the zippiness of the train itself and the procision of *exactly* the amount of alcohol--no less, no more--one would expect to be served by the federal government.

My hummus-centered small plate ("for those who would prefer a smaller meal on the train") was comprised of fresh veg (a few crudites--celery,carrot, espc. Cucumber--were not the frshest and a bit off), hummus topped by toasted (i.e. fried) chickpeas accompanied by table water crackers and was surprisingly bright woth the flavors of garlic and lemon. The cheese lasagna entree I had on my second trip was about equivalent to transcontinental airline food; the osso bucco of the passenger next to me looked oily and dreary without the requisite accompaniment of risotto milanese and gremolata. The cocktail snack (pre-meal) of roasted sweet and salty nuts was by far the most satisying component of the meal -- the perfect complement to the mix it yourself tanqueray-and-tonic (two teeny bottles per passenger, no more), distributed as the plebs are boarding; perhaps for that reason alone, highly satisfying. Does Diageo get a kickback, or provide the booze to Amtrack gratis just for the visibility? I don't know, and I don't care. All I can say is, it took the edge off a long-ass day.
Dessert is no more than a mint-filled Ghirardelli square, and depending on the hour and the crew, there may or may not be coffee, hot towels (warm wet-naps, really), and/or a mini bottle of spring water just before the journey ends.

Play your cards right, though--boarding the train tired and hungry at the end of a day where nothing else is required of you--and you will fall into your seat, have your ticket collected by the cabin's waiter so that the pleb conductor will not disturb you, drink your cocktail, get sufficiently lit to fall into a mild doze near Wilmington, and not really give a fuck.

9

2009-03-11T18:09:00.000-07:00

Fromage Find

2009-03-02T18:21:00.000-08:00

While I couldn't qualify as anyone's affineur, I'm definitely more than a cheese novice who has tasted more than my share of the runny, the moldy, and the smelly. So I was pleasantly surprised to encounter a cheese I hadn't tried before at Whole Foods yesterday. Ossau Iraty is a mild, nutty ewe's milk cheese, semi hard and sliceable. It manages to combine a bit of St. Andre's butteriness with the nuttiness of gruyere. It's damn tasty, is what I'm saying. It hails from the western Pyrenees and I'm eager to try it during its June-September peak, when the ewes graze higher up in the mountains, resulting in a more robust, nutty flavor. Would be a most welcome addition to a French cheese plate where the stinky & runny, bleu, and chevre bases are already covered.

So now you have the cheese; how do you cut it? Everything you need to know about decoupage here.

Favorite Farro Recipes

2009-03-02T11:31:00.001-08:00

I've been trying, all the month of February, to do a long and elegant post, in keeping with Valentine's Day and heart health awareness themes, of the foods we cook for the people we love -- all about the comfort food we make for the sick, the sexy food we make for our dates, the full-on holiday feasts we spend a week or more preparing to celebrate in the dark days of winter with our nearest and dearest.

But February is a short month, and I never got around to it. February sucks! The days are short, the weather is cold, it snows, and the only holidays are an excessively corporatized celebration of beer-drinking and guacamole eating, and an excessively corporatized celebration of, I dunno, chocolate truffles and long-stemmed roses. And President's day.

Instead, I proffer a couple of my favorite recipes for farro, a lovely, nutty whole grain that's easy to prepare. This lovely combination of farro and pureed borlotti beans in a soup is evocative of something the Roman legionnaires themselves might have eaten; this super combination of roasted squash and onions, thyme, walnut oil and a dash of balsamic gets a filling oomph from teh grain. Either make a filling vegetarian entree or a lovely first course or side dish to grilled fish or lamb chops.

If you don't want to go headlong down the new recipe path, you could also substite farro in any recipe for which you'd use barley or spelt; soak it in chicken broth and substitute it for wild rice pilaf; toss your typical Caprese salad ingredients in with it and convert a first-course standby into a meatless main.

Speaking of balsamic, I'd be remiss if I didn't alert you to Zingerman's balsamic blowout through March 16th. The free shipping is a boon to those of us no longer privileged to live in Ann Arbor. If you are still a culinary novice making do with that balsamico di modena stuff from the grocery store, I highly recommend you pony up and ~~get a life~~ buy a bottle (the 10-year balsamic's a good place to start).

New Year's Greetings!

2008-12-31T08:27:00.000-08:00

That's all she wrote in 2008
But before it ends I just had to state
My apologies for not getting my act together
To write you each a warm new year's letter.
This rhyming attempt may be weak and retarded --
Next year I'll try to get you all carded!

How quickly the months passed! What a year has transpired!
Sarah Palin entertained us; Barack Obama inspired;
We picked up Senate seats, lost our shirts in the market;
I've been on the road with no chance to park it
To New York; Detroit; Philly and Boston!
To Chi-town, Louisville, San Fran and Austin!

We went up to New York in earliest spring
To hear Rich and Mindy's wedding bells ring
Then Tom and Mary Blaske hosted our wedding vows
Which we took 'neath the gazebo at Foxcroft House.

In June besides finally marrying Brad Katz,
I raised lots of money,saw the Louisville Bats,
Bet on the ponies, sipped lots of bourbon,
Knocked on Kentucky doors so suburban.
In November, Lunsford lost by a couple of digits
But a Brad at home makes a happier Bridget.

Such a strange wondrous year from finish to start!
I partied in NY with Nora C. and Madonna;
Bernie Madoff's hijinks broke my heart.
Shout out to my hometown and its poor Big 3 scions,
Its copious snow, and its winless Lions.

But a fresh start is at hand and times they do change
So I'm going to go drink une coupe du champagne,
Tip my hat to Roger Angell, and extend all my warmest wishes
To you, with a slight gloat, as I write from Paris, bitches!

Gifts for the Culinary Badass on Your List

2008-12-08T19:23:00.000-08:00

Foodies should be easy to buy for, but they're not. You know they already cook a lot, so what if they already have that nifty new gadget you're eyeing in Crate & Barrel? You know they love cheese, but what if that fabulous wedge of Vermont cheddar turns out to be something entirely pedestrian and they never invite you to their holiday party again?

Never fear, the Culinary Badass Gift Guide is here. We'll go in descending in order in case there are any big spenders left in this economy.
Overdoing it
Caviar -- Truly, all I want for Christmas is this creme de la creme sampler. And some little buckwheat blini and creme fraiche. Oh, and some Cristal.

Really, I'm not high maintenance. Just expensive.

Cooking Lessons -- Not just any community ed cooking class, of course. I know I have a lot to learn and I think I could learn a ton from the pair of chefs behind Ideas in Food. They not only revel in the curiosity endemic to cooks and cooking ("what would happen if I braised this turkey in duck fat?," hypothetically, which I attempted to answer last week), they drop some serious science on you in the course of exploring and answering such questions. A night in a "Hands on with Liquid Nitrogen" class would doubtless yield some good ideas for revving up the occasional dinner party.

Custom-made pastry: Bryant Stuckey made a lovely croquembouche for my wedding, and I think a tasty tower of beautiful cream-filled pastry accented with spun sugar would make an equally festive New Year's Eve option.

The good stuff
Respect your Elders: St. Germain elederflower liquer adds a festively flowery kick to a gin and tonic, or mixes beautifully with champagne (not the Cristal!). Light a clove cigarette and get all Rive Gauche.

Scrape-free baking: The beater blade features little rubber fins that scrape the batter from the sides of your mixing bowl without your having to do the tiresome dance of stopping the KitchenAid, ratcheting down the mixer bowl, and scraping down the sides yourself. If you're a badass baker with places to go and people to see, you need this.

Luscious lushes, on the go: Since you can't take your bottles on the plane with you, bring a couple souvenirs from Napa bag safely in your checked luggage the Bottlewise way.

Nice for the Price
For potheads: How cute are these little clips that hold your spoon while you're cooking? How much time would I save cleaning off my countertip if I had one of these?!
Shrooms: This little jar of truffle salt adds a nice little hit of black truffly goodness to eggs or starches without the cloying, exaggerated flavor of truffle oil. Chardonnay oak-smoked salt is a beautiful accent to oysters, knocked back with a glass of Cakebread Cellars chardonnay.

Cheeseball: I'm waging a subtle campaign for liptauer and rye bread to replace hummus and pita as the hipster cocktail party snack fo 2010.
The kicker
This t-shirt by Married to the MOB, with its simple, acronymic question, would be the envy of any straight-up badass, not just a culinary one.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good meal!

NaNoWriMo

2008-11-12T15:09:00.000-08:00

I'm ~~failing~~ doing National Novel Writing Month, for the third year. Even if you fail, I highly encourage you to check it out and flex your creative muscles.

At least it gives me an excuse for being a terrible blogger, as opposed to other months, when I am just an inexcusably terrible blogger.

Lady Apples

2008-10-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

How do you like them apples? If you answered "small" then today is your lucky day, my friend. The lady apples have arrived.

These tiny, rosy-cheeked, tart and tasty little guys are in stores now, and they are impeccable sliced up and tossed up in a salad of mache or baby greens, a splash of sherry vinaigrette, and slivers of shaved manchego. Or take them for a sweet turn with Martha's easy recipe for fun caramel lady apples.

Still mad for Mad Men, but especially the Mad Women

2008-10-27T12:37:00.000-07:00

The second season of Mad Men seems over almost before it began. I don't know how I'm going to get through the long, cold, post-election winter stretching out ahead of us without it. But they went out with a bang -- or at least, the contemplation of one during Cuban Missile Crisis. All sesason long, Mad Men has successfully juxtaposed the simple but profound changes wrought by new technology -- television, the photocopier -- with its equal capacity for devastating destruction -- the American Airlines crash, the threat of nuclear weapons.

I know the NY Times is whining about the general melancholia of this season, but I actually found its depiction of its characters' confrontation of a new, horrific and unknowable reality -- and decision to seize it as a chance to fundamentally change themselves and their lives -- not only elegant, but inspiring. Peggy's move into Fred Rumsen's old office; Betty's random end-of-the-world sex and contemplation of an abortion; Peggy's confession to Pete about having his baby -- all of these prompted fist-pumping feelings of solidarity. While mindful of the desperation and pain that have moved the characters to these actions, knowing that we as a species came through that episode in 1962 more or less intact, I was happy for a prime-time example of the rare clarity provided to humankind by events like this. In the midst of a fierce crisis of our own on many fronts -- and confronted with an unprecedented opportunity for change -- I hope some of us will exhibit the same clarity and courage.

PoMs, and the End of Old

2008-10-13T20:19:00.000-07:00

So, Saturday I went to the Sticky & Sweet concert in NYC.

Nothing bad about that: a best girlfriend came up to the city; we had some decadent times; saw the sights and enjoyed gorgeous autumns weather. All in all excellent. Madonna's concert was spectacular in the most literal sense of the word: Lights, costumes, dancers. Pharell Williams. A Rolls Royce. It was a great show: like you and 50,000 of your best friends dancing to a remixed version of Madonna's newest album and greatest hits, singing along and waving your arms and throwing up horns. It rocked.

That also was kind of its problem. Madonna is the best and worst of this show. She entertains you with two hours of the most imaginative, athletic dancing and soulful singing you can imagine, putting a whole new spin and a whole new soul into tunes you've loved for years. The trouble is, she does so after making you wait for more than 90 minutes. And then she berates you. "Stand up, New York!" she shouted. "You guys are pussies! Show some respect." The show opens with five minutes of her growling "My sugar is rawwwww" into the microphone. That's where the bar is set, and about where it stays. Show some respect?! How about the 90 steamy, dinnerless minutes we just spent waiting for that? We are prisoners. Prisoners of Madonna (PoMs).

But my fellow Prisoners did not care. The excellent thing is, she gets away with that because she is Madonna. And she is 50. And she makes being 50 look like the most awesome thing ever.

At the beginning of the show, she slowly emerges onstage, sitting at the top of a flight of steps, one leather boot-clad leg drapped nonchalantly over the arm of a giant black-lacquered throne, the back of which is arched in an elaborate "M". Her dancers bow before her and one of them hands her a tall pimp cane. Then she gets Pharrell and the Rolls. Then she does double-dutch jump-roping. THEN she undulates against a stripper pole on a mobile platform attached to a DJ scratching the shit out of a couple of turntables. THEN she thrashes on her guitar.

At which point I said to myself, "I want all that! The pimp cane. The rolls. The adulation of dancers and audiences. The guitar-thrashing. And most of all, those most awesome black leather Louboutins.

If this is fifty, sign me the fuck UP! I am so there!!!"

Considering that I don't play guitar, know Pharrell, have access to a Rolls or thigh-high Christian Louboutin boots, or have many screaming fans at this point, it's a good thing I have twenty years to work on this. Thanks, Madge, for the lesson.

Eat this right now

2008-09-29T19:56:00.000-07:00

You have maybe a week left in which to catch fresh figs at the market. Go get some and rinse them off. Quarter a few (three or four) and toss them with arugula, olive oil, lemon juice, pepper and salt, and toss with a few shavings of pecorino. Comme ca.

Post haste!

Get it while it's hot

2008-09-18T20:03:00.000-07:00

I'm allowing myself one more post about summer produce, because the sweet corn has all but disappeared, the heirloom tomatoes will soon all but disappear and it will be all squash and kale until next May.

Here we have simple grilled ribeye made just a touch better with grape tomatoes and garlic quickly sauteed in a hot pan, just until the baby tomatoes start to wilt and blister, finished with a few shredded basil leaves. It's late summer on a plate in ten minutes flat.

Guacamole and ceviche are already well-worn territory in these pages, but to round out a beer-and-margaritas scene one night I made these Sriracha chicken wings from Food & Wine. I have a hard time finding or making adequately spicy Buffalo sauce at home, and even a lot of bars' wings are subpar (paling in comparison to the fiery excellence of Ouch wings at Blond ies); these give off a fruity heat that makes a great appetizer and/or complement to conventionally spicy or salty foods.

And finally, an early-September trifecta -- an improvised succotash of corn, tomatoes, favas, and a little onion, charred in a dry skillet, accompanied by scallops stuffed with summer basil and accompanied on the grill by some gorgeous peaches.

It's all vanishing before your eyes. Get yourself to the farmer's market quick!

Condiment Class

2008-08-24T17:21:00.000-07:00

To add some easy variety to grill night (you don't always have time to make chard and fava salad, after all!), turn to some easy condiments from around the globe. We all know that old standby pesto, great for brushing over grilled chicken breasts or thighs, stuffing trout or scallops before you grill them, or mixing with orzo or rice for a speedy side dish, but food processors and sharp knives make some other flavorings equally easy and accessible. My recent favorites include:

Chimichurri: A condiment for beef in Uruguay and Argentina, this simple combination of lemon juice, crushed red pepper, parsley, garlic, onion and lots of good olive oil is heavenly on a seared skirt steak.

I like The Minimalist's basic recipe (though you will see from the photo I used tiny pequin chiles, about half of the pile you see pictured, ground with a mortar and pestle), but it's extremely versatile -- use as a marinade and/or serve alongside; heavenly with red meat it also works beautifully with seared very rare tuna, grilled shrimp or chorizo (or some skewers of both for a nice mixed grill?), and even these grilled green heirloom tomatoes.

Harissa: North African in origin, you can actually buy this condiment in a jar or tube online if you're a slacker. But trust me, better and more fun to make your own. It's a fairly simple mixture of dried chiles (I have a lot of guajillo and one ancho here; pretty much anything will work depending on your own tolerance/preference for hot versus fruity), garlic, caraway and coriander seed, topped off with a bit of good olive oil. A good starter recipe is here via the LA Times; they even have a nifty slide show if you're nervous about technique. To this basic recipe I add a couple of drained canned plum tomatoes (fresh would probably also be fab but then there's the tiresome peeling/coring/seeding); some people also like to add red bell pepper. The beauty of this is that basically, once you have compiled all your ingredients you throw them into the bowl of your food processor and pulse the hell out of them until you get a fragrant red paste.

Thereafter, do what you want with it -- you can serve it as a condiment brushed on or alongside lamb chops or a fatty fish like salmon; thin it with more oil and use it as a marinade for other meat or fish; even use it as the base for a pasta dish like this gorgeous weeknight meal from Heidi Swanson.

No shortage of good variations and uses for these versatile condiments so these should keep you plenty busy as you squeeze the last over this rapidly-evaporating summer. . .

Grill, interupted

2008-08-11T19:40:00.000-07:00

It's August. Summer is just weeks away from ending and the produce is bountiful and awesome. Get thee to a grill! I did:
I got this totally awesome indoor grill about a month ago. Now even the apartment-dwellers among us can enjoy grill lines and smoky charred taste. OK, maybe not as good as charcoal grill (you can't plank; no charcoal or hickory-smoked flavor) but fast, convenient and much, much better than braving the douchebag convention that is my apartment complex's communal barbecue out in the courtyard.

On it you see sweet corn and chard. This grilled chard salad with fava beans, fragrant with lemon and oregano, would make a convert of the most avowed veggie-hater. The heat on the All-Clad grill is fully adjustable, allowing for just the right level of caramelization on the sweet corn.

Of course, what is a grill without some meat? Throw a burger on there:

And then plate everything up and since your teeth into some tasty Amyrrhica.

Plums and berries are also in season so dessert is a no-brainer: plum and berry crisp. Cut plums into wedges and toss with a little bit of brown sugar with a couple of cups of whatever berries you like (blackberies, raspberries, blueberries all good options). Spread into a pan and bake for ten minutes or so at 400 degrees. Toss a cup of oats with a half stick of slightly softened butter, a quarter cup flour and a third cup brown sugar, crumble it over the plum-berry mixture and pop back in the oven until brown and bubbling. Let cool a bit and serve with a dollop of vanilla.

The next day, grill up some more of that corn (trust me, in three weeks it will be nowhere to be found and you'll wish you had); use the rest of the chard salad and as long as you've got the grill on throw some fat, succulent sea scallops.

Be nice; make your guests some sugar cookies. Not just for Christmas anymore!

Like a little bite of sunshine! Enjoy it while you can!

Coincidence!

2008-08-04T18:46:00.001-07:00

Check this out! The dress worn by Joan Holloway (the redhead in the Center, Madmen neophytes)
is ALMOST the same, in terms of cut, as my very own late-50's Peggy Hunt dress that I wore at my wedding:
(I'm on the right, and it's the best pic of the bustle at my hip that I have. Clearly, I wore it less low and tight across my shoulders than Ms. Holloway).
(Via What Would Joan Holloway Do, awesome in its own right.)

Bal'more, hon

2008-07-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure of the provenance of Baltimore's "Charm City" moniker. Even though I've lived not more than an hour away from it for the last four years, I haven't spent much time in it at all. Mostly, I just drive through it on 95 on my way to other places and marvel at how you know you're in Baltimore from the billboards, which almost exclusively promote (1) abstinence, (2) paternity testing, and (3) concerts at the Borgata. Not the usual radio stations, restaurants and Bud Light billboards for Baltimore, no sir.

Whatever its provenance, after a long weekend there I'm more apt to at least go along with the whole "Charm City" concept. It was one of those impossibly hot and humid mid-Atlantic weekends where it was nearly too hot to move, and your skin prickles with goose flesh when you stop outside not because you are chilly but just because of the sheer shock of the heat. Consequently, we decided to lay low and take it easy.

First stop: the Sports Legend Museum on Emory Street, just down the block from Oriole Park and featuring more than you ever wanted to know about Baltimore sports teams and heroes. It's a veritable cathedral of Cal Ripken, Jr.

Next up: crabs. Baltimore's famous, Old Bay-seasoned crustaceans are well worth the mess--better to have them in a restaurant than have to negotiate that mess yourself. This was the first opportunity of many to enjoy a cold beer on a hot day.

Staying closer to the cool water on a hot hot day seemed like a good idea so we decided to Ride the Ducks of Baltimore for a tour of the city by sea and land. Besides the obvious thrill of being in a vehicle that both drives and floats, you got some magnificent views of the Balto skyline
and noteworthy sights like the Domino Sugar sign,
Edgar Allen Poe's grave, and
these nifty old cars (props in a movie
being filmed in Baltimore).

Of course, the highlight of the weekend was the Tigers-Orioles game. While the Tigs managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory despite a seven-run first inning--it was almost like watching 1999's team and their regular implosions at old Tiger Stadium--the heat of the day melted into a nice night at the ballpark with beer, brother and others.

All in all, it was nice to get acquainted with Baltimore as a place other than just America's STD capital. I highly recommend it; check it out next time you're driving up or down I-95!

Guaca-viche night!

2008-05-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

The painful irony of the first exquisitely nice official summer Friday in DC is that one's first thought, as the workday starts to draw to a close is, "Today would be a perfect day to go to Rosa Mexicano, sit outside, drink margaritas and eat spicy guacamole." But it's impossible to do that at Rosa Mexicano because they won't let you sit outside for drinks and appetizers (and the entrees are just too boring to be worth getting), and by the time you get out of work Rosa Mexicano will be packed elbow to elbow; will in fact be a sweaty, teeming mass of d-bags jostling for drinks and spilling Negra Modelo on you.

So I decided to Mexicano-at-home, with the new tools of my nicely-equipped kitchen (if you are the first person to correctly identify all the registry items in this post, I will make this meal in your home). The resulting light meal came out so nicely I couldn't resist posting the results, and I thought I might at least try to impart something useful to any wayward web traveler landing on this page. So here it is: a lesson in guacamole.

You will need:
3 ripe avocados
1/2 medium white onion
1 garlic clove
1 jalapeno or half a serrano pepper
handful of fresh cilantro
small tomato, cored and seeded
salt

Your first instinct is probably to start with the avocados, as they are the main ingredient, but that would be wrong. But don't worry, sugar, that's why I'm here: drop that avocado. Instead, give the onion, the pepper, and the garlic clove each a fairly fine dice (do NOT rub your eyes or your nose after doing so, not that you want to do that while you're cooking in any event, but especially not in the presence of a serrano!) and mill the cilantro.

Now here is the key, the thing you won't know instinctively about guacamole: you are going to start by making paste of these first ingredients, a guacamole "base" if you will. Take about a third of each of these chopped ingredients and mound them together in the middle of your cutting board, give them a generous drizzle of salt and chop and mince these ingredients together until they are a juicy, pale greenish paste. Get your knife on its side and use the flat of the blade from time to time to press and dig in:
Drop the paste into your molcajete. Now you are ready for the avocados. Halve those ripe green bad boys lengthwise--don't
get ahead of yourself and start scooping hem out of their skins--halve them, then grab your paring knife and gently score the avocado flesh into a dice:

Then, and only then, are you ready to gently scoop the scored avocado into your molcajete, and use a spoon and the pestle to gently fold together the paste and the avocado.

NB: In a truly ripe avocado, the pit that remains in one half should just slide out when you grab it with your fingers. A patient, forgiving person would tell you that you can wedge your knife blade into it and twist the avocado and the impaled pit in opposite directions, much as you would open a bottle of champagne, to dislodge the bit, but I am not that patient or forgiving a person. If you cannot easily dislodge the pit, your guacamole will be inferior, and you will have failed. Throw out everything, go to the market and buy RIPE avocados this time, or put your non-ripe avocados away to mellow for a day or so, come back and try it again.

At this point, you can throw in the remaining onion, garlic, pepper and cilantro, as well as your diced, seeded, cored bright red terrific tomato, and gently pound it all together with the pestle. You don't want to completely pulverize the avocado, just to meld the ingredients together and give the chunks a creamy base to hold them altogether.

Taste for seasoning; at this point you can add a bit more salt, a squeeze of lime juice, a dash of smoky chipotle sauce -- whatever floats your boat; go nuts.

I rounded out the menu by breaking out my brand new -- and completely bad-ass -- deep fryer to make some fresh, warm tortilla chips to go along with. I continue to be in awe of Presto's penchant for churning out single-use appliances that, while unnecessary, are so cool and functional in producing basic American comfort food (and they are truly all about Amyrrhican comfort food. Click on that link--their banner features pictures of waffle fries and onion rings). The CoolDaddy works like a charm. Heats up to the specified temperature within twelve minutes, cooks tortilla chips to golden brown perfection in about seven minutes, no grease-spattered stove top or floor. You lower the basket into your roiling oily pit, seal it up to do its thing
and minutes later, you yank out some warm, salty goodness that perfectly compliments the creamy guacamole:
I aslo threw together an easy and relatively quick ceviche de camaron for a hit of sour and spice.

Add in a frosty social bev with a salty rim

Fling the windows open wide; toss some Brazili an Girls on the stereo (I recommend ratcheting down to Astrud Gilberto, the original Brazilian girl, as the night wears on) and enjoy your margaritas and ceviche while sitting down, without anyone spilling drinks on you or having to make your way drunkenly home from Penn Quarter.

¡Feliz viernes!

Muppet Madness

2008-05-30T20:39:00.000-07:00

The brilliance of this makes me cry.

Founding Father

2008-04-14T19:25:00.000-07:00

I'm obsessed with the HBO miniseries "John Adams." I'm kind of over "In Treatment"--haven't seen an episode in its entirety since the one where Blair Underwood was dead (though I will watch it if I flip to it and Gabriel Byrne is staring out intently and sensitively from the television screen), but "John Adams"--now that is a show. I'm not one to throw around praise for "production values" or mise en scene but good lord--have you seen John Adams teeth, and the way they age and moulder from episode to episode? Our second president looked like Beetlejuice in Part 6. The buzzing fly and mosquito noises, the sweat, the pox episode (my god!), the fantastic mishmash of accents that attempt to mimic what our foundling country must have sounded like, the musty, creaky, construction-site White House. I never would have expected Thomas Jefferson and John Adams butting heads over France to be as exhilarating as the McDreamy-Meredith Grey chase, but dear me. Stephen Dillane must be a real athlete, doing this and The Coast of Utopia so close together--talk about marathons.

How fascinating, at a time when our country's global stature is so diminished, to witness it in all its grit and fortitude before it had any stature in the first place, and to be right in the sweaty, pocked faces of the founding fathers--and their wives (Laura Linney is my hero)--try to wage a war, build a government, and be people. I'm not expert enough on revolutionary history to gauge its historical accuracy but I'll tell you this: it's compelling as hell.

Whither art thou?

2008-03-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

I guess mostly I've been hibernating. It was freakin' cold out there, even for DC. Herewith, a cook's tour of the last several months:

January -- Festive Fare

In 2008, I'm turning thirty and getting married, and it's the biggest election year in a lifetime--and those are just the things we know for sure. NYE08 needed to be rung in with appropriate fanfare and I pulled out all the stops. It required days of preparation, hundreds of dollars, and many courses--caviar, shrimp, pate, lobster, cheese, washed down with copious quantities of martinis and some fantastic estate-grown rosé.

Yes, caviar two ways, or eggs two ways, depending on how you want to look at it: on tiny buckwheat blinis, with creme fraiche, and on top of stuffed quail eggs.
Next up: shrimp cocktail with a fabulous, horseradish-spiked cocktail sauce:

It felt too gruesome to take pictures of the lobsters in their steamy final moments, so you'll have to take my word for it. And the word, my friends, is good.

February: Cold Comfort

I had the excellent good fortune of getting a Presto Salad Shooter for Christmas. Do not judge it by its exceedingly silly name: it is a totally versatile kitchen appliance, much easier to use than a food processor when your recipe calls for a quick sprinkling of shredded cheese, sliced cucumber or grated nuts. I love it, and while as often as not I use it to make quick-and-dirty "nachos" (extra sharp cheddar grated and melted over a plate full of Spicy Nacho Doritos -- you can take the girl out of Downriver, but you can't take the Downriver out of the girl), it is capable of churning out serious cuisine -- like this silkily seductive mac-and-cheese made of double-creme brie, l'Etivaz, and Grafton Village cheddar. Comment on dit "Awww. Yeah."?

In keeping with this bistro classics theme and inspired by a really superb dinner --long, leisurely and in good company--at L'Absinthe in NYC, I've become obsessed with a perfectly roasted chicken. This little poulet roti made me really happy. I'm still working on my pan sauce, though.

And of course, there were desserts. Aided substantially by the versatile Salad Shooter (not just for salads!): Apple Brown Betty.

And, to show some V-Day love to co-workers and friends, Red Velvet Cupcakes:
This is a fantastic
recipe, from Magnolia Bakery by way of Epicurious. Be warned, though: making it will make your kitchen look like a nefarious back-alley abortionist's.

March: Rite of Spring

OK, it still goes down into the thirties at night, but the days are longer and warmer, right? What better way to welcome spring than by eating a baby animal? Slowly braised in good olive oil and finely chopped aromatic vegetables, of course, and accompanied by a steaming heap of fragrant risotto.

Hellooooo, osso bucco.

There you have it: how I spent my time while I was off being the worst blogger in the world. Don't worry; the writer's strike ended; it's only 13 days until Opening Day and 90 days until Wedding Day; that should give me something else to talk about:-)

Fatty BoomBatty

2007-09-12T18:24:00.000-07:00

The picture at right is just the September issue of Vogue. I was going to take a picture of all the September mags but they wouldn't fit in frame. And I don't even really go in for the Elles and Marie Claires and Vanity Fairs of the world, but even Real Simple and T Style (that's the New York Times adver-tacular, yo) and the two-week, food-focused (and still adver-tacular) New Yorker made for a big fat offering, perfect for stying inside with and flipping through on a steamy Labor Day weekend. Actually, Vogue is the one I haven't gotten to yet--it's too goddamn big to take with me on planes and trains.

I don't know that any of them are particularly revelatory (though I thought The New Yorker's article on counterfeit antique wines was awesome, but then, I would), but I just never get tired of patent leather mary janes and heather grey sweaters. Every year they bust them out like it's the new new thing, and it's so great, because there's nothing new about it; it's all in my closet anyway.

There are always new fun things though. I'm coveting a nice pencil skirt

and also a classy, Hepburn-esque short, swingy jacket

and just for the hell of it, something sparkly. I don't even know where I'd where it--except maybe Vegas, and lord knows I'm always looking for an excuse to go--but it just looks so slick and cool.

Yup, I love me some fall. Now if the temp would just drop below 80. . .

It is awesome being engaged.

2007-09-12T18:17:00.000-07:00

If You Can't Stand the Heat. . .

2007-07-09T18:01:00.001-07:00

How much longer can the celebrity chef craze last? When is one more celebrity chef one too many?

I'm undecided as to whether the chef-cum-tour guide phenomenon or amateur-cum-chef is worse. Neither one is really food-focused; both are entirely personality-driven, chef-in-your-face orgy of self-indulgence. I will admit to a certain soft spot for Anthony Bourdain, with his dry wit, fondness for smoking and drinking a lot, but still, his advice is hardly practical. But I think the whole genre took a step down with that Andrew Zimmern guy, who's basically just eating raw fish on TV, and it feels like reruns of "You Can't Do That On Television" in more exotic locales.

The flurry of amateur chef shows is perhaps more disturbing, in the same way that all "reality" TV shows are: if there are this many morons running around on TV, how many more must there be in real life? Layer upon layer of obnoxious personalities, uncalled-for weeping, complete unwillingness to take responsibility or make a decision. For sheer guilty pleasure, Hell's Kitchen is the best (worst?), but there's something intriguing about watching other celebrity chefs handicap the next one to join their ranks. I have little use for Top Chef's somewhat random celebrity panel.

Like the "cupcakes with publicists" phenomenon, reality-food-TV seems like another way to unnecessarily complicate what should be simple. Everybody loves food, and you'd love to think you'd cook it for yourself. But instead, you zap a SmartOnes in the microwave so you have time to watch Hell's Kitchen, and dream about cooking--and lots of other people make a whole lot more money in the process.

No Place Like Komi

2007-07-02T19:40:00.000-07:00

Yes, that is indeed DC's own Johnny Monis' cute button nose on the cover of Food and Wine's Best New Chefs issue. The accolade is well deserved--Komi's cuisine is some of the most satisfying and inventive I've had in recent months. I can think of no better way to spend an evening and a couple hundred bucks in DC than experiencing the Komi tasting menu that manages to be both comforting and exotic. The chef isn't the only talent in the house, either--the service is impeccable, and sommelier Derek Brown's pairings were spot on and adventurous. I never would have thought to pair the sardines with a superbly dry sherry, but I'm sure glad he did.

F&W features Komi's signature dish of homemade pappardelle with milk-roasted baby goat ragu, but I would highly recommend placing yourselves in the hands of the master.

"News" in the loosest sense of the word

2007-06-18T18:42:00.000-07:00

Two articles in The New York Times over the last few days caught my eye. I love the great Gray Lady, but sometimes even she occasionally provides fodder for the argument that newspapers are just outmoded and hopelessly withering in the face of New Media.

Sunday's article about the drop in online sales doesn't seem all that newsworthy as stalwarts of the virtual mall like Gloss or--sniff, sniff--my beloved Girlshop (now replaced by the hopelessly haughty Net-a-Porter) have announced they're biting the dust. Getting their e-mail was news; but Times article about the drop in online buying doesn't mention them, and seems a little out of the loop. I thought the dot-com bubble had already burst, and the industry had rebounded, perhaps not quite as robustly--but then nothing about this economy is as robust as the halcyon days of the Clinton administration, right?

The only interesting thing about Sunday's NYT article was that it fed into my own paranoia. I was a pretty hard-core online fashion addict, but quit more or less cold turkey once I had maxed out a couple of credit cards--and that, my friends, was when the dot-com bubble burst, leaving me to wonder, psychotically, if there never was any bubble, just me, Girlshop, and my AmEx. Some years later, I re-engaged in online shopping, more responsibly, more gradually, but still. So then when the summer went by and I'd bought nothing except some skinny jeans that I sent back, and then I hear they're going out of business, it raised the dot-com paranoia all over again. How many of us are really buying from these sites? The merch was always seemed expensive enough; I just assumed someone, somewhere was making money, and Girlshop was around long enough--and really so was Gloss--that it seemed like it had whethered the storm of online shopping fads (Pets.com, anyone?) and had become an institution replete with offline, real-time anchor to complement its online offerings.

So today, the NYT tops itself with this authoritative discourse on OpenTable.com. I don't know about you buy I've been using OpenTable for about a hundred years and presumably, so have the restaurants at which I have made reservations using its services. The little tidbits about the way restaurants use it to log info about their patrons--ok, that was interesting--but news? No.

No news, I guess, is good news, right?

Engagious

2007-06-12T18:17:00.000-07:00

We're engaged now. The event I have regarded as an inevitability for the last three years is finally here and I am completely surprised. So now, like everyone else in my family, I have the opportunity to get all nuts about Wedding Planning, and marvel at how the heart grows. It's news that people take with almost uniform giddyness and cheer. The instinct to send cards and gives is more instantaneous than any announcement I've ever made. The response has been far more powerful than my moving and new job announcements of recent years--and I moved to some pretty freakin' faraway places.

It's wonderful. I don't even have words for it.

"They're cupcakes with publicists. . ."

2007-06-06T19:03:00.000-07:00

There is, actually, some part of me that wants to quit and bake cupcakes--and what the hell, muffins, moon pies and oatmeal carmelitas--and sell them to the starved for food and time who will pay $4 each for them. But jesus--people are doing it for free, for other people:

Kirk Rossberg, who owns the 23-year-old Torrance Bakery in the South Bay area of Los
Angeles County, said he’s swamped with intern applicants. 'Until last year, I never had people
asking to work for free,” said Mr. Rossberg, who is also president of the California Retail Bakers
Association. He estimated that of the 30 interns he used this year, 90 percent were leaving
professional careers to pursue a dream of opening a bakery.'

Surely there must be a middleground, right? You don't have to take the Ivy League degree and Fortune 500 job and chuck them whole hog to bake cupcakes and build a bakery, surely? Why not just part-time it? Why not--radical idea--just bake cupcakes recreationally instead of trying to sell them or turn them into the hottest hipper-than-thou manna?

It's pastry, people.

"All I really need to know. . ."

2007-06-06T18:41:00.000-07:00

Whatever happened to Robert Fulghum? Beloved folksy minister-author of All I Really Need to Know and Uh Oh: Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door, with their meditations on children, chicken-fried steak and Salvation Army bell-ringing. He seems tailor-made for the blogosphere, with his random anecdotes extrapolated in to life lessons. His signature is even a little cartoony graphic.

But I haven't heard about him in years and years, so imagine my surprise when I googled him (oh sweet Swiss army knife of the Web) and found that he is, in fact blogging.

Not exactly blogging. More of a journal. No comments or interactivity; a little more room between entries. I actually think he probably should democratize the format and embrace more of a conventional blog format because so much of his published writing depends upon the stories others have told him. Evidently, he's big in the Czech Republic right now. Or at least he was in 2006. . .

On some level, though, I respect his adherence to traditional, non-UGC format. I actually am not taking all that well to it myself. I want to research, outline, draft and edit; the blog thing is counterintuitive. Actually, it's intuitive, but why would I want to hang my intuitions out there for the whole world to see? It's a weird medium. In a world where everyone writes, who really wants to read?

"Engaged is the new black"

2007-05-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

That gem comes from my brother, a recently-engaged man himself. The rings have really been flying lately--brother, cousins, some more or less random folks I grew up with, none of whom I know all that well but the fact that they're all in the old local paper all at the same time, getting married, makes one pay attention.

The strangers --former classmates and neighbors, acquaintances-- that's just coincidence and curiosity, but for the people I know and love, my brother especially, it's an occasion for astonishing delight. I can't say this out loud without sounding trite, and probably preposterously drunk but: it's a beautiful thing, maybe even miraculous. It seems really extraordinary that people in this day and age can love this way--that your family, and your heart, grows to expand and encompass someone else, amid all the distractions and pressures and events of life in this day and age. With everything else that concerns us, that occupies us, how does one even have the time or ability to fall in love that way? But we do, and I'm elated about it. It's elating enough when it happens to you, but when it happens to a person you've known and loved since birth--before, even--it's really extraordinary.

So hooray for the engaged. Bravo for the beloved. It's an extraordinary and wonderful day when engaged is the new black.

Big Bird

2007-05-29T19:21:00.000-07:00

One day a few weeks ago, I came home from a week-long business trip to find that a mourning dove had built a nest just outside the door wall in my living room. On a six-inch metal ledge wedged between the screen and the railing that gives the illusion of outdoor space but in fact exists only to keep one from falling from the window, a fat mama bird accumulated a pile of twigs and grass and laid her eggs there.

What a sad and ironic urban cliche, to be not in one's own home for so long that a little bird--actually, a pair of them, as I eventually discovered--moved in and set up house.

I actually felt a little flutter of excitement when, up early one morning I caught sight of the nest before the dad came in to sit for the day shift, and saw the three tiny speckled spheres he was returning to warm. We're having a baby, I thought to myself. With Mother's Day just around the corner, I tingled with the anticipation of a heartwarming avian display of maternal tenderness and the miracle of life.

For the most part, a lot of it was boring or gross. Some dander floating around every now and then, but aside from that one glimpse of tiny eggs, mostly just a bird, sitting in a nest. I began to worry that I should be feeding mama bird--who I named Lady Jane Grey--but when I did some research I learned that both parents swap nesting time while the other goes out and eats. One day--finally, a day at home--I hung around to witness both shift changes and learned how to recognize both parents.

I tried to figure out when the hatchlings would arrive, reading encyclopedia entries and counting how many days it had been since I discovered the nest. Riding the metro to work in the morning, one arm up above my head to grasp the rail, I reached with the other arm around my body to feel which device, phone or blackberry, was fluttering with a morning message, like an expectant mother touching her tummy, and my mind flickered back to my round mama bird, and I wondered if she could feel anything scratching within her little eggs. I began to fret that something was wrong, that the eggs had slipped from the nest and the parents were living on my ledge in a state of denial, or that the eggs were simply stillborn.

And then that Saturday, peering fretfully at the nest and fearing the worst while drinking my coffee, I saw fluffy tiny feathers peeking our from under Lady Jane. And then the shift change happened, and there they were.

Teeny, tiny, downy little hatchlings. And one lonely egg, about which one had to assume the worst. They were uncovered for just a fleeting moment--you can see Dad's torso just on the other side of this picture. Silent and blinking, they spent most of their time eating from their parent's craw and filling the nest with poop.

Even tiny chicks eating looks violent and uncomfortable--not at all the delicate tender parent-child bonding experience you'd want to imagine. The mama bird looks like she's being savaged by her infants, their beaks protruding into her own, over and over, fighting each other, nipping at her. It's actually quite unsettling.
The next week, after another trip out of town and some long days at the office, I wondered if they'd still be there the next time I was home during daylight hours to see what was going on with my little nest. Sure enough they were, the chicks now big enough that they propped their mother up on their backs and looked like giant, absurd slippers.

They were cute. I found myself talking to Lady Jane Grey at odd moments, making snarky remarks about sunbathers lolling in the courtyard below, asking about her day, muttering about mine. I laid on my tummy by the window and watched the hatchlings wiggle their little wings.

And then one day they were gone. One Sunday, the hatchlings hopped out of their nest and spent most of the day on the opposite end of the window ledge, all on their own.
The next morning, all that was left was an empty nest filled with droppings.

It was not exactly heartwarming avian drama or even National Geographic-worthy nature education, but it was a little bit inspiring, a little bit comforting that my mostly empty apartment gave some shelter to a creature that needed it. I'm relieved that they're gone now--I didn't open my screen at all because I didn't want to disturb them, and then there's the dander issue. I waited for them to be born, watched them grow, saw them fly away. Now I'm just another empty nester.