Chickpea Mistake

On the continuing theme of repenting one’s mistakes before the Jewish New Year begins, I give you the somewhat original recipe that I call Chickpea Mistake.  But, in this case the lesson is not recognize the mistake and repent, but to recognize, as a certain major Judeo/Christian deity did in the story of Abraham/Sarah/Hagar/Ishmael told at this time of year (you may look it up on Wikipedia), the mistake will serve a purpose later on and it may not be worth mentioning at all.  Plus, your mistake can be eaten.

The ingredients:  chickpeas (one can, canned), rice (cooked, about 1 cup, of sticky Asian variety), herbs (mint and parsley), garlic (smelly and diced), tomatoes (crushed, also canned), peas (a handful, frozen and microwaved), cumin (dusty) and olive oil (yummy, and only a teaspoon or two because we're not making falafel). 

Make the meatless meatball mash by pulsing the chickpeas in the food processor with mint and parsley, salt and pepper, remove to a bowl and mix with the rice. 

If you make the first attempt to form balls at this stage, as I did, the balls will dry and fall apart when heated in the olive oil with garlic (browned).  Please eat the first mistake, if you make it.

Before attempting again, add about two teaspoons of crushed tomatoes to the mixture of until it is the consistency of chopped meat, form into balls, set aside.  Heat your pan, add oil and the diced garlic.  Now, add the balls to the hot, garlicky oil.  This will give you a fried mash that may settle into a state that is not quite a ball, not quite a patty, but that's good enough. 

When nicely browned, put the chickpea “mistake” in a bowl. Scrape all the crunchy mix of browned garlic and stray rice off the bottom of the pan and dump it over the mistake. Ignore any sudden concern that the husband/significant other/food critic will not want to eat this.  Soldier on, please.   Add peas, a dollop of crushed tomato and sprinkle of cumin.  Reheat in the microwave when the husband/significant other/food critic comes in the door.  Serve with side salad.

When the husband/significant other/food critic asks you what it is say “Bukharan Vegetarian Meatball” because references to Uzbekistan always throw people off.  When he asks if you made this, as opposed to your best friend Trader Joe, say yes.  When he asks you if the recipe is so and so’s, claim it as your own.  It will turn out that he likes Bukharan Vegetarian Meatball and will want you to make it again.

P.S. Chickpeas are a food traditionally served for the Jewish New Year.  The shape and color of the ball/patties are, coincidentally, symbolic of coins, to bring wealth and happiness.  If you like this recipe, go ahead and serve it.  Your guests who may be following vegetarian/vegan diets will love it.

Daniel Vs. Luther - A New Year's Reflection

Mistakes. We all make 'em. As the Jewish New Year draws closer (and yours truly, Clever Gretel, celebrates this holiday, usually with a few stiff drinks before dealing with the menu) we ponder our sins and, ultimately, ask forgiveness. I have committed many sins. One of them is relying too often on the pizza man or, worse, a guy named Bob Evans, to provide food for my family. However, I was busy adding another member to said family, the Lovely Baby Named Phoebe, whom we will call Winnie, for short. This curtailed my desire to think about food, eat like a normal person or cook for the better part of the past two years (has it really been that long?).

But there are other sins out there I ask you to consider. For me, this one would have been impossible to write about in my formerly pregnant state. In recent weeks, there's been much hooplah about The Doughnut Burger, currently being served at state fairs around our country. In the spirit of culinary equanimity I ask you: how big a sin is it? Is it contributing to the scourge of obesity besetting our country? Or is it merely a low-brow version of a burger on a brioche? Famed Chef Daniel Boulud stuffs his with assorted fillings, such as foie gras, short ribs, truffles etc., so what about an indulgent burger for the rest of us?

Consumers of The Doughnut Burger (also called The Luther, as in Vandross) said, in USA Today, they liked the sweet/salty combination of meat and sugar. Doesn't everyone? So, I ask you, what is American barbecue enjoyed with cornbread if not sweet/salty plus spicy? What is a delicious dim sum without a savory/sweet pork bun? Isn't that just bacon in a cupcake?

A quick look at the nutrition facts and exercise estimates via the Calorie King reveals that you only have to walk a bit further to burn off the doughnut burger than the burger on brioche. Here are the stats:

A brioche from the Breadsmith has 140 calories, Total Fat 8g, Sat. Fat 4.5g, Trans Fat 0g, Cholesterol 55mg, Sodium 150mg, Total Carbs. 15g, Dietary Fiber 0g, Sugars 2g, Protein 3g, Calcium 10mg. Time needed to walk off brioche: 39 minutes.

Now add the burger: A 3.5 oz. burger contains: Calories 250, Total Fat 9g, Sat. Fat 3.5g, Fat 0.5g, Cholesterol 25mg, 520mg, Total Carbs. 31g, Dietary Fiber 2g, Sugars 6g, Protein 12g Calcium 100mg. Time needed to walk off burger: 69 minutes.

Here's the data for one Krispy Kreme Glazed Original Doughnut: Calories 200, Total Fat 12g., Sat. Fat 6g, Trans Fat 0g, Cholesterol 5mg, Sodium 95mg, Carbs. 22g, Dietary Fiber 0.5g,
Sugars 10g, Protein 2g, Calcium 60mg. Time needed to walk off doughnut: 55 minutes.

But, here's the rub, The Doughnut Burger is made with two, I repeat, two, doughnuts. So, double all of the nutrition data above and add another 55 minutes of walking. You can walk off the Doughnut Burger in around 3 hours, as opposed to around 2 for the brioche burger. You can easily burn that walking around the State Fair. Granted, I am not including any burger toppings, such as cheese or bacon or State Fair calves liver (that was a joke, but, really, why not? Daniel would do it). I also suspect I am making a large assumption on burger size. Who eats a 3.5 ounce burger anymore?

Still, hypothetically, even if the burger is a six-ouncer, if The Doughnut Burger is the ONLY food you eat at the State Fair and you visit every exhibit, resting only to watch the little girls in 4H march with their sheep, you aren't committing so grave a sin. You could even, in theory, ask for the burger to be served on just one doughnut, cut in half, like the brioche. This would reduce the penance of walking by an hour. You might even get to skip the sheep viewing.

And speaking of walking as penance, bear in mind that Clever Gretel resides in Cincinnati, where local Catholics walk the steps of Mt. Adams as penance on Easter, after or before eating a meal of Goetta (a loaf of steel cut oats and hamburger meat, sliced and fried, over which one might, if one so chooses, pour syrup. Ah ha! There's that sweet/salty thing again, but now with a hint, of dare I say, the divine?).

In conclusion: I can condemn the sins of sloth and gluttony. I can rail against the lack of produce in less affluent neighborhoods and abundance fast foods, poor school nutrition and lack of preventive care for Type Two diabetes, for these represent the sin of not caring for ourselves and our neighbors. Yet, I cannot entirely condemn The Doughnut Burger. It is a choice, like so many others, that can be managed have we the will to do so. Therefore, I place it on the ever-expanding continuum of indulgence our society is known for and move on, perhaps to something more palatable. Fried butter anyone?

An Old Stand-By

I was reminiscing with Lincoln the other day about how we are not strangers to financial pressure and scary unemployment figures. It just seems so long ago...the turn of the century, when cell phones were a bit thicker, a twitter was the sound of a bird outside your window and on-line communities were still posting text to Usenet. He reminded me that our experience with hard times goes way back - as children, we witnessed the recession of the 80s and were job seekers during the sink hole of the early 90s. I reminded him that despite the hefty weight of student loans, we managed to have a lot of fun on no money. We both remembered the proud moment we paid off Lincoln's J.D. in three years (faster than Barack and Michelle Obama, by the way) and our financial adviser asked us, "How did you do it? Did you live on macaroni and cheese?" No, but we did eat a lot of meals like this one:

Pasta Al Tonno (Tuna Pasta)

I originally learned this recipe from Cucina Ebraica by Joyce Goldstein, but over time, have adapted it to my own taste. You can play around with it. Leave the tomato paste out or use garlic instead of onion. Omit the red wine and use canned tomato instead to make it more sauce-like than solid. This is a recipe that will let you find your own way.

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
1 cup of parsely, chopped
1 can of tuna - I use solid white in water, but you can use Italian tuna in oil.
About 6 anchovies or to your taste
1 teaspoon capers
2 teaspoons of tomato paste
1/4 cup of red wine

2 cups rigatoni, penne or linguine noodles

Follow directions for cooking pasta, drain and place in large bowl. While pasta is on the stove, heat a frying pan and add olive oil. Sautee the chopped onion and parsely until soft. Add tuna, anchovies and capers and mix together. Add tomato paste and wine and stir mixture. Add to pasta and blend thoroughly. Garnish with parsely. Serve with crusty bread and salad.

Miscellaneous/Privacy Is Dead?

If you haven't noticed, lately, Facebook seems to be taking over the world. I suspect that it has something to do with the fact that Generation X is 20 years out of high school and getting ready for its class reunions. At least, that's how most people I know got sucked into the thing. Lincoln followed, and I haven't seen him since (ladies, he's taken!).

If you are on facebook, you can import JuicyChiken and read my posts from there. If you do that, why not go viral and share the articles with your friends?

If you know my secret identity, you can also get some recipes that I've posted in my notes page as an experiment to see which gets me more posts -- this blogosphere thing or the facebook. So far, facebook is winning.

For those of you cringing and crying that I'm even bringing this up, I assure you that in ten years, this too will pass. I also want to say that no one will judge you harshly for not friending or unfriending your ex-boyfriends after the morbid curiosity phase has passed.

Some Foods Are Better With Friends And Without Smoked Meat

Recovering from a severe stomach illness that rendered me unable to eat anything except broth for a week, I've had time to reflect on my last great cooking adventure with my friend Anna. When she came down for a visit last month, we took on The New Spanish Table and made three courses for friends. Our meal was Potato Soup with Fried Almonds, Salad with Hazelnut, Apricot and Sherry Vinegar Dressing, Lamb Meatballs With Mint and an Orange Tart for dessert. All three dishes were great, although the tart was problematic.

What struck me most was the quality of our cooking time together. These days, with Lincoln busier than ever and me holding down the house on the hill, I mostly cook alone, although with Bartleby capering about in the background. I didn't even know when Anna proposed cooking together if I was capable of it. Would I have to explain things to her? Find things in the kitchen? Be a big crank? I am so used to talking myself through trouble spots, finding solutions in mere seconds, coming up with the big ideas for meals, burning my thumbs when no one can hear me scream...I just didn't know if there was room for someone else in my kitchen. To my great relief, the recipes naturally divided themselves into a fair division of labor based on skills. Anna took the soup and dessert, I did the meatballs and the salad. We frequently consulted the book and each other. We also accomplished all of our cooking in a mere four hours. It was harmonious and so pleasing to show off these dishes to friends. It felt like we had stepped out of a Gourmet Magazine photo spread.

Foodwise, I would change little. The soup, on a second trial, tastes better without smoked meat and with an all vegetable stock. The tart really needed the oranges peeled - unless you really like bitter.

Sopa De Patatas Y Almendras
Source: The New Spanish Table, Anya Von Bremzen, published by Workman

Meat eaters note: You can substitute whole smoked turkey leg (sliced) for the ham or...
Vegetarians and vegans note: You can an all veggie version with a vegetable stock, like I am today.

Sticklers note: From the original, I edited out the cumbersome cutting method for the potatoes. It works if you cube them.

Food Obsessives note: I suspect if you use marcona almonds from Spain, this recipe will be even better. Turmeric may substitute for saffron.

Ingredients:
1 1/2 Lbs Yukon Gold potatoes
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup blanced almonds
6 large garlic cloves, peeled
1/3 cup (about 2 ounces) finely diced serrano ham or prosciutto
4 cups chicken stock or broth, or more if needed
Coarse salt (kosher or sea) and freshly ground black pepper
1 medium-sized pinch of saffron, pulverized in a mortar
2 teaspoons sherry vinegar, preferably aged, or more to taste
2 tablespoons minced fresh flat-leaf parsley (to garnish)
Dense country bread, for serving

1) Cut the potatoes into cubes

2) Heat the olive oil in a heavy 3-quart saucepan over medium heat. Add the almonds and garlic and cook, stirring, until golden, 4 to 5 minutes, adjusting the heat so the oil doesn't burn. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the almonds and garlic to a bowl. Add the ham or turkey to the pan and stir for 1 minute. Add the potatoes and cook, stirring, for another minute. A dd the chicken stock and bring to a boil, skimming. Reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer the soup.

3) Meanwhile, place the almond and garlic mixture in a mini food processor and grind it. If you like almond bits in your soup, grind the mixture somewhat coarsely; otherwise, grind it fine. Add all but about 2 tablespoons of the ground nut mixture to the saucepan with the potatoes, Season with salt and pepper to taste.

4) Steep the saffron in a few tablespoons of the simmering soup for 2 minutes, then add it to the pan. Simmer the soup, partially covered, until about half of the potatoes have disintegrated, about 35 minutes. Skim the soup a couple of times as it cooks and add a little more chicken stock if the soup seems too thick.

5) When ready to serve, check the texture of the soup. If you'd like it creamier, break up some of the potatoes with a sturdy spoon; if you'd like it thinner, add a little more chicken stock. Add 2 teaspoons almond mixture and stir it into the soup. Add the parsley and cook for another minute. Taste for seasoning, adding a little more vinegar if necessary. Serve the soup with bread.
SERVES 4

Cowboy Beef and Black Bean Chili

It's the time of year when nothing beats a bowl of chili. In my town, here at the crossroads of the Midwest and the South, chili means a sweet, runny mash of ground beef, tomato (with or without red chili beans) served over spaghetti and topped with a mountain of cheddar cheese. The last time I tried to order it with half a mountain of cheese, the waitress told me I was skinny enough and could "afford" to eat the whole mountain. I still asked for half because eating the whole mountain is just...gross. Bartleby likes the lame little hot dogs with cheddar cheese at our local chili outfit. Ugh.

Here's a great recipe for anyone longing for something warm and spicy with a stew-like consistency. The source is The Healthy Beef Cookbook published by the National Cattlemen's Beef Association with the Americn Dietetic Association.

Cowboy Beef and Black Bean Chili
Makes 8 Servings. Total preparation and cooking time: 2 hours

2 lbs. ground beef (95% lean)
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups chopped onions
2 tablespoons minced garlic
2 medium yellow bell peppers, chopped
1 large jalapeno pepper, seeded, finely chopped
1/4 cup chili powder
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon dried oregano leaves, crushed
1 teaspoon dried thyme leaves, crushed
1/8 teaspoon ground red pepper
1 can (28 ounces) crushed tomatoes, undrained
1 can (141/2 ounces) chili-seasoned or zesty-style diced tomatoes, undrained
1 can (14 to 14!/2 ounces) ready-to-serve beef broth
12 ounces dark beer
1/3 cup tomato paste
1 tablespoon honey
2 cans (15 ounces each) black beans, rinsed, drained
Salt and black pepper, as desired
Chopped fresh cilantro (optiona)

1) Brown ground beef in stockpot over medium heat 8 to 10 minutes or until beef is no longer pink, breaking up into 3/4-inch crumbles. Remove fromstockpot with slotted spoon. Set aside. Pour off drippings.

2) Heat oil in same stockpot over medium heat until hot. Add onions and garlic; cook and stir 3 to 5 minutes or until onions are tender. Add bell peppers and jalapeno; cook and stir 4 to 5 minutes or until peppers are tender.

3) Return beef crumbles to stockpot. Add chili powder, cumin, oregano, thyme, and red pepper; cook and stir for 2 to 3 minutes. Stir in crushed tomatoes, diced tomatoes, broth, beer, tomato paste, and honey; bring to a boil. Reduce heat; covera nd simmer 45 minutes. Uncover stockpot; continue simmering 30 minutes or until thickened to desired consistency, stirring occasionally. Stir in beans; cook 5 to 10 minutes or until beans are heated through. Season with salt and black pepper, as desired. Garnish with cilatro, if desired.

Un-Alinea'd

My sister Maris gave me the most amaaaaazing Chanukkah present - the Alinea Cookbook. I have hardly begun to really read the thing up close or log in to the special, cookbook-owners only website, but I have surveyed it and have formulated some thoughts. See below.

For those of you who don't know about Alinea, it's a cutting edge so-called "molecular" cooking restaurant in Chicago that is so stratospherically expensive and so hard to get a reservation at that most of us will never eat there. But we can, through the cookbook, get a glimpse of what goes on in a restaurant that produces cuisine that is part French Laundry, part Willy Wonka and run by a man who outdistances even cancer survivors like Lance Armstrong - see this article in the New Yorker . It's pretty mind blowing how someone can be an executive chef while taste-blind. Most people would just give up.

The book has received many reviews, in fact both the Times and the WSJ reviewed the cookbook this past week - but I haven't read either and I'm going to throw my two cents in anyway.

It's inspiring and creative and definitley makes one want to go out and buy immersion blenders and other gadgets, but after awhile, one begins to think that the presentation of the food is just...creepy. It looks like is something characters in a Hieronymus Bosch painting would eat. The base-line recipes sound simple and elegant, but the accompaniements look like things one could purchase at the Chicago-Chinatown branch of exotic candy store Aji Ichiiban, home of munchies delight (it finally has a website! See the Octopus special).

After reading through the recipes, I had to ask myself "Is it really that exciting to eat at a restaurant that spends a lot of time making its own fruit leather and geeking on presentation like a food stylist on speed?" Maybe...if you really like fruit leather and gel candies and vaguely sexual Robert Mapplethorp-like food. As a Cincinnatian, somehow I should be opposed to all of that. Especially the Mapplethorp part.

Still, Bartleby and I were inspired enough to spend our afternoon pretending we were in the kitchen of Alinea. He might not have been aware of the subtext. I bought a bunch of fruit leather (organic, from Trader Joe's) and a really weird looking dried tropical fruit mix. We cut the leather pieces and started to experiement. Bartleby wanted to know what it would taste like warm, so we tried microwaving it and discovered it tastes really good heated for eight seconds. As far as presentation, you can see from the pictures that now festoon this blog (shot by Bartleby) that we just might be contenders in the world of molecular cooking or food photography. Look out Chicago. Here we come.

Thanksgiving Cheese

We had a very successful Thanksgiving, thanks to two recipes from The Wall Street Journal, which is working hard to improve its arts and leisure coverage (we can still hear its starchy editors straining their pinstripes as they try to be Times imitators, but we've been enjoying its enthusiastic food articles).

We used the turkey recipe and, even without the right kind of pot, we managed to make a moist, flavorful bird (with a short stop for giblet eating along the way that was not clear from the recipe if we were supposed to do or not). We also made the Thai-style sweet potato, which was delish, although not quite coconutty or cinammon-flavored enough for me. There's always next year. I also murdered an adorable Halloween pumpkin (see picture) to make pies.

That's Bartleby you see up there and he is really the one with the best Thanksgiving story. What am I thankful for about Bartleby? Everything, but this Thanksgiving he really keyed in to what the holiday is all about: buying very special, expensive cheese.

I bought some Humboldt Fog and some Pleasant Ridge Reserve from the new, extremely upscale Kroger, with a Murray's Cheese Shop, that just opened in our ever more upscale mall. Don't talk to me about recession! The entire mall has been packed for the last two months and that Kroger is going day and night. Anyway, the special, expensive cheese was wrapped in paper.

Bartleby has never seen cheese that is wrapped in paper or bought it from a cheese counter. He was crazy to try the cheese. For an entire day he asked about the cheese and I told him he had to wait until Thanksgiving. While I was getting dressed to take him somewhere (probably to distract him from the cheese), I heard some rummaging in the fridge, but didn't care to go look. A few minutes later, he came to my room and said,
"Mommy, I almost did something unacceptable."
"What's that?" I asked, thinking the worst, obviously.
"I almost opened the Thanksgiving cheese," he said, to my surprise.
"The really special expensive cheese?" I asked, just to be sure.
"Yes."
"But you didn't."
"I almost opened it, but I didn't."
"I guess you really want to try that cheese?"
"Yes."
"Well," I said, "If we're going to do this, let's do it right. Let's go taste cheese."

So we went into the kitchen, I poured myself some wine and Bartleby some juice, let Bartleby unwrap the cheeses and cut him small pieces. He asked what the black stuff was on the Humboldt Fog. "Chocolate," I lied. How do you explain mold to a three year old? He tasted the Pleasant Ridge Reserve.
I asked, "Do you like them."
"Not so much," he said, then "Can I have a cookie?" without missing a beat.

When I finally served the cheese, he was excited to see it out on the table, but all he said was, "I want a cheese stick."

When Bad Food Is Politics

It's a spring evening. You are with your family on a highway somewhere in Indiana. Your choices are: Iron Skillet. Skyline Chili. McDonalds. LaRosa's Pizza. Dairy Queen. Arbys. I'm forgetting something, oh, yes, Waffle House. You choose LaRosa's Pizza, the nearest semblance to ethnic food. Your son is hungry. Despite the redundancy, you order the cheese bread sticks with cheese and a medium pizza. The sticks arrive white, doughy, soft with sliced Provolone melted on top and on the side the sweet tomato and sugar sauce and that bright yellow "butter" sauce you should know better than to eat.

Everyone in the restaurant seems to be happy that it's Friday night and they are out for pizza near the highway. There's mild excitement in the air about a game or the weekend or what happened in school. For once, you aren't thinking about the Democratic Primary (which you voted in, but believe now may have been a waste of your time since, ultimately, the choice of candidates may not be in your hands, but the hands of the new uber-beings, the Superdelegates), what others think of your parenting style or getting paid work or anything that causes stress. You are dipping doughy bread into fake butter. You have put aside your relentless standards, for once. You are just being like everybody else.

Your son is happy to be with you in a restaurant. Happy to have bread to dip in sauces. Soon he is kissing you, slathering fake butter on your face. Against your better judgment, you dip another bread stick into the "butter" sauce. It tastes like move popcorn. It's OK. You are looking forward to the pizza with the too-sweet sauce on crust that bears resemblance to cardboard. Your standards are indeed slipping. There isn't a wood-fired oven for miles around. That's OK too.

Then your thoughts fall back into their usual groove to whir on the track of your brain, like an anxious Thomas train. You briefly think about the relationship between pizza and politics. Your husband likes to read you Peggy Noonan's Saturday column in the Wall Street Journal. She and the rest of the media are obsessed with the nuances and what has become painful minutia of the upcoming election. Every week, you and your husband read her and others, and on Sundays you watch Meet The Press (after This Week with George Stephanopoulos) but it's only in this moment sitting in LaRosa's off the highway in Indiana, think you understand it better than they. You can literally taste it. Whoever can bottle and promise to preserve the optimistic "TGIF" energy in the room, the smile of the young waitress named Amber, the relief in the face of the heavyset woman in sweats as she picks up carry-out, the feeling that you are OK with pizza in any form, will win. Pizza will carry the day. Mediocre pizza. With sugar sauce and fake butter. It's a winning combination.

The Man In The Yellow Hat , Or Appetizers On Toothpicks. Cheesy Blog Contest, Post To Win

As a mom of a toddler, I live in an endless and unforgiving loop of Thomas The Tank Engine, Teletubbies (whose food habits we have discussed at length on this blog) and Curious George. The only show I truly respect for children is Arthur, and that's because his dad left the corporate world to become a caterer. However, Arthur is a little bit beyond Bartleby's grasp, but he watches because I do. His favorite morning entertainment is Curious George, which I find totally annoying except that lately, I've gotten interested in, and somewhat envious of, the lifestyle of The Man In The Yellow Hat. Let's discuss.

The thing to envy the most about The Man In The Yellow Hat is that he lives in New York City in a pre-war two bedroom with a balcony and a doorman. Is it rent-controlled or does his job at the Museum of Natural History, which he never seems to actually do, pay really, really well?

Although we are never told that this is New York City, the writers merely call it "The City", we can assume it is. Where else can you get away with a wardrobe that consists of a yellow hat, jumpsuit and tall boots day after day with no one noticing? New York Magazine should put him in the Look Book.

He also has a house in the country, perhaps the Hudson Valley, where he goes to relax from his clearly taxing life in the city with his...monkey? Did he inherit money or am I missing something about PhDs in anthropology? What kind of values are we teaching our children?

The other day, while watching at some exceptionally early hour of the morning with Bartleby, I had a flash of insight. The Man With The Yellow Hat is NOT a New Yorker. He has all the trappings, but he finally gave himself away. He said, and I quote, "It's not a party if we don't pick up small food with toothpicks."

He's clearly a Midwesterner. I don't think New Yorkers have picked up small food with toothpicks since the 1950s. This explains why he can't get a date.

If he'd had any refinement, he would have said something like this which Maris sent me from My Life In France By Julia Child, "There are only four great arts: music, painting, sculpture and ornamental pastry - architecture being perhaps the least banal derivative of the latter."

Again, what ARE we teaching our children? Poor Bartleby. Save him. Send in your appetizer recipes that DON'T require toothpicks to win a special Juicychiken blog prize. Yes, I am now resorting to cheesy contests to win your posts, you lurkers. Limited to the first three posts, I can't go broke on this, so hurry.

Halloween Hang Over

Halloween is fast becoming another horrendous American holiday with potential for high expectations and disappointing results. In other words: stress. Newly relocated to the suburbs, I had no idea Halloween was such a....religion?

The season officially began three weeks ago when my doorbell rang one night and I found a "boo" bag on our door. Excited, I called my husband, who told me not to eat anything in it, since it could be poisoned. "You lived in Chicago too long," I said. "This is from someone who knows us." In Chicago, Lincoln never even wanted me to open the door on Halloween or any other time, but I always did. Kids from housing projects deserve treats, too.

I read the poem in the bag, hung the ghost on my door (after someone told me that was how I kept from being booed multiple times, who knew?) and went out to buy candy for my target, a new neighbor. That left me with three bags of candy: Butterfinger Wafers, a mix of Hershey favorites and Jolly Ranchers and, of course, Candy Corn. I thought I could resist temptation. I was wrong. I've been eating candy every day for three weeks. And I NEVER eat candy. I don't like the taste. I don't like the way it makes me feel. But I found myself addicted to it. As soon as the baby was down for his nap, I was eating at least one piece a day.

Lincoln, too, was falling prey to the candy monster in our pantry. As Halloween neared he said, "Sweetie, you need to go buy better candy or else the kids will think we're a 'bad' house." What's better than Candy Corn, I asked? "Chocolate, babe," he said, "More chocolate." My charming babysitter, a candy expert and, it turned out, instigator of the "boo" bag, nodded her red head in agreement. I stuffed a Twizzler in my mouth. I had to deal with the pressure somehow, now that my reputation was at stake.

I hit the Walgreens on Halloween Day and paid through the nose for Reese's, Take Fives and Halloween Peeps, which were, by the way, adorable spiders, bats and skulls, perfect for spooky cupcake toppers. "Those kids better show up," I thought darkly to myself as I drove the minivan home.

Because I didn't want anything to interfere with the festivities, I whipped up a half-assed, white bean chili for supper. Then, I dug through my closet for a costume. I came out as Coco Chanel in sailor's pants, a white shirt, pearls and red lipstick. Hmmm, I thought studying my reflection in the mirror, I should look this good every day! My son, who we will call Bartleby, because he's in an "I prefer not to" phase, did not care to wear the adorable Pottery Barn Kids spider costume I bought for him. Lincoln rushed home from his all consuming job, expecting to take cute photos, like all the other parents of toddlers, and was somewhat saddened by Bartleby's lack of holiday spirit. So, Lincoln taught him to say "Gimme some candy!" and to bite the heads off Peeps. I stood by the door, in my pearls, waiting for the Halloween hordes.

No such luck. We only had about ten trick or treaters. I stuffed their bags with candy, vainly trying to give away all of it. Next time I buy a house, I won't pick one that's on the top of a hill. What was there left to do, but binge?

The following day, I packed Lincoln off to work with the rest of it and went to kickboxing, the first step in my candy detox program. Oh, but I could barely kick or box. My limbs were leaden. I could feel the sugar sloshing through my granular bloodstream. The addiction could not be purged that easily. The Halloween Hangover still haunts me. Craving something with this morning's coffee, I prowled in my purse to find...a secret stash of Candy Corn.

Like Kathy, in her endless loop of cartoon feeding, I ate one little bag and then the next. The hangover headache looming, I think next year I will have to get out of town, find a country whose spooky traditions involve eating things made with garlic, not sugar, and stay there until October is over.

Crashing and Burning

Went to McDonald's last night. 'Nuff said. Oh, didn't order a salad.

Thursday's Lemon Olive Chicken

Nothing like company to get the creative cooking juices flowing (not that I ever really need the excuse). For my sister and bro-in-law, I needed something healthy, since they are both watching their diets, yet flavorful. I turned to Marcus Samuelsson's Soul Of A New Cuisine: A Discovery Of The Foods And Flavors Of Africa for a healthier twist. I found it in Lemon-Olive Chicken, a Moroccan dish of chicken stuffed with black and green olives, lemon and shallots. Coincidentally, I already had learned the recipe for the recommended side-dish of Senegalese Red Rice from my Ethiopian friend in Chicago. I prepared a side salad of butter lettuce, crushed cashews and strawberries completed the meal.

Sounds awesome, doesn't it? Sadly, it turned out to be one of those days. My son threw up right after my guests arrived and I had to hose down the deck before dinner. Worse, I pulled the chicken out too soon and had to put it back and, then, for some reason, the chicken (an organic bird from Trader Joe's) was unusually subject to the law of gravity and all the meat seemed pulled to the underside. No one seemed really hungry after all of that. Or maybe it was because we ate my babysitter's oatmeal cookies as an appetizer.

Pre-Cut Fruit Or Cooking And Debt Reduction

This post was prompted by my discovery of I Paid For This Twice.com (http://www.paidtwice.com). I'm new to the blog-o-sphere, but an old hand at debt reduction. Cooking for myself and my then-boyfriend-now-husband, who we will call Lincoln after the Chicago neighborhoods we lived in, was a big part of it. However, like all great undertakings, it started with one small step: getting him to kick his pre-cut fruit habit.

Nine years ago (how time flies when you have debt to pay!) Lincoln confessed to me in a car overlooking a snowy bluff in Minnesota that he was in a financial crisis. Between his credit card and student loans he was around $80K in debt. This was actually a very romantic moment because I knew I had earned his trust. "I can help you," I said, "If you really want my advice and, if you think it's sound, you will follow it." The foundation of our marriage was built on that moment.

Lincoln allowed me to do a very simple "audit" of his spending. On the consumer debt front, he had lots of little debt spread out over about four or five high-interest cards. Consolidation onto the lowest-interest card was the first obvious step. If he could afford to make two large monthly payments when he got his bi-weekly paychecks, we figured he could get out of the consumer debt in about ten months. Based on his earnings (he was a third-year at a law firm) this would not be an issue.

Lincoln was also lucky to have recently moved out of a more pricey one-bedroom into "The Club House," a town home he shared with two other guys. The place was only a moderate dump, in good enough shape not to scare the girls off, unless they looked really closely at the couch. Lincoln implemented the pay-off plan for the consumer debt immediately. Then we got down to the nitty gritty.

To pay off the student loan, we needed to maximize cash flow. There were two things that were obstructing Lincoln from paying down that staggering student loan. One was his car lease and insurance. When we added those up, his sporty little Jetta was costing him $800 per month. Throw in gas, maintenance and parking for those lifts to work he gave me (at $20 per day) and it was closer to $1,000 - double his rent. Ouch. We started taking the bus. As soon as the lease ended, Lincoln and I shared my 13-year-old Honda Civic with my sister and brother-in-law.

The other source of Lincoln's cash flow blockage was pre-cut fruit. The man was addicted to buying $4 worth of cut fruit every morning from the cafe in his office building. "Lincoln," I remember saying, "Bananas are God's pre-cut fruit."

So, there we were, eating our bananas while waiting for the bus. Not glamorous, but living in a large city, we could pretend we were traveling on the cheap in Europe. Inspired by Lincoln's rapid progress, we started going to more free events. We switched from fancy dinners to less-expensive lunches at the same fancy places. We walked more. Talked more. Soon, Lincoln put a sparkly ring on my finger that he paid for in cash. The credit card debt was gone in ten months, just in time for our wedding. We were on our way to the final showdown with the law school debt.

To save as much as possible, we lived small in a neighborhood that, increasingly, is about living very large, Chicago's Gold Coast. We often walked to our respective daily grinds in the Loop. We never took cabs. The building our one-bedroom-apartment was in had a rooftop deck with magnificent views. For his birthday, instead of a four-star-meal out, I made him one on the rooftop from ingredients I bought at the fabulous farmer's market in our neighborhood. In three years, we kissed Salley Mae goodbye.

While I got to be chief financial adviser during Lincoln's restructuring, he did not let me slack. He made me see I needed to give my financial life a tune up. Although I was not in debt, Lincoln insisted that I look at my own financial habits. Through the help of a book, "For Richer, Not Poorer" by Ruth Hayden, we examined the roots of our beliefs about money and how those formed our spending habits. I learned to live on a budget, be conscious of my spending and save for long-term, as well as short-term, goals. Although cash poor, Lincoln had taken great advantage of his company's 401K and had a good stash for retirement already socked away. As soon as I got a new job with a 401K that had a matching portion, I started contributing the maximum, as Lincoln advised. I was quite pleased when my retirement savings reached more than double my numeric age.

Lincoln and I bought a home, sold my Honda and replaced it with Lincoln's dream car - a VW Passat. We also had a child who, to date, has his first year of college paid for. And to this day, we do not buy pre-cut fruit.