Forest Street Kitchen

My mother, having fallen down the stairs and broken her leg on June 8, has left the hospital and moved to something called a Sub-Acute Rehab Facility. I believe, based on keen observation, that that means “not as bad as being in the hospital but we will still wake you in the night to take your vitals and you will still have a roommate who watches game shows all day long at a volume calculated to shatter Plexiglas.” It also means that the food is still bad.

My mother, as I believe I have mentioned many times, is a superb cook, and even in these days of waning appetite and dietary restrictions she still appreciates and desires sophisticated and well-prepared food. At the rehab facility, I joined her for lunch yesterday and witnessed both menu choices: roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy or Chicken a la King and mashed potatoes. Cubes of carrots were served as a side, and dessert was a gelatinous apple filling sered in tiny pie shells. It was not inspiring. I watched my mother pick at her food, keenly aware that she needs to eat, particularly to eat protein, in order to build and keep her strength up so that she can participate in physical therapy and go home. It wasn’t looking good.

Today, I decided that I should cook for her at home, and take her nutritious, familiar dishes that will be impossible for her to resist. This is not the time to experiment with Indian curries or authentic empanadas; it is a situation that requires salt of the earth, comforting recipes taken into the sterile institutional atmosphere in baskets lined with pretty napkins. My choices are somewhat complicated by the fact that the facility is some miles away, and things like grilled cheese sandwiches, omelettes, souffles or asparagus risotto will tend to arrive in a condition indistinguishable from the unappetizing dining room offerings.

I have some standards in my repertoire that will serve me well, including chicken salad and muffins, and macaroni and cheese, and small, glazed individual meatloaves with homemade mashed potatoes. There is also great potential value in chocolate - delicate, frosted brownies, slender wedges of chocolate cake and containers of homemade chocolate mousse  are definitely in order. Over the course of six weeks, though, I will need to try some recipes that are new to me. At the moment, I am relying on the 1960 Ladies Home Journal Cook Book. I am considering Stuffed Green Peppers, Creamy Beef Stroganoff, Dixie Ham-and-Chicken Potpie Chicken Tetrazzini, Almond Chicken Croquettes, Cheese and Onion Tart, Creamed Chipped Beef and Tuna Noodle Casserole.

Admittedly, these are not the dishes that will land me a spot on “Top Chef” or win me a book contract. They are old-fashioned, fairly bland, low-tech and the diametric opposite from all things molecular gastronomy. This project is not about my excitement or toe-curling gratification as a cook; it is about using my cooking skills to comfort and nurture someone who cooked for me for the first 18 years of my life (more, if you count vacations from college and law school). It is food as life support, and love in tangible form. In this case, rehab has to mean more than gaining physical strength and learning to transfer from a wheelchair to a bed. It must also mean a restoration of all things lost through pain, fatigue, loss of privacy, and living in unfamiliar surroundings.

Perhaps Amy Winehouse is just in need of some croquettes.

It’s been a while. It’s been strange days on Forest Street, and the predictable, comfortable rhythms of my daily life, including cooking and blogging have seemed very far away. First there was the tsunami of political activism that washed over me in January and left me gasping on the beach as I tried to fight City Hall. Last Sunday, around the time it became clear to me that I was fighting a losing battle and should succumb graciously to the waves, my mother fell down the stairs and broke her leg. This required surgery, the surgery and post-operative pain required morphine, and the morphine resulted in more than two days of delusions, paranoia and talk of restraints. Really, it was a lot for me. At the end of a day at the hospital I found myself more interested in some Pinot Grigio and sleep than in cooking, eating or writing.

Today I woke up after a good night’s sleep, knowing that my mother was lucid, my father had slept, and that I would have some time to begin the return to my life. On the kitchen windowsill were two 12-ounce containers of grape tomatoes I had bought Before the Fall (by which I refer to the literal, rather than the biblical) and they still seemed to be in pretty good shape. Moving slowly and cautiously, I located an onion, some garlic, and a bottle of olive oil. I vaguely remembered fresh basil in the refrigerator, but it turned out not to have been so hardy a survivor as the tomatoes.

Lunch. I knew I could make a rustic tomato sauce for lunch. I diced the onion, smashed several cloves of garlic, and started a healthy dollop of olive oil heating in a sauce pan. I sauteed the onion and garlic until it smelled like heaven, and a return to goodness, and then I threw in the tomatoes, skins and all.  As they began to  burst and release their juices I stirred, added a little wine, a little salt,  a little  oregano, and tasted every now and then to see if it was good. It felt just like cooking, and by the end (after adding a little bit of sugar, which surprised me because the tomatoes themselves were so sweet) I had sauce. I simmered it while I boiled a pot of penne, and grated fresh Gran Padano cheese.

It wasn’t elegant, and it would have been better with basil, but it was good. It was good and it was fresh and it fed the people I love. I think I’m back.

So on Memorial Day, my Friend-I-Can-Cook-With and I made a trifle. (We also made baked beans which turned out just fine, but are not nearly as interesting).

As FICCW noted, I was the architect of the trifle, and he was the engineer. This came in handy when, for example, I had baked two 9-inch rounds of cake and needed them divided into three equal portions. You may smile gently at this point and say to yourself “well, Annie’s a smart woman; she could have done that on her own…”) but you would be tragically mistaken. I cannot keep track of certain logical sorts of things (I am always confused by recipes involving “ending with a top layer of” something. Sometimes I have to draw myself a picture of alternating lasagna noodles, sauce and cheese that resembles a cross section of the earth’s core in order to avoid confusion and a last minute run to the store for extra mozzarella).

But I digress. What I envisioned were alternating layers of homemade white cake, whipped cream, strawberries and blueberries. Once the project commenced, the following changes were made:

1. There were no fresh blueberries, so I bought frozen
2. I like yellow cake better, so I abandoned the patriotic color scheme and made a butter cake
3. Having abandoned the color scheme, I decided that the last of the lemon curd might be quite good if we could work it in
4. I found the bottle of Chambord on top of my refrigerator, and decided that the children probably wouldn’t eat the trifle anyway, and that if they did, their tempers and constitutions could only be improved with a little liqueur.
5. I decided that the strawberries, although not frozen, looked a bit peaked from flying in from California, and required some fluffing.

Here is what we finally ended up doing, and, if I may so myself, it was magnificent.

Improvised Memorial Day Trifle

1. 1 quart fresh strawberries, washed, hulled and cut in slices lengthwise (reserve 5 of the most beautiful)
2. 1 pint fresh blueberries (can substitute frozen, if necessary)
3. 1 cup white sugar
4. 1 vanilla bean (optional)
5. 1 recipe white or yellow cake (enough to make two 8 or 9-inch rounds)
6. 4 pints whipping cream
7. Powdered sugar
8. Vanilla
9. Lemon Curd (optional)
10. Chambord or other berry liqueur (optional)

-Make cake batter and bake

-While cake is baking, cut vanilla bean in half lengthwise and scrape one half pod into sugar and mix with finger tips. place in bowl with strawberries, toss to mix, and set aside.

-Whip cream with hand or stand mixer until stiff peaks form; fold in powdered sugar to taste, and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Refrigerate.

-Bake cake until it is approximately 2-3 minutes past being “done.” (This will make it a bit drier and more absorbent). Cool, and divide into three equal sections.

-Crumble 1/3 of cake into bottom of bowl, sprinkle it with about 1 tablespoon of Chambord, and gently dab/spread 1/2 lemon curd over cake, cover with 1/4 whipped cream and half of the strawberries.

-Crumble another 1/3 cake, add second 1/2 lemon curd, 1/4 whipped cream, and blueberries

-Crumble final third of cake onto blueberry layer, top with 1/4 whipped cream and remaining strawberries.

-End with final 1/4 of whipped cream, and top with five beautiful strawberries arranged with four equidistant from the center and one in the center. If you are feeling very fancy, make vertical slices through the berries, leaving stem intact, and fan out.

This will be much better if it can sit for at least a few hours before serving - maybe four to six. Don’t let it it set much longer, or the cake will become mushy. Of course, this is best served in a trifle bowl or other clear glass bowl.

You will no doubt be delighted to know that I am not going to write about cooking, eating or ingesting worms. Rather, I find myself in a situation in which my carefully laid culinary plans have (once again) been turned upside down, and I am shuffling thing to make it all work.

Monday is Memorial Day, and I had planned to contribute Elise’s Three-Bean Baked Beans and my own heirloom icebox cake. Then, as is sometimes the way of things unless one is a card-carrying hermit, we were invited to a neighborhood potluck on Sunday night. this necessitates bagging the icebox cake, because it really has to sit at least overnight in the refrigerator in order for the cookies to become tender and cake-like, and I will now be gone most of the day and most of the evening on Sunday. I could, of course, take the risky path of making the cake first thing Monday morning, but I am scarred by the experience of serving to guests my magnum dessert opus only to find that the cookies have remained totally intact, mutinously refusing to absorb the gentle ministrations of the (hand beaten!) whipped cream with which they have cohabited in the refrigerator.

In addition, the party on Sunday night is at the home of my friend Alice, who is not able to eat dairy of any kind. I have never cooked for Alice, and although she clearly believes that this whole food blogging thing isn’t merely a bluff, I’d like to take something that she can eat without being wretched. As a side benefit, I would like to contribute something that tastes good to her and other party-goers, because otherwise I might just as well pick up a pre-made jello mold (no fake whip) and a bag of really nice jerky treats.

So, the icebox cake has turned into a trifle. I will make white cake (from scratch, of course), whip a lot of whipping cream and sweeten it with  powdered sugar, and layer the cake and whipped cream with blueberries and sliced strawberries. I would ordinarily address the cake layers with a little Grand Marnier or Chambord, but since many of the party-goers will be children, I’ll just go for Pretty and Patriotic as opposed to Possibly Inebriating. Its a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

As for my potluck contribution, I discovered this recipe for Horseradish Spiked Red Potato Salad on Karina’s Kitchen, and it looks delicious. It will not kill the hostess, it sounds spicy and filling, and I will just take a little Xanax to get around the anxiety of taking something to a party which I have never actually cooked before. I hear that Xanax, potato salad and a Mojito will make a person forget anything, although maybe I should be looking for something with Tequila in honor of that worm….

I have escaped from the clutches of local politics long enough to think of what I am going to feed my family this week. Given the fact that I am, by nature, more domestic peace-loving softy than aggressive strategist, I can hardly find words to express my pleasure and relief at taking an hour to spread out my “tools of the trade” (this grocery’s weekly circular, the calendar and whatever recipes are currently tugging at my soul) and plan a week of menus. Its another week of insanity; two baseball practices at dinner time, one retirement party at dinner time, and yet another endless City Council meeting, but i will not be beaten. We’re eating well, or I’ll die trying. (Note: this is actually a distinct possibility, in which case you will be notified by Mr. Annie, and may commence an appropriately lengthy and vocal period of mourning).

Here’s what we’re eating this week:

Saturday

Topopo Salad

This is one of my personal favorites, and if I poach and shred the chicken and do the other prep work ahead of time; its very easy to put together right before dinner. If you haven’t tried this yet, I urge and exhort you to give it a shot. It has, oddly enough, become “soul food” for this Catholic/Jewish/Protestant white girl from the Midwest. Go figure.

Sunday

Fish Tacos; Fruit Salad

Not healthy. Probably not even vaguely authentic. Grease splatters in the kitchen, and that lingering smell of fish. Call me crazy.

Monday

Memorial Day at Mom & Dad’s - Baked Beans and Icebox Cake

The baked beans are from Elise at “Simply Recipes,” one of the most eminently trustworthy (and exhaustive) sources of recipes outside of Mark Bittman. I have never made them before, but the recipe is close to others I have liked, and i haven’t a doubt in my mind. As for the icebox cake, it is my standard, heirloom spring/summer dessert. People who don’t like it are few and far between, and probably not necessary to my immediate well-being.

Tuesday

Macaroni & Cheese; Steamed Broccoli

A busy night meal; vegetarian, make-ahead and comforting.

Wednesday

Baked Potato Soup and Bread

Its still pretty chilly here, and I’m figuring I can get away with this soup as a hot meal one more time before it makes the transition to vichyssoise for the summer. As for the bread, it is my devout wish that it will be made by my own hands; we’ll see how it goes.

Thursday

Quick Chicken Korma, Basmati Rice and Pineapple

This meal was supposed to have happened this week, but for a variety of reasons, did not. I want it, and I’m going to have it. Nuff said.

Friday

Barbecued Ribs, Pan-Fried Potatoes and Salad

We did actually have these this week, but ribs are on sale again, we loved them, and I do not anticipate any complaints. Should there be any resistance on the part of my audience, I will eat them all myself and stagger around the neighborhood, sauce dripping from my lips, begging for some bicarb and a wet wipe.

As you may have noticed, my activities as a Bad Rad have been seriously interfering with my blogging life. In order to avoid a situation in which I am written off, left for dead, or otherwise cut from the herd, I offer you today a guest entry written by The Friend With Whom I Can Cook. He isn’t nearly as pathetic as he makes himself sound, although I am bit miffed that I have never been offered so much as a gently misted Tupperware container of this caveman/bachelor comfort food. I am therefore unable, personally to vouch for either the recipe or the kind of friend who writes a whole essay about a wonderful dish and does not offer to share. I will say, in a grudging sort of way, that he is a good cook, and that this is probably a good recipe.

Brave Hunter Man Sautees Chicken

I love to cook for other people. To be perfectly clear about the alternatives, I also sit eagerly at anyone’s table as a guest, and I enjoy my own cooking, immensely. However, I noticed (when I lived alone in Santa Barbara as a younger man) that my joyous attempts at cooking elegant and sumptuous meals for myself were always interrupted by a compulsive and somewhat frantic flurry of outgoing phone calls–typically employing the thin disguise of openings such as “hey, howzit goin‘?”–where I tried to find any friend or group of friends to come over in fifteen minutes for dinner.

In a seemingly unrelated set of circumstances (bear with me here), I’ve noticed that when I am wrestling with that dark, tangled den of demons connected with periods of deep personal sorrow, loss, and stress, I crave solitary solace with my own cooking. In particular, I crave meat fat and protein. In a momentary fit of blithe disregard for the pathetic nature of my current unemployment/loss of lover/defeat at the hands of the gods–take your pick–I indulge a crude and viscerally satisfying thought along the lines of: ME BRAVE HUNTER MAN–KILL BISON–EAT RAW FLESH. Of course, seconds later, I’m pouring another glass of Pinot Noir and tearfully meditating on the spiritual purpose of my latest loss. Call me a Renaissance man.

Now don’t get me wrong. Given the option, there is no better salve than the deeply satisfying experience of indulgently immersing oneself–alone–in the ethereal and rarified air of a fine restaurant. M. F. K. Fisher wrote most eloquently on this experience in her book, An Alphabet for Gourmets, in the chapter “A is for Dining Alone.” In case you haven’t had this experience, it costs a lot of money.

Perhaps there is a gender thing here. Frankly, I don’t know for sure. I have certainly noticed that during these times I have no interest in chocolate, ice cream, cake, or any other confection recommended by distaff specimens of the sensitive gastronomical expert club. Though I will gladly order a creme brulee or a port flan in the context of that $150 meal for one at the fine restaurant, my hurt inner caveman has no interest in spoonfuls of peanut butter dipped in chocolate chips and covered in whipped cream.

In the unwanted solitude of my new apartment, I reluctantly furnished the kitchen with a combination of hand-me-down 1950s aluminum pots (hello, Alzheimer’s!) and a set of scraped up bachelor Mirro-ware pulled out of storage. In an attempt at making that $150 last for two weeks, I deliberated at the grocery, trying not to appear too forlorn to any random acquaintance who might walk down the aisle. I frugally chose (for the umpteenth time…) my first set of spices: dried oregano, dried basil, whole cumin seed, and a sturdy pepper grinder with black pepper corns. (Pre-ground black pepper is not a food.) In an attempt to spare the reader any further ramblings, I’ll simply note that, if you think about it, there’s an obvious theme here about the connection between necessity and invention.

So here’s the budget-conscious forlorn bachelor comfort I came up with (serves 1):
Slice a skinless, boneless chicken breast into cubes or strips, being careful to cut across the grain of the meat if you chose strips. Salt and pepper. Sautee this over medium-high to high heat in a little olive oil (about 1 Tablespoon) and a heavy dollop of butter (about 2 Tablespoons–I use unsalted), stirring frequently stir-fry style. Within a minute or so, add: half a large onion chopped and a liberal sprinkling of whole cumin seed. Continue frequently stirring stir-fry style. Within another minute, add a clove or two of pressed garlic, a liberal sprinkling of oregano, and some more fresh-ground black pepper. Then add a Tablespoon or so of high-quality soy sauce or tamari. The oil, butter, soy sauce, and the small amount of chicken fat should form a thin sauce. If patience allows, put this on a plate and use a fork to eat it.

Note to guys: this turns out pretty good with either onions or garlic, if you don’t have both, and the oregano is optional. The cumin is essential, however. Also…accompany with cheap beer or wine and repeat as necessary.

Note to readers of the female persuasion: this can be served nicely in the context of a meal (multiply recipe as needed) over rice with a green vegetable on the side. There’s not much fat, honestly, and one can adjust the balance of olive oil and butter for non-caveman guests and family members.

Limping along though I am, fighting City Hall and feeling like the merest husk of a domestic goddess, I am wondering what other “Bad Rad” women throughout history did to feed their families when they were in the midst of political activism. I look at my calendar, and every night there is a meeting - City Council, a potluck where I need to hand out fliers, a neighborhood meeting where I need to catch people up and rally them to stay motivated, or a meeting that is part of my “regular” life of school activities, or seeing family and friends. Days are similarly encumbered. The Inbox is always full, and I play a little game with myself - I answer three messages about our civic battle, and then I can play solitaire, or paint my nails (black, lately). Three more sets of nerves calmed, three more fires put out, and I can read a chapter in my book. The phone rings constantly, sometimes reporters, sometimes angry people,  puzzled people, occasionally (if I am lucky) someone who just wants to know when the Macy’s bill will be paid.

So I think about women like Harriet Tubman, and Emma Goldman, and Sojourner Truth. What did their families eat for dinner while they were out marching, being arrested, and carrying signs? I was born and raised for this, and I should know the ropes.  My earliest memories have to do with attending a McGovern rally and listening to Pete Seeger and Peter Paul and Mary. I went to Oberlin College, and I have spent hours protesting everything from apartheid to nuclear proliferation. I became a lawyer because I was the foreman of a jury on which it quickly became apparent that the (probably guilty) accused was going to be convicted merely because his public defender was doing a sloppy job; this lit a fire in me to insure justice by advocating for those who were unable to afford a good defense. It was a mistake, the law school thing, and I only defended the criminally accused for a terrifying three month stint, but I did end up representing people with disabilities for many years, and the feeling of obligation to right wrong when I see it is still an important one.

The problem is that I never received any kind of education for “family life while leading an insurrection.” I assume that Mrs. King cooked for Martin and the kids, and, well, Ghandi didn’t eat a lot of the time. What happens when the woman in the family is at ground zero for the agitation? At my house,  meals are still expected on a regular basis, and although Mr. Annie is a fabulous guy (and not a bad cook) he has a full time job, and I don’t. The preparation of meals (along with the alleged cleaning of the house) has always been my gig, and one that I loved.

We have eaten pizza, we have eaten Thai, we have picked at leftovers and we have eaten canned tomato soup and grilled cheese. I want real meals, now, and I want to cook them. Was Susan B. Anthony worried about what anyone ate? Doubtful. Did Emma Goldman complain if her speaking schedule prevented her from enjoying a sit-down spread? Ptobably not. I suspect that if I burned with the true zeal of a reformer I wouldn’t care, either. I may never have books written about me as The Champion of University Town Aesthetics or The Enemy of Excessive Development, but my family is going to eat well this week, and I will be hailed on Forest Street as The Mom Who Made Dinner Again. Here’s what we’re eating in the cradle of the revolution:

Saturday

Marinated, Grilled Chicken Breasts, Asparagus with Truffle Oil and Rice Pilaf

Sometimes I make marinade, sometimes I use salad dressing, and sometimes I buy marinade; this is a week when I’m likely to pick some Italianate dressing to use as my marinade. I’ll steam the asparagus and drizzle some white truffle oil over it; maybe a little of the Fleur de Sel my friend Alice just brought me from Williams-Sonoma.* (She brought me the white truffle oil from Zabar’s in Manhattan, too).

Sunday

Spareribs, Oven Fries, Green Salad

My spare rib production method is definitely not authentic; my excuse is that I am a northern girl, and should not even pretend to be making real “cue.” I cook the ribs in a slow cooker or in a slow oven, covered with barbecue sauce, until they are fork-tender but not falling apart, and then we put them on the grill to get crisp.

Monday

Vegetarian Spaghetti, Semolina Bread, Green Salad

Since it is not time yet to get “real” tomatoes for making marinara, I buy the best sauce I can find, and sautee some veggies in olive oil to add to the sauce - zucchini, broccoli, onions, garlic, whatever comes to hand.  I’ll buy the Semolina Bread this time.

Tuesday

Pan-Braised Chicken with Mushroom Sauce, Small Pasta with Butter and Parmesan, Broccoli with Lemon Zest

Basically, I braise the chicken in olive oil until its just cooked through, then simmer it in some broth with a little Rosemary and garlic until its tender. Then I remove it from the pan, deglaze with some white wine, add sliced mushrooms and cook until they are tender, then serve the chicken with the sauce. (No sauce for Sam).

Wednesday

Drunken Noodles, Cucumber Salad

Thursday

Quick Chicken Korma, Basmati Rice, Fruit Salad

Friday

Grilled Burgers with Vidalias and Guacamole, Potato Chips and Fresh Pineapple

*Alice, who is fighting my battle with me, bought me this beautiful, intriguing jar of salt in the hopes that I would cook something and blog about it instead of stewing about local politics. How could I refuse?

I am up to my keyster in local politics at the moment, and my life is a merry, madcap whirlwind of meetings, press releases, phone calls, phone calls, e-mails and e-mails. I am sort of cooking, but nothing I would be proud to share with anyone in this forum. Also (and I am whispering) we are eating a lot of pizza, grilled things and Thai restaurant food until this is over. Which may be never.

Here’s all of the food-related news I can come up with:

1. The preserved lemons were a bust. I think there was too much lemon juice in the preserving liquid, which rendered all of those beautiful lemons mushy. I am trying to salvage any parts that I can.
2. I had Oysters Rockefeller for lunch yesterday, and I am in love, although I may have to walk 50 miles to burn off the four I consumed. (I licked the shells. No, really).
3. I have discovered that eggs fried in a little truffle butter are the most elegant meal in the world (except for Oysters Rockefeller)
4. I think my farmer’s market opens this weekend.

There are lots of good reasons to have children. They make it possible to carry on the the family line, they are adorable and cuddly when small, their little hands reach into tight spots when you lose things, and they provide a good excuse to watch “High School Musical” and buy Captain Crunch. An urge to prepare and consume a variety of interesting foods, however, is most definitely not a reason to have children. No sir. If that is an important goal for you (and its not too late) I say get a parakeet, hang out with your nieces and nephews or become a Big Brother, but do not acquire children who live in your actual home and eat your actual food.

With very few exceptions, children like food to be the same, all the time. They go through cycles, including “I only eat peanut butter, baby carrots and animal crackers,” will occasionally blossom into a new phase, such as “oh, and I really like those Thai spicy noodles,” only to dash your hopes when you make those very noodles again, saying “I don’t like those noodles any more, I just liked them that one time, I think. Do we have any baby carrots?” They are fickle creatures, those children, and I believe that they have some sort of secret manual (well, for the ones old enough to read) that directs them to tell you that they “love, love, love” something and want it in their lunch, on their toast and served at their birthday dinner, wait until you have purchased a gross of whatever it is, and then decide that they don’t like it any more.  This has happened to me with pickles, ham, frosted animal crackers, grapes with seeds, grapes without seeds, and homemade cookies of various kinds. I only have one child at home these days, but I can also warn you that for each child you harbor in your home, there will be an entirely separate set of forbidden foods, temporary infatuations and constants. If you are very lucky, there is some overlapping of the circles, and you may have two, maybe three meals you can prepare and serve to the entire family sans complaints.

Of all the things these children do, the most troubling to me as a cook is the fact that nothing can ever change. If you made a stir-fry using green peppers, and the child liked it, it is fatal to decide to use red peppers the next time “to add a little color.” The child will be suspicious, and will ask “what are the red things?” When you explain that those are red bell peppers, which are really pretty much the same as green bell peppers only, well, red, the child will say “but I liked it the way it was before.” If you are served spaghetti with cheese from a green canister when you are guests in someone’s home, your child may say (politely, in your ear) “but we don’t eat that kind of cheese. I like the kind we have at home.” Heaven forfend that you attempt to “jazz up” macaroni and cheese with smoked cheese, put chicken in the curry instead of beef, or cut the carrots in cubes instead of “coins” in chicken noodle soup. They like each dish as it appears in their iconic memory, and there is orthodoxy involved that cannot flippantly be dismissed by a parent with some cardamom and a recipe burning a hole in his pocket.

Of course, the goal is to get children to branch out and try new things, and I do that as often as possible. With age has come greater willingness to try things, and this has been true with both of my children. It is a slow, painstaking process, though; not unlike taming a wild animal. There are many “no thank you bites,” many bowls of cereal in lieu of the proffered ratatouille, and sometimes there are delightful moments when something clicks and you see the door open a tiny bit. My advice to you is to cherish those moments, be patient, and don’t get carried away. The fact that a child will eat and enjoy a bite of gyro in a restaurant on Thursday does not mean that you should plan a Greek meal for Saturday. You’re in this for the long haul, and there’s plenty of time to try a lamb kebab or a little moussaka in a month or so.

Of course, if you do not have, or plan to have children, this is all irrelevant and probably somewhat horrifying. Please don’t judge us; we’re doing the best we can. For every child you see ordering chicken strips in a chic French bistro, there is at least one parent writhing in silent agony and trying to figure out how to sell the kid on steak frites….

So we celebrated Cinco de Mayo today by eating Chicharrones de Pollo, which is actually, um, a specialty not of Mexico, but of Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, but we did have Mexican rice, tortilla chips and guacamole. It was an unhealthy, but intensely delicious and soul-satisfying meal. (I had planned to make this last week, before I was felled by the plague, so it came in handy to have everything ready for a Latin American, if not actually Mexican meal). The recipe for the Chicharrones is from the September 2007 issue of “Gourmet,” and I pretty much followed it to the letter.

Chicharrones de Pollo

1. 1/4 cup amber or dark rum
2. 1/4 cup fresh lime juice
3. 1/4 cup soy sauce
4. 1 tablespoon sugar
5. 1 1/2 lb skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into 1 1/2 inch pieces (you could use breasts, but they are less flavorful)
6. 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
7. About 2 cups vegetable oil
8. 1/2 teaspoon paprika (I used hot)

-Mix rum, lime juice, soy sauce and sugar in a shallow bowl until sugar dissolves. Add chicken, stir to coat, and let marinate for 25 minutes at room temperature.

-While chicken is in the last 5 minutes of marinating, heat 1 inch oil in a deep, 12-inch heavy skillet over medium-high heat until it shimmers.

-Whisk flour, paprika and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a second shallow bowl. Drain chicken and pat dry. Dredge in flour, shaking off excess, then transfer to a plate.

-Fry chicken in three batches, turning occasionally, until deep golden brown and cooked through, 6-7 minutes per batch. Transfer to paper towels to drain.

We ate ours with LOTS of very hot, hot sauce.