As A Globed Fruit

TO WHAT PURPOSE APRIL, DO YOU RETURN AGAIN?

We have learned by our third spring on College Place to be sure to close the bedroom window afore the sun rises as the mockingbird who returns each year to perch in our silver elm executes his entire full-throated repertoire like some sort of insane ornithological car alarm as day breaks. And, while I can't help but thrill to our feathered friend's annual homecoming, between the six month old that occasionally calls in the night and the five year old who every now and again needs reassurance that shadows are not demons, every nanosecond of sleep is precious to this soon to be forty five year old.

BEAUTY IS NOT ENOUGH.

In my eighteenth spring, I had a friend who was a guest literature teacher at Interlochen. Norm Wheeler taught a class called Man's Search For Personal Meaning. We read Voltaire, Heller, Camus, etc. He took me and my girlfriend on a double date with his Swedish wife into Traverse City to go see Sophie's Choice. It was a magnificent spring explosion of a day. I had just read "On the Road" for the first time and was seeing Norm as a kind of Neil Cassady. He gestured at the trees as he drove.
"Imagine the actual physical weight of all these leaves that have opened up that weren't here a week ago. The weight of them! It must be thousands of tons! Thousands of tons of actual, tangible, palpable Spring mass that has magically appeared because of light and water!"
I can't remember if his wife spoke English.

YOU CAN NO LONGER QUIET ME WITH THE REDNESS
OF LITTLE LEAVES OPENING STICKILY.

I took out one of our tulips with the lawn mower. It was preparing to open. I didn't actually cut it with the blade of the mower, just rolled it a bit with the wheel. It was enough to lay it flat. I propped it back up with some of last year's mulch and hoped it would suffice.
After I finished cutting the grass and was back in the living room I snuck a look outside to see how the tulip was doing. It was lying flat again.
A little while later, Nicole came in with the tulip and a admonition about being careful with the lawn mower. I confessed all. We vowed to widen the beds so as to prevent further mishap and move on.
I gave the tulip a fresh cut and we put it in a vase. It has perked up and we hope for bloomage. Although Jeanie the cat has taken some late night bites out of it's leaves and puked them up on the stairs.

I KNOW WHAT I KNOW.

I opened the bottom door of the compost bin and loaded compost shovelful by shovelful into the wheelbarrow. Feisty red worms wriggled. I wheeled it to the garden and shoveled the fragrant load of veggie poop over the dirt. I took the rented home depot tiller and worked the compost in, my arms, shoulders and back straining.
Later at the kitchen sink the compost smell wafted through the window and I smiled. I imagined the neighbors turning quickly and asking, "What's that smell?"
I smiled again.

THE SUN IS HOT ON MY NECK AS I OBSERVE
THE SPIKES OF THE CROCUS.

I look up at my house as I finished my run the other day. The paint is peeling badly. The yard looks nice, but the house needs paint. Last Fall I got a letter from the village telling me to paint my house or face a fine. I wrote them back saying times is tough, and was a little indignant because it didn't look that bad. Well, this Spring I have to agree with the village, it does look that bad. I had planned on hiring someone to do it, but looks like it'll be me climbing the ladders and scraping. I need to google "repainting cedar shingled houses." A lot of the shingles need to be replaced. If I peer into the future, I see me cussing and wrestling with a job that grows the more it feeds on. One day the house will be a deep forest green and the pride of the neighborhood.

THE SMELL OF THE EARTH IS GOOD.

Duncan and I put the first early spring crop. We laid out our rows of twine so that the seedlings would have a certain flow. We were very curious about how different the seeds looked from one and other: how different a chard from a lettuce, a lettuce from a green. I realized that if these were the moments that were elongated for eternity and called heaven, I'd be good with that. Me pouring perfectly round, tiny, red collard seeds from the packet into his cupped five year old palm. We planted mustard green, collards, kale, rainbow chard, swiss chard, rhubard chard, spinach, black seeded simpson, broccoli rabe, buttercrunch lettuce, romaine, and salad bowl. Three kinds of beans. We had dirty nails at dinner.

IT IS APPARENT THERE IS NO DEATH.

Erin and Geoff live next door now. They want to put in a vegetable garden in the back. We conferred with them and they have agreed to grow the root vegetables and we will grow the leafy greens and share over the fence. Grace and Gregory used to live there, and Grace had the most beautiful flowers growing where Erin and Geoff are planting root vegetables. We dug up the irises, the fennel bush, the columbine, the peonies and they all came over the fence and live now with us in the flower beds in the front and to the side of the house. We are thrilled. So far, no casualties in the transfer. We like to think that Grace would be happy that we have them.

BUT WHAT DOES THAT SIGNIFY?

Of course, Grace might be very, very sad about the whole thing.

NOT ONLY UNDERGROUND ARE THE BRAINS OF MEN
EATEN BY MAGGOTS.

It's been a tough year. But with children in the house, one must hope. And we're getting a tax refund that'll give us another month or two reprieve.

LIFE IN ITSELF
IS NOTHING,
AN EMPTY CUP, A FLIGHT OF UNCARPETED STAIRS.

I took a train to the city. I signed in my name when I got to the appointed address. I waited with other men in suits. When it was my turn I went in the room. I said my name and performed the tasks for the camera. I had to pretend like I was at a casino having a good time and that the man I was with was my friend. The whole exercise soup to nuts took less then ten minutes. Then I took a train home. I admired the new tulips on the walk up to the front porch. The one that I took out with the lawn mower will hardly be missed.

IT IS NOT ENOUGH THAT YEARLY, DOWN THIS HILL,
APRIL
COMES LIKE AN IDIOT, BABBLING AND STREWING FLOWERS

Maybe not enough, but something.

 Make this for dinner:

(From The New Basics)

SPRING GREEN PASTA

4 cups cold water
1/2 lemon
6 baby artichokes
1/2 pound thin asparagus spears, trimmed, cut into 1-inch pieces
16 oz. orecchiette pasta
1 Tbs. olive oil
2 Tbs. unsalted butter
1/4 cup chopped scallions
2 cloves garlic, slivered
1/2 cup oil-cured black olives, pitted
1/3 cup green peas
4 Tbs. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and Pepper to taste

1. Fill a mixing bowl with the cold water, and squeeze the lemon juice into it. Drop the lemon half into the water as well. Set the bowl aside

2. Using a sharp knife, trim off and discard the top 1/2 inch of each artichoke. Dip the cut tops into the acidulated water (to keep them from turning brown.)

3. Pull the outer leaves off the artichokes, leaving a core of tender green leaves. Gently pry open the artichokes: using a small melon baller, scoop out and discard the chokes.

4. Cut the artichokes vertically into three or four slices, dropping them into the acidulated water as you work.

5. Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a boil. Drain the artichokes, and add them to the pan. Simmer for 10 minutes. Then drain the artichokes, reserving the cooking liquid, and rinse them under cold water. Set them aside.

6. Bring the reserved artichoke cooking liquid to a boil, and add the asparagus. Simmer for 3 minutes: then drain, again reserving the liquid. Rinse the asparagus under cold water, and set it aside.

7. Bring a large pot of fresh water to a boil. Add the orecchiette, and cook at a rolling boil until just tender.

8. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil and 1 tablespoon of the butter in a saucepan. Saute the scallions and garlic for 3 minutes. Then stir in the olives, peas, reserved artichokes and asparagus, remaining 1 tablespoon butter, 1/3 cup of the reserved cooking liquid, and 3 tablespoons of Parmesan. Stir well, and cook jut until heated through, 2 minutes. Stir in 2 tablespoons of the pasta cooking water, and transfer the sauce to a heated serving bowl.

9. Drain the pasta, and toss it in the bowl with the sauce until well coated. Season with salt, pepper, and the additional 1 tablespoon grated Parmesan. Serve immediately.


SPRING
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers

To Us Be Blessed

I've had an outpouring of messages off of the comment thread. Private messages from friends. Friends who want to help. "What can we do to help?" Asked one of the messages from a friend. There are suggestions of ways to make money writing, suggestions of places to submit writing, suggestions of agencies to contact, suggestions of ways of securing health care for the kids, offers of more catering work, suggestions of ideas toI use my violin skills, teach, etc.

Psst. The reason Santa is so jolly is he gets to be the big giver. Ho.

When I had a birthday in high school up at Interlochen, I got a bit of "fall out" in the cards from my relatives, maybe a total of $30 or $40. I splurged my loot in Traverse City buying gifts for my high school friends. They thought I was generous. I selfishly basked in the light of being benevolent, of providing.

I had a fantasy for a long time of achieving wild, fantastic success and buying my Mother and Step Dad a sailboat named the "Mississippi Hot Dog" (after a well known Suzuki Violin phrase) as a symbol of thanks for all the sacrifice over the many, many years.

I suspect this is the root of all this cooking stuff too.

So, my immediate impulse was to thank friends kindly for help and deny it.

I felt embarrassed that my writing about our life could be interpreted as a call for help. I love it when people respond in comments how they are inspired by us.

"Huh," I thought.

"A tale doesn't have to be one of victory to be inspiring."

I love those comments because if feels like I'm giving something.

Every Sunday evening I find myself praying to some un-named God of Fortune/ God of employment, that this will be the week of reprieve. Even though that Judeo/Christian God and I are on unsteady terms, what with all the confusion about the holy writ interpretations, I figure an earnest prayer to God of Fortune/God of Employment won't cause too much of a ruckus up there in the firmament.

A week and a half ago, the Monday morning after the Sunday prayer, there was an email. It was an email offering help from some old friends who I had fallen out of steady contact with, but who had been reading the posts and offered financial assistance.

My immediate impulse was to thank and deny. Apparently my Fortune God /Employment God didn't quite understand what I meant by "reprieve". I meant EMPLOYMENT in a long running show or something similar in my chosen field that would get us back to making our nut and also allow me to secure a larger income base, such as culinary education or the like. I didn't mean for my friends to offer me money.

"Thanks but no." I wanted to say.

Throughout the day Nicole and I tossed it about. We talked of responsibility to our children, whether we're really ready to pack it up and throw in the towel on this particular dream, whether we're in a position to deny the help (which of course is love) from our friends, (simply because we'd rather be the ones offering), whether we wouldn't be smarter to accept what the God of Fortune offers because maybe there's a design here that we can't see yet.

Who am I to deny others the joy of giving, especially when, whether I like it or not, I have been asking? Maybe part of the issue that has got me to this point is that I haven't accepted the opportunities that have appeared, I've only taken the ones I've wanted. Maybe I've been holding too firmly to try to make the life I've fancied and not accepting the one I've been so generously given.

Maybe.

Humbling. Indeed.

We have accepted the gift. I thank you, my old, still loving friends.

I got a call from the agent. I have been offered a reading. 5 days, $100. Pretty good part. New musical by famous writer.

I got a call from my chef friend Louis. Catering a Seder, I get to sous. 1 day, $200.

The day of catering is one of the days of the reading.

I call the agent. "Is it possible that I could miss one of the days?"

"No."

Now, normally what I would do, and what I have done for the last 20 years, is tell the chef friend sorry, but I'm doing the reading. I would accept the financial loss as an investment in the possibility that doing this reading would lead to more employment and maybe even the role when and if it finally becomes a production.

I have decided to go another way. I turned down the reading. I will put on the chef's coat and cater the Seder.

Dear Friends Who Read These Posts and Care,

I thank you and I love you for every one of your kind and tender offerings. I promise to honor and utilize every one. There is nothing that would bring me greater joy than to turn the corner in this serial story and report the fortunate turn of events that I crave. But I allow that my fortune may not be in the form that I wish it to be, and that by following what is given rather than what I desire, well maybe, just maybe I'll find my bliss.

"Whatever you do may seem insignificant to you, but it is important that you do it,"
said Ghandi.

I think he was talking to me.

Try this recipe.

ROASTED SALMON WITH BEET RISOTTO

BEET RISOTTO

2 Large Beets with Greens
6 cups chicken broth divided
1 Tbs. olive oil
2 Shallots, diced
1 1/2 cups Arborio rice
1/2 cup dry white wine
Kosher salt to taste
freshly ground black pepper to taste
3 Tbs. finely chopped chives
4 Tbs. butter
1/3 cup grated Parmesan Cheese

Preheat oven to 450º.

Trim beet stems and reserve greens. Scrub beets. Wrap beets together tightly in foil. Roast in middle of oven for an hour or until beets are tender.

Unwrap beets and, when cool enough to handle, slip off skins and discard.

Chop beets into 1/2 dice. Slice greens into 1/4 inch strips.

In a saucepan, warm the broth over low heat.

Heat oil in skillet over medium high heat. Stir in shallots. Cook 1 minute. Add rice, stirring to coat with oil, about two minutes. When rice has taken on a pale, golden color, pour in wine, stirring constantly until the wine is fully absorbed. Add 1/2 cup broth to the rice, and stir until the broth is absorbed. Continue adding broth 1/2 cup at a time, stirring continuously, until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is al dente, about 15 to 20 minutes.

Remove from heat. Stir in Beets, greens, butter, chives and parmesan. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

ROASTED SALMON

4 Salmon Fillets
Olive Oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 350º

Place the salmon on a sheet pan, skin side down. Brush with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast for 15 to 20 minutes.

My Pleasure to Serve You

I dropped Duncan off at preschool and am at the library. Nicole is at home with Shaw and deep in some furious house cleaning. Nicole's mom Angela and brother Robert are visiting us in South Orange for the next few days to celebrate Duncan's fifth birthday on the 17th. St. Patrick's boy. Luck of the Irish, sure hope so.

So terrifically hard to wrap my mind around the young man that he has instantly become. All the parenting cliches come to mind. How fast the years go and you turn around and there are these people where babies used to be. Awfully true. He is long and lean, with a penchant for hiding games. He loves to disappear in plain sight. Putting his head up the back of my shirt and staying behind me, directing me to ask, "Where's Duncan?" I'll say, "I'm not sure where he is, I know he was just here and now I just feel this strange lump on my back and some icy cold hands every now and again."

If I get distracted while his head is up the back of my shirt, I'll hear a gentle reminder, "Say, 'Where's Duncan?'". And it will begin again, until I finally 'realize' that he was right here all along. I'll wrestle him to the sofa, much maniacal laughter, and go back to cooking. Soon I'll feel a head up the back of my shirt.

"Say, 'Where's Duncan?'"

In my lesser, more impatient moments I'll say something like, "Dunc look, I'm trying to cook here." He'll say, "Aw," and go to the sofa and read a book. I'll cook.

In my late night worry times, as I'm lying on my side of the bed, holding the radio to my ear and tuning instantly away from any advertisements that mention "foreclosure", I will suddenly see him behind my closed eyes and wince because I don't know what is going to happen with his future, because the ship certainly seems to be sinking awfully fast and he is blissfully unaware with a Dad who is all too aware.

Should I try to get a job at Target? Whole Foods? Home Depot? We're now at the point that these are the questions. No saviour acting job is appearing, in fact the situation only seems to be getting much, much worse.

Over Christmas, before we went to Missouri, I contacted a chef friend of mine, Louis who I had met through the internet. I sent him a message offering my sous services. He wrote back that he might have something the next week.

"Well, that was easy." I thought.

The next day, it was a Saturday, I got a call on my voice mail from Louis saying that the job he had next week had fallen through but I would be getting a call from another man, Jono who needed some help putting together a party the next day on Sunday. He needed someone to serve. Not cook anything, serve.

"Well, now I did it." I thought.

I can't remember what specific show biz disappointment I was reeling from that particular week, but an enormous battle of my internal ego immediately ensued.

I hadn't worked a catering job or a restaurant position since 1997. I had worked in restaurants and catering in New York off and on since I'd moved there and went to NYU in 1983. The story I had created went like this ( you might find it a familiar one): I would work my bottom off in any job I could in New York and take any theater job I could find until I eventually made my way as an actor and left the restaurants, light construction and catering jobs behind only to be resurrected as quaint stories (preferably on talk shows) of salad days employment. I would marvel at how hard I worked then and how it formed my character and enhanced the sweetness my success.

The fact that I had spent 13 years away from such employment made me think, certainly during those "six figure Broadway/tour - let's buy a house!" years, that the story was undeniably true. Because we were living it.

So there I was wandering around mid December South Orange, now several messages on my voice mail asking me to call Jono immediately because he needed to know if I could work the party and me completely unable to return the call and reverse the story that I had clung to since I made the plan on or about 1976.

There was a roaring in my ears. I found myself in that little children's park near the train station. A man in an overcoat walked up to the steel xylophone thingy and produced some mallets. He played a beautiful improvised melody. I returned the call.

There was nothing in my voice that betrayed the emotional distress I was going through.

I said, "Sure I can help you out."

I got the address, asked him what I should wear... etc.

I walked back home. I had something resembling resolve. I hadn't written this part of the life story in my mind, but here we were. The fact that I was taking the job was less painful than the paralysis of not returning the call.

I went and worked the party. I sliced up the ham and arranged the buffet table for Jono and his wife Elizabeth, movie and television producers who owned a brownstone in Brooklyn. I set up the bar and stationed myself behind it when the guests arrived.

At one point, one of the children at the party asked if she could have a soda. I said "Sure."

Then she said, "I want water instead."

I said, "Sure."

"You're the servant," she said,

I said, "Yes I am."

I took a break and locked myself in Jono's bathroom. I looked in the mirror. I remembered when I worked at Blue Water Grill in 1996/97. I was the oldest on the staff then at 31. One of the other waiters affectionately nicknamed me "Papa." I looked at my 44 year old self in the mirror.

I thought about Anthony Hopkins in that movie... I can never remember the title, the "I'm a butler my whole life and even though Emma Thompson loves me, I can't do anything about it" movie... Remains of the Day! Thank you.

I cleaned up after the folks had eaten and drunk their fill, accepted Jono's money and a gift of a bag of leftover meatballs, made my way from Brooklyn back to Penn Station and caught a late train home.

Jono called me to let me know that he had recommended me for another party; a brunch birthday for a friend of his on the upper west side. I was to call Jeffrey.

I called Jeffrey and worked the party. Jeffrey turned out to be Jeffrey Lane the writer/producer who I first met on The Day and Nights of Molly Dodd where I had a recurring role and he was the writer in 1989. I ran into Jeffrey again because he was the book writer of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. We shared cocktails and conversation at the opening party in Los Angeles when I did the tour in 2006/7. And now here I was serving his coffee and arranging his salmon for his guests.

I swept the floor of his kitchen in his magnificent Manhattan 3 bedroom on Riverside drive and did the dishes when the party was over. He gave me some cash and I took the train home.

It hadn't taken long for my worst fear in taking these jobs to materialize. I had hoped to remain exquisitely anonymous during my foray back into private catering, and it was blown on the second job. The business knew. Show business knew.

Late one night Nicole and I talk. Trying to figure out what to do. She's been attempting to find us health insurance. Going to the Medicaid office in Newark with the children in tow and presenting our papers, being told after three three hour visits that she's in the wrong office and directed to the other office, New Jersey Family Care. She starts over again and delays 5 month old Shaw's vaccinations until we can arrange some kind of coverage.

She's also trying to modify our mortgage with the bank, we don't qualify for the federal programs because it's an independent bank not backed by Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac. They do offer some moderate modification and we are in negotiations.

She is exhausted with worry. So am I. We are swollen with it. We talk about it in our bedroom as the kids sleep. It's not just the hours in the welfare office or the endless phone calls to the bank, the fruitless auditions, those are just tasks. It's the worry that we're attaching to those tasks and the fact that we're not taking equal parts joy in the moments around us, that's what's hurting us. We're not welcoming happiness. Not singing enough, dancing enough. We're not taking of what's right in front of us.

We come to the conclusion that if this "crisis" robs us of our happiness we lose. If it's really just about holding on to this overpriced old house, it's just a house and it's not worth it. That there will always be a crisis no matter what the outcome of the present one is and our job is not to "lose it" but to keep inviting the life that is waiting for us to appear. If we were rich, we'd never get to learn this lesson.

Let's find a way to love this terrible time. Then we'll win. And somehow, in a way we can't see right now, that is the lesson to learn. We need to guard our happiness and nurture it furiously for ourselves and the family. Because, for your kids, your life is your lesson.

If not now, when?

Chef Louis called me again. He has an idea for starting an underground restaurant in his house. Would I help by using sous skills and front of house skills?

"Sure, I can help you out!" Because, I have recently relearned, I can.

I noticed the other day when stopping by the Home Depot for a new light switch that they are hiring.


FOR THE CORNMEAL BISCUITS

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup fine cornmeal
2 tsp. sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
6 Tbs. cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
3/4 cup sour cream or plain whole milk yogurt
Milk

FOR THE RATATOUILLE

1 large eggplant (1 1/2 pounds) cut into 1-inch chunks
3 small zucchini (3/4), cut into 3-inch chunks
7 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. kosher salt
3/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
3/4 pound Italian sausage, casings removed
1 large onion, cut into i-inch dice
1 red pepper, cored and cut into 1-inch chunks
3 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 1/2 pounds plum tomatoes
4 sprigs thyme
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley or basil

1. For the biscuits: In a bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Using a pastry cutter or fork, cut in the butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Fold in the sour cream. Gently knead mixture until it comes together in a ball, adding a drop or two of milk if necessary. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 450º.

2. For the ratatouille: In a bowl, toss eggplant and zucchini with 5 tablespoons oil, season with 3/4 teaspoon salt and 3/4 teaspoon pepper. Spread vegetables in a single layer on one or two large baking sheets (do not crowd vegetable). Transfer to oven and roast, tossing occasionally, until golden, about 20 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large, deep preferably oven-proof sauté pan, heat 1 tablespoon oil. Crumble sausage into pan and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 7 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer sausage to a paper-towel lined plate.

4. Return pan to medium heat and add remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Stir in the onion, pepper, garlic and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt. Cook until softened, 5 to 7 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes and thyme sprigs; simmer gently until tomatoes are cooked and mixture is stew-like, about 10 minutes. Stir in the sausage, roasted vegetables and parsley. If you are not using an oven-safe pan, transfer mixture to a 2-quart gratin dish or baking pan.

5. Divide biscuit dough into six equal balls. Use your palm to flatten each ball into a 1/2 -inch thick disk. Arrange on top of ratatouille mixture. Brush biscuit lightly with milk.

6. Transfer skillet or pan to oven and cook until biscuit are golden, 25 to 30 minutes. Let cool 10 minutes before serving.

The Kindness of Yeast

I had a couple of appointments in the city earlier in the week; an audition for a new musical up at ART in Cambridge this spring, and a dinner meeting with the publishers of the children's books I'm writing.

Audition was first. I took the train in and arrived at the studio, there was one fellow ahead of me. I organized the four scenes they had asked me to prepare and got my audition book open to the song I would sing. I gave into a pacing/wandering between the studio and drinking fountain while I waited. The fellow went before me. I could hear him through the door. He sang and then read one of the same scenes I was asked to prepare, so I knew we were up for the same role(s). He was shorter than I, rounder, and bald. What is called a "character" actor in the business. Over time it is the slot that I find myself in. On the breakdowns with the audition info that the agency sends me via the emails I often see the words "seeking a character actor to play..."

I heard genial laughter and "thank yous" coming from the room and knew that I was next. The other guy came out with the casting assistant who said, "Drew? Are you ready?" I walked to my laid out materials, gathered them and said "Yes."

How many auditions? Truly. I wonder what the actual number is.

I walk in and there are the two readers facing me off to the side in their chairs. One male, one female. There is the audition accompanist behind the piano. There is a group of three people behind a long table facing me. There is a woman sitting center who I presume is the director, the casting associate, and another man... perhaps the writer?

"Hello," I say and make my way to the accompanist. I put my book in front of her and ask her if she knows the piece, she says she thinks so. I arrange the material for the scenes on the body of the piano for quick retrieval after the song.

I sing the song. I stand in front of the strangers and sing a song. I arrange myself at a slight angle off stage left and sing. At the key change the accompanist who had been doing doing well, doesn't change the key. One corner of my mind says, "c'mon accompanist... you can do it... key change." She does. Another corner of my mind is in the song, telling the story, "acting". This part controls what is being seen. Another corner of my mind is running a kind of narrative like this: "This is too much song for these "roles". The parts I'm auditioning for don't need this much of a song. But dammit, this is a song I sing well. It's difficult, it's complex. I've worked on it for years now and have had successful, fruitful auditions with this song. I sang this song for Stephen Sondheim and got the job." In yet another corner, another mind monitor is hard at work driving the physical work of the song production, "Easy, easy now. Big breath... flat tone and... wait for it.... vibrate. Volume! Breath! More Volume....pull back and.... head voice."

I finish singing the song for the strangers. There is no response. I walk to the piano to retrieve the material for the reading/acting section of the audition.

The woman who I presume is the director asks me what the name of that song was. I tell her. A phase that must easily repeat 12 times in the piece. She says "Ah. Okay let's take a look at 'Yawkey'". Yawkey is a character in one of the four scenes and four characters that I have been asked to prepare. I say, "Great!"

I think, "Shit. Yawkey is the one I like the least, and in my own humble opinion, the one that is written the most poorly. 2 and a half pages of dialog that is colorful "character" dialog, but with nothing much happening, no actual event.

I step back, hold up my sides and begin. The first line is a kind of joke. No response. No response throughout the scene as I read and (death) try harder.

The voice coming out of me doesn't sound like me. I feel fake.

I am done. The woman who I presume is the director says. "Thanks." Which means, "no" and also means "we're done, we're not going to read the other scenes."

I gather things, make eye contact with the accompanist and say "Thanks," which means thank you for not screwing me up too badly, and I leave the room.

I probably spent an hour and a half reading the script for this play. Another hour and a half working on the scenes, differentiating characters. An hour in on the train, an hour back. 1/2 hour waiting in the hall. 9 minutes in the audition room. You do the math.

As I take the elevator down from the studio and emerge on 8th Avenue I have instant post audition regret. I think that as a result of experiencing what didn't work in the scene I now know what would have worked. "If only I'd played the opposite."

No really. What is the number? 23 years in. How many auditions?

I have performance regret for an audition for a job I didn't really want in the first place. Do I really think that the resentment doesn't show? Do I really think that I still have the eye of the tiger? I have the eye of the beaten dog and frankly I wince when someone moves too quickly in the room. Hard to believe I'm going to get a job this way. In fact, sort of ludicrous.

I walk slowly up 8th Avenue. Thirties, Forties, Fifties, to the Lincoln Center area where I have the second appointment. A dinner meeting with book people. I take twenty dollars out of the bank and give it to a bartender at P.J. Clarke's and he gives me a scotch on the rocks. I kill more time until I'm supposed to meet the next group of strangers by walking around the upper West Side. I call Nicole and she fills me in on kid status. She makes me feel better by saying, "Oh well." when I tell her about the audition. And I do. I feel better.

I feel myself steeling a little as it gets close to time to meet the second group of strangers for the day. I'm sitting on a bench on the perimeter of Central Park, and I say "breathe Drew. Let the crap go. Have a little birthday today on me."

I walk to Cafe Fiorellos and meet the book people.

I recognize the first stranger Emily immediately. This stranger, whom I have met only via the internet gives me a glass of champagne, an embrace and says "I'm so excited and happy to meet you." I recognize the other stranger Sarah because she actually looks like she did in high school, and although we didn't hang out, I know her too. Another embrace. The subject of the book arrives, another stranger who I recognize because I have done my research. And the final stranger who is a complete stranger to me arrives, a dinner guest who is an interested party in the product.

(Sorry for being semi vague about this stuff, but as to content of the books I have been advised to be discreet.)

The dinner flies by. Truly the 3 hours seem much much shorter than the nine minutes I spent with the other strangers earlier in the day. We order food. We order wine. The publishers present slick and beautiful materials and outline their goals. The interested party tells his story and explains his interest. I tell my story. The subject of the book to be tells his story. We laugh and the publishers brush away some tears. We talk about how to tell the story. The strangers listen to me and show signs of liking my ideas. I like my ideas. I eat a semi okay thin crust Pepperoni pizza. Emily has a disappointing ragu pasta. Subject has a disappointing broccoli rabe pasta. Sarah and Interested Party share a semi okay Margherita pizza. We finish wine, have some personal talk and make plans for the next step.

The voice coming out of me sounds like me. I feel real.

We leave the restaurant and all walk down Broadway for a bit before we separate with more hugs. There is a true warmth that I take with me as I walk the rest of the way down Broadway and catch my train at Penn Station.

Without giving too much away, the subject's story has much to do with following bliss. I think about that on the train.


here's a better pizza:

The Dough

2 tsp. active dry yeast
1 cup warm (105º to 115º) water
3 cups all purpose flour
1 Tbs. salt
2 tsp. sugar
1/4 cup plus 1 Tbs. Extra Virgin Olive Oil


The Sauce

1 28 oz. can diced San Marzano Tomatoes in juices
1 Tbs. fresh chopped oregano
1 large garlic clove minced
2 Tbs. fresh chopped basil
2 or 3 Tbs. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Salt to taste

1 lb. fresh mozzarella cut into strips and drained
Fresh basil leaves
drizzle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Toppings of choice

In a bowl combine warm water and yeast. In a food processor with dough blade on dough setting combine flour, salt and sugar. Mix thoroughly. Add yeast mixture and olive oil and combine until dough forms into a ball. If dough is too sticky add more flour 1 Tbs. at a time, if too dry add warm water 1 Tbs. at a time.

Remove dough from processor and knead on a floured surface for 5 to 10 minutes. Form into a ball, place in an oiled bowl, cover tightly with plastic wrap and let rise for about an hour or until doubled in size.

Combine tomatoes, oregano, garlic, basil, olive oil and salt in a bowl and marinate for at least an hour.

Preheat oven to 450º

Punch down dough and knead for another 5 to 10 minutes. Divide into two balls, wrap tightly with plastic wrap and let rest for 10 to 20 minutes.

Take one of the dough balls and stretch into desired size pizza round. Then repeat with second dough ball.

Top each pizza with sauce, cheese and desired toppings.

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, remove from oven and let rest for 3 minutes before slicing and topping with basil leaves.

Indirect Heat is Still Pretty Hot

A couple of days after the Manhasset experience, I took the train into Manhattan to an upscale hotel just off of Times Square and met with the Masterchef people. We did an on camera interview for about 45 minutes. What was revelatory to me, was how much I had to talk about, and about how all of it was true. The Masterchef blurb in the email said, "Do you love to cook and want to change your life?" I love to cook and frankly I need to change my life so how could I not respond? It was tempting to let it become a "should have /could have" because the odds of getting in are just crazy. These folks went to every region of the country and met with thousands and thousands of people who felt just as "called" as I did. And yet, sometimes you have to buy the magic beans and play the lottery, especially when it pretty much is your only option.

In the hotel room the camera rolled and the casting producer asked me the basics: "Why do you cook?" She asked about my first experiences with food, what is my signature dish, yada, yada. She asked me about my career, my family. I told her about Paul and my kids. I told her how Capra-esque this whole experience seemed to me with cooking itself acting as some sort of Clarence the angel causing me to view what is most important in my life each and every day just in the act of getting food on the table for my family, all the while the Potters of the world getting closer and closer to the front door.

I felt myself getting passionate.

She asked me what it would be like to win this competition. I scoffed. I said I hadn't allowed myself to think or imagine that far ahead; that the rejection ratio inherent in my business has taught me to kind of "stick and move." Not to try to dwell on the "what ifs" when you're up for a big job, because the repetitive stress of the crashes when the jobs inevitably fall through is too tough on the psyche.

I went on about how it is silly to call this show "Masterchef" anyway. The idea that I could go from amateur to master in five weeks is absurd. More scoffing from me.

She said, "Imagine what it would be like to bring home the cash prize on this show. Imagine that you are telling your wife that you won and are bringing her the money."

She had found the button, and she had pressed it.

I was overcome. I was awash in tears. Just the idea of bringing home a big pot of golden bacon and relieving the stress around here for a while did me quite in. I was embarrassed. I tried to breathe through it and respond to the question. I managed "We've been through a lot, and my wife has been pretty wonderful."

As I emerged from the emotion with some laughter I said, "Is there a cash prize? I really hadn't even thought about it."

"There is a sizable prize."

After the interview, the casting producer pressed her card into my hand and said, "I really want you to do this. I would root for you."

And I felt that thing that I hadn't felt in acting auditions for a very long time. When you feel it it's golden. The feeling of, "Oh, I'm the one they're looking for."

Over that weekend we made the home movie that Masterchef required. We did pizzas from scratch with Duncan assisting, Shaw observing from the bouncy seat and Nicole on camera. In my mind ever preparing for let down, I'm thinking "Even if this doesn't happen we'll have this great home movie."

I sent off the movie, food photos, family photos, show photos with the very personal 27 page background check to the address in Southern California and did my best to forget about it. I wrote about the first experience here in this forum.

I received an email saying that I should not write about my Masterchef experience or tell anyone about it as I am still being considered and talking to the press or blogging could jeopardize my chances.

So, they had read my stuff. I took the entry off and let them know that I had.

Another two weeks go by and I get another email. This one telling me I am still be considered and I need to now make arrangements to have certain dates open for a 4 to 6 hour interview/psych test and be prepared to go to California for as long as 5 weeks. The email tells me they should be able to tell me if I am a finalist on Feb. 15.

In the meantime, I'm going to acting auditions and starting to wonder what would happen if I did get Masterchef. Maybe I would get more of that golden feeling. Then it dawns on me. "The greatest thing that could happen to my acting career would be to get the cooking show." Even if I got knocked off after the first week, it would give me some level of D list celebrity cred that seems to be absolutely required to get a part on Broadway these days. And what if I did win? What if I won? Could I instantly become a Masterchef? Would I travel the world and become a food network celebrity and eat and drink and.....

I started to want it.

I started to think, what if I did become a chef? What if I did leave the acting business behind? What if I did something else? Now, you must understand, I have been focused like a laser on making my living in this business for the last 26 years, and never really have entertained the notion of imagining doing something else, not really, not like this. And frankly the idea of doing something else thrilled me no end. The idea of not dragging myself to auditions for pieces I don't really want to do and trying to squeeze myself into some concept of what it is I think the folks who are casting want, the idea of not having to deal with a 96% rejection rate, the constant failure, to have some say over the outcome of my life, these ideas, the newness of them, the almost naughtiness of them made me quite drunk indeed, and I fear/hope might have changed me forever. Because I tell you, the thing that hurts me lately is I don't enjoy the acting enough. I'm mad at the acting for not staying lucrative and I wonder if I could take that onus off of it, if I could love it again someday... I kind of hope so, because I miss loving it. It is, after all, just an art form. My economic problems are not it's fault.

Masterchef folks were not the only ones who read my last piece here. An old friend from high school read it. Sarah Sandback. She read my stuff on Facebook and liked it. Sarah wrote me to tell me she is starting a publishing company called Kid Zenith and asked I be interested in writing children's literature for them. It was the Masterchef piece that she responded to.

I stood at the grill with the chicken. The charcoal smell reminding me of camping and Michigan like it always does. Smells like Dad-hood. I thought, "My life is changing. Whether or not it happens, the Masterchef thing, packing my stuff in the cooler and driving to Manhasset changed my life."

I wrote Sarah back and said, "Oh yes. Oh yes indeed." I submitted some material, they liked it and asked for more. They sent me stipend checks and contracts. Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.

I was in Michigan on February 15 when the Masterchef folks were supposed to let me know. They didn't call. I got grumpy.

On the 16th around 5:00 as I was making some pasta for the family (broccoli rabe and sausage) my phone vibrated. I saw it was a southern California number. As I finished laying out the sliced Italian sausage in the saute pan I felt the second vibration indicating that there was a voice message.

I stayed in the moment of not knowing. I allowed myself the thought of "Why would they call if it was no?". I thought that if it is no, I'm glad that I was cooking when they called because yes or no, I'm going to keep cooking.

It was no. The casting manager in Southern California told me that casting and the food judges were very impressed with me but I would not be a finalist on Masterchef. They wished me well and said that had my file now and I would be considered for future seasons.

Back in New Jersey, in the house that we are now considering leaving in a very real way. Trying to squeeze the concept into our upright midwestern thoughts that maybe there is no shame in not meeting a mortgage. Trying to wrap our minds around the concept of foreclosure in a real way. Knowing that if writing and cooking are the future, well we could do that anywhere; it doesn't have to be in the most expensive area of real estate in the world. The Kid Zenith stuff is awesome and points to a kind of future, but does not stop the boat from it's immediate sinking. As far as the acting, I keep thinking about that definition of insanity, "Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome."

I'm cooking differently lately. With more precision, with more purpose. Masterchef changed my life.

BARBEQUE CHICKEN WITH DIJON FRIED RICE

MICHAL SYMON'S BBQ SAUCE
(If I don't have time for this, I use Famous Dave's)

1 Tbs. butter
1 c. chopped red onion
2 Tbs. minced garlic
2 Tbs. mince jalepeno
1/2 c. espresso beans, mashed with the flat side of a knife
4 ounces Worcestershire
4 ounces tomato paste
1 ounce apple cider vinegar
1 ounce balsamic vinegar
1/2 c. packed brown sugar
2 ounces apple cider
4 ounces veal stock
1 Tbs. chile powder
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. coriander


Melt butter and sweat onion, garlic and jalepeno. Add the remaining ingredients and cook on very low heat for 1 hour. Strain through a chinois.

BBQ CHICKEN
(I usually use chicken thighs with skin and drum sticks that I buy from Costco)

Put 2 quarts of water in a large non reactive bowl and dissolve 1/2 cup to 3/4 of a cup kosher salt. Put chicken (8 to 10 parts) in the brine and let soak for at least 4 hours.
Remove chicken and pat dry with paper towels.
Place about 30 charcoal briquettes evenly on one side of grill and light.
Take about a 1/2 cup of olive oil and brush on the chicken parts. Grind fresh black pepper over pieces.

Sear chicken in batches over the direct heat side of grill about 2 minutes per side. Should flame a great deal.
When chicken is seared on both sides transfer to the indirect side of grill and brush on BBQ sauce. Cover grill with vents open and cook over indirect heat for twenty minutes. Flip chicken brush on more sauce, cover and grill for 20 minutes more.

Sprinkle with chopped fresh herbs of your choice. (I like chives and basil among others.)

DIJON MUSTARD FRIED RICE

Vegetable oil
1 onion chopped
chopped mixed veggies - ie: broccoli, green peas, carrot, etc.
2 eggs beaten
4 cups cooked sushi rice
2 Tbs. soy sauce
3 Tbs. Dijon Mustard
1/4 cup chopped basil (Thai if you can get it)
1/4 cup chopped scallion
Fresh ground black pepper

Heat oil in a wok over high heat. (1 Tbs. at a time) Saute onion until soft and set aside. Add oil and saute veggies in batches until bright in color and soft and set aside. Add oil and cook eggs until firm remove, dice into 1 inch chunks and set aside. Add oil and heat rice through. Add soy sauce and mustard mix thoroughly. Fold in previously cooked ingredients and basil. Grind pepper over and mix again. Remove to large bowl and top with scallions.

Room Temperature is Relative to the Room

Nicole's Dad died the day after Christmas. I guess I sort of wanted to more artfully work that in, but really what else is there right now? Nicole, Duncan and Shaw stayed another week in Missouri after Carrie's wedding and helped Angela (Nicole's mom) with stuff. I came back to New Jersey so that I could jump back into whatever might come along work wise, and as of January 23rd, I remained poised like Michael Phelps on the block - ready, ready.... and... ready.

During my week alone I dismantled Christmas, deep cleaned the house, slept very little and cooked for one, something I hadn't done in a long time. On Friday on the phone with Nicole, who was returning Monday, she asked me if I had missed the date for the amateur chef reality show entry that Kara had sent me via the emails. I checked and by God it was that Sunday. I downloaded the application, map quested the Manhasset location, and began constructing the dish I would plate for the judges in my head.

To my mind the challenge was to create a dish that would be yummy at room temp or chilled. There would be no heat element provided, you had to wait in line, go in the room and plate your dish.

One of the side effects of eating alone all week was that I was drawn to the wok. In order to keep my middle aged waist line in check I find that I need to eat small meals (Low fat protein, simple carb, veggie) every three hours. This regimen is easiest to maintain when I'm doing a show. I can do all the cooking in the morning and load up small meal sized tupperware in my bag and head to the train. I save money and drop weight. When the family is all home and I'm in between jobs, it's more difficult to perpetuate this regimen because of the high value we place on the dinner ritual. However, during the alone week, I discovered that putting the protein, carb, and veggie together in the wok with some asian seasonings was providing a tasty new angle on the small meal regimen. So, I was in an Asian frame of mind.

So, Asian, room temp and show them chefiness. I had salmon in the freezer. I researched poached salmon and learned the french way. Ah! It started to form.
I would do an East meets West across the plate poached Salmon. On the right side of the plate I would do Satay noodles and continue the Satay sauce on the fish. On the right I would do broccoli rabe with shaved parmesan or pecorino and a green pea/mint sauce that carried over to the fish. Across the bottom of the plate Asian marinated mushrooms. While each sauce would be pure East or West, the sides would have secret elements that would foot them in both East and West cuisines. In other words, the satay noodles would use Italian spaghettini instead of bean thread noodles, and the broccoli rabe would be prepared in the wok using soy, oyster sauce, and toasted sesame. The fact that the salmon was the common ground felt very right due to it's prominence in both cuisine worlds.

I had a plan and I had a whole day to prepare. After a trip to the market, I put on my Iron Chef chef's jacket Nicole bought one Christmas in Brooklyn years ago and spent the day preparing my dish.

One of my last conversations with Paul, he sat at the counter in Marshfield while I made the sweet sausage/cream spaghetti for dinner. I told him that I had made a decision that I would somehow get some formal culinary training this year. I told him what he already knew, that we couldn't survive another year like the one we'd just had unless I had another way to make money. He said he thought it sounded like a good idea. What I loved him for is what he didn't say. He didn't say, "Are you crazy for ever trying to support my daughter and grandchildren by singing and dancing and telling stories? You better get a real job McVety." No, he didn't say that, and I loved him for it. He said the spaghetti looked good and asked me what "caramelized" meant.

I have made such a decision and since I can't afford any training until I get my next lucrative acting job I am sort of Catch 22ing it here. My toes curled over the starting block, head bowed, knees flexed, measured breathing, eyes on the prize, ready... ready...

I spent the day before making the sauces, poaching the Salmon, rehearsed plating the dish and then packed everything in the cooler so that I could plate with ease and rapidity in front of the judges in Manhasset, bringing all necessary tools with me.

I followed the map quest instructions arrived and waited with the other amateurs for three hours in the 22º Long Island air. When my turn came, I plated the dish on a waist high table with eight other amateurs on either side of me. The judges came and I explained my dish. I had gotten as far as "hidden clues in each side element" when one of the two judges, the food judge I guess, asked me if I had had any culinary training. I said "No." She nodded and moved on with out tasting. The other judge, who I guess was the personality judge, asked me what was the most life changing event I had ever experienced. I told him about Paul, and that I now am really responsible for his and my family and I have to find a way to keep feeding them. He pointed me toward the girl in the back.

I cleared my plate and repacked everything. I made my way to the girl in the back who told me that I would be going on to the next round. I was actually giddy like any American Idol contestant going to Hollywood. While I had been waiting in line, I watched the people relate to each other, telling about their dishes, struggling to keep their Lobster Fra Diavalos, their venison stuffed peppers warm. I found I didn't have anything to say to anyone, and I worried about it. I worried that I wouldn't have the reality TV show personality thing kick on when I needed it. But an interesting thing happened. Once I got into the room and plated the food, and saw other people's food all I wanted to do was talk to them about it. "Man, that looks great! Beautiful." Not sure what that's all about except that I'm not very good at small talk.

There will be more Masterchef to come. It's not the same as enrolling at the French Culinary Institute, but it keeps me moving in a certain direction.

SPICY ORANGE SATAY/PEPERONCINO NOODLES

6 tablespoons smooth natural peanut butter,
1/2 cup dark brown sugar
3 tablespoons seasoned rice vinegar
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 to 3 teaspoons hot chili paste (Sambal Oelek)
1/4 to 1/2 cup orange juice

1/2 lb. Spaghettini Noodles (I used ones pre-infused with peperoncino. )
Cucumber, peeled and cut into match sticks
Radish cut into match sticks
Chopped scallion green part only.

Whisk sauce ingredients until smooth and season with salt and pepper.
Boil pasta in salted water until al dente. Toss with enough sauce to coat pasta. Refrigerate serve cold garnished with cucumber, radish and scallion.

MARINATED SHITAKE/PORTABELLO/OYSTER MUSHROOMS

1 tsp. sliced garlic
1 Tbs. sliced fresh ginger root
3/4 pounds mixed mushroom caps wiped clean and stems removed.
1 tsp. Sambal Oelek
1/2 cup sesame vinagrette
2 tsp. sesame oil
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup Rice wine vinegar

In heavy saucepan, heat the sesame oil over medium heat. Add the garlic, ginger root, and mushrooms and saute for three minutes. Deglaze pan with vinegar and reduce over medium high heat until almost no liquid remains. Stir in sambal oelek and salt and remove from heat. Add the vinagrette and stir. Cover and refrigerate and allow to marinade for at least six hours.

EAST/WEST BROCCOLI RABE

1 bunch broccoli rabe
2 Tbs. olive oil
2 cloves garlic sliced
2 tsp. toasted sesame seeds
2 Tbs. soy sauce
2 Tbs. Oyster sauce
Shaved Pecorino Romano

Fill stock pot to half with water and bring to boil. Submerge broccoli rabe in boiling water for two to three minutes. Remove from boiling water and submerge in ice water immediately.

Heat olive oil in wok over high heat. Add garlic and saute for 20 to thirty seconds. Add broccoli rabe in batches, do not over crowd. Add soy sauce, oyster sauce, and toasted sesame seeds, salt and pepper and saute in wok until wilted and tender - two to three minutes. Remove from wok and allow to cool. Cover and refrigerate. Garnish with shave Pecorino Romano.

POACHED SALMON

Two Leeks,
2 cups white wine
2 cups water
Bay leaf
3 shallots
2 cloves garlic
salt and pepper
Salmon fillet

In Dutch oven with lid, heat all ingredients until wine and water are boiling. Place salmon skin side down until just submerged. Reduce heat until liquid is just barely bubbling. Cover and poach salmon for 15 minutes. Remove salmon and reserve broth as fish stock. Allow salmon to come to room temperature then cover and refrigerate.

GREEN PEA SAUCE

1 cup frozen or fresh green peas
1/2 stick butter
splash or two of cream
1/2 cup fish/poaching stock
Tbs. fresh chopped mint

In blender combine peas, butter, cream, fish stock. Blend until all elements are incorporated. Add more stock as necessary until desired consistency is reached. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Stir in chopped mint.

Nothin But a Chicken Pie

All right then. Nicole is at the NJ DMV with Duncan getting her license renewed. Shaw, momentarily asleep in the swing in the dining room, is snoring through her cold. We keep the house @ 60ºF in the winter here at the house where we live. It gets cold. We wear sweaters and put a single duraflame log in the tiny fireplace and stay forcefully cheerful, almost maniacally upbeat. We giggle self

righteously when we hear other folks complaining about the cold when their houses are turned down to 68ºF. If someone visits and says, "It's freezing in here.", I say, "No. Freezing is 32ºF. It's 60ºF. Almost twice as warm as freezing!"

If it gets absolutely unbearable, we just run out and jump in the incongruous hot tub that we own and that heats you up to 104º and keeps you warm for a good 45 minutes on your return.

I hadn't used the hot tub in awhile because it didn't seem to be in line with our our borderline poverty circumstance. How could I take something so luxurious as a hot, bubbly bath when the situation is so dire? Didn't fit. Rich people hot tub. Poor folks are cold and miserable and stay that way. I jumped in the other night when it dipped below 20º outside and realized that this was the first indulgence I had allowed in a while and that now is exactly the time to yield to this extravagance.

In my mind, I guess I was thinking, "I'll use the hot tub when I get a steady job." Silly.

Once I had submerged and was staring at Orion and the occasional jet on it's descent into relatively near Newark International, I thought, "Darn this feels good. Should have been coming out here every night. Fool. Who are you to deny yourself the pleasures that are readily available in the moment because you deem yourself not worthy in general, in some self imagined broader judgment sphere? If this thing is gone someday, Fool, you're going to be good and pissed that you didn't enjoy it while you had it. Fool." Seems to be a running theme.

Which of course leads me to Chicken Pie.

It's later in the day and Shaw may or may not be more sick than we thought. She's pretty miserable and crying long and loud at times when she usually smiles and bubbles. She has a chest full of phlegm that you can feel and hear when she breathes. Nicole called the doctor and she's going in this afternoon. We're worried because 11 week old Shaw is not covered on our insurance because we can't afford it and what is going to happen at the payment counter? Hey Joe Lieberman. Hey.

Duncan's watching some Christmas movies. He's been kind of defiant and gloomy the last couple of days. Not like him. I saw a piece in the Times the other day, a poll about how 50 % plus of out of work folks are worried that their kids are being emotionally affected in an adverse manner by their parent's unemployment. You have to wonder. Kids know everything, even if they can't express it. They know it and they feel every current that flows in a family. I know I did. I think I might be able to cheer him up with a late afternoon hot tub.

Which of course leads me to Chicken Pie.

It's later in the evening. Duncan is in bed. Shaw is fine. The doctor says she has a cold. Something nice in knowing that we are over cautious with the second child too. By the time Nicole got to the doctor's office, Shaw was completely over being miserable. In fact she was in a terrific mood. She was bubbling to every one she met, smiling, laughing, complementing them on their taste in jewelry. The doctor was like, "There's nothing wrong with her. At all." Nicole felt relieved. At the payment counter, they said, "Cigna Co pay?" Nicole said. "Sure. Yes." She paid the $25 and came home. We live to fight another day.

Which reminds me of Chicken Pie.

When I mentioned that I was stuffing a chicken into a pie in my status the other day, the response was immediate and visceral. I believe people like to hear two things in life. They like to hear "Chicken", and they like to hear "Pie" put them together and there is a definite Gestalt phenomenon. This was a little labor intensive, but definitely worth it and made us food drunk with the awareness that the whole was indeed greater than the sum of it's chicken parts.

CHICKEN PIE (Adapted from Ina Garten)

1 whole chicken (3.5 to 6 lbs.)
1/3 cup dijon mustard
1 bunch green onions
Kosher Salt
Pepper
5 cups chicken stock
2 chicken bouillon cubes
1 1/2 sticks butter
2 cups chopped yellow onions
3/4 cup flour
1/4 cup heavy cream
2 cups diced carrots, blanched for two minutes
2 cups frozen peas
1/2 cup minced fresh parsley leaves

Pastry:

3 cups flour
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1/4 pound cold butter diced
1/2 cup to 2/3 cup ice water
1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon water
Kosher Salt and cracked pepper

Preheat oven to 425ºF. Rub Dijon mustard all over chicken and rub salt in the cavity. Stuff bunch of green onions in the cavity, truss, and roast for 1 hour to 1 hour 15 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool.
Remove meat from bones and carcass and discard skin. (Save bones and carcass for stock.) Cut or shred the chicken into bite size pieces.

In a small saucepan, heat the chicken stock and dissolve the bouillon cubes in the stock. In a Dutch oven, melt the butter and saute the onions over medium-low heat for 10 to 15 minutes. Add the flour and cook over low heat, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes. Add the hot chicken stock to the sauce. Simmer over low heat for 1 more minute, stirring until thick. Add 2 teaspoons salt, 1/2 teaspoon pepper, and heavy cream. Add the chicken, carrots, peas, and parsley. Mix well.

For the pastry, mix the flour, salt and baking powder in the bowl of a food processor on the dough setting. Add the shortening and butter and mix. Pulse until well mixed. With the motor running, add the ice water and process until it comes together. Dump the dough onto a floured board and knead quickly into a ball. Wrap the dough in plastic and allow it to rest in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 375ºF.

Divide dough in half. Roll dough out flat and cover the bottom of a large pie mold with 1 to 2 inches of overhang. Roll out another piece for the top crust. Pour filling into pie and lay top crust over. Fold overhang and crimp. Brush the dough with the egg wash and make slits in the top. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place on a baking sheet and bake for 1 hour or until the top is golden brown and the filling bubbling hot.

Pepper Pity Party

Off campus today. Got out of the house. Sitting in the South Orange Library to write. Left Nicole in charge with Shaw napping and Duncan watching Horton Hears a Hoo, which he calls Horton Hears of Hoo. He's watching it for the fourth day in a row. Cabin fever? You betcha.

I woke around 5 AM this morning. Shaw was wanting something to eat and Nicole was seeing to it. Duncan had heard the human movement on the second floor and assumed it was time to get up. We got Duncan back to bed and I headed back to our room. I took the radio that I keep next to the bed, adjusted the volume so that I could just hear it if I pressed it next to my ear and listened to right wing talk radio. This has evolved to being the way that I put myself to sleep every night. It works very well, I usually fall asleep in about 10 minutes this way. If I don't use the radio, I start to think when I lie there. Thinking gives way to worry, and worry transforms to panic. The right wing content allows me just enough anger/distraction to keep me from my own poisionous thoughts and lulls me to sleep. In the morning when I'm making coffee and Duncan's bagels and eggs, I put on the NPR.

NPR for the kitchen, Fox radio for the bedroom.

The 5 AM radio trick wasn't working. My own thoughts were louder than the radio.
The spiraling began. When I came downstairs around 7:00, Duncan was on the couch with a book.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"No. Mom."

"Well, I can make it for you if you want."

"No. I just want Mom."

Since Nicole and Shaw have returned from Missouri, I have slipped back firmly into second position in Duncan's family hierarchy. It's okay. It's as it should be, and I do think my second position, while still second, is a slightly higher second since our Michigan odyssey.

Now, if I was a smarter man, and some days I am, I would march upstairs, get some running clothes on, do a nice slow 5k and let the endorphins do their magic. Probably that day is tomorrow. Today, apparently I'm going to worry. Not smart today. Probably smarter tomorrow.

I talked to my therapist for the first time in several years a couple of weeks ago after a day like this. He told me I need to make money. He's right. For the last twelve years straight, I've made the money by acting in plays on Broadway and occasionally appearing on television. My life expanded around that streak of employment in the entertainment industry. A house was bought, a family grew. Now, I'm weathering a dry spell and I find that I don't know how to do anything else. (This is where the worry starts.) I look at friends who have gone on to have wildly successful careers in theater, film and television and made oodles of money. (This is where the spiraling begins.) I look at other friends who got out and now support their families in more traditional ways week to week and go on skiing vacations and such... and I... Damn it. Now I'm there.

It's just money. Probably in the grand scheme of things at the end of it all, I'm going to be pretty pissed that I spent so much time fretting about things that I couldn't control. And things have always worked out somehow in the past so things will probably work out in the future. I have hope as in "I hope that phone's gonna vibrate some money into this house."

I'm pretty sure that the upstairs bathroom shower drain pipe is leaking into the plaster of the kitchen ceiling, because when someone takes a shower you can hear a drip and there is a crack appearing.

I have friends who would give anything to have my problems.

I did have a day of employment last week on a major motion picture. Henry's Crime starring Keanu Reeves. I had a scene with Keanu. I was the detective who was trying to keep him from making a terrible mistake that would result in his needlessly going to prison for three to seven years. It went well, and I shared a black SUV from the Suffolk County Jail back to the city with Keanu. We talked a bit. I told him about my family. He said he didn't have any children.

"Huh." I thought. "Huh."

Listen, I get it. I just need more money.

And so, I do what I can do. I cook. And hope.

I'm gonna go home and go for a run, then make dinner.


Polenta Stuffed Peppers

4 to 8 red or yellow bell peppers (depending on size)
3/4 lb. sweet or hot Italian sausage
1 Tbs. butter
1/2 cup finely chopped onion
1 cup polenta
3 1/2 cups chicken broth
1/2 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup fresh or frozen corn kernels
1/3 cup chopped fresh basil
1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 tsp kosher salt
1/2 cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano Cheese
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella or Gruyere

Cut the tops off the bell peppers and remove seeds and ribs. Blanch for two to three minutes in boiling water to soften slightly. Arrange in a shallow buttered baking dish.

Preheat oven to 375º F.

Remove casings from sausages and heat in saute pan, breaking up the meat over med. heat until no longer pink.

Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook until the onion softens, 3 minutes. Add polenta and stir to mix. Slowly pour in the chicken broth, stirring to combine. Add the cream, corn, basil, cilantro, salt, sausage, and 1/4 cup of the Pecorino. Cook, stirring constantly about 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Fill the peppers with the polenta. Sprinkle with the remaining Pecorino Romano and the Mozzarella/Gruyere. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes until golden and bubbling Serve hot.

O Holy Pasta

 Have been besieged by real life lately . The news of Nicole's dad being so sick has been accompanied by the whole family having a mutual cold for the last two weeks. All of us coughing into our elbows, except for 9 and a half week old Shaw, who just sneezes and smiles knowing she is exempt from the elbow rule.

We split up for Thanksgiving, Nicole and Shaw flying to Missouri to be with Paul, and Duncan and I driving to Michigan to see my folks there. When Nicole's not around I magically become Duncan's number one and I gladly lap up the sloppy seconds. He is the best traveling companion I have ever known. Content to pore through his Seuss in the back seat or gaze out the window with the obligatory "Are we there yet?" only appearing at the six hour mark into the 12 hour drive. We gazed at the mysterious fog on route 80, exclaimed with delight when the sun appeared, sang as much of the score of Rudolph that we could remember, felt some early Christmas magic when we turned on the radio and the score of Rudolph (and I mean the entire score) just happened to be playing on a station somewhere between Dubois and Youngstown and sucked every ounce of happiness out of the Happy Meal at the service plaza.

Other than Duncan's bagel and eggs in the mornings, I did not cook for the four days in Michigan. I had my mom's Thanksgiving feast. Pretty much the way it has been since I've known it. My earliest memories of cooking of course are with mom. I seem to remember being an expert flour sifter, pan greaser and beater licker. Mom makes terrific pies. Mom taught me how to make spaghetti.

Two boxes of Kraft Italian Spaghetti, aka "Zesty Italian", the one in the green box. In the box is half a pound of dry spaghetti and two envelopes. One containing Kraft Parmesan Cheese and the other something called Italian seasonings. The instructions have you mixing the Italian seasonings with a combination of canned tomato sauce and/or paste with water, boiling the spaghetti, sprinkling the cheese and Presto!

Mom showed me if you browned the hamburger first with some chopped onion and add a can or two of Pennsylvania Dutch mushrooms and then followed the sauce instructions on the package, you ended up with the ambrosia of my mid-western youth. I do not not exaggerate when I say that I could not stop eating the stuff. There was a terrible night when I was left alone with some spaghetti in the pot on the stove that had been set aside for my brother to eat when he came home from swim team. On commercial breaks in the living room I would slip into the kitchen and just have one more bite. By the time Dan got home all that was left was a sad little lump of noodle in the corner of the pot. He knew, and he was pissed. I'm sure he too would remember this incident today.

I generally have a hard time playing the favorites game: colors, movies, memories hard to pick one over another being as the lists are so long and I'm vaguely over aware of the subjectivity involved in making these choices, moreover, I don't want to be tied down to favorites. However, if I ever am in a situation where the last meal is being offered to me, I know that it would be spaghetti. I might quibble over sauces but of the pasta itself there would be no question. Rolled around the fork or slurped up the chin, it has an indescribable comfort level for me that has never wavered since those days in Port Huron, Michigan.

My first job in New York in 1983 during my freshman year at NYU was busboy at a place around round the corner from my dorm on Waverly and Mercer called Zi Pepe's. After paying the dorm fees and tuition with my student loan checks I had exactly $14 dollars in my brand new Citibank account when I walked in Zi Pepe's and asked for a job. I remember that I made $6 the first night and broke a glass but mostly I remember the first staff meal. It was a spicy spaghetti, tomato based with mozzarella and maybe spinach stirred in....

The earth shaking, volcanic, wondrous new reality wherein spaghetti could be puttanesca, bolognese, carbonara, amatriciana, prima vera and on and on not only made the $6 a night bearable, it made it downright desirable. My midwestern mind was blown and when I revisited Michigan for that first Christmas break and mom made Spaghetti just for me, well...I had changed... forever. I knew what al dente was. I knew what herbs were. (I had always assumed that the Italian "seasonings" in the packets were man made by Italian men. Had no idea they were herbs.) I knew what cheese was. I hope I was kind. Conveniently, I don't remember that part.

The day after Duncan and I drove the 12 plus hours back from Michigan and still had a day before Nicole and Shaw returned from Missouri, we had one night of home alone cooking. Imagine my joy when I asked Dunc what he wanted for dinner and he looked me in the eye and said, "Spaghetti."

 SPAGHETTI WITH CREAMY TOMATO ITALIAN SAUSAGE SAUCE (From SImply Recipes)

3 Tbs. olive oil
4 to 6 shallots, chopped
3 to 4 garlic cloves chopped
1 1/2 to 2 lbs. sweet Italian Sausage, casings removed (Or hot or any combo)
1 cup heavy cream
2 14.5 ounce cans diced tomatoes in juice
3 to 4 Tbs. fresh chopped sage
1 1/2 cup frozen green peas
1 lb. Spaghetti
grated Pecorino Romano

Heat oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add shallots and garlic and saute until beginning to soften, about 3 minutes. Add sausages and saute until no longer pink, breaking up sausages 5 to 10 minutes. Add cream, simmer 5 minutes. Add tomatoes with juices, sage, and frozen peas. Simmer until sauce thickens, stirring occasionally, about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, cook pasta in large of of boiling salted water until al dente. Drain.

Return pasta to pot and add sauce. Toss over medium heat until sauce coats pasta. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer to serving bowls and top with cheese.

(I usually wind up with enough sauce for another meal down the road.)

Please Make Yourself Extremely Comfortable. Please.

I've been fully aware for quite some time the role that cooking plays in my life. I guess I'm most aware when some one else in the house decides that it's their night to cook. Around 4:30 in the afternoon, when prep would usually begin, I pace nervously, I get extremely cranky some might even say "cross", I fidget, I curse... you get the picture. Then, when I eat the dinner that usually Nicole has prepared, I'm in ghastly awe of what a great chef she is. I think, "Who am I kidding? Slaving day after day when she can whip something like this out going from zero to sixty?"

The next day, when I have regained the reins in the kitchen, I will ridiculously put a little more oomph in my usual menu trying desperately and sadly to "one up" and regain an imagined lost territory with some culinary testosterone. I attempt to mask it all in good humor, jolly good fun. But I feel the others in the house seeing through me like cheap muslin. I feel their pity. It is palpable. Palatable but palpable pity.

I cook to assuage. I cook to impress. I cook to satisfy. I cook to occupy. I cook out of curiosity. I cook to seduce. I cook to comfort. Yes, I cook to and for comfort.

Thursday morning we had the saddest news. Paul, Nicole's father, has cancer. He has had a series of tests for the last several months that have all come back negative where cancer was concerned and Thursday morning was going for surgery for a different procedure that the doctors were sure was the issue. When they opened him up they discovered to their shock, that he had cancer.

Because he had been tested so many times already and the tests had all come back negative, I confess to not being too concerned about the procedure that he was going to have Thursday morning. So when the terrible call came from my mother in law Angela letting me know the situation and asking me to tell Nicole who was in the car driving Duncan home from school, well, I wasn't ready. But like all of the great events in life, none of us is ever really ready. Not really. It just suddenly, always suddenly becomes time.

It isn't necessary for me to go into any of the details of our grief that day in this particular forum, other than to note that all comfort that day was derived through necessary occupations. Every duty that normally would be one of the daily drudgery of child rearing was now a gift, now was a blissful momentary occupation that removed one temporarily from active grief. Every diaper, every tissue, every wipe, every explanation to Duncan was a visceral, fierce blessing.

At one point as we were in the eye of the storm, Carrie, who had run home from school the second she heard the news, suggested that tonight was a night for Chinese food. In the moment I agreed. About an hour later though, I knew I had to roast a chicken. I knew it for entirely selfish reasons.

When I was doing Sunday in the Park with George on the old Broadway, I would regularly bring in culinary delights that I had whipped up in the kitchen in Jersey.

"You're so generous!" Dressing room mates would say, slurping down chicken legs or chocolate chip cookies.

"Ha!" I would think. "They fell for it! Now they like me, and now they think I'm a good cook! I win! MWA HA HA HA HA HA!"

I did it for very selfish, self serving, self loving, egotistical, narcissistic reasons.

I needed to roast this chicken selfishly, right now, to feel better. To do something. And then to eat it with my family and have it provide momentary, blissful, albeit fleeting, comfort.

 I have gradually evolved through many roast chicken recipes over the years (Whole pierced lemon in the cavity/butter under the skin with paprika/sitting upright in one of those chicken roasters looking so very civilized in the oven) - this is my current favorite. Juicy and very, very flavorful.

ROASTED MUSTARD TARRAGON CHICKEN (Adapted from Gourmet)

1 chicken 3 1/2 lbs. or larger
salt and pepper
1 bunch tarragon
Dijon Mustard

Preheat oven to 425ºF with rack in the middle
Rub salt and pepper inside cavity of chicken. Stuff bunch of tarragon in the cavity. Truss the chicken and slather mustard all over. Roast until instant read thermometer inserted into fleshy part of the thigh reads 160ºF. For me it was about an hour and 10 minutes.

BEETS AND ONIONS

3 large beets
two or 3 medium onions
2 Tbs. butter
salt and pepper
lemon juice

Boil beets in salted water. Peel two or three onions and boil them in a separate pot in salted water until they star fall apart. Drain the beets reserving 1/2 cup of beet juice. Drain onions and combine with beets, beet juice, butter, salt and pepper to taste and several dashes of lemon juice.

MASHED POTATOES

Listen, all I did was cut up the potatoes with the skin on, boiled them in salted water and then mashed them with 1/2 stick butter and salt. I have fancier mashed potatoes methods, but they are for another day. Duncan went on and on about how delicious these were, so I'm good.

All Hail The King of (Legal) Herbs

I had noticed that Carrie hadn't been eating all her dinner lately. There were significant portions of duck left on the plate, the duck onion soup was eaten but the pork belly pieces went untouched and when she saw me working the duck fat into the mashed potatoes, they received barely a nibble. I tried to see past my rage and realized that Carrie is getting married in January. I remembered my own frugal nibbling prior to my wedding, back when I was a vegetarian. People like to look good when they get married and that trumps any desire for duck fat. It's only after you get married that the duck fat tastes good again. By the way, Carrie looks awesome.

Out of deference to Carrie's feelings, appetite and the sanctity of prenuptial dietary restrictions, I decided we all could use a break from the cream laden, duck fat paved road I'd been driving the family gastric jalopy down lately. We generally have one or two fish nights a week and a vegetarian night as well just to keep our feet on the ground.

Some online tips lead you astray. Tis the truth I'm afraid. I was interested in saving the bumper crop of basil that I had grown over the summer and researched freezing herbs on line. I read that if you freeze the leaves of basil separately on a cookie sheet in the freezer and then place them neatly in a freezer zip lock bag, stacking them like a deck of cards, then you will be able to tap them all winter.

Seemed like a great idea. But alas, the leaves that I have pulled out of the freezer are kind of chewy and papery and while they are edible and retain some flavor, I am not satisfied that they are anything close to the wonder of fresh basil.

Basil, to me, is the king of all herbs. The steak of the herb family. I am always amazed every time I make a pesto that something so flavorful so filling and delicious could really just be a leaf.

Last winter I took all the basil and made a huge batch of pesto that I then put in ice cube trays and transferred in cube form to zip lock bags. Next year I'll do that again. You can just drop a cube to perk up any sauce, cream, tomato or otherwise or use four or five cubes as a pesto proper. Very effective. I have used the papery frozen leaves as final pizza toppings, but am loathe to try them as an actual pesto, perhaps by February I'll give it a go. I suppose I have to try. Maybe the food processor will eliminate the papery quality and we'll be left only with flavor..... Maybe.

I headed to the Super Fine Fare and picked up some whole wheat thin spaghetti. I am always a little less than satisfied with whole wheat pasta with tomato or cream sauces, but I think the nuttiness of the wheat works very well with Pesto. The boxes of pasta now are no longer 16 oz. but 13.25 oz at the same price. Very clever those pasta people. Made me wonder if I should buy two boxes or decrease portion size. In the spirit of the evening I opted for smaller portions.

I have learned the interpretive tap dance of our local supermarkets well enough to not be surprised by the fact that I can pick up banana leaves at the Super Fine Fare, but have to travel to the Eden Gourmet if I want something as exotic as fresh Basil.

Before I left for the super market I took the remaining shrimp from the fajita night out of the freezer and put them in a bowl with the remaining lime juice. When I got home they had already thawed and I gave them a little toss.

I truly don't know how I lived before the food processor, but I do remember being awfully frustrated when I would scan through a recipe and the phrase, i"n the processor combine blah and blah" would pop up. Now, not unlike my cell phone, I can't really conceive of life without the processor.

Again, in homage to basil, it's kind of wonderful how just processing the basil has the same effect as heating olive oil, garlic and onion on a kitchen. The fragrance that whets appetites throughout the olfactory contact zone.

Carrie was delighted by the menu when she came home from school and finished every bite. And we all felt a little self satisfied and more than a little self righteous for having pleased our palates and filled ourselves to the near brim without harming a single duck in the preparation of our herby feast.

 BASIL SPAGHETTI PESTO WITH GRILLED LIME SHRIMP

12 lb. of medium shrimp peeled and de-veined with tails on.
1/2 cup lime juice

4 cloves garlic
Two bunches basil leaves
1 Tbs. Kosher salt
1/2 cup toasted pine nuts
couple of handfuls of grated pecorino romano
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

Toss shrimp with lime juice in a bowl and let set for a couple of hours.

Pulse basil and garlic in processor until roughly chopped. Add salt, pine nuts and pecorino romano. Turn and processor and slowly dribble in oil. Process until pretty darn smooth.

Fill pasta pot with salted water cook whole wheat spaghetti to al dente and drain.
Toss with pesto.

While water is heating up, fire up the charcoal grill for direct high heat. Remove shrimp from the marinade and put shrimp on skewers. Season with kosher salt and pepper. Grill over direct heat for three minutes each side or until you just know....

Put pasta in large pasta bowl and shrimp over top. Pass more pecorino romano around the table.

What Do You Do With a Ducky Carcass? (Sung to the Tune Of...)

Carrie nailed it the other day, when we came to Friday which is the day off from her internship/graduate study program at Seton Hall. By the by, Carrie is Nicole's second cousin from Missouri who lives with us while finishing up her graduate degree at Seton Hall which is, quite literally down the street. She has been a God send. Not only is she an unbelievable and, at least it seems, cheerfully willing aid to the daily household chore-age, a baby sitter in the pinch, an un paralleled sous chef, an inspiration to us old folks to keep running, she is also unfathomably easy to live with. She leaves in just a little over two weeks for good and we are dreading the day. She will be missed so much. Everyone should be so lucky to have such a graduate student live with them.

Anyway Carrie nailed it. She said that she looks forward to Friday because it's her day off but then when it's here she panics a little cause "What's to do?".

"Ah, Carrie." I said to myself. "Welcome to my world." Even though it is everyday that I am unemployed right now, It's the Saturdays and Sundays that get me. When you're unemployed on a Monday, the call might come for an appointment on Tuesday... but on a Saturday all you can do is wait for Monday when a call might come for Tuesday. Therefore on this last Saturday, before panic could set in, I thought of the duck carcass in the freezer.

At the Super Fine Fare the other day I bought a questionably fresh 10 lb. bag of onions for $1.98 and sometime Saturday morning realized that it was time to modifiy my Tuscan Onion soup recipe to a Tuscan Duck Onion soup. I figured I could use up at least a third of those onions in one go. I pulled that nearly gone carrot and a few stalks of celery from the crisper in the fridge and peeled a couple of garlic cloves. I put the frozen carcass from last week's duck along with the innards and the bones in the stock pot with the veggies and the garlic covered it with some water, brought it to a boil then reduced it to a simmer and walked away.

The recipe calls for prosciutto but I wanted to bring a little more gusto to it and found a piece of smoked pork belly at the Super Fine Fare that did quite nicely.

By the time that I got back from the Super Fine Fare Carrie had revealed her present to Duncan.
"Pixar's Up!" He cried with delight, sounding more than a little like an ad for a delighted child than an actual child.

As the onion simmered and the stock gurgled Duncan snuggled next to Carrie on the couch and Nicole and Shaw rocked on the glider and they all watched Up while the Saturday rain fell.

"Stay in the moment Drew." I said to Drew. The moments are awfully wonderful. For God sake, there's duck broth brewing.

 DUCK BROTH

Duck carcass, bones and innards
A carrot or two
A celery stalk or two
A quartered onion
Couple cloves of garlic
Maybe some thyme
Salt and pepper

Cover the carcass, innards, vegetables and herbs with water in a large stock pot. Bring to a boil then simmer, skimming fat off of top for five to six hours.
Strain broth into a large bowl through a colander. Rinse out the stock pot, then strain broth through a sieve back into the stock pot and boil for ten minutes to concentrate flavors. Season to taste. If necessary drop in a couple of chicken stock cubes to bolster flavor.

TUSCAN DUCK ONION SOUP

2 Tablespoons Duck Fat.
3 lbs. white onions, peeled, thinly sliced
1/2 cup dry white wine
3 tomatoes diced
8 cups duck broth
1/2 pound smoked pork belly cut into 1 inch dice
1 tablespoon fresh thyme
Pecorino Romano

In skillet fry diced pork belly until it begins to crisp. Drain on paper towel and set aside.

Melt duck fat in heavy large pot over medium- high heat. Add onions and saute until golden brown, about 20 minutes. Add wine, simmer until it evaporates, about 4 minutes. Add tomato and saute 1 minute. Remove from heat. Transfer 1 cup onion mixture to blender. Add 1 cup duck broth and puree until smooth. Return puree to pot. Add remaining broth, pork belly, and thyme. Bring soup to boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer 30 minutes to blend flavors.

Ladle soup into bowls and top each serving with pecorino romano.


Serve with a great loaf of bread and maybe some fancy cheese.