Day 23

Listen to this:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light

Day 22

Too much?

Day 20

Another letter to Santa

Dear Santa,
How are you doing? Are your reindeer doing O.K.? Hope you like your gingerbread men for Christmas this year. Do you get any presents from any of the kids. How is Mrs. Clause. Hope your reindeer like the Carrots that we give them. I want a ramote control GMC truck.

Love,

Spencer

list25.com

Day 19

It's going to be a snowy ride

Day 17

This always warms me right up

A Hot Toddy

For one serving, I put 1 tsp of Turbinado or raw sugar and 3 tbs of bourbon in a mug. Then I add two cloves, half a cinnamon stick and about 6 oz just-off-the-boil water. I stir in a slice of lemon and add ½ tsp lemon juice (a Meyer lemon works well here) to balance the sweetness.

Inspired by Nigel Slater

Day 15

“Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?” 
–Charlie Brown

“Charlie Brown, you’re the only person I know who can take a wonderful season like Christmas and turn it into a problem.” 
–Linus

“It’s too early. I never eat December snowflakes. I always wait until January.” 
–Lucy

“If it seems too complicated, make it easy on yourself—just send money. How about tens and twenties?” 
–Sally in her letter to Santa

“Christmas is not only getting too commercial, it’s getting too dangerous.” 

–Linus

“We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It’s run by a big Eastern syndicate you know.” 
–Lucy

...from A Charlie Brown Christmas

Day 14

Shouldn't they be somewhere else?

Day 12

A letter to Santa:

Dear Santa,
This year, please give me a big fat bank account and a slim body. And please, don't mix those two up like you did last year.

Thanks,
Lucy

list25.com

Day 10

Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!

Day 8

So yummy when it's cold outside

Parisian Hot Chocolate

Makes 4 servings

2 cups milk

4 oz top-notch semi-sweet or bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

pinch of sea salt

In medium saucepan, warm milk, chocolate and salt. Heat until it begins to boil. Lower the heat to very low and simmer, whisking frequently, for 3 minutes.

Pour into small cups and serve, with a cloud of whipped cream if desired. Add some sugar to taste.

…. from David Lebovitz's book the Sweet Life in Paris

Day 6

A cute little elf

Day 5

The Grinch: “The nerve of those Whos. Inviting me down there - on such short notice! Even if I wanted to go my schedule wouldn't allow it. 4:00, wallow in self pity; 4:30, stare into the abyss; 5:00, solve world hunger, tell no one; 5:30, jazzercize; 6:30, dinner with me - I can't cancel that again; 7:00, wrestle with my self-loathing... I'm booked. Of course, if I bump the loathing to 9, I could still be done in time to lay in bed, stare at the ceiling and slip slowly into madness. But what would I wear?”

...from the movie How the Grinch Stole Christmas

Day 3

This has Christmas written all over it:

Glühwein (Mulled Wine)

Ingredients:

1 bottle (750 ml.) red wine

6 whole cloves

4 star anise pods

2 cinnamon sticks

2 juniper berries

2 oranges

1/4 cup brown sugar

Preparation:

Pour wine into a medium pot. Add cloves, star anise, cinnamon and juniper berries. Bring to a gentle simmer over low heat, don't let it boil. Meanwhile, wash oranges and cut into 1/4-inch slices, toss into wine. Add brown sugar and stir until dissolved. Simmer wine mixture 10 minutes. Strain and serve piping hot in mugs.

From Cloud Nine Alpine Bistro, Colorado via Sunset Magazine Dec 2013

A sort of Advent Calendar Day 1

Waiting for Santa...

Real fiction

I was a kid that was constantly reading, whatever I could get my fingers on, from my father's extensive Readers Digest collection and his Bertelsmann Book Club books to our small town's library stack, reading my way through anything that looked even faintly interesting.

One of the books that fell into my hands was called The Egg and I which also had a few sequels. I couldn't get enough of these stories that quirkily describe a place that was completely exotic to me. Where ferns grow as big as umbrellas and mushrooms the size of my father's fist (which is a very big one!). Muddy egg farms house hundreds of chickens, thousands of eggs and cake recipes ask for 40 eggs at a time. There are comically eccentric neighbors that smuggle illegal alcohol, and the heroine has to wake up at 4 am to catch a ferry to go to work, and sleeps in her car when the one going home is unserviceable. Spunky skunks and raccoons bug the hell out of the residents. And always rain and more rain, every plant growing so fast that you can practically watch its progress.  

I would never have believed that this was real, until I got married and found myself with a family living on Washington's Vashon Island, the setting of the story. Whenever I visit and set foot on this darling little island, I can't help but feel like I am stepping into a work of fiction.

Vashon just has that dreamy, fairy-tale way about it, especially in the winter, with quiet and misty days and the comforting smells of moss and wet soil. And everything does grow like crazy!

My brother-in-law Steve just walks outside their house and picks plenty of rainbow chard that has taken over an empty flower bed, growing like a weed. He makes an awesome, stick-to-your-ribs kinda breakfast for everyone almost every day. It varies at times, but always involves some hardy sautéed greens, lots of slowly caramelized onions and an ungodly amount of finely chopped fragrant garlic with some fresh eggs from their chickens cracked on top. The cozy kitchen smells delish and the commingling of garlic with a cup of strong coffee works surprisingly well. Nothing fictitious about that!

The Egg and Steve Vashon Breakfast

Serves 2 - 4

1 bunch of red or rainbow chard, removed from stem and roughly chopped to bite-sized pieces

½ small onion, finely sliced

1 clove garlic, minced

1 TB olive oil

1 sweet potato, diced into ½ inch cubes

4 large eggs

Salt and pepper

Sharp cheddar cheese (optional)

Wash chard and dry well. In a large skillet, cook onion in olive oil over medium-high heat for about 5 minutes or until golden. Add the sweet potato cubes and garlic and cook for about 10 more minutes or until potatoes are barely tender. Add chard to the skillet and cook, stirring occasionally until the greens begin to wilt and cook down but are still bright green, about 2-3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Make four small dents in chard and crack eggs into it. Cover and cook until just set. Grate some sharp cheddar over eggs before serving.

Somewhere in Africa

Africa is damned far away. It took the better part of three days to get to our small Zambian bush chalet crafted of local thatch and reeds, complete with a romantic mosquito net and a floor made of packed earth. But it was a great journey by big and small planes, by bus and Range Rovers.

We drove by small villages boasting rondavels and brightly colored storefronts probably left by the Brits from the colonial years. I marveled at places with names like “God Gives Restaurant and Take Away“ and a club titled “Promises and Lies”.

Kids waved at us with shiny coffee-colored faces and toothy grins, adults rode their bicycles with poise and heavy loads, and then all of a sudden we were out in the middle of nowhere, breathing the warm smells of a different existence.

We felt hardly any resentment towards the person who woke us up at a pitch-black 4:45 am, because he always left a pitcher of hot water next to the sink. The mornings were surprisingly chock-full of the most unusual noises, and a handsome man named Special made us a cup of bush tea that we drank by the cozy wood fire. Which we welcomed at 5 am, but by 7 am, it was Africa hot, and by 9 am, all the animals were out of sight.

So bright and early, our cool guide took us single file through the bush followed by an even cooler looking national park guard in fatigues plus gun. We quietly walked by gnarly ebony trees and ancient Baobab trees and snuck up on evil-looking 14 foot crocodiles, noisy waddling hippos, messy elephants and eventually a few real! lions that were so close we heard them growl. My heart was definitely beating faster and louder, but it made me feel very much alive.

We were fed wonderful food: grass-fed beef, fish from the Zambesi river, grilled Boerewors and always spicy chutneys. Clearly, I needed to see the bush kitchen. It was spotless in its humble simplicity, the same hard dirt-packed floor as our hut. The ever-smiling adorable chef who was in all honesty wearing a huge white chef's hat cooked absolutely everything over an open fire with smoldering hard wood. He even baked his perfectly crusty bread in a hole in the ground.

Especially his Bobotie made me undoubtedly gain a few pounds. An indigenous dish from South Africa, to me it reflects some of the stirring African history using ingredients that were brought by Dutch East-Indian settlers and also by the British via India during the colonial era. The lean beef is pleasingly sweet from the raisins and slightly spicy from the aromatic curry and fruity chutney, and is baked under a lush layer of eggs and bananas.

What can I say but I heart Africa.

Bobotie

Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients:

1 lbs lean ground beef, preferably grass-fed

2 slices of day-old baguette

1 small onions, finely chopped

2 small garlic cloves, minced

1/3 cup raisins or currants

1/3 cup slivered almonds

2 tablespoons of Mango chutney

3 eggs

1/2 cup milk

1 ripe banana

1 tablespoon lemon juice

sprinkling of nutmeg

4 teaspoons curry powder

Pepper and salt

Preparation:

Soak the torn bread in water until soft and squeeze out excess moisture. Mix well with the ground meat, onions, garlic, raisins (or currants), almonds, chutney and one of the eggs.

Season with salt, pepper, 2 teaspoons of the curry powder and the lemon juice.

Spread into buttered casserole dish (I use my well-seasoned cast iron pan) and bake by 425 degrees in pre-heated oven for 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, whisk the milk with the 2 remaining eggs, 2 extra teaspoons of curry and season with salt and nutmeg.

Slice peeled banana and distribute the slices evenly over the meat. Pour over milk and bake an additional 15 – 20 minutes or until set. Serve with additional chutney.

Burned and squashed

The summer I moved to California I lived inland, about 20 miles away from the coast. And it was hot! I wasn't used to a heat that made the candles in our apartment warp in their holders, and I found it a little unnerving. But the apartment building was equipped with a pool, and I spent many hours cooling off and getting burned.

I slathered on plenty of sunscreen, but as a blonde with pale skin, I got my share of sunburns that August. Yet one good thing happened at the pool, I met my very first American friends retired Jack, with a stomach as round as a soccer ball and his cheery wife Ginny.

They both liked to cook, and we bonded over food. When zucchini came in season, they gave me my very first American cookbook with plenty of zucchini recipes. They also told me a funny story about some friends who were so overwhelmed with the sheer quantity of their harvest, they left zucchini anonymously at people's front doors at night like abandoned babies on the steps of a church. I ate zucchini in Italy before, but never had I seen them in such abundance and in such sizes and colors. They were just about everywhere, a cornucopia in grocery stores, farm stands, backyards and even in the lunch room at work.

I find zucchini just plain beautiful, shiny green with tiny light specks. They have a subtle, slightly sweet taste and are a great partner to Italian ingredients like basil, rosemary, garlic, olive oil and parmesan cheese. For a light summer soup, I use small tender ones that I cut into rounds and quickly sauté in peppery olive oil. I simmer the zuccs in vegetable broth and purée them when tender. The soup has the loveliest shade of pale green, the flavor elevated by a squirt of lemon.

Over the years, I lost touch with my old friends Jack and Ginny, but I still have that very first, well-worn cookbook.

Zucchini Soup with Basil and Lemon

Inspired by the Nitty Gritty Cookbook

Serves 4

1 lbs Zuccini, sliced to ¼ inch thickness

1 small onion, cut in half and sliced

1 ½ tb olive oil

2 cups vegetable broth

3 medium-sized leaves of fresh basil

Juice of ½ lemon

Salt, pepper

Additional basil leaves for serving

Parmesan cheese to taste

Sauté onion in olive oil on low flame for about 15 minutes until golden and fragrant. Add zucchini and stir until slightly browned. Cover with broth and simmer gently for another 10 - 15 minutes until zucchini are tender. Let cool a little and blend with the basil leaves until frothy and creamy, adding an additional ½ cup of water or more. Season with lemon juice, salt and pepper. Serve hot with a chiffonade of basil and a sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan cheese.

Trendy

America has always been one for trends. Invariably there are trends in fashion, entertainment, VIPs, cars, and most irresistibly to me: in food. And true to trends' nature, they come and go.

I used to really like roasted garlic on crunchy toast but haven't seen it in ages. Tiramisu, that fabulous rich coffee dessert that was on so many menus, now I can only find it in traditional Italian restaurants. A California Cooler, that sweet headachy beverage, I guess it's a good thing that it has fallen out of favor. Or everything drizzled with truffle oil, kinda out of style. But lately, there is all things heirloom, and mac and cheese can be found in many fancy variations and in most restaurants. Hardly anyone eats regular yogurt anymore only Greek, and Kale was recently labeled vegetable of the year.

There's always something new to try out, something new to learn how to make, some all the rage ingredient. When I worked for this fabulous catering company  I was in my element when more often than not I poured over tons of cookbooks and magazines coming up with new and exciting stuff to put on our menus.

One of the chic desserts our clients started to see in our repertoire back then was Panna Cotta, a delicious Italian custard. A fitting event dessert, it can as easily be made for 6 or 200 and it's a breeze to put together. When our kitchen first tested different recipes, the owner snuck many times into the walk-in fridge to make sure the Panna Cotta would set properly, jiggling all the little custard cups. It always did.

Panna Cotta is an elegant and a very, very pretty creamy treat. Snowy white with jet-black vanilla freckles, it's cool to the tongue with a delicate lightness that gets even better when served with a handful of ripe berries or a drizzle of sweet berry coulis.

So when I feel like eating Panna Cotta, I don't care if I am up-to-date, it's a keeper.

Panna Cotta

makes 4 (or 6 small) servings

Adapted from David Lebovitz who wrote the great The Sweet Life in Paris

2 cups (1 pint) half-and-half

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoons of vanilla extract, or ½ to 1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise

1 packet powdered gelatin

3 tablespoons cold water

Heat the half-and-half and sugar in a saucepan or microwave. Once the sugar has dissolved, remove from heat and stir in the vanilla extract. If using a vanilla bean, scrape the seeds from the bean into the mixture and add the bean pod and let infuse for 20 - 30 minutes. Remove the bean then re-warm the mixture before continuing. 

Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water in a small bowl and let stand 5 to 10 minutes. Pour the very warm Panna Cotta mixture over the gelatin and stir until the gelatin is completely dissolved. Divide the Panna Cotta mixture into 4 (or 6) custard cups which have lightly been brushed with a neutral-tasting oil. Chill in refrigerator until firm, which will take at least four hours or overnight. 

Run a sharp knife around the edge of each Panna Cotta and un-mold onto a serving plate. You can also use cute little dessert bowls and serve the Panna Cotta without un-molding. Garnish with ripe fruit ; it's especially tasty with strawberries, nectarines, mangoes or peaches.

Say Smelly Cheese

Of all the things to be known for, the little Bavarian town I grew up in went for cheese. It's packaged as a small square cube, about 2 oz. and wrapped in foil with the Bavarian colors of blue-white. “Miesbacher Delikatess-Käse” is fairly well known in our region and even available at the illustrious Oktoberfest. Supposedly great with beer, there is really only one word to describe it, it stinks.

When my father and grandmother (my mother was curiously absent) opened that little package and ate with gusto, I was disgusted. All I could smell was something resembling funky perspiring feet, and I had to be excused, not just from the table, but the whole room. I was scarred for a long time and wouldn't touch cheese until I was well into my twenties. And then I was only going for mild and bland, definitely not stinky. I embraced American cheese.

Nowadays, I like all types of cheese: interesting blues, flavorful hards and runny soft ones. So when I went back home to Miesbach last time, I thought I'd be brave and give the little stinker another chance. I expectantly unwrapped that little cube and... I couldn't do it.

It's a good thing Bavaria has more to offer in the cheese department than just “Miesbacher”. One of my personal favorites, and no respectable beer garden in Bavaria will be without, is the creamy melange “Obatzda”.

Velvety ripe Camembert is smashed up with a fork and combined with whipped butter, finely chopped red onion and sweet peppy Paprika. It looks a bit rustic and lumpy with a pretty blush, and is brought to the table with a copious sprinkle of zesty chives. I like to spread it thickly on a crusty pretzel or rich dark bread and have a handful of crunchy radishes alongside a frosty light beer. The best thing about it, it smells wonderful.

Bavarian Cheese Melange (Obatzda)
A snack for 4

6 oz. Brie or Camembert
2 1/2 tb unsalted butter, softened
1/2 tsp sweet paprika (or more to achieve a nice rosy color)
1/4 tsp ground or finely chopped caraway seeds + 1/4 tsp whole caraway seeds
1 tb very finely chopped red onion
1 tb light beer
salt to taste
1-2 tb finely chopped chives

Remove rind from cheese and let sit at room temperature until soft. Using a fork, mix in butter until well combined. Fold in paprika, ground or chopped caraway seeds, onions and beer until evenly tinted and creamy. Season with salt and sprinkle with chives and whole caraway seeds.

Serve with radishes and pretzel sticks or crusty baguette.

Livin' out in California

The seasons in Southern California are only slightly distinguishable. Sometimes, a winter day can be warmer than a day in gloomy June, and in October, we might get the hottest days of the year. Still, our summers are unbeatable. When people at times tell me they find it tedious to have the same weather day in and day out, I beg to differ. I say “bring it on”. I come from a country that has very iffy summers, so I don't mind being bored with the same sunny weather over and over.

The cloudless sky is the palest of blues, and it's not typically very clear, sort of fuzzy around the edges. In the late afternoon, everything is bathed in a soft, hazy light. It might be pretty warm inland, but closer to the ocean, there is always a little breeze. The sunsets are straightforward, the evenings cool and sleeping is easy. And it never rains. I enjoy that predictability.

Summer is also a great excuse to get a little lazy in the kitchen. Sometimes we have only a green salad for dinner, a quick sausage on the barbecue, a picnic, or we'll just nibble on cheese and crackers. The one dish I make pretty consistently though is a pasta salad. I hardly call that cooking, but to me, it is one of the essential summer foods.

I like using the little playful shapes of Acini Di Pepe which remind me of peppercorns, or Orzo, which resembles rice kernels. Tossed in a simple vinaigrette, each bite just seems to have more character than when using a larger pasta. The salad comes together quickly, flecked with aromatic herbs and mixed with a few deep purple Kalamata olives, flavor-bursting sun-dried tomato slivers and tangy Feta cheese. I toss in a handful of Arugula just before serving and savor the combination of soft and crispy with the uniquely sharp bite of the greens.

Here is to those lazy hazy crazy days of summer.

Arugula Pasta Salad

Inspired by Sunset Magazine

Serves 4

1 cup Orzo or Acini di Pepe

2 Tb olive oil

1 Tb red wine or seasoned rice vinegar

1/2 - 3/4 tsp dried Italian herbs

1/2 tsp salt, a few grinds of pepper

1/3 cup slivered sun-dried tomatoes in oil (blot of excess oil)

14 pitted Kalamata olives, sliced

1/3 cup crumbled Feta cheese

2-3 cups small Arugula leaves

Cook pasta until al dente, drain and rinse with cold water. In large bowl, combine olive oil, herbs, salt and pepper and toss with pasta. Mix in olives, tomatoes and feta cheese. Just before serving, gently toss with Arugula. Add more salt if needed.

Baja Sessions

“If you drive down the California coast and just keep goin' and goin' you'll find yourself in a place called Baja – more cactus than people, more time than worries and surrounded by the ocean and the sea...” (from Chris Isaak's Baja Sessions album cover). And this is exactly what we did, my companion and I, driving from Southern California all the way to Lands End, Cabo San Lucas and back. In 8 days.

It was a pretty long time ago. When Baja was dreamy, Cabo San Lucas was made of dirt roads and there was more livestock than cars on Highway 1. We were zigzagging back and forth from the ocean to the sea, skinny-dipping whenever we dared. Now and then, we got stuck in the sand and used our frying pan to dig out our old bronze Chevy van. The only real headache was if we needed to put on shoes so we wouldn't step on scorpions.

Wherever I looked, the slopes along the road were vivid from the chili peppers that were laid out drying. I fell for the colors: the bright blue sky, the softest white sand, neon-green limes, strikingly red tomatoes, nearly black avocados displayed at the little mercados. I admired the huge pale green cacti with their violent-looking thorns and was in awe of the unbelievably kitschy sunsets. Our diet consisted of Coronas at 10 cents a pop, rice, beans, tortillas and fresh seafood. Some mornings we went clam digging and fried them right there and then. And I discovered ceviche.

A perfect hot-weather food, fresh fish is marinated in lime juice until no longer raw. Succulent with the wonderful tang of lime, every bite is tender yet firm, and the flavor is complemented by juicy tomatoes, tiny dice of sweet onion and a few flecks of cilantro. A little jalapeño pepper adds some bite, and a pinch of fragrant Mexican oregano a kind of earthiness. I ate buckets full.

We were limping back across the border with the obligatory stomach bug on Sunday late at night just in time for my job Monday morning, bright and early at 7 am. Oh, but Baja is so worth it.

Baja Ceviche

Serves 4

½ pound of sushi-grade fish (salmon, scallops, halibut)

Juice of about 3 - 4 large limes

1 small tomato, chopped, seeds removed

¼ fresh jalapeño pepper with seeds

1 tablespoon finely chopped sweet onion

2 tablespoons chopped cilantro

1 healthy pinch of Mexican oregano

salt and pepper to taste

Cut up fish into 1/2 inch pieces and mix with lime juice (start with the juice of 2 limes) to almost cover. Refrigerate 3 – 4 hours or just until fish looses transparent look, replenish lime juice as needed to keep fish submerged. Stir occasionally. Scallops will take the least amount of time, salmon the most. Add tomato, jalapeño, onion, cilantro and crumbled oregano. Let stand for 1 – 2 more hours.

Season with salt and pepper and serve with creamy avocado and crisp tortilla chips.

Try the jalapeño pepper before adding and adjust quantity according to spiciness. I sometimes toss in a little cayenne at the very end.  

Teeny Tiny Household Jam

Our household is a pretty tiny one, so cooking happens on a much smaller scale, which is not a problem unless I mull over jam-making. A lot of recipes ask for copious amounts of fruit and that makes way too much for our modest needs. I have visions of cabinets jam-packed (sorry, had to do it!) with jars that no one will ever eat. My cousins still have their late daddy's jam that he made almost 20 years ago.

Although it's really nice when friends and relatives share their yummy homemade jams with us, to me it just seems wrong not to make my own. To be perfectly honest, besides the slightly absurd quantities, one of the other drawbacks is actually the canning. The whole process just stumps me; the need for a large canning pot, sterilized canning glasses, lids and rings, pectin, the pop-pop of the seals. It seems inordinately involved when all I want is a couple of jars of preserves.

And then, last spring, Bon Appétit magazine gave me just what I've been trying to find, a no-fuss recipe for a beginning-of-summer strawberry jam. It fills two small glasses with my favorite fruit jam, it's a piece of cake to make, and best of all, no canning required!

From our farmer's market I get the very freshest organic strawberries which are small, fragrant and brightly colored. The distinctive aroma of strawberries wafts through my kitchen while I stir them over low heat with a wooden spoon. I gently mash the berries and admire their lovely red hue with its matching pink fizz trimming. The tangy apple and zesty lemon juice bring out the pleasingly sweet and exquisitely strawberry-ish taste. It has bits and pieces of apples and berries, vibrant until the very last spoonful. Oh, and if I run out, I can quickly whip up another batch.

Bon Appétit's Easy Strawberry Jam

Enough to fill two small glass jars (approx. 7 oz each)

1 pound fresh strawberries, hulled and quartered

2/3 cup sugar

1 large Granny Smith apple, peeled and coarsely grated

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Combine quartered strawberries and sugar in a medium-sized pot. Stir in grated Granny Smith apple. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring and breaking up strawberries, until sugar dissolves. Simmer until jam is thickened, about 15 minutes, fold in lemon juice.

Transfer to a bowl and let cool. Fill two small glass jars with lids and chill until set, about 2 hours. Keep refrigerated and use within a few weeks.

Tastes great on a fresh baguette or brioche smeared with sweet butter; stirred into plain yogurt or as a filling for paper-thin pancakes.

P.S.

happy popper - happy hour

Illustration by Majalisa

It’s always Happy Hour somewhere

I’ve always thought that whoever invented Happy Hour was ingenious. Sure, Happy Hour has been an American institution since the sixties, and there are still plenty of Happy Hours around with reduced prices for drinks and appetizers, even Starbucks has one! But the Happy Hour I am thinking about dates back a few years, when most of my friends and I lived from paycheck to paycheck, and drinks were really cheap. A few dollars took care of a pleasant little buzz and dinner. 

Once a week or so, when slipping out of work around 5 o'clock, I could always count on a handful of friends and coworkers who were in for Happy Hour. I loved the really dark bars, where I needed to give my eyes some time to adjust before I could even see a barstool. They felt cozy yet a little bold at the same time. Fancy sweet cocktails were just what we itched for with peculiar names like Fuzzy Navel, B52 or Sex on the Beach.

Cheap drinks were one thing, but the free food was just as important. I had a knack for snooping out the best places, and we often snacked on little meatballs speared with toothpicks, taquitos, chips and salsa, vegetables and dip, spicy chicken wings, and always lots of dangerously delicious fried food.

Surely one of my all-time favorite bites at these Happy Hours were jalapeño poppers: bright green and slightly spicy jalapeño peppers filled with mild, velvety cream cheese, breaded with fine crumbs and deep-fried to a golden brown. They were served piping hot with ranch dressing. I loved how the flavors exploded in my mouth: spicy, cheesy, crunchy and hot all at the same time, that was one yummy food rush! 

Peach Schnapps and Bailey's Irish Cream are not high on my list anymore, but for poppers, I still have a hankering. 

Skinny Poppers
Inspired by Rachael Ray

8-10 large jalapeno peppers, cut in half lengthwise, stems and seeds removed 

Filled with a mixture of:

4 oz each of softened cream cheese and finely grated Manchego cheese

½ shallot, finely chopped

1 cup cilantro, very finely chopped

Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste










Roast in 425 degree oven for 12 - 15 min until peppers are slightly charred and filling is tinged golden brown.

Great as a side to all kinds of grilled meats or chicken.

Grandma Elsa's Elderberries

My maternal grandmother Elsa was a tough cookie with a frosty disposition. She was clearly not your typical doting granny; I don't think she ever gave me a hug or even a gift, except some money on birthdays.

From what I've been told, Grandma Elsa was born when there was still a Kaiser in Germany and was brought up in a virtuous household. She went to a strict Catholic school and experienced both world wars: the first one as a child, the second one as a married woman with children. She was a widow as long as I can remember, lived in a wonderfully airy apartment overlooking our small town, smoked like a chimney and had huge bunions, which were always of great fascination to us kids.

Nevertheless, she showed her affection for my sisters and me in other ways, and one of my better memories of her is feeding us delicate elderberry blossom fritters. Elderberry bushes are prolific in the foothills of the Alps where we grew up. Although we were told to stay away from the actual berries because of the freaky fact that they are slightly poisonous, the blooms are a different story altogether. In spring, Grandma Elsa picked their delicate clusters of ivory blossoms with their heady and uniquely fresh and fruity scent. She brushed them carefully to remove small insects and debris and dipped them into a silky and eggy pancake batter. She quickly fried them to fritters light as air and dusted them with powdered sugar. We girls loved munching on them, giggling about the powdered sugar that stuck to our noses.

It's a good thing that the French liqueur St-Germain has brought the subtle fragrance of elderberry blossoms to America. There are tons of cocktails mixed with St-Germain, but I prefer the simple concoction of an elegantly pale gimlet. Sweet-tart lime juice is a great accent to aromatic gin perfumed with a splash of elderberry blossom cordial. It’s very tasty, pleasantly boozy, and makes me instantly think of Grandma Elsa and of springtime in Germany, a grown-up reminder of a childhood memory.

French Gimlet
(I like to call it the Elsa Gimlet)

Adapted from the St-Germain website

2 parts Gin

1 part St-Germain and maybe an extra splash for a sweeter version

½ part freshly squeezed lime juice

Pour into ice-filled cocktail shaker and shake well. Strain into a small martini glass and garnish with a lime twist.

“She got a bottle of tequila, a bottle of gin, and if I bring a little music I could fit right in.”

- Counting Crows