This Side of Paradise

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California


I didn't chose my major in college. There is a bit of a back story here, but to cut to the chase, my mother filled out my application when I transferred to a California University from a smaller college in my sophomore year. Shortly after my acceptance, I received a letter from the English department, welcoming me into their program. I wasn't happy about this at the time, as I'd wanted to tool along in the undecided department, with all my friends . But the truth is that I had loved my English classes in junior high and high school (except for when they made us read Silas Marner in tenth grade), and I had embraced college literature classes in my freshman year. I had a passion for F. Scott Fitzgerald, and quickly read all of his works (not truly an imposing endeavor as he only published four novels during his lifetime). I even took a course in my senior year of college which covered all and only F. Scott Fitzgerald, a night class to boot, which was a challenge for a college student working two jobs.


I still love Fitzgerald, and still ponder why his wondrous novels make such bad movies. I have a framed photograph of him on the wall in my red dining room, enabling me to integrate my two lifelines of writing and cooking into one space. And lately, I've been thinking about This Side of Paradise. It's not my favorite, nor his best. My favorite is Tender is the Night, and unarguably The Great Gatsby is his best. Nevertheless, it's Paradise I've been thinking about. I've always marveled at the popularity of it. It's a pastiche of stuff: lists; a play (if memory serves, as I don't have a copy here in Carmel); a pretty-much autobiographical story; all wrapped up within one work, bound, and published. I always thought it was so cool that he could get away with it. My notebooks throughout school and beyond were full of incongruous bits of writing contained in a variety of spirals. At one point in college I kept a calorie intake list (a la Bridget Jones, but way before her) in the margins of notes from classes like The Romantic Age and The Contemporary Novel. In high school, my best friend and I maintained our own comic strip about a Neanderthal couple who were dating, entitled Big Mark and Little Flower (we were both dating boys named Mark. Can't remember which of us was Little Flower). OK, where was I? Yes, This Side of Paradise. It's a blog -- right? I mean, obviously the internet did not exist when Fitzgerald wrote the book, just before the roaring twenties of the last century. But, if it had, Paradise would have been a blog. Because you can write anything here -- lists, recipes, critiques, erotica; the possibilities go on and on ad infinitum. So, while I was going for the Hemingway thing (see first post), I think I'll actually set the bar a little higher (I apologize to all those Hemingway aficionados -- don't write me about this, please!), and follow, in my own weak and meandering way, the path that Fitzgerald demonstrated to me when I was in college, reading his and all those other transfiguring works which continue to inspire me.


And, what would Sandra do? Sandra recommends that I read Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog, which is the next book in my nightstand stack. And, I think I'll do just that. Thanks for reading my blog.

Very-Nearly Omnivores

Carmel-by-the Sea, California

During a thunderstorm in the middle of last night, I managed to work myself into a frenzy over my next post. Who knew that the second one would give me such grief? Then again, when I take a hiatus from working out, I always find my second session after coming back is the one that makes my muscles pay. But I digress. What kept me awake last night was not what sounded like scarily-close thunder and pounding hail on the roof of my bedroom here at my rental in Carmel. Rather, it was that pesky little issue mentioned rather cavalierly in my first post . . . those three things that I've decided to make focal in my life.

First, let me say, I do have those three things figured out. It was relatively easy. I just picked the top three passions in my life, after recognizing that my particular problem is that I'm too suggestible. I get terribly distracted by the shiny thing that represents someone else's interest. Tell me you're taking a Conversational Italian class at the local community college, and I'm there. Show up with a bag of knitting when you meet me for coffee (tea, in my case), and I will be buying yarn on my way home. Calligraphy, anyone? Well, you get the picture. So, my challenge was to attempt to pare away everything that came in at number four and below. Truth is that I currently hover around 3.75, but I'm working on it.

So, what comes after writing? Yes, I'm quite aware that I tipped my hand with the title. I cook. I've always cooked. I think it may have started with The Betty Crocker Boys and Girls Cookbook. And I still make a much-modified version of the macaroni and cheese that can trace its origins back to that book. Much modified, I stress, as Betty never heard of panko crumbs. I was cooking full dinners at home when I was still in elementary school. By the time my girl scout troop had a cooking class outing, I was so above it all. In my last year of college I was able to live alone in a one-bedroom apartment. Get this: my own refrigerator. And that was when I really honed my skills. The baking I had done in high school fell away. I would much rather have a large pot of something on the stove than be poking into an oven, though I do still bake occasionally. That large pot of something created our first marital crisis. In the first year of our marriage, Billy begged me to stop making ratatouille. My motto is that anything worth doing is worth doing over and over again, until you get it right (see last post).

Anyway, along with the decision of when to reveal my second lifeline, I also fretted about . . . wait for it . . . the first recipe. This kept me awake for a full hour on its own. There are all kinds of possibilities; the mind boggles. A week or so back, I prepared a Potato Gratin with Caramelized Onions and Prosciutto. The caramelized onions part of this took about four hours to prepare; the last ninety minutes or so requiring frequent stirring. Don't get me wrong. It was very, very good, and my house guests raved. Check out the recipe: here. But, I ruled that one out. I really wanted to choose something that was mine, in the more classic sense.

I insert disclaimer here. If you have a narrow bandwidth when it comes to food, this might be the time to run screaming from the room. Truth is, Billy and I can hardly have a dinner party anymore unless we serve something everyone is willing and eager to ingest. Like, say, water. This because those people don't eat meat, and these people don't eat wheat. We even have a philistine in our midst who doesn't eat chocolate, though we don't know her that well, so it's fairly easy to keep her outside the circle, so to speak. I have a theory that chocolate deficiency is the root cause of most personality disorders, but that's a whole 'nother posting. So if you are one of those whose borders are not fully open when it comes to food, you might want to leave your seat and exit the building now. Pretty much the only ingredient you will not find in these posts will be . . . goat cheese. And that is not for lack of trying (and you probably thought I'd evolved to include it in the above mentioned Mac'n'cheese, right? Wrong.). Sheep cheese? Manchego and feta? In there. But there is a genuine hate on the goat cheese. I apologize for my shortcomings.

I should also express regrets to anyone in a cold climate without indoor grilling capabilities. After all, it is January. But here in California outdoor barbecuing is more or less a year-round pastime, although not today what with the lightening and hail. Still, I imagine you are all creative with grill pans and broilers. I can't vouch for the outcome of the chops if you use alternative means, but I have faith. Feel free to experiment, people. It's our creed.

I have no idea where I bagged the recipe for the lamb chops, but the Thyme Garlic Butter came from the September, 1995 Gourmet (RIP).



Grilled Lamb Chops with Thyme Garlic Butter and Figs

1 garlic clove
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter
3 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
2 teaspoons grated fresh lemon zest
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
3 rib lamb chops (3/4 inch; 2 pounds)
6 fresh figs, sliced
olive oil
honey

Mince garlic and mash to a paste with salt using a heavy knife or mortar and pestle. Transfer to a food processor along with remaining ingredients and blend. Shape the butter into a 6-inch log in a sheet of waxed paper. Twist ends to close. Chill, covered, at least two hours for flavors to develop. Bring to room temperature before using.

Season lamb with salt and pepper. If using a charcoal grill, open vents on bottom of grill, then light charcoal. Charcoal fire is medium-hot when you can hold your hand five inches above rack for three or four seconds without wincing. If using a gas grill, preheat burners on high, covered, ten minutes, then reduce heat to moderate. Grill chops, covered only if using a gas grill, on lightly oiled grill rack, turning over once, until medium-rare, about eight minutes total. Transfer to a plate, place a pat of the seasoned butter on each chop, and let stand, loosely covered, ten minutes.

Meanwhile, brush cut surfaces of figs with olive oil and drizzle with honey. Grill skin side down over moderate heat until heated and lightly browned (though this is difficult to scan with the purple-skinned figs). Serve with chops.

Four servings



My sister and I have often berated our mother for not serving lamb at home. She takes umbrage at this, and even insists that she and my dad grew mint in our garden especially for those frequent lamb dinners. Seriously, that must have been for their other family. As neither my sister nor I remember any lamb being served, plus they were not big gardeners, come to that. So, I came to the lamb party quite late. It was when I was in high school and my best friend's mother decided to take it on herself to introduce me to lamb. I fell in love, and that relationship is still rockin'. And so I say: eat, enjoy, get over yourself. Try not to think about the movie, Babe.

What would Sandra do? Sandra would serve this with the best bottle of pinot noir that her spouse could lay his hands on. Go John. And thanks for reading my blog.

A Retreat in Carmel

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

I come to Carmel every year in January. I like to call this a writing retreat, but truth be told, it could just as easily be tagged a walking retreat, or a cooking retreat. Even a drinking retreat -- though that would serve mainly to establish myself in the cliched image of a Hemingwayesque writer. A turtleneck sweater could do the same, with less consequence on my liver. Still, I think that it is always a good idea to pair a turtleneck with a drop or two of something nice. Right now my preference is running to single malt scotch, preferably Laphroig.

I do write while I'm here, by the way. I've established myself at a small, round table in the kitchen of the house I rent, which is walking distance to both town and the beach. That is, you can walk to both of those areas from the house here in Carmel. Walking back is problematic because of the hill. The hill could be described as a near ninety-degree angle. Seriously, you might as well be climbing one of those rock walls on a cruise ship. It is roughly one hundred steps from base to top. In the five years that I have been renting this house, I have taken that hill to the tune of, say, about ten thousand steps. Would that I could say I have the glutes to prove it.

As I was saying, my excuse for this retreat is that I have been working on a novel that I began writing in 2004. I am now on the bizillionth draft of said novel, give or take. My spouse, Billy, thinks I should move on, and commence work on the next novel which I outlined about a year or two back. I tell him to reflect on this: The main character, and nameless narrator, in the Daphne Du Maurier novel, Rebecca told Maxim that her father was a painter. In response to Maxim's question regarding what her father painted, she replied that he painted a tree. Oh, trees, Maxim said (and I'm paraphrasing here, as I don't have the novel at hand). No, she said. He just painted one tree. And she went on to explain that her father believed that when you found one perfect thing, you should paint it over and over until you got it right. Well, that's my five-year novel. I haven't gotten it right yet.

I've heard it said that everyone has at least one novel in them. This advisement comes my way from those writing workshops which purport to lead you down a creative pathway. I've written two novels without benefit of finding this path. One is finished and the other, as I've said, is in progress. But I get the point of the one-novel-in-you thing. It's our story. The story that looms largest in our legend. If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending upon how you look at it), your story will be BIG. My story is medium-sized. It unfolded at the time I was finishing college, and I'm still trying to figure it out. Maybe when I do, I can finish the novel. But then I might have to give up the retreat in Carmel, or at least come clean about what I really do here.

So, what would Sandra do? Sandra would agree with Billy that I should finish the book and move on. So here, on my first post, I have to sheepishly admit that I can't always do what Sandra would do, even when I believe it's the best course. Alas, I am not Sandra. I am Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.