A Loaf of Bread, A Glass of Scotch, and Thou

Los Angeles, California

For those of you sticklers, who noticed that I didn't leave the recipe for the braided Czechoslovakian Christmas Bread -- good eye! But there was a reason. I really wanted to attempt to make it first. That way I could tweak the recipe, adding additional notes, which, believe me, were not there in the recipe I followed today. But, guess what? I have two beautiful, golden-brown, perfectly braided (ok, mas o menos) loaves of vanoca cooling on a rack right at this moment. A loaf, or two, of bread . . .

. . . a glass of scotch! Yes. This was my reward, and it was good -- single malt, 18-year Macallan, priced right out of my budget, thus stored back in the way back of the liquor cabinet. So, we have the bread, and I've had the scotch, and Christmas is just around the corner.

I don't want to jinx this by saying the bread was easy, because I haven't tasted it yet. But I now remember that bread dough is quite forgiving as long as the yeast is yeasty. And it was actually a lot easier to braid than I remembered. A year-end life lesson to us all -- let us attempt that which intimidates us. With this new confidence, I see more intricate styling in my dance life in the future. But, again, I digress.

Here's the skinny on the beautiful bread:

Vanoca

1             pkg. dry yeast
1/4        cup water at about 110 degrees
1            cup half and half
1/2        cup sugar
1/2        cup softened butter
4 1/2-5 cups all-purpose flour
2            eggs
1 tsp.     grated lemon rind
1/4        teaspoon mace
1             cup golden raisins
1             cup blanched, slivered almonds

Soften yeast in water. Add 1 teaspoon sugar to mixture. Scald half and half by heating over med-low heat until active bubbles form around edges of cream. Combine cream, remaining sugar, salt, and butter in stand mixer. Combine with paddle attachment. Allow to cool to lukewarm.

Stir about two cups of flour into cream mixture. Add eggs and mix well. Stir in yeast mixture. Add lemon peel, mace, raisins, almonds, and remaining flour to make a soft dough. Mix at this point with dough hook, if you have it. Let rest 10 minutes in mixer bowl.

Knead on a floured surface until smooth and elastic. Place in a lightly greased large bowl. Run dough around in bowl to grease on all sides. Cover and let rise in warm place until double, about 1 1/2 hours.

Punch down dough and allow to rise again, for about one hour. Divide dough into two balls. Cover with the bowl and let rest for ten minutes. Divide one dough ball into halves. Divide one of the halves into thirds. Roll each third into a rope about eight inches long. Roll with your hands as if you're making ropes out of Silly Dough or clay. Pinch the ends together and braid. You should end up with a braided loaf about five to six inches long. Divide the second half into half again. Take one of the halves, divide into three sections, and roll into ropes again. These ropes will be the same length, but smaller in circumference. Pinch and braid as in the first braid, and place on top of the first braid, pinching ends, and tucking under if it is long enough. If not, simply pinch the ends of the two braids so that they form one loaf. With the remaining ball of dough, separate into two pieces, and roll them into ropes. Twist these two ropes as if you were making a candy cane (I know . . . who makes candy canes? Work with me here). Place the twisted dough right down the center of the loaf, pressing down slightly. Tuck ends under.

Repeat with the second ball. Seriously.

After braiding the loaves, place in warm place to rise again until double. I found the first loaf was rising while I was shaping the other one. This will take about thirty minutes or so.

Bake at 350 degrees about 30 minutes. If loaves seem to be browning too quickly, place a sheet of foil on top (or, as my grandmother did, a brown paper bag).

Cool, if desired, dust with powdered sugar before serving. Slice into moderately-thin slices to serve, or thicker slices to toast. This is heaven -- heaven, toasted with sweet butter.

Makes two large loaves.

I am sorry that I don't know how to wish you happy holidays in the language of Czechoslovakia (my grandmother said her parents spoke bohemian). So, in the language of my father's family, and that of Dickens, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, and God bless us, everyone!

And, adding to the loaf of bread, and the glass of scotch is thou. Thank you all so much for reading and supporting my blog in 2010. See you in 2011!

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Los Angeles, California


Christmas songs and carols are like Christmas movies. Your favorite one often depends on what kind of a year you've had. I'm all for saying It's a Wonderful Life is the best film invoking the spirit of Christmas. Especially since I'm a heretic who really does not like Miracle on 34th Street. But, truthfully, there are years when The Ref is the film that really meets up with my holiday sense and sensibility. Take a crazy, dysfunctional family and put them in St. Lucia headgear with lit candles . . . well, you get the picture. A good year comes in somewhere in the middle.


As for Christmas music, a sad year always brings to mind the song, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, especially the way I hear it in my head, and on my iPod, sung by Judy Garland. I heard it within me all through the Christmas season after 9/11. And before that, my first Christmas without my dad. The story goes that when it was written for the film Meet Me In St. Louis (one of a few films guaranteed to make Billy leave the room, if not the house when he  sees it's on), the lyric went: Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  It may be your last. Louis B. Mayer was reputed to have said that it was the most depressing song he had ever heard, so he sent Ralph Blaine, the lyricist, back to the composing board to change it. Perhaps the rewritten lyrics helped, as I don't find it depressing. Just wistful, evocative . . . poignant. And, truly there are Christmases when you just feel that way.


Joining the traditions of Christmas songs, carols, and films, is Christmas food, which comes to us, more or less, from our families, the families of our spouses, and those special traditions that we establish ourselves. Case on point, Billy and I get drunk and wrap Christmas presents. OK, I'm kidding. But we do make a party of wrapping the gifts. Billy does the paper, and I do the ribbons and tags. And we do imbibe something special to grease the skids of this process. Usually not eggnog, because while I would be good to go with this, Billy doesn't like milky drinks. So, champagne tends to be the go-to bev, which is fine with both of us.


My mother's grandmother was born in Prague, which makes me one-quarter Czechoslovakian. That is the quarter that gets reinforced at Christmas. I have fragile, beaded ornaments that, reputedly, my great-grandmother brought to this country with her when she emigrated to America in the late 19th century. She also brought with her a tradition that for many years required that my family served fish on Christmas Eve. This probably dates back to the days when there was still Catholicism in the family. And, though the family had long ago left the Church, I grew up with this fish which is prepared in a Slavic style. The recipe's title is translated as Fish in Black Sauce. Real appealing, eh? It consists of a firm white fish (usually bass or halibut) cut into large chunks, poached then combined with a sauce that contains onion, celery root, lemon slices, whole blanched almonds, and prunes. The sauce is tarted up with vinegar, and then sweetened and thickened with gingerbread crumbs. I'm not kidding. And, trust me, this was a huge challenge for all of my boyfriends, and later, for Billy. They all seemed to do alright with the dumplings served under or alongside the fish. In a concession to my grandfather, whose antecedents came from Alsace-Lorraine, my grandmother served spaetzle dumplings, instead of larger Czech-style dumplings. Most of the guys got the dumpling thing. Guys do stodge well, as do I, come to that. We always had the leftover spaetzle browned up in butter the following morning along with eggs, sausage, etc. Lovely. Really.


I haven't had this, which we called Christmas Fish, in a few years. It became daunting for my mom to prepare it. Plus, we were down to so few family members, and most of them the ones who didn't really care for it. So, ham or a pork roast, and even French-Canadian Meat Pies one iconoclastic year, replaced the fish. I do miss it, but what I miss much more is the braided, yeast bread that my grandmother, then my mother made for all holidays. It is called Vanoca (and pronounced by our non-Czech tongues as Vonitchka). It is a firm bread, not like the challah that my friends often buy for their Shabbat dinners. This is a rich bread, more like panettone. It has almonds and golden raisins in it. At Christmastime, my grandmother would add cut up glaceed cherries in red and green. It looked so pretty. But my sister didn't like this. She called the cherries "phony fruit." So they went by the wayside. That was ok. I think I liked the flavor better without them, though the color was festive. When my grandmother could no longer make the bread, my mother took up the mantle. This was slightly diffy, as she never bothered to get a written recipe from my grandmother, whose verbal recipes never had exact measurements. She would say things like, add enough flour to make a stiff dough, but not as stiff as noodle dough. HUH? So, my mom found a recipe in a Czech cookbook and began making the bread, tweaking the recipe as the years passed so that it was more like my grandmother's.


Now, remember the adjective "braided?" Well, therein lies the rub. A decade or two back, in my early married life, I asked my mom to teach me how to make the bread. I wrote down the recipe as she demonstrated it. I have that copy before me now, written in pencil! At the time that we did this, Mom had me try to braid one of the loaves. Quel mess! I could braid my hair, but dough is a different animal altogether. Back at that time, my mom  would make about six loaves at a time in this huge, manual bread mixer with a crank handle on top. Mom would proof the yeast, then measure out the ingredients, and then my dad would mix the dough. With that large of a batch, cranking required a lot of elbow grease. After the dough rested and had risen, my mom would shape and braid the loaves. Today, the bread mixer is long gone. In recent years, my mom made only a few loaves for our holiday celebrations at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, using her Kitchen Aid mixer with the dough hook. And this year, I will do the same as I attempt to make the bread myself, for the very first time. Please wish me luck!


And so with the wistfulness of passing on the baking baton, the song Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas will be much played here at Casa Healy. For when Judy sings, Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow, we understand that the fates are not always that kind. And that within the joyousness of the Christmas season exists the poignancy of holidays past, and the memories of those who once shared the celebration with us.


So, this year, enjoy the season with all those you love, young and old. Rejoice, drink eggnog, drink champagne, break bread, and have yourself a merry little Christmas. Thank you all, once again, for reading my blog.

Albert Finney Slept in My Bed

Los Angeles, California

Caught your attention, now didn't I? Well, while the afterglow of Kona is still somewhat with me, I thought I might relate one more Kona Village story. And I will start by telling you five things about me that are extraordinary. Now, don't go away. I don't actually mean things that are inherently about me. Rather, this is more about things that have happened to me, mostly through the luck of being in the right place at the right time. And they are (and I am totally excited to introduce the bullet format into my blog):

• Saw The Beatles in concert

• Have seen three no-hitters pitched at Dodger Stadium (Bo Belinsky, Fernando Valenzuela and Kevin Gross). Belinsky, by the way was pitching for the Angels who utilized Dodger Stadium during the first few years of the franchise

• Have experienced the Northern Lights in Washington State. Seriously. No drugs involved in this 

You see, it's not like I'm extraordinary (on the contrary). But when you think about events which have occurred in your life, I believe that we can all come up with a short list of rather extraordinary happenings. Now, added to this list are a couple of things that seem to be about luck, karma, or what have you. And they are:

• I ALWAYS find excellent parking. I call it "TV Parking" because it is like on that old TV show, The Streets of San Francisco. Drivers on that show were always able to pull up into a parking place right in front of the Buena Vista (cafe in San Francisco famous for Irish Coffee and immortalized, so to speak, in the opening scene of the film When a Man Loves a Woman). Anyway, parking thusly in the heart of Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco is, in a word, impossible. But I do have that kind of luck when it comes to parking. I'm famous for it.

• I have a finely-tuned radar for spotting celebrities. The list is long, but to name a few: Barbra Streisand (at a nursery in Calabasas, California), Steve Martin (California Pizza Kitchen), Clint Eastwood (Piatti restaurant in Carmel), Doris Day (Rio Grill which is also in Carmel), Julie Andrews & Blake Edwards (Michael's restaurant in Santa Monica, California), Billy Wilder (also at Michael's on same evening as Julie and Blake -- she went over to talk to Billy at his table), Cyd Charisse (at a workout studio in Encino, California), and both Jake (Hungry Cat, Hollywood) and Maggie (Le Pain Quotidien in Bev Hills) Gyllenhaal, just to name-drop a couple for the younger gen.

OK, I am not unaware that the celebrity-spotting game kinda flies in the face of what I wrote about a few posts back, dissing our celebrity-du-jour culture. But, I grew up in Los Angeles. Celebrity-spotting has always been a participation sport here. And that goes back way before paparazzi and Paris Hilton (I can't believe I've now written that name in a blog post. Circling the drain). And anyway, I think we should embrace our contradictions, don't you?


So, with all of the above in mind, here is the short list of celebrities that I would love (or would have loved, in the case of those who are DYK -- Dead, You Know) to have spotted: Paul Newman; Robert Redford; Daniel-Day Lewis; Colin Firth (be still my heart); Diane Keaton (mostly because Billy saw her at a McDonald's in Santa Monica, which makes him one up on me). And if the list were longer it would certainly include Albert Finney.


I was pretty young when my sister was studying English Literature in college. Still, she took me to a revival movie theater to see the Tony Richardson film Tom Jones. I loved it. And the actor who played Tom Jones was amazing. His name is Albert Finney, and after viewing the film I had a huge crush on him. When I was a bit older, I saw a movie that changed how I conceptualized marriage (for better and worse). It was Two For The Road, with Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn. It was at the beginning of a love affair with the later Stanley Donen films -- my favorite being Once More With Feeling, which is hard to come by but you can occasionally catch it on TCM. It stars Yul Brynner and Kay Kendell (FABULOUS). But I digress. This post is about Albert Finney.

I heard somewhere along the line that he had spent time at The Kona Village, which isn't surprising. Through the years a ton of celebrities have stayed there. Some have come regularly, and some we have seen while we are there. But I'm not going to divulge that information because it flies in the face of what is special about the Village. However, I do need to write about Albert Finney's stay there. From what I heard, the staff liked him a lot. He lived large, enjoying the food and good wines at meals. He was kind to the employees, and I suspect a lot of them may not have known who he was. We heard from guests whose stays had overlapped with his, that he was a bit of a character. But it wasn't until a couple years after hearing these stories that someone mentioned which hale was his during his stay (for refresher on what a hale is, see post entitled Kona Hanu. Oh, never mind, a hale is like a cottage).  And, lo and behold, Albert's hale was OUR hale! The very same one we stay in every year when we go to the Village.


It was a long, long road from viewing Tom Jones when I was in junior high school, to learning that we had stayed in the same hale, showered in the same shower, and slept in the same bed, albeit at different times. See what can come to those who are not impatient for the arrival of serendipitous events in their lives? And, so it is that I can truthfully state that Albert Finney slept in my bed. Or I slept in his. Same difference. Now if I could just figure out where Colin Firth goes on vacation . . . And thanks again for reading my blog.