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Sailboat Strawberry Pie

Yesterday I tried to post this recipe but instead I got carried away talking all about our wonderful anniversary/family visit. And as much as I loved pouring over family photos that week, I equally loved spending one-on-one time visiting with my mother-in-law. I realize that the cliche is a mother-in-law who meddles and sticks her nose in and disapproves of everything, but my mother-in-law is anything but that. She’s absolutely lovely. She reminds me a lot of my Aunt Sue – my mother’s beloved Aunty who passed away when I was 16. I spent my childhood at Aunt Sue’s heels while she baked cakes and served fairy tea in miniature china teacups. I spent hours with my head resting on her ample bosom, while she told stories about her childhood home, our nation’s capital, the illustrious Washington D.C.  She’s been gone for years, but I see her in my mother-in-law. The way Mom pads around the kitchen in red knit ballet slippers, telling stories about her childhood in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where her mother lived her entire life in a two-bedroom house with no kitchen sink. We spent our mornings immersed in photo albums, our afternoons cooking, and every evening I curled up at her feet like a cat and asked for more stories. More!

When Michael’s parents were first married, they owned a beautiful sailboat that they’d take out for weeks at a time. Michael cut his teeth sailing and I have seen the photos to prove it. (omgsoadorable.)  The following is a recipe for the strawberry pie Michael’s mother used to make on the boat whenever they went out to sea. It’s unbelievably easy and it’s probably one of the best strawberry pies I’ve ever eaten.

Sailboat Strawberry Pie

Oven: This will depend on the type of crust you use
Prep: 30 min.
Bake: Nada
What You’ll Need:
frozen/refrigerated pie crust
fresh strawberries
2 cups sifted powdered sugar
whipping cream
sugar
vanilla extract

We started with a Marie Callender’s frozen pie crust. I was skeptical because I’ve always insisted on baking my own pie crusts from scratch, but this pie crust was so delicious – flaky, tender, flavorful – I don’t know if I’ll ever go to the trouble of making a crust from scratch again. We followed the instructions on the box, which were something along the lines of “take the crust out of the box, prick it all over with a fork, bake it for 15 minutes, voila!”

While the crust was in the oven, we washed the strawberries, trimmed their tops off, and set them out to dry. It’s important that the strawberries are completely dry before you put them in the pie.

When the crust had baked and cooled, you sift 1 cup of powdered sugar evenly into the pie crust.

When the strawberries are completely dry, you arrange them in the powdered sugar dusted pie crust.

strawberries

We were only about half-done filling the crust with strawberries at this point…

Next, sift 1 more cup of powdered sugar over the strawberries, covering evenly and completely.

If you want to make your own whipped cream, now is the time. Add a teaspoon of vanilla extract to your whipping cream and whip on high while slowly adding sugar to taste. We forgot to buy whipping cream, but Mom had Cool Whip on hand and that worked perfectly.

Cover your pie with whipped cream (or Cool Whip) like so:

whipping cream

You want to completely cover the pie with whipped cream, much the way you would cover a meringue-topped pie with meringue – sealed all the way to the edges. Put the pie in the fridge for two or three hours to chill before serving. Voila! You’re done! Easy peasy and completely delicious.

fini

Now I wish I’d taken a photo of the pie once it was cut and plated because in addition to being delicious, it was also gorgeous. But you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Now onward! Make pies!

Strawberry Pie

The week of our anniversary, we went to visit Michael’s mother in her home – not his childhood home, his parents didn’t buy this house until the summer before his senior year in high school, but he did live in this house, and it was a really big deal for me to visit his mom in her home, where he once lived, because we’ve been together for nearly eight years and I’d never even seen a baby picture of him.

You can tell what a big deal it was because that entire paragraph turned into one giant run-on sentence.

You see, Mike’s mother lives out of state and for one reason or another, we’ve never been able to visit her. She’s visited us several times, but we’d never been able to visit her. In fact, Mike hadn’t been home at all in eleven years. It was time.

We stayed for three days and we didn’t leave the house except once to swing by the supermarket. Instead of running around doing stuff, we spent all three days pouring over old family photo albums. Actually, Mike studied for micro-biology while his mother and I poured over old family photo albums. I was absolutely in heaven. I got to look through Michael’s baby book – his baby book! I saw his first lock of hair from his first haircut and the hospital bracelet he came home in and the very first penny he ever found and picked up for good luck. You guys. The happiness almost killed me.

And the photo albums! There were pictures of all of his Halloween costumes – he was Chewbaca two years in a row and if you saw this costume you would die itissoadorable. There were pictures of his first Christmas and every Christmas after. Snapshots from his birthday parties and his first steps and all these beautiful, happy, perfect memories caught in tiny squares of faded paper like so many pressed rose petals.

It’s funny because I was secretly a little sad that our anniversary trip was a trip to visit family. Not that I wasn’t delighted to be visiting family because I was. I planned this trip and looked forward to it for months. Just that, you know, it was our five-year wedding anniversary, it would have been nice to go somewhere romantic and alone. But as it turned out, this quality time with family was exactly what we needed.

I want to know Michael. I want to understand everything about him. I want to know him better than anyone in the world. I wish I could go back in time and be a fly on the wall at his sixth birthday party. Or I wish I could have been his favorite toy – his little velveteen rabbit. It drove me crazy that we’d been together for so long, but I’d never even seen one of his baby pictures. There was this chunk of his past that was a complete mystery to me. I’d ask him questions about his childhood and he’d look at me like I was crazy and say, “How am I supposed to remember that?” But now I know he had tin-soldier wallpaper and a birthday cake shaped like the Easter bunny. I’ve seen his lego towers and his cat Snowball. I’ve read his birth announcement and flipped through his parents’ wedding album. Pieces of him, however small they may be.

The visit was also an extraordinary opportunity for me and my mother-in-law to bond over the greatest thing we have in common – the tall, handsome, funny, smart, strong, kind of nerdy man we both love. I got to gush over pictures of her towheaded, blue-eyed baby boy while she took a leisurely stroll down memory lane. She told the most wonderful stories about my husband’s childhood and of her own life, before he was born. I’m still kicking myself because we didn’t bring our digital recorder. It would have been incredible to record these family stories. (Remind me to tell you about three-year-old Mike and the inflatable bunny.) One night his Aunt and Uncle joined us for dinner – I had never met them before and they were the absolute loveliest people – and it was such fun to hear Mike’s mother and her big brother reminiscing about their childhood. You guys, it was amazing. It was the best time ever.

I don’t know how to put into words why this experience – this chance to peek into a part of my husband’s past – was so important to me. Before the trip, I loved Michael more than I ever knew I was capable of loving someone. But after the trip? Afterwards I couldn’t believe how much more I loved him. It was as if my heart grew three sizes bigger and all the extra, new space was filled up with Michael.

This post was supposed to be a post with a recipe for my mother-in-law’s awesome strawberry pie, but I got a little carried away talking about our wonderful anniversary/family trip, and now you’ve probably thrown-up in your mouth at least three times (because really? No one wants to hear a married lady gush about her husband) so I’ll post the recipe tomorrow. And now you have something to look forward to! You’re welcome.

Getting There Slowly

family room

The family room, May 2011.*

I’ve always been the kind of person who jumps into things without giving them much thought, whereas Michael is the kind of person who goes at things sideways, exploring every angle before making a decision. This is one of the reasons why we are great for each other (because we balance each other out) and why we drive each other nuts (because it’s annoying when someone is actively balancing you out.)

All of this to say that I think some of Mike has been rubbing off on me (not that way, ew) because I’ve been very patient with regard to my family room and that is incredibly unlike me. Normally I buy a bunch of crap I don’t really like because I need something, anything right now. But this time I’ve been pulling a Michael and doing it a little bit at a time, adding something here and there, as we can afford it, as we aquire it, when we find something we love, et cetera. And I’m so glad it’s worked out that way.

I’m really happy with the way this room looks now. It’s much more the cozy-library-esque-family-room I was hoping for.(Here’s what it looked like six weeks ago.) I still want an area rug and some throw pillows, but I’m glad I waited until I had the table behind the futon and all the shelves up because I’ve completely changed my mind about the color scheme.

Speaking of the table, Mike built it and it’s not really a table, but a triangular shelf that fits perfectly in the corner behind the futon. He put a smaller triangular shelf above that, and now we have a much better spot for Foxy than we had before. I am absolutely thrilled. I was a little worried that one of the cats was going to try and get into it with the emaciated half-eaten gazillion-year-old taxidermy fox that is my grotesque little friend, but so far they have left him alone.

foxy

More than anything, I love all the family photos everywhere. Formal portraits and snap shots, new photos and old black-and-whites, each one makes my heart sing.

family weddings

My goal, of course, is to wallpaper these walls with family photos in various gold-and-similarly-hued frames. That would be wonderful.  But in the mean time we’re off to a pretty good start.

family photos

Also, major good news! We got permission from our landlord to install a bike rack! So excited! (!!!) This means two things:

1.) I will no longer have to carry my bicycle down three flights of stairs then up three flights of stairs every single time I ride it.

2.) There will no longer be a bicycle leaning in front of our fire place.

I am so excited, I can barely sit still. We ordered it online and it arrived late last week, so Mike will be installing it sooooon! Maybe we’ll do a post about it. That’s a great idea! A post about how my husband bolted a piece of metal to some concrete in our parking area. Riveting.

Actually, if you want a really good DIY blog, you should check out Dopey’s Happy Home. You probably remember my best fried and frequent accomplice Dopey LaRue? Well, the lovely Miss LaRue has started a new blog, a sort of eco-friendly, mother-earth, rock-and-roll blog about DIY-ing everything from gourmet dinners to bedroom furniture. Girl works a full time job, goes to school full time, and makes all her own skincare products. She has tiger blood. Go look at her site now.

*This is the kind of thing I need an SLR for. What I wouldn’t give for a camera that takes great photos in super low light.

Where Does Quinoa Come From?

I love Quinoa. My mother introduced me to it, but it was GGC who taught me that quinoa is something you can eat a million ways and seventy times a week.

Ok, not that much. Everything in moderation.

My favorite way to eat quinoa is as breakfast (with hot milk, cinnamon, a sprinkle of brown sugar) or instead of pasta. It cooks up super fast, has tons of protein, tastes good, and is way better for you than pasta.

First you clean it. I rinse it the same way I rinse a bunch of grapes, only instead of a regular colander, I use a tiny mesh colander.

rinsed

Then I put it in a little pot with maybe a quarter inch of water on top of it. Like so:

just add water

You want to let it come to a nice boil over medium heat. When it boils, turn the heat way down, cover it, and let it simmer for ten to fifteen minutes. The water will soak into the seeds until they open and become almost transparent. They are surprisingly beautiful, strange looking little grains.

needs a fluffer

You just can’t tell in this picture.

We like to dish it out, then smother it in homemade pasta sauce and Asiago cheese. We eat it out on the balcony and watch the sun set. And when I try to take a photo of Mike with his wonderful quinoa dinner he says, “Seriously? I’m chewing.”

he is chewing

The Saddest Music in the World

You all know I come from a big huge family of smart creative types. I know you know this because I can’t shut up about it. From my mother-the-artist to my brother-the-lawyer, I’m proud of my family. Today I want to send a little love to my brother-the-rock-star. His voice will melt your ears off – maybe I’ve made you listen before? Here? What about this one?

The Saddest Music in the World – close your eyes and give it a good listen. You’ll be sad glad you did.

Justin Sweeney and Nik Frost of The Bangkok Five join Trevor Armstrong of Sea of Cortez and Daniel The Electric Lion for some Down Tempo Electromagnetic, very sad times with “The Saddest Music In The World”.

Min’s Irish Soda Bread

For as long as I can remember, my mother has cooked her famed Corned Beef and Cabbage for each and every Saint Patrick’s Day. Except for Christmas, I never felt further from home in New York than on St. Paddy’s Day, 3,000 miles away from my family and our delicious traditional meal.

So you can imagine how excited I am for tonight’s Family Dinner! That’s right! In honor of Saint Patrick and Frost Family Tradition, Mama Frost is making her wonderful Corned Beef and Cabbage and I baked two loaves of Irish Soda Bread to go along with it. Mmmmmmm…. I love me some Irish Soda Bread! My mom gave me this recipe, and I think she got it from her father, who probably got it from his mother, Min. But I’m just guessing.

Grandma Min’s Irish Soda Bread

Oven: 325*
Prep: 10 min.
Bake: 65-70 min.
What you’ll need:
A 9×5 loaf pan (I use a 9″ cake pan and it works fine.)
3 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tbsp baking powder
1/3 cup sugar
1 tsp salt
1 egg lightly beaten
2 cups buttermilk
1/4 cup melted butter
raisins

P.S. As I typed that list out, I realized that I totally did not add the baking soda to my Irish Soda Bread. What happens when you skip the baking soda in a recipe? (We’ll find out at dinner tonight.)

Preheat your oven to 325* and grease your loaf pan.

Combine flour, baking powder, BAKING SODA, sugar, and salt.

Blend egg and buttermilk, then add all at once to flour mixture.

add buttermilk and egg

Mix buttermilk and egg mixture into flour mixture until just moist.

mix in until just moist

Stir in the melted butter…

add butter

Then… defile the Irish and add RAISINS to the mix! Yes, that’s right. Traditional Irish Soda Bread does not contain raisins, at least not according to the Internets. However, my family’s traditional recipe does include raisins, and it’s delicious that way, so do as the Frosts do and add raisins! Yum! (Also, don’t really defile the Irish. We love and adore the Irish. In fact, the Frosts are Irish. So maybe the Internets are wrong about what makes Soda Bread authentic.)

add raisins

I have no idea how many raisins you should add. Just throw in a bunch until you think it looks right. And be sure not to forget the baking soda. It is, after all, Irish Soda Bread.

Pour your batter (it should be thick and gooey, like the batter for scones) into your greased loaf pan. I like to use a rubber spatula to scrape the mixing bowl clean. Put it in a 325* oven for 65 to 70 minutes, or until a wooden toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

irish soda bread

Well, it looks fantastic. Too bad this blog doesn’t have smell-o-reading because it smells fffffaaaaannnntaaaasssstic! Now you’re going to let it cool on a wire rack for thirty minutes to an hour.  For best flavor, wrap it in a clean dishcloth and let it sit over night before serving. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Now for your daily sleeping wiener:

wiener dreams

(Tomorrow I’ll tell you what the fam thought of my soda-less soda bread. Seriously? How could I forget the baking soda?)

***It was awesome, by the way. Delish. Everybody had multiple helpings, and one of my brothers even skipped dessert so he could justify eating more of the sodaless soda bread. But really? The true star of the show was my mother’s Corned Beef and Cabbage which, Holy Mother of Goldfish, was so incredible, so much more incredible than I even remembered, it was completely worth moving 3,000 miles across the country for.

Crazy Crazy Baby Crazy

In 2008 I was so baby-crazy I could hardly walk in a straight line. I wanted a baby so badly I could taste it – I felt it in every cell of my body, ever fiber of my being, as if my ovaries had taken over my brain and were sending me not-so-subliminal messages to procreate! Procreate! PROCREATE NOW OR DIE.

Looking back on it, I’m sure it was all hormones. It was a feeling in my body so overwhelming that I really can’t imagine it was anything but hormones. We didn’t have a baby then because we were living paycheck to paycheck, we couldn’t afford healthcare, and I didn’t want to have a baby 3,000 miles away from my family.  When we decided to move back to Los Angeles in 2010, we decided we’d try for a baby the following fall. I wanted to try and prepare myself for the task, so I picked up “What to Expect Baby’s First Year,” and then in November I started taking pre-natal vitamins. FYI: I never made it past month two in that book about babies. WTF that sh*t is scary! The more I think about babies, the more nervous I get. A baby is a ginormous responsibility. Huge. Life-changing. Marriage-changing. When I think about babies now, I feel nothing but terror. Next fall is like, six months from now. We live in an apartment with old, filthy, germy carpeting in the valley. Where there are earthquakes. We live paycheck to paycheck. We can’t afford health care. And we have absolutely no idea when we won’t be living paycheck to paycheck, if we’ll ever be able to afford healthcare, or if we’ll ever be able to buy a house. Mike told me last night that the Obama administration wants to dissolve Frannie Mae and Freddie Mac, which apparently means that it will be impossible for regular people like us to buy a house. Which means we’ll be living in a shitty apartment with germy carpeting for the. rest. of. our. lives. A baby? Six months from now? Hells to the N-O.

Also? I worry about what kind of a world we’d be bringing that child into. This country is kind of a mess right now, let’s be perfectly honest. I know there are much worse places to live than the United States of America, but still. Our education system is in the toilet, the economy is in the toilet, healthcare is in the toilet, there are no jobs, once eradicated horrible diseases are reappearing with a vengeance, gas prices are going up, and the majority of Americans think people like Snooki and Paris Hilton poop gold, when they ought to be looking up to people like, oh, I don’t know, Martin Luther King Jr. or Abraham Lincoln. Of course, they’re dead, but even I can’t come up with the name of a single current American hero. Is that because there are none? Or am I just painfully ignorant? And if I’m so painfully ignorant, should I really be breeding? And if I’m not painfully ignorant and I should be breeding, how do I know that if I have a baby in the next five years I won’t be raising him or her in a country where only the filthy rich have access to medicine, safe food to eat, or clean water to drink?  How do I know whether I can keep them safe from war and disease and climate change?

Then I think about all the risks involved with having a baby. What if it’s not born healthy? What if it is born healthy and then dies of SIDS? And what about me? I could get pre-eclampsia, gestational diabetes, I could bleed out giving birth, or even in the best case scenario, I could have a perfectly normal pregnancy but spend all of it puking every fifteen minutes. Not to mention, if you’ll allow me to be completely superficial and vain for five seconds, I could wind up covered in stretch marks with a flesh-apron instead of a stomach. THAT HAPPENS.

You guys, I don’t know if I can do it. Maybe we should just stick to dogs. This terrible thing that happened in Japan last week, the oil spill last summer, Libya, Egypt, Afganistan, Sara Palin, reality TV, blizzards, car accidents, murder, rape, it’s too much. It’s too terrifying. How can I justify bringing a defenseless, tiny, innocent child into a world like this? It’s a gigantic, life or death, enormous, huge, risky gamble. And I HATE gambling.

What do you think? Am I crazy? Am I focusing on all the negative and ignoring the positive? What is the positive? I know that a lot of you are totally pro-baby, and I miss being baby-crazy, so seriously, I need to know what you think. Because I really don’t like what I think.

***Updated***

And then I read things like this and my uterus practically crawls out of my body to go get fertilized. My friend George told me it’s imperative that I have children, so that I can raise world-conscious people who have the potential to make a positive impact on this earth. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should focus on the love, not the terror.

Geraldine

geraldine

This tiny section of my family room makes me feel indescribably happy. The portrait is of my mother-in-law, Geraldine, when she was sixteen. She’s a real beauty and I think her portrait is lovely over the radio table. One day, if I ever acquire a camera that takes fantastic photos in low lighting, I’ll take a real picture of Geraldine so you can admire her too.

I Love Palm Springs

Four Palms

Before last week I never understood why people vacation in Palm Springs, but I totally get it now.

Paradise

In some places people are bundling up to go outside and dig their car out of the snow. But in Palm Springs, in February, you can gaze at palm trees as you roast in the sun.

You guys, I love the sun. If I wasn’t already married, I would totally marry it.

mexican food

A dear friend from college joined us on Wednesday and we all went to dinner at this fantastic Mexican restaurant called Las Casuelas Terraza. It’s been there since 1958 and the food was unreal. It was a Wednesday night but there was a live band playing the Beach Boys, the Beatles, Journey, Chicago, and other such classic rock & roll staples. There was a dance floor and you guys, PEOPLE WERE DANCING. Not the kind of epileptic-type dancing you see the young people doing today, but actual, real, grown-up dancing. I almost died of happiness.

joe

On Thursday Joe flew out from the city of New York to join the party. We picked him up from the airport and headed straight to Ruby’s for the World’s Best Burgers.

best burger ever

I’m not kidding about those burgers. (Nor am I being paid to write that.)

After lunch we hit a matinee performance of the Fabulous Palm Springs Follies, a troup of sixty to seventy-eight year-old ladies who dance like whipper-snappers and look like, well, very attractive and fit older women in pancake make-up and feathers. It was absolutely delightful.

street fair

On our way to dinner that night we discovered a street fair. It was as if all of Palm Springs was gathering to celebrate Adam’s birthday!

AandJ

Dinner was a feast at Wang’s in the Desert. We ordered the catfish which arrived head and tail attached. I tried to get a pictures of Joe and Mike licking the fish’s eyeballs, but I hate and despise my camera so you are getting a photo of Adam and Joe being adorable instead.

I miss them already.

Respawn

My brothers have gotten me and Mike into a game called airsoft. What’s airsoft? It’s simulated tactical warfare.  Mike played one time and then it was the only thing he and my brothers talked about for weeks. Weeks. Finally, on the day after New Years, Mike dragged me along for a game. And when I say “dragged”, I am not exaggerating.

“But I could go get a manicure today!”

“You’re playing airsoft.”

You guys. I could’ve gotten a manicure that day, but instead I spent the entire day with my brothers, their kids, and my husband, running around like maniacs, shooting at each other with BBs. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

In actuality, there is very little maniacal running around involved. There is, however, a whole lot of belly crawling through the underbrush involved. We play at Warped Ops, this brilliant airsoft field with trenches, a city, a town, and everything. It’s amazing. The field is big enough that if, for example, you are looking down at the town from a hill above when someone gives you directions, you will very likely lose your way once inside the town because everything looks completely different from inside than from above.

Last weekend my team, Green Team, had to steal a bucket of water from Goat Town, which was occupied by Tan Team. I was covering a group of soldiers who were covering the guy with the bucket. We were making our way to the well, under enemy fire the entire time, and one by one all the guys around me were getting hit. I ducked into a hut to take cover for a minute and found Sergeant Louise aiming his M16 towards enemy fire.

“Where’s the bucket?” I screamed, my heart racing.

“Frankie’s got it! Three o’clock!”

I peeked around a broken wall and saw Frankie running alone towards a pile of old tires, the bucket clutched in his arms. “I’ll cover him!” I dashed out of the hut. A spray of enemy fire whizzed over my head and then I saw Frankie go down. He screamed, “I’m hit!” as the bucket rolled from his arms toward enemy lines.

I dove for it and somersaulted into the tire pile. I sat up with my face in the tires, trying to make my body as small as possible. The stack of old tires formed a perfect airsoft shield around me. Bullets bounced off of them, but I was untouched. If I could just sit there long enough, the guys firing at me would likely get distracted by something else, and I could make it to the well and back in time to win the game. I peered over my shoulder, watched two more of my teammates go down.  A third threw himself into the tires beside me.

“Dude! When the firing dies down –” A glossy white BB smacked him right between the eyes.

“You’re dead! Respawn!” He crouched lower behind the tires, cradling his Thompson to his chest.

“It’s cool! I’m just gonna chill and catch a breath!” He shouted over the noise of fifteen fully automatic airsoft rifles firing thousands of rounds at us.

“Respawn! Get out of here! They’re not gonna stop shooting if you don’t call your hit! You’re dead! Dead men tell no tales!” I moved to see if anyone was covering us and took a spray of plastic pellets in the Iron Face. And that was it. I was gone.

You guys, protecting that bucket from Tan Team was the highlight of my week.

That sounds really weird, doesn’t it?

IMG_20110102_115332

From left: Frosty, Jack, Lady MacDeath, Warspite, Cricket, and Coyote.

Yes, we have Airsoft nicknames. You know you wanna come dork out with us.