Baba Ghanouj from Scratch

Here's a recipe I posted a while back on Foodie Mama. It's a real crowd pleaser, and since we're still in for a few more days of entertaining, I figured I'd pass this along. Have some red wine or Sambuca on hand.


I'm from the kind of family who travels for food. We talk about what we ate 12 years ago at a mom n' pop place in Palm Springs, the extraordinary apple strudel we had in Heidelberg, the ostrich we enjoyed in Walnut Springs, the eisbein we shared at a neighborhood pub in Berlin. We talk about food. A lot. Chances are our dinner conversation revolves around what we ate once upon a time or what we're going to eat next. In my family food is the great equalizer among us.

And now my sons chime right in. They share memories of eating with their fingers while watching the belly dancers at the Moroccan restaurant in Savannah, squishing the injera at the Ethiopian restaurant, gasping in awe at the flaming haloumi in Chicago, squealing at chef's knife tricks at the habachi grill, and tossing the crawfish tails into the hole cut into the table at the Crab Shack on Tybee Island. Bird and Deal clamor to visit places like Hawaii, Italy, India, and France just to try the local flavors that we talk about. Their latest kick is Greece. The boys don't know this yet, but Mac Daddy and I are trying to swing a family trip to Greece next year to celebrate our tenth anniversary.

In the mean time, we have to settle for the Greek delights we can find in our fair city. Since no one's baba ghanouj is up to snuff, I've tried my hand at making it myself. I have no idea if it's authentic but I do know it tastes damn good.

Baba Ghanouj

• 1 large eggplant or 2 small eggplants
• 2 cloves garlic
• 3/4 cup tahini (You can make it, but I just buy it to keep things simple.)
• juice of 1 lemon (Fresh lemon is imperative! I will totally hold it against you if you use the stuff that comes in the plastic lemon shaped bottle.)
• drizzle of olive oil
• teaspoon cumin
• pinch of cayenne
• handful flat leaf parsley
• salt to taste

Score the eggplant several times and roast at 350 degrees for about an hour. Let it cool. Scrape out the meat, seeds and all, from the eggplant into a food processor. No skin or stem! Add the rest of the ingredients. Pulse until it becomes the consistency of creamy dip. A few chunks are okay so don't over process or the baba ghanouj lest it turns out too runny. Serve in a bowl garnished with a few black olives and sprigs of parsley. Cut pita bread into wedges and serve along with some carrot sticks, cucumber slices, or whatever crudite tickles your fancy.

I happened to use a Ninja Kitchenfor my baba ghanouj.

Full disclosure here: I got to go on a blogger junket to New York to see the Food Network's Robin Miller demonstrate the many uses of the Ninja Kitchen. I was lucky enough to get one for free so I have waved buh-bye to my old blender and food processor. The Ninja Kitchen makes perfect dip, smoothies, soups, and all kinds of other stuff. I will tell you that former attempts at making baba ghanouj resulted in the wrong consistency so the Ninja Kitchen worked perfectly for me. A blender definitely won't cut it.

Opa!

5:00 Fridays

I love egg nog. This statement will not be a non sequitor in a moment.

Read on.


Merry Christmas!

Feliz Navidad!

Joyeux Noel!

Froliche Weinachten!

Ho! Ho! Ho!

We shared a lovely Christmas Eve by the outdoor fireplace with dear friends (who luckily enough, happen to be our neighbors). The children frolicked in noisy abandon as only children can. We stuffed our jelly bellies full of smoked salmon, fennel salad, steamed shrimp, crostini, apple/cranberry pie, and chocolate truffles. There was much merriment to be had, and Christmas spirit(s) flowed.

We all remarked how stress-free and footloose and fancy free our celebration was. As the kids get older the hovering gets easier. Bird and Deal know to stay in the yard, they can claw their way through tussles, and there are enough dart guns, remote control cars, and stuffed animals to go around. Lark was an exhausted little champ who happily retired to his crate to escape the onset of Kid-dom ruling.

After our friends went their merry ways we perched the boys at the kitchen table with a plate of smoked salmon and set to cleaning up. They then showered (must be clean for Santa!) and donned their matching plaid Christmas jammies. So cute it would melt the Snow Miser's frigid heart. We settled in under blankets to watch the old Rankin Bass Twas the Night Before Christmas and romped in the yard to sprinkle glitter and oat reindeer food.

Now that the boys are tucked in bed and sleeping (not even pretending!), Mac Daddy and I opened a beribboned gift from a neighbor. Lo and behold, my most favorite of Christmas spirits was there!

And so it is with an iced crystal tumbler full of this I toast you this Christmas. Merry Christmas to my delightful readers. I hope your season is so bright so you gotta wear shades. I know you're all so Hollywood like that.

Evan Williams Holiday Egg Nog

Da Bomb.

First of all, let it be known that I love me some egg nog. Our family friend Ty makes some killer homemade stuff that I cannot replicate to save my life. I settle for the grocery store brands and spike it myself. Then I get a work out just swallowing that gloppy thick stuff while I trick myself into believing it's the real deal.

Evan Williams does it all for me. And it's oh so good.

Not treacly sweet. Not fake. Not so thick you could condition your hair with it.

Evan Williams is the Avis of straight bourbon whiskey in the US. It's "extra aged," which I can totally identify with.

Tis the Season

I love Christmas. Really I do. Yes, I revel in the spirit of the season. But admittedly this year I'd rather imbibe the spirit(s) of the season than anything else.

Christmas is kicking my ass this year. It's par for the proverbial 2009 course.

I've baked hundreds of goodies and have mint and chocolate and sprinkles oozing out of my pores. Rolls of wrapping paper sit tucked behind my closet door. I don't even bother with ribbon anymore. When I was a kid I was often charged with wrapping my own presents (that my parents boxed up lest the surprise was ruined) so I made expert Martha-esque fancy schmancy bows on my boxes. I settled for the bag o' bows for my brother's boxes because I knew he wouldn't be impressed by my handiwork anyway. And now 30 years later, I don't even stick an adornment of any kind on my sons' presents. Let's look at it as my way of greening up the season.

I've decorated the house, including the bathrooms. I stopped short of the snowman toilet seat cover and rug ensemble. We have two full size trees and a handful of miniature ones scattered about the house. I even raced out to buy our new dog a stocking. I was *this* close to restaging or digitally enhancing our holiday card photo to include our newest addition. Mac Daddy poo-poohed my idea to send doggy birth announcements.

But humor me while I digress.

Fa la la la Lark!

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It's a good idea, no? Well, perhaps you should know his name is Lark before you go judging.

Anyway, we're not sending birth announcements for Lark. We might not even send holiday cards since I haven't ordered them yet. Perhaps we'll make it for New Year's greetings. Or realistically, there's always Arbor Day.

For some reason I cannot get my act together this Christmas. I'm an over achiever in all the wrong arenas. Homemade Christmas goodies, personal, thoughtful teacher gifts, stocking stuffers galore. Is it all really necessary? I even shopped ahead and have a stash of gifts squirreled away for Bird and Deal. Lord knows what's in that loot. I didn't keep track of what I bought. I pray it's gonna be equitable distribution of gifts. I suppose I'll find out when I dig it all out to start wrapping tomorrow night. And yeah, we even wrap stocking stuffers. Le sigh. On a positive note, I did find an ornament I bought for my mom last year and forget to give her. I'm pretty sure she'll still like the Obama glass ball this year.

I'm pretty much overwhelmed with Christmas this year. I haven't made any progress on our dinner and brunch menus, much less hit the grocery store. Is there pizza delivery on Christmas Day? A green pepper and tomato combo would be festive, no?

Among all the hubbub of the season, the single most important thing we did was deliver gifts to needy families. It wasn't just about the boys choosing something from a child's wish list (while meandering Target's aisles chanting "I want..." repeatedly). We hand delivered those boxes and met the very kids for whom we brightened Christmas.

And that made all the difference.

One house was in such squalor that we didn't let Deal out of the car. The wretched barking dog tied with a rope to the front porch cemented that for us. I was aghast at the living conditions in the house and was praying Bird didn't let his nose pucker at the stench, giving away our shared persnickety nature. It turns out he was a champ. He delivered two loads of boxes, met the children, displayed lovely manners, and excused himself to the car.

And all he said was, "Wow, Mommy, that house is a lot different from ours."

He remarked without judgment. Without pity. Without snobbery. He was simply observing the obvious differences in our home and theirs. Luckily it was dark so the boys couldn't really see the state of the yard and didn't take notice of the burned down boarded up house across the street. They were fixated on neighboring Christmas lights.

We haven't talked so much about the differences in our homes but we have talked about how grateful those kids will be to get simple things like the pajamas and socks on their wish lists. We talked about how the spirit of the season is about love and generosity and empathy. Regardless of religious affiliation and where you fall on the Santa debate, I think the spirit of Christmas is about Jesus' message, if not his birth. It's about the giving spirit that Santa imparts. Peace and goodwill abound.

Christmas is about sharing and love and joy and selflessness. And it's sprinkled with a healthy dose of glitter, non pareils, and nutmeg atop some bourbon enhanced egg nog.

5:00 Fridays

Drink wine. Donate to a worthy cause. No catch.

Well, the catch is the great wine secret I'm about to let you in on. Shuffle in a tish closer, won't you? Oh hell, let me drag out my soap box. It's practically an extra appendage anyway. Are you listening?

Lean on in, friends.

OneHope

I said ONEHOPE.

This grassroots wine company has a big philanthropic heart. Red wine and my bleeding heart pair nicely together. OneHope donates 50% of its profits to various causes. Fifty. Percent. That is no piddly 5% or the like that we usually hear about. For those of you who are as bad at math as I am: that means half. One. Half. Of. All. Profits.

This is not chump change.

I know that my readers can help make a dent in some of the great causes that OneHope supports. This is a lovely wine to serve at your holiday open house, block party, neighborhood progressive dinner, office gathering, book club, bunco group, tennis social, family dinner, or any ole time you're popping a cork with a friend. OneHope wine also makes a generous gift to friends, colleagues, or neighbors. I really can't think of a better way to capture the holiday spirit of giving. And for the record, I'm not being paid to tell you all this. I happened to try the wine at the BlogHer conference in July and again at my local grocery store.

If you drink Chardonnay, support the fight against breast cancer. My wine drinking pal Jenn will thank you for it.

Are you a Zinfandel kind of guy? Well, word on the street is that you can imbibe your favorite cool weather wine and support the troops while you're at it.

Merlot? AIDS awareness. All these years after its story hit the presses we are still fighting this battle on many fronts.

So you say Sauvignon Blanc is more your speed? Drink up and help save our planet. Make sure you recycle that bottle, mkay?

Cabernet Sauvignon, my personal favorite for these winter months, helps spread the word about autism awareness.

OneHope wine is available at my local Harris Teeter and in grocery stores in 14 states. They'll ship to 47 more states. Just have a look here to see where you can find it.

Now hop on to Facebook to become a fan by December 31. OneHope is donating $1.00 to charity per fan through December 31, 2009 (and "charity" is not capitalized so I don't think charity is a girl living in a Chevy van somewhere). Another easy way to donate a buck. It might not seem like a lot, but in aggregate, that dollar makes a difference.

Cheers! And here's to OneHope making a million and one differences.

Kids & Pets: All the Same

There are days I'm a better pet owner than I am a mother. I seem to have more patience with Lark, perhaps because he doesn't whine or throw temper tantrums. He also does not kick me or scream "NO" in a volume that would raise the OSHA red flag. Did I mention that Bird kicked our babysitter last weekend? Twice. Buh-bye date night.

Back to today's regularly scheduled post.

I have learned a few things from my recent life as a pet owner. The funny thing is how raising children is so similar to having a pup. Seriously, the physical demands are much the same, and the mental capacity is huge. The similarities have been enlightening. My three boys, two of the two-legged variety and one of the four-legged variety, have taught me a thing or two.

Shit happens. Often in places it shouldn't. Like the time Bird pooped on the dining room floor when he was two. And when Lark did his business on the bathmat. While I was in the shower.

Accidents happen, as in things get broken and shit happens.

No one pees, poops, eats, drinks, or sleeps on demand.

Fleece feels as good to wear as it does to chew.

Treats are better than meals. Always.

A back rub is never long enough.

Dry clean only outfits stay in the back of the closet.

Don't play tag in the house.

A potted plant or vase of fresh flowers set just-so on a side table will end up catawampus in minutes.

It's hard to distinguish what's a dog toy and what's a plush toy. Poor Deal, who has an FAO Schwartz sized collection of stuffed animals, has battled Lark for sneaking under his bed and stealing his stuffed bear, dog, hamster, yes hamster, and cat.

Selective hearing runs in the family.

No one comes when called. Unless treats are at stake.

The most expensive piece of furniture is the most coveted.

No one gets water after 6:00 PM.

It's easier to clean pee out of a dog crate than it is to change crib sheets.

Christmas sweaters do not belong on children or dogs. Or anyone else, if you ask me.

It's important to let the least out a tish as trust and responsibility grow.

Kisses are best when wet.

Clipping nails is no fun for anyone.

Bacon is good.

Potty training blows.

A warm head nestled on your shoulder is divine.

A queen sized bed is only comfortably big enough for two people.

I might need to change my blog's name to Dirt & Noise & Stink.

The biggest thing about being a mom to boys as well as a pup? They make your heart swell. With pride, affection, love, humility. They make you laugh. Every. Single. Day.

5:00 Fridays

Since I played the Indian card (coined by my friend Erin), I figured I'd stick with that theme this week.

I'm no beer connoisseur but I know I'm generally not a Coors Light kind of gal. Well, if Bird and Deal are particularly whiny or petulant I might succumb to whatever is within reach, Coors Light included. All that acrimony can make a girl pretty durn cantankerous. Trust me. I speak from experience. In fact, I was such a crab apple sourpuss last night that I wrote the boys apology notes sprinkled with scented marker hearts because I felt so bad. Not a proud parenting moment, but I am finding fewer and fewer of those this time of year. Funny that the stress of making Christmas perfect and just-so turns me into such an impatient bitch. Next year I'm considering going to Tahiti for the holidays and forego all this candy making, cookie baking, gift buying, light stringing, stocking stuffing stress. What does this have to do with beer?

Everything.

Did you hear me? I have children. Basic math and physics lesson here. Pay attention.

2 boys + 1 mom = basket case

Children drive you to drink.

There will be a pop quiz next Friday.


When I was 18 years old I went to India with my dad. We stayed in some pretty posh places, including where the movie Octopussy was filmed. Seriously, what was Ian Fleming smoking (or stroking) when he penned that title? I almost can't say it aloud. Perhaps a more fitting name for that nut job woman who birthed eight babies last year? Geesh, now I'm all flustered and off track. Where was I?

Beer. India. 1986.

I was a world traveler. Young. Footloose. Fancy free. Worldly. Daring. Too-cool-for-school.

I drank beer. Legally.

I have fond memories of ordering up a Kingfisher at the Lake Palace Hotel bar. I was stunned by how the epaulet adorned waiter made the opening of a simple bottle top and pouring of liquid gold into a frosted crystal goblet such a grand gesture. I was 18 and easily impressed. That was before I even knew the beer was brewed in copper urns back in the day. Keep in mind that "back in the day" in India means something slightly different than it does here. I'm not talking 1972, folks.

I'm 41 now but still serve up Kingfisher when I have friends over for a good home cooked Indian meal. It's not fancy. It's not pretentious. It's not complex. But it is a gilded symbol over the arch I walked through on my way to adulthood. Join me on the lovely stroll that hasn't yet ended. You can fish with kings too.

Namaste.


Kingfisher

Pour into a frosted glass, preferably with a stem instead of a handle.




(Image from Rocky of Hoppsy.com)

Dear Santa, Bring me Gadgets. And an Elf.

(The following has been spellchecked by a grown up to save you, dear reader, from translating kid spelling.)


Dear Santa,

I would like another dart gun and a XBox 360 and a iPod Touch and a iPhone and a limousine and a big T-rex.

PS
Please bring all your elves so I can have one. And my own computer. And Play Station Three.


Two guesses who penned, rather penciled, that letter.

One hint: Deal can't do much more than write his own name.

Christmas lists sure have changed a lot since I was a kid (Oh, a sign of the age old generation gap!). Keep in mind Bird is six. In first grade. He has never seen an Xbox or a Playstation. And he doesn't ride to carpool in a limo, though I do wish I had a magic button to close that privacy window that limos have. Imagine driving in soundproof bliss!

I cracked up when I first read Bird's letter. I stuck it in his special box to save it. It's endearing in a way. But then I got to thinking. Some of you might argue that I was over thinking, but hear me out.

We are not a gadget family. Our television is almost 10 years old and weighs 200 pounds. Our other TV is a lousy 13 inch model that doesn't even have video inputs. And the remote is busted so it's stuck on local news or the Food Network most of the time. I still have a twirly cord phone in my office. Mac Daddy uses a ThinkPad that is more pad than think. I still have, and use, a camera that uses film. Gasp! We are not techie people by any stretch. We are clearly not hip enough to even be laggards. I bet you gadgety people out there are throwing up a little right about now. You must find us to be Losers, which I'm pretty sure is the technical consumer profile moniker for anyone ranking behind a Laggard.

So where does Bird get this affinity for all things electronic? What happened to his insatiable love of LEGO skyscrapers, Playmobil knights, and intricate art projects? What happened to his hankering for toys that spark imagination rather than suck it dry? What happened to his appetite for books and penchant for storytelling?

One visit from his uncle, my brother, and grandfather, my dad, changed his whole perspective. I'd go so far as to say it fucked it all up. They are tech heads. They get off on all things electronic and all things Apple. Their iPhones were appendages, as they so often are with all iPhone enthusiasts. They read news, checked scores, listened to tunes, flipped through photos, played games. Again, all the things iPhone addicts around the world do. But look people, there must be limits. Is it really necessary to always have phone in hand? I see it in meetings, lunch appointments, check out lines, and now among families.

The very contraptions that are supposed to be connecting the world are really just making us all more bubbled. We're connecting avatar to avatar, not face to face. Children should have no part of this world. What awaits them is even more mindblowing.

While children need to be comfortable with technology and wade into its depth at appropriate levels, they do not need to be immersed in it. They have a lifetime to wile away the hours in front of one screen or another. Their time to snuggle on a lap reading books or perching on the floor balancing blocks is limited. And Oh. So. Dear. Too much technology fast forwards them from precious to precocious in a blink.

And it sucks the creativity from the natural wealth of imagination that children harbor. Video games and iPhones might be cool, but they are not the way to engage a child. A six year old child. The time it takes to whiz through apps and gadgets is better spent playing Uno or coloring or playing frisbee or reading from chapter books. There's no benefit to dunking kids this young into technology. In fact, it's a diservice if you ask me....not that anyone did. You can't discount the power of play. Pure frolicking and mayhem peppered with giggles of glee. Kids develop relationships, build comfort, and gain confidence through unplugged means.

We are already a world of plugged in, uber connected, frenetic consumers (raising my own guilty hand here). There's no need, or value, to dragging children down with us. And yes, I do believe the direction we're doing is down. Etiquette, grace, articulate speech, proper punctuation, letter writing, meandering, stopping to smell the conversational roses. All gems from our past that are wilting as I type.

Needless to say, Bird's list won't be fulfilled this year. He had asked for a Nintendo DSi that we just might succumb to buying. That is, unless we find some cool new pieces at the LEGO store.

Oh, and that bit about wanting an elf? I'd love a psychologist's interpretation of that one! Then again, maybe I don't.