Fresh or Frozen

Last week we dealt with creme fraiche fear. That has been laid to rest. There was no creme fraiche (krem fresh) at our Thanksgiving gathering. Whew. But I had introduced a new fear into our home on the Tuesday of Thanksgiving week. The fear of a fraiche turkey. I had come home with a fresh turkey, not the expected frozen one.
It had not been an easy shopping trip. I was doing the weekly food shopping, Thanksgiving root veggie shopping and turkey shopping for our own Thanksgiving on Saturday, so there were three shopping assignments in one trip. Having our own turkey after Thanksgiving had become established as a result of annual giveaway by supermarkets. Those customers whose total bill exceeded a predetermined amount earned the reward of a free bird. So we always had our own, which we used later on in the month. Thing is, there was no offer of a free turkey this year but we stubbornly decided to go ahead with our turkey plan.
I started in the produce aisle. I would do the root veggie shopping first. The list immediately caused me confusion. Paul had listed the desired veggies in what to me was an inconsistent manner. Some were plurals and others were singular. He had beets (plural, how many?) then parsnip (one?), carrots (a bunch, I suppose) yam (one big one?) thyme leaves (could be hundreds) Paul had instructed as well as emphasized that I was to buy turnips and butternut squash already chopped-these two veggies were located in bags in the organic section. The reason for the prechopped variety was to preserve our counter top from the powerful axe like smashes needed to break a turnip as well as the surgery involved in the hollowing of a squash.
I saw the beets first. The beets were clumped in groups of three. So did that clump of three represent the standard of grouping I was to follow? It seemed to me that one parsnip, one yam were so lonely and skimpy for a feast. Isn't Thanksgiving about being with others? Why did only the beets get to be in a group? And what about the carrots? They were packaged in a bag of about ten. I became very frustrated. I knew I would choose all the wrong amounts.
I make my choices. Three of each it would be. No fresh thyme by itself. It came in a package nestled among sage and rosemary-another sign that the group of three was the way to go. Done with the root veggie shopping.
Onward to the turkeys. Of course, I have listened to the stories of frozen turkeys and how long to defrost and all that. Somehow I was magnetically pulled towards a group of turkey shoppers who were squeezing, sniffing, kneading and pawing a group of turkeys, I did not notice that they were soft, fresh, almost cuddly to the touch-fresh, so fresh I completely forgot about my mission of the frozen turkey. The camaraderie of this shared experience with this group of turkeys erased my frozen thoughts and compelled me to select a perfect fresh turkey. I plopped the little guy in the seat of the cart , the seat of honor, reserved for human toddlers. Done with the turkey.
I did the weekly food assignment by rote. All three shopping lists done.
I had been gone a long time.
Upon my arrival at home, Liam burst from the side door to greet me, stopping at the gate in the driveway.
As I carried in the bags, Liam propelled his body into the turkey bag. I knew from Liam's interest in the cuddly turkey that I had done good. "On no. You got a fresh turkey!" "Yeah, I did." " Do you know why people do not get fresh turkeys? I am sure you will tell me. But suddenly away from the hypnotic turkey aisle of King Kullen, the answer became clear. Money. Frozen are so much cheaper. Frozen are .29 cents a pound, my soft bird was 1.19 a pound. I had spent about $12.00 more than I would have had I bought a hard cold frozen turkey. I offered to return the baby bird (I had no intention of doing so). "No, no, we'll keep him."
Liam showed his beagle heritage by becoming a sniffing machine. He could not get a rabbit or squirrel outside but he had hit the mother load with this succulent bird on the counter.
As we shooed Liam away my root veggie purchases were evaluated and questioned. "Why did you buy 3 parsnips and 3 yams?" I reply "The beets came in threes so I thought that set the tone for the rest of the veggies." Paul just sighed. Perhaps this exalted chore of food shopping will be wrested from me. I am full of thanks at the possibility.
I was given the job of paring the yam. Let me first say that we do not having the correct tools for chopping and paring root veggies. By the time I got finished skinning my yam I had winnowed it to the size of a carrot. Paul was more skillful. He cited his produce background as a boy in the A&P as the reason his paring as so superior. Haha. All he did was squeeze the cantaloupes for the women and tell them tell them their melons were ripe. Half the time their melons were not ripe and never would be.
We did it. They were ready. The roasted root vegetables were a fine addition to Thanksgiving and we thank our niece for requesting them.

By the Saturday after Thanksgiving, our fresh turkey was at the tail end of its freshness. Last day before we might suffer salmonella. We had to cook him. Paul slid turkey in the oven- lo and behold-it cooked twice as fast as a frozen bird. I applauded its competitive spirit.
It was worth every penny. Or the many pennies. A juicy, fresh turkey!
Liam had doggie chicken with brown rice.
And now onward to the Christmas Howliday season.
The tree is up and Liam is playing ball, not one from the tree. let's get a closer look No it is his own Kong rubber ball flying through the living room
Woof, woof

Fraiche Fear

We were invited to a Hudson Valley Farmer's Dinner at Terrapin, terrapinrestaurant.com, an up and coming fresh, open restaurant in Rhinebeck. We usually visit in November, stay at the Beekman Arms (the oldest Inn in America) and rotate the restaurants we try. Terrapin is a new addition to our rotation. The menu is creative, the venue is a former church and its walls display original oil paintings They have invited us (only us, I am sure) to a feast, or actually a dinner, entitled Hudson's Valley Farmers' Dinner.
All ingredients will be from Migliorelli farm, so we would be helping someone, or group of farmers, or maybe the town of Rhinebeck, or maybe the entire county, the state and therefore the USA. I dream big. Hubby Paul is less enthused, because on the menu is an item of questionable likability- pecan creme fraiche. see copy of the menu- note the soup-acorn squash and sour apple soup with Pecan Creme fraiche
This creme fraiche (Krehm FRESH) worries Paul. He asks "Can I eat around it, What is it?" I say with full confidence "This is not big deal, just a topping, like a dollop, like a swirl, like an island in the stream."
Cre`me fra^ich- "fresh cream" is a soured cream containing about 28% butterfat and with a PH of around 4.5. It is soured with bacterial culture, but is less sour and thicker than sour cream.
I decide to keep this written definition private. Paul's anxiety is not affected by my reassurances. I boldly go and make the resos at Terrapin; they are serving this menu during our overnight stay. I show Paul a pic, illustrating creme fraiche on a soup-wikipedia
Looks like one can eat around it if approaching it carefully with the correct utensil, probably not a soup spoon which might engulf it, maybe a straw aimed directly at its target. "I am sure you can probably eat around it," Hah, what do I know.

The day arrives, the trip is uneventful. The Rhinebeck weather is cool, and as early as 3PM, a moon-like sun is already sinking in a haunting grey sky perfect November day for creme fraiche and the Terrapin Harvest Farmers' Dinner.
I have my own concern. I figure that our dinner will come to an end just a tad before 9PM, and that is where I have my own fresh fear- Dancing with the Stars. I have grown to loathe it. I think it is the incessant, pounding music that if downloaded by pirates could be used as an instrument of torture.
My plan is to sit in the lobby, fire blazing, burning my face, with an Irish coffee steaming in my paws, while DWTS assaults the Beekman Arms from our room #24. I will then ascend to the Room #24 at its conclusion.
The meal starts off with a snag. Paul suggests I order the wine, I do. He says "We hate those grapes in your choice." This is all about fraiche fear, not grape fear. I tell him "when the waiter comes we will cancel" We do not. Waiter asks, "do you need time?" I inform him we are having a fight and to come back in 6 minutes. The couple across from us smirks. Paul- "what if I cannot drink it?" "I will drink it, you can get an O'Doul's." A low blow, a non alcoholic beverage. We settle -we drink it. Somehow we toast without malice, and get the first sips down. It is good! Waiter senses peace and asks he if should serve the soup. That would be the soup upon which the dreaded creme fraiche resides. It comes. Alleluia. (The restaurant was once a church, Alleluia) The creme fraiche is spread on a toasted bread, sort of a surfboard in the midst of the soup It can be picked out, and the soup freed of its fresh cream adornment. We eat around creme fraiche island and discover that the soup itself is so tart from the apples that we need the creme fraiche Thank goodness for it. Hail to the chef! The courses follow-salad short ribs and the Hudson Valley farmers smile upon us. What fresh food! We have saved the harvest, maybe the economy, may be the recession, just by one meal.
We walk back to the Inn. As I feared, the time is near 9PM, perfect for the insidious music of DWTS. I inform Paul I will be resting in the lobby by the fire with an Irish coffee and keeping, Robert, the night desk innkeeper company. Paul is incredulous. "You must come up." Nope. I plan to remain in the cozy lobby with the ghosts of my Revolutionary war heroes who once sat by this very fireplace Yes, George did sleep here also. I have a blast greeting the incoming guests. Paul returns to check on me. Great fire Great ambiance. Great Irish coffee. We reach detente. Paul will come and get me at the end of DWTS. He does, I enter our room, my fear of DWTS' pounding beat now stale and almost forgotten by my communion with the heat of the fire and my hot Irish coffee. The sounds of DWTS are gone from our room. Next show up at 10PM is Julianna Margulies' hit show"The Good Wife." We both like this one. That's me, the Good Wife. There are two Good Wives-Carol and Julianna I am a little pinkish, must be the Irish coffee.

Where is Liam? He stayed at his vacay place bestinshowpetresort.com
Liam's deluxe room reminds him of home
Liam listens to the dinner story thinks about it and sighs. Is there a show "Good Dog?"
woof, woof

The River

We were on our way to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band at Madison Square Garden. The venue was right as the trip would be just a train ride to MSG, no going outside, just hop on the train, disembark, escalator up to the arena, find our seats and soak up the Bruce juice.
The night was right, Sunday November 8-it was the last NYC concert on this tour and something special might occur.
The weather was balmy for November, the high had hit 70-no winter coats, some folks even had on shorts and tank tops. Internet reports had it that Bruce was going to do The River, released in 1980. This was the end of a series of concerts that had been going on all year. As a thank you to his fans Bruce had recently performed entire albums, the night before had been The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle, his second record, way back in the day, early 70's. Some songs had rarely been done in concert, some only once.
We were on the 6:30 train to Penn, getting us there by 7:01PM. Bruce usually comes on at 8:15-we all know the drill, so we would have time to absorb the positive buzz in the air, exchange, engage and connect with smiles and winks to all around. Our Levittown contingent was arriving on a later train but would be there in time.
This concert almost did not happen for us. On Friday September 17, I had received an email from Ticketmaster reminding me that Bruce tix were going on sale the following day at 9:00 AM. How come I knew nothing about the MSG concerts? We love going to MSG for the ease of transit, lack of weather and Manhattan crowd electricity. The Meadowlands trek has become horrific, Nassau Coliseum, a parking and exiting nightmare and Shea Stadium is gone. So this seemed ideal. I had not run it by our Bruce concert-goer friends; I had not been successful getting Bruce tickets in this decade, I was no longer the"go to" girl for obtaining tickets. I decided announcing my intentions would just rev everyone up for a big downer. Besides, Ticketmaster has been beset with problems with ticket purchases for Bruce concerts. Nevertheless, as a retiree I felt compelled to use my freedom to log in at 9 AM September 18 and give it a try. After a brief wait, I am in!-I go for the max 6 tix, have them, then my troubles begin. I am asked for my password-I type it, no match, try another one, no match. Ticketmaster compassionately offers to send me my password, warning me that my transaction is on the clock and my seconds are ticking away. I have 4 minutes and 53 seconds to retrieve my password from my email, come back into Ticketmaster and capture my tix. I go into my e mail. No password in my incoming mail. I check Spam. There is is. Unfortunately, this is not what I thought was my password. It is a new artificially constructed mess-one of those with all consonants/numbers qrxbtgz81wt. Yikes. I copy it, go back in, then the dreaded remark "Your time has expired, your tickets have been released" Like I have imprisoned them and they are free to go. Six Bruce tix are gone. I try to get back in . No tix left for Sat. Okay let's try Sunday. I am back in with far better seats. I get them. They are mine. Not so fast. I go to print them and the remark -"the tix are not yet available, internal validation going on." I feel cold queasy, anxious, sad, dopey. Ticketmaster provides a cute little "evite" type email you can send to your friends announcing that "wonderful you" have secured these tickets and that you would love to have the honor of their presence. Everyone accepts my evite.
I do not tell anyone that I have yet to print out these tix. I fear that my PC will die, that my email will be lost, that this really did not happen- it is a scam. I check back in 24 hours -tix not available, I email Ticketmaster. They are sorry but they are checking each purchaser's credentials individually. Melanie, my Ticketmaster rep, informs me if I do not receive my tix by the day before the concert, Nov 7, 2009, I should contact her again. This rechecking terror procedure goes on for 2 weeks. Finally they are available for printing. I have passed some security check. I find this ironic as Tickemaster is the company that had to make restitution to thousands last Bruce go round. As the tickets are printing I am sure my printer will break down, the ink will run out and the bar codes will not be scannable. My HP printer hums through to the last ticket. They are all out. Now I know how OctoMom felt, or how she felt after six. Now, I have all six. Whew.
FlashForward to Sunday, Nov. 8, 2009. After the six week wait, Paul and I are inside MSG.
I buy a water and the vendor throws my cap away. I do not understand . What if it spills? I am told this is to prevent customers from pelting the performers with bottle caps. Is this a Ranger game? We arrive in our seats. I love these seats. Behind the stage, 215 section. At one point, I stand to let some folks pass. I plop back into my seat and very soon after a woman is whispering in my ear, in a furtive crouch behind me. "You have toilet paper hanging from your pants." Shut up, no way. Yeah, I do. A long piece. Paul is incredulous. How do you get toilet paper hanging from your pants? I assure him that this is not uncommon with women and in fact this occurrence has been a skit on Seinfeld (maybe) I also explain that it is fresh paper from the roll. He wants no more of an explanation.
There is a visceral buzz, an undercurrent, a fast spiritual loving camaraderie sweeping through the crowd, skipping, dancing, hugging, whispers of this is "The River" night, history will be made. Strangers become concert friends, exchanging stories, and asking questions "Where are you from?" Were you here last night?" Are you from Tom's River?" that was directed to me. I liked that.
My Tom's River questioner apologetically informs me that his two women friends are "standers" They would stand throughout the concert, dancing and singing. I say "I am okay with that. I stand a lot also." We do a group "high five."
Bruce is later than usual. Many brews being consumed. Many smiles,, hugs, claps, waves, shouts, chants. And then the moment 8:38 PM. Lights flash out and then flash on. The E Street Band is on stage. Bruce is looking on us from heaven like the woman, Anna, in the TV show "V"

The River is a seminal work, changing Bruce's artistic direction in a dark passionate way. Bruce says it was "the gateway to my future writing" and he honors it by playing all 20 songs from it. How could this be happening? We are in awe. The River is long, it is deep, it hurts, it is joyous, proud, fun, sad, hopeful, true and its lyrics the subject of much debate.
"Now those memories come back to haunt me, they haunt me like a curse is a dream a lie if it don't come true or is it something worse that sends me down to the river."
Bruce sang it richly with the depth of an older baby boomer and we let him do it and listened.
He sang to us, we sang for him "sing it he shouts" we do, every word. He body surfs the crowd during Hungry Heart an act of ultimate trust, joy and exhilaration. He leads the band into the audience twice He pulls a child on stage, gives the mic to fans. Several times we feel the stands rockin movin up and down as if we were are on a Bermuda cruise during a storm. Was that happening? Yes, the concrete steps were bouncing swaying, evocative of the Verrazano during the NYC marathon a week ago. Bruce bear hugs his band members, slow dances with his wife Patti, takes a request Sweet Soul Music departs from the song list and asks our help with words to "Can't Help Falling in Love." After a while my mouth hurts and I realize what Miss America contestants know, it hurts to smile for 3 hours! The energy, elation and sounds in the arena are pulsating through our bodies A shared communion- 32 songs, seven more than the previous night, This was a gift to NYC from the Boss on his last night of this NYC tour.
He played so long that we missed our train, left the closed down Penn to join a group of concert expats drinking Guinness at Tir Na Nog, sharing cell phone photos, not wishing to surrender the high we shared and the commonality of experience. The wait for the next train equalled one Guinness. We re-enter a ghostly gated eerie Penn Station. But the concert songs are on fire in my head I summon them for the ride home.
There is a splendid review in backstreets.com
I'll end with an excerpt from their review. "Context has always been important to Bruce Springsteen's music, and he reinforced that notion with a galvanizing performance of The River in its entirety for the first time on Sunday night at Madison Square Garden. In a precise exhilarating and high energy show, Springsteen faithfully reproduced all 20 of its songs."
Backstreets continues
"On this night, where the past met the present, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street band lifted the veil, lifted themselves, their music and their audience. Bruce may be wise to let this performance stand alone, because it's one that even he probably can't replicate."
And we were there!!
Liam waited at home He didn't know Bruce would play 32 songs, 7 more than the previous night. That Bruce would be the last to leave the stage escorting each band member to the exit. That we would keep singing Higher and Higher in response to Bruce exhorting us to do so. Then would sing it as we descended down the staircases after exiting the concert. But Liam understands Bruce is the pack leader and he gives in to sleep. Liam snoozes in front of his fireplace our forced hot air vent
Woof, woof
Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuce, aroooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Orange Boa at the door

We had some worries for Halloween.
How to give out Halloween candy to visiting trick or treaters, keep Liam safe inside while repeatedly opening the door.
How to shield kids and parents from Liam's leaping licking affectionate self.
How to give the working, non-retired Paul the day to himself.
How to afford me the opportunity to read, watch TV, text, email, drink tea, do laundry while concurrently functioning as the Chief treat or treater meeter/greeter.
The Internet provided the answer. I read a tip on one of the dog websites, possibly on a Facebook page. The tipster addressed the trick of how to keep your dog inside, and how Halloween can be a treat for the home owner. The suggestion was to remove the front upper screen from the outside door. Some homes have an inside wooden door as well as an outside light screen door. In the following photo you will see our inside door is to the left and our outside door to the right Our screen partition was still in; we had been looking for a day to change it out for the glass that takes its place in the late fall and winter. The idea is that you remove the screen and use this open window as an opportunity to dispense Halloween candy through the aperture-the treat for the home owner is sitting and multi tasking, enjoying the parade of costumes, delivering candy without constant door opening disruption. stress. For those of the baby boomer generation, go back to your memory banks for the show Mr. Ed. He was a horse who always stuck his head through the door, while keeping his body inside allowing his head only to be seen while he conversed with visitors. Yes, a talking horse, he was
I was an updated Mr. Ed last Saturday on Halloween. My setup consisted of a too tall kitchen stool that at 30 inches was 6 inches too high for our counter. About six months ago, I had finally admitted that hunching over the counter to eat was not ideal and that I had miscalculated the height of the counter. So the two leather very comfortable, elegant kitchen counter chairs had been replaced by the correct height for our counter, 24 inches. See photos -too tall on left-new one on right The too tall stools had been looking for a new job I commandeered one for my Halloween gig -it would serve as my perch at the front door for the offering of our M&M's to the witches, and goblins of the day.
I sat on the the black leather backed swivel top placed my blackberry, water gun (to be explained later) and tea (a Druid brew) on the shelf-see next pic. put the bowl of MM's on another stool, turned on the TV to HGTV stuck my head out of the opening of our door. "Yoohoooooooo, over here kiddies." My Halloween outfit was a mishmash of mismatched shades of black, accented by orange socks and an orange boa. Liam is a tad too short to reach the opening by just standing on his hind legs. With a few leaps though he might have licked a few kids, so I had my orange (must coordinate) water pistol to squirt him with if he leaped too high and too accurately.
The day moved swiftly; is strange, fun, The warm weather delivered swirling breezes full of mismatched leaves and autumn crispy smells. It seemed that my presence in the door caused surprise, delight and confusion. Some kids ran up the path eagerly giggling appreciating the whimsy of me in the door; others cringed hiding behind parents, some just pointed and moved on. No one seemed to have seen anyone attempt what I was doing. I even think I scared a few kids. Why approach another door closed, dark and unwelcoming when I am here soliciting and offering M&M's in my paws? Was it my protruding bodyless head framed with orange feathers? Was it the sound of the invisible barking Liam? Maybe kids do not like to see the person inside as they approach but rather like the surprise of the ringing of the doorbell? Maybe a good premise for a psychological study. I refused to be deterred and hung in tenaciously. During the 5 hours I was at my post, I read the NY Times, Newsday, Time magazine, half a novel, answered and initiated texts, emailed, did the laundry and watched some TV I so love multi-tasking. If I had to leave my post, Liam barked to signal a visitor and only once did Paul have to give treats; when I was in the basement switching the laundry loads.
As darkness fell, and the visitors stopped coming, we moved out of the doorway, the glass partition went in and our Halloween "head in door opening" experiment ends.
There were only a few drawbacks. The windy day blew leaves through our living room; acorns pelted me as gusts gathered them from the high oaks and flung them through the door opening. My orange boa shed its feathers in communion with nature.
The positives far outweighed the negatives and we are all looking forward to next year. Perhaps a new trend of "heads out of doors," great way to meet the neighbors.
We had 67 guests-I know because I knew the total candy count at the outset was 150 and at two per person means 134 pieces were distributed. Only had to send 16 pieces to work with Paul.
and oh, yes, thanks Internet suggester, very creative and successful! Kudos to you.
Liam and Paul share a healthy treat of popcorn for Halloween.
Woof, woof.