The Brilliant Meal

Supper Club The Inaugural Voyage

2010-08-16T09:52:00.000-07:00

First and foremost, I have to send a shout out to absolutely everyone who attended the first Brilliant Meal Supper Club last night. I almost missed my own party due to a terrible migraine and being unable to treat it with anything stronger than Tylenol and a dark room. What happened as a result of my not being able to micromanage everything, was nothing short of brilliance. Every single person who came was amazing. From helping in the prep, to mixing the drinks, to serving and pouring the wine to cleaning up and making sure my stove was streak-free. It was literally a Brilliant Meal. The food was good, but the people were spectacular. And that's what it is really all about. Thank you all! Bravo!

For those of you who couldn't make it, we hope you can next time!

What makes me the happiest is that the second meal was already being discussed as the coffee was being poured at the first. The second supper club is tentatively planned for September 19. More details will follow. Any suggestions are more than welcome. Place and theme are open. Please make comments here so we can all see them.

Let's keep this going!
Cheers!

First Supper Club Menu: French

2010-08-06T08:14:00.000-07:00

After much agonizing, I have settled on a menu for our first supper club dinner. It will be a french inspired coursed meal. There will be lots of food, but the portions will be small. Still, something to remember when planning meals for that day. Might I suggest yogurt for lunch?

Currently the menu is:
Appetizers and Cocktails
Onion Soup
Beef Bourguignon
Salad
Profiteroles
Coffee/Tea

I hope this helps with your wine selections. Appetizers start at 6 pm. If you have any comments or suggestions please let me know. Can't wait to see everyone!

The Brilliant Meal: The Supper Club

2010-07-26T16:17:00.000-07:00

I'm doing it! I'm jumping on the band wagon of the oh so retro, yet currently tragically hip trend of "The Supper Club." Only on a slightly less grandiose scale. It is no secret that I love to throw dinner parties. I take great pleasure in planning, organizing, shopping for and cooking the meal. My problem comes with who to invite, when to invite them so they can make it, what they can and can't eat (or don't like to eat) and what kind of party will it be? Casual, formal, french, greek, southern comfort, experimental or tried and true?

I'm turning The Brilliant Meal: The Blog into The Brilliant Meal: The Supper Club. This will come as a surprise to my devoted husband, I'm sure, who winces at, but lovingly supports all my dinner party hemming and hawing. I will blog about the upcoming Brilliant Meal and then recap how the evening went.

Who's invited? Everyone who wants to come on a particular date and time. Just let us know the Thursday before if you're coming and if you're bringing anyone. Otherwise we will assume you're unavailable to attend that month.

Where is it? Currently at the Eichorst/Napp abode in Broomfield, CO.

When will it be? The third Sunday of every month (barring holidays and hospitalization)

How to be involved? In the beginning we ask everyone to bring a favorite bottle of wine or drink of choice to share and share alike. If we get delusions of grandeur: I may ask people to contribute a minimal amount to cover costs of expensive ingredients. Also, if you want to come early to help, please do! Many cooks make for more fun! If you want to bring food, just let me know a week ahead of time so I can revise the menu.

The first supper club will be held on Sunday, August 15, 2010. Theme for this supper club dinner will be Celebration. We will be celebrating our new house, the engagement of Jack Eichorst and Madden Swan, Jay Eichorst's visit to Colorado, etc.

Check back to the blog for the menu a week prior. I hope this will be a raging success and a way to see people outside holidays and to connect over great food and better company. Please join us!

Approaching Brilliance

2010-02-16T09:34:00.000-08:00

Friday

We awoke on Friday morning to a gloomy start. The low clouds hung over the strip like a hangover. I'm sure mirroring what many of the visitors were also experiencing. This night we were going to see Ka. A production of Cirque du Soleil that we had seen a year before, but this time my husband snagged us, literally, the best seats in the house. Being married to a former lighting and sound theater guy has its perks. We were excited. So excited, in fact, that we couldn't decide on whether to eat before or after the show and where to go. We made reservations at 3 different restaurants, figuring we'd decide closer to the show.

For the morning we had a croissant and coffee in our room while getting ready. Between buttery, perfectly flakey layers of pastry and showering in our overly large bathroom, the clouds lifted and gave us a lovely blue sky and shinning sun. So we walked. We walked up past the older hotels that have somehow remained on the strip. Past Bill's Gamblin' Hall and Casino, past the Flamingo and the Imperial Palace and Harrah’s. And unlike the behemoths that continue to populate the strip these hotels sit right on the sidewalk and push their faces into yours as you walk past their smell of smoke and cheep buffets. It was at the Venetian that everything changed. It was there I saw the sign. Bouchon. I stopped in my tracks. The Bouchon? Thomas Keller? Kith and Kin to French Laundry? Two cookbooks in my house from two restaurants by one chef who's avoided all pretense of the celebrity chef and remained true to his art? After about a minute of starting at the sign I told my husband that we were going, no matter what. He knew he could not refuse me. Thus reservations were made for Saturday night.

The rest of the day we walked the strip, ate at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill in Caesar's Palace and ordered room service after being unable to come to a decision after Ka. Not our finest hour, but it was 10 at night and it was the only smoke-free option for eating. Saturday would be better.

The Not So Brilliant Meal

2010-02-08T16:31:00.001-08:00

Welcome to part one of a three part series on my recent trip to Las Vegas.

Thursday

I do not travel well. Not in the least and the fact that my husband continues to be my husband after traveling with me is miracle number 1 in his inevitable journey towards sainthood. I seem to go through a systematic mental breakdown as soon as I get in the car leading all the way up to me unpacking my bag wherever it is that I'm going to. Between ticket lines, security lines, boarding lines and a sardine-like travel experience, I experience a temporary insanity. Let's just say it's not fun for anyone involved. On the other hand, I think I've made considerable progress in overcoming my fear of flying. At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

We decided to go to Vegas five months ago since all our traveling since our honeymoon has been family-centric. Just me and Ben. We booked a happy little long weekend in mid-February the weekend before Valentine's Day. It was supposed to be blissful. Good food, good shows, a silly hotel designed to look like a cartoon version of Paris. Hey, and isn't the Super Bowl usually the last weekend of January? Nope. Not this year. This year it was a week late and every misogynistic, cigar smoking, drinking Jack Daniels out of the bottle while walking down the strip, ogling the nearly naked cocktail waitresses while standing up to demonstrate some sexually perverted story jackass on the planet was there. Oh yes, bliss was mine.

The first night we decided to eat at this little french bistro that has a patio so you can enjoy the wonders of easy people watching with wine. It's been a favorite of mine for a long time. Mon Ami Gabi. My friend Gabi. And she was. I say was, because that was before the steak and frites. It started out well. I had glass of white wine and a lovely butter lettuce salad with beets and goat cheese. It was delicious, but this is a case of good + good = good. Hard to mess up. Ben had oysters that were the epitome of briny goodness. However, my steak had been "tenderized" within an inch of existence and the only part left was the sinue holding it together. I cannot remember a time where I couldn't even chew a steak. I think it only made it tougher. Still the frites dipped in their excellent Bearnaise sauce were crunchy and the perfect amount of tarragon.

Part of the downfall of this meal can be attributed to our neighbors at the next table. 3 southern women who smoked like chimneys and agreed that the best Elton John song is from The Lion King. They didn't even have the decency to smoke good cigarettes. The one smoking nearest to me held her tar stick down by my seat and blew her gag inducing smoke in my direction. Always better to ruin a stranger's meal than your own, I always say. It wasn't the worst meal I ever had, but brilliance was out of reach that night. So we got a bottle of wine and a couple pastries and headed up to our room. Exhausted, we drank and watched Antiques Roadshow. Who knew a wooden spoon set could be worth so much?

POM

2010-01-31T14:49:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since my last post. In fact, since before I started up teaching my spring semester. For some reason this semester seems just a little bit harder, my students just a little more dispondent, the days just a little bleaker. In the depth of winter I try to stay busy and cook new things and explore. My husband and I recently were turned on to a new market of sorts. It's called POM, aka Pacific Ocean Market. Ironic since we are no where near the Pacific Ocean, but, it would seem to be more of an homage to the great bounty most Asian countries are located near.

From the moment we stepped into the grocery store and were greeted by an enourmous Christmas tree located in the frozen foods section, I was in love. My jaw dropped. It was as if snippits of Asia had been crammed into one grocery store and it was bursting. Gone were any trappings of the typical American grocery store. The displays had a chaotic order and I had no idea what half of it was. Nothing was displayed to be attractive or pretty. The produce section was a mish mash with no clearly defined fruit, vegetable or herb sections. In one corner of the store are whole crispy ducks hanging, head on with a pole jammed through their bills. Whole roast pigs are advertized for 69 dollars. Bags of peeled garlic, fermented bean curd and parts of animals Americans won't go near are in another corner. And the slightly off putting smell coming from behind the meat counter would be cause for complaint in any other grocery. No lovely steaks or neat orange crab legs are for sale here. You're more likely to see cloudy white plastic bins with pig uterus, chicken feet and pork belly. The fish behind the counter are whole, unless you just need the heads, of which they have a significant pile. In the frozen section is every kind of fish, prepared every kind of way. And unless you consider durian a heat up dinner, it appears that the microwave doesn't play a huge role in food preparation for the people who shop there.

I noticed we were in the minority. And although there were many people of asian descent, there were also people in there speaking spanish and some eastern european language I couldn't recognize. Despite the aisle upon aisle of gummys to teas to hot sauces to pickled bamboo, I couldn't help but notice the rather angry asian man and, who I can only guess is, his wife sporting a sizable black eye. She looked so beaten down. She must have to have been to not even try to hide her face. She looked like she was past shame or embarrasment. Quietly following her loud husband up and down the aisles, doing her grocery shopping, she seemed hopeless. I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a foreign country with an abusive spouse. Although, I suppose there's probably no Safeway in China for homesick American's to go shopping at to get their Spagetti-Os or Kraft Mac and Cheese. I hope she finds some comfort in the pieces of home crowding that little market in Colorado.

Inspiration

2010-01-12T08:14:00.000-08:00

This post is dedicated to my good friend and fellow writer/cook, Chloe. She's a poet, writer, teacher and author of several blogs, one of them inspired this blog (which I'm worried that only my husband reads right now). I met Chloe when we were poetry grad students at Sarah Lawrence several years ago. And while we were friends and worked together on the same literary journal, I never knew she was a fellow foodie. It wasn't until recently through Facebook, I realized we shared another passion: food.

Even though we went to different parts of the country after graduation, our lives have taken surprisingly similar tracks. We both married late (relatively), are in relationships based on strong friendship with men who indulge our passions/obsessions, teach composition at local colleges and are still working to make it in the writing world- so to speak. What separates Chloe from me is she appears to have more boundless energy than anyone I know. I have to commend her on all that she does and, unlike myself, she doesn't seem to let much of anything slow her down. Bravo, Chlo.

What initially started me on this post was a blog entry by Chloe today asking what our favorite cookbook is. I didn't even have to think. Ina Garten. Anything Ina Garten. She has been my cooking inspiration for years. Despite the fact that I simply want her life (living in the Hamptons with a popular cooking show that she now does from her "barn" and spending the rest of her time in Paris), she has taught me more about cooking and entertaining than anyone else. Not only do I love cooking her recipes, but I like reading her cookbooks. I can't say that about many books these days, let alone cookbooks. Ina followed her passion. It's evident in her writing. And here I am again back at writing and cooking. I admire her more than I can express for imparting that passion to me. Her writing did that.

I recall a conversation with my aunt where we talked about a recent party I gave. I told her about the amount of work that went into it and how I worried if people liked the food. She said to me..."for some people it's just food." To which I replied, "I guess so," but deep down do not truly believe that. As Ina says, most people say they don't want dessert, but always eat it if it's served and remember it long after. To my inspirations: Cheers!

You can read Chloe's food blog at farelascarpetta.blogspot.com.

Limbo

2009-12-29T11:33:00.000-08:00

It is the limbo time between Christmas and New Years and I am in between two major parties. Having just recovered from a 6 course birthday/Christmas dinner, I am prepping for my big New Year's party. It is in the moments between planning, cleaning, shining silver, estimating numbers, that I wonder why I do this?

I love it. And I hate it. Maybe I'm back at the writer/cook question. I love and hate writing. It scares the shit out of me most of the time. Still, I come back and have to keep doing it. It's the same with cooking. Failure is staring at me straight in the face. It taunts me. I think I like it. The dare. And since I have no intention to climb Everest, join the Mile High Club or sing in public, this is my chosen method of torture/pleasure.

I suppose writing and cooking can be seen as slightly masochistic from a certain point of view. When the pain is good, it's spectacular. When it's bad, it's monumental. And usually it's witnessed publicly. If the food is bad everyone knows it. If the writing is bad you know it and so do those who matter in the writing world. Knowing something is bad, and knowing others have seen and judged it as so, is painful. The waiting is painful. That first bite.....do the eyes close in ecstasy or so you see panic of how to spit it out? I have gagged on my own writing from time to time. We all have. But to have that rejection letter spit back out at you.....torture. I want more.

Obsessions- Part 1

2009-12-21T10:10:00.000-08:00

It is no secret that I seem to have an obsession with really good cooking equipment. My father even threatens to get me one of those Pod storage things to put out in front of my house just so I can store all my kitchen stuff in it, as I am currently running out of room to store things. Open up pretty much any closet in my house, with the exception of the bedroom closet (which houses our puppy's crates) and you'll find cooking stuff.

We've converted our coat closet into a makeshift pantry, in my office closet can be found anything from a food mill to an angel food cake pan, the guest bedroom has a bag filled with the rest of my 4th set of dishes, the linen closet has linens, yes, but also a pizza stone and peel and my green apple colored Kitchen Aide stand mixer.

However, probably the most difficult to house and one of the main focal points of my obession is my love affair with Le Creuset enameled cast iron. I am currently up to 7. It doesn't help that I have a outlet store for Le Creuset roughly 10 miles from where I live. Dangerous.

What is it with this obsession with enameled cast iron you ask? Why not shoes? Or cashmere? Oh I have those too. But today it's all about the cookware. When you lift a beautifully hand crafted piece of Le Creuset onto your stove there is a sense of expectation of what is to come. You know that what goes into that pot will infuse together, surrounded by the radiating heat of the cast iron and come out amazing. There is purpose to cooking in something like that. Just like in anything, when something is made with excellence you work harder to make sure you live up to those expectatons. It's mental. You up your game. Just like you would if you purchased the best golf clubs money could buy. You make sure you have better ingredients and sharper knives to properly prepare them. These pots become part of your kitchen. They're a great partner. They'll do their job perfectly if you do. They inspire the quest for the brilliant meal.

The Brilliant Meal

2009-12-17T09:47:00.000-08:00

We were going to Santa Fe. It was January and my to-be husband and I were giddy at taking our first trip together. I had found a quaint little hotel and each room had a fireplace to snuggle up in front of when it got cold. I was going to show him all my favorite haunts, including the historic town square, the Jackelope, the mesas, all of it. In the end we would go to Santa Fe, just not that day.

The snow started the night before and by the time the next morning came the highways were being closed. Honestly, the storm wasn't that bad. It was the wind. It blew and drifted snow just enough so our way south was closed. I refused to believe our getaway was not going to happen. Within several hours I had repacked my bags and we had two last minute tickets to Las Vegas.

Once we got to the airport, having made our way though a snowy Denver rush hour, we took our first deep breath. Of course, it wasn't until after we checked in that I tripped and fell over a pair of skis onto the beautiful marble of Denver International Airport's floor. Or when we were selected for extra security because of our last minute booking and I stood in the particle air blower thingy without my shoes, sweater or belt, wondering if we had made the right decision. It was also the first time my husband experienced all the fun that is air travel with me. Not being a fan of flying and not quite understanding or really wanting to understand the physics of drag and lift, I can honestly say I only hyperventilated 3 or 4 times during that flight to Vegas.

The meal? It was spectacular. It was the only restaurant still open when we got to our room in the Luxor at ten thirty at night. The Steakhouse. A completely unimpressive name. It looked overpriced, but what choice did we have? It was dark and smelled of leather and the faint odor of cigars from the bar in the front. The tables were stark white and the waiters were dressed in tuxedos. After the first glass of wine my knee and wrist didn't hurt quite so much and when our food arrived we were primed. Sinatra played in the background and my steak quite literally melted in my mouth. Chewing it was strictly optional. My husband's prawns were neatly lined up on his plate, fat and succulant. And the mushrooms we shared were the essence of that restaurant. Earthy, buttery, exquisite. We closed the restaurant that night. Sharing that meal, in that place, with each other, having survived that day, the magic of a brilliant meal was ours.

Calling all Writers Great and Small!

2009-12-15T15:20:00.000-08:00

I am going to kick start my blog by asking anyone who is a writer or is just someone who writes from time to time to send me your experience of your most brilliant meal. We all have a meal that will go down in history for us. They are elusive and rarely repeated. What was it about the meal that made it brilliant? I think it's usually a combination of amazing food, the company with which it's shared and something else....something magical about that day, that time, that place. Believe me, I tried to recreate my most brilliant meal. It failed famously. Famously, mostly because my husband's family was there to witness it. My next blog will be my own telling of my most brilliant meal. After that, periodical guest blogs relaying the scribblings of those of you who send me your writing. Write the food!

You didn't have to cook it. You didn't even have to pay for it (in case someone else did). You only had to enjoy it so much that it haunts you. So, what is the story of your most brilliant meal? And they all have a story...

"Sweetness Always"

2009-12-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

This is a blog dedicated to the writing of food. Not necessarily "food writing." The kind that you read in magazines or online about a restaurant or chef. But more an exploration of how writers write food. It's no secret that writers love to eat and drink. The latter having a more obvious connotation with writers, the first remains more of a mystery. Why are so many writers also foodies? It's a connection to the senses sure, but is there more?

I am a poet/writer and cook. I have always been drawn to both writing and cooking. Even when I was young, I remember getting the recipe for amazing pancakes from a friend so I could try them out on a Saturday morning. In college, I focused on Latina literature mainly because they knew how to write food. Not coming from a culinary background or from a heritage known for its cuisine, I am left wondering what my two passions have in common. Creative? Easy answer. Strong women? My dad did most of the cooking growing up. I have no answer right now. Maybe this endeavor will yield some answers. Maybe not. It'll be fun regardless. Let's get dirty.

The title of my first post is my favorite poem by my favorite poet. I want to share it with everyone.
"Sweetness Always" by Pablo Neruda

"Why such harsh machinery?
Why, to write down the stuff
and people of every day,
must poems be dressed up in gold,
in old and fearful stone?

I want verses of felt or feather
which scarcely weigh, mild verses
with the intimacy of beds
where people have loved and dreamed.
I want poems stained
by hands and everydayness.

Verses of pastry which melt
into milk and sugar in the mouth,
air and water to drink,
the bites and kisses of love.
I long for eatable sonnets,
poems of honey and flour.

Vanity keeps prodding us
to lift ourselves skyward
or to make deep and useless
tunnels underground.
So we forget the joyous
love-needs of our bodies.
We forget about pastries.
We are not feeding the world.

In Madras a long time since,
I saw a sugary pyramid,
a tower of confectionery -
one level after another,
and in the construction, rubies,
and other blushing delights,
medieval and yellow.

Someone dirtied his hands
to cook up so much sweetness.

Brother poets from here
and there, from earth and sky,
from Medellin, from Veracruz,
Abyssinia, Antofagasta,
do you know the recipe for honeycombs?

Let's forget about all that stone.

Let your poetry fill up
the equinoctial pastry shop
our mouths long to devour -
all the children's mouths
and the poor adults' also.
Don't go on without seeing,
relishing, understanding
all these hearts of sugar.

Don't be afraid of sweetness.

With or without us,
sweetness will go on living
and is infinitely alive,
forever being revived,
for it's in a man's mouth,
whether he's eating or singing,
that sweetness has its place."