When Life Isn't Fare

In general, mankind, since the improvement of cookery,
eats twice as much as nature requires.
~Benjamin Franklin


I spent the better part of this past week weighing the pros and cons of joining a gym (I’ll pretty much weigh anything to avoid putting myself on the scale). I’m just not sure I have the right personality for a gym-goer. I’m not a fan of routine and I prefer the kind of exercise that happens by accident (not to mention that our local gym is in the same parking lot as a really good bagel place and with gas prices being what they are, I can’t justify NOT picking up a dozen for the weekend).
I’m also concerned that I might not be any good at working out. For the past decade I’ve worked hard to perfect my skills as a power-walker and I fear that cross-training might confuse muscle memory (and since I already suffer from CRS, this could be dangerous).
By weeks end, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that in order to meet my weight loss goal, I basically have two choices:
(1) I can become one of those people who eats to live, rather than one who lives to eat.
Or
(2) I can hire a local bakery to drive their truck at a moderate speed consistently just yards ahead of me, around and around my circular neighborhood for a daily five-mile chase, and then speed off before my eager palms meet buttery brioche.

Again, gas prices being what they are make the latter totally impractical, and so I am left to face the harsh reality of being someone who is genetically predisposed to the enjoyment of food and the distaste for exercise.

I wanted to believe that it was just a myth that some people eat only to live because the very thought of such a lifestyle saddens me.
The person who eats only to live likely doesn’t spend much time thinking or learning about food. Without understanding the finer nuances of food, it seems impossible that one could enjoy the flavors and the sensory experience it has to offer. But over time, I have been forced to finally acknowledge that such alien creatures exist, as they have infiltrated my family and my friendships.
Black-belt dieters will tell you such a lifestyle is about choice, commitment and willpower and has little to do with nature.
While this may apply to some (and I will be first to applaud their determination), I would argue that the greater population represents a dichotomy as simple as the question boxers or briefs?
Most of us fall into one of two categories; either you love food,
or you don’t.
It’s no secret that ones relationship with food is paramount to the body’s well-being. In this case, there is good love and there is
bad love. We all know that emotional eating can be the catalyst for a myriad of physical and mental complications, but the love I am referring to is more about the appreciation for the sensory experience food has to offer, and not for a void it is expected to fill.
Explaining this isn’t as easy as it may seem, but allow me to try.

A few years ago I discovered my unfortunate inability to understand or appreciate wine. Glass for glass my own pedestrian assessment of “dry” or “sweet” paled in comparison to my husband’s descriptive interpretations and his ability to detect flora and flavor unfamiliar to my oeno-phobic palate.
To this day, he cannot wrap his head around my affinity for cheap wine (and even the occasional wine cooler), and I just don’t get what the big deal is about wine in general. If it tastes good, I’ll drink it (truth be told, I’d rather have a Sam Adams).
I may never understand how one glass of wine can be interpreted so differently by two people, but I completely appreciate the passion with which my husband approaches his first sip. The complexities of wine elude me but the passion for such a flavor-driven experience is an old familiar friend.

I would argue that those who eat to live are not passionate about food. They understand and accept the need to satiate hunger but will never know what it means to mourn the loss of good food. This is precisely why they rise above the rest of us as successful dieters (I would imagine these are the same folks who suggest that it is inadvisable to shop for groceries when one is hungry.
Who pray tell, shops for groceries when the pantry and fridge are full? Chances are if I’m at the grocery store, it’s because the cupboards are bare and I’m starving—not withstanding the fact that I’m always hungry).

I wish I could eat just for the sake of squelching hunger, and drink for the sake of quenching thirst. But we, who live to eat, approach food with all of our senses—and perhaps more.
We spend much of our waking hours thinking about food—all food; the good, the bad, and the ugly. For us, the simple act of feeding others can be euphoric. We read about food. We talk about food.
We talk about reading about food. Cookbooks are our novels and the kitchen is our playground. We plan meals. We make meals. We share meals. When free time allows, we watch food on TV. We visit online communities and e-chat with like minded individuals worldwide about food. We ask questions about food and we share our knowledge of food. We live vicariously through the global gastronomic experiences of others. Some of us bake for sport, and feel true joy when others indulge in our efforts. When night falls, we rest well thinking about tomorrow’s first cup of coffee and another day filled with gastronomic possibility (and somehow we manage to squeeze in those mundane tasks like daily household chores and shopping for the basics. When we go to the market for food, staple items are often secondary—seemingly inconsequential. I’ve been known to get lost in the produce department as I ponder the beauty and succulence of seasonal fruit, and then proudly return home with a cache of nature’s perfectly ripened specimens, only to realize that we are still out of toilet paper and milk).

Living to eat is joyful.
The experience of a fine meal can be so much more than a physical one. Breaking bread is spiritual beyond religious parameters.
A meal shared is flavorful medicine for the soul.
But as with any medicine, there are side effects. Not the least of which is the potential for a forty-something, rapidly-expanding waistline.
Apparently, I’ve got a lot of potential.

And so presently, the scale and I are in a bit of a tangle.
If I could rewind the clock twenty-five years, the solution
would be simple. I would call upon the wisdom of adolescent
meal-management and go back to eating dinner in my bikini.
But alas, there are now adolescents of my own to consider.
I must spare their appetites the atrocities of my midsection and
find another solution.
Thankfully however, with middle-age comes middle-wisdom. I am acutely aware of my ever-morphing middle and experience has taught me what meals and measures are necessary to motivate my metabolism. I need to focus once again on whole foods; fruits, grains, lean proteins, and anything leafy and green.
I need to put down the pie and pick up the pace. I need to drink like a fish and pee like a race horse and…well, you get the idea.
Knowledge is indeed power, but dieting is still a pain in the ass.

As I consider the challenges of calorie counts and portion control, I am painfully reminded of what seems like a lifetime of schizophrenic eating.
I have been many versions of me— from mini-me to maxi-me, and everything in between. Comparatively speaking, there is more of me today than there was just a few years ago. This applies not only to my physical being however, but to my emotional and spiritual being as well.
The irony here is that by all (non-physical) measurements, I like me in my present form better than all the others. My mind, body and heart are all more substantial than they were in my twenties or my thirties.
So how do I shrink the outside without shrinking the inside?
If I remove food (as I know it) from the equation, basically it would change the whole equation.
I suppose I might find a new hobby, but how does one knit while holding a cupcake?

Clearly, it’s time for me to make a few changes—but I don’t have to like it.
For years I was able to get away with the no pain, no gain philosophy of eating. I would avoid any exercise that pained me, eat whatever I wanted (in moderation) and gain little or no additional weight.
Today however, I wear a slice of pizza much differently than I did in my twenties.

Perhaps it’s time to reassess what a moderate ice cream sundae looks like. Better yet, I might have to skip the ice cream sundae altogether and find something a bit more figure friendly.
This is not a happy time.

Back in my successful dieting days (before I discovered the joys of panna-cotta, and crème brulee), Jell-O was the panacea of choice for my need to be desserted. Today however, I think I would rather chase that bakery truck for ten miles and indulge in an occasional crème brulee than resort to such vivid, synthetic sweets.

And so I am left to solve a dilemma that is perhaps unsolvable.
I might just take another crack at my husband’s copy of
Wine for Dummies. Instead of reaching for a vanilla cone with sprinkles, perhaps I’ll do my heart and hips a favor and choose a glass of Cabernet instead (although I’m not sure how to get
the ice cream man to comply).

In the meantime, I haven’t ruled out that gym membership.
A friend of mine tells me she knows a great personal trainer
who will whip me into shape in time for bathing suit season.
I wonder if he likes cheesecake?

Because from where I sit,
Life is fare.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

Michelle


I can’t resist the urge to share with you some (okay, more than some) funny quotes about eating and dieting.
We’ve all been there at one time or another and it’s nice to be reminded that we are not alone in our daily struggle.
If hunger strikes while you're reading (and unless you're a speed reader, it will), allow me to recommend my new favorite candy bar; actually, it's not a candy bar at all but instead a fruit and nut,
flavor-packed bar with no funky ingredients. It's called a LARA BAR and it fills the need when hunger strikes. I hesitate to call this a
meal-replacement bar because for me, it doesn't cut it. When I'm at work however, it solves the dilemma of 5(+)hours with no break. Instead of reaching for the usual, portable fat-laden snacks, I grab a Lara Bar. To date, my favorites include Cashew Cookie, Key Lime Pie, Pecan Pie and Cherry Pie. These are gluten-free, dairy-free and preservative free. The bars never contain more than six ingredients and I believe they qualify as raw food (if you're into that kind of thing). They can be pricey but if you shop around (read:Amazon), you can usually find a coupon code for a quantity discount and free shipping.
Whoever this Lara is, I love her.

Now, chew on these (delicious enjoyment, zero calories):

The cardiologist's diet: If it tastes good, spit it out.
~Author Unknown

One should eat to live, not live to eat.
~Cicero, Rhetoricorum LV

Inside some of us is a thin person struggling to get out, but they can usually be sedated with a few pieces of chocolate cake. ~Author Unknown

I feel about airplanes the way I feel about diets. It seems to me that they are wonderful things for other people to go on.
~Jean Kerr, "Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall," ~ The Snake Has All the Lines, 1958

I've decided that perhaps I'm bulimic and just keep forgetting to purge. ~Paula Poundstone

In the Middle Ages, they had guillotines, stretch racks, whips and cahins. Nowadays, we have a much more effective torture device called the bathroom scale.
~Stephen Phillips

People are so worried about what they eat between Christmas and the New Year, but they really should be worried about what they eat between the New Year and Christmas.
~Author Unknown

Albert Einstein, who discovered that a tiny amount of mass is equal to a huge amount of energy, which explains why, as Einstein himself so eloquently put it in a famous 1939 speech to the Physics Department at Princeton, "You have to exercise for a week to work off the thigh fat from a single Snickers." ~Dave Barry, Dave Barry Turns 50

I've been on a diet for two weeks and all I've lost is fourteen days. ~Totie Fields

Rich, fatty foods are like destiny: they too, shape our ends.
~Author Unknown

The biggest seller is cookbooks and the second is diet books - how not to eat what you've just learned how to cook. ~Andy Rooney

Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.
~Peter De Vries

If hunger is not the problem, then eating is not the solution.
~Author Unknown

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. ~Author Unknown

If I had been around when Rubens was painting, I would have been revered as a fabulous model. Kate Moss? Well, she would have been the paintbrush.
~Dawn French

No diet will remove all the fat from your body because the brain is entirely fat. Without a brain, you might look good, but all you could do is run for public office.
~George Bernard Shaw

The first thing you lose on a diet is your sense of humor.
~Author Unknown

Food is like sex: when you abstain, even the worst stuff begins to look good.
~Beth McCollister

I go up and down the scale so often that if they ever perform an autopsy on me they'll find me like a strip of bacon - a streak of lean and a streak of fat. ~Texas Guinan

Life itself is the proper binge.
~Julia Child

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst, for they are sticking to their diets. ~Author Unknown

I recently had my annual physical examination, which I get once every seven years, and when the nurse weighed me, I was shocked to discover how much stronger the Earth's gravitational pull has become since 1990. ~Dave Barry

Food has replaced sex in my life; now, I can't even get into my own pants. ~Author Unknown

To lengthen your life, shorten your meals.
~Proverb

You can't lose weight by talking about it. You have to keep your mouth shut. ~Author Unknown

I think I just ate my willpower.
~Author Unknown

If you really want to be depressed, weigh yourself in grams.
~Jason Love

Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever.
~Author Unknown

I am a nutritional overachiever.
~Author Unknown

The second day of a diet is always easier than the first. By the second day, you're off it. ~Jackie Gleason

If food is your best friend, it's also your worst enemy.
~Edward "Grandpa" Jones, 1978

I have a great diet. You're allowed to eat anything you want, but you must eat it with naked fat people. ~Ed Bluestone

A diet is a plan, generally hopeless, for reducing your weight, which tests your will power but does little for your waistline. ~Herbert B. Prochnow

I'm not overweight. I'm just nine inches too short.
~Shelley Winters

People say that losing weight is no walk in the park. When I hear that I think, yeah, that's the problem. ~Chris Adams

As for food, half of my friends have dug their graves with their teeth. ~Chauncey M. Depew

To promise not to do a thing is the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing. ~Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, 1876

I'm on a 90-day wonder diet. Thus far, I've lost 45 days.
~Author Unknown

The commonest form of malnutrition in the western world is obesity. ~Mervyn Deitel

I've been on a constant diet for the last two decades. I've lost a total of 789 pounds. By all accounts, I should be hanging from a charm bracelet.
~Erma Bombeck

My advice if you insist on slimming: Eat as much as you like - just don't swallow it. ~Harry Secombe

I am not a glutton - I am an explorer of food.
~Erma Bombeck

Forget about calories - everything makes thin people thinner, and fat people fatter. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

When I buy cookies I eat just four and throw the rest away. But first I spray them with Raid so I won't dig them out of the garbage later. Be careful, though, because that Raid really doesn't taste that bad.
~Janette Barber

It would be far easier to lose weight permanently if replacement parts weren't so handy in the refrigerator. ~Hugh Allen

A waist is a terrible thing to mind. ~Tom Wilson

If you have formed the habit of checking on every new diet that comes along, you will find that, mercifully, they all blur together, leaving you with only one definite piece of information: french-fried potatoes are out.
~Jean Kerr

All people are made alike -
of bones and flesh and dinner -
Only the dinners are different.
~Gertrude Louise Cheney

My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people. ~Orson Welles

Fat is not a moral problem. It's an oral problem.
~Jane Thomas Noland

Never eat more than you can lift.
~Miss Piggy

If you wish to grow thinner, diminish your dinner.
~H.S. Leigh

Obesity is a mental state, a disease brought on by boredom and disappointment.
~Cyril Connolly, The Unquiet Grave

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable. ~Mark Twain

Probably nothing in the world arouses more false hopes than the first four hours of a diet. ~Dan Bennett

I bought a talking refrigerator that said "Oink" every time I opened the door. It made me hungry for pork chops.
~Marie Mott

And my personal favorite:

When we lose twenty pounds... we may be losing the twenty best pounds we have! We may be losing the pounds that contain our genius, our humanity, our love and honesty.
~Woody Allen

No Parm, No Fowl

“We were not satisfied with the qualities which nature gave to poultry; art stepped in and, under the pretext of improving fowls, has made martyrs of them.”
~Jean-Antheleme Brillat-Savarin


Well, I’ve been honest with you thus far, so I’ll just put it out there and hope that I’m forgiven; Chicken is my least favorite protein.
There, I said it.
That is not to say that I don’t eat it, order it, or prepare it, but if I had my druthers, chicken would be exiled to the “occasional” list of consumables where veal and corned beef happily reside.

For those of you chicken-prophets out there, let me say that I fully appreciate its value as a lean, low-fat protein worthy of its acclaim where diets, live-its, and weight-reduction meal plans are concerned.
The fact is however, I have never succeeded at baking, roasting or broiling a whole chicken—or a least not one resembling those succulent specimens which regularly make their appearance
on the glossy pages of foodie mags.
I find chicken, in its purest, unadulterated form, to be flavorless. The dangers associated with under cooking the bird cause many of us to grill, roast or bake it until it resembles the play-kitchen fare of our Fisher-Price youth—inedibly bland (yet impressively indestructible).
My appreciation for chicken is really limited to what’s in it, on it,
or around it. Who doesn’t love a breaded, fried cutlet or a
Cordon-Bleued bird breast? In fact, if you could find a way to successfully parmigian sweetbreads, I’d probably eat those too
(well, maybe not).

On a good day, I can please a hungry crowd with a quick
Chicken Marsala or Chicken Francaise. Both of these dishes rely on the use of quality chicken paillards, not for their flavor, but for their service as conduits (solely) responsible for delivering savory sauces to eager palates. They are messengers if you will, shot for the sake of delivering information to the taste buds. As a customer service employee, I sympathize with their plight, but that makes them no more appealing to my appetite.
And for that matter, I’d much rather direct my efforts towards saucing up a few (nutritionally superior) vegetables than
pan-handling a few pathetic poultry parts.
But I live with a man (among others) who can’t seem to grasp the concept of vegetables as an entrée. And although I have never read the book, my experience tells me that the fundamental difference between men and women is more about meat and vegetables
than it is about Mars and Venus.

Around our home, chicken often falls into the meat category when beef isn’t on the menu (because, according to the fowl-friendly fellows around here, it sure beats the hell out of a vegetable gratin). And so, I continue to search for easy and delicious (read: moist and flavorful) chicken dishes that don’t require the use of a crock-pot
(my arch nemesis) or Lipitor.

I pay close attention to media food trends, hoping for fresh ideas that might be translated into kitchen-friendly experiments.
Lately, restaurant vogue dictates a drift towards the deconstruction of entrees. Clever chefs take apart perfectly good recipes and serve the complex ingredients on a slender, oblong plate in prison-line-up fashion. The entrée is served in pieces rather than as a whole dish (hence the term deconstructed). While this type of phonetic dining doesn’t really appeal to me, some folks enjoy the (now ubiquitous) interpretation of ingredients.
What I have noticed however, is that chicken dishes are rarely,
if ever deconstructed.
I dare say if they were, no one would actually enjoy the chicken.

As a seasoned home-cook, I know my limitations.
I now regard whole chickens the same way I regard bunk beds;
as evil temptations for gullible shoppers. Most of us will be
fooled into buying them at least once, only to realize that these two items simply cannot be made successfully at home.
(Glossy ads be damned).

And so my quest continues.
Until the Chicken Fairy casts her spell on my Le Creuset, I will continue to disguise fowl fare with more palatable ingredients.
It is with great pleasure that I relinquish the whole bird to loving Jewish grandmothers, who seem to have a genetic penchant
for such an enigmatic entrée.
And unless its parmed or pan-fried, I’ll avoid poultry altogether when dining out.

A bit of motherly wisdom I penned in my daughter’s senior yearbook stated: “Remember, almost anything in life can be improved with a little melted mozzarella.”
Where chicken and I are concerned, my theory still holds true today, and I remain steadfast in my resolve:
No parm, no fowl.

And if anyone’s interested,
I have a great set of bunk beds for sale.


Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle




“What's the two things they tell you are healthiest to eat?
Chicken and fish. You know what you should do?
Combine them, eat a penguin. “
~Dave Attell – Comedian




I’m happy to share with you a fool-proof chicken recipe
that actually tastes good.
While I am not a fan of chicken soup (in fact, I like everything about it, except the chicken), this recipe for Chicken-Tortilla Soup is delightful; it's a virtual fiesta for your tastebuds. The chicken has a supporting role while the rest of the ingredients take center stage.
My own version is a multi-cultural hodge-podge of ingredients.
If you prefer to use a store-bought rotisserie chicken
(and why wouldn’t you?), you can skip the steps for marinating and grilling the chicken. Personally, I think the sweet addition of the marinade balances the spicy flavor of the soup.
Do what makes your mouth sing, and make this one your own.
(And in case your wondering; yes, I usually eat the soup and pick out the chicken pieces and toss them into Hubby’s bowl).

The original recipe comes from the Cooking Light website.
While my version is probably not as light, I strongly encourage you to finish the soup with a dollop of sour cream, some diced avocado, shredded Jack cheese, and a sprinkling of sliced olives and chopped scallions. If you want your soup to have more heat, add a finely minced chipotle from a can of chipotle in adobo (see recipe).
***You must fight the urge to substitute the corn tortillas with something else. They are necessary for the soups creamy texture (they will virtually dissolve into the soup) and their flavor component is paramount to this recipe.

CHICKEN TORTILLA SOUP

For Grilled Chicken:

1.5 lbs. Chicken Tenderloins
4 TBS Good quality Balsamic Vinegar
2 TBS Honey
1 TBS Dijon mustard
½ Cup Canola Oil

Mix last four ingredients together with wire whisk until combined. Place chicken into large Ziploc bag. Pour marinade over chicken. Seal bag securely. Gently shake bag to incorporate. Place bag in bowl or on tray in fridge and marinate for at least two hours (not more than four hours).
Remove from fridge fifteen minutes before grilling.

Heat grill to medium high.
Remove chicken from marinade (discard leftover marinade) and grill for two minutes on each side. Promptly remove from grill to plate and immediately cover with foil. Allow chicken to cool for at least 20 minutes and then slice into chunks. Set aside and follow soup recipe. Add chicken according to recipe.

***Or substitute the grilled chicken with a store-bought rotisserie chicken (shredded or cut into chunks).

For Tortilla Soup:

6 TBS Canola Oil
8 Corn Tortillas, chopped ***(find these in the refrigerated case at your supermarket—usually in the dairy aisle—DO NOT SUBSTITUTE WITH FLOUR TORTILLAS).

6 Garlic cloves, minced
½ Cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 Medium Onion Chopped
1 Can (28 oz.) Diced Tomatoes, undrained
**I prefer the Pomi brand of chopped tomatoes which are sold in a box on the same aisle as the canned tomatoes. I also add one small can of FIRE ROASTED tomatoes from Muir Glen brand—but any brand will do.

2 TBS Ground cumin
1 TBS Chili powder
3 Bay leaves
6 Cups chicken stock
1 tsp kosher salt
½ tsp. Cayenne pepper
**Optional: for added heat, add one, finely chopped chipotle from a can of chipotle in adobo.

Grilled Chicken, chunked

For Garnish:

Shredded Monterey Jack cheese
Sour Cream
Diced avocado
Scallions
Olives
Tortilla strips

Heat oil in large stock pot over medium heat. Add tortillas, garlic, cilantro, and onion. Saute 2 to 3 minutes. Stir in tomatoes. Bring to a boil and add cumin, chili powder, bay leaves and chicken stock (and minced chipotle, if using). Return to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer. Add salt and cayenne. Simmer for 30 minutes. Remove bay leaves. At this point if you prefer a more homogeneous soup, use an immersion blender or food processor to puree some of the soup, before adding the chicken. Add grilled chicken to soup and heat through.
Cover pot and allow it to sit for about 15 minutes.
Serve soup with a dollop of sour cream, diced avocado and garnish with shredded Monterey Jack cheese, chopped scallions, sliced olives and tortilla strips.


Enjoy!

Incorrectly Identifying a Wild Mushroom Can Be Costly

"Nature alone is antique and the oldest art a mushroom."
Thomas Carlyle


With the arrival of each new spring comes the opportunity for me to morph into a woman who actually enjoys spring cleaning.
Such is never the case, but it’s nice to know that the opportunity will present itself again next year.

Instead however, my ambitions are directed toward lighter palettes for home and fashion, and lighter fare for the dinner table.
As is often the case, although my spirit is willing, my checkbook balance is weak, and so I table the plans for redecorating and wardrobe makeover until a time when money-trees might sprout from the earth in my backyard.
A moment of self-pity lasts long enough for me to fashion winter’s jeans into spring’s cropped denims, allowing me time enough to forage for last year’s flip-flops and be on my merry way in search of local, seasonal produce. The very thought of turning orbs and oblongs freshly dug from the earth, into healthy, savory fare brings me back to those rare, but joyful days of my childhood when seed-packet gardening was the next best thing to actually living on a farm.
Our meager square of carefully planted rows in a suburban
backyard garden produced countless squash and beans, and a few small, but no less magical, watermelons.
As I matured, so did my taste for produce and these days I pay careful attention to both heirloom and international varieties, hoping someday to hob-nob with the higher echelon of early birds who catch the coveted organic worm (in the seemingly unattainable form of a local CSA membership). Until I'm bumped from wait-list to official member, I continue to forage for affordable organics at my local supermarkets and await the spring opening of local produce stands.

At present, the promise of a New York spring seems suspect.
As the sun teases us with mid-day cameo appearances, unseasonably cool temperatures follow its departure in hot-pursuit. I fear it will be one of those years when winter turns directly to summer with little consideration for spring’s healthy rains and early blooms. I wait impatiently for jacket-less days and pass the time by daydreaming about tender, fresh vegetables and al-fresco dining.

On a dreary day not so long ago, I spent some time thinking about living room throw pillows and the intricacies of artichokes.
One thought led to another and I decided that I needed to prepare a dish of sautéed baby artichokes with garlic and lemon-- but not until I found the perfect artichoke specimen from which I would fashion a paper model to serve as a pattern for a giant artichoke pillow.
A stuffed artichoke, if you will.
It might not surprise you to discover that much of my home décor is dedicated to food. Recently however, I realized that my living room unfairly idolizes fruit while overlooking the simple elegance of vegetables. My first thought was to create a standard, square throw pillow from lovely vegetable-themed cotton chintz.
But why have a pillow depicting vegetables when you can have a pillow that is a complete vegetable-- stem, choke, and all?

A not-so-short trip to the fabric store yielded enough fabric and fluff for a bigger-than-a-basketball artichoke with a few extras for project number two.
A lovely sales clerk was so impressed by my appreciation for orphaned cuts of fabric unfairly sentenced to clearance-table shame, that she donated large corrugated tubes to serve as center-structure for my soon-to-be, larger than life, standing asparagus (seriously, when a fabric screams out “asparagus” to you, don’t you just have to buy it?).
As I exited the store, negotiating bags of fabric and fluff, awkwardly balancing the tubes under my left arm, I wondered just what I had gotten myself into. My ambition seemed to be writing a Veggie Tale of its own, but I dare suggest this one might be lacking moral values and suitability for an audience of minors.

I spent the better part of a Saturday afternoon dusting off and tuning my trusty Singer Slant Needle 404 sewing machine. The 1958 Singer manual which depicted a Stepford-esque woman wearing gabardine slacks and a flip hairdo, suggested I adjust the tension until the "tension feels right." Surely this woman was a better one than I;
a product of a generation who vacuumed in heels, willingly laundered husband's soiled, cloth handkerchiefs, and apparently, even embraced tension.
Too much to ask of a twenty-first century woman if you ask me,
so I found a stitch length that looked familiar and called it a day.

For the next two weeks, I stole time when I could and traced, cut and stitched artichoke leaves to white cotton batting. When I got to the step requiring insertion of pliable wire into stuffed leaves, all production came to a screeching halt as the wire tangled itself in the batting and made for a leaf completely unfamiliar to any artichoke I have ever met (and I have met more than a few). With each failed solution, I resorted to public polling (never a good idea). One piece of advice however, seemed logical and worthy of my attempt, so I sewed a separate channel into which the wire would be threaded to provide stability and pliability for each leaf. A reasonable solution, albeit one requiring a bit of extra time and patience. Now halfway through my project and totally burnt out, I decided to step away from the sewing table to regroup, re-energize and rehabilitate my cramped right hand, now riddled with pin-pricks from late night sewing, sans eyeglasses.

One night, as I drifted off to sleep, I could hear my left brain telling me there had to be an easier way for one to acquire a giant stuffed artichoke.
My right brain however, always louder and more optimistic, suggested a day off and some retail therapy.
I went with the right brain; often fallible but never dull.

The following morning I awoke early and gathered coupons, shopping lists, dry-cleaner drop-offs and a bag of returns which sat on my dining room chair for weeks in complacent denial of the fact that the boy-sized clothing I purchased for my son needed to be replaced with items from the young men’s department.
I expected that my shopping trip would be a short one
(my first mistake), since my funds were limited and a recent promise to my significantly-stressed other wouldn’t allow for frivolous spending.
I completed the more pedestrian tasks first and then enthusiastically, headed to my favorite haunt, TJ Maxx. As I stood on line with my returns bag in hand, I heard two women talking about the new
Home Goods store across the street. Apparently, it was grand opening week for the store and crowds were flocking to this haven of home décor, for a chance to win prizes and troll for bargains to bedeck their boudoirs. I had in my possession, one Home Goods entry form tucked neatly away in my purse. I took the time to fill it out one Sunday while I perused the weekend paper, never anticipating I would actually drop it into the entry box (as my purse-bottom is so often the burial ground for well-intended coupons, rebates and to-do lists).
Today however, the temptation was too great. I made quick work of my returns and took a quick spin around the gourmet aisles at
TJ Maxx in search of my favorite jam (Maury Island Farm’s Blackberry-Raspberry Jam—to die for) and hubby’s favorite steak sauce (Smith & Wollensky—a tasty little bargain at $3.99 a bottle). Although my search came up empty-handed, I was hopeful that Home Goods (owned by the same geniuses as TJ Maxx and Marshall’s) might allow me to obtain one or both of these delicacies.

With a spring in my step, I exited the store and made the quick trek across the highway to the new store obscurely nestled between a Staples and an auto supply store. Parking presented a small challenge and was my first indication that shopping cart procurement would be reduced to wishful thinking.
As I entered the bustling emporium of home interiors, the scene was almost surreal. Colorfully-clad women pushed shopping carts piled high with all manners of bedding coordinates, Moroccan-esque
nick-nackery, bejeweled lampshades, and plate-ware in every
polka-dotted color scheme imaginable.
It all seemed so Seussical--until I too, got sucked into the vacuum
we so foolishly refer to as retail.

I navigated my way around shopping carts and warehouse-weary toddlers in search of the entry box in which to place my completed form. I made my way to the gourmet department and happily snatched the last bottle of steak sauce from a shelf filled with
dry-rubs and cook-books created with the man-griller in mind.
These are likely the same masterminds behind a twenty-year long campaign against charcoal and in support of monster gas grills and useless grill gadgetry—who now manufacture “retro” versions of the charcoal hibachis of our childhood, promoting what most of us already knew—that its flavor is unmatched—not to mention that a bag of charcoal briquettes is much easier on the wallet and the biceps than its gas counterpart (and let’s not forget the amusement it provided neighborhood pyromaniacs who delighted in that
not-so-fool-proof combination of lighter fluid, newspaper and charcoal).

A friendly sales clerk directed me to the back of the store where a giant, festively wrapped box stood, bulging at the seams, stuffed with what seemed to be thousands of entry forms. I forced my arm through the opening and halfway into the box and wedged my own form between countless others, painfully aware that mine was likely a dull needle left to drown in a haystack of improbability.
I weaved my way between frenzied shoppers and thought it best to make a quick exit and return weeks later when the store would be yesterday’s news and much less crowded.
As I neared the exit, I passed through a department which contained all sorts of folk-art inspired Americana. A primitive, patriotic rooster caught my eye, but its tall, wooden form was ill-balanced, causing passers-by to prop the cock-eyed gent against a giant pewter pig for stability (I’m no farmer but somehow, I just know this is wrong).

As I turned a corner piled high with art-deco boxes, I spied a shelf with a quirky assortment of wall décor including a giant pair of black, wooden scissors. I was amused by their size and realism but my temptation gave way to the fact that I could not rationalize spending so much for utilitarian form with no function (at least when it had nothing at all to do with food).

I had almost made my escape when I spotted an oddly shaped form lying sideways wedged between two broad, low-hung shelves.
I ducked to get a better view and there, before my very eyes was a giant mushroom of handsome heft and honest hue, petitioning me for rescue. I set down the bottle of steak sauce and lifted the mushroom to the light and gasped aloud when I read its price tag. I promptly returned the fungi to its rightful place and headed towards the door. This was a true test of my constitution. In my frivolous past I would have purchased this specimen in a heartbeat.
I paused at a table set with clip-boards to lure credit-worthy shoppers to their financial demise, and as I fished for my keys, I remembered the bottle of steak sauce I left on the shelf above the mushroom. I hurried back to the same location and thankfully, the bottle was still there. A thought occurred to me in a split second of indecisiveness; it isn’t every day that one encounters a giant mushroom for sale. What about “Carpe diem?” Shouldn’t one seize a mushroom opportunity of such proportions, when and if it actually arises?
My right brain encouraged me to buy it, while my left brain reminded me that I had an unfinished artichoke at home and two giant asparagus on deck, and zero funds to justify purchasing a sixty dollar resin mushroom. Besides, my left brain couldn’t even identify the mushroom—and quite honestly, my left brain is pretty good with gastronomical recognition and terminology.
The fact remained however, that although it was no Shiitake, Porcini or Chanterelle, it was a mushroom nonetheless. And who wouldn’t welcome a giant mushroom into their home?
But this time, practicality took over and I sided with my left brain.
I decided to purchase only the steak sauce, yet not until I had one last chance to touch and hold the fabulous fungi. I lifted the mushroom into my arms and ran my hand around its smooth surface. The oddly textured bumps on its cap teased my memory but I became quickly distracted by an attractive, tall woman with silver hair who seemed to be approaching me. She had a Burberry scarf tied loosely around her neck and she had a Coach leather satchel slung over her winter-white cashmered shoulder.
Her eyes quickly darted between me and the mushroom and
as she got closer, I felt ill at ease.
She pointed to the mushroom and politely asked where I found it.
I motioned to the large, empty shelf below me and furtively grasped the bottle of steak sauce from the shelf above it.
And then the sixty-dollar question dropped like a penny from a
high-rise window; “Are you buying it?”
"Well, yes.”
(Now) "I am."

With obvious disapproval, she shuffled her persnickety frown and her crimson suede loafers over to a shelf filled with cloisonné letter openers (a useless gift intended I suppose, for her few (Bridge club) friends who likely had already discovered the conveniences of email while she was out trying to rob seasoned shoppers of their fortuitous fungi).

I made a beeline for the registers, checked out, and with steak sauce and giant mushroom safely installed in my trunk, I headed for home. For the entire ride my right brain negotiated with my left brain suggesting that the acquisition of rare fungus might only enhance the introduction of vegetables into a fruit-dominated domicile. My left brain wasn’t buying it and suggested that my frivolous friend (right brain) and I figure out what we would tell hubby as he tripped over our sixty dollar specimen. Seconds shy of a full-on panic attack, I pulled into my driveway. I took only my returns and the steak sauce from the car and left the mushroom until I could properly introduce it to my husband who I feared wouldn’t be so fungi-friendly.

As I approached my doorstep, I was greeted by my husband to whom I immediately presented the steak sauce followed by
rapid-fire hyperbole and detailed explanation for frivolous spending. I offered that I was in a weakened state of retail competition driven by an appreciation for rare fungus and a genuine dislike for
silver-haired snakes in goat’s clothing.
Apparently, I had him at the steak sauce, and all was forgiven.

After dinner and the evening’s activities, I retrieved my sizable purchase from the trunk. Once I brought the mushroom in however, hubby and I had a small dispute over its location and position. We finally agreed on a location but did not see eye to eye on aesthetics.
I wanted to place the mushroom on its side for the sake of art and quirky-ness. He wanted it upright for the sake of stubborn man-ness.
Upright, it looked like a stupid lamp. That was my elementary argument and after exhausting his litany of left-brain logics for vertical display (and the desire to get back to a televised ball game), he gave in.

For a long while, I stared at the specimen admiring its form as it sat propped on its side next to a long wooden bench in our living room. A feeling that something was missing, gnawed at the back of my brain, but I foolishly chose to ignore it.
I headed to bed with visions of my completed artichoke and asparagus making the acquaintance of our newest addition. As I drifted off to sleep, my subconscious tried to wake me from my mushroom-induced stupor. Again, I sensed a nagging thought attempting to permeate my consciousness but fatigue won out
and it waited impatiently until morning—when, at precisely
five-fifty-two A.M., it rattled me from my slumber to rear its ugly head and declare that I identify what variety, if any, my new mushroom represented.

At first, I thought it didn’t really matter. But when I paused to consider its contribution to conversations of gastronomy, I thought it might be in my best interest to know exactly what variety of mushroom found itself lying prostrate on my living room carpet.
I believe now that my subconscious actually knew the truth all along, but wanted the gratification of seeing my reaction to such a discovery.

Still half-asleep, I poured my first cup of coffee, grabbed my checkbook from the counter and hoisted the mushroom under one arm and headed to my computer desk. No stranger to multi-tasking, I figured I’d do some online bill paying while I googled my fungi. I fished a bunch of receipts from my checkbook pocket and placed them aside. As I waited for my account information to magically appear on the monitor, I was immediately struck by something printed on my Home Goods receipt. To the left of the boldly printed price of $59.99 and just below the line detailing my bargain steak sauce was the word “Garden.”
At that moment, it all became painfully clear. I could almost hear my subconscious laughing. I knew for certain that I had not found my fungi in the garden department of Home Goods. Perhaps it was placed on the only shelf large enough to accommodate its heft—which happened to be with wall décor. But it was in fact, a garden element after all. I stared at its spotted cap with complete disdain. I turned it upside down and finally realized that it was missing the obvious; dark, threadlike gills, a common characteristic of any kitchen-worthy mushroom.
Obviously, this mushroom and I had both become victims of mistaken identity. It was time I faced the cold, hard truth.
I could barely make out the Google icon through the tears welling up in my eyes, but I needed to call upon my eSage of word wisdom, just to be sure.

First, I Googled mushrooms; hundreds of varieties were listed in rich detail accompanied by photos, but none looked enough like mine for me to rationalize its origin. So, I did the unthinkable, I scrolled to the end of the page where the word “toadstool,” appeared and clicked on it, and in an instant, there before my very eyes was a photo of my falsified fungi followed by this definition:

“A toadstool is an inedible or poisonous fungus with an umbrella shaped fruiting body, often with no gills appearing underneath its cap.”

Be still my aching heart.
For sixty dollars, I had become the not-so-proud owner of a poisonous, inedible mushroom (which in fact, isn't really even a mushroom after all).
Obviously, there was no way I could expose my vulnerable vegetables to such faux fungi. The very thought of subjecting my tender edibles to such poisonous spores turned my stomach.
The toadstool would have to go back.
I carried it over to the dining room chair (my favorite place to exile returnables) and I taped the receipt to the top of its cap. I was tempted to spit on it but I thought of the innocent plastic gnomes it might someday accompany, so I resisted.
Even I wouldn’t stoop that low.

And so, my dejected toadstool awaits its introduction to greener pastures while I wait hopefully for the motivation to see my
produce project through to its completion. While the artichoke quietly anticipates its assembly and those corrugated tubes stand erect awaiting the fervent embrace of green vinyl, I daydream about constructing a pillowy-soft Shiitake, perhaps of white velour, with carefully stitched gills of chocolate thread.

If nothing else, my fortuitous encounter with faux fungi has sparked a creative flame that hasn’t burned for years.
My husband was pleased at the thought of recovering the funds from my frivolous expense but admittedly, I have mixed feelings about its departure.

Because incorrectly identifying a wild mushroom can be costly,
in more ways than one.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.


Until Next Time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle



Some mushroom quotes for you to consider:

“Falling in love is like eating mushrooms, you never know if it’s the real thing until it’s too late.”
~Bill Balance


“If only one could tell true love from false love as one can tell mushrooms from toadstools.”
~Katherine Mansfield



It's best to buy your mushrooms from a reputable grower or grocer instead of hunting them yourself, as there are many poisonous mushrooms. Incorrectly identifying them can lead to symptoms of sweating, cramps, diarrhea, confusion, convulsions, and potentially result in liver damage, or even death.
~Online resource, author unknown


"I confess, that nothing frightens me more than the appearance of mushrooms on the table, especially in a small provincial town."
~Alexandre Dumas, early 19th century


“Life is too short to stuff a mushroom.”
~From Brainy Quotes, author unknown

You Can't Un-Crack an Egg

“It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.
~ C.S. Lewis


Some of us are chronic worriers by nature.
This is a nasty affliction on its own merits. However, when coupled with a compulsive desire to control everything; the resulting condition is a cross to bear not only for the afflicted, but especially for cohabitants of the affected party.
In this case, I am the chronic-worrier-control-freak and my kids somehow, are managing to grow up, in spite of my condition.

The formal arrival of spring in New York was accompanied by an overnight frost and a pending late-March snowstorm. As I readied my home for an Easter celebration, any expectation for dining
al fresco was squelched by too-cool temperatures and unseasonably high winds. Faced with lamb, a ham, and no particular plan, I set about to prepare a feast for an indefinite number of guests. My daughter’s request to include one or maybe three fellow college freshmen in need of a holiday meal was sprung upon me like an early bloom; a welcome delight notwithstanding the additional attention required.

It was the day before Easter and in my usual frenzy of too much to do in too little time; I contemplated how my eldest and most educated might contribute. While I refused to relinquish control over
ham-glazing, plastic-egg stuffing, cheesecake baking, basil-tearing (never knife-cutting for any true Italian), mozzarella-slicing,
yogurt-mint-processing (for the purpose of lamb-marinating),
or garlic-chopping, I could only force myself to release my grip (temporarily) from the Windex bottle. And so, with blue bottle in hand, she dexterously cleaned the front and back doors and promptly returned to the Guitar Hero competition already in progress in our TV room (where son and husband furtively retreated to escape the wrath of one seemingly peri-menopausal woman expecting company).

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I escaped to my closet hideaway-turned-egg hunt-headquarters to pack plastic eggs full of pastel pleasantries and provisions for children of all ages (including
college man-boys and brooding teenagers). As I sorted Hot Wheels and hot sauces, I thought about the very first egg hunt I hosted almost fifteen years ago. It was a time when my kitchen was a whole lot messier, and holidays were a whole lot easier. It was a time when I welcomed chubby, little fingers to join mine while mixing and shaping meatballs or chocolate chip cookies, with little concern for perfect platter presentation.
If someone had told me then, that years later I would discourage my daughter from cooking her own eggs for fear she would blow up the gas stove or heaven forbid, leave a mess, I would have thought
them insane. But alas, sometimes we fail as parents to execute our own best laid plans.
And so often the worrier in me chose the easier path, the one promising a safer, less eventful arrival than the better path.
Good parents guide and support their children in choosing a path which offers experience; an opportunity to learn and to grow and perhaps even to fail. As I have learned from my own failures,
so too should they.
But all too often I felt compelled to spare them difficulty and disappointment simply by doing it for them.
How foolish of me to consider this a viable method.
While parenting is not rocket science, it challenges the very core of our beings. If we allow fear to take the wheel, our children may never enjoy the scenery along the road less traveled.

As I crammed the last, sample-size bottle of “Ass Kickin’ Hot Sauce” into a snap-tight pastel egg, I considered the sheer irony of the task. You see, it was my daughter who first introduced me to the delightful combination of eggs and hot sauce.
On a steamy, sticky Sunday last summer, at a local bagel shop where we were both employed, I watched in amazement as she doused a perfectly prepared omelet with hot sauce. My amazement came not from her use of the condiment, but from the realization that this daughter of mine, the one I was so reluctant to share my kitchen with, was managing a grill for countless hungry customers, turning out perfectly cooked eggs with nary a twitch of her brow.
Weekend mornings routinely found me clinging to the bagel counter like a cream cheese schmear to a pumpernickel, while she willingly and adroitly manned the grill, juggling orders for scrambles,
over-easies, sunny-sides up, and four-egg he-man specials.
She was a natural at feeding people and unfortunately, I had
little to do with it.


Our Easter celebration turned out to be a great success (with the exception of a too-small dining room and too few chairs, and a
short-lived marital dispute over grill-master husbands who believe that black char is a welcome flavor element on a lamb chop).
But nonetheless, a fun time was had by all.
Thanks to the kindness of relatives headed in the same direction as my daughter’s campus, my eldest and her guest(s) had a free ride back to college in a brand new mini-van. With room to spare, my daughter requested as many leftovers as I was willing to part with
for the sake of hungry, travel-weary undergrads.

A late-night phone call revealed that a second feast was shared in my daughter’s dorm room and for those unable to attend, engrossed in late semester projects, plates were prepared and delivered.
She made sure that the few remaining cannolis were saved for the unfortunate few who had never heard tell of such a delightful indulgence (a fact neither of us could wrap our cannoli-loving
heads around).

And so the fact remains that while we can’t turn back the clock or grant ourselves a “do-over” in this challenging game of parenting,
we lucky few are rewarded by life’s little surprises which so often outweigh the burden of our regrets.
Like daughters who grow up to be beautiful young women
who occasionally do their own laundry, make their own beds
and always invite friends to share a meal.

Because even though you can’t un-crack an egg,
they figure out what to do with it anyway.



Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle




I’m pleased to share with you a fool proof recipe for a delicious cake that is delightfully moist, flavorful, and so easy to prepare.

Since Easter came right on the heels of St. Patrick’s Day, I decided to repeat a favorite dessert—Bailey’s Bundt Cake. The recipe is a modification of one I found on the internet years ago, which called for copious amounts of dark rum. I replaced most of the rum with Bailey’s Irish Cream and added a few of my own ingredients for flavor. You can exchange your favorite liqueur for the Bailey’s and make it your own.

But first, be a good egg and take a moment to read a few quotes about one of nature’s most perfect foods, the egg…


“I have had, in my time, memorable meals of scrambled eggs with fresh truffles, scrambled eggs with caviar and other glamorous things, but to me, there are few things as magnificent as scrambled eggs, pure and simple, perfectly cooked and perfectly seasoned.”
James Beard, 'On Food' (1974)

"Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken."
M.F.K. Fisher (1908-1992)

“An egg of one hour old, bread of one day, a goat of one month, wine of six months, flesh of a year, fish of ten years and a wife of twenty years, a friend among a hundred, are the best of all number.”
~John Wodroephe, English commentator
'Spared Hours,' 1623

The world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities.
~ George Eliot

Faith is putting all your eggs in God’s basket, then counting your blessings before they hatch.
~Ramona C. Carroll


When you feel neglected, think of the female salmon, who lays 3,000,000 eggs but no one remembers her on Mother’s Day.
~Sam Ewing


I do not like green eggs and ham I do not like them Sam I am.
~Dr. Seuss

It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.
~Dorothy Parker

“The difference between 'involvement' and 'commitment' is like an eggs-and-ham breakfast: the chicken was 'involved' - the pig was 'committed'
~Author Unknown





BAILEY'S BUNDT CAKE

** I suppose you could use any cake pan with good results, but I strongly recommend you dig out your favorite bundt pan and be sure to grease and flour it well. The shape of a bundt cake lends itself well to the decadent glaze topping.

CAKE:
1 Cup chopped toasted nuts (I used a combination of pecans and almonds)
1 Box (approx. 18.5 oz) White Cake Mix
2 Boxes (3/4 oz. ea) Instant Vanilla Pudding
4 to 5 eggs (I prefer to use 5 large eggs. If yours are extra large, use only 4)
1/2 Cup plus 2 TBS. Cold Milk
1/2 Cup plus 1 TBS. Vegetable Oil (I prefer Canola oil)
1/2 Cup Bailey's Irish Cream Liqueur
2 TBS Dark rum
1 Cup Toffee Chips (Skor toffee bits or Heath toffee bits *NOT chocolate-coated toffee bits)


GLAZE:

1 Stick Butter
1/4 Cup Water
1 Cup Sugar
1/2 Cup Bailey's Irish Cream
2 TBS. Dark Rum

Cake:
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Grease and flour a 12-cup Bundt pan. Sprinkle toasted nuts on bottom of pan. Combine all cake ingredients (except toffee bits). Beat for two minutes on high with electric mixer. Add toffee bits to batter, incorporate by hand with spatula or wooden spoon.
Pour into prepared pan. Bake for one hour. Cool in pan on wire rack. Invert cake onto serving plate when cool. Prick top of cake with toothpick or fork. Drizzle glaze (recipe follows) over top of cake. Use pastry brush to re-glaze drippings over cake. ** I add extra glaze once the first layer of glaze has dried. This step is optional.

Glaze:
Melt butter in saucepan. Stir in water and sugar. Boil for five minutes over medium-high heat STIRRING CONSTANTLY to avoid burning. Remove from heat and CAREFULLY add rum and Bailey's (it will steam and sputter). Mix well and glaze cake as recipe suggests. Extra glaze can be stored in glass container, covered.

Enjoy!

You Say Tomato, I Say Connecticut

“Home grown tomatoes, home grown tomatoes
What would life be like without homegrown tomatoes
Only two things that money can't buy
That's true love and home grown tomatoes.”
~John Denver, 'Home Grown Tomatoes'
(from a song written by Guy Clark)


If you are fortunate to share dialogue with my mother and you happen to mention the word microwave, she will abruptly and momentarily stray off-topic to inform you that said microwave
does in fact “cook from the inside out.”
This is likely a factoid she picked up in the late ‘70s, committed to memory, and now spontaneously recalls, as she suffers from an involuntary stimulus-response condition I like to call ‘momism.’

For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed hearing, deconstructing and mocking these mom-isms.
One would think I repeat them for the sheer sake of folly at Mother’s unfortunate expense. But the fact of the matter is, while I listen and laugh, I also learn.

Over time I have come to realize that certain trigger-words encourage these colorful, if not always logical descriptions.
Where most of us depend on basic adjectives, my mother adds a bit more flavor to the pot. Old becomes “As old as Methuzula.”
More than will become “More than you can shake a stick at” or
(my personal favorite), “More than Carter has little liver pills.”

While I have never met Methuzula (but I would imagine she is still alive), my stick-shaking days were over before they started, and Carter sounds like a good candidate for rehab, I cannot deny my appreciation for my mother’s involuntary response to any discussion about the tomato…

Years ago, for my mother’s birthday, I purchased a Wusthof
tomato knife. As I presented her with the gift, I expected and hoped she would re-tell the story of her summertime youth spent visiting relatives in Waterbury, Connecticut.
She was both pleased and panicked by my gift. While she appreciated the form and function of the knife, she feared the backlash of inherited Italian superstition which dictates that the recipient of any sharp, pointed object must immediately compensate the donor with a penny to ward off any opportunity for malfeasance or conflict.
Impatiently, I yielded to a momentary delay as she rifled through her purse in search of a penny for the sake of peace. I knew better than to deny superstitious reciprocity, and so I pocketed the penny as her tomato story unfolded…

She, an only child, traveled with parents and elders from
Brooklyn to Waterbury during the dog days of summer.
The seemingly endless trip met with steep, hilly roads before
finally approaching the old storied house with the coveted
front-porch entry. Upon arrival, barely able to contain her excitement, she bounded barefoot into the backyard and made a beeline for the garden where her eager palms would be baptized with the sweet, pulpy nectar of homegrown tomatoes. Heat-fatigued and ravenous, there was little time or energy for ceremonious slicing or sandwiching. She plucked and ate the scarlet orbs as if they were apples, one after another, allowing their green caps to fall
back to the earth.
Sun-kissed and satiated, she retreated indoors to absorb the annual enchantments of her visit; doting relatives, a prized piano that mysteriously played itself, a sleepy sun room, and cool breezes invited by a favorite front-porch swing.
Those were good times.

I never grow tired of hearing that story. The older and wiser I get however, I realize that like any good story, this one evolves over time. With each re-telling, the trip gets longer, the hills get steeper and the summer gets hotter. But nevertheless, the tomato experience remains the same, and each time I am left with a nagging thought;
I want that tomato.

My own personal experience with fresh tomatoes is bland, at best.
I seem to have a knack for choosing the most flavorless,
mealy-fleshed specimens at the market.
Where gardening is concerned, I have been shamefully remiss in cultivating and caring for such prolific perennials. I guess that
leaves me at the mercy of commercial growers who harvest green, under-ripe tomatoes (for the sake of shelf-stability and transport), which then undergo a chemically-induced coloring to attract unsuspecting shoppers.
While those of us vulnerable to commercialism (and too lazy
to kick up a fuss) see red and reach for tasteless tomatoes,
those well-informed, proactive consumers see red, and magnanimously call for change.

The fact is a good tomato, like a good story, should be allowed to ripen naturally. Most would agree that the best tomatoes are indeed homegrown.
Some would argue that only heirloom varieties come close to those prized tomatoes of yesteryear.
And likewise, where mom-isms are concerned, their intrinsic value is rooted in a lifetime of noteworthy events and ideas whose constant recollection and usage become a natural part of ones permanent landscape.
A dialogue shared with my mother free of mom-isms, would offer the same experience as sharing an under-ripe, chemically modified tomato; flavorless and forgettable.

And so, as I browse seed catalogs and await the arrival of summer’s bounty in search of sandwich-worthy specimens, I will be mindful of that Connecticut tomato and how lucky I am to have shared a colorful memory, ripe with hyperbole and flavor.

I don’t expect I will soon forget the collection of family stories
I have been privy to over the years. My mother has more of them than you can shake a stick at and I’ll bet you a dollar-to-a-donut that there are still more untold. I expect that I will share my own stories, as well as hers, with my own children until I am
as old as Methuzula or until I’ve forgotten.
And perhaps on a day when it’s raining to beat the band, I will cozy up with a hot mug of something from the microwave (which incidentally, cooks from the inside out) and write them down
so they might live on long after I’m gone.

Because what would life be like without true love and
homegrown tomatoes?
Two things money can’t buy, that only get sweeter with time.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle



A few noteworthy tomato quotes:

“It’s difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.”
~Lewis Grizzard

“Sonny, true love is the greatest thing, in the world—except for a nice MLT—mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is lean and the tomato is ripe.”
~William Goldman

“A number of rare or newly experienced foods have been claimed to be aphrodisiacs. At one time this quality was even ascribed to the tomato. Reflect on that when you are next preparing the family salad.”
~Jane Grigson

“High-tech tomatoes. Mysterious milk. Supersquash. Are we supposed to eat this stuff? Or is it going to eat us?”
~Annita Manning


And by the way,
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

I’ll leave you with one of my favorite mom-isms:

While we Irish folk (on my father’s side) were content with
“Erin Go Bragh” to express our appreciation for
‘Ireland the Beautiful,’ my mother and grandmother were more comfortable (literally and figuratively speaking) with this one:

“Erin Go Bra-less”

I heard it once a year for at least twenty years and I don’t doubt it passed her lips at least once today.

Fignificance

“No greater thing is created suddenly, any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen.”
~From The Works of the Greek philosopher Epictetus


The fig is a man-whore.
Well, not all figs, actually. There are some figs (like some men), capable of productive, fruitful relationships.
The ‘Caprifig’ however, is not one of them. Its claim to fame is that it is the only type of fig to have flowers which possess male parts and therefore produce pollen. This pollen is critical to the fertilization of more than one type of fig. Caprifigs are often described as “small, hard, inedible and unappealing” (no big surprise there).
Commercial growers purchase Caprifigs and the orchard-worthy specimens are pimped out to pollinate other types of figs.
So basically, the Caprifig lives for sex.
The whole process is referred to as ‘caprification’ and depends exclusively on a ‘fig-wasp’ which inhabits the Caprifig, and is responsible for transferring pollen and laying eggs.

There are other, more common varieties of figs like the Mission fig, which develop without pollination. Introduced to California by Franciscan missionaries, these are popular with home growers and consumers for their dependability and flavor.
None however, can match the flavor or girth of the coveted Smyrna fig, said to have larger, more flavorful seeds as a direct result of pollination (apparently, the rewards are even greater for a ficus completely dependent on Capri’s man-fig, living the life of a
sex addict making frequent, if not meaningful, fruity-calls).

Allow me to free myself from the accusal of man-bashing.
Quite honestly, I can think of a married woman or two
who flirtatiously express interest in peeking under someone else’s
fig leaf, when they need not look beyond their own backyard for a perfectly good Ficus.
But as is often the case, nature presents us with what seems to be a cruel injustice. “Wham, bam, thank you M’am” is as much of a reality to the plant kingdom as it is to the animal kingdom.
It is what it is.

The fact remains however, for all its flaws and infidelities, I love the fig nonetheless. I can’t think of a more succulent, satisfying orb worthy of prosciutto’s salty embrace. And although fresh is first choice, there are few fruits to compete with the nutrition, portability and flavor of a dried fig.

My relationship with figs is not a complicated one.
Where propagation is concerned, at first I didn’t succeed
and so, I never tried again.
When my significant-other planted our first and only fig tree, we knew not of caprification or the need for a fig wasp and so,
our poor little tree likely met its demise well before it was
burlapped for the winter.

I suppose it was a blessing of sorts because years later, I heard tell of an elderly relative who, with little time left, waited for her promising backyard-harvest to ripen. To her delight, an early sunrise revealed a fig tree bursting with ripened fruit. By midday however, backyard birds had rendered her beloved ficus devoid of even one single, edible fruit.

Fellow fig-lovers have reported that occasionally, even when all criteria are met (good drainage, plenty of sunlight, protection from the elements), their once-abundant fig trees will mysteriously remain fruitless for a season or two and then begin bearing fruit years later, as though production had never halted.

These seemingly cruel acts of nature have been experienced countless times by fig fans across the globe, and one would wonder if there is a greater lesson to be learned here.

As I pause to consider the significance of such a fickle fruit, I am drawn to writers and philosophers of the (recent and not-so-recent) past, who so eloquently made reference to the fig.
As art so often reflects life, it is evident that the fig metaphorically describes life’s fleeting opportunities for love.
Where the fig-grower is concerned, care and cultivation are secondary only to good timing.
Where romance is concerned, be it new romance or old, I would suggest that care, cultivation, and good timing hold equal billing in a successful relationship.
If we fail to recognize life’s abundance, leaving the fruits of our labor vulnerable to waiting wings, we may find ourselves faced with insatiable hunger beside a fruitless tree.

Perhaps Sylvia Plath said it best:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, Chapter 7



And although no fig tree stands in my yard these days, my desire
to procure such a delicate, complex fruit is unwavering.
I remain mindful however that the temptation of Smyrna’s succulence and heft will be short lived. As I await the unpredictability of fresh-fig season, I recognize the value and dependability of the more humble, common, dried fig.
Where fresh, young figs offer spontaneity and excitement, it is the more mature, dried variety which offers consistent flavor, unconditional reliability and longevity.

But alas, do not mistake the fig for a fool.
While the commoner patiently lurks behind darkened cupboards
and pantry doors awaiting the opportunity to satisfy,
the foolish sins of neglect are often repaid with spoiled sweetness.

And so, in matters of figs and life it is essential that we acknowledge and celebrate what lies beneath the leaf.
Should we fail to nurture our own fruitful harvest in a timely fashion, we risk a quick descent by waiting wings to make light work
of stolen figs.

*******

And, speaking of stolen figs…
I leave you with a recommendation for a great book and my
most recent read:
Stolen Figs by Mark Rotella.
For those, like me, who pine for Italy and fresh figs with equal measure, this book offers a charming account of Calabria and its people (with a short chapter suggesting a not-so-legal method of procuring figs).


I am also happy to share with you some interesting fig facts
and a favorite fig recipe below.
But perhaps most appropriately, I will make my exit with a
borrowed mom-ism from my mother and friend who taught me
first, to appreciate what stands in my own backyard and
secondly, to appreciate a good play on words (no matter how corny);

I’ve gotta run.

I have a date
With a fig
On Prune Street.


Until next time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

******************************************
In case you give a fig:


Of the three members of the Moraceae family, the fig has spread most widely. It was first recorded in the tablets of Lagash in Sumer (2738-2371) BC and has since appeared in the recorded history from Egypt to Greece, where it was a staple food of both rich and poor. The fig was such a staple food that Egyptian armies are recorded as having cut down the figs and vines of their enemies, and whole baskets of figs have been discovered among the tomb offerings of dynastic kings.

The Egyptians, being preoccupied with their digestion, had a habit of fasting. The fig, having mild laxative properties, appealed to them as food which was delicious as well as good for them. Figs are rich in calcium, iron, phosphorus and potassium. Vitamin C and the B group vitamins are also present in small quantities. They are also high in fibre. Figs have the highest overall mineral content of all common fruits. A 40 gram (1/4 cup) serving provides 244 mg of potassium (7% of the DV), 53 mg of calcium (6% of the DV) and 1.2 mg of iron (6% of the DV). Figs are fat-free, sodium-free and cholesterol-free.

Homer wrote of figs when he described the orchard of Alcinous, visited by Ulysses, which featured figs, olives, pomegranates, apples and pears. The poet Alexis of Thuria in the 4th century celebrated the fare of the average Greek which included "that God-given inheritance of our mother country, darling of my heart, a dried fig."

Cleopatra ended her life with an asp brought to her in a basket of figs.

The fig’s importance in Hellenic culture and economic life is second only that that of the grape and the olive.

In the first half of the sixteenth century, the fig was brought to England by Cardinal Pole, a few years before Cortez introduced the tree to Mexico. Fig trees reached North America in about 1790.
~From The Sensuous Fig by Margaret E.Walker

For centuries, writers have made reference to the fig, noting its connection to fertility.
In Greek and Roman mythology, figs are sometimes associated with Dionysus, god of wine and drunkenness, and with Priapus, a satyr who symbolized sexual desire.



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Caramelized Figs with Mascarpone Cheese
Fichi Caramellati al Mascarpone
From Kyle Phillips

Late summer is the season for rich, ripe honey-sweet figs, and though you may be tempted to eat them directly off the tree, this is a pleasant, quick way to serve them up when friends come calling. To serve 4:

INGREDIENTS:
• 8 perfect, perfectly ripe figs
• 8 tablespoons cane sugar
• 2/3 pound (300 g) Mascarpone cheese
• 1/2 cup (50 g) powdered sugar
• 8 tablespoons vinsanto or passito wine -- both are sweet dessert wines

PREPARATION:
Select 8 ripe, blemish-free figs. Wash them, pat them dry, and make two perpendicular cuts half way into each fig from the stem end, as if you were going to quarter them. Put them on a cookie sheet covered with oiled paper.

Sprinkle a teaspoon of cane sugar over each fig and run them under a broiler for 2-3 minutes, to lightly caramelize the sugar.
Arrange the figs on 4 plates, and continue the cuts almost all the way down to the base, so the figs open like so many flowers.

Beat 2/3 pound (300 g) mascarpone cheese (a soft, mild-flavored cream cheese will work in its stead if need be) with about 1/2 cup (50 g) powdered sugar and 8 tablespoons vinsanto or passito (both are sweet, white dessert wines). Divvy the cheese among the figs and serve.

When Mojo Needs Mo' Joe

The morning cup of coffee has an exhilaration about it which the cheering influence of the afternoon or evening cup of tea cannot be expected to reproduce.
~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., "Over the Teacups," 1891


I have never been quite clear on the term “mojo.”
My kids would have me think that it’s a concept beyond my comprehension simply because I am a product of a generation
still struggling with the idea that a flip-flop is no longer referred to
as a thong.
I would argue however, that any term that predates both their generation and mine is fair game. And so, like any self-respecting mother of teenagers, I called upon that omniscient eSage of
word-regurgitation, Google. I was surprised to find that mojo has several definitions (some of which exceed my PG rating and therefore will not be listed here). I decided I would subscribe to the one about “soul or life force,” but still had no idea how to define
my own mojo.
I would suspect however, that it has something to do with food.

When I pause to consider what drives me or makes me tick, two things come to mind; gastronomy and coffee. In fact, both of these things are what I think about before I fall asleep, and both are what I look forward to at the first chime of my alarm clock.

I have often referred to myself as a “foodie” but lately it seems that this term has been manipulated to include only those who are afficionados of gastronomy (not me), while excluding those who share a passion for the preparation and consumption of
good food (me). In my opinion, the most valuable food education comes from research and development driven by the enthusiasm and appreciation for the final goal—the feast.

Some would argue that coffee has its rightful place within gastronomy. But I would urge them to consider its timeless contribution to la dolce vita and the simple joy-factor its consumption offers. My experience as an Italian American forces me to provide well-deserved exclusivity to such a titillating tonic
and so for me, it remains in a class by itself.

My love affair with all things culinary began some time in my adolesence when I found myself with some free time in an empty kitchen full of possibilities. The unexpected success of my first concoction, a humble bagel-burger, gave me the confidence to eventually face the challenges of tempering chocolate and proofing bread dough. I am still intrigued by the processes of cooking and baking, but neither would fulfill me without my passion for
eating and sharing good food.
I would imagine that my need to research, dissect, rewrite and develop recipes for one particular food for months at a time, has its share of OCD tendencies. At the risk of misappropriating diagnostic terminology, I would suggest that the “C” is interchangeable and on any given day could apply to Cake, Cookie, Cheese, Chocolate, or Coffee.
My Obsessive Coffee Disorder is a story that began many years ago…

It began well before my adolesence and will likely continue until my mug and I are planted where the coffee grinds meet the compost.
Coffee and I share a tumultuous love affair plagued by treason and infidelity. Our tale is one of unrequited love and misunderstanding.
I love coffee. It doesn’t always love me back. I have tried to understand its complexities but they elude me.
Yet I am a willing victim nonetheless.

My earliest memory of coffee is one I have tried to recreate, to no avail. It involves one beat-up aluminum espresso pot (the flip-and-drip kind), a can of ground espresso and a small congregation of early risers. For as long as I lived in my childhood home, “black coffee” was a daily morning ritual for my mother and grandmother. As a young child, I acquired a taste for that smoky bitterness only espresso can offer. Years before that (likely even before I had teeth), my great-grandmother would temper it with warm milk and any available (edible) object of dunkability. Once the pot was empty and housed only the compressed cake of exhausted granules, we moved on to “brown coffee,” which was the chaser of choice for a domicile dictated by caffeine and a love-hate relationship with its inevitable effects as a drug and a diuretic.

By the time I moved out and had my own collection of coffee pots,
I was already dependent on the grab-n-go variety of coffee to supplement my own brew. I even developed an affinity for the cardboard cup, much to my mother's shagrin.
None however, could mimic the flavors of my caffeinated youth.
That is not to suggest however, that I am partial to one particular type or brand of coffee. Years ago, I adopted my mother's policy for determining a coffee's drinkability; any brew that tastes too weak is "pish-water" and anything too strong should be avoided for fear it would "grow hair on your chest," but everything in between is fair game.
From my description, one might think I drink an excessive
amount of coffee. I don’t.
Typically, I hover somewhere between two and four cups per day.
On a good day, one of those is a cappuccino. And this is where I break from tradition because I come from a froth-free family. They only drink their espresso straight-up with a bit of sugar. Coffee purists might argue that froth or cream is merely a distraction from the quality, flavor and temperature of the brew, but I want
clouds in my coffee because they taste good, period.
And where taste is concerned, I continue to disgrace coffee connoisseurs worldwide. I have never had a firm grasp on the
whole bean to brew process anyway, and so I make most of my coffee purchases based on what I like and what will fit into my
Keurig brewer. My one experience with an imported, overpriced espresso machine left me pining for a simpler, more flavorful cup from my mother’s dented aluminum pot. So, I sold the monstrosity on eBay and now I depend on Bialetti’s version of the stovetop
moka pot and a three-dollar, battery-operated mini-frother
from Ikea. Together they make a mean cappuccino and
no one had to sell a kidney to support the purchase.

The best cup of coffee in my opinion however, is a free one.
I hold no prejudice when someone else is buying. And quite honestly, the promise of coffee is often the single motivating factor behind many a daunting task. My favorite caffeinated concoction has supported me through countless written reports, early exams,
diner-therapy with friends, self-inflicted yard sales, dialogue with teenagers, taxes, and most recently, part-time employment. In fact, on most days it is exclusively what sees me through a five-hour shift of selling and accommodating big-brand beaurocracy. Some would suggest I quit the job and switch to decaf, but it pays for bills, bad spending habits and (most importantly) baking.
So, I surrender to my own hypocrisy for the sake of survival
here in suburbia.
I owe a debt of gratitude to the unwavering support from one sympathetic co-worker who consistently offers me a piping hot cup of perseverance when I need it most. Unfortunately, I can’t return the favor because he happens to be the only Italian-American I know who doesn’t drink coffee (go figure) and so, I barter baked goods.
And what about decaf? Quite honestly, on the rare occasion that I drink it, I do so primarily for the sake of others. While I consider it the anti-coffee, it has saved many a social evening from my
rapid-fire ranting and excruciating enthusiasm.
Not so much fun, if you ask me.

Perhaps it is foolish for me to place such high expectations on a beverage. But, love is blind and my passion for the percolated is supported by a lifetime of significant events when my cup was literally and figuratively full.

And whether or not I figure out how to define my own life force,
I am certain that my journey will reveal that both gastronomy and coffee are staunch supporters of my own mojo.

At this point in time, I can say with complete surety that
my mojo needs some mo' joe and so, while I go fire up the Bialetti
I will leave you with a recipe for a favorite (easy) coffee dessert
and some of my favorite quotes about coffee.
I have also listed a few definitions for mojo, but this term is one
I strongly encourage you to define for yourself.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food
--Michelle


From Everyday Italian by Giada DeLaurentiis

Affogato

This dessert is the Italian version of a hot fudge sundae. Traditionally it's made with vanilla ice cream but you can substitute your favorite flavor.
It will come as no surprise to you that I prefer coffee ice cream for this dessert.

1/3 Cup cold whipping cream
1/2 Cup boiling water
1 TBS instant espresso powder
*(You may substitute hot, freshly brewed espresso for the boiling water and espresso powder)
1 Pint of your favorite gelato or ice cream
(Giada strongly recommends chocolate ice cream)

In a medium bowl, beat the cream with an electric mixer until soft peaks form. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use (can be made up to four hours ahead).
In a 1-cup glass measuring cup, whisk the boiling water with espresso powder until powder is dissolved. Scoop gelato or ice cream into 4 dessert bowls or glasses. Pour 2 tablespoons of hot espresso over each, top with whipped cream and serve immediately.


__________________________________________________

Coffee Quotes:
(A good read, if you ask me)

No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness. ~Sheik Abd-al-Kadir


Coffee is the best thing to douse the sunrise with. ~Drew Sirtors


Over second and third cups flow matters of high finance, high state, common gossip and low comedy. [Coffee] is a social binder, a warmer of tongues, a soberer of minds, a stimulant of wit, a foiler of sleep if you want it so. From roadside mugs to the classic demi-tasse, it is the perfect democrat. ~Author Unknown


No coffee can be good in the mouth that does not first send a sweet offering of odor to the nostrils. ~Henry Ward Beecher


A morning without coffee is like sleep. ~Author Unknown


Conscience keeps more people awake than coffee. ~Author Unknown


I believe humans get a lot done, not because we're smart, but because we have thumbs so we can make coffee. ~Flash Rosenberg

Mothers are those wonderful people who can get up in the morning before the smell of coffee. ~Author Unknown

Way too much coffee. But if it weren't for the coffee, I'd have no identifiable personality whatsoever. ~David Letterman

He was my cream, and I was his coffee -
And when you poured us together, it was something.
~Josephine Baker

In Seattle you haven't had enough coffee until you can thread a sewing machine while it's running. ~Jeff Bezos

The voodoo priest and all his powders were as nothing compared to espresso, cappuccino, and mocha, which are stronger than all the religions of the world combined, and perhaps stronger than the human soul itself. ~Mark Helprin, Memoir from Antproof Case, 1995

Don't laugh at the coffee. Some day you, too, may be old and weak. ~Author Unknown


It is inhumane, in my opinion, to force people who have a genuine medical need for coffee to wait in line behind people who apparently view it as some kind of recreational activity. I bet this kind of thing does not happen to heroin addicts. I bet that when serious heroin addicts go to purchase their heroin, they do not tolerate waiting in line while some dilettante in front of them orders a hazelnut smack-a-cino with cinnamon sprinkles. ~Dave Barry

Actually, this seems to be the basic need of the human heart in nearly every great crisis - a good hot cup of coffee. ~Alexander King

Coffee gives people energy, and cafes bring them together--a potent combination. Voltaire downed as many as 50 cups a day. Beethoven would count 60 beans into a single cup. Balzac walked across Paris to get three kinds of coffee from different shops to make a blend that kept him awake to write from midnight until midday. He explained that when he drank coffee, "...ideas begin to move...the paper is covered in ink."-- From A Passion for Coffee by Hattie Ellis

And my personal favorite…

I bought a decaffeinated coffee table, you can't even see a difference. ~Author Unknown

_________________________________________

Mojo is a term commonly encountered in the African-American folk belief called hoodoo. A mojo is a type of magic charm, often of red flannel cloth and tied with a drawstring, containing botanical, zoological, and/or mineral curios, petition papers, and the like. It is typically worn under clothing.

The word mojo traces its origins to Congo, Africa (from moyo, meaning "soul" or "life-force") and entered the English language during the era of slavery in the USA. It has been widely known from the 19th century and early 20th century to the present.

Jim Morrison of The Doors named himself "Mr. Mojo Risin" — an anagram of "Jim Morrison" — in the song "L.A. Woman." This usage of the word was spoofed by Mike Myers in the 1999 film Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, in which the title character has his mojo stolen, and loses his sexual confidence and prowess.