I Haven't read this book yet, but this trailer sure made me want to!
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Of Fire, Ice, and Olive Oil
Two summers ago my husband and I visited New York City where we dined at Otto, one of Mario Batali's many restaurants. While just a mere pizzeria, a year and a half later I'm still talking about what an amazing meal we had at this restaurant. One of the reasons for my love of all things Batali was that it was there I tried olive oil gelato for the first time. When first met with the phrase "olive oil gelato" our first instinct is to recoil in disgust at the very thought of an ice cream tasting like olive oil. I am here, however, to tell you that it is one of the most wonderful surprises your mouth will ever experience.
Last year for my birthday my husband bought me an ice cream maker so I could try relive our dessert experience at Otto. While certainly not as perfect as our olive oil gelato initiation we experienced in New York City, I have managed to amaze and astound many of my friends and family who initially believed that olive oil ice cream would taste repulsive.
This weekend my husband and I attended a birthday party of one of those friends who first thought she would hate olive oil ice cream and is now telling everyone she knows just how amazing it truly is. So I decided that her birthday present should be a vat of olive oil ice cream.
After I made the custard, I realized that I had a little bit too much for the freezing canister so I decided to try a little experiment. If olive oil flavor is good as a dessert, how would it taste a creme brulee?
So I dusted off the ramekins in my cupboard, prepared a water bath, and cooked the custard for an hour on 300 degrees. After chilling the the refrigerator over night, I busted out the torch and helped myself to one of these bad boys for lunch this afternoon. 
Even though the custard didn't completely set, I have to say that the subtle olive oil flavor was almost more enjoyable than a traditional vanilla creme brulee. And of course, who can resist that very first crack into the hard, caramelized exterior?
I definitely will be making this dessert again.
The end.
Last year for my birthday my husband bought me an ice cream maker so I could try relive our dessert experience at Otto. While certainly not as perfect as our olive oil gelato initiation we experienced in New York City, I have managed to amaze and astound many of my friends and family who initially believed that olive oil ice cream would taste repulsive.This weekend my husband and I attended a birthday party of one of those friends who first thought she would hate olive oil ice cream and is now telling everyone she knows just how amazing it truly is. So I decided that her birthday present should be a vat of olive oil ice cream.
After I made the custard, I realized that I had a little bit too much for the freezing canister so I decided to try a little experiment. If olive oil flavor is good as a dessert, how would it taste a creme brulee?
So I dusted off the ramekins in my cupboard, prepared a water bath, and cooked the custard for an hour on 300 degrees. After chilling the the refrigerator over night, I busted out the torch and helped myself to one of these bad boys for lunch this afternoon. 
Even though the custard didn't completely set, I have to say that the subtle olive oil flavor was almost more enjoyable than a traditional vanilla creme brulee. And of course, who can resist that very first crack into the hard, caramelized exterior?
I definitely will be making this dessert again.
The end.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Poetry Friday
Washing The Dog
She dives in the river.
She swims in the lake.
She celebrates snow
from the very first flake.
She plunges through puddles
that lie in her path.
My puppy loves water
(except in a bath).
I tried with a washtub.
I sprayed with a hose.
But most of the water
went right up my nose.
And when we were done,
it was easy to see,
the only one getting a shower was me.
- Dave Crawley
She dives in the river.
She swims in the lake.
She celebrates snow
from the very first flake.
She plunges through puddles
that lie in her path.
My puppy loves water
(except in a bath).
I tried with a washtub.
I sprayed with a hose.
But most of the water
went right up my nose.
And when we were done,
it was easy to see,
the only one getting a shower was me.
- Dave Crawley
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Carlos is Gonna Get It by Kevin Emerson
Carlos is a 7th grader with special needs and regularly has meltdowns at school. Instead of his classmates being compassionate about his issues, they take it upon themselves to ostracize him and plan a very elaborate trick on an upcoming overnight class trip.
The writing in this book is not brilliant, nor will it inspire you, but it is indicative of a junior high first-person narrator so I forgive the simplicity of the writing on that account. This book was clearly written to teach kids a lesson about treating people who are different with kindness and respect. Any teacher who has a special needs child or multiple special needs children in their classes, this would be a great read aloud or assigned class reading.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Poetry Friday
Things
Went to the corner
Walked to the store
Bought me some candy
Ain’t got it no more
Ain’t got it no more
Went to the beach
Played on the shore
Built me a sandhouse
Ain’t got it no more
Ain’t got it no more
Went to the kitchen
Lay down on the floor
Made me a poem
Still got it
Still got it
-Eloise Greenfield
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I do tend to exaggerate at times...
... especially with regards to the last sentence of my recent Facebook status update:
...hates that all my best writing ideas occur in the shower. They wash away down the drain rendering completely forgotten by the time I towel off, get dressed, and sit down at my laptop. My New York Times bestseller is being held hostage by my shower drain.
...hates that all my best writing ideas occur in the shower. They wash away down the drain rendering completely forgotten by the time I towel off, get dressed, and sit down at my laptop. My New York Times bestseller is being held hostage by my shower drain.
Memories Playing from the Car Stereo
It amazes me how much our five senses aid in the resurfacing of long dormant memories. Sounds, smells, and tastes can immediately send you into a state of unexpected reminiscing. A sort of sensory assault on my memories occurred this afternoon as I was driving home from work. I was listening to a CD full of classical piano music that I had checked out at the library when suddenly my car was filled with the sounds of Schubert's "Moment Musicaux No. 1 in C Major" - the very piece of music that began the demise of the many years I had dedicated to playing the piano.
It was January of 2000 and I was in my second semester as a music student at Eastern Michigan University. I had just been reassigned to a different professor for my private piano lessons and, as luck would have it, I was assigned to the meanest, crotchetiest professor that ever graced the world of music. He treated all of his students like they were performance majors with plans for Carnegie Hall.
The first (and only) piece he assigned me to work on with him was Schubert's "Moment Musicaux No. 1". It only took me a couple of meetings with him to realize that this man was not a teacher, he was a berater and a spirit-killer. As I struggled with the syncopated beats and lack of distinct melody of the piece, this man boorishly proclaimed that I had no rhythm, no talent, and that I would never make music my career.
He talked to me like a performance major even though I was an education major. Mastery and perfection of the great composers was not my goal even though he treated it as such. I quickly found myself realizing that if the music world was one that required me be surrounded by people like this professor, then I didn't want any part of it. Prior to this experience, I had only been nurtured and encouraged. I never realized that there were people out there who treated music with such an iron fist. I knew that I was never the best pianist in the world, but I took pride in working on a piece of classical music and attempting to do it justice while still adding my own personal flair to it.
When I left my third lesson with him, I closed the door to his studio carrying my music bag along with my shattered dreams, and cried the whole way to the parking lot. I wrote him a letter detailing my dissatisfaction over the way he treated me, taped it to his door, and quietly dropped out of the music program.
In the meantime, my piano teacher of ten years who had worked with me since I was in grade school, attempted to pick up the pieces of my broken spirit. With her help, I mastered the piece that The Evil One said I couldn't, and received a third place trophy at the American Guild of Music competition. She helped me survive during that treacherous time in my life, but I feel like I let her down in the years that followed. After accomplishing my goal of proving this professor wrong, I lost the will and the heart to sit at the piano and learn a piece from awkwardness to mastery. Even though I continued with my long time piano teacher for a few more years after I dropped out of the music program, the piano never gave me that same joy and exuberance it did before I chose to go to school for it.
It's amazing what a combination of notes on some hammers and strings can do to bring a well of complex emotions bubbling up inside your very being. I listened to this piece and remembered how proud I was that I proved him wrong. But I also felt sad that I allowed this one man to dictate my life. He took away the joy I felt everyday when I sat down at the piano for those eleven years. He turned it into a chore, something to be perfected rather than savored.
Now I don't want anyone to think I'm sitting here writing this for you to feel sorry for me. In a way, I think the experience was a bit of a blessing because dropping out of the music program helped me to realize my true calling, which is teaching writing and literature. But at the same time, I just wish I hadn't come at the expense of my musical passion.
It's hard to believe this complicated web of memories and emotions that went whizzing through my head today all came from a piece of classical music that wafted through the speakers of my car stereo. The senses are a wondrous thing.
It was January of 2000 and I was in my second semester as a music student at Eastern Michigan University. I had just been reassigned to a different professor for my private piano lessons and, as luck would have it, I was assigned to the meanest, crotchetiest professor that ever graced the world of music. He treated all of his students like they were performance majors with plans for Carnegie Hall.
The first (and only) piece he assigned me to work on with him was Schubert's "Moment Musicaux No. 1". It only took me a couple of meetings with him to realize that this man was not a teacher, he was a berater and a spirit-killer. As I struggled with the syncopated beats and lack of distinct melody of the piece, this man boorishly proclaimed that I had no rhythm, no talent, and that I would never make music my career.
He talked to me like a performance major even though I was an education major. Mastery and perfection of the great composers was not my goal even though he treated it as such. I quickly found myself realizing that if the music world was one that required me be surrounded by people like this professor, then I didn't want any part of it. Prior to this experience, I had only been nurtured and encouraged. I never realized that there were people out there who treated music with such an iron fist. I knew that I was never the best pianist in the world, but I took pride in working on a piece of classical music and attempting to do it justice while still adding my own personal flair to it.
When I left my third lesson with him, I closed the door to his studio carrying my music bag along with my shattered dreams, and cried the whole way to the parking lot. I wrote him a letter detailing my dissatisfaction over the way he treated me, taped it to his door, and quietly dropped out of the music program.
In the meantime, my piano teacher of ten years who had worked with me since I was in grade school, attempted to pick up the pieces of my broken spirit. With her help, I mastered the piece that The Evil One said I couldn't, and received a third place trophy at the American Guild of Music competition. She helped me survive during that treacherous time in my life, but I feel like I let her down in the years that followed. After accomplishing my goal of proving this professor wrong, I lost the will and the heart to sit at the piano and learn a piece from awkwardness to mastery. Even though I continued with my long time piano teacher for a few more years after I dropped out of the music program, the piano never gave me that same joy and exuberance it did before I chose to go to school for it.
It's amazing what a combination of notes on some hammers and strings can do to bring a well of complex emotions bubbling up inside your very being. I listened to this piece and remembered how proud I was that I proved him wrong. But I also felt sad that I allowed this one man to dictate my life. He took away the joy I felt everyday when I sat down at the piano for those eleven years. He turned it into a chore, something to be perfected rather than savored.
Now I don't want anyone to think I'm sitting here writing this for you to feel sorry for me. In a way, I think the experience was a bit of a blessing because dropping out of the music program helped me to realize my true calling, which is teaching writing and literature. But at the same time, I just wish I hadn't come at the expense of my musical passion.
It's hard to believe this complicated web of memories and emotions that went whizzing through my head today all came from a piece of classical music that wafted through the speakers of my car stereo. The senses are a wondrous thing.
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