Cinco de Mayo(naise)

I was inside my fridge earlier today. Not wondering what to feed my growling, diet deprived tummy. Au contraire. I was wiping the shelves. The ones on the door. Making them sparkle. Which I do not do often enough.

Goodness they get so grungy. Sticky. Collect things that shouldn't be inside an ice box. Like Bailey's hair which is everywhere floating.

The bottoms of jars ... mustards, jams, pickles, maraschino cherries with the stems ... stuck like glue. Needed to pry up a few with a wet, warm sponge. Phooey.

Anyhoo, I noticed I have three, count 'em, three different jars of Hellmann's taking up room: fat free, light and my absolute hand's down fave ... Real. I tossed the fat free. It most assuredly does not bring out the best in anything.

Mayonnaise. Delicious condiment of tuna salad sandwiches, deviled eggs, on cottage cheese (per my darling bluegrass friend and I trust him implicitly so he must be right) ... or, with peanut butter on Ritz.

My wonderful childhood pal, Valerie, and I, 8 year old wannabe chefs, concocted this delicacy when I moved into her Cherokee Park neighborhood. Standing on tippy-toes to reach the third shelf in the Raleigh Tavern red pantry with a wall that curved because it backed up to the winding front hall staircase, we'd teeter until the box fell into one of our waiting hands. The tin of Nabisco Saltines rusted from damp southern summers right next to the familiar red box of those buttery flavored crackers. The ones that could make mock apple pie. Not that this baker extraordinaire ever tackled that 1950s modern ersatz dessert.

Today marks the unlikely victory of the Mexican Army over the French. And the French love their mayonnaise. After all they invented it over 250 years ago. Without the Duc de Richelieu we might not have tuna salad. Or cole slaw. Or a proper BLT.

General Louis-Francois-Armand du Plessy, the duc de Richelieu soi-même, led his troops onto the island of Minorca in June 1756, taking it from the British. To celebrate, the duke's personal chef created a feast — and a new sauce.

Emulsified oil, egg yolks, vinegar with a hint of lemon. Perfect dunk for a greasy paper cornu spilling over with hot salty pommes frites. As a delicious alternative to Dijon with sliced cold chicken. Blended in a mortar and pestle with fresh minced garlic. A savory dip for crudités. The slimmest of tender fresh out of the garden asparagus. Olives. A French luncheon on the seaside of lobsters and Pinot Gris incomplete without rich, homemade mayonnaise. Capers tossed casually for garnish.

Lobster without butter? I prefer lemons. Mais sûr.

So with this celebration of a most minor holiday across the Americas, I am a teensy bit surprised that salsa has not replaced it as the condiment of choice in the North American kitchen.

Oh wait. Maybe it has. Just not in this house. And never, not ever Miracle Whip!

Here's to centuries of European countries vying for power ... and to a condiment superbe!

Fat Tuesday

Laissez les bons temps rouler! Oui. Oui. Bienvenue. I am all for that! Bawdy N'awlyuns is dancing in the streets. Rio de Janeiro is smokin' hot. Montreal is hopping. One last day before the diet begins for all church-going folks. Prelude to spring. The rebirth. And all things steaming as we head into the sultry days of summer bare-skinned and loose.

This gal, too. Need to take it up a notch. Dr. John blows his horn. Revelers debauched frolic along the narrow avenues to Dixieland blues. Trumpets. Trombones. The strains of a lone alto sax drifts from the alleyway. It is celebrating time. This is for real. Doubloons glitter. Purple and green jesters bow and leap. Cougars in vests made of bottle tops, velvet and lace bounce in tune with fraternity boys sporting crew cuts and beer. Beignets and cafe au lait and trolley cars and bourbon. New Orleans in mid-February. Best place on earth. Actually a glimpse into the festivities of Hades. All those lost and departed fun livin' crazies. Way too much fun. Bien sur.

Hide behind your glitter and sequined mask. Peer out from behind the curlicue rodiron balconies. The Saints are celebrating big this year. Secrets. Cajuns. Hurricanes at O'Brien's. Lady Shawmut a very naughty girl. Every time she visits this French ville sur la mer. Swamp rats the size of small dogs roam Le Quartier. Mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds spin lazy circles in the damp evening sky. Humid. Hot. Tantalizing. Mossy trees. Bluesy jazz. Bacchanalian energies a'mix with sensual delights. Pralines and chicken gumbo. Crawfish, jambalaya and etoufee. Po'boys and pork boudin. Bread pudding souffle. Mmmm nums! Oh la la. What's not to love? A little something extra for all of us wanting to have a little bit of romance the southern Louisiana way. Lagniappe.

Cheers! Fais-do-do! A demain ...

The Heart of the Matter

Valentine's Day. Unites the world in a celebration of love. All kinds. A mid-winter romance with a warmer sun and the hint of what's to come. A peek. A tease. A lighter spirit. Unconditional family love despite, well, anything. Friendships spanning time, distance or moods. Neighbors around the corner whose passing smiles and chicken soup are welcome, unexpected gifts. Dear friends. The darling ones who touch my soul in ways unimaginable. Connections appreciated. Cherished.

I'm one of the lucky ones. Single women, that is. Realistic expectations. Boo-hiss on the medieval traditions of European culture and Renaissance declarations of courtly love where St. Valentine is inextricably linked to romance and fleeting passion. Down with the ancient Chinese custom of dining on black noodles to mourn my single life. Thumbs up to our south of the border neighbors where throughout Latin America acts of appreciation are shared generously with friends and family. No lonely old maid here! A vibrant, passionate adventurer delighted in the treasures I love along the way.

Raise your glass of bubbly. Toast love. Not the watered down Hallmark version, but to imagining the possibilities and finding bits of love. Braided together lovingly. A most bedazzled, rope intertwining magical moments from across the years.

Cheers to heart-shaped confections iced pink, chocolate dipped strawberries, deep pink tulips, lacy doilies, satin ribbon and red feathers ... ooops! ... a girl can hope ;-)

Lettuce Cake and Carrot Candles

The Groundhog has spoken! Puxatawney Phil emerged from his burrow this morning in Pennsylvania and saw his shadow. I saw mine, too. We proclaim that winter will last another six weeks. Up here in a frigid snowy Maine that's an early spring. March 15th. Not bad at all. One or two more snowstorms then *poof* gone. Longer days. Brighter sun. Spring.

And I have more time to lighten up. Fit slimmingly into capris and skimmer flats. When I return home from southern California in mid-March crocus will be peeking purple blooms through the frozen earth under the Rhododendrons on either side of the stone steps leading to my home. Ah... spring.

But first I have some celebrating to do. Today. Cheers! Happy birthday to me! One year to my big 6-0.