Dip.

Ahh... fondue. Like cake, the dish and I have a harried past that has somehow led to expertise. At 10, I was alone in our family kitchen, cleaning up after a true fondue party. Somehow I got it in my head that the remaining melted cheese was unfit for future consumption, and trashed close to $100 in leftovers before Momo discovered my failed attempt to assist. 

Then, in college, a family member hooked me up with a writing gig for a new food magazine. The topic? Fondue. I had not yet recovered from my decade-old folly, but at a dollar a word, this poor student was eager to be paid for my skills. I went and 'invested' in a substantial library of cheese for the project, and got my hot, new, OLDER boyfriend (queue Premal Trivedi) to hook me up in the alcohol department. I researched the history of fondue in pop-culture (a scheme dreamed up by the Swiss cheese lobby*), and toiled over a series of pots of molten dairy, perfecting my technique. In the end, I was late on my deadline, the magazine tanked, and I was never paid. This left me regretting a number of decisions, listed as thus:

1. Working with relatives 
2. Spending too much money on cheese  
3. Reacquainting myself with fondue

Nearly another decade on, it seems I'll never learn. I continue to practice the activities above on a daily, weekly, and yearly basis. 

Here's the thing about rustic, old dishes. They're really easy. With fondue, there's a basic equation, and thus far, it's served me well. For every pound of cheese, you'll need a cup of booze, a tablespoon of flour, and a large clove of garlic. Grate the cheese and toss it with the flour. Then, rub down the interior of your pot with a halved garlic clove, and warm your alcohol. Add the cheese a handfull at a time, and stir until melted. 

BUT HERE COMES THE MAGIC:

Anyone can follow a recipe, but it takes a sound mind to keep your cool when $h*t hits the fan. This is where I truly shine. If your fondue it grainy, thick, or stringy here are the ugly tools that will enable a beautiful fete: an emersion blender and a slurry of cornstarch and lemon juice. If something's not right, mix up a two-to-one concoction of lemon juice and cornstarch. The acid in the lemon will dissolve the stringy proteins in the cheese and the cornstarch will thicken and smooth for good measure. Still not right? Bring out that magic wand and go to work. It does the trick every time. 

Now that I've shared my methods, here are the combinations we used to get you started. 

Traditional--Gruyère+White wine+Nutmeg+Black pepper

American--Aged cheddar+IPA+Maple syrup (1T)

U So Fancy--Havarti+Champagne+Honey (1T) +Thyme

For dipping we had roasted veggies, cornichons (my fav), and more glorious bread than you can shake a stick at courtesy of the folks at Il Forno.

*Don't believe me? Well, NPR's Planet Money team recently did a whole (fantastic) episode on the topic.

Bred.

The perfect, crusty loaf of bread. In a restaurant, in bakeries, in the kitchen or in the bedroom,* it can be an elusive creature.  

I remember my first: It was a Michelin starred restaurant. A waiter approached, placing a basket in front of us. The cloth was warm. Always a good sign, I thought to myself, disrobing the loaf until notes of toasted nuts and malt beckoned my nose closer. The bread's construction was enough to make Paul Hollywood genuflect in approval. The bubbly lattice of white met my butter knife with a pillowy resistance. This was not your average loaf. Twisting off a piece, the crust let off a pleasing snap. Cradling the morsel between two fingers, I lifted it towards my lips. Alternately soft, chewy, tart, nutty and crunchy in all of the right places and ways. I ate five pieces. I wished I'd skipped on the rest of the meal completely. The other food was fine, but this was transcendent. All I could think about was how I could bribe our server to send me home with a few extra loaves. 

"Do you make your own bread?" I asked

"We get it from a bakery," she said

"Can I buy some from you?" I continued

"We don't have enough, but you can buy it from them. It's Il Forno Bakery," she replied. 

Leaving the restaurant, I scanned my phone. Next time we went up to New Haven, Yoni and I stopped in the Bronx to pick up a few loaves. It's become a pilgrimage of sorts and my dress size has never been the same.** 

Last fall while I was living in New York, I visited Il Forno to pick up some bread. The bakery is a family affair, and while I was chatting with Jenny Eduardo about baking and business, we hatched an idea to do a series of delicious collaborations. So look forward to a high-carb diet of recipes, videos, pictures, and who knows what else in the coming months. Heaven knows we are!

Have you had a transcendent bread experience? We want to hear all about it! 

*An unnamed seven-year-old TD sister (who may or may not have been me) was once found with an entire loaf of bread hidden under her pillow. What can I say? I love bread.

**The sourdough starter makes their breads probiotic, which aids digestion. That doesn't *quite* compensate for finishing an entire loaf alone, but it's nice to know nonetheless. 

And We're Back!

Hello All! We missed you terribly! (This is where you say "OMG! We missed you too! Like, sooooo much! Oh my gosh we were, like, sooooo lost without you! Totes serious! No you stop it! Besties forever. Love you, betch.")

You done?

No. Sorry. I'm so sorry. Ok. If you couldn't tell, my blog-writing skillz have gotten a bit rusty over the past 6-7-8ish months. But not even inevitable self-inflicted internet chagrin can tamp my enthusiasm to be back sharing so many sweet little somethings and nothings with all y'all lovely folk. It has been far too long. But we were busy while we were away! Kimber's been jet-setting from coast to coast, all while managing and expanding her urban homestead with aplomb  (did I hear someone say 'backyard chickens'? No? That was me? That was me.) and homeschooling the heck out of her three angel creatures; Charity released her debut album and is now hard at work on a memoir to be published by Simon & Schuster sometime next year (nbd); Liberty seems to be gallivanting around a drastically new zipcode every other weekend, yet somehow bakes things like this in whatever free time she has left; and Mercina is back from Canada, generally dominating at school, work, and just *being* in general. As for me, I've graduated and pay my own rent -- life accomplishments I was never quite convinced I'd accomplish. 

We ask that you please forgive us our myriad peccadilloes (both those present in our persons and our website). We're trying to work them out, but it's taking more time than we'd like. Dead links, dumb formatting, and undelivered thank-you notes notwithstanding, we're feeling pretty optimistic -- we got ourselves a fancy new site, a fancy new watermark, some fancy new partners, and a fancy new resolve to actually blog. Most importantly, we've got all of our beloved old friends who inspired this little venture in the first place, and who daily lend us any worth we can claim to possess. 

Soooo, things are looking pretty rosy from where I'm standing.

To start things off, we're going to spend the next few posts deconstructing a fondue soiree we hosted when we all back at home in Denver over Thanksgiving (in collaboration with Bronx's own Il Forno Bakery and with support from our terribly talented, terribly handsome, and terribly well-named friend Bobby De La Rosa). In the coming days, my ever-capable sisters will guide you through the cheese-melting, stem-chopping, sugar-dipping how-tos of the evening, while I content myself with delicious memories of the fruits of their hard labor. Being the youngest girl is a tough row to hoe* guys, but somehow, somehow, I make do.

*Row to hoe? Hoe to row? Foe to mow? Trololo? Am I messing this saying up, or did it just never make sense in the first place?

Adios, pour Maintenant. . .

(Sorry for the delay! But we promise you're not getting rid of us that easily. In the mean time, say hello to us on Instagram!)

Well, Hello Blue Eyes

“People felt themselves watching [her] even before they knew that there was anything different about [her]. [Her] eyes made a person think that [s]he heard things that no one else had ever heard, that [s]he knew things no one had ever guessed before. [S]he did not seem quite human.” 

― 

Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

My mom had a lot of babies. I was number four. But by five, she was still at a loss. Not a single one of her offspring had blue eyes. When Liberty was born, we looked a lot alike. This continued as she matured into full-fledged babyhood. The only way you could tell our baby pictures apart is that hers are cuter. She had this coquettish smile, significantly more beautiful ringlets and to my mother's delight, big, beautiful, blue eyes.

As Liberty has grown up, she's maintained her slightly different and magical perspective, seeing through the pretense of most things and creating a space which is both welcoming and very much her own.

On her birthday, we wish her joy, wonder, success, love, BABIES (not announcing anything, just trying to inappropriately prod, as Liberty will confirm, I always do) and a universe that continues to reveal magic to your gorgeous, blue eyes. 

We love you Libby!!

Do you ever feel totally helpless? This is how I like to deal with it.

Human trafficking. Ebola. Sinjar Mountain. Isis. Syria. The White Army. The Taliban. Russia. Ukraine. Malaysia Airlines. Israel. Gaza.

Sometimes the list of things that are going wrong in the world makes me wonder if we're living the Book of Revelations. What do we do? How on earth can we help these impossible situations?

The world can be a scary place. Sketch by Liberty, 2014

There is always prayer, but there's also a pesky little scripture that says, "Faith without works is dead." In other words, you can pray all day long, but unless you're working to help the situation, nothing is going to happen.

I can't personally fly to Sinjar and deliver the food they need or broker a peace between warring factions or stop the sex trade or the slaughter of innocents. While we can support policies and companies that are ethical, we can't always change a situation. But we can change ourselves.

We can reflect whatever we chose to the world. Sketch by Liberty, 2013

We can smile. We can be kind. We can keep food in our car for people who are homeless. We can be more generous. We can befriend someone who is different from us, or reach out to someone who is struggling. We can volunteer and try to be less cynical. We can show gratitude and extend love. We can visit or write a letter to someone who is sick or call our mom, our grandma or someone who we suspect is feeling alone. We can go to an animal shelter and spend time with some lonely animals. We can help a food bank. We can vote. We can send letters to our representatives to let them know what is important to us. We can volunteer. We can commit not to buy clothes and products produced by slave labor. We can consume valuable entertainment. We can be good to the earth. We can do so many things to reach out and remind the "other" that they are our brother, our sister, our friend and our neighbor. Our value isn't dependent solely on how we treat those who are close to us. Our character is clarified by how we treat those we have never met, those who are struggling and those who have no where to go.

So when you feel overwhelmed by the woes of the world, do something. Hate shrivels when we care for each other but love needs to be nurtured to thrive.    

Have you ever wanted something really, really badly that was totally silly? I did and this is what happened...

I wanted to enter the county fair and win a blue ribbon ... bad.

A few months ago, I started concocting recipes and outsourcing them to my sisters. I enlisted help from my mom, uber domestic goddess Ginger and a few others so we could locally source ingredients. Mercina and Glorianna were going to be in town and I was working overtime to lure Kimber to Colorado for the fair. It was gonna be awesome and if it was the last thing I did this summer, we were gonna win.

And then life happened.

My cousin got married just when we were all supposed to head out West. One of my best friends decided to get married a few days after the wedding (the nerve of them both, right!?). I had two performances the week before. Mercina and Glorianna decided to stay in Washington. Kimber needed to go to California. Yoni's business partners needed him in New York. Mom was out of town and the dogs needed some serious loving. It was just me an Liberty. The day before we needed to register for the fair, we had no jars, no produce and no real chance.

There was an epic rains storm. While I braved the elements to collect every ripe (and some not so ripe) thing in Mom's garden, there was no way I had time to visit Ginger's house to get the remainder of the ingredients. But when Liberty opened the door to her house somehow, I knew everything was going to be alright. Vast stores of copper pots and pans pans emerged. Soon, the hum of blenders and cadence of knives on cutting boards echoed through her kitchen. Settling on two time-honored family recipes, we decided to focus on a salsa verde and a Hungarian sauce studded with tomatoes, peppers and onions. We roasted and chopped, boiling jars and doing things that are WAY out of our cooking league. The scent of paprika, caramelized onions, hot peppers and garlic filled the air. Finally, at about 2am, we called it quits, hoping our jars would vacuum seal.

The next morning, Libby and I raced to the fair grounds. We sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to decide if it was worth taking in our entries. The tomatillos were not ripe and made the salsa a little bitter. The jars took longer than expected to sterilize and the Hungarian lesco had become too salty.

Finally, with no time to spare, Liberty marched in our entries. The person at the desk (amusingly named Harmony. She should have been one of our sisters, right?) explained that we would receive an email as soon as the winners were announced.

Then we waited ... and waited ... and waited ...

Silence.

Then, the tirades began. The judges must be related to the entrants. Their palates weren't refined enough. They figured out our canning method didn't meet protocol. The tomatillos destroyed everything. We reduced the Hungarian Lecso for too long. Really, the whole thing was just super annoying and we were never going to do it again.

After church, I was going home. With noon day sun streaming through my car window I had almost forgotten the entire county fair debacle, when I opened my email.

Liberty and I rushed to the fair and ... well ... we liked the county fair after all ...

Have you ever been pleasantly surprised by an outcome?? We'd love to hear about it!!