April 2012

When it comes to entertaining, I'm a bit of a control freak. (OK, even sometimes when I'm not entertaining.) I happen to like things just so. When I invite people over I want them to feel relaxed and indulged. To me, this means the proceedings should be well-conceived, flow comfortably and add up to a pleasant experience for all the senses. I like soft lighting, good tunes, incense or scented candles (subtle and spicy, nothing cloying), comfortable places to sit, beautiful flowers, excellent company and good food. I get as much done ahead of time as possible so I can kick back and have a lovely time along with my guests. This particular Eastover menu had me in the kitchen a little more than I like. And a number of people brought hors d'oeuvres, which resulted in lots of food I hadn't planned for, albeit all quite delicious. Let me tell you about it.
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Our annual combined celebration of Easter and Passover came and went in a frenzy of cooking and eating, as usual. I was in charge of the bulk of the menu this time but, as always, our 15 friends brought traditional treats and specialties that really pushed things over the top. I'm going to spread out the telling of this event over the week, posting a different recipe each day, or else it will be too overwhelming for both of us. As you can see from the photo, above, we gathered at Beaver Dam, the gorgeous upstate home of a very chic French gallerist I am lucky to call my bosom friend. Big dogwood branches, hyacinths and other spring blooms came from the city, as most plants are still dormant up here. The sun was shining, the air was cool and fresh, and we had a roaring fire going. Spirits were high as the advent of spring always brings a rush of renewed energy.

I grew up in a family obsessed with language. To this day, try as I might, I sometimes cannot stop myself from correcting someone's grammar or droning on about semantics. I still remember the day it dawned on me that the word breakfast was derived from the act of breaking the fast. Another interesting tidbit that has stuck with me is something my father taught me: all the Spanish words that start with "al" are of Arabic derivation. "Alambre" means wire, a material used by the Moors in their ornate filigree; "Alhambra" is, of course, their castle in Andalucía; and "alcachofa" means artichoke, cultivated by the Moors as early as 800 AD in the countryside around Granada. I grew up in California near the epicenter of artichoke production and have been eating these delicious thistles my whole life. I recently shared a plate of them "alla Romana" with G at Boulud Sud, where they were fried to a greaseless crunch and accompanied by a lemony aïoli—perfection! I also adore the big globe artichokes, steamed and doused in lemon. I love to scrape each leaf with my teeth, savoring the green mineral flavor, until I've worked my way to the heart in all its creamy glory.
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My love affair with mangoes goes way back to summers spent in Mexico. Late afternoons on the plaza, after the rain had doused everything, fidgeting with anticipation as the mango man peeled me a big ripe one with his blackened steel knife, pierced it with a stick, then drenched it with lime and sprinkled on salt and earthy red chile. Sweet, slick, soft almost to the point of slimy and oh, so juicy. These flavors reach back inside me and conjure up memories of bustling markets, the smell of burning leaves, the delight of a pirulí—that brilliant red elongated pyramid of a lollipop that I twirled and twirled in my mouth. Ah, childhood. Every year at this time I can get it back for a moment when I eat my first mango of the season.
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Life is so short. And every year it seems to slip by more quickly, doesn't it? So I try to focus mostly on doing what I want, being with those I love and feeling as good as possible. This doesn't mean I don't have the occasional hissy-fit or melt-down, but I've worked hard to create a life that keeps those to a minimum. Recently, I read an article that ran in New York magazine about the popularity of Xanax and how anti-anxiety drugs are so commonplace and essential in these fraught, post-911 times. We're all deeply aware that the economy has collapsed, the environment is not far behind and terrorists could strike any time, any place. As the article, written by Lisa Miller, says, "The crises people face in these early months of 2012 are individual and circumstantial, yes, but they’re global and abstract as well, stemming largely from the haunting awareness (it’s certainly haunting me) that the fates of everyone in the world are intertwined and the job of protecting civilization from assorted inevitable disasters seems to have fallen to no one." But I'm wondering: is the world really any scarier than when we were afraid of "The Bomb," or of AIDS, or of polio, for that matter? How did people get through the Great Depression without Ativan? And why is everyone now so sure that relief lies in taking a pill?
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