I’m an animal person. One of my granddaughters recently purchased two small finches. When my grandchildren ask my opinion about getting a pet (and sometimes even when they don’t ask my opinion) I always remind them that owning an animal is a big responsibility. It is more than just playing with them when you feel like it and ignoring them when there’s a new ap on your IPOD. Owning a living creature is a not unlike bringing a baby into the world. Pets need food, grooming, doctor’s visits, and attention much as a small child does.

This brought me to mind of an incident involving my two oldest granddaughters, toddlers at the time. My daughter inherited a large lovebird answering to the name Mimah (don’t ask, I haven’t a clue). At any rate, it seemed her mother-in-law bought Mimah and soon afterwards purchased a large house cat, obviously not the best combination for two pets living under one roof. All she needed was a nice bowl of goldfish and a pit bull to round out the food chain. Anyhow, surprisingly the cat viewed Mimah as a menu selection (who’d have thought) and terrorized the bird every opportunity she got, so Mimah came to live in my daughter’s house.

The girls were allowed to have Mimah out of her cage, as she was quite tame. On the day I was watching them, the bird was free and hopping about when I arrived. For me, birds belong in trees or on telephone wires where they can molt and poop without restriction, but I’m not much on having them hanging out on my living room furniture or leaving a nice trail of recycled bird seed on my drapes, but that’s just me. Being a neatnick, my daughter seemed to manage this end of it well, so if they allowed the bird out that was their call and, in the end, it wasn’t my couch. Our family practices a sort of live and let live policy. My opinion, if asked, is given, but I try not to stick it into the mix unless it’s been requested. Instead I trust that my children know what they’re doing, or, if not, they’re intelligent enough to figure it out eventually. If they wish to have a giraffe living in the guest room and they’re manning the shovel and the dust pan, my work is done here.

It was nearing dinner time on that day, so I left the girls and Mimah in the next room to begin things in the kitchen. When I returned to the living room the three couch pillows were piled one on top of the other and the two girls were bouncing and giggling on top of the pile. Asking them what game they were playing, they replied “Princess and the Pea”. “Oh, fun”, says I. “Where’s Mimah”? Things got quiet. I repeated the question. Breanna, four at the time, announced that Mimah had apparently read the part of the pea and gotten the role. Ach. After removing the pillows I located the flattened bird upside down under the last one looking like a cartoon pigeon that had recently been smacked with an oversized hammer. Fortunately, she survived with just the loss of one tail feather, and went on to tweet for several more years. When I mentioned the incident to my daughter, she told me that the girls were going through a learning phase about the bird and would soon move beyond it. I was sure Mimah would be elated to hear the good news.

The youngest of the two princesses is now in high school. As part of a class project she was given a baby doll that not only looked like a real baby, but was programmed to behave like one as well. I guess the point of the experiment is to teach teens that a baby isn’t just a little doll that smells like baby lotion and looks at you adoringly, but a miniature human that can’t fend for itself and needs you for just that purpose. It didn’t take long, at least from what I understand, for that to become abundantly clear to my granddaughter.

Please, having two children one year apart there were nights when I never thought I’d ever have a full night’s sleep again in my lifetime. Then I’d get up in the following morning and find a cranky baby, a fully charged toddler, and me catatonic with my name on the current list of candidates for shock therapy behind two mothers of twins. Been there, done that. A time or two on a particularly hectic day, when I could be found cowering in the corner with my thumb in my mouth, I would have happily of turned in my Mommy Badge and joined the peace corps. However, at night after their bath, when reading a bedtime story to my sweet-smelling little buggers and getting a well-deserved hug and some of the love sent their way during the day coming back to me, well, it was a pretty good badge to wear.

I digress, it seems my granddaughter survived her time with her wanna-be-baby along with the late night changes, looking for a lost “va-va”, crying for no reason, and regular feedings, and that was on my granddaughter’s side. After the experiment, I’m not clear on this, she either never wants to get married, never wants to associate with married people, never wants to have children or associate with people who have created children, and in the end, will only agree to have a child if there is a surrogate mother to give birth to it, a nanny to raise it, and an entourage involved in the deal as a supporting cast. Whichever she chooses, if it’s marriage, I hope she marries well.

Hey, maybe they should send home a wanna-be-husband for the girls and a wanna-be-wife for the boys in high school. They could be programmed to leave the toilet seat up in the middle of the night, nag you about not taking the garbage out, and wake up in the morning with bad breath and bed hair. We could expand this to in-laws and annoying relatives and within a few years there would be no procreation at all without protection, no marriages, no births, and no humans. Better to leave it to the imaginaton, I’m thinking.

I love this dish. It’s fairly simple, it’s good, it involves cheese, bread and mornay sauce. I’m sure it’s not on the how to live life healthy menu, but sometimes you just have to go for it. Enjoy.

Croque Monsieur

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 Tbsp. flour
2 cups whole milk scalded
3 Tbsp. Gruyere cheese, grated
3 Tbsp. Parmesan cheese, grated
1 large egg yolk
1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Pinch of white pepper

In med. size heavy saucepan melt butter over med. heat. Whisk in flour and cook until bubbly but not browned. Stir in the scalded milk all and once and simmer on low heat until thick and creamy, about 10 mins. stirring occasionally.

Remove from heat. Beat in cheeses and egg yolk. Season with nutmeg, salt, and white and black pepper.

For the sandwich:

8 slices rustic French bread about 1/2″ thick
12 slices Black Forest Ham (or good deli ham), sliced thin
8 slices Gruyere cheese, sliced
Rustic mustard
Softened Butter
1/2 cup Gruyere cheese, grated

Brush mustard on one side of 8 bread slices. Make each sandwich with 2 slices of cheese and 2 slices of ham. Close sandwiches and butter outside of bread. Grill as you would a grilled cheese sandwich in a skillet over med. heat. until golden brown.

Heat oven to broil. Place sandwiches on baking sheet and top with generous spoonful of mornay sauce. Sprinkle with grated gruyere cheese. Place under broiler until cheese is bubbly and sauce is lightly browned, about 5 mins. Watch carefully to prevent burning. Delicious. Serves 4.

After inspecting this most unexpected visitor, we found her to be very bony and definitely experiencing a Prozac moment without any medication at hand. I filled a bowl out front with water and got her some of Miss Boo, the Queen of Cat’s food and set it out in another. Before I put the bag down she all but laid in the bowl and rolled luxuriously in the kibble before consuming the entire bowl in what I would guess was a Guinness Book of World Record time. Wow.

Boo, our resident inside cat lives a pretty good life since she tagged me on the arm from the inside of an SPCA cage six years ago. Beautiful in spirit as well as color, Boo has Caribbean blue eyes, and a short but prolific white coat mottled with a calico print of earth colors. Following her brief stint in the “big house” she has come to expect her bowl filled with her favorite treats and goodies, her catnip mice provided on a regular basis, and as much love as she’s willing to allow us to provide .

Mouth’s presence (duly named because she seriously never stops talking) is not a source of jubilant rejoicing for Boo. Mouth shows up for her early morning meal on the front porch as soon as the light goes on in the kitchen. Boo, with extreme Joan Crawford bearing, sits just inside the window by the front door where they face off like mirror images of one another in a speechless standoff. I believe if Boo had a middle finger she would salute Mouth through the glass to indicate this was her house, her territory, and her humans, not necessarily in that order.

Boo, is a strange cat. If offered a piece of salmon or tuna she will turn to look at you as if you had just tried to slip a drop of arsenic in her water. Not having any idea what goes on in her furry head, I am, however, always intrigued at the reactions she exhibits to what’s happening in the world around her. Sometimes she’ll just sit and stare at me as though I have spinach in my teeth or am wearing my underwear outside of my pants, which is a little unnerving.

In watching the young cat I discovered she is so deprived of contact that any show of affection offered is greeted with a grateful and enthusiastic response falling just short of gleefully humping your leg. I gave her food and water in plastic containers at first, but then in a moment of total weakness, purchased some cat dishes on the discount counter at Raley’s that she could have for her own.

The interesting thing about watching the progress of this skinny young cat is that she loved her new dishes to the point where she laid in them and rubbed herself all over them as if declaring that they were hers. After that I put out a small mattress that I had made a long time ago for Boo but she had outgrown. Mouth fluffed it, rubbed on it, placed it where she wanted it, and made it hers as well. This got me to thinking about the faceless homeless people who pass us every day with their few possessions guarded carefully in a shopping cart and quite often accompanied by a small dog riding happily in the kid’s seat for company.

It took me four years to convince my other half to allow me to bring a cat in the house. Back in the B.S. portion of his life (Before Susie), he owned a cat that had a compulsive urination problem. Despite numerous vet visits and several final desperate appointments to a cat psychiatrist who billed out at an incredible $150.00 an hour, a cure remained elusive. In the end, the obsessively piddling cat deposited enough urine onto Rick’s expensive new carpet to result in not only tearing up and replacing the entire carpet, but also the pad, and the subflooring at a cost of $5,000 not including doctor’s visits. This, understandably, did not leave him with a good taste in his mouth for those of the feline persuasion.

My son and his wife also sent their two felines, George and Gracie, to a kitty shrink. It seemed Gracie had been acting somewhat depressed. Really? How do you arrive at this conclusion with a tabby? After many sessions it was determined that Gracie felt threatened by her environment as well as early weaning syndrome and she was given a script for Prozac. I’m not lying here. After the prozac regimen began Gracie simply sat wherever she was deposited and either stared mesmerized at the twirling ceiling fan over her head or examined a piece of lint under the coffee table for four hours. Maybe the poor cat just needed to go outside and catch a mouse or two? Who am I to say, I haven’t an advanced degree in feline behavior and although I have four years of Spanish, I don’t speak Cat.

At any rate, we have a new member. I caught my other half outside yesterday petting her and placing her on her new blanket. Awww. Last evening I went out to take out the trash and found a buck, two does, and two tiny Bambi’s with full spots lined up at the cat’s dish taking turns finishing off her dinner. Hearing a tapping at the window I turned to find Rick staring out shaking his head and mouthing the words “don’t even think about it”. Okay, okay. How would I get them in the moving van anyhow?

“Of all God’s creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the lash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat.” – Mark Twain

Caesar Romero Nachos

10 6″ Flour tortillas
1/4 cup EV olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 1/2 cups rotisserie chicken (garlic if possible)
1 cup shaved Parmesan cheese
3 cups shredded romaine lettuce
1 cup diced Roma tomatoes
3 green onions, sliced thin
1 2 1/4 oz. can black olives

For Chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cut each tortilla in 6 wedges. Place in single layer on cooking sheet sprayed with cooking spray. Brush with oil and sprinkle with salt.

Place in oven and cook for 10-12 mins. Check regularly as flour tortillas will burn and remove when golden brown and crisp. Let cool. Add additional salt if needed.

Dressing

1 cup Newman’s Lite Caesar or equivalent
1/3 cup Lite Ranch Dressing

Whisk together well and refrigerate until ready to use.

Assembling the nachos:

Cut chicken into serving size pieces. Toss in a bowl with 1/3 cup of dressing and green onions. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.

In separate bowl toss lettuce with 1/3 cup of dressing and ground black pepper. Set aside.

Preheat oven to broil.

Place chips on cookie sheet. Sprinkle with 1/2 cup shaved Parmesan. Top with chicken/onion mixture, 2 Tbsp. dressing and remaining Parmesan.

Place under broiler until cheese melts.

Top with lettuce, tomatoes, and black olives. Serve with extra dressing. Yum.

If you are thinking of something fun and festive to serve your guests, you might be interested in BOLS Liqueurs as a quality, cost-saving product. Priced at $12.99 per 1L bottle at outlets such as ShopRite and fine liquor stores nationwide, BOLS Liqueurs are consistently rated higher in quality over its competitors, while also lower in price.

All you need are BOLS Strawberry Liqueur, Triple Sec, and Blue Curaçao—and some tequila, limes, and sour mix—to create three gorgeously colored margaritas for a festive backyard barbecue! 

Please find the recipes below:

Strawberry Margarita

1 part Bols Strawberry Liqueur

2 parts Milagro silver tequila

1 part fresh squeezed lime juice

¼ part simple syrup or agave nectar 

Shake all ingredients with ice and strain into an ice-filled, chilled glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.

Classic Margarita

1 part Bols Triple Sec

2 parts Milagro silver tequila

½ part fresh squeezed lime juice

¼ part simple syrup or agave nectar

Shake all ingredients with ice and strain into an ice-filled, chilled glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.

Blue Margarita

1 ½ parts Milagro silver tequila

¾ part Bols Blue Curaçao

1 ½ parts sour mix

Shake all ingredients with ice and strain into an ice-filled, chilled glass. Garnish with an orange wedge.

VOGA Italia Sparkling Pinot Grigio’s light golden color and fine perlage give way to aromas of white blossoms and ripe fruit, ending with a citrusy finish.  With a trendy, distinctive and unique bottle, VOGA Sparkling is the perfect wine to entertain in style this Fourth of July.

The VOGA Sparkler

2 oz. VOGA Sparkling

.5 oz. vodka

.5 oz. Raspberry Liqueur

.5 oz. Soho Lychee Liqueur

Combine vodka, raspberry liqueur and soho lychee liqueur in the bottom of a champagne flute.

Top with VOGA Sparkling Pinot Grigio and serve!

VOGA Italia hails from Italy, the country best known for producing some of the world’s best wine as well as its’ keen sense of style. VOGA Italia encompasses all aspects offering a collection of crisp delicious wine thoughtfully packaged in a revolutionary re-designed bottle featuring a unique resealable cap. Since the company’s inception, VOGA has earned numerous awards and accolades for their sleek and sexy glass cylindrical bottle, presentation and most importantly taste. The collection retails from $10.99 to $15.99 and includes Pinot Grigio, Merlot, Moscato, Quattro, Sparkling Pinot Grigio and Sparkling Pinot Grigio Chardonnay. VOGA is available in over 62 countries, hundreds of major cities, and can be found in thousands of the world’s trendiest bars, restaurants and shops. Wherever, whenever, if you are drinking VOGA you are drinking IN Style.

For more information on VOGA Italia wine www.vogaitalia.com

The Voga Sparkler goes great with our Fourth of July Pasta Recipe!

By Susan Nelson ~ Susan’s Food and Art

I spent four days recently with my children and their families celebrating the graduation of my second oldest grandchild.  It was fun, exhausting, but fun.  My daughter loves to entertain, and does it well. The food, the decorations, and the presentation were great and the guests, if the noise level was any indication, thoroughly enjoyed themselves.  I found faces in the crowd I hadn’t seen since my children were little.  That’s always interesting.  You look at one another and offer the appropriate, “God, you haven’t changed a bit”, and then check yourself in the bathroom mirror for wrinkles, gray hairs, and any visible donut rolls over the top of your jeans.  Ach.

After we’d circled the wagons, and had a glass of sangria, a group of us settled into the inevitable sharing of memories of the times back in the day that we’d occupied the same space in the universe.  Stories began to unfold about mutual friends, life in general, how the world has gone to hell in a handbasket since we’d loosened our fingers on the controls, our children and grandchildren.  Later in the evening I was particularly delighted to see a familiar face from the past come through the front door, my old pal, Dana.  Dana and I had first met in the early seventies through mutual friends.  Finding we had a great deal in common we spent a lot of time together. Both of us came from middle class households imbued with their fair share of dysfunctionality, were raising two young children, and shared a similar view of the world. Over the years, as things have a way of evolving, we’d lost touch and only kept up with one another’s activities through our daughters, who’d maintained contact from time to time as adults.

With enough water under the bridge to launch a flotilla, we had much to catch up on.  After partaking of the seemingly endless variety of food available, we found a quiet spot, well at least a spot where we could at the very least hear each other speak, and spent some time getting to know each other once again.  At our first meeting many years ago we were both ensconced in our first marriages. Dana’s family had been in a total state of disrepair at the time she’d met her husband to be, Tommy.  As she tells it he was the first good-looking man who spun a plausible story that worked for her and she hitched her wagon to his star and ran off to Las Vegas to get out of the situation at home.  As I remember, Tommy had the most beautiful set of white, perfectly straight teeth I’d ever laid eyes on, and eyes the color of the sea kissing the white sands of Hawaii.  Fully aware of the gifts that the gods had bestowed on him he spread his gifts liberally amongst our lady friends and those of the female persuasion outside our group. Knowing him for any length of time it was easy to gather that he was a “player”, if you will, and that did not mean that he was an excellent choice for a fourth for bridge.

Dana came from a rather unique family.  Her dad was a large, barrel chested man, prone to wearing wife beater undershirts and rarely seen in public, and most likely never in private, without a weeping Budweiser in left right had and a Camel unfiltered in his right.  Being the only male in a household boasting six females, I always felt this was more a case of self-defense than self-destruction.  The matriarch of the family, as she explained they’d since discovered, suffered from some sort of chemical imbalance and was prone to being unpredictable at best and at worst downright dangerous.  Dana told me once that just before school started each year her mother would load up her girls and take them to the mall where they would shoplift their new clothes for the upcoming school year. Dana spent a good deal of time in confession or on the therapist’s coach about this as an adult.  I always find it fascinating that we rise up out of these childhood situations and still manage to at least present a facade of being normal as adults.  Smile.

Tommy, of the amazing teeth, turned out to have a gift for selling cars and soon had launched three “tote-the-note” car lots in the Southern California area and was doing very well.  Stories being told the cars on these lots looked better than they ever performed, but his azure eyes were moving them out onto the street as quickly as fleas off the back of a newly sprayed hound.

We had a shared group of friends, most with children, that rallied together on the weekends to throw some meat on the barbecue and just hang out.  On one particular weekend I’d mentioned that my car was in the shop and I was going to have to rent a replacement to get me to and from work.  My husband was in the hospital at the time, so I saw no other option. Tommy, putting up one perfectly manicured hand, said that he had a VW van on his lot that I could use for a week or so to get me through until my car was repaired. My hero.  At the end of the evening we agreed that he and Dana would pick me up that following morning and drive me to the lot where Dana and I would pick up the van and leave him there with their car.  All good.

At the lot he explained the little “tics” that the rather dilapidated van had.   In truth, it looked like something that should have been headed to Woodstock.  Flowers decorated both the exterior and interior walls.  The back of the van contained only one item, an old stove that traveled on cue when you stepped on or off the accelerator.  Beads hung between the front seats and the back area and a picture of Jimmy Hendrix swung from the rearview mirror.  Kumbaya.

It was decided that Dana would drive until we got the hang of the vehicle’s nuances and then I would take over.  There were two bucket seats in the front with stuffing flowing out of jagged tears in the faded leather.  A gear shift with a glass ball on the end separated the two seats.  Miraculously, the radio worked so we turned on some music and headed for home. Merging onto the freeway we picked up speed and moved into the center lane.  Traffic was moving smoothly when brakelights suddenly began blinking ahead.  Dana slammed on the brakes triggering the seat, which it seemed was not actually permanently attached to the floor, to tip backwards disappearing behind the wall of beads leaving only her knees and lower legs visible and no feet on the pedals. Now moving forward with no one manning the controls I jumped up, perched on her knees, located the pedals, and looking for all the world like a Chinese acrobatic team managed to slow us down and pull over just before we shoved the bumper in the car in front of us into the trunk in the car in front of them.  I have always known I’ve had angels sitting on my shoulder but really sometimes it’s just ridiculous.  Tommy, when confronted, was relieved that we’d discovered this flaw in the van before he’d actually sold it to a customer with a good lawyer on retainer.  Dana last saw Tommy in her rearview mirror many years ago, but it did provide us with some much-needed silliness.

We used to grill romaine in our restaurant.  People were a little put off by it at first but it became a best seller.  Enjoy.

<strong>Grilled Romaine Hearts</strong>

<strong>Grilled Romaine</strong>

4 romaine hearts
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

<strong>Dressing</strong>

1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
4 garlic cloves, peeled and halved
2 Tbsp. brown sugar
1/4 cup grated Romano cheese
3 basil leaves, chopped

<strong>Topping</strong>

1/4 cup olive oil
12 small Roma tomatoes, halved
1 tsp. dried thyme
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
2 red onions, thinly sliced
1 tsp. dried crushed rosemary

15 Caesar croutons, crushed

In large bowl combine all topping ingredients. Toss to coat well. Place in grill basket and grill, covered, on medium heat for 10-12 mins. until vegetables are tender. Set aside.

Cut romaine hearts in half lengthwise leaving the ends together. Brush with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place cut sides down on grill and grill, covered, for 3-4 mins. on each side until slightly charred and wilted.

For the dressing, place all ingredients except cheese in food processor and process until smooth.

Plate romaine hearts. Top with tomato mixture and drizzle with dressing. Top with cheese and crushed croutons.  Serve with crusty Artisan bread and dipping sauce.  Yum.

How will you celebrate Mother’s Day? Will you be one of the people who collectively spend $671 million on greeting cards and $1.9 billion on flowers? If your budget is tight, why not grill a memorable Mediterranean meal for Mom (as well as the other women in your life—grandmothers, sisters, daughters and friends)? With a little planning, you can indulge your mother with sensational food that is quickly and easily cooked on a grill in your backyard or on a hot skillet.

Besides providing an occasion to honor our mothers, May is also National Mediterranean Diet Month. Carole Carson—dubbed “An Apostle for Fitness” by the Wall Street Journal and the author of From Fat to Fit: Turn Yourself into a Weapon of Mass Reduction—says, “The Mediterranean diet is the single most scientifically studied diet in the world. It is credited with lowering the risk of heart disease, cancer and diabetes. Those who follow the diet also live longer, stay mentally sharper and enjoy better eye health.”

During May, Carole offers three FIT tips to improve your mother’s health and your own:

F = Find a local source (for example, a farmers’ market) to purchase produce for grilling, such as zucchini, squash, eggplant, onions and carrots. Replace processed foods with grilled vegetables. Simply toss the vegetables in olive oil and seasonings; then grill them separately or combine them into a grill basket. Replace hamburgers and steaks with grilled seafood. Add whole grains (for example, quinoa pasta) to round out the meal. For dessert, serve fresh fruit or yogurt sweetened with honey.

I = Integrate food preparation into your family life so the load is lifted off Mom’s shoulders. Turn off the television and make preparation and mealtime a special occasion to talk with one another. Assign the tasks of cutting vegetables and grilling food to family members. The tradition of family meals, especially on holidays such as Mother’s Day, becomes the glue that holds your family together.

T = Try new ingredients and recipes, from couscous to dorade fish, from figs to eggplant, from aioli to zucchini bread, from roasted beet salad to braised shelled favas. For a simple treat, wrap lightly oiled ears of corn or whole new potatoes in foil and place them on the grill. Or grill slices of lightly oiled eggplant to make ratatouille. Although the ingredients in the Mediterranean diet may be unfamiliar, meal preparation is remarkably simple.

You and your mother can find scrumptious recipes from the world’s greatest chefs on the Oldways website (www.oldwayspt.org). Oldways, an internationally respected nonprofit organization, will deliver one million Mediterranean diet pyramids in May to promote a healthy lifestyle.

Here’s a simple recipe for eggplant that you can serve as a main course. I found the recipe in The Oldways Table.

Eggplant with Mozzarella and Fresh Herbs

Serves 6

3 large eggplants, trimmed and cut into 3/8-inch slices

1 tablespoon sea salt

1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

2 pounds tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped

3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh mint leaves

2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1/2 cup chopped fresh basil leaves

3/4 pound mozzarella cheese, sliced

Spread the eggplant on paper towels and sprinkle with the sea salt to release the bitter juices. After 30 minutes, pat the eggplant dry. Brush the eggplant slices with 5 tablespoons of the olive oil and cook over high heat on a gas grill or in a cast-iron skillet, about 4 minutes on each side. Transfer the grilled eggplant to a plate and set aside.

In a large skillet, heat the remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the onions and garlic. Sauté until translucent, about 8 minutes. Add the tomatoes, mint and thyme. Season with salt and pepper. Cook until the sauce is thick, about 35 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Arrange a layer of eggplant in a lightly oiled baking dish and cover with ladles of the sauce, then a sprinkle of the basil and then a layer of the mozzarella. Continue until all of the ingredients are used up. Bake until the cheese starts to bubble, about 35 minutes. Serve hot.

With the Mediterranean diet, food morphs from being the enemy in the battle of the bulge to becoming our best friend. And didn’t Mom always tell us to eat fruits and vegetables? Who knew healthful dishes could be so delectable?

Carole Carson is the author of From Fat to Fit: Turn Yourself into a Weapon of Mass Reduction, available at www.fromfat2fit.com.

For our first day together we opted for shopping, which is my mother’s favorite pastime.  Actually it would be more of a vocation, because of the hours she dedicates to her craft. The shopping gene skipped a generation with me. If I could hire a person of my size with similar tastes to pick out clothes, shoes, and underwear, I’d be a happy camper.  After fighting the traffic to get to the mall, we circled the parking lot with forty other cars vying for an available space like a group of vultures hovering over a dead skunk on the highway.  In the mall I waited in endless cashier lines, had a lady grab a blouse from my hands insisting she’d seen it first, and waited for lunch for a half an hour with a buzzer in my lap to alert us a table was at last available.  Really?  I mean, really?

I spent my high school years and the first years of my first marriage in the L.A. area.  Los Angeles is a never-ending sea of cities, the only delineation differing one from the other is a city limit sign indicating that you have moved on from one to the next.  After a while, you simply become inured to the constant mass of humanity surrounding you and, in fact, almost become completely oblivious of it. Traffic, crime, and the endless lines associated with living in the immediate proximity of huge populations becomes the accepted norm.

At my third visit to the altar, I married a man from the south.  For him, the large sprawling cities and everything they represented he found confining, preferring the freedom of wide open spaces.  Up until that point, I had lived in the suburbs in many areas, but certainly no place I would label “rural”.

Yearning for the south, he accepted a job, that in the end, turned into a series of jobs with a well-known construction company.  If I wished to continue the relationship, it seemed I would have to leave the city behind me and venture into the unknowns of country living, and more specifically southern country living.  Hmmm.  Well, it was something I hadn’t tried yet, and what’s life if you don’t shed the boxers and try the briefs now and then.  Ya know?

Arkansas was my first southern experience with the true south other than information I’d gleaned from books.  As we drove through the state for the first time we encountered small dusty towns whose store windows had been long ago been boarded up as the world passed them by and people migrated towards the growing cities.  Groups of men with well-weathered skin showing a few years of wear on them, could be found chatting amiably outside shops advertising “bait for sale”.  People when passing on the street acknowledged your presence with a nod of their heads or a friendly “hey” or “good morning”, even if  your face was unfamiliar to them.

Night, without benefit of the lights of the city to dim its presence, was my favorite time of the day.  The humidity lingered, keeping a light glow of sweat hovering above your upper lip, but the sweltering heat of the day  diminished to a more tolerable level as the sun sank below the hills. Bullfrogs croaked lonely songs from the direction of the riverbanks, fireflies danced in the reeds, and the stars shone brightly against the black backdrop of the evening sky.  Quite wonderful.

The brownish red rivers reminded me of chocolate waterways. Bony arms of submerged bushes and trees protruded here and there as though waiting to snag a marshmallow, and an occasional lazy alligator might be spotted along the banks keeping one eye open in anticipation of snaring an unsuspecting meal.  Arkansas was lush and green, and literally appeared to be strangling itself with vegetation.  The people were spread out throughout the countryside like chocolate chips on a cookie, rather than crowded one on top of another like coconut on a macaroon.

A philosophy that I found interesting from the locals was that they found city dwellers views with regard to cohabiting so closely together strange.  I’d never thought about that before.  For those I spoke to who expressed an opinion on the subject, the general consensus was that the more people you have around you, the more people are likely to be ”up in your bidness”.  Most there preferred to mind their own, although there were always those few not  hesitant to share a tidbit or two about the comings and goings of their neighbors.  To simplify, less was more, I would suppose.

I loved the food, particularly as you moved south on the map into Louisiana.  Delicious savory gumbos,  spicy sausages, and soups that had the propensity to heat you both from the outside and the inside.  Corn was represented at most barbecues I attended, nearly always grilled in foil, or in crisp relishes, and occasionally in cheesy corn casseroles, which I I’d never tried before and really liked.

Maybe we find comfort in numbers, although it would make sense that the more humans are clumped in one spot, the percentage of bad apples in the barrel would increase accordingly.

For me, I don’t miss riding the bumper in front of me for miles to get from Point A to Point B.  I guess I’ve moved on from the city.  Doesn’t mean I don’t still miss the accessibility to all the wonders cities have to offer, the theater, sporting events, great dining experiences (buzzer optional), or enjoy it while I’m here, but I’ve got to admit it’s good to leave it behind me and head for the less traveled roads of home.

Corn Casserole

1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup onion, chopped
1 15 oz. can creamed corn
1 15 oz. can whole kernel corn
2 eggs, beaten
2 Tbsp. whole milk
1/2 tsp. salt
1 small pkg. of Jiffy corn muffin mix
1 cup sour cream
1 1/4 cups shredded cheddar cheese

In medium skillet saute onion in butter until translucent.

In large mixing bowl combine onions, corn, eggs, milk, salt, muffin mix, and sour cream. Mix well.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray 13 x 9″ casserole dish with cooking spray. Spread corn mixture in dish. Bake uncovered for 45 mins. until golden brown.

Remove from oven. Cover with grated cheese. Return to oven for 10 mins. longer. Let cool 15 mins. before serving.

This week has been one of those weeks that leaves one, or at least this one,  feeling tired and wishing for a little time on a sailboat in the southern seas with just the wind in my hair and a casual line bobbing in the water, but yet, I find myself firmly planted in the now and wishing I was in the then or a week or two ahead, if you get my drift.  It finds me wondering how I got where I am.

This, oddly, put me in the mindset of exactly that.  If you’ve read my blogs at all, you would certainly know that in my life I have found myself in many relationships.   For whatever reason, karma, personal energy, fate, whatever your beliefs, we follow either a path of our own choosing or a path chosen for us.  I have no answers for these questions, only unanswered questions which I keep a log on and hopefully will get a chance to ask at a later date.

I met my other half ten plus years ago on an on-line dating site. According to the media, one in five relationships these days begin in such a place, but at the time it was relatively new. Back in the day, I was one year out of a two-year relationship, working for a dot.com company in Silicon Valley. In truth, with the sixty-five plus hours I was logging on the books there just wasn’t much room for anything but a hot bath and a pizza at the end of my days.

Having been married four times and widowed twice, and being in my late forties, work seemed like the logical place to place my focus.  I had accepted an excellent job as a graphic designer with a high-tech company, and with stock certificates in hand, had fully immersed myself in performing my part in taking the company public.  All good.

That year I had dinner with a dear friend of mine that was going through, what she described, as a “dating slump”, and she had asked if I could help her create a profile on-line.  After sharing a bottle of wine one evening, this seemed like a great idea.  My friend, feeling somewhat nervous about putting herself out there, asked if I would make one as well, so we created one for her and one for me.  Whatever, many things seem like a good idea with a bit of the grape under your belt, so I put a picture up, added a  brief profile, and went about my business.

My other half, ,who was recently divorced, was being prodded by his family on his end to get back out in the world, so had also posted a profile.  Apparently, on his list of 230 possible matches, I was number 228.  It seemed, according to the site, that of the 20 plus commonalities we might share, other than being a male looking for a female and visa versa, we shared almost nothing.  For some unknown reason, he kept coming back to my picture, and after a great first date, including a hockey game, a hot dog, and a tall beer, the rest was history.  In truth, the site was correct, we share little in common.  He likes liver and I hate it. I could each fish every night and he could go the rest of his days without it.  I’m a morning person and he’s a denizen of the night.  I am right-brained where he is decidedly left.  I dive into the water first to find out later if it was deep enough, where Rick would test the water, analyze the impurities, and have someone else dive in first.  Very different humans he and I.  However, with little in common but our love for each other, we find ourselves cohabiting very well. Nothing is set in stone.  Don’t disregard that person that seems the most unlikely.  You never know.  Sometimes you have to take your liberal self into the least liberal territory to find a match.  Trust me, it’s worth the stretch.

Often, we share cooking space together, but usually we are not cooking the same thing.  Last night we created this recipe which was truly excellent.  The veal, I know, I know, but sometime’s Susie’s got to have it, was out of this world.  The lemon butter sauce just added a nice touch.  I served this over angel hair pasta tossed with olive oil and freshly grated Parmesan cheese.  Just really good.

Veal Cutlets with Lemon Butter Sauce

6  6 oz. veal cutlets pounded thin
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tsp. black pepper
1 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. Hungarian paprika
3/4 cup plain bread crumbs
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
oil for frying

Lemon Butter Sauce

4 Tbsp. butter
Juice of 2 lemons
1 Tbsp. freshly chopped parsley
1 Cup chicken broth
1/2 Cup dry sherry
1 Tbsp. cornstarch blended with 3 Tbsp. water to make a paste

Mix together flour, pepper, salt, and paprika place in large baggie. In two separate pie plates place beaten eggs in one and bread crumbs mixed with Parmesan cheese in the second. Dredge cutlets in flour. Dip in egg mixture. Dip in cheese/bread crumb mixture and refrigerate for 1 hour to set.

Heat oil in large skillet. Cook cutlets until golden brown on both sides. Do not overcook. About 3 mins. on each side.

Drain on paper towel.

In skillet over medium heat mix together butter, lemon juice, parsley and broth. Bring to a low simmer, just under boiling, and cook for 5 mins. Return cutlets to pan and cook an additional 3 mins. turning once. Add sherry to pan and cook an additional 2 mins. Thicken sauce with cornstarch as needed.

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These are a few of the fun, surprising and little known holidays that Chandon has discovered, giving people reasons to celebrate life every day of the year. It’s all part of Chandon’s “Life Needs Bubbles” philosophy that embraces finding a reason to celebrate every day rather than waiting for the traditional holidays to hoist a glass.

To help spread the word, Chandon has created the “365 Reasons to Celebrate” calendar that features a whimsical mix of traditional holidays (February 14th Valentine’s Day), little-known holidays (July 5th Introduction of the Bikini in France Day, June 22nd National Chocolate Éclair Day) and “this-day-in-history” milestones (July 20th First Man on the Moon, August 25th Mickey Mantle’s Birthday, November 23rd The Day The First Jukebox was Invented). If you’d like to download all 365 reasons to celebrate to your desktop calendar, please visit http://www.chandon.com/365/chandon-365.ics to plan your social calendar with panache.

Life Needs Bubbles and an open bottle of Chandon has the power to transform an everyday moment into a special occasion. And whether it’s in honor of The Birthday of Happy Hour on November 12th or National Sangria Day on December 20th, you’ll find every day of the year offers a reason to celebrate.

About Domaine Chandon ~ Founded in 1973, Domaine Chandon was the first American sparkling wine venture established by a French Champagne house (Moët & Chandon). Chandon crafts a range of sparkling wines that reflect California’s vibrant regional character yet remain true to the practices of méthode traditionnelle. A leader in viticulture as well as winemaking, Domaine Chandon is at the forefront of sustainable farming practices and continues to replenish, control, and in many cases restore the natural habitat. Domaine Chandon’s acclaimed fine dining restaurant étoile received a star rating in the 2010 Michelin Guide. The winery was selected “Winery of the Year 2005” by the California Tourism Association.

Recipe for Chandon Sparkling Sangria

Splash of sparkling orangeade

1 tsp Meyer lemon juice

3/4 oz. lime juice

2-3 thinly sliced lemon & lime wedges

In a cocktail shaker, combine orangeade, Meyer lemon juice and lime juice.

4-5 kumquat slices

1 oz lime syrup

4 oz Chandon Riche

Shake well.

Pour into a tall chimney glass and top with Chandon Riche. Add a floater of

sparkling lemonade. Garnish with a strand of orange peel.