Derby Day!

I’m on Good Morning America NOW! Check out my Perfect Kentucky Derby Soiree. Yummm…


The Kentucky Derby is this Saturday. Don’t worry ladies–the “most exciting two minutes in sports” is about a whole lot more than sports.

Do you think I care about horses? Of course not!


But I love any semi-viable excuse to get glammed up, slip into the first sundress of the season and prance around in a big ol’ hat (think Jessica Simpson meets the royal family at Ascot). Oh, and there’s a drink called a Mint Julep…

So I’ve got a plan for all of y’all who aren’t headed to Churchill Downs and Millionaire’s Row.

First: Watch me tomorrow on Good Morning America NOW.(Pictured at left, in the ABC Times Square studios.) I teach New Yorkers a thing or two about bourbon and while Jamie shares his deeelish Derby Day eats. Think mint juleps, bourbon-cured salmon toasts with jicama slaw, gougeres filled with country ham cream…

Second: Join me on Derby Day at “Bar K” (519 Hudson Street) for those two, sporting minutes that I mentioned earlier. We can laugh at the horse’s names (Pyro? Smooth Brown? Cool Coal Man? What?) and compare hats. Afterward, I’m headed to the James Beard House for the ultimate Kentucky Derby Dinner.

Third: You can’t get out of bed but you still want a nip of the Kentucky Nectar. Fine.

The Perfect Mint Julep

Courtesy of Adam Harris

1 teaspoon simple syrup
4 mint leaves
2 ounces Maker’s Mark bourbon
Mint sprigs
Powdered sugar (optional)

Begin with simple syrup and mint leaves in a silver julep cup, muddle to release the aroma of the mint. Add crushed ice, to fill the cup ½ way and pour in the bourbon and stir until frost forms on the outside of the glass. Add more crushed ice until it is mounded just over the top of the cup. Stick 3-4 bundles ofmint into the center of the ice and insert a straw through the mint all the way to the bottom of the cup. Cut the straw off about 2 inches above the mint and dust the top with powdered sugar. Sipping a julep should be a dual sensory experience- the short straw makes the nose fill the scent of mint while you taste the sweet bourbon.

His & Hers: Easy Peasy Spring Pasta

Check out my recipe for basil, mint and petit pois pasta in Glam Girl Cookin’!


Ramps, pancetta and rigatoni for him. Why? Men love bacon fat, acrid flavors and easy-to-fork short pastas.

We girls get the clean, bright loveliness of basil, mint, petit pois, red-stemmed spinach and the tang of salty feta. It’s really just a salad with a handful of whole wheat ziti thrown in for ‘oomph.’


If Iwere Bette Midler in “What Women Want,” I’d say that men are from Mars, women are from Venus and, bite for bite, I’ve come up with two pasta salads that speak Venutian to our tastebuds…

Keeping It Cool

“Cooking for the SoHo set requires no cooking at all. Forget the girls who only sip champagne and nibble on tofu–they’re not for me. Frankly, I don’t trust you if you don’t eat cheese.”


To read more of my monthly Food & Wine column, click here.

(And for all of my archived PNJ Food & Wine and ABC News columns, click on Glam Girl Cookin’ and Foodie Musings.)

A Cup of Paula, A Pinch of Carrie

I’ve moved away from velvet ropes and stepped closer to the stove. I don’t focus on loft parties as much, instead I think about lamb chops. Miu Miu comes after Wusthof.

My site has shifted, slowly but surely, away from tales of first dates (largely horrific), fresh-out-of-college jobs (mostly demoralizing) and industry parties (all pretension, no fun) to cooking and warmth and love. I’m finally feeling comfortable in my own skin, in Manhattan—amazing. And it’s only taken me 5 years to get here…

Now, I have real friends, a tiny kitchen and a glamorous city that suits me. If there were a recipe for my current life, it would call for a cup of Paula (Deen) and a pinch of Carrie (Bradshaw). And I think my new site reflects that…

Believe

Just as I’m nearing the end of my book and recipe edits, my mom sends me this, in a big, beautiful frame:

“Believe in yourself, believe in humanity, believe in the success of your undertakings. Fear nothing and no one. Love your work. Work, hope, trust. Keep in touch with today. Teach yourself to be practical and up-to-date and sensible. You cannot fail.”


Okay, Mom, I believe in you and my undertakings and true love and a big ol’ country breakfast to get my day started in the cold, hard city. There–life and its essence. Simple. 

Smiling, Eyes Wide Shut

The picture at left says it all–smiling, eyes wide shut. Who needs reality when the world of my making looks so darn good? I’m my Mamma’s child, through and through… 
These pics were taken by my ABC producer during this week’s Eat & Greetshoot. My little apartment is transformed into a studio for three hours–Klieg lights, wires, producers, cameraman, audio and interns– and I get paid to cook and eat. I sautee, sear and dice and thank my lucky stars. ”Dream job!” my thought bubble screams. I forget that I have no savings account, no mortgage, no husband–no security to speak of. It’s just me and a glass of Sancerre at the end of the day. And, you know what? I climb into bed and fall asleep smiling.
(yes, barefoot cooking is best…)

Seeking Pied-a-Terre, Big Kitchen

Apartments to look at while in Paris: 

1. 40, rue de Varenne

2. 17, rue des Grands Augustins

3. 11, rue de Verneuil

Ms. Child’s alma mater to consider…

Foodie Contributor, ABC News.com

I love winter squash. It’s everything this poor, working girl is not– rich and mellow. I’d say it’s just about the most comforting, seasonal food for our cool October nights. In fact, I love the orange stuff so much, I made it the focus of my debut segment for ABC/Good Morning America Online’s, “Eat & Greet.” 

Watch, learn about and enjoy these cool-weather veggies. Make your Mamma proud. 

ABC News: Heating Up Over Fall Food

Meet Your Meat

Like a kid in a candy store… or a downtown girl in the ”Jeffrey” shoe department…

I just can’t get enough of Pino Cinquemani and his Sullivan Street butcher shop! I feel like I’m always wiping sawdust off of my heels. Is it a crush on the big boy from Castofilippo, Sicily? Has my palate officially been spoiled by the grass-fed sirloin and lean bison? Anyone, anyone?

Check out my latest episode, MEET YOUR MEAT, to get acquainted with the man behind the chopping block and all of his best cuts of meat. Come back tomorrow and Wednesday to learn how to pair your stellar sirloin with a boldly flavored, Catalan salad. Lean meat and deconstructed romesco… mmmm… makes a girl smile. I’m feeling that B-vitamin rush all the way down to my fingertips. Wait, or is that Pino?

Southern Comfort

The season is upon us. Wham bam, two wedding weekends in a row, one smack against the other. For one girlfriend, I jetted (okay, I flew three hours in what was essentially an upright fetal ball position on a Delta commuter plane) from New York down to the Gulf and back up again only to turn around and speed off (or creep along the eastern seaboard at the pace of a Schwinn, courtesy Amtrak) to the Maine-New Hampshire seacoast for the wedding of another. Low-hanging lanterns, raw bars, difficult-to-identify spring buds and California “Champagne” abounded. Restrained elegance. There might have been fifteen years and variant levels of estrogen in the bloodstream differentiating my two lady friends (the Yankee bride was glowingly, unapologetically 5 months pregnant at her nuptials) but they both knew how to pull off their memorable evenings with aplomb.

But a party’s not a party if Mamma’s not there. She and her cast of “wedding friends” (yes, these people are a subset) remind me that “Steel Magnolias” is not some histrionic take on Southern quirk and culture but a damn fine portrayal of what really goes on in our backyards and on our front porches. At the Yacht Club wedding celebration down South (“yacht” definitively needing to be sandwiched between a pair of quotes like pimento cheese between two slices of crustless white bread), I saddled up next to the whirring Bushwacker machine just a moment too long. I missed Mamma’s opening harmony. You see, I was too busy tapping my thigh, enjoying the altogether pleasant sound of Kahlua and “151” rum being rhythmically folded into vanilla ice cream and half-and-half to hear the “Drifters” lyrics escape into the dense twilight air.

“This magic moment, so different and so new was like any other, until I kiss you…” Mamma, in her dusty rose and black pantsuit, was doing a duet with the lead singer.

Naturally.

But back to that alcoholic Dixie milkshake of ours… Tacky and a godsend, that’s how I’d describe it. I suppose that it’s okay I didn’t hear Mamma at first because those moments standing, sipping next to the big steely machine might as well have been a therapy session; my shoulders descended from up around my ears down to their proper place, my brow unfurrowed, my mind stopped racing and asking New York kinda questions (i.e. “Does that agency really merit 20% of gross net earnings?” “Is in-house publicity sufficient or do I need to hire an independent contractor?” “ConEd CAN’T raise electricity 17%–I need my manicures!”). I was utterly content. 

Sucking down my weekly calorie allotment, I looked over at the over-sized Southern boys next to me—deep-sea fishermen, big game hunters, lawyers—acting the same. They stopped talking about the marlin and the ten-point bucks that got away and considered the new wallpaper in the guest bedroom, the delicate remoulade sauce they enjoyed with crab cakes last weekend at the Club.

Alcohol and dairy—the teat of southern comfort.

“And then it happened, it took me by surprise, I knew that you felt it too, by the look in your eyes… Sweeter than wine, softer than the summer night, everything I want I have…”

Sweeter than wine is right. Dust off the blender and make this absolutely decadent, over-the-top milkshake your first warm weekend out in the Hamptons (or on the fire escape!). Channel Mamma and tipsy wedding receptions on the bay.

Bushwackers

8 oz cream of coconut
4 oz coffee liqueur
2 oz black rum
2 oz creme de cacao
8 oz half-and-half
vanilla ice cream

Combine all ingredients in a blender with 2 cups of ice and blend until creamy. Enjoy (and don’t plan on being hungry for dinner)!

Spring Sweetness

No, no, no–I’m not talking about me or the low-cut red blouse that looks as if it were stolen from Giada de Laurentiis’ closet! I’m talkin’ spring fruits! Gorgeous strawberries and plumbs. My fourth cooking episode, FRUIT GALETTES, is all about healthful wheat dough and whisps of pastry framing spring’s most flavorful fruits. 

Get to the greenmarket and get into your kitchen!

Martha, Paula and Everything In Between

Remember that little gem of a project I alluded to earlier in the month? It’s here!

Today my cooking “show” debuts! Think Martha Stewart with a twang, Paula Deen dipping into the low-fat mayo (heck, while you’re at it, throw in one of Giada’s low-cut blouses…). My show is all about cooking and shopping for the younger set while keeping an eye on sophistication and the waistline.

On Elasticwaist.com, getting in shape and being healthy is a must. So how do I kick things off? With BREAD, CHEESE and PORK, of course! Check out episodes 1-3 of my cooking show and tune in every week for recipes and cooking ideas.

Bon Appetit and Good Eats!

Test Kitchen

Do you cook? Would you like to help me perfect the Country Farm Egg Salad with Pancetta, Parsley and Frisee? I’d love it if any of you home chefs would test the recipe and send me your thoughtful feedback.

Click here–Farm Egg Salad–for the recipe and step-by-step photos.

I think you’ll find it to be a wonderful, super simple brunch dish that’ll impress friends or visiting dignitaries (aka, mom & dad).

Four Stars

My Honey, forging his way up, up and away into the culinary stratosphere…

Cookin'

I'm cookin' up something good... Delicious and intimate.

Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.

--M.F.K. Fisher

Belle's Guide

Belle's Guide To...

Cocktails, Dinner & Whine

(I never knew fresh basil was going to be so hard to find…Friday’s post continued…)

I moved the guest list to the back burner and forged ahead. Major mistake. Interesting guests and copious amounts of alcohol should be at the top of any hosts’ “To-Do” list. My planning continued to go south while all I wanted was to fit in up North. The menu was long and complicated, my chosen outfit, Junior League and stuffy, the table linens, monogrammed and pressed, the serving pieces, awkward and silver. Everything screamed pretension and inexperience.

By the time my virtually unknown guests and I (friends of friends of friends) were on to the third course, I had dark circles around my armpits and under my eyes. Everyone was miserable and there was no more wine to soften the edges of the disastrous picture I had painted.

The cheese platter was the end. It groaned with half a dozen imported wedges that the inevitably body-conscious (anorexic anywhere else in the US) guests would not touch. “Murray's Cheese” was $60 richer and I was infuriated by their finicky eating. My saving grace: the patio mouse that scurried around the table and their absurdly over-priced Jimmy Choos. Horrified, the ladies exited stage left. Wisened, and still a little hungry, I stayed out in the warm August night and dreamed of the day when my New York would make sense, when friends of friends would smile sweetly and try to secure an invitation to my dinners and cocktails.

Is this my time?

At Joe's...

The storefront is tiny and cramped and filled with things they used to eat as kids back in the old country. The air is humid, smells of warm milk and salumi and feels like your kitchen ought to feel. But, this is New York so no one really cooks and you come to “Joe’s” to escape the pristene stove top, the pretentious SoHo boutiques that ate Little Italy whole (like a mobster w. a meatball sub), the unremitting anxiety that you’ll never, ever meet your word count (your first born supplanting the final 150 pages of your novel).

The wooden countertop at "Joe’s" is 4 inches thick and bowed from decades of wear. Two scales are at the ready—though the second one is only put to use on Saturday mornings when the old neighborhood comes in from Queens and New Jersey to get a slice of childhood, a mouthful of memories, a taste of the uncomplicated. The mother and daughter team slice off hunks of the parmigiano and ricotta salata and piave while the father and grandfather stir a cauldron-like pot with the utmost care, rotating the enormous vat of fresh mozzarella on and off the heat at precisely the right moment. The fat white balls float contentedly in the milky water until one of the two uncles—both around 80 years young—wrap then stack the gorgeous soft cheese, readying it for the finest, over-priced Italian restaurants in the city. A caprese salad at "Cipriani’s?" That’ll be $25. A base-ball size portion of mozzarella at "Joe’s?" $4. I’m in the thick of Sin City and yet I feel protected, nurtured. Life is simple on Sullivan.

My order is consistent, my conversation with the mother never changing much except for the day I was in the "New York Post." She asked where I was from, what I was doing so far from home and then slipped a smoked mozzarella into the bag containing my usual order of gruyere, triple cream brie, lightly salted mozzarella. I got back home, poured a glass of Pinot Gris (because this is what I do after visiting "Joe’s") and found the sweet, little surprise in a place where the cynics claim nothing’s free and no one knows your name.

Joe’s Dairy, 156 Sullivan St, New York, NY

Two Cooks in the Kitchen

Chef and I trying to come up with a menu for y'all...
Flying back to New York tomorrow--back to the land of take-out sushi and overpriced cocktails...

What is Jamie working on?...

Fifth Avenue Rich

Fifth Avenue at the base of Central Park--within arm's reach of the gargoyles of the Plaza Hotel--is the place to be rich. I always think of this. Possibility and a brilliant future loom large when you walk past the row of Hansom cabs, tuck into a warm bowl of minestrone soup in the elegant, low-ceilinged confines of "Cipriani's," admire the silks and cashmeres in the window of "Bergdorf Goodman." I walk these beautiful blocks alone in the summer and wintertime thinking about the gold watches I want to buy, the roof-top terraces I will own, the vacations I must take and then describe in letters back home. When the July heat beats down, I step into a store perfumed with retail extravagance, cooled down to the temperature of my local Cineplex back home. In the bitter February snow, I warm up by the fires of street vendors roasting chestnuts or on the dark, velvet banquet of the St. Regis. I've always been able to go anywhere and do anything because I'm young and just pretty enough. But, now all that is changing.

Ever-present in my mind: Granddaddy, Jamie, babies. It's not just me anymore. I know that Pappy is now somewhere watching, praying that I don't miscalculate my future. Jamie is cooking and struggling and hoping that I don't expect too much. The babies, well, just thinking about a little one makes my heart swell and my throat close up.

There is something beyond money and Fifth Avenue and my original New York City dream. This hits me hard.

Granddaddy and I used to tango on the back porch. It was nothing like the dance I learned in Buenos Aires (or like they practice at "Belle Epoque" on Broadway) but, it made the cousins laugh and Grandmother smile that gorgeous smile of hers. Cheek-to-cheek, arms extended, we stared down the long, sun-filled room out to the lake and then the lake beyond. This is what he liked to do when the sun tucked behind his tall, strong pines--right before the deer came up to feed. "If I go down like this, with a beautiful blonde in my arms, I'll die a happy man." my Pappy told me more than once. His life was rich. Our life together was rich. We were leagues away from Fifth Avenue and the Plaza Hotel...