Lobster Rolls and Croquet

I've been gone for a while, huh? Those vacations really take it out of you. Although I have to say, I really think more people need a good vacation. Keeps us all slightly less psychotic.

The Lawyer from Southie took me up for a weekend at his family's home on the coast of Maine. In order to get there, we had to drive, then take a ferry, then drive again. I mentioned the rain, right? The rain was torrential. We snaked up the coast of Maine going about 30mph in the dark, with a rainstorm that was sure to wash the outlets at Freeport away. TLFS started referring to our camera as "The Black Box," only because if we were found dead, the video of us driving in the thunder and lightning, rocking out to Def Leppard and dodging huge bolts of THE LORD'S WRATH would be the only thing to let our family know that we loved them. But we got to the ferry early in the morning, meeting four other couples who would be going over with us. The Lawyer from Southie's brother, The Financial Analyst from Bethesda, was coming up with his wife, Daisy Buchanan, and their friends The Press Secretary from the Hill and The Businessman with an Incredible Baritone Voice. They were all friends from college and sailing in Annapolis. In addition, there was The Contractor from Connecticut and his wife The Interior Designer from Greenwich, along with The Audi Dealer of Connecticut and his wife, the Stay at Home Mom (SAHM, or Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker) of Connecticut. I'd met both couples before and adored them both, so I knew we were in for a good time. We made a good-looking group of tourists, don't you think? Unfortunately, not pictured are the Contractor from Connecticut and the Interior Designer from Greenwich.

Ok. So here is the thing about Maine. If you love Maine, then it by proxy means that you also love mosquitoes and rainstorms. You love fog. You love grocery stores that don't necessarily stock anything besides milk and salt cod, you love Sundays when all the lobstermen take a break to get blessed by the local priest and then race their boats. You have to suspend your love of lattes, public transportation, and pilates in order to really find peace in Maine. Once you do that, you're golden. I mean, more than golden. You are platinum. You reach a moment of bliss when you realize you don't even know where your Blackberry is, your entire day is planned around an approaching cloud, and the best thing you've done all morning is convince the man you love to take a nap with you. At this point, you realize that you really, really love Maine, mosquitoes, fog and all.

But if you are with the Lawyer from Southie and the Financial Analyst from Bethesda, loving Maine includes one more element. Croquet.

They play a lot of croquet. I know what you're thinking - you're imagining Alice in Wonderland and a wicked queen, or perhaps Shannen Doherty in a horrible blazer reading Moby Dick and trying to ruin the life of Martha Dumptruck. Yes, these are all croquet related. But croquet with the Lawyer from Southie and the Financial Analyst from Bethesda is taken to a new level. It is played with the cunning and determination of gulag prisoners, Bombay panhandlers, and Mary Kay salespeople. They are fierce.

So if you've never played croquet before, here are the rules, as explained to me by the Lawyer from Southie and the Financial Analyst from Bethesda.

Rule 1: Wait for your turn.

Rule 2: When it is your turn, try to hit your ball through the little wicket.

Rule 3: When you miss the wicket because you are such a shitty croquet player, try to hit the other person's ball with your ball. Just tap it, TAP IT DAMMIT, don't whack it like that, because then you aren't doing anyone any good. My god.

Rule 4: Since you whacked the ball so hard, you have to blast them into the field. The field is the area of tall grass, but it is also the area where the drainage pipe lets out, so hit it as far as you can into the field and send them into some sewage. At this point, you position your foot overtop your own ball, which is sitting up against your opponent's ball. You will now attempt to hit your foot, or your ball, as hard as possible with a large mallet, called The Blaster, which has been hand crafted by The Audi Dealer of Connecticut in his Huge-ass Woodshop of Horrors. The Blaster is a 42lb mallet made out of oak, and now you are going to swing this mallet and try your damndest to keep your eyes open so that you hit the ball, and not your foot. Did you hear me? You weren't looking at me. Hit the ball, not your foot. No, come back here. You can do it. I won't do it for you, and stop giving me the finger. NO, MACDUFF, PUT THAT BOOK DOWN. YOU WILL NOT ABANDON THE COURSE FOR THE TWILIGHT SERIES.

It's a delicate ballet, as all good contact sports are.

The Financial Analyst from Bethesda is here blasting The Lawyer from Southie's ball into the field. Please note the expression of exquisite joy on his face.

And here, the Audi Dealer from Connecticut is waiting to blast the Businessman with an Incredibly Baritone Voice's ball. Note the fact that he has changed out of one flip flop, and is wearing his special blasting shoe. Now that is commitment to ruining other peoples' games. You should have seen him at Monopoly. I was in tears.

So thank the Buddha for lobster! Because, I mean, if anything brings a group of wet, competition-raging individuals together, it's cooking! We had lobster every night for dinner, in one form or another. There was lobster bisque, lobster Benedict, steamed lobsters, and eventually lobster rolls. These TLFS and I made the last day, as we were packing up and cleaning out the fridge. I found all the leftover lobster claws and tails, and made us a nice little lunch.

A couple of things, if you want to make a legitimate lobster roll that a Mainer will eat. First of all, go easy easy easy on the mayo. The idea is to create something that will meld the lobster bits together, but not create a spread of any kind. There are countless "Best Lobster Roll" contests in New England every year, and the Mayo Gauge is absolutely significant. I don't think I used more than a tablespoon in this recipe, to about two tablespoons of the yogurt.


Second, keep the greens to a minimum. I actually had no choice in this matter, as the island grocery had absolutely no idea what a scallion was, and all our celery disappeared on Day 2 in various bloody marys.


I would, however, advise more lemon juice, salt, and pepper than Ellie recommends in the recipe.

We ate these on hot buttered rolls, which are top loaded and buttered at TLFS's request. I'm not sure if you can get these outside New England, but they're all the rage here - hot dog buns that have the slit at the top instead of the side. And there was no hope in finding whole wheat rolls - sorry. We loved the recipe, although we love Maine, and hence we love lobster, and long walks on rocky beach shores, mosquitoes, fog, and croquet. Perhaps we're just weird.

Recipe as follows.

• 1/2 cup nonfat plain Greek-style yogurt or 2/3 cup regular, plain nonfat yogurt
• 3 tablespoons mayonnaise
• 1 stalk celery, finely chopped
• 1 tablespoon chopped scallion greens (about 1 scallion)
• 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
• 1 pound cooked lobster meat or cooked shrimp, cut into 1/3-inch pieces (about 2 1/2 cups)
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 4 whole-wheat hot dog buns
• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

Directions

If using regular yogurt, place it in a strainer lined with paper towel and set the strainer over a bowl. Let the yogurt drain and thicken for 20 minutes.

In a bowl, stir together the thickened or Greek-style yogurt, mayonnaise, celery, scallion and lemon juice. Fold in the lobster meat and season, to taste, with salt and pepper. Chill until ready to use. Just before serving, open the hot dog buns and brush the inside with olive oil. Heat a grill pan over moderately high heat and grill the bread, cut side down, until toasted, about 3 minutes. Fill each with 3/4 cup of the lobster mixture and serve immediately.

Per Serving:

Calories 340; Total Fat 14 g; (Sat Fat 2g, Mono Fat 5 g, Poly Fat 6 g) ; Protein 29 g; Carb 25 g; Fiber 3 g; Cholesterol 85 mg; Sodium 720 mg

Lonely Sidecar Meaty Marinara Sauce

As you read this, I am traveling in a vehicle with The Lawyer from Southie up to Maine. We are going up to his family's place, something akin to a compound but absolutely less threatening, he tells me. There is no David Koresh, no drinking of Kool Aid. There are, however, fresh lobsters, fresh clams, sea breezes and late brunches. I've been told that I will be allowed to make biscuits every morning, and dig clams every evening at low tide. The whole clam business is kind of interesting, since by religion I'm not allowed to actually kill creatures. So imagine me sorting out clams with my toes in the wet sand, only to instruct the Lawyer from Southie where he can find them. Honestly, I think he's more excited about it than I.

And it's high time we get the hell out of here, even if it is up to Maine. If you aren't from the East Coast, let me tell you - it's raining cats and dogs. We may as well be living in Seattle, where I hear the weather is nicer. The weather here is Old Testament-worthy, and the Almighty is obviously pissed. There are burning bushes and then there are Boston Floods. My neighbors are building an ark, and Dixie has already reserved a spot with an awesome Rottweiler from Back Bay. Seriously, Johnny Cash has a song about the Boston Rains somewhere.

I killed my woman,
I shot her down good.
I killed my woman
'Cuz of that Boston flood.

And at the end of the song, four horsemen show up, each wielding either a scythe or a sledge hammer (Boston-style), ready to reap your soul and catch the tail end of the Sox game on NESN.

ANYWAYS...we're headed up to Maine. And last minute, TLFS told me that he was craving spaghetti for dinner. We were headed over to his apartment when he told me this, so I had no time to plan out a menu. I knew there was a jar of Prego in his pantry, and honestly, I'll admit this to you. The day you see me open up a jar of Prego and eat it over pasta will be the day I admit to my roommate that when she pisses me off by drinking all my coffee and replacing it with instant Maxwell House, I dip her toothbrush in the toilet. A clean toilet, but still. It makes me feel better.

So no Prego!

This is a recipe for all the lazy cooks out there. As a recipe, it's simple enough for you to make without spending $40 at the grocery store, without wasting half your night over a hot stove. It's the thing that is going to make you stand out from all the other women who would let him eat Prego. This is nothing fancy, but it will make your loved one put his arms around you and tell you that you're the best thing ever. He will tell you that he loves it when your hair smells like rosemary, that you are the most wonderful thing to ever come into his life and that you complete him on the level of Paul and Linda. If you're in my shoes, he will grunt a few times and then ask you to scratch his shoulder blade where he can't reach it, but that's his way of saying he can't imagine living another minute without you.


Lonely Sidecar Meaty Marinara Sauce

1 lb lean ground beef
1 medium onion, chopped
5 cloves garlic (don't worry, you'll still get lucky)
1.5 C red wine
2C Baby Bella mushrooms (or portabella, your choice)
2oz tomato paste
16oz San Marizano tomatoes
1T Herbes de Provence
1t Oregano
1/2C fresh basil
Salt and Pepper to taste

Brown your meat in a small pan. At the same time, sweat your onions to translucent along with the garlic. While these are sauteeing, your kitchen will smell awesome. Make sure to flirt a little at this point - flip your hair or ask about present NASCAR standings. Whatever works for you as a couple. Add the meat and mushrooms, mixing well. At this point, add your wine and tomato paste and let everything simmer for about 10 minutes. Have a bourbon. You might want to begin salting things at this point. After 10 minutes, add your can of tomatoes. Let this sit for about 2o minutes while you finish your bourbon, or just have another. It's good for you. Just ask Marlon Brando. Add your basil when you're about five minutes from ready to eat.

I have to say, when it comes to salting, I'm overly cautious. I love salt and eat way too much of it. My older brother and I are the same way - it's almost illegal what we will do to a bag of Lays and a tub of onion dip. I think it's from all the running. So I won't tell you how much to add, but make sure you season accordingly. And as my mother always says, Bon Appetit!

So I'll see you on the other end of the apocalypse. If you're putting together a shelter on the coast of Maine, make sure to let The Lawyer from Southie, Dixie and me! I swear, she doesn't smell nearly as badly as I always say she does...

CEiMB: Greekish Indian Strata

I have a hard time telling this to people, especially when I'm invited over to someone's house, but I really don't like eggs. Fried or scrambled, put into little holes in toast, omelets or Benedicted, they always leave me with a bad feeling in my stomach. The only way you can really enjoy eggs is if you cover them in cheese, salsa, and avocado (in my humble opinion), and after that epic event, you spend the rest of the day on the couch, flatulating, holding your stomach, watching random movies from 2003 on FX and wondering two things: How did Jamie Foxx go from "In Living Color" to "Ray"? Was Satan involved? and Why the hell did you eat those eggs?

I hate talking about my issues with eggs because I personally have a huge problem with the Texture People. You know who the Texture People are. They're the ones who refuse to eat artichokes because of the texture. They can't stand eggplant. They turn their nose up to ground beef and baklava. They start looking at your plate of tilapia and roasted Brussel sprouts, and you can see them envisioning a more welcoming plate of broken glass. You really want to push them under a bus when they start talking about how Swiss chard reminds them of feet.

So because the Texture People have gone and ruined everything again for all of us, I try to keep my dislike of eggs to myself. I smile when someone lovingly says "I make the best omelets!" To me, that's kind of like saying "I'm a great hiccupper!" Good for you, but really, of no great use to me. Now, say "I make the greatest coffee you've ever tasted," and there is a chance my firstborn will share your name. But no one ever says "I make the best coffee you've ever tasted." It's too intimidating to say. Coffee is serious, delicious, and absolutely vital to my daily life. Eggs suck from the beginning, so even if you totally and completely f them up, they're still going to be better than they were at first. So go ahead! Make those best eggs!

I should share one caveat. I do like the runny eggs, or eggs over easy. Because that way, they, like ketchup and maple syrup, serve as a vehicle for all the other delicious things you put on your plate. In my case, this means I have an all-natural gravy to go on my bacon and hash browns. And the Lawyer from Southie makes awesome eggs over easy, with plenty of runniness. This is possibly one of the reasons why I have physically attached myself to him permanently: once you find the perfect man, you cannot let him escape.

But the strata! Ellie's strata! It's awesome! It's full of vegetables and bread and cheese, so it's HARDLY an egg!

No...not really. It's still an egg. It's basically a quiche, which again, go ahead with your hiccupping. So I did change things a little. Because I knew that I would have to overpower the taste and texture of the eggs, I soaked my bread and then added green chili paste, which I get from an Indian grocer. I wanted to really stuff the thing with flavor, but not the flavor of broccoli, onions, and mushrooms. Those are the flavors of a stirfry, and stir fried eggs make me need to take some personal time to myself. I instead went easy on myself, using a plum tomato and a quarter of an avocado.

I also held back on the cheese, which is why I don't have the gorgeous golden brown that everyone else seemed to end up with. I topped the strata with some homemade tzadiki sauce, which I needed to cut the heat of the chilis.

I would eat this again. I won't lie - I walked past three Dunkin Donuts this morning on a variety of walks, and the urge to get a Boston creme donut was rampant within me. You know that feeling when you see someone walking down the street with a box of mixed dozen, and you think to yourself "How much jail time would I really get for pushing him down and stealing donuts? I'll bet they'd never even catch me. And if they did,there wouldn't be any evidence to convict me with..." Yeah. I had that feeling this morning. And when you do have that feeling, it's hard to get excited over eggs.

But I'm actually really happy I made the strata. It was fabulous.

TWD: Crumbled Meringuey Pineapple Travesty

I'm in the process of going through a bunch of old boxes and getting rid of things in anticipation for yet another move. And in the process of doing this, I came across all of my old yearbooks and report cards from high school. I've mentioned this on the blog before, but I did in fact graduate from a military school. While I think my experience was a little less what most people envision when they think of military schools, it still sucked. And I am still bitter about several events, which I will try not to bring up in public. Save it for the reunions.

While I was in military school, I had to attend a class entitled "Leadership." Leadership class was taught by Major Duckett, who was both a veteran of foreign wars and the swimming coach. He was a man who most likely had watched the movie "Patton" a few too many times, and could have used a little more "Stripes" or "Private Benjamin" in his life. Leadership class was affectionately referred to as "Guns and Swimming" by his students. Because, according to Major Duckett, all examples of effective leadership could be summed up with an analogy using either guns or swimming. Successful takeover negotiations had something to do with an AK-47 or the flutter kick, trust me.

"Now, picture yourself deep in a hot, wet, stinking jungle, crawling on your stomach through a mud bog that is booby trapped with fire ants and 80 pounds of explosives. You've got 30 minutes to rescue your buddy Tommy from back in Omaha, cuz he's locked in a bamboo cage guarded by a tiger and a 13-year old with a twitchy trigger finger. And now your lieutenant has his panties in a bunch because the radio isn't working and the sliver in his darn butt might be infected. YOU'VE GOT 27 MINUTES TO SAVE TOMMY. NOW. WHATCHA GONNA DO?"


The answer never involved pacifism, I can tell you that. I tried that one a few times, and poor Tommy got eaten by the tiger.

Guns and Swimming started being called "Nam and Swimming," and toward the end of the term, "Divorce and Swimming," which I think all of us failed.

So in looking through my old boxes of yearbooks and report cards, I found my leadership assessment from Major Duckett. This was an assessment of my ability to lead "in the field," where I was apparently not very exceptional. The assessment was then given to my dorm mother, who would communicate it to me. Because, honestly, in the chain of command, the dorm mother plays a crucial role.


It read: "Duffy _____ has a decent head on her shoulders. However, she often tries very hard for no great reward. She needs to learn that sometimes the most effective leaders are those who bring up the rear."

I actually remember getting this assessment and being very angry at Old Ducky. My friend Tony offered to shine a pen laser in his window after dark, sparking a possible flashback. We decided that was probably too cruel, but it was a great idea. However, something about this assessment must have stuck, because I've been bringing up the rear since then.

I thought about Major Duckett this week, while I tried in vain to make this recipe. I mean, I should have known, you know? We're talking about a cake, made of layers of meringue.

Those layers of meringue are then topped with ganache.

Major Duckett probably needs my email address. He needs to remind me: "Duffy - just remember how much you sucked at Guns and Swimming. The meringue cake is beyond your abilities as a cook, and you should instead put forth your energy into something you're talented at. Like, well, the many things you are talented at. I'm sure you'll think of something."

Because here you have it. It's what I'm going to call my Crumbled Sweet as All Hell Pineapple Travesty. I honestly thought I was onto something when my egg whites actually came together, whipping into stiff, glorious peaks. But then, well, blah. I read all your Ps and Qs, and followed all the directions with the focus and intention of an Amish cab driver. But here you have it. My crumbly mumbly travesty. All the separate elements tasted wonderful independently, but I'm still thinking about actually eating this thing. We'll see. I have guests tonight, so there's always the opportunity to make them suffer my failures.


HOWEVER, I am going to take this opportunity to lead from the rear, and do what I'm good at, which means I'll be looking at all the other amazing creations from other TWD bloggers, and commending them for their leadership skillz.