Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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#cooking

Don’t Bake a Mouse in a Cake

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mouse on cake

My blossom on the youthful tree of life was not attractive. By age 11, I was a near-sighted, left-handed, gangly, goofy girl with wrinkly hair and absolutely no ability to conform. Outside of chores, the only activity for youth in the southern Idaho farming community of 1,000 people was a program called 4-H. The organization for youth was led by adult volunteers who promoted the four personal areas of focus: head, heart, hands, and health. Desperately hoping to help me focus and find some element of usefulness, my mother enrolled me in a 4-H cooking class with the admonition that I behave and not embarrass her. I failed on both assignments.

Twelve pre-teen girls enrolled in the 4-H club, and the leader had the meetings in her home. I usually sat on the floor so I wouldn’t disturb the meticulous décor. The couches were covered in bright floral chintz with coordinated fabric covering the matching side chairs. Festive garden-themed wallpaper featuring red velvet roses covered the walls, and pictures of pastoral scenes hung in gilded frames. A carved clock ticked softly on the polished marble mantel. I still had traces of manure on my shoes and didn’t belong in such a regal setting.

Each club member was required to do a cooking demonstration, and I practiced at home for weeks before it was my turn. I wasn’t thrilled about the assignment to make a lemon cake but I had promised my mother I would do it. I assembled my recipe, ingredients, and supplies and reluctantly stood in front of the group.

“Elaine, will now complete the demonstration for a delicious cake,” the leader said as she read from her manual to the group of wiggly girls. “Pay close attention to her technique and remember that we can all learn from this effective method as we increase our attentiveness and observe problem-solving procedures. Someday, you will have the privilege of cooking for your own family.”

I donned my hand-stitched apron and carefully positioned my pre-arranged supplies and ingredients on the kitchen counter.

“You must use a sturdy, large bowl for this batter,” I said, feeling wise and competent. “And a wooden spoon is necessary for proper mixing.”

I dumped the ingredients into the bowl and began to stir. The leader watched intently and made serious comments on my evaluation page. A few of my friends giggled with anticipation because they suspected I would deviate from proper protocol. I couldn’t disappoint them, so I added a new twist to my demonstration.

“Sometimes an added ingredient can be fun for the recipe,” I said. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out a dead mouse I had found earlier in the barn, and dropped it into the cake batter. I stirred solemnly and waited for the mayhem. Some of the girls shrieked, others covered their mouths in horror, and the rest looked at the leader for her reaction. I just kept on stirring, naively thinking I would be commended for introducing a brilliant way to spice up the dull meeting. I imagined receiving a trophy on stage at some worldwide 4-H conference.

I underestimated the leader’s rage. On the verge of tears, she grabbed the bowl and tossed it into the back yard, knocking over one of her prized begonia plants. I could see the tail of the little mouse sticking up from the batter. This wasn’t my finest hour. I realized I probably wasn’t ready to have the privilege of cooking for my own family and definitely hadn’t observed problem-solving procedures or improved the group’s head, heart, hands, or health.

The leader called my mother and demanded that she immediately get me, and I was ordered to stand outside and wait. A few minutes later, my beleaguered mother maneuvered the station wagon in front of the house and rushed to the door. She didn’t look at me, and she suddenly seemed older. As my mortified mother offered profuse apologies to the leader, I slipped into the back seat of the car and tried to be contrite. I heard the leader say that I was never allowed in her house again and that I was kicked out of the 4-H club. Forever.

I never did retrieve our nice, heavy mixing bowl. My mother was humiliated and refused to consider the humor in the situation. I still feel bad about the incident because it caused her shame within the community and irritated a good woman. The next day, I was sent to the potato field to pull sunflowers. I didn’t mind because I didn’t need to scrape off my shoes or sit quietly in a room with red velvet wallpaper. Sometimes, though, I still stifle a snicker.

 

Midlife Cabernet: Learning from the World’s Great Chefs

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Making Sand Pies  (Click on this cute video)

elaine italy cook tour crop (2)           brooke sand box crop (2)

A few years ago, I traveled on a cooking tour of Italy and learned how to make authentic dishes with acclaimed Chefs Antonia and Giulianna at the Villa Serego Alighieri near Verona. The property, surrounded by vineyards, olive trees, and fruit orchards, has been in the family of the great Italian poet Dante Alighieri (Dante’s Inferno) since the year 1353. This week, I learned how to make sand pies from chef Baby Boo in her parent’s back yard surrounded by a tree fort, miscellaneous mismatched shoes, and assorted toys. She has inspired creative recipes since 2012.

I treasured both experiences, but I must admit that the concoction presented by Baby Boo was less fattening and easier to fix than the elaborate Tuscan Cappelletti we made with fresh pasta, artisan cheeses, and red sauce that required several hours to prepare. The distinct advantage of the Italian cuisine is that the meal was paired with a luscious Amarone wine. The sandbox pies only need water and a towel. And, my son and daughter-in-law gently suggest I forgo wine while I’m tending their precious daughter.

Watching my wee granddaughters at play brings moments of delight just as enjoyable as a grand feast on a linen-covered table set in a European orchard. The little girls continually erupt with laughter as they create spontaneous inventions: a large scarf becomes a baby carrier for a stuffed owl, a wooden fort transforms into a sailboat navigating the open sea, and a sprinkler on top of a sheet of plastic causes a giggle-factory. Rumor has it that Tutu (the name they call me) is good for telling tale tales and bringing real cookies, so I’m included in the fun.

The little girls enjoyed this summer outside – camping in the Idaho Mountains, splashing on the Oregon Coast, and boating on an alpine lake. They brought along their parents just to drive and pay for everything. The girls also know how to do a Google search to download an app and store it in their personal folder on my cell phone, but they are just as happy exploring the world without electronics. For that, I am grateful.

On another cooking tour to South Africa, I learned how to use exotics spices to duplicate the rich and flavorful food of Cape Town with Chef Cass Abrahams.  She taught the value of fresh herbs and spices, including cinnamon, garlic, cloves, cardamom, nutmeg, fennel, mustard seed, saffron, turmeric, curry, and ginger root. My granddaughters are just as dedicated with their creations and prefer to mix light sand with dirt, pebbles, twigs, stray bugs, and water from the hose to form a paste that is almost impossible to remove from under their fingernails. But, their devotion to their art is just as serious as that of the grand chefs mastering their cultural cuisine. I can only smile with gratitude when handed either a grilled kebab marinated in garlic and chutney sauce or a sloppy mud pie.

The vibrant chefs I’ve met love to cook, and their exquisite recipes are their gifts to their families, to the community, and to the world. They celebrate the noble feast and know that life is better when breaking bread with friends. My granddaughters have taught me the simple pleasure of making sandbox pies and mud cakes. They, too, share an exuberant appreciation for creative play and wholesome activity. They nourish my soul.

 

 

The Joy of Cooking (Twice a Month)

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image           elaine cooking school

Because I like to eat, I like to cook. But I’m older, wiser, and my children are grown, so I only touch a pan once or twice a week. And during the summer months when Studley grills outside, I can go an entire month without opening a single cookbook. That’s just another advantage of tumbling down the far side of fifty without a spatula.

When my children were small and I worked full-time, I would rush home and slap together a concoction that contained at least two of the four food groups. Chipped beef on toast was my gourmet specialty. To add fruit and a vegetable, I’d smear strawberry jam on celery. Now my kids bemoan the fact that after they grew up and moved away in search of healthy food, I quit my job and enrolled in cooking classes. If I want my grown children to come for a visit, I call and say I’m making curried prime rib or authentic chicken parmesan. They’re at the door before I turn off the phone.

Years ago I grabbed an apron and joined a cooking tour of Italy through an organization called A Cook’s Tour. The trip featured hands-on lessons with professional Italian chefs. Best of all, we ate our sumptuous meals outside on long tables under flowering trees in the orchard. Of course, the meals included abundant selections of wines. That’s where I fell in love with Amarone – not an Italian lover but a vibrant red wine that captured my breath and my heart.

At the cooking school, I learned to make ravioli and cappelletti (little hats) with chefs Antonia Montrucoli and Giulianna at the the Villa Serego Alighieri near Verona. The property was surrounded by vineyards, olive trees, and fruit orchards and has been in the family of the great Italian poet Dante Alighieri (Dante’s Inferno) since the year 1353. I truly considered losing my passport and staying there as an apprentice chef and troubadour.

There are two secrets to preparing magnificent Italian food: fresh local ingredients and time. Start with extra-virgin, first cold-pressed olive oil from the friendly neighbor. Then add juicy tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic, onions, and green and red peppers from the garden. Keep a selection of fine cheeses in the cooler and bowls of melons and lemons on the counter. Be sure to open some wine while you assemble the ingredients. I love cooking with wine, and sometimes I add it to the sauce.

As the red sauce (NOT spaghetti sauce) simmers and the flavors blend, you must wait for the magic to happen. This could take hours because you can’t rush an exquisite Italian sauce. This gives you time to sip wine, bake a loaf of crusty bread, and arrange olives and assorted cheeses on a platter. Then enjoy a festive meal with friends and celebrate buen appetito!

I cooked chicken parmesan this week, so I’m off duty for awhile. Studley and I eat salads during the week and add some protein. It’s just the two of us, so we keep it easy. It’s truly the joy of cooking made simple. And if I ever return to Italy, I’ll find the Villa Serego Allighieri and raise a glass of Amarone to pay my respects to Dante. His Inferno is part of his most famous work, Divine Comedy. The title sounds like the recipe for my life.

 

Midlife Cabernet: Bake a Chicken and Be Adored

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A few weeks ago I spent six hours making chicken parmesan from scratch: I simmered the vegetables to make red sauce, coated fresh chicken in grated cheese then browned it in imported extra-virgin olive oil, layered the meat, sauce, and extra fresh cheeses in a huge pan and baked it to perfection. All the pots and pans in the kitchen were dirty, and I barely had time to open and guzzle the wine before the family came for dinner.

The following week I quickly stuffed some carrots, celery, garlic, and onions into the cavity of a whole chicken, covered the top with olive oil, sprinkled fresh rosemary over the bird and stuck it in the oven. Preparation time was 15 minutes. The family raved over dinner as if I were the Supreme Grand Exalted Chef of the Universe.

(Note to self: next time, just stick a few chickens in the oven and skip the labor-intensive dishes.)

People don’t bake very often, and that’s a shame because I see all these glorious gourmet kitchens full of gleaming appliances and stocked with the latest gadgets along with a few contraptions that mystify me. What do they do? But I also see empty pizza and takeout boxes stuffed into the garbage can.

I asked my neighbor if she had turned on her fancy new, six-burner, gas oven. She said that it was too much pressure to use it and that she didn’t have time to fix anything, and they were all too busy to sit down and eat. So I invited her family over for dinner and served two baked chickens, brown rice, a green salad, steamed asparagus, and crusty bread. The family wouldn’t stop raving about the meal and wondered how I found the time to do it all. I replied that it took less than two hours to pull it together and they could do it, too. They stared at me with wide-eyed looks of amazement as if I’d just challenged them to assemble a rocket engine. Blindfolded.

When they started to go home, I handed them a book from my collection and suggested they read it. It was a cookbook, one of several I own that date back to the sixties. They were delighted that it came with detailed instructions and color photographs.