2011 October

I’m Really Sick Of These Weather Emergencies

At left, a 50+ pound tree limb. At right, my car.

Yeah, we’ve had a hell of a weekend. If you’re not living it, you may have heard about it – New England suffered a massive freak snowstorm Saturday night. And because it was about six weeks ahead of schedule, the leaves hadn’t fully fallen off the trees. Extra leaves on trees = excess weight = trees coming down on power lines, buildings, cars and anything in their path. Parts of the state are destroyed. The Connecticut Department of Transportation said the damage is “five times worse” than Tropical Storm Irene, which hit at the end of August.

We are currently one of the 750,000 Connecticut households without power, which we lost around 5 p.m. Saturday. At one point, our entire town of just under 50,000 people was 100% in the dark. Almost every tree in our condo complex is splintered, cracked in half or somehow uprooted. The road we live on was down to one lane of travel, because there was so much debris (and downed power lines) in the street. I have never seen anything like it in my life.

We spent Sunday morning scrambling for a hotel, after the one we booked Saturday night lost power. Hilton corporate rebooked us at a hotel in Glastonbury (35 minutes away) and by the time we got there, they also had no power. Meanwhile, we had to travel 15 minutes north to Springfield, Mass. to fill up my gas tank. (Things I will NEVER forget to do again: fill up my car before a predicted storm.)

After striking out in Glastonbury, we decided to spend the night at home with no heat. But if there were any saving graces during the day, it would be the following:

* Our gas water heater that allowed us to take hot showers, despite the lack of power. When the temperature in the house drops to 50 degrees, it’s a damn godsend. I felt human again, just for a little while.

* Our gas grill, that’s normally used year-round anyway: We finished cooking Saturday dinner (pizza) on the grill; used it to reheat leftovers, and then grilled up cheeseburgers yesterday afternoon after giving up on our hotel plans. Later, Rob used the grill’s side burner to boil up some pasta, and then we grilled up a bag of frozen shrimp. With red wine and candles, it was almost romantic – except for our six layers of clothing.

* The cold temperatures: Thankfully, the freezing temps outside meant we were able to keep our perishables “refrigerated.” We filled three coolers with food and ice packs – and then dragged them up to my parents’ house today.

* Dunkin’ Donuts in Spencer, Mass.: Oh. My. God. I have never been happier to see a large French vanilla coffee with skim in my life.

We’re currently enjoying refugee status somewhere with heat, electricity, Internet and all the creature comforts that have suddenly become a luxury in this time of climate change.

If you’re in the midst of this storm, how have you fared?

Pasta Night: Friends Edition

It’s times like these when I think I must be the worst food blogger ever. Other bloggers diligently stage and photograph every step of their recipe, complete with a beautiful final shot. Me? I take a picture of a bag of flour, because that’s all that’s left of our weekend pasta extravaganza.

We were finally ready to debut our beginner pasta to the world – meaning, our good friends. So we invited them over for Sunday dinner: varied ravioli and fettuccine with three scratch-made sauces (San Marzano tomato, Alfredo, fresh pesto); homemade ricotta; garlic bread and salad.

Even for four of us, it was a serious undertaking. I got ambitious and planned three ravioli fillings: pumpkin with ricotta and mascarpone; four-cheese and meat. Then it became a matter of mathematics. How many ravioli per person? What if the pumpkin is more popular than the others? Do we have enough pasta dough to do it all?

Luckily, the two of us have been cooking together so long that we fell into our normal roles. Rob, the one who appreciates precision and attention to detail, got to work on the dough. (The flour was actually a pre-dinner gift from our guests, who brought it home from Eataly.)

And because I shy away from anything that requires exact measurements, I whipped up the ravioli fillings. The first, a blend of canned pumpkin, cinnamon, nutmeg, mascarpone, ricotta and some sauteed garlic and shallots. The second, a mixture of ricotta, mascarpone, parmesan, mozzarella and snippets of fresh basil. The third, cooked ground sirloin mixed with some of the leftover cheese filling for a little bit of a binder.

Add in a batch of fresh fettuccine (easily the best and lightest Rob has ever made) and we had ourselves a feast. Four and a half bottles of red wine disappeared in the blink of an eye. The guys enjoyed post-meal cigars and bourbon out on the deck.

As an aside, here’s my secret to making good ravioli: crank some good music. It helps the tedium. My choice for this round? Snoop Dogg.

The McIberica Burger

OK, sue me. I ate McDonald’s while in Spain.

If it makes it any better, it was during an airport layover, between Mallorca and Barcelona. And I was eager to see what they had on offer in a different country. AND I had avoided the triumvirate of KFC, Burger King and “Dunkin Coffee” on Las Ramblas.

As we stood in line and tried to make sense of the all-Spanish menu, I spotted the specialty “McIberica” burger: a beef patty with jamon iberico, Manchego cheese, olive oil, lettuce and tomato. I was fascinated, and took out my little point-and-shoot Canon to document the sign. Immediately, a teenage employee in a black visor shut me down. “No. No fotos, por favor.”

As an American journalist, my first thought was “Oh, HELL no.” And I was tempted to take the shot anyway. But I knew I wasn’t dealing with the First Amendment here, so I put the camera away, not wanting them to confiscate the memories of my trip. Not without more than a little bitchface, though.

If you don’t speak Spanish (and I barely do), the video notes that the McIberica special was introduced to celebrate McDonald’s 30th year of business in Spain. Hey, we’re the same age.

I didn’t order the McIberica, since we’d just eaten our weight in jamon while traveling through Barcelona. But now I wish I had. You can get a “cuatro de libra” (Quarter Pounder) stateside.

Spain Continued: Island Bliss On Mallorca

Barcelona was awesome. We spent four days roaming the city – taking in the culture, the world-renowned architecture and all the tapas, wine and sangria we could possibly consume.

But it was exhausting, both physically and mentally. Walking miles and miles (sometimes aimlessly, often confusedly) to each attraction. Trying to navigate street maps and the Metro. Attempting to string together Spanish sentences and conjure vocabulary words I haven’t spoken in more than a decade. Not to mention the raucous crowds that passed through the alley each night near our hotel off Las Ramblas, noise that lasted until 5 or 6 a.m. (Barcelonians. Know. How. To. Party.)

While the experience was unforgettable, I was ready for the next leg of our vacation – something much more my speed. We’d booked two nights in a waterfront hotel on the island of Mallorca, taking advantage of off-season prices and diminished crowds. After a 30-minute flight from Barcelona and a 20-minute cab ride to Illetas, we were standing on our 9th-floor, full waterview balcony, taking in the majestic views of the Balearic Sea. I took that picture from our room.

Beach vacations are so my thing.

Mallorca isn’t really a food paradise – or at least, we weren’t near any phenomenal restaurants. It’s an island that caters to British, Irish, German and Scandinavian tourists, so the cuisine tends to reflect that. But we did wander into town and pick up some handmade empanadas at a small market. And our hotel served up a more-than-decent paella, even if their sangria was clearly premixed and served from what looked like a large tank.