Coney Island: Where Italians Know How to Eat

I’m interrupting the Curry Series because this post should have been up last week.  And I’m just in the mood to write about this, so deal with it.

When I was back east for my Uncle’s Funeral, I had a couple of those very thoughtful epiphanies.  I already expressed my feelings regarding the definition of the word ‘home’ and it is time to discuss the power of food.

This was the first time in my adult life that a close member of my family had passed.  It seems rather cliche to talk about how food plays an important part in these type of affairs, but cliches exist for a reason.  And when you’re Italian, food is always a part of every occasion.

So it was really a beautiful experience to see people come together so naturally for meal breaks.  There were two days of wake ceremonies, both with 2 hour breaks in between viewings.  And that was when we ate.  There was little sadness there, replaced with an overwhelming amount of food.  You would turn around and pasta was spilling out of the oven or someone was walking in with a giant tray of cookies.  It was all munching and talking and laughing.  The necessary break where no one had to be serious for a short while.  I met and saw people I never knew, who were close with family.  It was touching.  People reaching out to be helpful because it’s just what came natural.

And of course after the funeral we all hauled ass over to Garguilos, the very restaurant we had celebrated my Grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary when I was 13.  And I might add, quite obviously, an Italian Restaurant.

I’ll take a side bar here to note that I rarely talking about eating at Italian Restaurants.  That is because I haven’t done so in a long time.  It’s hard for me to trust a place, especially here in LA.  But I know I’m in good hands in New York, especially Brooklyn.  ESPECIALLY when it’s a place my grandparents love.  So here we go.

I loved the formalities of this event.  I loved that as I gave hugs and kisses at the funeral, the responses to them were, “let’s go eat.”  A concept I am all too familiar with and couldn’t be happier to be part of a family that takes it so seriously.  Upon arrival we were led to the back room, because they were about to accommodate my gigantic family.  I guess there were probably around 40 people there, but that’s just me eyeballing from memory.

There was the traditional U- shaped layout of long tables.  White tablecloths sat on top with place settings already out.  Two plates, 2 forks, 2 glasses.  This meal was no joke.  Pitchers of water and soda sat in between us with bowls of patties of butter waiting to be used.  When the bulk of us had sat down, waiters rushed around placing corked bottles of red wine that we lavishly poured into glasses before we got a chance to see the bottles of white.  We drank while baskets of bread made their way to us.  Delicious, sweet, Brooklyn bread– something I constantly miss, which I savored with each bite.

The salad came out, which consisted of fresh slices of mozzarella layered with slices of beefy tomatoes.  Fresh basil leaves were floating on top.  I cannot remember the last time I had a tomato that tasted so rich.  There was so much flavor.  And I don’t think I even have to comment on the cheese.  I mean, we were in an Italian Restaurant in NY here.  And I greatly respected the fact that our salad consisted largely of cheese.

Next was a pasta course, duh.  A very simple penne with marinara was placed in front of each of us.  I sprinkled some parmigiana on top and proceeded to annihilate the dish.  I had forgotten how good the simplicity of this dish  was.  And I think I had gotten a little tired of the red sauce that I make.  This was fresh and light, but still sang.

The waiters then came around to the children, asking if they wanted their meals substituted for typical children goodness.  The adults were each getting a plate that was both veal marsala and a piece of chicken parmigiana.  At the news, my brother’s head perked up in excitement.  “We’re getting both on one plate?” he uttered in delight.  It was enough for us to all giggle at our end of the table.  If only he added the visual of Homer Simpson wiggling his fingers.

Both dishes were delicious.  It is important to note here that I ate the veal.  This is a huge step in my food consuming career.  And you know what?  There’s a reason people eat veal.  It is delicious and tender and amazing.  It won’t be a regular habit for me because I do still feel bad in the long run, but I’m glad I ate it.  I had also been jones-ing for a marsala dish.

The Chicken Parmigiana was also very good.  It had been a long time since I had eaten this at all and in the past it was usually homemade.  This piece had a very sweet and dense breading that held strong.  The marinara was a perfect balance of sweet, salty, and rich in flavor.  It was simple and a perfect compliment to the chicken and cheese.  It tasted like my childhood.

After a long wait, where we drank more wine and tried to wake up our tired bodies a bit, coffee was served.  And then came the most amazing dessert I have ever had: a Tortoni.  This is a small cup of ice cream with toasted almonds on top and a cherry for kicks.  I’m not usually one for sweets or ice cream for that matter, but I couldn’t get over how incredible this was.  The almond flavor was so strong that I couldn’t get enough of it.  I was completely blown away, talking about it for hours.

Pastries followed the ice cream (of course) while the cousins were arguing about the proper way to spell sfogliatelle– which I happened to just do right now, correctly on the first try!

We lingered and ate cookies and pastries until we could eat no longer.  The kids ran around the tables, squealing with laughter.  The babies were grabbed and kissed whenever they toddled by.  I took it all in, realizing I hadn’t been at anything like this in quite some time.  When it was finally time to leave the train of hugs and kisses began.  I love that I’m part of a family that demands to feel lips on cheeks even if you’re a 2 year old.  There’s an amount of honor in that.

And then we were off.  Our bellies full.  Our eyelids drooping.  Ready for a nap.  Because damn.  Those Italians know how to do work on food.

Childhood to Adulthood: Going Home

Since I went away to college, I’ve returned home to notice changes.  At first they were small.  My mother would paint one room a different color.  Furniture would have changed.  The living room was decorated differently.  When I moved to LA, my trips back became more scarce and the changes were grander.  The siding on the outside of the house was new and a different color.  The downstairs bathroom was completely different, now with a brand new shower.

Upon returning there would always be a bit of an unsettling feeling inside of me.  It is jarring to return somewhere that is so familiar, yet incredibly different.  I began to get used to it, adapting with the changes.  Now the feeling is more dreamy, whimsical even.  After a long flight I can hardly believe I was just in LA, and am now standing in my childhood kitchen.  It’s wonderful.

This past trip, to which I just returned from yesterday, was different from all the rest.  An unscheduled, impromptu trip to be with family in a time of mourning, I hopped on a plane and was back in my hometown after only one day of planning.  Months earlier, my mother had sweetly asked my permission to completely redo my old bedroom.  I was fine with this, and knew she was going to take the teen angst and turn it into something beautiful and comforting.  To be honest, I loved when she would update me on an accessory she found or the rug she was going to use.  And I couldn’t wait to see how it turned out.  I was also told that while my brother was living temporarily at home, he was occupying my old bedroom.  When I returned, I would not be staying in my room.

This was the first trip where this was the case.  It was strange.  I stayed in my grandmother’s vacant bedroom on the first floor of our house.  It wasn’t quite my taste, with pictures of Jesus and crucifixes everywhere, but it was still very cozy.  It was the first time I felt like a guest in my own home.  And that’s when I had the realization that this wasn’t ‘home’ anymore.  That’s not very fair, actually.  That house, no matter what happens to it, will always hold my childhood memories and be a home.  It’s just not my current home.  After a few years of living in a huge house in LA, I’ve finally settled into an apartment in a neighborhood that I love.  I love the city I live in and I’m happy.  It’s the first time I’ve thought of LA as my home, and it couldn’t have been timed better with the change of my childhood bedroom.  All these things happened at the same time: the changing of times.

As I stirred in my grandmother’s room the first night, full of dreaded jet lag, I thought about all this.  Sleeping in a different room, using a different bathroom.  None of it mattered.  I used to get upset when I came home to change, unable to recognize the newness of things.  I always wanted everything to stay the same because that’s how I felt at home.  But as the days passed, I still felt as cozy as ever.  My family was still all there, we just happened to hop beds.

Maybe it was the circumstances of the trip.  The overwhelming feeling of togetherness, love and comfort for each other that I felt each day.  For the first time, returning to Jersey wasn’t about seeing familiarity, but feeling it.  It was such a soothing thought, to know that people make the home a home.

Christmas Through Food- Part III: French Toast with Orange Compote

As I’ve mentioned time and again, I spent most of my free time tooling around on the internet looking for recipes.  There was a huge spike in this activity in mid December.  The idea of making decadent rich foods seemed appropriate and I was looking for any and all that would add to the holiday season.

While I was unemployed, for a very short two weeks, I developed some ungodly obsession with French Toast.  I couldn’t get enough of it, but once I started working again these morning treats vanished.  So when I was on the LA Times website, weeding through recipes requested from restaurants who were generous enough to supply them, I practically peed myself when I saw the most glorious French Toast recipe.

I remember talking to my mom on the phone a few days later (let’s be serious here, I told my whole family about this) and telling her I wanted to make this for breakfast one day while I was home.  It seemed like the perfect Christmas morning breakfast, except for the fact that my family strictly eats cold Italian antipasto on Christmas morning, so that idea was out.  Maybe Christmas Eve.  Regardless, I got everyone amped up for this motherload.

The recipe I chose was French Toast with orange compote, from the Arizone Biltmore Hotel in Phoenix.  This little number consisted of little marscarpone sandwiches that you dipped in the normal french toast egg batter and fried up, adding a freshly made orange compote.  I won’t judge you if you had to take a moment to wipe the drool from your mouth.  Because when I read this recipe, I practically jumped out of my chair.  Cheese in French Toast?!?!  This was the greatest day ever!

So when I returned to Jersey, the ingredients were purchased so I could make this mindblowing breakfast.  My parents were really encouraging this flare I’d developed for cooking.  Not to mention, this dish sounded incredibly excellent.  My downfall was hyping this up too much.  I told everyone I’d make it for breakfast on Christmas Eve.  What I didn’t take into account was the horrendous jet lag I would be developing for most of my stay.  So on the night before Christmas Eve, I fell asleep around 4am, resulting in waking around 2pm– well after everyone had eaten breakfast, and past an appropriate brunch hour.  This continued to happen for a few days, until one day I woke up hungover at an ungodly hour.  It was 10am, but after falling asleep around 4am again, this was awful.  I lounged around for an hour or two and got cookin.  This was really going to happen!

STEP 1- THE ORANGE COMPOTE

The end result.

I attached the recipe above, so please refer to that for exact measurements.

The first step was to get the compote going, as it would need to simmer for an extended amount of time to properly reduce.  I threw in the mandarine oranges, sugar, and ginger that I chopped up.  (I lOVE that this recipe used ginger, as I’m learning it’s my new favorite thing to add for a little extra tanginess.)  I reserved the mandarine orange juice, as the recipe so boldly told me to, having just enough that I would need.  Booyah.  I love it when things work out like that.  What I don’t love, is not having any orange juice because my father used it all up for mimosas.  Did I mention a blizzard rode through?  So there was no way for me to get my much needed 2 and 3/4 cups of OJ.  That is a lot!  How was I supposed to make an orange compote without any of the orange part?

I roared about how pissed I was that no one left any OJ for me and my dad just shrugged his shoulders.  “Just squeeze an orange,” was his response.  Cue body shake enraged chef at such a ridiculous concept.  When I told him how much I needed, he actually laughed.  Clearly he had no faith.  Having no other choice, I rolled up my sleeves and squeezed all the oranges we had.  Thank God for Christmas, because we had a ton from what we had bought ourselves and what others brought over.  I was able to get about 2 cups out of them.  It would have to do.  I dumped in the OJ, saving 1/2 cup for later use and let that mother simmer for about an hour.  The recipe said 40 minutes, but I let her ride.

STEP 2- FRENCH TOAST SANDWICHES

I grabbed my loaves of bread (just standard white bread, Wonder style) and grabbed a pint glass.  It was time to get circular on these mofos.  I patiently sat at our kitchen table, taking one slice at a time, and throwing down the glass to make the prettiest circle I could manage.  My sister sat across from me on her laptop pumping some jams.  It was getting serious in there.  I reserved the scraps for the birds, at my mother’s request.

I stopped after 24 circles, which would result in 12 sandwiches, and broke out the cheese.  I delicately spread a healthy dollop onto each pair, delightedly of course, and made up all the sandwiches.

Frying away. I didn't add any olive to my pan as I didn't really think it was necessary

I whisked together 6 eggs, cinnamon, a touch of sugar, and milk.  I lit a large skillet and started frying.  Like all french toast, I dipped a sandwich in for a bath and then threw it on the hot skillet.  Well I was a little more gentle than that because the marsarpone in the middle would cause the top half to slide around if I wasn’t careful.

Mmm... ready for a dip in the orange compote bath!

I was left with adorable little fried gems.  At that point I returned to the compost.  I took my remaining OJ and mixed in the cornstarch.  I added that mixture to the simmering compost to thicken it up a bit.  Then I let her cool down.

I called in the troops and let everyone create their own plates, buffet style.  I guided them through the intricate process of taking a fried sandwich and ladling the compost on top.

Gloriousness!

Of course by this point, I was barely hungry because so much of my energy had been used to create the dish, but I sat down with a little sandwich and savored it.  It was the kind of thing I imagined royalty would eat in the days of Barry Lyndon.  (Leave it to me to reference a movie to describe a period of time.  What a dork!)  So I felt even better about it as I drank my Dunkin Donuts coffee and ate in some sweatpants and my worn out Giants sweatshirt.  But this was exactly what I had hoped it would taste like.  You get a touch of richness from the cheese, but it’s not overwhelming.  The orange compote is a fresh, sweet contrast.  The flavors really blended together quite nicely, creating a filling and tasty breakfast.  It was a warming treat for such a cold day and really did taste like heaven.  I can’t even imagine going back to regular old French Toast.

Christmas Through Food- Pt II: The Italian Feast of Fish

THE ITALIAN CHRISTMAS FEAST

In my family, Christmas is officially celebrated with our Italian Family on my Mother’s side.  (Don’t worry… Easter gets the Polish side.  We’re very well rounded out.)  Since I’ve been old enough to care less about presents (I’m the baby in the family) this holiday has been strictly about food for us.  Sure, giving out and opening presents on Christmas morning is still fun, but we’re more excited about the cold Antipasto we’ll be eating while doing it.

So naturally, there is a feast, in Brooklyn, comprised of Fish.  This is a very tradition Italian event.  Every year, for as long as I can remember, Christmas Eve was spent dining on various seafood dishes.  And I have a huge family who loves to eat, so there was a wide variety and an abundance.

Unfortunately, like a true ass, I didn’t take any pictures.  This is truly a shame as this feast kicked the behind of all the other years.  So I will describe, in hopes you can gain an idea of the awesomeness I was surrounded by.

This was one of the first years I can remember that each family contributed to the meal.  Back in the day, it was just my Grandma cooking solo.  When the feast moved to my Aunt’s house, it was a combination of her and my Grandma.  A few years ago, all the daughters and granddaughters got together to make 100 rice balls (more on that later!!), but the entrees were still Grandma and Aunt Margaret based.

This year I returned to frigid Jersey to learn that my Father (not the Italian one) would be making his famous ‘Linguine with White Clam Sauce.”  This is truly a masterpiece and one of the dishes my Father has made many a time over the years.  He excitedly told me he bought a huge bag of clams that was on sale, not because he needed that many, but because he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get that many clams for a good price.

THE APPETIZERS

It is traditional for many of us to attempt to starve ourselves day of so that we can eat as much as humanly possible.  Throughout the meal itself, my cousin Margaret claimed she was going to try and stop herself when she became full because the year before she remembered feeling terrible after eating way too much.  With that, we all always arrive starving.  There’s usually crackers and dips and small things ready to wet your whistle.  You do a quick sweep around the room, kissing cheeks and wishing Merry Christmases before you toss your coat down and make way for anything you can shove in your mouth.  In true form, my Uncle Willie greets you with a glass of Sangria that will most likely put you on your ass for 2 reasons.

1.  It’s a Willie Surprise!  Which means it’s laced with booze.

2.  You haven’t eaten anything all day!

Seeing that we had an abundance of clams, my Father threw together a nice clams casino appetizer that my mother paraded around, somehow avoided every sidestep I took to get closer.  After popping one of these in my mouth and relishing in the crisp deliciousness, I went back for another to find a plate of empty shells.  This is another trademark of my Italian Family: gavones.

THE MAIN MEAL

The first course was ready to rock which included 3 different kinds of pasta, set up buffet style on the counter.  You had your choice of the first to be served, then like any other overbearing Italian family, you took what you wanted.  Like I said, we were eaters.  The first was a shrimp scampi my Aunt Margaret made.  Holy Hell!  This was absolutely delightful.  The shrimp were cooked perfectly– tender yet not mealy at all.  There was a perfect butter/oil/wine love affair happening with garlic to give just enough flavor, but allow the shrimp to really sing.

The second pasta dish was a classic and one of my Mother’s favorites.  It was a Cauliflower sauce.  As a kid I remember my Mom making this and to this day, still love it.  It’s a thicker red sauce that surprises you because your typical Cauliflower flavor doesn’t kick you in the face.  All of the ingredients blend together to create a subtle yet flavorful dish.  It was the best I’ve had in a long time.  I would expect nothing less from my Grandmother.  The woman knows her way around a kitchen.

The third option was my Father’s.  As I previously stated, this was a favorite dish of my nuclear family’s.  I was used to it only having baby clams, so it was an exciting voyage when the real shelled boys were out to play.  My brother and I both agreed this was my Father’s best version.  I don’t know what he did to that wine sauce, but it was absolutely perfect.  It was such a light tangy flavor covering the linguine with the clams waiting to burst forth with commanding presence.  A true masterpiece.

Of course there was bread circulating throughout to sop up whatever sauce you were blessed to have left on your plate.  And I’m talking real Italian bread from Bensonhurst– the Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn.  This is the very thing I’m often dreaming of that you just can’t find in LA.

As people began finishing up, we were all instructed (loudly of course) to hang on to your forks and pass your bowls down.  I helped my Aunt J clear off the table while the other dishes that were heating up in various pyrex dishes were thrown onto the table in no particular order whatsoever.  That was another beauty of how our family dines.  You put as much as you can on the table and everyone takes what they can get.  It’s rare that there’s any competitive nature because there’s usually an incredible amount of everything.  So you can eat slowly and savor what you’ve got in front of you.

My attempt was to take small portions of everything, so that I could eat each thing and not want to burst afterwards.  The first thing that came at me was fried Garduna.

I need to break away  here and explain something.  There are two things my entire extended family looks forward to on Christmas Eve, mostly because they are not prepared at any other time of the year: Garduna and Rice Balls.  Garduna is part of the celery family and can be a very fickle beast.  My sister took the reigns one year in preparing this family favorite, so I got all the inside juice.  You need to boil it enough to make it tender, but not too much so it’s limp.  There should be a crisp texture to it, but it can be so tough sometimes that you just want to give up trying to eat it.  It is then breaded and fried and one of the most delicious treats at our table.  I’ve never seen it anywhere besides our Christmas Eve dinner (not that I’ve really searched for it), and I don’t think I’d want to because that’s one of the ways it stays special.  Oddly enough, I couldn’t find any pictures of Garduna, just the place in Italy.  So it’s up to your imaginations!

The rice balls (usually served around the beginning of the meal, but this time were at the very end) are another savory treat.  Rice is prepared with a mixture of butter, oil, cheese, and touch of marinara sauce for color and flavor.  This combination is VERY important and can completely change the taste of your rice ball.  You scoop up a pawful of rice, indent the middle to create a little well, and add a tablespoon of a delicious meat combination with peas.  You then scoop up more rice and cover to create a ball.  You then toss that baby into a deep fryer and viola!  One of my favorite little surprises!

Moving on.  Salmon fillets were passed around.  I LOVE salmon.  I greedily swiped a piece and went for it.  Out of all the fish dishes, this wasn’t my most favorite, but that’s just because the caliber of everything was so high.  It was a little dry, probably due to the reheating process, which is always rough on salmon.  There were hints of dill and light sauce.

The next thing that came across my plate was a Tilapia Fillet.  And Holy Crap I still can’t forget how delicious this was.  I don’t know what sauce this was cooked in, but it was fantastic.  It fell apart as you touched it, teasing you with how juicy it was.  I’m salivating just thinking of it and must get this recipe to try.

The one thing that was missing this year was the traditional seafood salad.  I personally didn’t miss this, as the octopus legs are something I generally steer clear of.  But several family members were sad it didn’t make an appearance.

Oh boy were there mussels making the rotation as well.  I’m sad to report that I can’t remember what kind of sauce they were swimming in.  By that point I had eaten so much and this was a few weeks ago, so memory is failing.  I will say that they melted in your mouth though.  I had been craving mussels for a while and these hit the spot.

Next on the docket were fish cakes.   Yum!  I’ve always been a fan of anything fish that made it into cake form.  From what I remember, these were a touch firmer than they needed to be, but still super delicious.  After all, when you’re cooking for 22 people, you’re going to have to reheat things that were made in advance so not everything is going to be completely perfect.  That being said, I still wolfed down my fish cake rather happily.  My brother actually had the genius idea of throwing the remains from my father’s clam sauce on top.  That guy is somethin’ else!

I know there was a salad (I know, who would dare allow room for salad with all this gloriousness sharing the same table) and probably a few other things I’m not remembering.  Forgive me!  I think I did pretty well with this list.

DESSERT

Every year there is always an array of fruit and cookies.  There’s chocolates being passed around, coffee is being made, and usually some sort of decadent nonsensical cake that has too much fruit packed in odd places.  The most important things are my sister’s rainbow cookies and my grandmother’s cheese cake.  Both are highly envied and of course, only made for Christmas.

The only picture I chose to seek out because you must find these gems if you've never had one!

If you’ve never had a rainbow cookie, God have mercy on your soul.  You are missing out on one of the better creations on this earth.  They can be found at any Italian bakery, and up until a few years ago, it was the only place we knew how to get them.  When my sister decided she was going to master these cookies, we all took a sigh of relief, knowing they would always show up each Christmas.  They are the layered marzipan cookies featured above.  Hence the name, rainbow cookies, and they are absolutely delightful.  You can learn more about them on my sister’s blog.  They are never leftover as my family always greedily enjoys as many as they can.

My grandmother’s cheesecake is the other marvel.  It’s better than any cheesecake I’ve ever had and I always make room for at least a small piece.  My sister also recreated this once in her hometown and claimed that everyone she served it to begged her to make it again.  Like I said earlier, Grandma doesn’t fool around.

This was how we ended the night, with the exception of my Mother and I sneaking small pieces of dried sausage that was specifically bought for the next morning.  This is the part of Christmas I look forward to the most, well, that’s also shared with the Beef Wellington my father makes each Christmas day.  But it’s all about the eating that brings my family together.  And I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Blizzards: Bringing families together and a new appreciation for Scotch

That's my Dad! And he's gigantic.

I’m bad at blogging when I’m not on a schedule.  When I get time off of work I become full of a sweet radiant bliss that doesn’t allow me to do any of my normal activities.  So now I’m behind on about 5 posts about decadent meals/ desserts I’ve created.  Watch out for those in the near future.  Hint– awesome seafood chowder to come!

I shipped out to NJ for my holiday break to spend some time with the fam.  My sad little LA body was worried about the cold winds it would have to endure.  I kept telling myself to ‘Buck Up!”  I used to live in Boston for Christ’s sake!  None of that mattered anymore though.  After 3 years of living in LA, I have been stripped of any tough exterior that can walk through temperatures below 40 degrees (and that’s being generous).

So I arrived and didn’t think it was all that bad.  I bundled up and went from car to establishment and back again, never spending too long outside.  I donned a hideous large puffy coat that I adore because it isn’t fashionable by any means and it almost hits my knees.  I only wear this thing when I’m home for the holidays.  It’s perfect for those weather conditions and is a friendly reminder that I don’t live in subzero weather anymore.

Christmas came and as always, that night ended with a gigantic high school reunion (spanning from decades) at the local bar.  This has become a tradition since all my friends have been 21, as a good friend’s birthday is on Christmas.  I actually walked home from the bar that night!  I braced myself, and even mentioned to my brother that I was going to have to get pretty loaded if we were going to walk home.  And we were, because our ride left.  After beer, shots, and merriment, we set off.  It wasn’t too terrible.  I was happy to get home, but wasn’t completely miserable.  I was getting the hang of this winter weather.  I was CRUSHING it!  And then…

BAM!  Blizzard mofo!

I’m not exaggerating here.  I often do that– like to dress up what I’m talking about to make it more exciting.  I actually mean a blizzard.  Look it up.  Union County, NJ gets 2.5 feet of snow– in one shot.  It snowed all day, relentlessly taunting me.  After the first foot I realized I wasn’t going anywhere, which was ok.  It was the day after Christmas and I could care less about going anywhere.  We had a ton of delicious leftovers and booze.  We were good to go.

I remembered past blizzards that have snowed me in.  There’s always some sort of bonding.

As a kid, you waited until daytime so you could somehow make your way over to a friend’s house to build snowmen and go sledding.  And sometimes even build igloos.  For real.  And then it was all about warm hot chocolate inside as you peeled wet clothes off your body. (It’s true.  In Jersey we ski in our jeans.  But I did wear snow pants as a kid.)

As I got older, it was more about who you were lucky enough to be snowed in with.  In college, my freshman year, we had a huge blizzard in Boston, resulting in a dorm-wide party.  Mostly I remember staying in with my roommate and having and epic evening with Captain Morgan (gross).   A few years later, a first date that gave us a long time to get to know each other.

In other words, as much as I may hate large quantities of snow, they always manage to bring people together.  So this one would be no different.  I was lucky enough to be with my whole family, which is a rarity to begin with.  We laid around and watched football and movies.  We were all old enough to not be bratty or annoyed by each other.  It was just peaceful.  We took turns dancing around in the flurries (I only lasted a few moments) and enjoyed the barricade the snow created.

And when the little ones and the older ones went up to bed.  My brother and I silently agreed it was time to class it up with some Scotch.

I talk about Scotch a lot.  I’m obviously a big fan, but for some reason the cold weather just aches for it.  There is nothing that seems more appropriate to me during a snowstorm, than a glass of smooth Scotch.  This is something I didn’t have an appreciation for as a college student, when I experienced my last big storm.  Luckily, my father had a good one.  I don’t remember the name, but I do remember I wasn’t supposed to drink it.  I did anyway (mostly because he doesn’t drink Scotch).  And it was perfect.

We both met in the basement with our various night caps.  It’s too good not to share the little midnight snacks we created.  I had my delicious glass of Scotch with a scrap of bread.  Boring!  But anything would have been in comparison to the combinations my brother magically throws together.  He chose to drink Makers on the rocks.  He paired that with a small bowl of Italian olives, a chunk of Ricotta Salata, a few slices of Provolone, and a wedge of Jarlsberg Swiss Cheese.  Awesome!  He shared of course, because I can’t just watch someone eat cheese.  And we discovered the swiss was an excellent compliment to the whiskeys.

And then we watched The Town.  But that doesn’t really fit into my theme here.  So I’ll just say that I liked it, but I’m biased because I spent a lot of time in Boston.  And I love Don Draper.

So as much as I will complain about being stuck in a blizzard, which ruined a lot my plans and gave me an annoying cold, it ended up being a nice way to have some close family time that I haven’t had in a long time.

The Worst Hangover of My Life

After my Thanksgiving post being more about drinking and hangovers than food, as it should have been, I decided I sound like a borderline alcoholic.  I’ve decided to reinforce that idea with the worst drinking experience of my life.

I have never had a flat out awesome New Year’s Eve.  By the time I was old enough to go out with friends and celebrate properly with kegs at some kid’s party in high school, a series of misfortunate events would always take place.  I would make out with some kid by accident or end up at a lame party.  Even through college nothing memorable would happen.  I often have a problem of making a big deal about New Year’s Eve.  “Gotta get fucked up!”  I would always stupidly leave for the evening with less than enough food in my stomach to absorb all the alcohol I planned on drinking.  The result was usually a puke fest.  There are at least 3 incidents I can recall where this happened.  The first happens to be the worst hangover of my life.

By the time I was 18 years old I had been drinking for a couple of years.  Like every suburban town, that was just what you did on the weekends.  Cheap beer and drinking games.  So I had a decent tolerance by the time I was 18.  If I didn’t, I’m fairly certain the story below would have resulted in alcohol poisoning and a trip to the emergency room.

*I believe I was actually 17 years old, as my birthday is in January.

I began that fateful day by driving my brother to his friend’s house for his festivities, who lived about 30 minutes away.  I can’t recall why I was driving him.  He’s six years older than me.  I want to say it was due to his attempt to be responsible for his actions and take away the drinking and driving option, but that just doesn’t sound like him.  Anyway, he had bought me a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka as a thank you.

This became a prized possession.  It should be understood that I was drinking the cheapest of vodka, from plastic bottles.  An upscale bottle of booze was like gold sparkling in front of me.

There were several events happening this day.  It was my senior year of high school and I was finally friends with enough people in our small town to have enough parties to hop to.  My night was packed, with a schedule.

My friend picked me up and we started the evening with a typical Mountain Trip.  I don’t want to incriminate myself here, but it’s an important part of later events.  We went on a drive to smoke a blunt.  Don’t judge.  Being 17 and in the burbs of NJ, there was nothing else to do.  All kids smoke a little in high school.  But I had been saving a nugget that was given to my for Christmas.  As a rule, people will always say that you want your bud ‘sticky.’  But this was the good stuff.  G-14 or some silly name that was given to mean it was a strain from the government and thus perfect.  So I kept it in a little box in my room and let it dry so that there were tiny crystals everywhere.  My plan was to smoke a midnight bowl as a celebration.  This did not happen.  As I was rolling the blunt I accidentally added my special nugget.  The result was mind blowing.  I remember being calm yet happy yet incredibly silly.  I was also really fucking thirsty.

My friend dropped me off at another friend’s house where we were to pregame before hitting the first party.  I unleashed the bottle of gloriousness and made a screwdriver.  It was the most amazing screwdriver ever.  I decided we were running out of time and I needed to drink faster.  I took to doing shots and chasing them with orange juice.  I cannot tell you if I was the only one doing this.  Sadly, I probably was.  For some god awful reason, I was on a mission.  At one point I decided that I didn’t even need a chaser.  This vodka tasted like water.  Sweet delicious nectar that I couldn’t get enough of.

I don’t know how much of that bottle I drank.  A lot.  Possibly the whole thing.

We began walking to the first party, which was on the same side of town.  I couldn’t walk on my own.  I was literally being propped up by two of my friends.  It’s cool.  We’re going to a party.  It’s New Year’s Eve.

Oh.  Side note.  I have a huge problem about deciding things that I assume the rest of the world knows/ agrees with.  I have this argument that you are given 3 passes every year to get as disgusting/ can’t talk/ look like an asshole drunk as you want.  And that you’re not responsible for your actions and everyone must understand.  These days are your birthday, St. Patrick’s Day, and New Year’s Eve.

So as I stumbled/ was carried to the first party of the evening (probably before 9pm), I was thinking I had a clear pass and was allowed to look like as much of a hot mess as I wanted.

I was wrong.

The first party we went to was at my friend Kyle’s.  It was a family party.

FAIL.

I’m fully aware that we had to leave because of me.  Specifically because I was falling down drunk and his mom didn’t want some drunk girl dying in her house.  To be fair, I can only imagine what an embarrassment I was.  And I wasn’t even of legal drinking age.

I know someone has a very incriminating photo of me propping myself up on a car, trying to light a cigarette.  I think my eyes were half open.

The next thing I remember is being at another party, this time a sweet house party with drunk kids doing whippits and all that kind of fun stuff.  I’m pretty sure as soon as we got there I made a B line for the bathroom where I proceeded to throw up my entire life, or that’s what it felt like.  Some very kind soul found me putting my guts up and offered to drive me home.

I say this proudly, as I remember specifically asking him if he had been drinking!  He was the designated driver for the night (shitty) and took me home.

Oh wow, crazy story.  Shitty night.  As if it ends there.

Arriving home, I was met with a whole new challenge.  My parents had a classy dinner party every year.  This meant 4-5 other couples getting buzzed and eating delicious food that my parents made in our dining room.

I’m going to take a moment to describe the layout of my house.  Normally one enters through our garage, which makes a ton of noise to open and close.  You then walk down a hallway and go up a flight of stairs.  To the left is the dining room, enclosed by a wall where the stairs are.  To the right is a wide open living room, with another set of stairs leading to the third floor and bedrooms.  GOAL.

The last thing I wanted to do was make an ass out of myself in front of my parents and their friends by stumbling through the house, unable to speak really at all and pass out somewhere halfway to my bedroom.

Oh.  It was before midnight.  I didn’t even make it to midnight!

I would like to imagine that I stealthily crept in through the back door, but I know myself well enough to know that I opened the garage door as fast as possible.  (It’s one of those huge doors that you have to pull from the ground up over your head.)  There’s a memory somewhere of me rolling into the garage, not on purpose.  That may have been something else, but let’s pretend it’s part of this story.

Cue sloppy drunk girl, hauling heavy garage door over her head and fighting to bring it back down as fast as possible.  The force causes and ninja roll onto the cement ground.  Yes, that sounds right.

After a moment of recovery, I stumbled my way into the house and listened for a moment to see where the diners were.

Oh.  More obstacles.  The fucking pugs.  These dogs bark at everything.  It doesn’t matter that I live there and they clearly know me.  They will bark at you until you pet them.  Assholes.

So the order of things changes.  I stumbled in, lunged for the fucking dogs and clobbered them with hugs to keep them from barking.  Then I surveyed the situation.  I took haggard steps down the hallway, listening for voices.  Somehow, at this point I hadn’t drawn any attention.  Amazing.

I started climbing and heard them all at the dinner table.  I still praise my mother for setting up the furniture in a way that allowed me to slip past them unnoticed.  I danced up the second flight of stairs and had a realization.

I was sleeping in my sister’s room that night because family from out of town were staying in my room.

Fuck.  I had to share the room.  I pranced down the hallway and fell into my sister’s room.  All I wanted to do was go to bed.  But all my body wanted to do was keep puking.  I kept making runs back and forth to the point where I was puking up nothing.

Finally, the commotion startled my mother, who was unaware that someone was home.  My father, in all honesty, was probably wasted at this point.  (I had to get it from someone!)  When she found me draped pathetically across my sister’s bed, she ran over and very concerned, asked if everything was ok.  She asked me if I had gotten into a fight with my friends.

I cannot describe exactly what I looked or sounded like at this point, but I’m sure it was just a jumble of words that poured out of my mouth.  I looked right at my mom and said with the most casual tone I could muster, “Eh.  I just don’t feel that great.”  Or something along the lines that I had a light cold or mishap and I was being responsible by coming home.  I’m serious when I say I thought I pulled it off.  I remember putting my head back down and thinking, “damn, you’re good.  No one has any idea.”

I found out the next day that my parents weren’t even angry with me.  Of course they knew!  How could they not?  And I could have gotten away with it.  My mom said she only knew someone was home because she heard the pipes from the toilet flushing.  Fucking pipes!!

My mom and sister talked about how they both hung out in the room when she had gotten home, eating and talking.  I was apparently dead to the world.  And my father proceeded to make me the greasiest breakfast ever, hand over some advil, and tell me about the worst hangover he ever had.

And that’s why I swore off vodka for 5 years.