Dinner al fresco, outstanding tacos, clams, spring, bliss

I went nuts at the mango madness sale on Friday and bought nearly 30; a bit excessive but hey, when a gal's excited about mangoes and they're $.67/each, what's she to do. So yesterday, I made 9 jars of citrusy mango butter, have encouraged the kids to eat as many as possible and incorporated this luscious fruit into last night's dinner.

When T and I finally sat down, it was 8:30 and getting dark out but our porch light and a starry sky drew us outdoors anyway. Our first al fresco dinner of 2014. Amen! It was fabulous: soft music; cold drinks; no bugs; and  a heck of a meal. I made coconut-cardamom rice which I tossed with chopped mango, fruit salad, grilled asparagus and yogurt-crème fraîche-cardamom marinated chicken which T then grilled. I am telling y'all what: you simply must mix Greek yogurt with crème fraîche, add salt and cardamom if you like, marinate chicken and then cook it how you like. It was so easy and so good. The crème fraîche adds the greatest tang!

Today is another spectacular one, and as a fam -Jack dressed as Luke Skywalker and Ol as Darth Vader- we went to the farmers market and ate our way through it. First stop: Pleasant Pops. Oliver was in the midst of a serious yen for a Chongos (Mexican cream-n-cinnamon; insanely awesome) yet sadly it was not on today's menu. Instead, he invited T to mosey over to Bonaparte in search of a chocolate éclair, while Jack decided to try a grapefruit-rosemary popsicle which was quite good. I've been circling Chaia DC for two weeks now because their tacos look absolutely scrumptious but I hadn't had breakfast yet so first bought two muffins at Atwater's: Coffee Cake Pecan (Jack's request) & Bran Apricot. Both were fairly disappointing, so after a few bites, we retired them to a crumbled paper bag.

Meanwhile, Darth and T had bought an éclair and a coconut macaroon; in typical Ol fashion, that éclair was gone by the time he rounded the first corner after Bonaparte. We wandered around a bit more, and I then decided I simply must try the tacos. Back to Chaia where the team was pressing balls of masa between a tortilla press, grilling the rounds until lightly charred and fragrant and dishing up three different options: mushrooms with feta and red sauce; kale and potato with poblano sauce; and winter squash with chevre. I ordered one each of the first two and waited with eager, lip-smacking anticipation while Darth and Luke battled on a nearby grassy knoll.

These were totally worth waiting for, and my only regret is not attempting to take a better photograph. I just couldn't wait to dig in, so snapped a quicky and got to town. My favorite was the mushroom-feta taco though the kale-potato one was no slouch. They were so layered and tasty and wonderful that I briefly considered asking if I could be a no-salary intern in the Chaia kitchen for a while, just to pick up and tip or two about how I can even start to make anything like these at home. Seriously tasty and well executed. There are multiple Chaia locations, so keep an eye out and get ya' some!

Random guitarists and Hydean children

People, for the most part I love eccentricity and general weirdness, in people, places, film and so forth. But I gotta be honest in telling you that the middle-aged, long-haired dude in tube socks and puffy white kicks who parks his fanny on a padded red cushion he brings and then places on a local park's bench -which happens to be a ringside seat at a children's playground- and proceeds to pop a Pepsi, place it on the ground next to him and then strum to beat sixty on his acoustic guitar while so earnestly crooning/narrating James Taylor songs like a mixed tape on repeat is a bit beyond my pale. I mean, who is this guy, and why? Let's start with his hair. It's like Bret Michaels meets an unkempt elderly gal who should have cut her tresses decades back but didn't. It is a stylist's worst nightmare: frizzy; dry; mousy; dated; and then some. It looks like there may once have been layers, or are those bangs? Did he try a perm and then let it go, or does he just have natural "waves"? Ever so often, not frequently, he stands, reaching his hands toward the sky as if to stretch or inhale. On the descent, his fingers fluff the frazzled nest that is his coiffure. Why? Is he self-conscious about volume or whether the wind has mussed it just so?

The socks and sneakers are comfortable and practical; I get it. Ditto the old tee-shirt hugging a round belly and the generic khaki shorts. His outfit is not his priority, y'all, it's the tunes. It's all about the tunes. He's channeling so much feeling into James Taylor's songs; you know every one is a tribute to the guy he considers "the man." For emphasis, dude will at times speak the lyrics or adopt a bit of vibrato, just for an added emotional oomph. Bless his heart, he still sounds totally vanilla.

I still think I'd just chalk it up to quirkiness if it weren't for his chosen locale. Why front and center at a playground? I mean, he's certainly not singing the Annie soundtrack or "Let It Go," for christ's sakes. James wrote about some heavy shit; death, loss. "Fire and Rain" is definitely not what I want my kids to hear and ponder as they see-saw and swing, you know? That stuff is tough.

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I thought about this on the way home because even though we had one of J's friends in the car -read: try to act nicely- my boys made complete arses of themselves. It was like they climbed into their carseats and morphed into mean dicks with an unfortunate lot to say. It was mostly the Elder, to be honest, just reveling in some moody, ugly shit like a pig in fresh mud. At first I was sort of, "WTF, y'all?! Didn't I just bring you to the park for baseball on a beautiful day? Did I not pack each of you a ludicrously thoughtfully pimped out bag of gear, snacks and all that jazz?" J tells me that during his field trip to the g-damn National Arboretum today he saw the most famous Bonsai tree -"it's bone-sy, Mom, not bonn-sy." 'Scuse me!- in the world which is not only extremely old but also extremely cool, not least because A) we live in the same city as does it, and B) he got to see it whilst in just second grade.

Erm, can we have a moment of thanks for Mom who packed the damn cleats/tees/hats/snacks/sunscreen/water bottles/special Friday cinnamon rolls AND enrolled y'all in a magnificent school AND you got to see an effing 200 year old Bone-sy tree today? Jesus H, you ungrateful heathens.

Anyway, we arrive at Friend's house, and I told my kids to stay in the car while I walked Friend to the door. On the way, I asked Friend (who is J's best friend) if he thought that based on their behavior thus far, the boys would be alive when I returned to the car. Friend said, "I don't think so." I had to agree.

But on the way back to the car, I reconsidered my appraisal and thought surely I was being too pessimistic and definitely wasn't giving the boys enough credit.

I have never been so wrong. Indeed, it is laughable just how wrong I was.

Because, when I got to my damn sticker-bedazzled beater of a car, I looked through the driver-side window to see not one but BOTH boys gripping themselves in apparent pain and crying huge, farcical, raindrop tears. Do you think I wanted to open the door and get in? I did not. I wanted to run for the hills, a la that really-unhappy mom in "The Hours." But, I manned up, got my game face on and got in.

"He hit me twice, AS HARD AS HE COULD." "He stole my penny! It was my favorite penny. I need that penny!" "He scratched me AS HARD AS HE COULD." "I saw the penny first. FIRST! 900 DAYS AGO, I SAW AND FELL IN LOVE WITH THAT PENNY. THAT PENNY IS MY LIFE-PARTNER!"

Can we take a quick break to mention that pennies are literally worthless? That it costs more to make a penny than the one stupid cent at which they're valued?

Bygones.

I truly did not think I'd make it home but I also didn't think this mayhem would last. I mean, it takes a lot of energy to act like an insane, inane buffoon, you know?

Suffice it to say that it did last. Until we got home. Past the time I asked them to wash their hands before dinner. During dinner such that I had to physically remove them from one another and force them to eat without looking at each other. During bathtime when one chose my bathtub and the other said it was his life dream to bathe in my tub. Givemeabreak. After the one got out of my tub with DRY hair and a still-filthy face. Afterwards when I went onto the deck for self- and child-preservation only to haul ass back in when I heard bloody-murder screaming. While I called T with a seriously 911 plea to come home RIGHTNOW. And still onward, during my deck-exile and fishbowl-of-wine drinking hiatus.

T got home for a needed and helpful intervention, I still think the guitarist is weird but nothing more than a dweeb with bad hair, I'm loving my third glass of wine, and Eldest is all sweetness and light again, as if Evil Hyde was simply a mirage. I wish. Hyde the Younger is asleep, and I'm grilling a pizza. And so it goes on this Friday.

Hasta, peeps!

Parsley and parties

Growing up in Louisiana, I attended lots of parties. Not just formal affairs for Mardi Gras or Christmas but also neighborhood soirees and cocktail parties hosted by my parents' friends. I loved all these fetes, loved dressing up and seeing people, assessing the spreads and noshing on my favorite dishes. Perhaps it's fairly obvious that I still take great pleasure in parties and really love all their festive concomitants; I truly enjoy hosting, derive much joy in cooking for others, appreciate great food and drink, love setting a pretty table. Mom and I used to give the "refreshments," as I liked to call them, a full overview before committing to a first plate. Always -oddly?- I loved the inevitable parsley garnishes tucked around the tenderloin or salmon, nestled by the crudités or bowl of dip. Fortunately, few others seemed to give these bright green sprigs much thought and so neither noticed nor minded the girl swiping bouquets of them and then chewing with satisfaction.

The parsley was always your standard curly parsley, small parcels trimmed from the larger bunch, rather like a cauliflower broken down into florets for easier handling and eating. I didn't discover flat-leaf, or Italian, parsley until after college, when I became a cook of my own and the sort of one who cared deeply about herbal variations and the implications therein. Though I now use flat-leaf parsley almost exclusively, the curly remains unbeatable if you're looking to enjoy the simple satisfaction of noshing on an unadulterated green.

I started musing about my history with parsley when a friend recently asked if I'd post a "tutorial" about the various types of parsley and just what can be done with them. Perhaps this primer is more than she bargained for, but it's been an awfully nice trip down memory lane. For now, let's jump in to the question at hand.

Petroselinum crispum, otherwise known as parsley, originated in the central Mediterranean -southeast Europe and far west Asia- and remains an important herb in the culinary traditions of that area. Consider the role parsley plays in tabbouleh, for example, or in a bouquet garni. How many plates of risotto and pasta garnished with chopped parsley have you enjoyed? The always-pleasing gremolata is a parsley-centric accompaniment to many a dish, and parsley plays a weighty role in most versions of chimichurri (or salsa verde as the Italian iteration is known). It's a humble but significant herb, one that pretty much anyone with a pot, soil and sunshine can grow and enjoy.

Curly parsley is most commonly used as a garnish, hence my early experiences with it as just that. Its leaves are smaller than its flat-leaf brethren and some believe its taste is less pronounced. I myself think that the tongue's experience with such crisply ruffled leaves affects our ability to as clearly discern its taste. Flat-leaf parsley sometimes has thicker stems and can have a slightly woodier taste, as heftier trunks might suggest. I use flat-leaf more because it has a clean, clear flavor not entangled with any texture.

Parsley rarely offends; I mean seriously, when was the last time you thought the main problem with any dish was the parsley in it? Probably never. It's pretty and adds a lovely yet fairly muted fresh flavor to many things. As Harold McGee says, it's relatively "generic," really and can "therefore complement many foods."

The best way to store a fresh bunch of parsley is in a small cup of water on a windowsill, as if it's a bouquet of flowers. When I purchase some parse (my shorthand), I come home, untether it from its twistie binds, maybe (serious maybe because I tend to be lazy) trim any ends that look splayed or old or soft, fill a juice cup with water and stand the bunch up in it. I learned this trick from a cook I once knew and it really is foolproof- you'll get days from your parsley that you never knew it had!

This one is on my sill now. Parsley drinks water like a horse that's found an oasis in a desert, so you'll need to be vigilant about refilling its reservoir. Now that I really study this picture, I see that my guy is in need of a tall drink. Momentarily...

Parsley is good for you! It's full of folic acid, flavonoids, vitamins K/C/A and antioxidants. Unfortunately, the myth that parsley can remedy bad breath seems to have been proven false, but that doesn't stop me from trying to make Percy eat it as often as possible. It can't hurt!

Especially when someone else starts it for you, parsley is easy to grow provided you have a spot where the sun shines assertively and you're willing to water. Certain animals, such as the goldfinch and a few butterflies, really groove on parsley or its seeds, so that's cool too. And I have had great luck with parsley reseeding itself and acting as quite the perennial in my little garden.

Let me bring this to a close by providing a few ways to use parsley now.

Snip it over anything and everything as a garnish. Just look at part of my dinner tonight: pimentón-roasted potatoes and onions with parsley both before and after. 

Spaghetti alle vongole? LOVES a parsley garnish! NEEDS it! Tabbouleh! Parsley is critically important; Ina Garten's recipe calls for a full cup. What about my roasted sweet potatoes with hazelnut gremolata?

I find myself snipping away at my parsley bouquet all the time. Bet you will too!