F minus

So I did that whole broth diet thing and it went pretty well.  When I was making it a week ago I added all the ingredients to the boiling water- things like kale, parsnips, celery, carrots, cabbage, beets, onion, garlic, and let it simmer an hour until the room smelled like a bog.  A nice steamy peat bog.  The broth turned a lovely shade of violet probably because of the cabbage and beets.  Surprisingly, it tasted good.  Like a nice purple vegetable broth. 

So I drank that as a snack.  I also ate nice quality protein and lots of vegetables.  So many vegetables, in fact, that I started to fart like a buffalo. 

Normally I fart like small, well-mannered miniature pony. 

Also, I ate fruit.

But here's the problem.  As soon as I'm not supposed to eat something, I want to eat it.

Which is why I also ate:

Graham Crackers
Semi-sweet chocolate chips straight out of the bag
Coffee
Coffee
Wine
Wine
Wine
Coffee
More Coffee
Pizza
Donut
Brownie
Another Brownie
Bagel
Egg
Egg
Cheese
Another Egg
Chicken pot pie with cornbread

I also did the P90X cardio extreme workout.  Sena sat on the couch, looking from me jumping up and down like an idiot, to Tony Horton yelling out the commands to, "Jump!  Higher!  More!  Yeah!"  She was looking at me like people look at the baboons at the zoo.  Curious, yet concerned.  Mildly frightened.

So basically this means that I can't follow instructions to save my life.  I fail.  The one thing I did do throughout the whole week?  I did eat less.  Smaller portions.  And when I went to put on a pair of pants this morning, they felt a bit looser.  They were looser.

I was pretty pleased with myself.

Of course, they had donuts at work this morning.

Spring Forward

So I'm starting this new diet.  Yeah, smart.  Because I don't have nearly as much time to workout, although yesterday I did manage to go for a jog around the lake, and when I say jog I mean jogging for 1 mile, trotting, walking, hobbling and panting while pressing my fingers into my side to relieve some burning twinge that could possibly turn into a pulmonary embolism, spitting up phelgm, and then walking some more, for three miles, I decided that I need to start eating better. 

Wow, that is a fantastic run-on sentence. 

But I did feel better afterward.  Because of all that horrible cold but clean arctic air I had to wheeze in.

So I found this weird diet book my sister-in-law had on her bookshelf.  It's written by a doctor, and endorsed by Dr. Oz, so I'm guessing it's not total bunk.

There is a 1 week cleanse diet where you make and drink some foul smelling vegetable broth while eating things like vegetables and brown rice and chicken/fish.  I like all those things.  So I thought, "Huh, I could do that."

But then I read what I can't eat.

No alcohol (shit!  Wine is vegetarian!  It's fruit!  It's awesome fruit juice!)
No sugar
No caffeine! (WTF!)
No eggs!  (Jesus, kill me now)
No dairy! (Seriously, kill me)
No refined foods/junk food/fast food/pretty much anything that comes out of a box.

So this week I'm getting ready to start the diet, which I will start this weekend after I brew some broth in my cauldron/stockpot.  This week I'm going to not have alcohol, refined foods, sugar, and step myself down from caffeine and dairy/eggs, which are things you just shouldn't quit cold turkey.  Because just this morning I had cereal (organic pumpkin/flax granola) with milk and coffee (with milk).  The idea of not having my spinach/gouda/turkey/tomato/egg scramble on an English muffin makes me want to cry.  Oh yeah, I'm not supposed to eat tomatoes, either.  I forgot why.  Instead I'm supposed to make some shake with rice powder, borage/flax oil, berries & banana, which doesn't sound terrible, but still.

So I have my list made of all the weird crap I have to buy at the store, and right now I'm focusing on drinking a lot of water and eating my vegetables.

Which made me think of potato chips.

Which then made me think of this story.

I was about twelve or so.  My brother had some friends over on a Saturday and it was lunchtime.  My mom made everyone sandwiches, and then my dad who was eating his sandwich by the breadboard on the kitchen island, asked if anyone wanted some potato chips.  Well, duh, of course we did.

So my dad gets out the tupperware container full of potato chips.  (My mom stored/still stores things like chips and cereal in tupperware because you know if you live in a house with three stupid kids you know when they take potato chips or cereal out, they won't close it properly and then everything will get stale.  This is true.)

So my dad walks around the table with the tupperware container.  He puts a handful on my plate, asking, "Big chips or little chips?"

"Big chips," I say and he walks to the next person.

My brother and two of his friends know the drill.  They know the answer.  And the answer is, "Big chips."

He gets to the last kid.  I think his name is Jason.  He doesn't really know what's going on, as no one has ever asked him such a moronic question.  Poor dumb Jason.  Because everyone else has said "Big chips!" he has to be a contrarian.  He has to know.  He can't help it.  He has to say it.  And we all know he's going to say it.  Because he has to.  We are looking at him the way a pack of dogs look at a pig roasting over a spit.  The anticipation makes our lips quiver.

Jason says, "Little chips."

My dad brings his palm down flat, smashing them into potato chip dust.  He removes his hand and says, "There ya go.  Little chips."

Jason stares at his plate while everyone laughs.

"Jiiiiimmmmm!" yells my mom.

"What?" 

"Why do you have to DO that?"

"Do what?  He asked for little chips."

Jason, to his credit, ate his potato chip splinters and didn't complain. 

This is why I hardly ever invited friends over when I was a kid.

Yesterday Afternoon around 3

This is what happens when pure laziness rams into that good old American ingenuity that they keep telling us about.

What I do know: I can't use the Paint program to save my life. Horrible. I think I'll stick to paper and pencil.

Origami

Here is what I got for mother's day. A big old caterpillar.


He was delicious.

Matt took me out to our favorite sushi place: Origami. The one place that I want to go to when I want to go out to eat. Something we don't do much anymore. Because I can't make this stuff at home. Believe me, I've tried. My sushi looks like some drunk toddler made it. Next time I attempt it at home I will take pictures. It won't be pretty.

Mostly Martha

About a week ago I was at my sister-in-law's house. And I spotted this book.



It's a monstrously large book; I liked it because it explained everything. I mean everything. Martha's nothing if not thorough.

So I ordered it.

Because I really want to learn to cook. Properly. I think it's an important thing to know how to do. And I figured if Martha Stewart couldn't teach me, nobody could.

The book isn't cheap, but I found a brand new copy online for $10. Click. Click. I bought it.

Last Monday it came in the mail. I was really excited. I get excited when I get things in the mail. Especially things like magazines and books.

After the baby goes to bed, I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down on the couch. Okay, Martha, I think, show me what you got.

I read about the basics. What kinds of tools to have. What kinds of knives. Check. Check. How to sharpen them. And check.

I learn about herbs. What to do with them. How to prepare them. What they look like. All the photographs are stunning.

I'm getting really excited. I think about all the amazing meals I will prepare.

I finish my glass of wine, and read about citrus. How to zest. How to supreme. Wait... What? Supreme? Huh. I read about something called mirepoix. Mirepoix?

I pour a second glass of wine.

I studied French for 5 years and I never heard anything about mirepoix. Mirrrpwaaah.... I decide it sounds like a contagious disease from the 1800s.

Then I start the chapter on stocks. How to make your own stock. White Stock. Brown Stock. Veal Glace.

I finish the second glass.

When I start reading about fish fumet I'm done for. Fish Fumet. Fuuuumaaaay! I imagine myself going up to my local fishmonger and asking for a bunch of old fish bones and heads. Fish heads! For my Fish Fumet! From my fishmonger! I start laughing.

But I don't have a fishmonger. I try to stay away from mongers. Fishy or otherwise. I start a rhyme in my head.

Mirepoix and Fish Fumet
Veal Glace
Creme Brulee
Oh Hooray!
This is totally gay...

I close the book and realize I'm drunk.

Thanks, Martha.

No Reservation

Sena has graduated to the big high chair and already has two little teeth coming in. My little baby is growing up, and has sampled the following culinary delights:

Rice Cereal
Apple sauce
Bananas
Pears
Sweet Potatoes
Prunes

Did you know prunes look the same coming out as going in?

I will only post pictures of the latter.





Plus, here is a little how-to home video. I made creme brulee over Easter weekend for the very first time.

Because I'm fancy.

However, I didn't have a creme brulee torch so I asked my dad to bring his. He doesn't have a creme brulee torch, either. He has a blowtorch. The concept, however, is the same. I'm pretty sure this demo will get a thumbs up from both Bob Vila and Anthony Bourdain.

I'm narrating this video and because I had a bad cold I sound a little bit like Dorothy from the Golden Girls. Also, you will notice a Scottish tam and a pint of Guinness, which are both very necessary for the demonstration.

If you have ever wondered why I'm insane you will finally see and understand that it's genetic.

No reservation from Melinda Braun on Vimeo.

Conversations with 3 year-olds

"Jack, don't stick your crackers in your water."

"But they're fish." He is eating goldfish crackers. "Fish, fish, fishy! Swimming!"

"You're making a mess. Your water is going to get gross."

"Swim fishy, fishy!"

"Your fish will get all soggy."

"Fishy, fishy, fishy...Hee, hee..."

"I'm gonna take it away if you don't stop."

"Yummy fishy...I'm gonna eat you!"


LATER ON

"Jack, why can't you just eat it. Please sit there and eat it." He is mutilating a cheese tortilla.

"I want a popsicle."

"You have to eat your dinner first. Don't poke holes in it."

"I'm making a hole for the cheese. And the mouse."

"The cheese is going to get out. You're making a mess."

"Cheese is hot! Hot!"

"It's not hot, it's warm."

"It's burning me!" Jack gets up and grabs his plate.

"What are you doing?"

"In the freezer." He puts his plate in the freezer.

"It's going to get cold. It won't taste good."

"It's too hot."

"You'll wreck it. It will freeze."

"Like popsicles... Can I have a popsicle?"

"No. You have to eat your dinner. Why can't you eat like Georgie?" George is inhaling his dinner like a Hoover.

"I want a popsicle." It looks like his cheese tortilla has been exploded by a grenade. He is ripping it to pieces.

"Are you done?"

"Yes."

"You can have some fruit." I give them pineapple and blueberries. Both of them gobble it up.

"Now, popsicle."

"You got a one-track mind, don't you?"

He looks at me blankly.
I go into the freezer. There are Minute-Maid juice popsicles. "There's one left."

"Yes," he says sadly. "Grandpa ate them all."

I give him the last one.

"Oh, it's hot. It's burning me!"

"It's not hot. It's cold."

"It's burning me!"

"You mean it's so cold it feels like a burn?"

He contemplates this. "No, it's HOT!"

So it goes....

Meatfest 2009

On Friday night Matt told me the first annual Meatfest was to take place...

Me: Meatfest? What's that?

Matt: We eat meat.

Me: What else?

Matt: More meat. And Jack Daniels.

Me (gagging): That's sick. You better eat something other that meat and J.D. or your going to have some serious gastrointestinal problems.

Matt: Like what?

Me: Umm... like vegetables? Maybe a salad?

Matt: Okay, there will be some vegetables at Meatfest.

Me: Uh, so where is this Meatfest?

Matt: At our house. Tomorrow afternoon.

Me: Umm....who's coming?

Matt: Carnivores. It's Meatfest!

So Saturday morning we went to the farmer's market to buy fruit and vegetables. Some strawberries, pineapple, cherries, melon, mangoes, lettuce, asparagus, and peppers.

Me: So, what meat are you making?

Matt: Tim's bringing it.

At 2pm, Tim and his wife Shelly and their three kids show up. Tim is carrying about 15lbs. of meat. There are rib eye steaks, pork ribs, lamb chops and shanks. It is ridiculous. Karl shows up.

The ribs go on the charcoal Weber with hickory chips to smoke for 2 hours. At 4 p.m. Matt's parents arrive and then soon Becca and Peter and Jack and George. We've already eaten the rib eye (Round 1 - the appetizer) and are putting on the asparagus to grill.

The barbecue ribs are done (Round 2). Nobody talks - except to make noises like: Ummm-MMMMM. Gooooooood. Mmmrrrff! Grunt. Ooooooohmmmppf...yum. Oink.

People play cards and the little kids run around the back yard screaming and throwing stuff.

Round 3 is the lamb. By this point most people are meated out, but manage to nibble on some lamb chops. I was a bad participant...I ate a little rib eye and two ribs and then mostly ate asparagus and fruit salad.

By 8 p.m. people leave, and Matt proclaims Meatfest 2009 to be a success. Mainly because we still have three pounds of rib eye left in the refrigerator for him to eat by himself. The backyard is now empty save for the thick scent of smoky pork still hanging in the night air.

I don't even want to know what they are going to attempt for Meatfest 2010.

Let Them Eat KaKa

One of the other things I picked up at IKEA last weekend was lingonberries, though it is also possible to find them in some of the better grocery stores. Even Target carries them.

I grew up eating lingonberries on thin Swedish pancakes. Lately, I've taken to putting them on vanilla ice cream with toasted walnuts. In the morning I top an English muffin with cream cheese and more lingonberries. I've always liked them because they're not too sweet, there is a little sour kick to them, kind of like cranberries.

As I bought my berries I was looking at the other food they had. And I found something called Blabarskaka. BLABARSKAKA! With a name like that I had to buy it. It translates to "Blueberry cake".

My dad called thought Blabarskaka meant, "Boogers and Shit".

Well, the BoogerShit cake turned out to be pretty good.

And my mom found this funny Swedish show called Leila Bakar, which probably means, Leila Bakes. Or something. In the video she makes a banankaka, and even though it is in Swedish you can kind of figure out how to make it. It looks a lot like a recipe for banana bread, but baked into a spring form pan.

If you want to make Banankaka, or just practice your Uff-dahs, watch this.

Although whenever I think of Swedish cooking, I can only think of one specific person. And he's not even real.

Muffins!

Who doesn't love a fresh baked muffin?

And who doesn't love to laugh until they start crying at their computer monitor until their supervisor walks past and does a concerned double-take, before wisely walking away.

If you don't think this is funny, then I'm sorry...we have nothing in common. Go eat a croissant.

Bacon on a Stick

The Minnesota State Fair started today. I received the little fair calendar in the mail last week and wasn't too impressed. The music lineup was poop. And I've been to the fair several times, including last year so I was thinking, "Naah, I'll skip it this year."

And then I saw something that caught my eye.

Every year the suits got to come up with a new food "thing on a stick" to sell. It is a big deal, especially for people who've been to the fair year in and year out, and maybe need to new reason to return. The requirements are simple: It's got to be deep fried and served on a stick.

Some ideas are good: Walleye on a stick, cheese curds on a stick.
Some are weird, but good: Deep fried pickle on a stick, alligator on a stick.
Some are overkill but intriguing: Deep fried Twinkie on a stick.
Some are so disgusting I want to eat them and then have my cholesterol immediately measured afterwards: Deep fried Snickers bar on a stick.

Some ideas are pure genius, like this year. I don't know why it took someone this long to think of it, but whoever did should be given a humongous raise, stock options, and use of the company's Gulfstream.

It even has a great name.... BIG FAT BACON.

It's 1/3 lb. of bacon fried and caramelized with maple syrup served on a stick with dipping sauce.

I think I may have to go. I told Matt that they were having bacon on a stick this year and he got a faraway romantic look in his eye. "Mmmmm... bacon," he sighed. I sighed too, thinking that many, many moons ago he used to think about me that way.

Last year we went with Becca and Jack and our trip consisted of a regimented walk to hit all our favorite food. We plotted the places on the map so that the various stands we hit alternated salty and sweet. It was like an episode from the A-Team or Macgyver. I'm surprised we didn't synchronize our watches.

First was mini-donuts, then pronto-pups, then ICE-Es, then corn, then the little chocolate chip cookies, then cheese curds, then pickle, then Funnel cake, etc. etc. Then we would stop for lunch.

We walked out of there the way we always do: hot, tired, with a sugar/grease headache, and five lbs. heavier. Someone inevitably holding their stomach with both hands saying, "Oh my God, we better get home soon. My bowels are churning."

Then we all sing something called The Diarrhea Song.

Make a pancake....

I think it's interesting that Matt thinks (but won't admit) that it's my job to make dinner. We both work full-time, but somehow I'm supposed to race home after work, slap on an apron and oven mitts and get a'crackin' in the kitchen. Yes, I'm usually home before him, but I find on the days he's off from work, when I stroll in the back door there's no hot dinner waiting for me. WTF?

Sometimes he even calls me at work during the day to ask, "So...what's for dinner tonight?" Or if he's being subtle he'll talk about what kind of food he likes. He'll say, "You know? For some reason I've been thinking about tacos all day. It's Tuesday, you know. Like, Taco Tuesday. Mmmmm..."

Then: So, what's for dinner, woman?

Me: How bout a nice poop sandwich.

So last night he comes home and says, "God, I'm starving! Starving! I think I'm dying!"

Me: Do you want tacos or eggs and pancakes?
Matt: Eggs and pancakes? Pancakes? PANCAKES?

He asks me this as if it's so ridiculous he can't even fathom such a thing. Like it might not be legal. As if I suggested that we go outside and run through the sprinkler. Naked.

Me: Yeah, pancakes.
Matt: Yeah! Pancakes!

So I get out the old Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook that was published in 1955. My mom gave me this cookbook and I have to say, it is the main one I use. Because it tells you how to make everything. EVERYTHING. This was back in the day when people actually cooked from scratch. It explains things like poaching, braising, and making a white sauce, or a pie crust from scratch. It tells you how many pints are in a quart. I love this book.

So I make the basic pancake recipe but double it. Matt is starving, you see. I make humongous, fluffy pancakes as big as a dinner plate and about 1/2" thick. I put blueberries in mine. I use real butter and real maple syrup. They are so awesome that as I eat them I curse myself for not making pancakes and eggs for dinner at least once a week.

I even named the pug in my book Pancake.

And now there's a song to go with it. I saw this on Dooce.com, and it will now be the song we sing in the Braun house when it's time to make pancakes. This reminded me of the early works of DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.

Excuse me, Waiter!

I was reading an article in the paper about a cook who got 6 months in jail because he put hairs in a customer's steak. He didn't say what kind of hairs... ugh. I also read that the customer had been rude, which is a big no-no.

I have seen this in restaurants before (people deliberately making an effort to be contentious and snotty) and I will never understand why they insist on demeaning the people who serve them food. It's not too smart.

I also try to never send food back. Especially not French Toast.

Bon Appetit!

Stay classy, Minneapolis!

Last Friday night Matt went to play in a poker tournament. He strolls in a 5 in the morning.
"What happened? Did you win?"
"Yep."
"How much?"
"Oh, pretty good." He's always vague.
"What did you play?"
"Texas hold'em."
"Were you playing with a bunch of dumb yahoos?"
"Pretty much."
"Cleaned them out?"
"Yep... this one guy got so drunk. I kept knocking him out but he kept buying back in."
"Aaahhh."
"So what are you going to spend it on?"
"Mmmm....I think steak dinner."

So Saturday night we make reservations at the Capital Grille in downtown Minneapolis. There are about 6 or so very nice steak houses and we hadn't been to any of them but we like the sound of this place. It is ridiculously expensive.

We have reservations for six. I tell them it is an anniversary and they have the table covered in rose petals, a card signed by the staff, and have complimentary champagne for us. Oh goody, they got me at hello!

Our waiter, Scott, was fantastic. When the guy across the aisle hears it is our anniversary he raises his glass to us. Scott assures us that he's a regular, and he looked the type: A retired captain of industry from the Nixon administration who probably made his living doing corporate hostile takeovers and was familiar with pushing fat envelopes of money across tables in dimly-lit restaurants to some beefy guy named Big Paulie, who would then be assured, "Yes, sir, it's taken care of."

You know, THAT kind of guy.

He was sitting with a much younger woman, and me and Matt tried to figure out if she was also the type of date who gets a big tip at the end of the night.

We ordered the shrimp cocktail, and then I did something I've never done. Something I dreamed of, but never had the courage for.

I ordered a whole bottle of wine.

Scott helped us pick it and it was very good. It was a California, Sonoma County, blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet, that went very well with our steaks. This was a big step for me. I still can't bring myself to order orange juice in a restaurant because all I heard growing up was, "Juice is THREE times as expensive in the restaurant! If you want juice you can have some when we get home."

One of the first times I went out with the Braun family for breakfast everyone ordered orange juice and I practically had a stroke and fell off my chair. I kept waiting for a lightning bolt to hit our table or the waitress to tell them what complete fools they were for being so frivolous.

We also had a side of creamed spinach and ordered creme brulee for desert. The food was outstanding; so when our waiter asked how our food was I was busy cramming a hunk of meat into my gaping maw - all I could do was nod and grin and give him a "thumbs up" sign. I might have even had creamed spinach on my chin.

Because I'm a classy lady.

My childhood summer

Remember chasing the ice cream truck?
My mom would always hem and haw, saying, "There's Popsicles in the freezer!"
"But Mom, the ice cream man!"
"I don't think I have any change."
"PLEEEEAASSE!"
"Where'd I put my purse?"
"Mom! HURRREEEEEEEEEEEE!"
"Hold your horses!"
Then she would slowly dig a few quarters out of her change purse.

We'd burst from the front door like Secretariat coming out of the gate at Churchill Downs. This, I am now convinced, was the start of my training to become a 400 meter runner. We were bloodthirsty hounds tracking a moving target, with the only the fading tinkle of bells to guide us.

About a month ago I heard the familiar sound in the evening, and I was upstairs. I bolted to the window and yelled, "Ice cream man! Where is he?" Matt was a little frightened by the look in my eye. The sound was bouncing off the aluminum siding houses so that it was impossible to discern the direction. To the west, in front, to the south. He could be anywhere. I sniffed the air. Where are you, dammit, I thought.
"Do you have any change?" I asked him.
"There's ice cream in the freezer."
Suddenly I felt like I was seven years old, living on Hackberry Court, trying to explain to my mother in 30 seconds or less that I needed ice cream money RIGHT NOW! Don't make me explain myself. Gimmee the money. Gawd!
"You'll never catch him wearing those flip-flops," said Matt.
He's right about that. You need serious shoes. As a kid I ran around wearing baby-blue Etonics. Real running shoes. And I always caught the ice cream truck.

Do or do not, there is no try.

Well, I survived the triathlon last Saturday and managed to not finish dead last, though it was my worst time ever. And I can't blame the weather this year because it was absolutely perfect.

Here was my problem. I didn't train for it.

My swim was slow. My bike pace was revolting. And judging by the video tape my dad recorded of me running as I came to the finish line, it looked as though I was trying to carry a piano on my back...while hungover.

So what do you do after you feel publicly shamed? You drink beer.

Yes, one of the sponsors this year was Miller Brewing because, you know, finely tuned athletes, feats of speed and endurance, and hard core alcoholics seem to go together like peas and carrots. Or something like that.

When I picked up my race packet on Friday I had the option of getting a yellow wrist tag that said MGD 64, Miller's new 64 calorie beer. When they asked the guy in front of me if he wanted the wrist band he rolled his eyes and said, "No thanks."
When they asked me, I said what any good Wisconsinite would. "Heck, yeah."

Though after the race I ended up forgoing the beer truck, so I don't know what 64 calorie beer tastes like. Probably like the lake water I was sucking in by the mouthfuls during my swim, so I probably didn't miss much. I hope I don't come down with amoebic dysentery.

What I did do was load up on as many treats as I could. After all, I paid 150 bucks for the race and I'm never going to see any of that nice prize money. Instead I horde food.

They give you little towels at the finish and I folded mine up like origami to make a pouch. I found that I could stick 3 Dasani water bottles, 2 Powerades, 6 bags of potato chips, and 3 packs of oatmeal cookies in it before it would give way. I also learned that you can stick about 7 Pearson salted nut rolls in a sports bra before people start giving you weird looks.

Despite everything, I was glad I did it.

Sausagegate

I asked Matt who won the Sausage Race at the games. "Polish, the first night," he told me. "Then on Saturday, the Italian won."

If you have no idea what that means you've never been to a Brewers game. Or you live under a rock.

The Sausage race is the highlight of the seventh inning, and almost as cool as the Running of the Bulls. Pamplona wins by a slim margin in the fact that it's the only race where you need no athletic ability to participate, are encourage to imbibe alcohol, and face a distinct chance that you will be gored and/or trampled to death by a 1,500 pound hulk of livid, snorting beef.

Although incidents have happened at the Sausage Race, like this one. I hope they punished the player by force feeding him Klement's hot dogs and Miller High Life until he was sick, and then made him run the bases while angry fans pelted him with cheese curds and baseball-sized chunks of sauerkraut.

But they probably only fined him. There is no justice.

Hungry Hungry Hippo

It's not even close to noon but I've already eaten my entire lunch. And I'm still hungry. Granted, my lunch was a avocado, tomato, spinach and carrot sandwich and a banana, but lately I've been trying to eat better, which for me really means EAT LESS. I've been training and trying to get ready for the triathlon and my problem usually lies in my justification that because I ran for an hour or went swimming that means I can get away with eating a few cookies and that Nestle ice cream bar. And a glass of wine. I think a lot of people do this. My problem is not the workouts; it's the diet.

My eating habits, according to the average American diet (and what I see a lot of my coworkers eating on a daily basis) are actually quite stellar. 85% of the time I eat really healthy. I just eat a lot. And I do it really fast. I think I could actually win a contest, or at least I would place higher in an eating competition than I would in a triathlon.

The most I've ever eaten in one sitting was 2 foot-long turkey subs from Subway. This was in college, and I remember it because two gentlemen approached me after I completed my task (I had been playing soccer all day with friends) and said with clear admiration, "Wow, I've never seen anyone do that before. And you're a girl!" They were clearly flabbergasted. I think I was able to do this because I could eat so quickly, and I smiled and said, "Really? Thank you."

Twenty minutes later, when the loaf of bread I had eaten had expanded, I was lying on my dorm room floor taking shallow breaths because my stomach had distended so much it was squeezing my lungs closed. I don't know if there is a medical term for it but I call it Eating Induced Asthma. The last time I had an attack was Thanksgiving.

So now I'm getting better though I still have my bouts of gluttony. But I think it's genetic. Growing up, my sister's nickname was Tapeworm. Whenever the three of us were being particularly piggy at the dinner table my dad would ask us if we wanted to strap on a feedbag instead.

We never answered him; we were too busy inhaling our food.

Looks like my dad was on to something...

Room without a View -- Part 5

I almost forgot about the Best Gelato in the World!

Many of you have probably tried gelato, but I'm sure the stuff you get in the grocery store is not like the homemade stuff. In Italy, gelato is everywhere. If they don't have a shop on every corner, they also have it in almost every snack bar or deli store. If it is in metal tins instead of plastic buckets it is a sign that it was homemade on the premises. It is like ice cream, but softer, and comes in every flavor you can think of.I ate it everyday and sometimes twice a day. Here are some of the flavors I had.

Chocolate
Truffle
Hazelnut
Lemon
Pistachio
Strawberry
Pineapple
Kiwi (yes, Kiwi)
Rice (like rice pudding)
Banana
Melon
Chocolate
Orange
Mint
Raspberry

And there were a lot more I didn't even get around to trying. The thing with gelato is that you don't just order 1 flavor (although you can if you want) but to pick a couple of different ones that you think will complement each other. If you do a good job the gelato scooper might complement your selections. You could eat this stuff everyday in a thousand different variations and never repeat them.

So the best Gelato place in the world? Vivoli's in Florence. It is advertised as the best, and I will have to say it is the best place that I tried. Although the kiwi banana combination I had in Rome was good. It tasted just like fresh kiwi, with the seeds still in it.

Now for some art history trivia that I thought was interesting but forgot to mention. I'm sure everyone knows about Michelangelo's David (aka - the most famous statue in the world), but I never thought about what the statue represented or why David stood that way. The first David statue, sculpted by Donatello, was a huge shock because it was the first nude sculpture in the Christian era. Before the Renaissance people viewed the human body as a dirty, disgusting thing. It probably was, considering they never bothered to wash themselves. Yuck! So Donatello's statue was totally inflammatory. The David is shown after his victory over Goliath and standing with one foot on his head, something I never noticed before.

Michelangelo's David, however, is shown before the battle with Goliath, and the reason his hand is on his shoulder like that is because he is holding his slingshot and at the moment before his is ready to get "all medieval" and fight. I've seen this statue so many times and never, ever questioned as to why he is posed like that, and I always find history things much more interesting when I know the story behind it.

Although, if I was standing buck-naked in front of a giant Philistine, with only a slingshot and a couple of rocks, I don't think I would have looked so confident.

Room without a View -- Part 4

So we liked the first tour so much we decide to take another one... we find an internet cafe, which seem to be on every block in Florence. We see a couple interesting tours and I send an email but figure it would be too late to get a confirmation because it is 11pm at night and we want to do something the next day. The next morning at the hotel I walk upstairs to look for Carmel, the proprietor, who is originally from Boston. She wasn't there, but her husband, Pino, was. Since our phone didn't work over here, he was nice enough to call up the tour company and then tell us where to go to make our reservation. So we end up getting a winery tour; I think the tour company was Caf Tours.

This time it's a big group; a whole bus full and we pull out of Florence and drive to a winery that is located in the Chianti Classico region, which is directly south of Florence. We learn that there are several Chianti regions, but only one Classico region. To know if you got a bottle of it you have to look for the Black Rooster symbol, or the Nero Gallo. It is their insignia and a symbol of higher quality. It's a black rooster on a gold background, circled with red. The story goes that Florence and Siena were always fighting with each other. Siena is another major town that is about an hour south of Florence. After awhile people decide they are sick of getting sacked and pillaged and want to settle this. So what do they do? Yes, they hold a cockfight! The Florentine picks his best black rooster and the Siennese brings his white. The other thing is wherever they meet up is the duel and whoever wins gets the distance they covered. So the Florentine beats it double time and gets further to Siena. And his black rooster kicks ass and wins the fight. This area that he wins becomes the Classico region, belonging to Florence and the little badass rooster becomes their symbol.

And the Florentines and Siennese still hate each other. Kind of like the Vikings and Packers.

So we drive up this big hill and go to the winery. The harvest is already over but the view is pretty spectacular anyway, so we go into the cellar and see the barrels of Chianti, and that is mainly what they produce here.

Now I will try to talk about wine without sounding like a jerk.... To be a Chianti a wine must have no less than 80% Sangiovese grapes, and the Chianti reserve is aged for about 2-3 years in oak barrels and makes it taste a little smoother. Chianti used to get a bad rap for being a cheap, gut-rot kind of wine, but the Chiantis they make today are much higher quality than the ones people used to drink in the 70s. If you want to pick a good one and you know nothing about it, look for the pink label on the neck of the bottle. It should say DOC (good) or DOCG (best) which guarantees the quality and that the vineyard followed strict government regulations when producing it.

Then there are the SuperTuscans, which don't get a rating because they don't have to follow the strict Chianti rules. These wines are also made with Sangiovese grapes, but then are blended with any number of other grapes, usually the French Merlot and Cabernet, which makes them taste a little richer. Most people tend to prefer SuperTuscans, myself included, because of the blends. They also tend to be more expensive than Chiantis.

Now I will talk about the Brunello. It is also made with Sangiovese grapes, but of a different variety. It's a darker grape, hence the name bruno. Brunello literally means The Brunette. It is only made, I think, in the Montalcino area of Tuscany. Its sister, Rosso di Montalcino, is less expensive but good substitution for it. They have been making this wine for a long time, but for a while only people in Europe knew about it. It still is produced in small batches by small vineyards so I don't know how easy it would be to get it here, you might have to join a wine club. I don't know how to really describe what it tastes like, but if Sophia Loren were a wine, she'd be a Brunello. You don't forget it.

After our tour of the cellar we go up to the tasting room. We sit with two girls on vacation from Ireland, and a couple from Japan who brought their two kids with. The kids get to drink pear juice instead of vino. We start with Chardonnay which is very good (I usually don't like Chardonnay; it's never my first pick.) Then we try a Classico reserve, then a SuperTuscan (which everyone seems to like). We have little appetizers along with the wine. Then we have Vino Santo (holy wine). It's a desert wine and served with biscotti cookies. You dip your cookie in the wine and eat it; it's pretty good. They call it Cantucci.

By this point everyone's drunk. Matt's half in the bag. I've crawled all the way in the bag and tied it shut.. Frankly, I don't know how I walked down the stairs. Then we went to some church (don't really remember it), then went to an overlook, but it was dark by that point. Then we went to a little hilltop town called Castellina where we had dinner. More food! More wine! Yay! We had penne arrabiatta and sausage with beans. The sausage with beans were the best thing I have ever eaten! I almost licked the plate (Becca Braun knows what I'm talking about), but I didn't want to look like a piggy American. Italians like to call the Tuscans "bean eaters" like it's an insult or something, but holy smokes, they make good beans! We finished off with a really good tiramisu and... more wine. I would like to tell you what happened on the rest of the trip, but I honestly can't remember.

We spend the rest of our time in Florence by taking trains out to Pisa and Lucca for one day, Siena for the next. We see the leaning tower; which looked just like the pictures. Apparently during WWII, the leaning tower almost got blown up. The Americans came into Pisa and were on the opposite of the Arno. They thought the leaning tower was a German spy lookout. They called it, "The Tiltin' Hilton." Luckily, they didn't blow it up.

Lucca was a neat town, it is surrounded by ramparts and there are only certain openings along the wall where you can enter the city center. On Sundays, the townspeople walk the ramparts around the city, which is about 2.5 miles long. It is really beautiful there. When Napoleon came through and conquered it, he liked it so much he gave it to his sister as a present. That sure was nice of him.

Next edition... our road finally leads to Rome.