I’ve always had a pot of oregano among my herbs, but it was either Greek or Mediterranean.  This was the first time I had seen, or at least noticed, Mexican oregano.  Unlike the grayish-green rounded leaves of the other varieties, this one had bright green, pointed leaves:

I can’t wait to use it in a recipe, and those flowers are going to make a pretty garnish.

Oregano is used frequently in Mexican recipes, and one that we really love is Ninfa’s Carrot Relish.  These pickled carrots were always on the table at Ninfa’s, along with legendary red and green salsas.  The recipe appeared in the Houston Chronicle years ago,and I’ve made it many times since.  One time, my Dad threw some leftover cauliflower into the warm brine, and it was so good, that he declared, “I don’t know why you would ever make it any other way.”  Gotta agree with you, Dad — it is even better with the cauliflower!

Chiles de arbol add just the right kick

Why would you ever make it without cauliflower?

I found this glass paperweight, with its two little goldfish, at an estate sale.  I’ve never understood paperweights or the purpose they’re supposed to serve.  It’s not like anyone has to worry about hurricane-force winds blowing through their office, whipping their important papers into a tornado-like frenzy.

Hurry, hurry — get out the paperweights!

Paperweights are pretty much just desk bling.  I can certainly understand how two glass goldfish suspended in a glass bubble for eternity would be preferable to real goldfish in a glass fishbowl, for desk bling and pretty much all other purposes.  If you have kids, you have no doubt come home from a carnival at some point with a goldfish in a baggie:

Who the heck came up with the idea of a goldfish as a carnival prize?  What on earth were they thinking?   If you want to give something living as a prize, wouldn’t a plant be better?   The instant the carnie guy hands a kid a bagged up goldfish, the kid bonds with it, like he gave birth to it.  Within minutes, the fish has a name, and the fantasy of a fun-filled life with fishie begins.  So you go straight from the carnival to the pet store to buy a bowl, and gravel, and a fake plant, and a plastic treasure chest, and fish food, because if you’re like most folks, you don’t have a koi pond waiting to receive your fishie.  But it’s a waste of money, because chances are the fishie will not be looking too good by the time you get it home, and it’s just a matter of time before you are holding toiletside services while flushing Nemo.  In fact, every carnival goldfish should come with a commodeside prayer book and a Baskin-Robbins coupon (where you will likely wind up trying to comfort your grieving kid).  I have one question — WHERE IS PETA?  Why aren’t they protesting at carnivals across the nation to try to put an end to this fishie abuse?

The bulging eyeballs on the goldfish in the paperweight remind me of something my Dad once said.  I used to love tapioca as a kid, until the day my Dad told me that when he was little he used to call it “fish eyeballs.”  That was it for me — I didn’t eat tapioca for decades after that.

Tapioca is a starch that comes from the cassava plant.  It’s used as a thickener, and is considered to be gluten-free.  It’s processed into a variety of forms, including the “pearls” used to make tapioca pudding (large tapioca pearls are the “bubbles” in bubble tea).  The pearls are opaque when dry, but become translucent when cooked in liquid.

Inspired by the little fishies in the glass paperweight, and memories of my Dad’s warped humor, I made good old-fashioned tapioca pudding, using the recipe on the package.  I had only ever made the instant kind, and it was definitely a LOT more work (2 days in the making) to make it from non-instant tapioca, but it was worth it — it is creamier and smoother than the instant variety.  You begin by soaking the tapioca in water overnight (or a week or so–no one’s counting).  Once I realized that I didn’t have to stand over the double boiler for an hour because it cooks at such a low temperature that it isn’t going to burn, the process became quite a bit easier.  Although I had always been served tapioca pudding chilled, the package says that it “is divinely soothing when served warm and delightfully refreshing when chilled.”  Having tried it both ways now, I’d have to agree.

 To make old-fashioned tapioca pudding, use this kind.

 Not this.

 Tapioca pearls after soaking overnight (or for a week or so)

 Milk and tapioca cooking in double boiler over very low heat

 Garnished with whipped topping and berries, it’s “delightfully refreshing”

 Fishie eyeballs, indeed!

The gardenias must have enjoyed the mild winter, because they are big and beautiful this year:

The same is true for the magnolias:

On a warm night, if you close your eyes and inhale deeply, the scent from these flowers is so powerful it is almost overwhelming.  It has been a spectacular spring this year.

Yesterday, however, we were reminded that summer is, if not actually here yet, pretty close.  It was hot, muggy, and that familiar dusty haze hung overhead.  My husband’s firm had its kickoff summer recruiting party, and my son and I went to our first  cookout of the year.  Sigh.  Time to settle in (and I do mean “in”) for another long, hot, Houston summer.

I made my favorite Black Bean and Corn Salad to bring to the cookout.  It’s easy, healthy, and colorful.  I make it often, especially in the summer.

I found this vintage war poster at an estate sale.  I hung it in my office, as a tribute to myself.  After all, I was a nurse in a former life, and, well, the rest is obvious.  :)

So what did I do to deserve being chosen (by myself) as “The Greatest Mother in the World?”  Well, if you asked my teenage kids today, they would probably say “nothing.”  But I have actual documentary proof that at one time in their lives, I was, indeed, The Greatest Mother in the World in their eyes.

For example, there is this loving tribute from my son when he was around 6 or 7 years old:

See!  I was nice, giving, irreplaceable, always doing things for him, etc.  Oh, and let’s not forget #7:

Interactive?  Like some kind of Mom-bot?  But hey, if that’s what it takes to be The World’s Greatest Mother, I’ll be interactive.

I have evidence from my daughter too.  In her young eyes, I was not only royalty, but I was bright, funny, cleaning, and working nights (huh?):

But wait, there’s more:

Mostly truthful?  Wonder what it was I lied about?  Didn’t she think I was telling the truth when I told her she was the smartest, prettiest, funniest, most loving child on the planet?  Then there’s this wonderful anagram of my name:

Nice mom, A woman, New York in third grade, Cookies, Yarn knitters — as the song goes, put them all together they spell N-A-N-C-Y.  I had to ask where the “yarn knitter” came from, seeing as I’ve never knit, crocheted, or even macramed a thing in my life.  She said it was the only adjective she could come up with that started with a Y.  Guess “youthful” didn’t make the cut.  :(  On the other hand, I suppose I should be grateful that “yucky,” “yellow-bellied,” and “yappy,” also didn’t make the cut.

Going back to the poster — look at the pained expression on the face of The Greatest Mother in the World.

If you have kids, you’ve surely worn that face, probably more times than you care to admit.  It’s the one you wear when your kid isn’t invited to a party that all of their friends have been invited to.  Or when the coach only lets them bat once in 9 innings, and even then, tells them not to swing and not-so-secretly hopes they’ll get hit with the ball and walk to first base.  It’s the one you wear when your kid is crushed because they spelled “parfait” incorrectly and didn’t get to be in the Spelling Bee (“It wasn’t fair, Mom, they gave us a French word!”).  It’s the one you wear every time you have to flush a fishie or bury a birdie or hold last rites for a hamster.

Although that face got quite a workout when my kids were younger, it really doesn’t surface that much now that they are older (and middle school is, thankfully, in the rear mirror).  They’re old enough to handle their own disappointments now, and to brush off the small slights that seemed so huge not so long ago.

Inspired by The World’s Greatest Mother in the vintage poster, and seeing as today is the day we all celebrate our own Greatest Mother in the World, I made a batch of Shortbread Strawberries to bring to my mother-in-law today.  I made these for her many years ago, back when my kids were young and thought I hung the moon, and she had remarked then how pretty they were.  I wonder if she’ll remember them?  You can use any shortbread recipe — the one I’ve provided here is adapted from The Silver Palate.  The idea of the cookies is to resemble strawberries, not be strawberries, so don’t get too carried away trying to make them look perfect.  (If you are looking for a place to buy colored sprinkles and other decorations, you won’t find a better, less expensive source than Country Kitchen Sweetart.)

Ready for the oven

 Hot out of the oven

Happy Mother’s Day to all of The Greatest Mothers in the World!

Mirror, mirror on the wall

I am my mother, after all

We recently had friends over for dinner, and they showed up bearing a great bottle of wine, a really delicious queso with chorizo, and several different kinds of asian fruits that they had picked up in Chinatown.  The fruits were all ones that I had seen before, but never tried, and I was looking forward to sampling them.

One of the fruits was a Korean melon:

These are bright yellow, petite (about 6″ long) oval melons.  They have a large seed cavity in the center and a juicy, firm white flesh.  The flavor was reminiscent of honeydew with lemon.  Unlike most melons, Korean melons stay firm when cooked.  Buyers are advised to look for fruit that has a sweet fragrance, feels heavy for its size, and yields slightly to pressure.  These Korean melons were delicious in fruit salad, and I will definitely be on the lookout for them.

I was also introduced to Yali pears, a variety of Asian pear:

The Yali pears had a pale, yellow skin with a crisp white interior.  I learned that the pears are ripened after picking because if left on the tree, they become mealy.  As the pear ripens, its starches convert to sugar, making for sweet, juicy fruits.  I loved the crisp texture of the pears, and their delicate flavor.

The third fruit they introduced me to, and the one that really knocked my socks off, was rambutan:

These were definitely the most unusual-looking of the lot.  The name of the fruit comes from the Malaysian/Indonesian word rambutan, which means hairy.  My friend showed me how to slice the outer covering open horizontally and peel half back to reveal the fruit inside.  He told us that in Singapore, where he grew up, the fruits are a favorite of flying foxes.  The fruit is white and translucent, with a pit in the middle about the size of a dime.  You can slice the flesh off the pit, or just pop it in your mouth and work around the pit, much like you would with a cherry.  The flavor is sweet and floral, reminiscent of lychees.  These were not only fun to eat, but were delicious, and I was wowed by them.

We had a fun evening with friends, and I really enjoyed trying these fruits.  I’m looking forward to a trip to the Korean grocer or Chinatown to buy some more.  Meanwhile, I am going to be on the lookout for something out of the ordinary at the farmers market to surprise them with.

It’s the anchor of a compound of Italian restaurants owned by the Mandola family that also includes Vincent’s, Grappino di Nino, and the newest addition, La Gelateria.

The restaurants are grouped around a charming terrace that manages to feel European without being hokey.

The interior, with its dark wood, terrazzo floors, antique pots and pans, and hanging herbs and garlic braids, is attractive and comfortable — no plastic cheeses and prosciutto hanging from the rafters here.

Crusty bread flecked with olives, accompanied with garlicky olive oil, arrived quickly after we were seated (and disappeared almost as quickly).

The service was attentive without being fussy.  We started with an antipasto platter, which had a nice assortment of meats, cheeses, and vegetables — something for everyone.

Our family ordered four entrees:

 Pollo Arrosto

 Veal Vincent, a house favorite

 Snapper Nino, another house favorite

 Chicken Scallopini Parmigiano

The entrees were nice, although underseasoned for our tastes.  Although the portions were ample, the restaurant could have been a little more generous with ingredients — the two artichokes on the Veal Vincent, for example, definitely could have used some company.

So what’s the secret to Nino’s longevity?  I think one of the reasons the restaurant remains a favorite for many people is that it has a familiar and safe menu.  Nothing intimidating or too challenging.  A place where you can go on a date, or take your kids, or grandma and grandpa, or a business colleague, and everyone has a good time.  My daughter perfectly described the restaurant as “happy.”

Nice rack, huh?

This annual event is always a sellout, and I can see why.  The Herb Society pulled out all the stops for their symposium.  Before the program started and during breaks, we were treated to refreshments prepared by some of the members.  They were beautifully presented, and included large containers of herbal tea and flavored waters, herbed biscuits and muffins, muesli, loquat honey, elderberry jam, herbed butters and spreads, and fresh fruit:

Naturally, herbs were everywhere!  There were dozens of herb bouquets and whimsical arrangments:

A reminder, lest we forget why we were there:

There were three speakers.  The first speaker was Lynn Herbert, who authored and edited the most recent revision of the River Oaks Garden Club’s A Garden Book for Houston and the Texas Gulf Coast.  A whopping 672 pages, this book is full of useful information and gorgeous photos.

Next up was “For Use and Delight–Stunning and Aromatic Arrangements from the Herb Garden,” presented by Jay White, an organic gardener from Brenham, Texas.  (He has a popular blog — The Masters of Horticulture.)  He was an engaging speaker, and everyone enjoyed seeing him create an arrangement with the variety of herbs and flowers he brought from his garden.  (It also made me wish I had a real yard.)

 Jay White waving around yarrow

There was a wonderful box lunch from Canopy, that included tabouli, a corn and green bean salad, a petite sandwich on nut bread with a goat cheese, cranberry, pecan, and spinach filling, half of a very tasty wrap, and a citrus-glazed pastry (not sure on that one, actually –it had us all guessing).

During the lunch break, there was a tour of the Garden Center’s rose garden, which was in full bloom:

Had to include a yellow rose — this is Texas, after all 

The final speaker of the day was Master Gardener Marian Buchanan, who talked about identifying and using edible flowers.  I got a few ideas from her that I am looking forward to trying.

Everyone left with a goodie bag, a seed packet or two from among the table decorations, a basil plant, and a bay leaf branch.  The gentleman next to me also managed to persuade Jay White to give him a few stalks of pink honeysuckle, which he hopes to root (and he promised to let me know if he is successful so I can hopefully get one).  There were lots of great door prizes, but it was not my lucky day.  But I did manage to score a cardamom ginger, Mexican mint marigold, and variegated scented geranium at the shop they set up, along with a pamphlet on making flavored vinegars, a few copies of the Houston Garden Book (for myself and for gifts), and a few packets of culinary herb blends.

The blend that intrigued me the most was one called Rosemary’s Cookies, and it consisted of dried rosemary, ground ginger, and ground cloves.

According to the package, “Baking these cookies, filled with ginger, cloves and molasses, will bring forth memories of your own grandmother’s kitchen.  However, it’s the lingering flavor of rosemary that will set your recipe apart for your own children, grandchildren or dearest friends.  After all, rosemary is the ‘herb of remembrance,’ and you are sure to be remembered for this recipe.”  Hey, I like to be remembered, so I whipped up a batch of Rosemary’s Cookies, using the recipe provided.  The cookies were a big hit here, even with the kids, although my husband advised that they are even better once you know that there’s rosemary in them and can stop wondering what it is that’s different about them.

Ready for the oven

Have to resist eating them until they are cool

Hope I’m remembered for these

I found this cheery birthday postcard on ebay.  What a thoughtful person the sender must have been.  It was sent 99 years ago!

I don’t know when birthday postcards fell out of favor, but I vote to bring them back.  Today the sender would probably go on Facebook and write “Happy Birthday!  Hope it’s a great one!  <3 <3 <3.”  Or maybe send a text message, like “HAPPY B-DAY 2U, HOPE UR DAY IS GR8T! ”  Although I appreciate the electronic sentiments, I’m still touched when someone goes to the trouble to send me a birthday card.  (The same is true for invitations, birth announcements, etc. — the electronic versions aren’t nearly as nice.)

Following the trench warfare during WWI that took place in the poppy fields of Flanders in Belgium, poppies became a symbol of remembrance of soldiers who have died in war.  Wearing a poppy on Memorial Day has been a tradition in the U.S. since 1924.  Remember the crepe paper poppies that the American Legion used to sell?

The opium poppy, papaver somniferum, is the plant from which opium is derived.  The Latin name means “sleep-bringing properties,” and thus, poppies are often associated with sleep.  Remember Dorothy snoozing in the field of poppies?

So maybe the poppies on the birthday postcard symbolized that someone was being remembered on their birthday.  Or maybe it was just to wish the person a sleep-filled day.  Speaking of birthdays, mine was this week.  I look forward to this day all year, because after all, I get a bunch of presents, and I get to go out to eat at my favorite restaurant, and I get a new party outfit, and several hundred people wish me happy birthday on Facebook, and I get a party with a petting zoo and a themed-cake, and, oh yeah, that’s my kids’ birthdays, not mine.  Over the years, as we got busier with work and kids and life in general, and our calendars overflowed with commitments of all sorts, I grew to expect less and less each year on my birthday.

Two years ago, I discovered that although the birthday bar is low for me, it does exist.  My husband had been in California for four months working day and night on a trial.  It was the longest he’d ever been away from us.  I didn’t expect much, given how hard he’d been working, but I thought for sure he’d call on my birthday.  I didn’t hear from him before I left for work, but didn’t think too much about it.  He’d sent flowers for our anniversary the month before, and I thought maybe there would be flowers waiting for me at the office (we almost never send flowers).  Nope.  Around noon I called him, and he answered the phone with “WHAT?”  I said, “I thought you might want to wish me Happy Birthday,” and he said, “Your birthday is tomorrow.”  I corrected him, and then listened to him curse himself for a few minutes before telling him not to worry about it and hanging up.

So the burden of celebrating my birthday fell on my teenagers, who failed to rise to the occasion.  Maybe they muttered “happy birthday,” I’m not sure.  They quit making cards years ago.  We had a scout meeting that night that we couldn’t skip, which meant no birthday dinner with the kids.  We got home around 9 p.m. and settled in to watch a little TV before bed.  I woke up on the couch around 1 a.m. — the kids had gone up to bed and just left me there asleep on the couch.  Thank heavens for the dog that kept me company.  Like I said, I don’t expect much, but it has to be something more than nothing.

This year I didn’t want another sleep-filled birthday, so I didn’t leave anything to chance.  I arranged lunch with friends at a new restaurant, and had dinner with other friends at another new restaurant.  My daughter was babysitting that night, and my husband and son were camping all weekend, so we agreed in advance that we would celebrate later.  I brought my own birthday cake to work, because I’ve only been there 6 months and wasn’t sure if they knew or cared it was my birthday.  It turned out they did know and were planning to order a cake.  :)  I signed up for an herb symposium, which I really enjoyed (more on that later).  There was an unexpected surprise from the Texas Supreme Court in a case I’ve been working on, and that made the day extra special.  I had a great birthday, and am looking forward to wrapping it up with dinner with my family tonight.

One final note about poppies.  When my son was in grade school, he came home one day and told us that he had “sloppy poppies” for lunch.  Of course, he meant Sloppy Joes, but as his parents, it cracked us up, much like everyone thinks “sketti” is hilarious the first time their kid blurts that out.  Inspired by the cheery poppy birthday postcard, I made homemade Sloppy Poppies Sloppy Joes.  They are so good and easy, and I have sent them many times as part of a compassion meal (with big hamburger buns, chips, cookies, and fruit salad), to let the recipient know that they are in our thoughts.  The recipe is adapted from The New Basics by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins.

 My love upon your Birthday, dear

A happy day, a happy year,

And think of me this morning, too

Because I always think of you.

<3 <3 <3

Why don’t I ride too, you ask?  My cycling career was short-lived, and ended when I fell on my bike, pedals still clipped in to my shoes that my husband, well-meaning and hopelessly optimistic, bought for me.  As I lay there crumpled on the pavement, bike still attached to me, a police officer (whose fault the accident was), leaned over and said, “Are you OK?”  In order to answer his stupid question I attempted to stand up, only to crumple back to the ground after realizing I couldn’t bear weight on my right ankle.  2 surgeries, 2 pins, a plate, and 7 screws later, I decided that cycling wasn’t for me.  (That, and the fact that I refuse to wear spandex.)

Who says I can’t get a break?

Having a broken ankle wasn’t all bad.  I got to work from home for over a month during lucid moments between painkillers, friends and neighbors drove my children to and from school, and prepared meals showed up at my house as if by magic.  I learned a lot about what it’s like to be dependent on the kindness and generosity of others, and definitely try to pay it forward.

But back to last weekend.  The kids and I are my husband’s MS 150 “support team,” which means we pick him up at Beuscher State Park in Bastrop, check us in to the Hyatt Lost Pines Resort, enjoy a relaxing afternoon, a nice meal, and hopefully a good night’s sleep.  In the morning, I drive him back to Beuscher State Park so that he can complete the last leg of the ride.  We pick him up in Austin a few hours later and head home.

It is always a treat to be able to spend a night or two at the Lost PInes, and it’s a popular getaway for Houstonians:

Hard to miss the entrance

Enormous pecan trees grace the property

An impressive arrangement greets guests

Lush landscaping adds to the beauty of the resort

There’s a butterfly meadow . . . 

And a hummingbird garden to wander around in

A longhorn on the property reminds you that you are in Texas

A fire pit to gather around, and complimentary s’mores

The lobby glows in the evening light

A table awaits at Stories, an upscale restaurant for a special meal at the hotel.

As you can see, there are perks to being my husband’s support team.  But the best part about this year’s ride, for me, was that the Texas wildflowers were still in full bloom.  Once we got outside of LaGrange, the roadsides were a mosaic of glorious Texas spring color.  There were big splotches of pink Texas Buttercups:

Colorful Mexican Blanket Flowers:

Beautiful deep pink Wine Cups (also known as Poppy Mallows and Cowboy Roses):

Delicate White Prickly Poppies:

 and fluffy purple Texas Thistles, to name a few.

Prickly pear cactus were just getting ready to bloom:

But as every Texan knows, the real star of the Texas wildflower show is the Texas Bluebonnet:

An article in yesterday’s New York Times perfectly describes the frenzied excitement Texans experience each year when the bluebonnets are in full bloom.

All in all, it was a wonderful Texas spring weekend, with perfect weather for the riders.

Back at home, I had those prickly pear cactus paddles on my mind.  At Hugo’s, one of my favorite restaurants (Hugo Ortega is a James Beard finalist this year for the second year in a row), many of the dishes are accompanied by a tasty little tangle of grilled cactus, or nopalitos.  My friend Gloria used to make a similar salad using jarred ones.  I tried to find fresh cactus paddles at the grocery store, thinking it would at least be interesting to try to remove the spines and prepare them for cooking, but all they had was a bag of chopped, cleaned ones:

Since they were already chopped up, instead of grilling the nopalitos, I sauteed them, which worked well.  The salad was easy to make, and something a little out of the ordinary to serve with grilled meats.  The nopalitos have an unexpected tangy note.  I highly recommend buying the nopalitos already prepared!

 Sauteeing the nopalitos

I’m not talking just one or two mannequins, but dozens of naked, maimed mannequins:

As I stood there surveying the mannequin massacre, trying to wrap my head around it, all I could think was that I had to take a picture to show my husband.  As I was snapping the pictures, however, I saw people looking at me, and started to worry that they might think I was weird.  And then I thought, “I’m surrounded by piles of mutilated mannequins, and I’m worried that someone might think I forgot to take my meds?”  Reality check!

I have no idea how those mannequins met their demise or why they were cavalierly tossed in the backyard.  Isn’t that what dumpsters are for?  The scene brought to mind an old Saturday Night Live skit with Dennis Hopper, involving a party with inflatable dolls, and he had a fit because someone “popped his girl.”  Or the Jonestown mass suicide.  Anyway, I’ve since revised my will to include instructions that any dismembered mannequins of mine be discarded before my children expose the contents of my home to complete strangers in the hopes of making a few dollars.

The mannequins weren’t the only disturbing thing in this backyard.  Check out the pool:

See it back there, in all its brilliant pea green glory?  I’m guessing the pool guy took one look at the mannequins, realized life was too short to mess with it, and hightailed it out of there.

Looking at the pool (1) makes me want to take antibiotics, and (2) makes me think of split pea soup (sorry — can’t help it).  I’ve been feeling crummy this past week with the flu or allergies or both, and we’re about to get yet another cold front, so inspired by the discarded mannequins lounging around the pea green pool, I made a big pot of Split Pea and Ham Soup.  The recipe is adapted from the one in The New Basics Cookbook by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins (my Silver Palate heroines).  It is a comforting, familiar soup, with an interesting twist from the sherry and tarragon.

 Not for dummies!