Enjoy it now, folks, because as much as Thanksgiving grounds us in the intangible bounty of life, every year—just like clock work—his high-maintenance big brother is going to roll up right behind him. Where Thanksgiving is satisfied with a smile, a hug, and maybe a pie, Christmas requires a red carpet, a tree, a Santa Claus, and a choir of angles. And Christmas seems to arrive earlier and earlier every year, like a houseguest knocking on the door while you are still in the shower. Has it always been this way? When did Christmas become so obnoxious?

I wonder…if the three wise men had to pick their way through the holiday trappings we have set for ourselves, would they even make it to the manger? And would they walk in with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh? Or would they roll up in a Mini Cooper with a plasma screen TV, a X-Box 360, and a Ballyhoo Sensory Toy? Or maybe they would find themselves stuck at the mall, in the frankincense and myrrh store, panic stricken because there are now ten thousand different kinds of frankincense and myrrh, each with its own distinct decorative label, scent and celebrity endorsement. What if the person who works the frankincense and myrrh counter is out sick? Or what if they’re on their IPhone, chatting with a friend about last night’s episode of Criminal Minds? Or what if they just vaporize, as sales people are apt to do this time of year? Imagine the pressure on those wise men. Imagine the timetable. Consider the recipient.

I never would have made it as one of the wise men (or women).  I would have been the one saying, “What star? I don’t see a star.” Sure, I can bear gifts with dignity and grace, but nothing about they way I buy gifts is dignified or graceful. See, I hate to shop. For me, it’s more of an episode for me than it is an experience. The minute I set foot in a store I become riddled with every physical, psychological and social disorder known to man. Where I used to mumble under my breath about other meandering shoppers, and lethargic or nonexistent sales people, I know speak out loud in what some people might consider violent and irrational tones. I’ve diagnosed it as “Christmas turrets.” C’mon, admit it, you have it too. It’s triggered by things like television ads, Henry and David gift baskets—the ones with the fruitcake, and stores that burn loads of potpourri, like you’re chewing your way through a basket of pinecones.

This “Christmas turrets” makes me wonder…how will I carry the gifts of the Magi back into this holiday season? Where will I find the gold, frankincense and myrrh? Can I keep a lid on big brother Christmas—the noise, the chaos, the traffic, the lines, the catalogues, the expletives? If the spirit of giving is available at Macy’s, will the salesperson be able to tell me where to find it? I doubt it.

I think, I’ll take my cue from my humble friend Thanksgiving, and have a hug, and have some pie. Then maybe I’ll do as the wise men did—look. I’ll look at the recipient, and I’ll find the gift.

The post Here Comes Christmas appeared first on Julia Pandl.

Serves Four-Six

Ingredients

2-3 King Crab Legs, Split or Whole

18 Large (16-20 Count) Shrimp, Cooked, Peeled (Tails on) Deveined

Red-Tipped Leaf Lettuce

Lemon Wedge

Parsley Sprig

Cocktail Sauce

Line the glass with red tipped (or regular) leaf lettuce. Crush ice (you can buy it, or just use your blender). Fill glass about ¾ full with ice. Place crab legs in center, sticking up, and surround with shrimp. Sprinkle with more crushed ice. Garnish with parsley and lemon wedge.

For Cocktail Sauce:

1 Cup Ketchup

¼ Cup Fresh Squeezed Lemon Juice

3 Tablespoons Horseradish

¼ Cup Minced Celery

1 teaspoon Kosher Salt

(or)

If you’re in a hurry…just use the ketchup and horseradish. Mix to your liking.

Originally posted with love for The Boelter SuperStore. 

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Serves 6 (ish)

Ingredients

2 ½ tablespoons clarified butter

1 tablespoon garlic, minced

1 tablespoon shallot, minced

½ cup shiitake mushrooms, diced

½ cup button mushrooms, diced

½ cup beef stock

¼ cup sherry

1 tablespoon parsley

Salt and pepper to taste

½ cup heavy cream

¼ cup Gruyere cheese, shredded

Heat butter over medium-high heat in a small, heavy bottom sauce pan, add shallot and garlic, sauté about 3 minutes, add mushrooms, continue cooking for about 3 minutes, add sherry, beef stock, salt and pepper, and heavy cream.  Reduce heat to medium, or medium-low, and simmer until sauce is thickened, but not too thick. It should coat a spoon nicely. Add half of the parsley and remove sauce from heat.

Arrange drained escargot in escargot dish, top with sauce, and bake at 350º for about 15 minutes. Add cheese, and bake until cheese is melted and bubbly. Remove from oven. Garnish with the rest of the parsley, and serve with lightly buttered, toasted bread rounds.

Originally posted with love for The Boelter SuperStore!

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Serves 8 (ish)

1 ½ pounds boneless, skinless chicken breast, baked (350º oven—30 minutes), cooled and chopped.

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon fresh garlic, minced

½ Spanish onion, chopped (about 1 cup)

1 ½ cups celery, chopped

1 cup carrot, chopped

1 ½ teaspoons chili powder

1 ½ teaspoons cumin

2 cups chicken broth

2 14.5 ounce cans petite diced tomatoes

1 1# can tomato sauce

1 cup Mr. & Mrs. T’s Bold and Spicy Bloody Mary Mix

1 15 ounce can kidney beans

1 15 ounce can black beans

1 15 ounce can great northern beans

½ teaspoon wasabi paste

Kosher Salt

Heat olive oil in heavy bottom pot over medium heat. Sauté garlic and onions until soft, about 5 minutes, add celery, carrot, chili powder and cumin, sauté until soft, about 10 minutes. Pour in chicken broth, tomatoes, tomato sauce and bloody Mary mix. Simmer for about an hour. Add kidney beans, black beans, and wasabi paste; continue to simmer another 15-20 minutes. Kosher salt to taste. Add white beans last, simmer another 5 minutes and turn off heat. Serve with desired accoutrements (suggestions: cheese, sour cream, cilantro, tortilla chips, avocado, corn bread).

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Fred Astaire in a Glass

Full disclosure—I’m not a huge martini drinker, not because I don’t like them, because I like them a little too much. But every now and then my day job requires me to take one, or two, or three for the team. Such was the case last week when my co-worker Catherine and I paid a visit to Elsa’s on the Park for a little Martini tutorial and tasting. I know, I know, it’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.

If you live in Milwaukee, and you don’t know Elsa’s, you should. Famous for its excellent service, its late night dining, its juicy burgers, and its hot wings with waffle fries, Elsa’s is a gem of a restaurant that has been tucked in Cathedral Square since 1979.  It’s part of the landscape. And Elsa’s martini’s…well…there’s an anonymous quote out there that describes them best. It goes like this…

“I’m not talking a cup of cheap gin splashed over an ice cube. I’m talking satin, fire and ice; Fred Astaire in a glass; surgical cleanliness, insight, comfort, redemption and absolution. I’m talking MARTINI.”

Tony was our mixologist for the evening. We started with an Appletini—shaken not stirred. Normally, I don’t do fruity drinks. Certain food groups, in my opinion, should remain separate, but this was a delicious mix of vodka and sour apple schnapps—a perfect blend of sweet and sour.

Then it was on to the English Garden Martini—Hendrick’s Gin, St. Germain, and muddled cucumber. I mean really, who can say no to a muddled cucumber? This martini has all the goods. Hendrick’s is super smooth, with notes of citrus peel, coriander, rose petal and cucumber. It’s distilled in small batches so the master distiller can have greater control over his artistry. And as for the St. Germain— It’s the first liqueur in the world created in the artisanal French manner from freshly picked elderflower blossoms. They call it the bartender’s bacon. That should tell you all you need to know. Betty Ford here I come!

And last but not least, we sipped the Cosmopolitan—Elsa’s most popular martini, and there’s little wondering why. It’s a work of art. Once again, a French liqueur—Cointreau—puts this martini over the top in terms of flavor. Cointreau is the consummate blend of opposites—sweet and bitter orange peels, with pure alcohol from sugar beets. If I had to choose, this one would win hands down, every time. As a matter of fact, it does. The Cosmopolitan is sophistication and fun with a twist of lemon. Fred and Ginger in a glass, one might say.

Cheers!

(Originally written with love for The Boelter Superstore)

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The 2012 Olympic opening ceremonies are just beginning. Yahoo! I love the Olympics. I love the music; I love the outfits, and I LOVE Bob Costas. With each and every video montage, I will become invested in the lives of perfect strangers, the Gods of sport. I will cheer them on to victory, and I will weep for them in defeat. They will astound me as I sit on the couch—a bag of Cheetos in one hand, a Miller Lite in the other—and celebrate their dedication, determination, physical fitness, and their athleticism. But…badminton? What the…?

It’s a questionable one, right? It’s pretend tennis. It’s the day your high school gym teacher had a hangover. I have a hard time getting excited about a “sport” that is played at backyard barbecues alongside the corn hole toss and the potato sack races. If you can do it in Docksiders and Bermuda shorts, with a gin and tonic in your hand (without spilling), and be pretty good at it, does it really qualify as an Olympic sport? If you’ve seen your eighty-year-old grandmother do it, and do it well, does it qualify as a “sport” at all?

They say the shuttlecock travels at speed in excess of 400 miles per hour. And?  Wad up a piece of Kleenex and throw it at the person sitting next to you. Synchronized diving off a 10-meter high concrete platform, intimidating, a shuttlecock made out of goose feathers coming at you at 400 miles per hour, not so much. They say badminton requires lightening fast reactions. So? Sometimes getting to the bathroom requires lightening fast reactions.

Still, the badminton players trained (even it was with a quarter barrel), they are dedicated, they are determined, and they made it to the Olympics. So I will watch, I will cheer, and I will weep.

Let the games begin!

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“I am aware that the practice of medicine and diagnostic imaging is not an exact science and I acknowledge that no guarantees have been made to me concerning the results of the procedure.” (I read: If we F this up, you’re SOL).

Wouldn’t it be great if every job that required “customer” service had its own consent form?

Here’s how the one at the DMV would read:

“I am aware the practice of issuing all things vehicle related is not an exact science. I acknowledge that my entire morning will be shot, standing in line. I understand that I am not allowed to ask what the hell is taking so long, because that would be insensitive to the “workers” who are busy painting their ridiculously long fingernails, or simply staring at the walls. No matter how bad it gets, I will not comment on the smell. And I know my picture is going to look like shit, because the camera was specifically designed (during the Hoover administration) to make everyone (including Mother Theresa) look like an escaped convict.”

Tech Support:

“I am aware the practice of offering technical support, whether it be for phone, internet, e-mail or cable TV access, is not an exact science (even though it kinda is). I agree to believe that my technician’s given name really is “Steve,” if he agrees to believe that I look exactly like Julia Roberts. Despite the fact that I’ve already tried it ten times, I will not complain when Steve asks me to shut down and restart my computer. And when “Steve” finally determines that my issue will require a tech visit, I acknowledge that no guarantees can be made regarding the words “between one and five.”   

Oh, how I wish we had one of these back when I was a caterer…

“I am aware that the practice of catering is not an exact science. Food does get dropped and spilled. Electricity goes out, ice melts in the heat, pets have hair, glassware breaks—especially the really expensive stuff, and some guests can be major assholes. They are my friends, after all, not the friends of my caterer. I acknowledge that my caterer can make no guarantees regarding the sobriety of our musicians, the condition of the bouncy-house, or the behavior of the ponies.  And, contrary to what I might believe, my caterer has absolutely no control over the weather. For assistance on this front, I will need to petition the Infant of Prague, Mother Nature and/or God Himself.”

Hope you have enjoyed reading.

The practice of blog writing is not an exact science.

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To the woman who was ahead of me in line,

I promise not to publish it, despite the fact that I now know your full name, your address, who and where your gynecologist is, and every last detail of your current cervical condition. If you noticed, I was trying to be discreet, staying behind the strict, invisible HIPPA line, but I have two functioning ears, and unfortunately, they listen, even when I don’t want them to. I’m saying a prayer right now that you are not still sitting, waiting for your doctor to send over the order.

To President Obama,

Perhaps you already know this, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Forty is the recommended screening age for mammograms. A forty-year-old female body, just FYI, Mr. President, produces odors that can only be described as alarming. The need for deodorant is paramount. We (read: me) cannot sneak by without deodorant the way we could in our twenties, or even our thirties. Go ahead, and ask Michelle. I’m certain she will “have my back” on this issue.

I am sincerely offended by the smell of BO, mine or anybody else’s. And I find it very hard to believe that a few swipes of deodorant, which I was told not to wear, would be capable of disrupting the effectiveness of such “advanced” technology. So since you’re in mandating mode, how about mandating that the National Cancer Institute get together with the folks over at GE, and develop a mammography device that can say…stand up to the active ingredients in Lady Speed Stick?

While you’re at it, I’d also like you to mandate that someone (I suggest starting with Apple, since I’m pretty sure my iPhone already has the capabilities) invent a mammogram machine that acts more like it’s taking a picture, and less like it’s backing a minivan over my boobs. I must tell you, Sir, that I looked down while in mid-mammogram, and because of what I saw (think: map of Poland) I intend to seek permanent disability for mental health reasons.

If you’d like me to appear before Congress with these requests, I am at your disposal.

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1. Went to Omaha, AKA—The Big “O.” Appeared on The Morning Blend, and did a reading at Anthony’s Steakhouse. Learned that people really like book readings when there are drinks involved. Thanks to Nikki, Shannon and the Lunch Bunch. What a blast.
2. Got a puppy (see inset). Named her Stella—as in Artois. Walk her what seems like twenty times a day. As smart as she is, she still barks at Weber grills, garbage bags, and dirt piles. I’m teaching her to heel, but not very well. I like the way her paws sound in the grass. Considering writing a book about her so I can claim her as a business expense.
3. Did reading at Milwaukee Country Club. Thanks to Patty and Mike. Learned that no matter how fancy the setting, folks still laugh out loud when you talk about boogers and chafing. Who knew?
4. Had a “book” booth at Ben Fest in Chicago. Relearned that I don’t do arts and crafts for kids very well. Sorry about the permanent marker folks.
5. Flew to Boston, and did a reading at Anthem Kitchen and Bar. Thanks to Betsy, Peggy and all that attended.  Walked on the freedom trail, and learned that an oyster shooter absolutely must be chased by a beer. Ach!
6. Went to Wausau, and did a reading at The Wright Place on 6^th—cozy, adorable, and great food. If you ever find yourself in Wausau (at Rib Mountain maybe), do check it out. Patty Kay, you’re the best.
7. Did a reading at Books & Company in Oconomowoc—a wonderful little Indie outside of Milwaukee. Great group. Lynn even made Miss Willie’s Banana Cream and Custard pies.
8. Book clubs, book clubs, book clubs. Thanks to everyone for inviting me. Keep ‘em coming!
9. Drove down to Kenosha for a reading at House of Gerhard.  Thank you Kathy, Gary, Angie and Dick for providing a wonderful cap to a summer chock full of book events. Excellent food and lovely group. Tons of fun.

Just read that there is a frost advisory for Northern Wisconsin tonight. I guess summer really is over. Time to pull out my jeans and see if they still fit…

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Howdy folks. Spring Break 2011 is long gone. San Antonio has been left in the dust. Jeans are a little tighter, got my new boots on (see inset), and I’m still, quite possibly, the whitest woman in America. All is right with the world. San Antonio, it turns out, is a delightful place to visit. I can’t say exactly what I was expecting—more pistols in holsters and spittoons in the corner, I suppose—but what I found was a delightful little river walk, and delicious food (and margaritas) aplenty.

If you have the time, check out a place called Bohanan’s. We had dinner there on Friday night—Fr. Dan’s choice. Excellent food, a little pricey, but my brother-in-law picked up the tab, so…you know…well worth it from my seat. I took advantage of a Canon Law loophole—something about the Feast of the Annunciation falling on a Friday during Lent, and the Blessed Mother Herself giving the green light on red meat—and ordered the rib eye and the white Bordeaux.  I know, I know, white wine and red meat, not exactly an Emily Post pairing. But don’t knock this lovely little combo ‘til you’ve tried it. I doubt Ms. Post ever took her cowboy boots for a spin in her bathing suit either. Giddy up!

Book adventures continue…

Reading last Wednesday at the Vintage Brewery in Madison was a smashing success. What a gem of an evening! Thanks to everyone who attended. Also, attended my first book club at Susie Pop’s house. Great fun. Lots of laughs—lots of chats. Was told that I do not, in fact, have cankles. I’m looking at them right now, and I have to say…I disagree.

Next Up:

Reading at Nina’s Café, St. Paul: Saturday, May 7^th, 6:30 PM.

Morning Blend: Monday, May 16^th, 9:00 AM. (Note to self: lose 15 pounds).

Reading at Next Chapter Bookshop: Wednesday, May 18^th, 7:00 PM.

Reading at Jack Pandl’s Whitefish Bay Inn: Sunday, May 22^nd, 2:00 PM.

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