Good things come in small packages, so goes the cliché, and this week the small packages included two kids with lots and lots of dirty tissues. I should have picked up on the red flags hitting me in the face when my daughter began her typical deconstruction of events.

First, there was the academic question:

“Mom, are you sure we can’t feel the earth’s rotation on its axis?” (i.e., I’m dizzy as hell.)

Then, the philosophical question:

“If I am sweating like crazy, but I am not exercising, am I still sweating?”

(i.e., I am burning up a wicked fever; please oh please shove a thermometer in my mouth, mother.)

And finally, the biggest signal of them all, the culinary question:

“Do I have to eat something?”

(i.e., if you know anything about me, it’s that I always, always, ALWAYS eat, so something is seriously wrong.)

My son, who is much more flamboyant in his angst with illness lay curled in a ball of misery, eyes puffed, full lips unusually fuller, eyelashes fighting to stay open occasionally throwing a groan out for whomever would care to capture it.

I chose to look away from all this, I confess. Even with the culinary question at hand and the fever-induced drama, there were too many things jotted into the week’s calendar to invite the flu over to play. Of course, I’ve been a mother long enough to know that this is precisely the time the flu decides to hit and hit hard. Before I could say the word “overscheduled” I found myself quarantined in my house with two infirm children, force-feeding glasses of water chased by jiggers of Tylenol and Advil watching the week and all its appointments slip by in the blink of an eye.

By the end of that first day the list of complaints was long and steady: sore throat, stuffy nose, achy bones and dizziness reigned and my patience was wearing thin. I admit to being a tad crass when it comes to nurturing sick ones, even if they are my sick ones. Nose-blowing and medicine dispensing have never been my forte especially under the guise of little sleep. But there was a glimmer of hope when the request arose for my “Israeli medicine,” which was my six-year old’s cry for Jewish penicillin, aka, chicken soup. Given the opportunity to feed them back to health all frustrations washed away and I transformed into a busy culinary caregiver with a keen sense of purpose quickly peeling carrots, rinsing leeks and chopping up potatoes.

The pot filled with goodness came to a slow simmer and before I knew it the air was infused with the simple marvels of chicken, carrots and potatoes. My children know me well and glowed through their haze of illness as I prepared them their soup. They are happier because I am happier, and as I slipped the parsley into the pot I caught a glimpse of them watching me and wondered for a moment if they’ve asked for this soup for them or for me?

I looked at them and smiled through the steam and they managed a grin back.

“Israeli medicine coming up”, I happily announced, suddenly feeling whole, purposeful, and strangely appreciative. Maybe it was the Tylenol or the hot bowl of soup they’d soon have, or the simple act of making me feel better for them to feel better. At any rate, I knew these packages where worthy keepers.

I knew from the six-inch label riddled with artificial ingredients that this was a bad idea.  It was anyone’s guess that muddled amongst the additives and preservatives was an egg or two, even if from an extremely non-organic hen.  Still, my daughter’s 10-year old birthday celebration eagerly awaited and according to her it could not be commemorated without our local grocery’s mammoth sheet cake spray painted with tiny glorious images of Zach Efron and his High School Musical entourage.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to bake you a cake?” I begged, knowing, in the back of my head that I must be supportive of whatever her wants and needs are and be flexible at this significant time, because after all it was her birthday.

I watched her lanky body standing next to me and duly noted that she was on the cusp of adolescence, which promised an assortment of rebellion: it could be pierced body parts, orange hair or late night stays in strange places and thus, now would be a good time to practice that much supportive I’m-there-for-you-you-can-always-talk-to-me mom vibe because it was a quick hop from cake choices to hoodlum hood if I played my cards wrong.  So yes, knowing, on a theoretical sense how much was at stake here, I forced my best smile and tried, really tried, to embrace the idea of this impostor cake basking in my daughter’s merriment but I was betrayed by my mind which spun with names of all the chemicals such a cake assaulted the sacred world of baked goods with and my smile just wouldn’t stick.

I looked at my daughter and already she had grown. It would only be a year or two before the curves would start to pop out, then the dark eyeliner, then…

“Any cake you want, I promise!” I barked out suddenly very afraid.

Of course, I was referring to my generous offer to bake her any type of cake she wanted but being the good lawyer-in-waiting that she is, she saw the loophole and pounced on it:

“Any cake? Well I want this High School Musical Cake with two layers of chocolate and chocolate pudding filling in between.”

“Okay” I sulked, feeling failure for selling out to over-processed goop in the name of pre-adolescent concord. I might have just saved her from a treacherous trail to juvi, but still, my heart sank.  Transferring minimal baking ethics that require not ingesting anything whose label I can’t understand was part of my Basic Culinary Legacy Plan and I had fallen short fast.

Her eyes lit up with excitement (or was that just victory, I couldn’t tell) as she eagerly rattled off to the baker all the prerequisites for her artificial birthday cake, which, I noted, included generous strokes of neon yellow and orange.  And even though she stood on the brink of authorized rebellion, she sensed my angst and curled her arm around my waist, whispering in her most reassuring tone, “It’s okay mom, it will be good,” to which I could only respond with another feigned attempt of an equally artificial smile.

Her birthday came and with it all the excitement of her party and its festivities.  Throughout it all, the cake sat waiting to be enjoyed, watching the birthday girl savor her day and hoping a cue to cut its chemical contents would soon be called.  As the mom, I knew it was my duty to throw the cake upon her with utmost glee and celebration. But I simply couldn’t, feeling too excited that she had actually forgotten it to stop and give her her moment with her preservative cake.

‘I’ll leave it up to her’, I quietly reasoned with myself, knowing it was unrealistic and unfair to place such weight on an overscheduled party girl.  And so, socializing led to hairstyling led to playing led to dancing led to dinner out led to more dancing led to a long movie with popcorn and sleeping bags and snoring girls and absolutely no cake.

The next day after her slumber party finished off and the last of her friends left, she wandered up to her forgotten sugar teenage idol and half-heartedly said, “Mom, we forgot to eat this.”

“I know”, I said, this time sporting a true grin, the product of both relief and sheer happiness.

“All the same” she continued, watching me closely, “It’s probably old by now” she stated, knowing that with all the questionable ingredients in there it could last until she turned 22.

“I’m more in the mood for one of your things, anyhow”, she offered, giving me the appropriate time to let those words sink in, which I did slowly, savoring each one with the giddiness of first time love.

“Really?” I asked, unable to contain my excitement.

“Something really great.  Something to celebrate being ten.  A chocolate pie, maybe. ”

No sooner had she said that I was bouncing around grating bittersweet chocolate and rolling out the dough, whistling all the while.
I caught sight of her in the corner of the kitchen.  She watched me and smiled, savoring her own private victory and sharing in mine.

CHOCOLATE PIE

For crust:
(The Silver Palate Cookbook)

2 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) sweet butter, chilled
6 tablespoons vegetable shortening, chilled
5 to 6 tablespoons iced water, as needed

Sift flour, sugar and salt into a mixing bowl.  Add chilled butter and shortening.  Working quickly and using your fingertips or a pastry blender, rub or cut fat into dry ingredients until the mixture resembles coarse meal.

Sprinkle on ice water, 2 to 3 tablespoons at a time, and toss with a fork.  Turn dough out onto your work surface and using the heel of your hand, smear dough away from you, about ¼ cup at a time. Scrape it up into a ball and wrap in wax paper.  Chill in refrigerator for 2 hours.
For prebaking, line dough in the pie plate with foil and fill with bean or rice.  Bake in a 425-degree oven for 8 minutes, then remove beans and lining.  Prick bottom of dough with a fork and return pie plate to oven for 10 to 13 minutes longer, or until crust is golden brown.  Cool.

Makes two 9” crusts

For filling:
2/3 cup sugar
¼ cup cornstarch
4 large egg yolks
3 cups whole milk
5 oz. fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (not unsweetened), melted
2 oz. unsweetened chocolate, melted
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 teaspoon vanilla

For topping:
¾ cup chilled heavy cream
1 tablespoon sugar

Make filling:
Whisk together sugar, cornstarch, salt, and yolks in a 3-quart heavy saucepan until combined well, then add milk in a stream, whisking.  Bring to a boil over moderate heat, whisking, then reduce heat and simmer, whisking, 1 minute (filling will be thick).

Force filling through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl, then whisk in chocolates, butter, and vanilla.  Cover surface of filling with a buttered round of wax paper and cool completely, about 2 hours.

Spoon filling into crust and chill pie, loosely covered, at least 6 hours.

Make topping:
Just before serving, beat cream with sugar in a bowl using an electric mixer until it just holds stiff peaks then spoon on top of pie.

Pie can be chilled up to 1 day

Serves 8 – 10

I confess to having slipped into a food lover’s coma this weekend, offering up a plethora of culinary clichés such as broiled lobster tails, filet mignon wrapped in bacon and fresh strawberry tart.  My other half and I indulged with gluttony, but the fun didn’t stop there: there where mounds upon mounds of slow-roasted asparagus in balsamic glaze, sea salt crusted baby gold potatoes and baked grouper in creamy jalapeno sauce, all cooked to perfection. Our feasts where so excessive and exuberant that we barely had enough time to bat eyelashes at each other as we gorged in unison, only taking small breaks to sigh in contentment and comment on how much we loved the food (oh, and each other.)  It was a glorious two days and when it ended I felt blissful and renewed, even if it was with an extra pound or two on my waistline.

Kissing my man gingerly on the cheek as he left for his weeklong work trip that following Monday, I couldn’t help but bask in the good fortune of having both a soul mate that enjoys eating as much as I do and a fabulous oven to bake in.  Dizzy with happiness, I skipped back to my boudoir (aka, kitchen) where all this love happens and decided to continue the celebration with a batch of mini chocolate chip muffins.

As the oven preheated, I sang to my red hot mixer Lulu and began whipping up tiny bundles of love.  Lulu was fast and efficient and soon the muffin batter was perched inside miniscule muffin tins and ready to be baked into delight. All was well until I opened up the oven, muffin tins in hand, and was shocked to find it stone cold.  Had I forgotten to turn it on, I wondered to myself, knowing this wasn’t true but no less surprised if dementia had set in early.  I checked the electric panel and found that although it promised a 350 degree heat it was only delivering a cold hum.

The hairs on my neck stood up as my first warning, followed by shortness of breath and a feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach.   This was the beginning of a panic attack. OH NO OH NO OH NO! I had envisioned many horrible things in my lifetime, but never my sleek, expensive, and indispensible oven not working for me!  Who was I without the ability to bake?

Moving quickly, I ran through my limited technical expertise: flipping switches and fuses on and off, counting quietly until ten before beginning anew, turning the broiler from low to medium to high, switching from baking to convection features; even prayer:
‘Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha‑olam…ha tanoor sheli lo oved?!’
But nothing seemed to reboot my oven back to life.  The mini-chocolate chip muffins began looking glum and hopeless sagging in their tins, their tiny chips like dark eyes pleading they have a turn in the love fest grand oven.

Depression and anger replaced my failed repair attempts and I grew more frustrated with the expensive oven that was supposed to stand by me for many more years to come.
“But I made lobster tails!” I wailed, demanding an explanation.  “Yesterday!
How could this be?”

A kitchen can get eerily quiet when reprimanded and that is what happened to mine.  Lulu stood still, her paddle still messy with raw muffin dough.  She dared not say anything, although I knew she was secretly disgusted by oven’s failure (‘I would never let her down like that’, her bright red sheen seemed to shout).  The fridge just hummed gleefully, always happy to be a witness to disaster, but grateful not to be the cause of it this time (remember the leak of ’02?), and then, off in the corner, next to the canisters of sugar and flour, was my tiny Toastmaster oven, carried from house to house with me like a chewed-up stuffed animal I no longer need but can’t live without.  It wanted to shout out a big “hey look at me, here I am , here I am” but was afraid I was too angry to listen.

My flaccid muffin dough insisted I pay closer attention to the neglected alternative baking source, and so I turned its forgotten dial on to 350 degrees.  The Toastmaster only allowed one small tin at a go, so it took quite a while to get them all done, but as I watched and beseeched for goodness to congeal, I recalled fondly how my cooking frenzy first took off over twenty years ago inside the cozy space of a tiny toaster oven much like this one.  My first apartment had a cramped kitchen with no stove, only  two hot plates and an ancient Toastmaster with a broken handle.  That didn’t stop the passion for cooking that was just blossoming in me to run full throttle and out of that miniscule space came many fabulous meals:  freshly baked profiteroles, lemon meringue pie, orange roasted chicken, rabbit braised with tapenade.  ‘If I flourished then, I can do it now’, I thought to myself, and suddenly, the hairs on my neck came down as did my blood pressure and my panic melted into a fun and familiar cocktail of nostalgia and hope.

As my incapacitated posh oven gazed in the sidelines I gave Toastmaster center stage, baking tin after tin of equally moist and delectable mini-chocolate chip muffins.  Just as I had years before, I poured all my culinary energy into this abandoned appliance, and, once again, it didn’t let me down, giving me a scrumptious treat and a chance to reconnect with that youthful spirit that anything is possible, even in a tiny space.

Every holiday season they seem to sneak past my culinary radar and invade the shelves of my well-groomed pantry, usually sitting next to the rosemary chocolate and the cans of Portuguese olive oil.  I sigh in disbelief when I see them; their creative metamorphosis amazes me every time.  After all, they are only reconstituted marshmallows, which is reconstituted sugar, but no matter what holiday, be it Halloween, Valentine’s Day, or Easter, there is a Peeps for the occasion and every single one of them enters my household.
 
I justify my insensitivity with this sugary fluff as a cultural deficit.  I grew up in Venezuela, where Peeps are non—existent.  Instead, I hoarded bars of Carleton (a thin crispy wafer doused in dark Venezuelan chocolate) and guzzled down bottles upon bottles of Frescolita, the local soft drink that boasts a neon red color and equally intense sweetness.  Of course, my all-time favorite treat was the “raspao”, a street slush of ice and your choice of tropical flavored syrup (coconut, passion fruit, tamarind). These where the stamps of my childhood glucose memories; marshmallow mush formed into pumpkins, chics and hearts was another story all together.
 
My daughter would tell me that my lack of appreciation for Peeps is wrong, so very wrong.  Of course, as she tethers along the dawn of pre-adolescence, it seems I hear nothing about being right.  But she is a culinary child, born with a whisk in one hand and a tasting spoon in another.  This is the child that will bypass chicken nuggets shaped into stars for grilled octopus with fresh thyme any day.  This is the child who, at two, was thrilled to slurp miso soup (extra tofu please) for breakfast every day while on a trip to Los Angeles.  This is the child who can tell apart an unforgettable foie gras from a mediocre one (and then proceeds to slather it all over the crustiest baguette available.)  She is my food prodigy, so sometimes, I do listen.
 
I watched her with her newest Peeps purchase:  vanilla crème marshmallow hearts.  She was giddy with excitement grasping the pink and red package that housed 9 cramped foamy hearts sprinkled with colored sugar. 
 
“Pleeease mom, can I have three, pleeeease???”  We were in the midst of our usual negotiations.
“One”, I barked back.
“Two?” Her rebuttal.
“One”, I barked back.
“Two, oh please please please,” her desperate rebuttal.
“One”, I barked back.
“Please mom please please please two two two please I’ll do anything please two???” (This is never going to end.)
“Two”, I say, just to see if she is listening.
 
She is, tearing the package open and barely giving herself time to smile before gulping two hearts for the price of one.
 
As she skips away I approach the ravaged package.  Two hearts are missing and the other 7 look frightened, smushed, and very artificial.
 
I am tempted to seek such giddiness and take a bite, but I know it will be an empty experience for me.  This is not my memory.  It is hers.  Mine stands on the corner of a crowded Caracas street waiting for school to be out, housed in a tiny portable ice cream cart with a hyperactive ringing bell and vocals shouting full force, “el raspao, raspao, raspao, vengan pa’ el raspao:  tenemos parchita, coco, tamarindo, raspao raspao raspao.”  Like a racehorse bursting out of the gate, I’d charge down the hill at the end of the school day, dashing for a quick purchase before clambering on the bus for the hour-long ride home.  The five-second sprint was when I’d consider what flavor I was in the mood for, but it usually narrowed down to two: for a sour flavor I’d go for the tangy parchita (passion fruit); for something mellower, coco (coconut) would do the trick.  If I felt like merging tangy and mellow, I’d ask for the tartest of them all (tamarind) and order the bonus topping of leche condensada (condensed milk) which would dutifully be drizzled all over the top. 
 
This was no doubt the highlight of my day, when I’d be stuck in a glorious limbo of no-more-school and not-time-for-homework yet.  All I would have was my favorite tropical fruit slushy and one hour of bumpy peace to enjoy it in.  Grasping that sticky, mushy Peeps would never be able to transport me there. Carefully, so as not to distort the left ventricle more than my thumb already had, I placed it back into it’s pink plastic cage and left it to wait for its rightful owner, who had her own set of memories and feelings attached to its fluff.  It would only be a matter of minutes before she’d begin negotiating for more.
 
HOMEMADE PARCHITA RASPAO
For passion fruit syrup:
½ cup frozen passion fruit pulp, thawed*
1 cup sugar
For slush:
crushed ice
slush cones
 
*Found in frozen food section of most local supermarkets.  Parchita can be replaced by any tropical fruit flavor.
 
In a saucepan over high heat bring fruit and sugar to a boil.  Cook at a rolling boil without stirring, until syrup has formed, 3 to 4 minutes. 
 
When it is cool, drizzle over crushed ice (if you have a slushy maker, even better!)  Enjoy!
 
Makes ½ cup syrup