Crustless Quiche with Roast Tomatoes, Leeks and Gruyere

Crustless, so it is healthier. Roast vegetables, so that it is vegetarian. Gruyere so that it is goooooood.

1 pint cherry tomatoes, halved
2 small leeks, trimmed and sliced into rounds up to dark green part
5 cloves garlic, pressed or chopped
extra virgin olive oil (evoo)
sea salt
1 cup thinly sliced collard leaves, spinach, Swiss chard or kale
1 tablespoon butter, softened
1/2 cup homemade breadcrumbs, or crushed garlic croutons
4 large eggs + 1 egg white
1 cup lite sour cream
1/2 cup milk (whatever you drink, skim, 2%, whole)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 cup shredded Gruyere, or any sharp cheese you like

1) Preheat the oven to 400F. Place the halved tomatoes into a large bowl. Separate the leek rounds into individual pieces with your hands and add them in with the tomatoes, add in the garlic, too. Drizzle bout 1-2 tablespoons evoo over the mess and toss with your hands. Sprinkl with sea salt and place into the oven. Roast until the tomatoes are soft and edges of the leeks are beginning to caramelize, between 20-40 minutes depending on your oven. When they are done, remove from the oven to cool slightly, then place all of it into a strainer above a bowl-- catching the juices that run out (save 1 tablespoon of the tomato jus-- drink the rest as a delicious soup!) This will also dry out the vegetables a bit, which is good. Allow the veggies to sit in the strainer until completely cool. While that's going on, sauté the greens over high heat in a bit of evoo until wilted, about 5 minutes. Season with salt.

2) Turn down, or preheat the oven to 325F. Butter a 9", deep-dish pie pan with 1 softened butter, then pour the breadcrumbs in and roll the pie dish around in your hands until all the butter os coated with the crumbs.







4) Whisk the sour cream, eggs, egg white, milk, 1 tablespoon tomato jus and Dijon mustard together. Lay the greens on the bottom of the pan, then scatter 1/2 of the cheese and pour the egg/sour-cream/milk mixture over top. Bake for 20 minutes, then remove from the oven and place the roast tomatoes and leeks on top (it will still be soft) and scatter the rest of the cheese over the tomatoes. Place back in the oven and continue to bake for 20 minutes more.

Remove from the oven and allow to cool for 20 minutes.

Serve warm, room temp or chilled. Makes 8 slices.

Dinner for the night after Thanksgiving

This deceptively easy. Just the ticket for the day after Thanksgiving chaos.
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium, yellow onion, chopped
8 ounces (220 grams) Jerusalem artichokes/Sunchokes-- peeled and chopped
2 cups (2 big handfuls) shredded left-over turkey (or chicken)
Sea salt, black pepper
Dry oregano
1/2 pint (8 oz/220 mls) cream

1 pound dried pasta

Have a very large pot of salted water boiling. When you place the pasta in to boil, begin the sauce.


1) Pour the olive oil into a large saute pan, set over medium high heat and add in the onions. Saute until soft, then throw in the Jerusalem artichokes and continue to saute for a minute or two longer.

2) Now chuck in the shredded turkey or chicken, season with salt and a few hefty pinches of oregano. Toss. Pour in the cream and bring to a simmer, allow it to reduce, simmering as the pasta continues to cook.

3) Just before the pasta is cooked, scoop out one or two ladles of cooking water (depending on the size of the ladle) and pour it into the sauce, stir to incorporate. Taste again and add more salt, oregano or black pepper. Drain the pasta well and toss with the sauce. Serve with Parmesan.

Serves 6

Making Friends in Your Pajamas

  'Making friends takes time, it's a process'. This is what I've told my children during the many moves we've made. I've always envied children's place in the social stratosphere; being in school all day, orbiting around other kids with varying degrees of commonalities-- making friends is almost inevitable.

For parents, well it can be trickier; there simply aren't that many potential friends wandering around the inside of my house. It takes longer to make friends when you are not sloshing around a mosh-pit of peers.

But, 'making friends takes time, it's a process' I tell myself. And I am lucky because I actually like being alone most of the time. It's just that some of the time, I wish I had a confidant-- a girlfriend.

I met another mommy in the neighborhood a month or so ago. Her name's Jen, too. Jen's tall, blonde, naturally beautiful, spunky and totally upbeat. The worst part is that she is ridiculously kind, self deprecating and grounded. It's simply not fair; there is nothing not to like about this woman- not one quirk that I can focus on, to bolster my pudgy self up.

Making friends takes time, it's a process. You'd think that my new potential friend, Jen and I would make time to get together during the days, considering all we stay at home mommas do is sit on the couch with our feet on the coffee table, watching our stories on the TV and eating bricks of chocolate fudge. But we move in different directions and have not yet made it a point to get together.

Yesterday afternoon, Jen and I were talking on the phone about carpool when she told me that she was going on a rare date with her husband. She said that she was going to see the author David Sedaris read from his new book.
'Have you heard of him?' She asked.
My heart literally skips a beat when anyone mentions David Sedaris' name. It was reading his book, 'Me Talk Pretty One Day' that brought laughter back into my life after the traumatic turn of events that surrounded my twins premature birth. His autobiographical stories elicit from me, warm tears and embarrassing snorts of laughter. I treasure his books, and was dying to go see him, but because my husband is (seemingly permanently) out of town and my lack-of-friend situation, when the tickets went on sale, I stoically passed.
'Have I heard of him?' I screeched into the phone at Jen (my new friend-- her fondness for Sedaris solidified this). 'I love him. I've read all of his books twice and I love him. I like to imagine that maybe he and Julia Child had a baby, and it is me.' I gasped.
'Well, come with us, then!' Jen enthused.
I grimaced at the pile of dishes in my kitchen sink. A couple of my daughters were still getting over strep throat, two had broken body parts and I had not yet found a babysitter in our new town.
I couldn't go.

I wished Jen a good time, hung up the phone and I got on with doing the dishes.

This morning, my car idled in Jen's driveway as we waited for her son to come out of the house. It sat sort of slumped in the front seat. I was wearing my nightgown under a ratty, old sweatshirt and hadn't had time to brush my teeth. Jen came bounding out the front door in her pajamas; her legs looked 8 feet long and perfectly toned, her teeth super white and not a swipe of make-up on; she looked fresh as a perfectly, white daisy in a grassy, summer knoll. 
I sunk deeper down into my seat and popped a Altoid in my mouth.

'He'll be right out,' referring to her son.
'How was David Sedaris?' I asked.
Jen said nothing, as she brought her hand out from behind her back and handed me Sedaris' newest book.
Before I could say anything, she said, 'Open it'.
Inside the cover David Sedaris had signed it, 'To Jenny, I am really angry that I missed you-- David Sedaris'


I don't hug and I don't cry. I've built a reputation on these two character flaws traits. As I tried to open my mouth and say 'thank you', my voice cracked and I began to awkwardly cry. Jen's son looked uncomfortable as he eased his way into the backseat. Jen reached into the car and hugged me. I got a bit of snot on her pajama top (one more reason to avoid hugging and crying). I finally croaked out a beleaguered, 'thanks' and sped off to school.

Making friends takes time, it's a process. And sometimes realizing that you have made a friend, catches you off guard.

Passing Judgement

Every weekday morning, as I drive home from dropping my eldest daughter off at school, my minivan passes by a small boy walking along the busy, morning rush-hour road. He can't be more than 7 or 8 years old. He wears the same uniform that my younger children wear. Although he is a stranger, I know by that uniform that he attends the same school.

His walk is determined, his pace quick; he's got to make the mile and a half walk down that busy road to get to school on time. He walks alone, with just his book bag bouncing off his back as he takes his tiny strides.

On the occasion that my children, who attend his school, are in the car with me, I've asked them who the boy is. They know him, but only by reputation-- 'His name is Tom and he's a naughty boy,' one of the twins says.
'Why is he walking to school, by himself? On this busy road?' I ask my girls. They just shrug and we drive on.

I think about his mother. I try not to judge-- I don't walk in her shoes... but how could a little boy like that be allowed to walk to and from school each day, down such a fast-traveled street-- alone? I imagine if I were a single mom, in the same situation, wouldn't I try and get a job that didn't require me until after I could deliver my boy to school safely? Or get a neighbor to walk him to school, if I had to get to work early?

I don't know.

I really, really tried not to pass judgement on this story that I knew so little about, on this woman whom I knew so little of, but criticism hung thick in the air around me.

Last week, I went into the children's school to cook with one of the classes. I broke it down into groups of 5 children at a time. In the middle of working with the second group, I paid closer attention to the boy to my right. He knew so much about food and liked trying all different flavours. I looked at him for a second, and recognized him as the boy I pass in the car each morning. 'Tom, you're really good at cooking!' I said to him. 'Yeah, I like to cook.' he said, but didn't look up at me.

Later, I told his teacher about how well all the children did in cooking class, but especially how well this young lad did. I told her about how I see him walking alone to school each morning.
'Yes,' she said.
'Wish I could offer to drive him to school-- would his mother feel awkward about that?' I asked.
'He hasn't got a mother. She died. He lives with his dad, and his dad...' the teacher trailed off.

As hard as I fought it, tears welled up in my eyes, as I thought about this boy's mommy looking down on him, watching him walk to school day after day, on his own. I thought about how horrible I had been passing the boy on the street, as I passed judgement on his mother.

I thought about how quick I am to judge people. I say that I see the gray scale in life, not just the black and white-- maybe I'm wrong.

I asked the teacher to try and think of any way that I could help this kid out. It's complicated. There are tricky circumstances.

But I don't want to just pass this child by anymore.

Today, after school I was talking to the school secretary when I noticed Tom on the phone next to me.  He hung up and looked glum. I said hi and he returned the greeting, but quietly.
'Do you need a ride home, Tom?' I asked.
'Well, my Dad isn't answering his phone, so I'm just going to walk.' He said.
'Nah, come on with me. I'll give you a lift.' I ran my palm across the top of his prickly buzz cut.

I stopped in front of his apartment building, got out and opened his car door. 'You know, in cooking the other week, you were really good, Tom. I mean it-- you should be a chef one day. Cooking can take you anywhere in the world.'

For the first time he looked at me and sort of smiled. He said thanks for the ride and fished his housekeys out of his backpack. Then he pushed the big door to his apartment house open and walked inside.

No Hugging, Please

'Are you going to hug her when she walks off the plane? ...Just kidding.' Claire laughed.  We were driving to the airport to pick up my friend Erin who was coming to visit for the weekend.

Claire's question was humorous for one simple reason: I am not, in any way, a hugger.
I am not a cuddly woman.
I never feel compelled to hold a friend's new baby.
I don't indulge my children in unnecessary crying or whining. In our house it is understood that unless you are bleeding profusely, or your heart is sincerely breaking,  Momma will not attend to unwarranted upset.

I love my children fiercely and will do almost anything for them. But I don't coddle them. Pretty much the only things I coddle are puppies and eggs.

But I'm not cold. Ironically, most people find me to be casual to a fault and quite warm with my words and deeds.

At least I am honest about my hugging defect. A few weeks ago, the girls and I were driving home from the mall. We were stopped in traffic. On the sidewalk, up ahead there was a mother with her arm strongly encircling her teenage daughter's shoulders. I pointed at the pair and said, 'Look girls, that's what it looks like when I mother hugs her off-spring'.
My girls solemnly gazed out the window at the warm scene of motherly love, and sighed.

Maybe it is because I am so forthcoming with my anti-hugging convictions that my children love me anyway. On rare occasions, they approach and ask me for a hug. This always catches me by surprise and I feel a wave of guilt as I whole-heartedly squeeze and hug my daughter.
I just need to be reminded, I guess... not too often, though. I couldn't handle that.

My close friends know not to hug me. I am very clear about my personal space requirements. Ironically, it's only people who don't really know me who hug me. But that only happens once, I clear up the miscommunication after that first awkward embrace.

Erin walked through customs and saw us, my four girls and I, waiting behind the security barriers.  As she came closer I surprised myself as I stepped forward and threw my arms around her. I don't know what came over me, but I felt the sincere overwhelming urge to hug my dear friend. I stepped back and chuckled not only at myself but at the expression on my daughter's faces: complete shock.

We turned to walk out to the car and I put my arm around Claire's shoulders. She smiled and we walked through the doors of the airport into the chilly winter air.

Duty and Honor

Every four years, at about this time, I am relieved not to be living in the U.S.. I hear from friends Stateside that the political rhetoric, mudslinging and mistruths are rife on both sides. To live removed here in England, in my little bucolic bubble, I am away from the media harassment.

Both my mother and father can trace their lineage back to the Mayflower. They both have ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War as well as the Civil War. My mother, three sisters and I belong to the Mayflower Society and Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR). It would be Fair to say that we take American history and a personal sense of patriotism seriously.

For the record we are all liberal democrats, but that is beside the point.

The first time I had the opportunity to vote in a presidential election was in 1988. I was a college student and was absolutely thrilled to be given the opportunity to vote; for my voice to be heard. As I stood in the curtained booth and pulled the lever, I began to cry. My throat became tight and tears streamed down my cheeks. Feeling the significance of what not only my ancestors, but so many men and women went through so that I could simply pull a lever and have my ideas count, overwhelmed me.

I felt honoured to be voting, but felt a great sense of duty, as well. This was a precious gift not to be wasted.

I went back to the apartment that I shared with four other friends full of patriotic emotion. I asked them who they had voted for. ‘What? Who cares—it doesn’t really count—why bother?’ was the answer I got from one roomy. None of the four had voted.

Ten years later I took my then two year old daughter with me to the church were we voted. She asked what we were doing there.
‘We are here to vote.’ I told her.
‘Why do you vote?’ She asked. Hmmm, how does one explain that to a two year old?
‘Well Claire, I vote because it is my duty and my honor.’
‘Oh...duty, honor’, she said as she looked at me. I felt my throat tighten again, then came the water works. Luckily the curtain was closed and I was able to compose myself before exiting.

For about the next three months, every time we passed that church, Claire would shout, ‘Mommy! Duty, honor!’

For the past two presidential elections the mister and I have voted in absentee from Europe. And it is nice to be able to troll newspapers online and politicians’ websites to gain some insight—rather than being force fed 24-hour ‘news’ loops.

But I miss pulling that lever.

The other evening a woman called from the Democrats Abroad group that I belong to, just to make sure that I had remembered to vote in absentee. ‘Of course,’ I assured her. ‘I feel it is my duty and honor to vote.’ Just as the word ‘vote’ came out, my throat tightened and I literally could no longer speak. Although very polite, this woman must have thought that I was about one sandwich short of a picnic. And maybe I am.

But those two words carry with them the weight of our great American history, of the sacrifices so many men and women have made so that we all can have the ease of simply pulling a lever and quite literally, changing the world.

No matter which side of the fence you stake your political yard sign in, democrat, republican or independent, as an American it is your duty and honor to vote.

The Comfort of Strangers

Our twin daughters were born 10 weeks premature and in bad shape.They spent the first 9 weeks of their lives in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. At first they were in the University hospital’s NICU in downtown Zurich, Switzerland where we lived at the time, but after three weeks, they were moved to a hospital closer to our home.

One day at the ‘Unispital’ (as it is called in Switzerland), just a few days before the girls were to be moved to the more local hospital, I was in holding the babies. A remarkably beautiful Vietnamese woman was sitting with her son in the incubator next to ours. He was so big and robust, I couldn’t figure out why he was there. Compared to my little ones who weighed just 2 and 2 & ½ pounds at birth, this little guy was a bruiser.

I laid there in the reclining chair, 'kangarooing', with the girls on my chest and watched this fragile mommy sitting adjacent to me, holding her strong baby boy. He looked huge in her sinewy arms. The strange thing about NICUs…well there are a lot of strange things, but one of the oddest aspects of the NICU is that it is always full of parents holding their babies, but no one every talks to each other. I guess it is because of the serious nature of where they are and why  they are there. In 9 weeks and probably hundreds of hours spent in the NICU, I didn’t have one conversation with another parent. Aside from the obvious reasons, it is an eery place; babies don't cry because they are too weak, parents don't speak because they are too scared-- the only sound that fills the space is the beeping, buzzing and ticking of life-support machines.

It took my by surprise when the mommy holding her boy said to me, “Don’t worry, my son was as small as your girls when he was born.” Her simple sentence gave me so much comfort, at such a dark time. I felt stranded at the bottom of a deep, slippery well. Her words were just the tiniest sparkle of golden light at the top of the well, 'maybe we will get out of here'.

I few months after my babies came home from our local hospital, they had to go back into the children’s hospital because they were having problems breathing at night. Visits back to the hospital are not that unusual for premature babies. My husband and I sat there holding the babies in the infants’ unit, when I saw the same, ethereal woman standing over her son who lay in a small crib. It was as if she was made of the most delicate crystal, and could shatter at any moment. Her beautiful, wide-set brown eyes were worn out now; she looked exhausted.

A nurse interrupted my gaze and showed us to our daughters’ hospital room. I left the infants’ unit without speaking to the woman.

One year later I was in the grocery store with Tess. As is our thrice weekly routine, we drop Mimi off at physical therapy and then Tess and I go to the grocery store. It was in the frozen food section that I saw the woman again. I felt absolutely compelled to speak to her this time.

I cautiously approached and touched her sleeve. She looked up at me blankly. I said, “I think we had children in the NICU at the Unispital at the same time a little over a year ago. I had the twins next to your son.” She recognized me and said, “Oh, yes,” and at the same time we said, “How is your child(ren)?”.

We both paused, waiting for the other one to begin-- I started. “Well, Tess had to have heart surgery, but is fine now, very active. Mimi, we found out, had a stroke at birth and has Cerebral Palsy. She is at physical therapy right now. She is working really hard and making good progress. How about your son?”

In that instant, her eyes flooded with tears and she said simply, “He died.” I was shocked. Her pain enveloped me; it was a palpable, physical ache. We both stood there between the frozen vegetables and ice cream and wept. Strangers linked only through the greatest grief any parent can face.

I could say nothing comforting to this woman. It would be absurd to think that any soothing words could fill her great chasm of pain. Tess squirmed in my arms, I put her in the grocery cart, touched the woman’s arm again and said, “I am so sorry.” We stood and cried for a few minutes longer and then nodded and walked away from each other without words.

Two and a half years later I saw her in the grocery store again. She looked stronger, but carried a hurt in her eyes that will probably never go away. We greeted each other, smiled and then she looked at Tess and said, “She is getting big.” “Yes,” I said.

I wonder how she gets through the days, although maybe the nights are worse. Does the pain weaken as the years pass, or just change in some way. How does a mother carry on after the death of her child?

Having come so close to this myself, I pray I never find out.

Lifting the Weight from my Shoulders

Yesterday Mimi, Tess and I went to the pediatric podiatrist to get Mimi some inserts for her shoes. Mimi has Cerebral Palsy and has done incredibly well, but still can’t use her right side so good. The inserts help with her balance and walking.

Seeing those types of doctors’ (and there are many), drains me. I feel as if someone adds a weight to my shoulders for a few hours after each appointment. Everything looks gray.

This morning, as the twins and I were putting on our shoes to go outside, Mimi said, ‘I don’t want to wear my shoes with the inserts’.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘I want to wear plain shoes like Tess,’ she answered.

Tess chimed in, ‘Mama? I want Mimi to be normal like me.’

This took my breath away and tears began streaming down my face. As if someone flicked a switch in my gut and I had no control over my emotions. Up to this point, I thought only Mimi was aware of her condition, but clearly her twin has realized it as well.

I squatted down to look the girls in the eyes and I said, ‘Mimi is normal. She is just different from you Tess. But you are different from me and I am different from Daddy. No two people are the same—not even identical twins.’

Mimi softly rested her little hand on my shoulder and said, ‘I want to be like Tess, too Mama... Are you crying?’

‘No Lovey, I am not crying. I am allergic to my make-up and it makes my eyes water. Listen, Mimi—I wouldn’t want you to be like Tess, or for her to be like you. I like you both exactly the way you are. Please don’t ever change.’

‘Mmmmmmmmmm...Okay,’ she muttered, as she looked back down and finished putting on her sturdy brown leather shoes.

They stood up. Tess put both her arms around Mimi and Mimi put her left arm around Tess, they hugged each other tightly and kissed. Then they walked out the backdoor to get on with their day.

Miracles

Today was my daughter Mimi’s weekly osteopath appointment. Last week Sarah, her osteopath asked to see the CD I had of an MRI done on Mimi soon after it was discovered that she had had a stroke during birth. Sarah said that it would help in her treatment of Mimi.

I had never really looked at the MRI images. The MRI was done over three years ago in Switzerland (where we lived at the time). We met Mimi at the Kinderspital (Children’s Hospital) in Zurich. She and her twin sister were still in the NICU at a different hospital due to their premature birth. She had to be sedated so that she would not move too much during the MRI.

She was so tiny, not yet five pounds, so fragile.

My parents were there at the hospital with my husband and me. We all waited in a small, plain, gray room as the MRI was conducted. None of us bothering to make small talk; we sat together in silence.

After about an hour the doctor called us into his office. We were very lucky, as he was the head of pediatric radiology and somehow, was overseeing our case. I remember him telling us that he had just returned from a two year stint at Children’s Hospital in Boston. That he was Dutch. He wore a striped bowtie.

From the point that he put the pictures of Mimi’s damaged brain on the computer monitor, I remember nothing. I looked away when I saw the obvious extent of the damage. I stared at the floor and did not look up or hear anything that he said, until my father touched my elbow to lead me towards the door of the doctor’s office. Just before we walked out, the doctor said what I am sure he knew we needed to hear, ‘She will probably just be a clumsy girl.’

I knew that no one could tell us what the future held for Mimi; if she would ever learn to walk or talk, or be able to use her right hand. How she would fare cognitively. We just had to wait and see how she developed.

Like any parent of a cerebral palsy child will tell you, this is the hardest bit—the not knowing.

At eighteen months, Mimi began to talk and show all signs that she was learning at the same rate as her twin. At two and a half she began to walk.

I could finally exhale a little.

Sarah put the CD of Mimi’s brain up on her computer screen. I did not want to look directly at it, but felt strong enough now to do so.

One third of Mimi’s brain is missing on the left side. Where tissue should be there is only fluid.

I breathed a heavy sigh. Sarah looked at Mimi and said, ‘Your daughter is a miracle, Jenny. If I hadn’t met Mimi I would never have believed that inside that little girl was this brain. She should not be walking or talking or using her right hand. She should have emotional difficulties, too. But she doesn’t. The right side of her brain has compensated for the left. She is a miracle.’

I wish I could say that I felt a rush of joy at her words, or a tremendous sense of relief. I guess the situation is not as simple as to solely feel grateful or reassured. I do feel those things, but as I looked at the MRI I felt drained, as if a wound, not yet quite healed, was scraped opened again.

Then Sarah looked at me, ‘Take this CD and stick it up on a shelf. It does not represent what your daughter has become.’

Mimi works hard at physical therapy. She works hard to run as fast as her twin sister and to climb up the rocks that her friends do. Mimi is also aware of her short-comings, and tries to overcome them or at least compensate for them.

Mimi, for so many reasons more than just the obvious, is indeed a miracle.