Ostensibly - wine notes 3/24/10

JBL loves wine, as I have mentioned in the past, and I am an obscenely lucky beneficiary of his Habit. It all started with a stint in St. Louis and a phenomenal restaurant in their version of Little Italy, but I will let him tell you about that some other time.

JBL's life ambitions have taken him, among other places, on the roller coaster highs and lows of the tech business. During these times we squandered many a fantastic vintage, over pizza for instance, for the simple reason that we could. Also because we had the world at our feet. And we had the rest of our lives ahead of us.

But then there were the not-so-good times (hello, 1999). We sacrificed many things, but wine was never on the list. These were times when JBL perfected the purchase of the Case of Wines Under $10. One shining star of this more frugal time is the Montes Malbec. This Chilean take on a Bordeaux varietal is intense and plummy and spicy and wonderful. See how technical I can be? I am aware that I do winespeak a disservice, but I know a flexible player when I taste one.

So the Malbec. We enjoyed a bottle over the past two evenings with two verrry different meals, and enjoyed it immeasurably with both. First up, an Asian tour de force, a black cod dish with two sauces. The flavors exploded off the plate and brought out the wine's ability to match spice, and to counter heat. Amazing. We literally took a sip after a bite of fish, and looked at each other with a 'wow' look.

But tonight the leftover paired equally well with a pizza that I have been craving for weeks. Margherita. Perhaps it was the stint of unseasonably warm weather we've enjoyed of late. Maybe it was a desire for something light and, well, un-meat-related. Whatever the cause, I have been fantasizing about this dish, and after J went to bed tonight we quenched my thirst. Last summer we tried various permutations, and I finally hit it out of the park with this latest recipe. And the Malbec? It stepped back and offered restrained fruity notes in support of the more subtle flavors, acting more like a soft Chianti than a powerhouse super-Tuscan.

So go buy the Montes. You will not be disappointed. And if you want the margherita recipe, here it is:

Pizza Dough (sorry if I posted this already - this is a Giada De Laurentiis recipe)
3/4 C warm water (105-115 degrees F)
1 envelope active dry yeast
2+ C AP flour
1 tsp sugar
3/4 tsp salt (I use fine sea salt)
3 TBSP olive oil

Warm the water in the microwave (I run mine on high for 30 seconds to get to the required temperature), and whisk in the yeast. Let stand for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, lightly oil a large bowl. In a food processor, pulse 2 C flour, sugar and salt to combine. After the yeast slurry has bloomed, add it and the 3 TBSP olive oil to the flour mixture, and process til a sticky dough forms. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead gently til dough is smooth, adding flour by tablespoonfuls if too sticky, about 1 minute. Transfer dough to prepared bowl, turning to coat with oil. Cover with plastic wrap and store in a warm, draft-free area to rise til doubled in size, about an hour. Preheat oven to 500 degrees F.

Line two baking sheets with parchment paper, and prep the pizza topping:

2-ish vine-ripened tomatoes, coarsely chopped
1 12 oz. package of fresh mozzarella, cut into 1 inch chunks - you won't use it all
Handful of fresh basil, roughly torn
1 medium lemon (you'll also need a zester or the fine side of a box grater)
Olive oil
Fine sea salt

After the dough has risen, punch it down and divide in half*. Flour a work surface and roll out the first dough half into a rectangle roughly the size of the baking sheet, transfer it to the parchment. Top the pizza sparsely first with the cheese (little chunks about 2 inches apart), then fill in first with chopped tomato and then basil. Drizzle with oil, sprinkle with salt and zest about a third of the lemon peel lightly over the pie. You will think, how will this cover the dough? But it will. Trust me.

Put the pizza on the verrrry bottom rack of the oven, and begin rolling out and topping the second pie. After about 15 minutes, your first margherita pizza will be crunchy and perfect! Put the second one in while you eat the first (great for a first course while entertaining - we save the second pizza for leftovers).

*I have used this same dough recipe to make the usual Don Pepino and Kraft shredded Italian cheeses for the girls. The high oven temp cooks the cheese long before the crust gets, well, crusty and crisp, but the girls don't seem to mind. For this type of pizza, I might recommend a lower temp (450) to give the dough a time to crisp up.

This is spring...

...in our neck of the woods.

Tween

There is a tween in my life.

She is 12, but her body shape could put her at 14. She can be quiet without being sullen. The thought of getting her monthly friend makes her visibly uncomfortable, but she has begun regularly using the razor I stored under her sink. She is still several inches shorter than me, but can wear my shoes. I do not have small feet. She would kill me if she read that.

She loves watching Johnny Quest with her dad before bed, but has seen every episode ever produced of American Idol and Survivor. She can still play up a storm in the basement, her games replete with roles and props and southern accents. Yet she is now found more often in her room watching a downloaded show on her laptop, texting at the same time. With the door closed. Her iTouch holds as many songs as it does games. Last week she finally removed all the stuffed animals from her room to make room for more adult decorations.

She can eat an enormous bowl of ice cream with sprinkles, cherries and cookies on top, but orders caesar salad and ice water at restaurants. Her dreams at night involve shopping with her friends at Target and Old Navy, but she has yet to dream of driving there herself. Well, that's not exactly true. She has practiced driving in our neighborhood with JBL. But car insurance is nothing more than a source of funny commercials on TV.

She wears all manner of earrings, but was horrified by the Avril Lavigne-inspired makeup her cousin sported during her last visit. She has read the Twilight series twice, and thinks one of the vampires (not the main guy, but the other guy) is cute. Yet none of the boys at school remotely interest her. At least not that I know of.

She'll attempt to clean the mud off her own shoes - first by dragging the hose through a bed of irises onto the patio, then upon finding the outside water turned off, she will finish the job in the bathroom recently cleaned for guests. When asked about the wisdom of leaving mud and grass in the sink, her reply was, "Well.....?" (read in and innocent, confused tone).

When I run into her at school and she is with her friends, she won't look at me in the eyes. I'm almost certain she is hoping I won't hug her before we part. When we are home, she still hugs me before going to bed. I realize more and more that when I talk with her I have no idea what she is thinking.

I know this tween time is a gift - a period for me to get used to K becoming an adult. In addition to teaching her about the Rolling Stones, James Brown and Frank Sinatra, I need to listen to her music. As I encourage her to watch the science channel, I should read the chick lit books she is into.

This time, I know, is my last chance to reach out and really build a bridge of a relationship with her. Now that I have promised to stop treating her like a stepdaughter, I try to really look at her. She is a child who is almost a teenager. She wants my respect and unconditional love. She needs down time and healthy food and independence. She wants a good role model and someone who will give her space to blossom. And she doesn't really need much at all.

So I will try to keep seeing her, to not embarrass her, to gain perspective on the teen she has almost become, to protect the child she still is. I will love her. She is the key to the door that locked in all my junk for decades, and I am so thankful to let it all go. Thank you God for K.

The internet and stuffed animals

J is playing with her stuffed animal collie dog, Licks. JBL is working in his office nearby.

J: "Licks is getting onto the computer. He's going to 'Bone.com'."

JBL: "He might be surprised."

He might indeed.

A father's introduction to joy

Running is one of my great passions, but isn't something I have done consistently. Certainly running is associated with the better parts of my life. I have run when discovering and rediscovering myself. And I have run in the most beautiful places in the world: Paris, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, Holland, Bermuda, San Fransisco, Tuscany and other places I can't even remember.

But the majority of my runs - like most everyone - have been based around areas where I have lived, and the vast majority of the time I run alone. My earliest memories of running, however, involved my dad. I can't say how old I was, but I do remember a few things vividly.

My father had an amazing long stride - at 6'2'', it seemed like he could glide down the road with hardly any exertion. I can picture his muscular legs, pale and freckled like mine but much longer and leaner.

Sometimes we would take the meandering fire trails that emptied out onto Morgan Mill Road across from the cornfields. Other times we would follow the roads all the way down to the reservoir. Coming back up was always tough, but my father never made me feel guilty for needing to walk. "You're doing great!" he would say with a grin and a big thumbs-up.

During these breaks we would explore small streams that ran along the roadside, finding tadpoles and turtles, and making dams. This extra exploration time is what I kept in my heart, rather than how guilty I may have felt about making him stop during the run, or how sore I was the next day.

And I remember he never pressured me to run - he just asked. I felt so proud to join him, and to share in something that obviously brought him joy. I had always felt comfortable in his presence anyway. He was quiet and introverted, like me, and felt happiest outside.

In middle school, my running tapered off due to lack of interest. I was becoming the socially-awkward and generally sub-happy teenager I would act as until college. Once at UMBC, I found running again, and not coincidentally, pieces of a happier self.

I couldn't run with my father at this point since knee problems had him turn to trail biking. I didn't miss our time alone together terribly - I was enjoying the introspective time running afforded me. I would occasionally bike with him, so it wasn't as though we were never together. Besides, I thought we had all the time in the world.

When I got married for the first time and moved to the city, my running again became inconsistent. When I got divorced just three years later, it would have been great to get out there with Dad, to blow off some steam and to once again be safely quiet. Unfortunately, in that short time, Alzheimer's had claimed him and had nearly eliminated his workouts.

After his death in 2000, I stopped running entirely for a time. It wasn't that without him I was uninspired. I exercised in other ways, but for some reason I felt I needed a running break. It wasn't until J was born that I rediscovered the feeling of joy putting one foot in front of the other. I joined a running group, and began racing again.

I didn't think then of how it had all begun, though I did wish my father could join us as I pushed J's stroller through trails and parks. As I identified birdsong or types of trees for her, I was vaguely aware that I was parroting information my dad had shared with me in similar circumstances.

When I completed my first half-marathon, after my mother's death in 2007, I pictured my parents near the finish line, set apart from the cheering masses. They were holding hands quietly, smiling at me for encouragement. That image pushed me to a strong finish even as it made me weep with longing and sadness.

It wasn't until I recently came upon a blogger who is also a serious distance runner that I thought again about my running memories with Dad. The blogger remarked that his daughter - six years old like J - asked to run with him last week, and he was thrilled at her interest. I wish I could tell him not to worry that he tried too hard with his son. And he shouldn't worry whether or not his daughter will find her own interest in running. He should feel at least a modicum of peace knowing that the shared experience of such a physical activity, at times both grueling and joyous, can truly be the gift of a lifetime. He has given his kids an entree into an active lifestyle, a way to help them cope with distress, a means of learning about nature and the depths of their own character.

Most importantly, the positive feelings a child has when sharing time with his or her father are priceless building blocks for a strong sense of self. And those common memories? His daughter will likely carry them in her heart, like a soft and sweet summer morning, her whole life.