Holiday All Over & Over & Over Again

I just want to kick this off by saying I like hosting Thanksgiving.

Sure you end up going to the grocery store about three to seven times a day leading up to The Big Day. Sure you end up going to extortionately priced alternative grocers, in a desperate effort to avoid the hellishness of going to the grocery store to the masses. And, sure, you inevitably end up forgetting a few things, like butter. Or beer. But it's all okay, 'cuz it's Thanksgiving! It's fun to keep going back to the store.

Truth be told, the only thing that makes all those trips bearable is the fact that the kids -- and by that, I mean Ryan -- are in school or in bed when I go. Nothing like blindly throwing items on the checkout counter, mindlessly and frantically bagging them -- making half an effort not to crush something with cans, bottles or a 20-pound turkey -- only to find yourself unloading two kinds of ice-pops, some cheddar pretzels and a power toothbrush when you get home.

But Thanksgiving was great. I had most of my family here. Later, we Skyped for the first time, reaching out to Mike's mom and family out in California.

The next day, the leftover party began with Cara breaking out some stuffing and apple compote for breakfast. Lunch was turkey and bacon sandwiches. Except for Ryan, who had the less traditional open-face grilled cheese and bacon. Still more turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and assorted root vegetable dishes were re-heated and consumed over the course of the long weekend.

By Monday, I wanted it gone. And I had this great idea that I could just layer whatever was left into a baking dish, top it all with mashed potatoes and call it Thanksgiving Shepard's Pie. Everthing gets mixed up on the plate anyway, right? How quaint! How clever!

"How to ruin perfectly good leftovers," Mike said.

It might be hard to believe, but Ryan wasn't into it, either. He started circling the kitchen around 5 p.m., when he could smell something cooking that didn't have that familiar and pre-approved pizza, pasta or burger scent. I knew what was coming, so I attempted diversion tactics, using one unpleasant task to distract him from what he'd immediately deem a very unpleasant and unwanted meal.

Ryan: "What's for dinner?"

Me: "Do your homework."

Ryan: "Really, what are you cooking?"

Me: "I'm just re-heating something. Do your homework."

Ryan: "I want cheeseburgers for dinner. Dad can make them."

Me: "Maybe tomorrow. Just do your homework before you get STRAIGHT F'S, for GOD'S SAKE!"

Full disclosure: My end of that probably went on a little longer, and the semantics may have been a teensy bit stronger.

But when dinner was being put on the table, Ryan went in full Ryan mode.

Ryan: "WHAT!?! WHAT IS THIS???? I'M NOT EATING IT. (Turning calmly belligerent) I'm just not. I'm having a burger."

See, Ryan doesn't like turkey, mashed potatoes, carrot souffle, stuffing, gravy, etc., etc. He also doesn't like his food to touch. He'd still be using toddler divider plates if we didn't chuck them out. So to him, this was a heinous act on my part.

Me: "Sit down. It's this or nothing. And you can go to bed."

That got him to the table. Where he carefully picked the turkey out of the rest of the happy mash-up, making a face like he was dissecting day-old, West Texas road kill. For 10 minutes, he masterfully avoided all root vegetables, including the mashed potatoes, and complained bitterly about his fate.

Ryan: "I can't believe you're making me eat this. I could have just had a burger. Who would ever eat this? Look at it: it's the Devil's grave!!"

Thank you, my son, for warming my heart. I think I'll relay this oh-so-very-tender moment to one of those family groups that's forever promoting the importance of sharing dinnertime with your offspring.

When Mike finally recovered from doubling-over with laughter at Ry's keen hilarity, he cleared the table. And scooped the rest of the concoction into the garbage can, posthaste. Good thing he did: I was ready to resurrect the dish that night in a vengeful tour de force to be known as "The Devil's Grave 2: In Your Sleep."

What's Eataly'n You?

An incredible new Italian food emporium opened recently in NYC.  It's got fresh Italian cheeses, fresh Italian charcuterie, fresh Italian bread, fresh Italian fish -- oh, wait, I guess they could be Italian-American fish.



But there's produce that a produce person armed with Ginsu knives will chop up right in front of you, ala Benihana, whose chefs don't seem that Italian.  There's also an Italian wine shop, a gelato bar, a chocolate counter and Italian coffee caffe.


It's Eataly! This 42,500-square-foot food emporium in Manhattan's Flatiron district is the brainchild of superstar chefs Mario Batali and Lydia Bastianich, and Batali's long-time partner and Lydia's son Joe Bastianich.  It's also their homage to the slow food movement. 


So, if you like to eat Italian food, head somewhere else.  Or spend a few hours buying all your groceries here, standing on 8 different lines, and then heading home to cook it yourself.  Or wait 90 minutes or so to snag a spot at one of their "restaurants."


Mike: "Why are we doing this?  What kind of business plan IS THIS?! I'm hungry and we're surrounded by food we can't eat!"
Me: "It's fun, it's new.  Just be patient.  We'll figure it out."
Mike: "I don't want to figure out how to eat.  We can go to The Village and be eating in 20 minutes."
Ryan: "I want to eat NOW, not even in 20 minutes.  Let's leave!"



As much as I hate to agree with Mike and mini-Mike, they were right.  Eataly is a food mall where you you can't eat, unless you don't mind waiting an hour+ for a table at one of their "restaurants" which are smack dab in the middle of the food supermarket, where every hipster, granny or snot-nosed whiny kid can stare at you and your food and wonder, usually out loud, "Why do THEY have a table?!"


And I mean table.  Not every table even has a seat.  People were just standing there in the middle of the madness with people banging into them as they nibbled their Italian cheese platter and sipped their  Italian wine -- all while being badgered with questions like, "How did you get this table?  Where did you get that cheese platter?  Where do you get bread?  Why are you not letting me eat your food?!"


Nuts is the only way to describe it.  You want cheese? Stand at the cheese counter for a half-hour.  You want salami?  Stand at the meats counter.  Same with bread.  Or produce.  You stand on a different line for each category of food you want, and then go on a hunt for the check-out, which is located on the other side of the block, I mean, the food mall.  How many people are just going to scarf their food without bothering to find the cashier, that's what I'd like to know.  


The Record newspaper ran a story recently about the place.  One of Eataly's people said patrons will learn about not just eating, but cooking.  The person actually said, and I quote (from The Record): "People will come to us and buy bread, buy prosciutto, buy a tomato and have us slice it, buy mozzarella, take it to the park and eat it.  And that is cooking." 


Really?!  I'm half Irish, and even I don't consider that to be cooking!!  Good to know, though, next time somebody asks what I'm scarin' up for dinner.


We did get a selection of formaggio and charcuterie only took an hour to procure, as well as a loaf of bread and lemon soda.  I wanted wine, but never did find the wine shop amidst the crush of humanity. 


We hovered over an errant table that was shoved against a wall, slapped our stuff together with bits of bread and savored the Italian goodness.  Within minutes, though, we were on red-alert, as the passersby thought we were running a sampling station.  The four of us formed a blockade around out table, backs to the bastards, as we scarfed our cheese and prosciutto like ravenous hyenas.


Granted our cheese, cured meats and bread was very delicious.  And as fun as I've made the whole experience sound, I don't really see us putting in the effort to repeat it anytime soon.  We experienced their slow food movement.  But I'm afraid it's a crusade that will have to go on without us.