Chicken Milanese for the Soul

We will be rewarded for sharing vulnerabilities like Tinkerbell and her pixie dust, they said. Tossing it around for all in need to benefit from and partake in. Everyone is hurting to some degree, so by sharing we collectively heal.  Some people you give a gift as precious as your vulnerability to will protect it. They, like you, know how it feels to be exploited, misunderstood, and uncertain. Some will absorb it, with a feigned look of understanding, and quietly tuck that very valuable piece of you away until it is advantageous to use. When the circumstances align, they reach into their closet of intel, pluck it, and voila. You are hurting again.

The feeling empathes in a world that wants us to believe something is seriously wrong with us as we are, must not allow these circumstances to harden us. Someone, somewhere is deserving of our gifts. We just might have to be a little more selective when doling them out.

The best we can do as people is make of ourselves what we are able,  sharing with those deserving of our vulnerability. Plant our feet firmly on the ground, ignite our surroundings with our passion, quietly give thanks, tenderly love,  enthusiastically try, and make chicken Milanese. After all this feeling, I’m starving.

You'll Need:

For the chicken:

• 4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 6 ounces each, lightly pounded)
• 2 large eggs
• ⅔  cup all-purpose flour
• 1 cup plain dried breadcrumbs 
• 1 cup olive oil
• kosher salt and pepper

For the salad:

• 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
• 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
• 3 cups baby arugula
• 6-10 grape or heirloom tomatoes, halved
• ½  red onion, sliced thin
• 2 roasted red peppers, sliced thin
• kosher salt and black pepper  

To Prepare:

1. For the chicken: Lightly beat 2 large eggs in a medium bowl. Place all-purpose flour and breadcrumbs in 2 separate wide, shallow dishes.
2. Season eggs, flour and chicken with coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper.
3. Working with 1 cutlet at a time, dip into flour, turning to coat and shaking off excess. Dip into egg, and lift out, letting excess drip off. Dip into breadcrumbs, pressing firmly to adhere. Set aside.
4. Heat oil in a 12-inch skillet (oil should be between 1/4 and 1/2 inch deep) over medium-high heat until shimmering; a breadcrumb should sizzle when dropped into oil.
5. Gently place 2 cutlets in skillet, and fry until bottoms are golden brown, 3 1/2 to 4 minutes. Flip cutlets, and fry until cooked through and golden on other side, about 2 1/2 minutes more.
6. Transfer to a paper-towel-lined baking sheet, and pat off excess oil.
7. Repeat with remaining cutlets, skimming brown bits and adding more oil if necessary.
8. For the salad: Whisk together Extra Virgin Olive Oil and Balsamic Vinegar. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
9. Toss arugula, tomatoes, red onion, and red peppers with vinaigrette. Top cutlets with salad.
10. Finish with a drizzle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil as well as a turn of salt and pepper. 

Commuter: The sea and silence

It's the first day back after the long Fourth of July holiday weekend. A commuter near me is particularly agitated and Shhhh-ing anyone who utters a peep in his "quiet" car. The door is jammed and rhythmically knocks; this happens when the train isn't level. My sunburn is itchy. I close my eyes.

Waves are pounding against the shoreline. I am back on the beach alone with the rush of the wind and my thoughts. My college roommate's mother always said "never go into the deep confines of your mind alone, it's a dangerous place." I went there anyway.  Other than the gulls, the waves, the wind, all the sounds God intended to bellow on into perpetuity uninterrupted, there is silence. The sound of silence. I am not accustomed to it, rather more familiar with noise.

Taylor ham for this Jersey girl at Dockside Diner. 

Long live cold brew.

I resort to talking in the moments I doubt myself. Discomfort creeps in and I feel an urgency to explain. When I am wronged, the first remedy is to utter the words: to my mom, my husband, the cats, even social media "friends" if very desperate. I try not to do this as I know everyone has their own set of complex issues and Facebook makes a poor therapist. As I sit, I'm reminded of my Nana's love of the sea.  She used to walk the beach with her mom early morning until noon each day in the summer. I lay back on the cold sand and fog rushes over me like J.K. Rowling's dementors. I peer into the sky and pray for peace in my heart and in the hearts of the people I love. Anxieties try to challenge my serenity but I do not let them in. I am regenerated alone on the beach with no one around to judge or affirm.  The sea reacquainted me with silence, the silence that the city took from me. The sea taught me to stop filling the space, to forfeit the spewing of words, when silence can heal instead.

Linguini aglio olio. 

James knew to lure me from my slumber with the promise of cold brew iced coffee each morning: the Nitro variation from How You Brewin is the Guinness of iced coffee and Chameleon Cold Brew served at the Dockside Diner is my new elixir. When hunger peeled us from the sand, we cooked. My sun kissed skin still warm from the beach and my unruly curls contained with a headband, my uncle said I looked like an Italian peasant farm girl stirring the risotto. It was the best compliment I could have received. We drank wine and indulged in assorted cheeses from The Cheese Shoppe on the front porch to the tune of classic rock. After our bellies were full we would walk around the island and reminisce. We waved at strangers because who could be hostile in a beach town?

One meal two ways: Seafood risotto turned arancini. 

On the morning of the fourth, we leapt into our Jeep with the windows down. I wanted to check emails even though I knew driving next to someone with their head planted in a screen would be a nuisance. "I wish for once you would let yourself enjoy your surroundings," he said.  So I put my phone down to take it all in.  We sang off key. Well he sang off key. I am always on key thanks to Nana and those years of singing lessons. He drummed the steering wheel and I peered at everyone else heading home. 

Commuter: Connectedness and a cake

Someday I want to say that a splendid work was written in the notes app of my iPhone while waiting for a train, bereft of cell phone service. During the time I wasn't able to access the distraction of the inter web, the mindless scroll of social media and the compulsive checking of my four email accounts. As much as I crave the connectedness, I feel something like liberation when I am cut off from everything, however briefly. Then I charge up the steps into the sunlight or evening dusk to re-engage with the world, rather than lingering in the curated version accessible from my palm.

Much happens when we connect with what is in plain view. We talk to the young mother sitting next to us, rather than longing to be somewhere else on a lavish adventure. We find the poetry in the mundane.

When I was purposefully observing the other day, I got reacquainted with some truths: Laughter out of context is still infectious. Someone is chuckling incessantly in the row behind me and I am desperate to know what they are laughing at. Simultaneously, I don't care what the stimuli is, I feel happier anyway. 

People are predominately good and well-intentioned. There is a baby on the train screaming, bone curdling screams. Her mother is desperate to soothe her, all the while feeling judged by the serious commuters, when in an instant everyone in proximity to the little one find their silliest faces and as a community calm her down. I mean everyone including the suave, well-groomed man I see nearly everyday, who never smiles. Until now. 

The hum of the whistle makes me feel like a character in The Polar Express. I'm reminded of our family's tradition of reading the story each Christmas Eve and exchanging just one gift before laying cookies and carrots out on the fireplace. We haven't done it the past few years, but we should. 

Two teens giggle jovially, picking at their pimples in the reflection of their iPhones and dishing about the latest mean girl encounter at school and picture day. They seem so innocent, unencumbered by the threats all around us.

Across the way an Irishman and his wife are laughing as if the hydrant to their souls had come unplugged. Bursting with glee, sipping on beers and vowing to feign ignorance if they get caught with them. The man jokes that the subway itself holds more people than his tiny town. He observes that everyone's brow is furrowed and looking angry and suggests we try and relax a little more, enjoy the journey. We being the folks sharing the Path car with him erupt into laughter. There are group photos and high fives. They are off to a football match, and to be quite honest for a moment I longed to he going where they were going, or at least to be living like they were living, freely by the moment.

Then I listen to myself again. While it might be nice to be a teen again absorbed in the quandary of school picture day, or sipping a beer on the way to a football match, I have faith in this here journey, where my feet stand. I catch laughter from my neighbor and smile at children. I'm reminded to relate to others, to connect,  but not to compare. How do we know with any level of certainty that their story is favorable to ours. And if it was would it matter?

PS: The cake is an Olive Oil Spice cake. I use Botticelli Foods Extra Virgin Olive Oil.  The applesauce in the cake was freshly made from left over pears and apples, and a little sugar. Buttermilk was made from milk and lemon juice as I didn't get to the grocery store, although I recommend actual buttermilk. The berry cherry basil mixture was residual from another baking project. It's all connected. 

Israeli Couscous Salad

My husband has off from work today in observance of Memorial Day so he rose early to trek into the city with me. The man that rises at 7:00 on weekends to frequent the farmers markets before a crowd, as I grasp my iced coffee, sporting a baseball cap to cover my unkempt hair and leggings because I don't do zippers on Saturday morning.  Right about now he is off wandering the museums and if I know my James, consuming Pure Leaf Iced Teas in quick succession. After my half day schedule, we will do some exploring and eating of course. More on that later.

During our train ride, he told me about the first time he laid eyes on New York City, a young Marine on ship, during this very week, Fleet Week. He came over from Camp Lejeune on the USS WASP and had by that time in his life seen much of the world, but hadn't yet seen New York. I am thankful for the sacrifices of those in uniform throughout the generations who have secured for me the opportunity to sit in the sun and munch on some couscous salad this weekend. You have my eternal gratitude. 

If you're hosting a gathering this weekend and are short on time, sternos or patience, pasta salad is a reliable go to. Food52 shared a genius collection of not quite recipes to make a series of appealing salads, sure to please. Basically combine a pasta or grain, something seasonal, something crunchy, something sweet and a solid vinaigrette. Here we are using Botticelli Foods Extra Virgin Olive Oil and Balsamic Vinegar. 

You'll need:

• 1 ⅓  cups Israeli Couscous
• 2 cups Baby Spinach Leaves
• ⅔ cup Sliced Pears
• 1 ounce Goat Cheese, crumbled
• 3 tablespoons Dried Cranberries
• 1 ½ tablespoons Sliced Almonds, toasted
• 1 tablespoon Botticelli Extra Virgin Olive Oil
• Kosher Salt and Black Pepper

For the dressing:

• 2 tablespoons Botticelli Balsamic Vinegar
• 1 ½  teaspoon Honey Mustard
• 2 tablespoons Botticelli Extra Virgin Olive Oil
• Kosher Salt and Black Pepper

To Prepare:

1. In a 2 quart saucepan, sauté 1 ⅓ cups couscous with 1 tablespoon Botticelli Olive Oil over medium heat until couscous is lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Slowly add 1 ¾ cups boiling water and return to a boil. Reduce heat to medium low and cover. Simmer for 10-12 minutes or until liquid is absorbed.
2. Let the couscous cool to room temperature.
3. Meanwhile, make the balsamic dressing. Whisk together balsamic vinegar and honey mustard in a small bowl. Slowly pour in olive oil as you continue to whisk. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
4. Place the couscous in a salad bowl along with the spinach, pears, goat cheese, cranberries and almonds. Reserve some almonds, cranberries and cheese to garnish. Add the dressing and toss to combine.

Jack and me

He sat alone, a crinkly paper in his hands. His pants were pressed, shoes shined, a brightly colored cap that read USMC atop his head. The barista rattled off the names of fancy overpriced beverages in rapid succession. He looked up each time someone came close enough to glance his way, to see him- really see him.

A large majority of hip youngsters were glued to their devices, clutching for dear life, scrolling feverishly to feel connected. They hadn't noticed the gentle invitation that rested in his green eyes. I accepted because I can sometimes be the person obsessively checking, comparing, feeding on distractions desperate for affirmation. I met his gaze, my husband a Marine serving as the perfect pretense to engage him. I had work to do but I pushed my computer aside; it could wait. 

He served in peacetime as a pilot, having decided to join the ranks of the United States Marines because he loved the sharp green color of the uniforms. Stationed in San Diego, life felt like a grand vacation he confessed. His days consisted of studious practice, taking off and landing on a narrow air strip three days a week. After four years he retired a Captain and went on to excel in the world of business. He and his wife had nine children, six of them physicians, one sweet youngster, Jimmy, gone too soon at just six years old to Leukemia. I am certain a tear flirted with his green eyes, pain of this loss as raw as if it was yesterday not some forty years prior. My eyes welled up too. 

A massive heart attack cut his career as a CEO short as he welcomed retirement at 55 years old. Later in life he would also survive breast cancer. Although his compensation package would carry him through the rest of his days, retirement felt like a slow death. Morning mass, breakfast, the Price is Right, Repeat. To the sick and elderly he brought communion. I knew he was Catholic and likely Irish with nine kids. But those were not the reasons for his considerable tribe. He and his wife had wanted each and every child. From his wallet a tattered photo folded in thirds. His children, their spouses, and twenty-four grandchildren surrounded Jack and his wife on their 50th wedding anniversary. They were beaming. How some can be so abundantly surrounded by love and others never feeling its warm embrace I will never fully understand. But within each of us lies the opportunity to welcome someone in. Jack welcomed me in, a stranger in a suburban Starbucks of all places. His tall delicate frame wandered off. I closed my eyes and saw a vibrant young pilot boarding a plane in Marine green. 

Happy Veterans Day to the men, women and canines who have served and are currently serving. To the families that support them, to the civilians that are indebted to them, to those who will serve, and to the world that is so fractured- let's be nice to one another. 

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Two words. Well, proper nouns: Sarah Kieffer. Over time I have become transfixed by Sarah's words and her confections. I am simply delighted to have in my possession her first book. Each page teems with love, and light. An affinity for pumpkin and chocolate, I am sharing her pumpkin pound cake below. Make it, buy her book, read her words. 

To Prepare Sarah's Pumpkin Pound Cake with Chocolate
 

• 3 cups all purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
• 3/4 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoons grated nutmeg
• 4 large eggs
• 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
• 3/4 cup canola oil
• one 15 ounce can of pumpkin
• 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
• 8 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate
• confectioners' sugar for dusting

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a Bundt pan. Whisk together flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg.

In a stand mixer, fitted with paddle, beat the eggs until pale yellow and doubled in volume, 4 to 5 minutes. And the granulated and brown sugars and mix on medium until combined. Add oil, pumpkin, and vanilla and mix on medium until completely combined. 

Add the flour mixture and mix on medium until smooth. Stir in chocolate. 

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake 45-60 minutes until a wooden skewer or toothpick comes out clean. Let cool on a wire rack for 20 minutes and then invert the cake onto rack for cooling. Dust with confectioners' sugar before slicing. 

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A Call to Action on Veterans Day

Lastly, if you know of any individual serving in the military who could use a greeting card and care package during the holidays, please complete the form below. I am partnering with a local organization in my town to gather names for their upcoming mailing. If you rather send something on your own to commemorate Veteran's Day, visit Operation Gratitude.