Fridge Raid

Monday night, about an hour before Sandy came to visit and turned 

out the lights.  We had some mahi mahi, clams, mussels, shrimp,

 zucchini, and mushrooms tossed with pho noodles and a rich shrimp

 broth that I started cooking early that morning, knowing this may 

be the last good meal we'd have until the power went back on.

Ten hours later, the lights returned, and we were of the few who 

barely suffered.  As late as today, there are still thousands who are

 at their wit's end, wondering when they'll be able to resume life as 

they once knew it.  It's unfathomable to me that there are those who

 are yet displaced and unsure of their futures.  We're really lucky. 

Fridge Raid

No quiz as promised.  Honey-maple ham and swiss, rolled 

around half-sour pickles, and topped with beet salad and basil.

A great idea for a holiday party passed hors d'oeuvre.  

Don't forget the napkin.

Fridge Raid

Have at it folks.  There are many ingredients involved in this late-

night munchy photo.  See how many you can name before I start 

tossing clues your way.  One of the white-colored components is

a dish taken from  OFD.  Some research may be necessary.

OFD 2012

I write lists.  Lists are essential if anything is going to get done.  And

OFD is no exception.  Had I not put this on the counter under my 

keys, we may never have had mussels in beer-basil butter, or 

skewered shrimp with curry-coconut sauce, or asian-flavored

rib-ends with shiitake mushrooms.  The gravy may not have been

as amazing as it turned out to be (but I'm sure it would have been

awesome regardless), and we would have had two less ice

creams to serve with the assortment of pies.  

But since I woke up way early on Thursday, with thoughts

buzzing in my head about what I was going to serve first once we

got to Mojo's, the list was but a formality.  

Two of my three Baywomen.  Photo taken during our annual visit

to Greenwich Cove, down the road from my cousin's, after hors

d'oeuvres and before dinner.  This whole foreground was well 

under water during Sandy, and at least halfway up the stairway 

to the porch of the house in the background.  I'm surprised

the dinghy racks are still there. 

On the rocks.

"I must say, though, that it is particularly heartwarming to see the 

passion of our next gen for this day that seems to grow even 

stronger by the year.  This flame will be passed along for many, 

many years.  In fact, Patti was saying to me this afternoon that 

even though she never met the man (Grandpop) who started it all,

 she could imagine how proud he would be to see his great 

grandchildren partaking so vigorously in the day's traditions.  

That got me picturing him with us on the manporch, 

puffing contentedly on a Dominican."

That was Mojo's reply to my lamenting email from Friday,

while at work, bumming out about working

 and looking ahead to being at work all weekend.  I'd

mentioned how I am always depressed the day after THXG, 

and how eventually I get over it, only after hours of self-pity.

The Man at the head of the table, who started this tradition.

This may be the earliest documentation of OFD, taken in

my grandparents' summer bungalow on the Metedeconk 

River, in Cedarcroft, NJ, the heart of the Jersey Shore.  

It was a varnished picnic table with a tablecloth, and two 

benches for the grown-ups.  The card table for the kids 

was usually behind the photographer (Uncle Don).  But the 

card table may not have been deployed at this early date;  

highchair trays were probably the platforms for most of us, 

on which the turkey and gravy were smeared.  Following

 is another of Mojo's commentaries:

"This is incredible!  I never knew (or forgot if told long ago) that

both sets of my grandparents dined together for Thanksgiving.

Clockwise, seated to Gigi's left, is the Detroit contingent of

Eleanor (given name Daisy) and Bill (given name Leon) Clarke,

with George next to Bill on the far end.  To his left is Bev, with a 

mystery space (Don, the photog!!), and then Dot and Jim

(nice buzz cut) on the near end.  If it's November '62, I was 4-1/2,

and you were 1-1/2; our clever parents had no doubt already

applied our Port rations, and we were napping soundly on the oval-

shaped cotton rag rug on the floor in front of the fireplace while

they dined.  Or not.  :-))"

Thursday was quite a peaceful day, especially compared to the

torrent that passed through here almost a month ago

Baydog and Mojo.

Mojo, would you move that freakin fat separator? 

And for anybody who was wondering about the item 'glasses'

on my list earlier, there they are hanging from my collar.

I can't do anything any more without them. 

BTW, that was only one of two turkeys that day...

Evidence of a great session on Mojo's manporch.  There were

many incriminating photos associated with this one, and the blogger

decided that it was in our family's best interest to exclude them.

Glass of 2012.  We spent the day in Connecticut, but we visited

France, California, Spain, and Portugal.  

I had severe jet-lag on Friday.

Update:  Doc Haagen Dazs had asked about the Wiener Dog.

The Ween doesn't play nicely with other dogs, even her cousins,

when we're present.  It seems to be a protection/territory issue.

The last two or three OFDs, she's spent the day in a crate in 

Mojo's laundry room, while everyone else milled about 

drinking and eating.  This THXG, she spent the day and night

with about a dozen assorted pooches, at a place that doesn't

have a problem giving insulin injections.  When I drop her off,

they meet us in the driveway so as not to cause a stir with the

rest of the guests, and she trots inside, never looking back.

It's a perfect solution to an otherwise uncomfortable situation.

Their nice back yard was way better than an indoor crate. 

Two Be Missed

Me, with Grama and Uncle Don

Mojo sent out an email last week with a link to an article he read

in the New York Times.  In it, Jacques Pepin shared his 

feelings about Thanksgiving:

"I fell in love with Thanksgiving, and it has remained my 

favorite of all holidays- maybe because it makes no explicit

appeal to patriotism, politics, or a particular religion, and it's 

not centered on children, like the egg roll at Easter, or the

Santa Claus tradition, with its largess of Christmas presents.

There are no gifts to bestow on anyone, except the gift of 

being together and sharing nourishment."

For our family, it's also an opportunity to reminisce about

Thanksgivings past, and remember loved ones who are

no longer with us.  It is always a great day, and the one

we call ourfavorite.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

Foundation

The basis by which all gravies are measured should be

the stock used to form the body of the sauce.  You can

 thicken wine with roux and call it gravy, but you're 

missing the point. Gravy needs to possess the flavors 

extracted from the meat that was cooked in the first place.

Usually, you remove the meat from the saute or roasting

pan, and then you de-glaze that pan (remove any 

caramelized bits left from the cooked meat) with some 

kind of wine, vinegar, stock, or even water.  This creates 

the start of the pan-sauce, or gravy.  Once reduced 

somewhat, it's time to add the broth or stock, usually

derived from the same type of animal, although these days

most stocks are interchangeable with their service to the

main course, even with many fish items.  (I love seafood 

with a meat glaze, but that's just me.)  

Then comes the thickening part.  If you're a purist, which

I am most of the time, cooking down, or reducing the sauce,

is the best way to concentrate the flavors.  When you've

used bones in your stock that contain gelatin, you can 

achieve a certain natural glossiness from that stock after

it's been boiled for some time.  The gelatin concentrates 

and naturally makes the stock more viscous, eliminating the 

need for thickening agents.

2 quarts of turkey stock.  Next stop, the Nutmeg State.

The pickins will be the foundation of dinner on Tuesday.

Last Hurrah

#20 Princeton University upset #14 Brown 10-7 today, in the first

round of the CWPA Eastern Championship, being held this 

weekend at Princeton's DeNunzio Pool.  It was the only game I was 

able to attend this fall, and my nephew Tim made sure it was a 

memorable one for me.  The win places Princeton against Bucknell

on Saturday in the semi-finals.  This weekend's champ goes to the

Final Four, and hopefully it will be Princeton's third trip

in four years to that celestial plateau.

Tim has been my connection to P.U. for the past four years, and I

find myself having some separation anxiety just thinking about his

impending graduation and my sudden dis connection from this local

venerable institution. Let's see, which niece, nephew, or daughter

is worthy of carrying on his legacy......

Post-game interview with Tim

Tim grew up in California playing water polo, in the state well-known 

for producing the best water polo players.  To me, he's become the

quintessential collegiate student-athlete.   He visited Princeton

while still a high schooler, and stopped in to the restaurant to see me

and get a free meal. I knew he would choose to play here, and I also

knew that he knew that being so close to us, he'd have the 

opportunity to come visit once in a while for some 

wine and a home-cooked meal.  

It's already November 16th, and he has yet to swing by our place this 

fall. That's okay....Thursday's OFD, and we'll catch up then.  

Meanwhile, go get 'em Tigers tomorrow.  I'll be watching from work.  

Hopefully we can talk about the upcoming Final Four 

on Thursday, over cigars and port.  

Final game for Seniors at Princeton

Update:  After losing in the final minute of the game against Bucknell

7-6, the Tigers bounced back and beat Mercyhurst on Sunday for

the bronze.  A bittersweet moment for Tim and all of us.  We'll still

hash it out on the manporch sometime late Thursday.  

Photo Quiz

1.  Who's the Skipper and wife?

2. Where was the photo taken?

3. What class of boat?

4.  What was the hull/sail number?

BTW:  Two years ago today, the Grand Dame of

the Princeton culinary scene closed her doors, after 

ninety-one years of serving the masses the best French

 and American cuisine in Central Jersey. 

Don't think for a second that I forgot about this date.

Vino Toscana

I had this one time, and that's all I probably will ever deserve.

Chicken Francaise

Google image.

My image.  After posting that photo of an inviting chicken francaise,

I was inspired and cooked chicken with onions, capers, garlic, basil, 

white wine, lemon juice, and whole butter.  More Piccata than 

Francaise.  I like this one better.  You would too.

What's Next?

And it's still coming down.

I understand there are some locusts coming our way.

Jersey Strong

Some moving pictures are worth a thousand words.  Thanks

Charley, for posting this.  I'm re-posting with your presumed 

approval. Now I need to find the Kleenex tissues again. 

More From The Shore

No more new inlet.  

Peter Hurley came across the bay to survey the damage in the wake 

of Sandy. His Dad's house is but a few blocks south of  Betty Wagner's

 and the Mantoloking bridge.  The footage of Rt. 35 in this clip is

 hard to process; there's never not been a steady flow of traffic

 on this ocean road, as far as I can remember. 

Changing Of The Guard

Yes, Tillerman, I was in Lumberton last night.

Skip Moorhouse was finally honored at his 

belated retirement party at the Moorhouse 

MacCausland sail loft, out in the virtual middle

of nowhere in south central New Jersey.

There was a nice group of sailing friends and

relatives, some of whom I knew and the rest

I wish I had.  It's not hard to assemble a bunch

such as them, when the honoree is so loved and

respected.  The night was exactly as I imagined. 

BTW, the following three video clips are watchable,

regardless of the black screen each one exhibits.

There were many stories and recollections, all of which

sounded so typically Skip that I was never surprised,

and often I imagined the punchline or moral well before

they were reached.  I'd always enjoyed listening to him

because he's a good storyteller, and sadly this may have 

been one of the last times I'll have the opportunity.

He's built sails for scads of Mid-Atlantic sailors and 

racers alike.  The Moorhouse Sailmakers patch is

a common sighting on Barnegat Bay, as well as

Chesapeake Bay, Delaware River, loads of inland

lakes and reservoirs, and farther than I can probably

fathom.  When you produce a quality product, your

reputation precedes you.

Skip is an everyman.  His sailing and sailmaking 

abilities aside, he's as down to earth as your next

door neighbor.  That's what originally attracted me

to him.  He can talk about the cut of your new

mainsail in one breath, then lament about the toilet

in the mens' room at the back of the loft.  One 

afternoon I was visiting him, around 3:30 or 4:00

in the afternoon, when out of the blue he said, 

"I think we ought to order some lunch.  Dave, 

you like wings?"  Better late than never.

I stayed until the bitter end last night, often having 

something to add but always hanging back, listening

to the others who were more aggressive with their 

additions to the story at hand.  It's okay, I'll tell this

one here.  Skip and Jill grew up on the north shore of 

Long Island, in a small town called Glen Cove. 

 Legend has it that Skip's school sat on a hill

overlooking the harbor. He'd constantly be busted for 

gazing out the window, down upon the sailboats 

moored in the harbor.  Is it any wonder that Skip 

wound up making a living from building sails that

would power the boats in his field of dreams?

When you're young, you often have people you look

up to.  And depending on the situation you're in, those

influential beings can mold the way you will deal with

life as an adult, as well as steer a sailboat around a 

racecourse. Skip was always an idol of mine. 

I have three men on my list of sailing mentors,  

two of whom were my Dad, Jim, and my stepdad

Bob.  Skip is my third.  I was always in awe of

him at Penguin and M-scow regattas, and after my

parents divorced, Mom married Bob and Dad 

married Skip's sister Jill.  Luckily for me and my

brother, everyone remained civil and friendly, and we

often had the best of all worlds.  I consider myself a

well-rounded sailor, though definitely not the sharpest 

racing mind.  It's okay though.  These men had a hand

in shaping  my ability to think on the boat, as well as on

 land.  Traits like those are invaluable inheritances which

many are never priveleged to  experience.

John MacCausland is the hands-down perfect person

for Skip to hand the torch to.  This guy's been around

forever, and is almost as big a part of the New Jersey

sailing scene as Skip.  But not quite just yet.  John,

you're on the right track though.  Best of luck. And

thanks for inviting me to the party. 

Photo Quiz

1. What is this?

2. Where is this?

3. Why was I there?

Sjogin Floats!

Massachusetts High School Futbol

My nephew Alex, tearing it up on the pitch.

A Long Row To Hoe

Not living down here, I won't notice so much the snail's pace at 

which this reconstruction will take place.  As for the residents, it will 

be an agonizing few years until traffic flows smoothly, detour signs 

cease to exist, and a normal groove falls into place in this otherwise

very quiet couple of blocks bordering one of the busiest corridors of

 summer commerce on the entire East Coast of the U.S. 

Time For Some Levity

Sailing in control is so overrated.  I just wonder 

what made crew feel as though he needed to tie

his shoe at that particular moment......

My Favorite Boat Yard