2011: A BATHROOM ODYSSEY or HOW TO REMODEL YOUR BATHROOM FOR UNDER $1,000 w/ Lunch for 2 for 2 Bucks!

2011: A BATHROOM ODYSSEY or

HOW TO REMODEL YOUR BATHROOM

FOR UNDER $1,000

w/ Lunch for 2 for 2 Bucks!

OK, I lied.  I didn’t really ‘remodel’ our bathroom for under $1,000, but I did ‘reface’ it for $750 making the bathroom look like a million.

We have an old house.  Well, old by LA standards.  Built in 1941, very little was done to ‘update’ this ‘bungalow/cottage home after about 1962.  When we bought it twenty years ago, it was a sea of tired linoleum and formica in the kitchen, some 50’s aluminum windows and layers of linoleum and 50’s/60’s vinyl flooring in the master bath.   Home prices being what they were (and still are in LA even in today’s housing recession), we didn’t have extra cash after slapping down our down payment.  No remodeling for us.  But, paint’s cheap, so I had fun creating our rooms in various ‘decors’ and showing them off as a design consultant on HGTV.  But over the years we did make some bigger changes.  I designed the long add-on room into a home library.  We had decks built, and eventually replaced the aluminum windows and redid the kitchen.

But... back to the master bath. 

It’s a quirky bathroom, consisting of three small rooms. 

The ‘main’ room holds the washer/dryer, has a walk-in closet (which we had built years ago), a built-in vanity and a French door (which we also installed when we first moved in, replacing an old composite 50’s door) which leads out to the garden and pool. 

The second room has a walk-in shower and holds a wonderful old cast iron, claw foot tub that I’ve painted various colors over the years.  Once I even painted a desert scene on the tub (I was in my Sante Fe, Georgia O’Keefe period)… another time I painted it green w/ gilt ivy vines climbing up the tub (my Italian ‘old world’ period) – now it’s painted espresso brown to match the color I painted the old vanity. 

The third room in our ‘en-suite’ bath, is the water closet (WC).

The floor connecting all three rooms was covered in dated and tired vinyl.  Underneath were layers of even more dated and tired vinyl/linoleum.  To remove it all, rebuild the sub floor and put in new, ‘today’ flooring would cost thousands.  So over the years I’ve painted the floor along w/ the tub.  Once w/ splashes of color a la Jackson Pollack, another time those gilt ivy vines and until this most recent redo, a solid gray (the bathroom made many guest star appearances on HGTV’s “Your Home w/ Kitty Bartholomew”).

But no matter what I did, the bathroom still didn’t look ‘polished.’  Finished.  I wanted to really love it.  I wanted to smile when I looked at it.  I wanted it bright and cheerful.  Don’t get me wrong, I did love my funky designs of the past and they brought me a lot of attention… but that was then.   Now I wanted something that would be pleasing not only to us, but to potential buyers in case we wanted to sell. 

Remember I told you we have a kind of bungalow/cottage-y house?  Well, that’s where I decided to go, design-wise.  And, what’s more ‘today’ for that style house?  Wainscoting.  Wide crown molding.  Check out the Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware catalogs and the recent bathroom design books and you’ll know what I mean.  Wainscoting and crown molding are sweeping the nation along w/ those little ‘vintage’ octagon white floor tiles (some w/ decorative black or brown designs and borders).

But, here’s that but, again.  Cost.  Out of work writers don’t have large cash flows, so the floor was out of the question.  But talking w/ my wonderful, fabulous, fantastic painter (who can do anything), he told me he could install the wainscoting and crown molding, paint everything, even the floor w/ my latest “simple” border design (I can’t be on my hands and knees for hours anymore – hell, not even for 5 minutes) for $750.00.  Sold!

Oh, and that two buck lunch?  While carousing around Ikea in search of some brushed nickel accessories (didn’t find anything we liked), we had lunch at the little counter by the check-out.  Two hot dogs, one diet coke and a bag of potato chips:  $2.00.  The hot dogs were all-beef ‘Hebrew National-y’, steamed the way I like them, and the potato chips were Swedish “Original Lantchips, Scandinavian Style” – delicious.

So, a new bathroom:  $752.00 (including lunch).  A new look:  Priceless. 

Here are a few ‘before’ and various ‘after’ shots of our ‘remodeled’ bathroom.

BATHROOM FLOOR - 

Before:

After:

WATER CLOSET -

Before:

After:

THE TUB/SHOWER ROOM - Because of the tub and mirror, we were unable to put in wainscoting, so a chair rail defines the walls instead.

All after shots: 

VANITY - Before:

After:

 

Niche above vanity:

VARIOUS PICTURES OF THE MAIN ROOM w/ WASHER/DRYER, CLOSET & VANITY

Our room w/ a view.  I love our 'new' bathroom.

LAVENDER - (In Chicken?!?!)

LAVENDER

(In Chicken?!)

 

We all know that lavender smells great.  We buy lavender soap, lavender sachets and pillows and, some of us (me), dream of walking through lavender fields in Provence.

But lavender in food?   Who knew?

Dear friends, Stu and Kyle, live in Ojai, California and one of our greatest pleasures is visiting them for dinner and a sleepover.  Ojai is famous for its ‘pink moments’ at sunset,  the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa where I spent a glorious birthday a couple of years ago:

http://mydinnerswithrichard.blogspot.com/2009/10/sleepover-in-ojai.htm

...and its yearly lavender festival.  Kyle has a booth at the festival and one year she asked me to submit designs (I did about three/four watercolors) for the annual Lavender Festival poster contest.  I lost.  Last year I painted a couple of children’s stools w/ a lavender theme to be sold at her booth.  And this year, she’s involved in putting together a lavender cookbook.

Of course, she didn’t ask me to participate. Why would she?  I wouldn't ask me either, when Richard is available.  His assignment if he chose to accept it (he did) was to test a recipe, make comments and advise her if the dish should be included in the cookbook.  He chose stir-fry chicken.   

LAVENDER STIR FRY CHICKEN

Ingredients:

1/2 cup lavender/rosemary oil (see recipe, below) 

1/4 cup lemon juice

1/4 cup orange juice

2 tablespoons honey

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cubed or cut in strips,

5 cups chunked summer vegetables (squash, sweet onion, red peppers, small red potatoes, mushroom caps).

LAVENDER OIL

Ingredients:

1/2 cup olive oil
5 sprigs rosemary
5 cloves garlic, crushed
2 Tbsp. dried culinary lavender buds

Warm in a saucepan for five minutes.  Steep three hours.

Strain, pour into bottle, stir in cool, dry place

DIRECTIONS:

1. Mix together oil, lemon and orange juice, and honey and marinate chicken for 3 hours.
2. Place chicken in a saucepan with marinade and cook until browned, stirring constantly. See Richard's comments below.

     3.  Add the vegetables and cook until tender.    

Makes 4 servings

RICHARD’S COMMENTS:

Richard felt the chicken should be seared at high heat, then removed.  Stagger the addition of the veggies – potatoes first since they take a bit longer to cook – then add the chicken again at the end to cook it through… that way, the chicken doesn’t dry out.

And, since he loves lavender, he would up the amount of lavender in the oil.

MY COMMENTS:

Richard made it again w/ his enhancement suggestions.  Lavender in chicken stir fry takes this traditional, easy, healthful dish to a delicious new level.

Did we like it? Whadda ya think?

;o) - Two thumbs up.  This dish should definitely be included in the cookbook.

BEETHOVEN, JANE FONDA & A MARTINI

BEETHOVEN, JANE FONDA & A MARTINI

I love to go out to dinner and a show, or in our case this past Saturday, a show and dinner.

Since it opened on Broadway, Richard’s been waiting to see “33 Variations” a play featuring Beethoven and starring Jane Fonda.  He loves Beethoven.  He relates to Beethoven.  They have the same birthday and, as many of you know, both have ‘hearing loss.’  Over the years we’ve amassed an amazing collection of Beethoven records and dvds, books, busts and paintings displayed throughout our library and on the bookcase in our dining room.  So… when the play came to the Ahmanson Theatre at the Music Center (LA’s Lincoln center complex), Richard was thrilled.  I was thrilled for him and looking forward to seeing Jane’s Tony nominated performance.

Just one snag – unless we’re in the first 5 rows, Richard misses too much of the dialogue – which makes the whole theater experience frustrating and a waste of money.  During the show’s limited run, he searched and searched for tickets, but came up empty handed.  Not a ticket was to be had in the first 5 rows and the show was closing over the weekend.  But Richard refused to give up and gave it one last shot.  Voila – two tickets in the 4^th row for the very last Saturday matinee!  Score!

To stay on budget, we decided we’d come home for dinner after the show.  But you know that old saying… “the best laid plans…”

Though the show got decent, but not great, reviews in New York, I was surprised how much I enjoyed it.  Jane was very good as a music professor suffering from Lou Gehrig’s disease and Zach Grenier (‘The Good Wife’) was excellent as Beethoven.  The play darts back and forth between the present and the past w/ great ease as Fonda’s dying character tries to solve the mystery of why Beethoven spent his dying years working on what are now known as the Diabelli Variations (33 of them!) for a mere 80 ducats.  The set, made up of moveable panels of sheet music, was incredible, and for the record, Ms. Fonda has the perkiest breasts of any woman alive over 70 which she heartbreakingly bared during a scene where she’s being x-rayed and MRI’d.  Weird reference, I know, but it was rather startling and almost took me out of the play which was funny, emotional and poignant.  The applause was thunderous. 

We left the theater exhilarated.  I didn’t want to ‘just go home.’  On the Music Center’s plaza by its ‘dancing waters’ fountain is the Pinot Grill, a wonderful open air, fine-dining restaurant and bar.  It was almost 5:00, the cocktail hour, and a martini seemed just the thing.  We sat at the oval bar and chatted w/ some other theater goers as I sipped my very dry (is there any other kind?) vodka martini w/ two olives.  Richard had a glass of 2008 Mas Carlot, Rhone from France.  My martini was ‘mighty fine,’ though Richard thought the Rhone was just OK.

It was a beautiful evening and as the sun began to set and I finished my drink, I did not want to go home.  So as the Music Center/restaurant’s twinkling lights were turned on, we took a table in the restaurant.  There goes the budget.

I switched to chardonnay and ordered a glass of Napa 2009 Rutherford Ranch.  Buttery w/o being too heavy.  Perfect.  Richard tried the France 2009 Tortoise Creek “Les Oliviers”, Pinot Noir.  He liked it.  We decided to share the beef carpaccio salad made up of thinly sliced beef, capers, quail eggs (they’re so adorable), red onions, crostini olive tapenade (loved every bite) and the ‘Speck & Arugula’ wood oven-fired pizza made w/ Buffalo mozzarella, smoked prosciutto and baby arugula.  To quote my mom, “Divine!”

It was dark when we left sated and happy.  Yes, our budget was in shambles, but our spirits were soaring.  Beethoven and Jane Fonda were worth every ducat.

BURGER BIRTHDAY

BURGER BIRTHDAY

Many of you who have been reading me for a while know I love burgers.  In fact, I’m forever questing for the perfect burger. 

Remember my friend Cindra and our semi-annual birthday lunches often in “in,” chic-chic, celeb & “industry”-riddled restaurants like The Ivy…

http://mydinnerswithrichard.blogspot.com/2010/01/ivy.html

… or Thomas Keller’s Bouchon?

http://mydinnerswithrichard.blogspot.com/2010/09/bouchon-in-beverly-hills.html

Well, Cindra loves burgers as much as I do (neither of us could resist the burgers at Bouchon).  We’ve been comparing notes on burgers for years.  I discovered the drippy, juicy experience of fast food Fat Burgers because of her – she discovered the savory burger w/ special relish at The Village Idiot because of me.

http://mydinnerswithrichard.blogspot.com/2009/08/it-takes-village-to-please-food-idiot.html

So when she suggested she wanted a ‘burger birthday’ lunch, I was all over it like melted cheese on a perfectly grilled, medium-rare patty.  But, where to go for this ‘burger birthday’- that was the question?  For a while, she has wanted me to try the 8 ounce burger at – where else?   8oz Burger Bar on famed Melrose Avenue.  So, the 8oz Burger Bar it was.

The restaurant itself has a pub-y, saloon-y, bar-ish vibe, with some tables outside on the sidewalk.  We ate inside by sliding French doors and, instead of ordering one of the featured shakes, malts or floats (they also have sundaes and banana splits – but this is no malt shoppe), we ordered Bloody Marys (it’s been our tradition to start our b’day lunches w/ a Bloody Mary) – and ‘perused’ the menu which proudly states on its cover:

“Menu items are made in-house utilizing the season’s finest local produce and hormone free, humanely raised meats, reflecting our commitment to quality and sustainability.”

It then went on to list sandwiches which included a short rib grilled cheese sandwich and a tuna melt, and small snacks including mini Kobe corndogs (really, Kobe? – yes, really!) w/ purple mustard, fried olives stuffed w/ chorizo and Buffalo drumettes w/ a blue cheese sauce and celery.  Also on the menu was an arugula & endive salad w/ seasonal citrus, avocado, radish, walnuts and a champagne vinaigrette, an escarole Caesar, and a 8oz iceberg lettuce wedge w/ blue cheese, garlic roasted tomato, balsamic grilled onion, house cured bacon and blue cheese dressing (be still my heart!) – but the ½ pound we wanted was the 8 ounce burger…

But which one?  There was a turkey burger, a Niman Ranch lamb burger, a pork blend burger called “Three Little Pigs” – a veggie burger and a fillet of fish burger – all w/ a variety of delicious sounding toppings... but we wanted a real old-fashioned burger, burger – and that means ground beef.  We decided on the classic 8oz ‘house-blend’ burger that included iceberg lettuce, tomato, white onion and a special sauce.  Cindra had the works w/ melted white cheddar (there are seven cheeses to choose from).  I chose the white cheddar, too, but asked for everything, except the patty and the melted cheese, “on the side.”   I’ve never really understood why one would want anything encumbering the flavors of grilled burger and cheese on a roll, but the special sauce made a nice salad dressing for the lettuce, tomato and onion.

From the sides which included roasted baby broccoli, fried pickles, truffled potato skins and chorizo mac and cheese, we opted for the Kennebec fries.  Kennebec, I discovered is a type of potato.

The potatoes were good – the Bloody Mary wasn’t too spicey (which is how I like them)… but the burger was the best… grilled to a perfect medium rare w/ no skimping on the cheese which oozed like molten lava over the patty.  A very HAPPY BURGER BIRTHDAY! 

8 oz Burger Bar
7661 Melrose Avenue
Los Angeles, California 90046
323-852-0008
www.8ozburgerbar.com

(DON'T WORRY DADDY) I'LL NEVER ROOT FOR THE YANKEES

This weekend Richard was watching the Yankees on TV in a pre-season game and, sadly, this weekend Duke Snider died.  As I mourn “my” boys of summer slipping away along w/ my youth, I thought I’d post a baseball memory piece I wrote over a decade ago for the New York Daily News sports section:

(DON’T WORRY DADDY)

I’LL NEVER ROOT FOR THE YANKEES

I came out of the womb thinking women were smarter than men.  There I was, ready to be born, when a male intern instructed my mother to cross her legs until her obstetrician could be found.  The result was an out-of-body experience for her and a difficult breech birth for me.

So, you think that’s where I got all my anger toward men?  Well, even I don’t hold a grudge that long!  Ever pragmatic, I chalked it up as one of life’s unsolved mysteries, until the night I was jolted awake by an epiphany – baseball.

In the dark I stared at the ceiling as an announcer’s voice echoed in my ears. “Sixth inning. 2-0 Brooklyn… Berra waits for Podres’ next pitch … CRACK … it’s a long, high fly ball to left … it’s going, going…. NO!  NO!  He caught it.  Sandy Amoros just made the catch of a lifetime!  What a heartbreak for the Yankees!  What a glorious day for the Dodgers!”

Childhood memories flashed on my bedroom ceiling like a home movie.  There I was, a little girl from Queens running home from school, my mother yelling out the window, “Brooklyn won!”  When my father came home from the game, we danced in the streets, my baby brother waving his Dodger pennant.  There was joy in Mudville, as my father’s heroes became mine: Robinson, Reese, Snider, Campanella, Hodges…

The following spring, joy deserted Mudville when I raced into my father’s arms crying.  “They” wouldn’t let me try out for Little League just because I was a girl!  I begged him to change the rules.  A liberated man for that era, he told me things would change and I could be or do anything I wanted… someday.  Then, as he watched the innocence fade from my eyes, replaced with the gestating look of a feminist, he held me closer and said, “Promise me you will always love baseball.”

One night sitting at the dinner table listening to my Brooklyn-Finnish grandparents and father loudly debate politics (a “Finnish” tradition in our house), I blurted out… “They can’t trade Jackie Robinson!”  Silence.  I turned to my father hoping he could fix it, but one look told me he couldn’t.  With my jaw set stubbornly I announced, “Men are so stupid!”  That belief hardened like cement the morning my heartbroken father read me the day’s headline:  “Bums Exit Brooklyn.”  To comfort him, I solemnly vowed I’d never root for the Yankees.

It suddenly dawned on me that throughout my young life, I’d always had one man who understood, who kept a balance between disappointment and hope… even if he couldn’t fix everything.  But I couldn’t hold on to that memory just as I couldn’t hold onto my father forever. 

I stood very still, dressed in my best Sunday clothes, my braids peeking out of my hand-knit bonnet.  My mother, wearing her black ‘dress’ coat, held my hand.  My brother, in his winter Sunday school suit, held her other hand.  My grandparents, bundled up in overcoats, sat on bridge chairs.  It was mid-March and the many bright floral arrangements stood in defiance against the bleak, half-frozen gravesite.  My brother left my mother’s side and placed his tiny hands squarely on the coffin. 

“Don’t worry daddy,” he whispered “we’ll never root for the Yankees.” (Finns are myopic people… probably because they come from too little sunshine and too much vodka, or maybe it’s just genetic.)

Without the Dodgers and without my father, summer and life would never be the same.  I took up tennis.

Years later when I met my writing partner, baseball re-entered my life.  He was wearing a Yankee cap.  I instantly became a devoted Met fan.  Despite the fact that he was a fanatic Yankee fan, we became partners, even got married and, like the Dodgers, deserted New York and moved to L.A.  Nobody’s perfect.

That first summer when the Mets came west, I found myself, the girl from Queens, sitting in Dodger Stadium talking to a Giants fan from the Bronx.  He dared me:  You wanna meet Roy Campanella or not?  Never able to refuse a challenge from a man, I agreed.  At the VIP level he turned on his Bronx charm and persuaded the security guard to let me through the cyclone fence.  As the gate closed behind me, he yelled, “Say, hey.”  Then, there he was looking frail, but beautiful.  Roy Campanella!  As he approached me in his wheelchair, I struggled to keep back the tears, remembering how devastated my father was after Campy’s career-ending accident.  Campy noticed a pin on my jacket.  “See you’re a Yankee fan,” he said. 

Horrified, I looked down and smiled.  I had thrown on my husband’s jacket.  “Never!” I told him and then showed him my vintage Brooklyn Dodger pin fastened securely to my tee shirt. 

“Ah, so you’re really a Dodger fan,” he continued.

I shook my head, “You broke my heart when you left Brooklyn.”

He nodded and asked, “But you still love baseball?”

I smiled again, as it struck me for the first time in years that I’ll always love baseball.  Now that Campy is gone, I treasure the fact that I got to tell him that.  I felt happy.  At one with the world.  Safe with the memories of my father, who taught me so many things in those few timeless summers.

Of course, I still believed women were smarter than men (Gil Hodges is still not in the Hall of Fame!).  But things were changing.  Girls can play in Little League and women were getting more respect.  My father knew they would… (He would have loved Hillary Rodham Clinton, three names and all)… And, at that moment, I realized why baseball made me a feminist.  Baseball introduced me to the inequities of the sexes, to prejudice, injustice and heartbreak.  How can you not love a game that did all that?

But I’ll still never root for the Yankees.

THE OSCARS ARE COMING... THE OSCARS ARE COMING...

THE OSCARS ARE COMING…

THE OSCARS ARE COMING…

As Hollywood ends its last week of Oscar fever, the clarion call for racial and cultural diversity in film is still sounding across the land.  So, for all of you who are demanding your piece of the American pie and begging for your chance to fail at the American dream or simply to bring a more ethnic “face” to movies… I say, kippis! (Finnish for “skoal!”)  I’ve been there.

Growing up a second generation Finnish-American (just plain “Finn” in the pre-PC days) was a lonely lot… there were only 37 of us in the whole country: seven in rural Wisconsin (or was it Minnesota?) raising cows and making cheese, eight in Fargo, North Dakota running naked in the snow after their nightly sweat in the sauna, four in New England doing the cow and cheese thing… and, except for my parents, my brother and me, the remaining Suomilanders (all carpenters), including my grandparents on my father’s side, lived in Brooklyn in a section they called  “Finntown” (3 row houses, side-by-side off Sunset Park).  We lived in Bayside, Queens, where my schoolmates had last names like Ferraro, O'Toole, or Goldberg, along with the Jones, Smiths and Johnsons.  When I told kids my name was Ilona, they wanted to know what my first name was.

                                                                                                                       

I yearned to be Italian --they had great food and their countrymen were always on TV in things like “The Untouchables” and “The Kefauver Hearings.” Or Irish – their food was not as good, but they were always in movies playing singing priests or dancing with mice.  Or Jewish – their food was terrible, but they, too, were always on TV in things like “Your Show of Shows” and “The McCarthy Hearings.”  I had no one to relate to or look up to, much like the groups protesting today.  Where were the Finnish Al Pacinos and George Clooneys to have a crush on, the Meg Ryans and Marisa Tomeis to emulate?  “What about Albert Salmi?” my mom would say.  “Who?” you ask.    Exactly!

Of course, there have been one or two world famous Finns: Sibelius, Nurmi (the flying Finn) and father/son Saarinens.  But a dead conductor, a dead runner and two dead architects didn’t exactly win a kid any bragging rights.  And the single thing we learned in school about Finland: it was the only country to pay the U.S. back for its WWII war debt.  I didn’t get a lot of mileage out of that one, either.  Once I commandeered my brother to sign my petition to get a Finn History course included in the curriculum.  In response, my class was assigned “Huckleberry Finn”(the pre-whitewashed version).

At Christmas, my grandparents arrived from Brooklyn with tons of presents and loaves of Finnish molasses bread from their neighborhood bakery.  I loved that bread and shared it with my friends, proud that it rivaled their soda breads and challahs.  This was part of my heritage they could understand.  It wasn’t until I was an adult that I found out that the Swedes in Finntown, who outnumbered the Finns 20-1, owned the bakery and laid claim to the bread.  For one brief moment, I wanted to be  Swedish.                                                                     

As I reached my teens and the health club craze took off, the Finns finally hit the jackpot.  Saunas!  I personally hate saunas, but here was something tangible, identifiable.  People actually stopped asking, “Oh, you’re Scandinavian?” when I would tell them my family (both sides) came from Finland.  The only problem is that no one pronounced “sauna” right and it’s my mission to rectify this:  sow (rhymes with cow)-na” NOT “saw-na”.

During those youthful years, I harbored a deep resentment that no acknowledged Finnish-Americans were ever seen in the movies (or even on television).  There were no movies studios in New York then, so I decided to picket the networks.  For days I stood in front of CBS’ New York headquarters in my mini skirt and Twiggy eyelashes alongside Moondog, the “Viking of Sixth Avenue,” who I considered a cold climate kinsman.  Dressed in flowing robes, Norseman’s helmet, holding his lance proudly, Moondog stood vigil on “network row” for many years and I was proud to share his corner as I held my sign of protest.

Some network 'suit' must have notice me, because soon after, Arte Johnson was playing the first Finnish-American character on television.  It didn’t matter that it was on “Laugh In” or that no one but my family could understand his “Finglish,” everyone just laughed because he was funny.  The Finns had arrived.  But, my victory was short lived. The show was canceled.  I decided the only way to erase our cultural anonymity was to become a Hollywood writer--- work to change the system from within.  I would strive to put Finland, hence Finnish-Americans on the pop culture map.  I would become a role model for all those young Finnish-American children milking cows at dawn in snow-covered barns in the midwest and New England, or those trying to pass as Swedes in the five boroughs of New York.                              

As soon as I arrived in Hollywood, I joined a mass petitioning effort by the four people who comprised the Finnish-American Film Community and we imported action director Renny Harlin to U.S. shores--- the rest is history.  Now, even limo drivers in L.A. can say Esa-Pekka Salonen.  Doors continue to fly open for Finnish-Americans.  I have two features films in development hell, just like Italian, Irish, and Jewish writers.  

So, for all you protesters out there seeking your slice of the American pie… keep it up.  You CAN change things… just like we did.  SKOAL! …    I mean kippis.

A GREAT PEARING - (Warm Pear & Green Bean Salad)

A GREAT PEARING

(Warm Pear & Green Bean Salad)

We’re about to start painting more rooms in our house.  Well, we’re not actually doing the painting – our painters are.  But before the crew arrived and flooded the house w/ the aroma of high gloss enamel peppered w/ a hint of latex flat, we planned one more dinner party.  A birthday dinner for a friend.   For the entrée, Richard decided to make halibut in garam masala which I lovingly blogged about before:

http://mydinnerswithrichard.blogspot.com/2009/10/i-love-meat-but.html

But, alas - no fresh halibut.  No biggie – there was beautiful fresh red snapper to be had, so, in a snap, the dish became red snapper garam masala and was just as delicious.

However, before our tongues touched this tasty dish, Richard served a salad.

What can you say about a salad?  A salad’s only a salad after all, right?  Something to have after appetizers but before dinner (unless you’re in Europe, then it’s often after dinner, but I digress…) and, something I don’t usually pay much attention to.  Full disclosure: salads are not my ‘foodie’ thing.  Well, maybe a warm chicken or shrimp Caesar – hail Caesar!  But, they’re ‘lunch’ salads – a least in my opinion… not ‘first course’ dinner salads…  In fact, I never really made a salad (tuna salad notwithstanding) until I was forty and Richard took a picture for posterity. 

 

(w/ cousin Linda)

I know.  I know. I’m digressing again – something I often do… 

For years, food discerning friends have been trying to convert me into a salad lover by adding roasted veggies or cheeses or nuts or all the aforementioned.  And I do find these salads more than palatable.  But I still resisted.  They’ve told me over and over again that there are salads and then there are salads.  But, again, I still resisted.

Well – the salad Richard made for our little dinner party the other night is definitely a salad.  Don’t get me wrong… I’m not a convert.  But I’m wavering.

Warm Pear & Green Bean Salad

Courtesy of Country Living Magazine

December, 2000

Ingredients:

Vegetable oil cooking spray

¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon black pepper

2 pounds green beans, trimmed

4 pears, cored and cut into eighths

1 teaspoon sugar

½ cup chopped toasted hazelnuts

  (Richard used toasted sliced almonds)

Dressing:

2 tablespoons sherry wine vinegar

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

½ teaspoon minced garlic

¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon black pepper

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Roast green beans and pears.  Lightly coat 2 roasting pans w/ cooking spray and set aside.  Richard used cookie sheets covered in tin foil in place of the roasting pans.

In a large bowl, whisk 2 tablespoons oil, ½ teaspoon salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper.  Toss green beans well w/ this mixture and place in/on a roasting pan/cookie sheet.

In the same large bowl, whisk the remaining oil, salt and pepper and toss the pears.  Sprinkle pears w/ sugar and place in/on a roasting pan/cookie sheet.  

  

Place both pans/sheets in oven.  After 30 minutes remove green beans.  Roast pears 15 more minutes and remove from the oven.

Note from Richard:  Watch the pears carefully.  In our oven the pears were more than done at the same time as the green beans.

Dressing:  In a small bowl, whisk together vinegar, mustard, and garlic.  Add olive oil in a thin stream, whisking constantly.  Stir in salt and pepper.   

 

Toss the green beans and pears w/ dressing in a big bowl...

 

  then serve.

 Your taste buds will thank you.

Makes 8 servings.  

Since there were just four of us, Richard simply halved all the ingredients.