In Search of the SkinnyGirl Margarita

I am on the list.

As soon as the Sigel's Liquor Store on Greenville Avenue in Dallas rings me up, I'll be among the first in my village to wrap my hands around the new SkinnyGirl Margarita. According to the landing page for Bethenny Frankel's fresh entry in the SkinnyGirl brand, this product is everything we love about a good marg without the guilt or the calories. This I have to taste, for we take margaritas very seriously in Texas, as does that big state to the West of us, California.

The site says there are only 100 calories per a full 4 oz. serving of SkinnyGirl Marg, with all-natural ingredients and no preservatives or artificial colors. It's said to be lightly sweetened with agave nectar and made from premium, 100% Blue Agave Tequila.

The whole concept of a margarita from a jar - well, a bottle, then - catches me perplexed. But I'm willing to give it a swirl because, gee, what if it works? I'm not one to drink this limey delight over ice, preferring the frozen splendor of tiny ice chips, tequila and Triple Sec that gang up with my good friend, sal, (salt, gringos) for an amazing ritual of tart, sour and sweet sensations when swallowed. I assume that's how SkinnyGirl Margarita is to be consumed - chilled over the rocks.

The first margarita I ever saw was by the sea in Puerto Vallarta, when I was a young girl on her first trip to an exotic world. My father was holding La Margarita for a toast, and I thought it the loveliest beverage I'd ever seen. It looked like liquid jade in the most delicate martini glass, almost the size of a sherry glass. I'll venture to say the drink I saw was not the product of a blender, nor was there any ice in the glass. Just a cool, glimmering concoction that had been carefully combined by hand, the limes coming straight from the market that day.

Was I allowed to taste it? Caramba, of course not, but I never forgot the cool look of it.

In Dallas, you can get yourself a good margarita, but the markup is dreadful, quite appalling, really. Who makes a good one? Lots of places, but here's a rule: If you're ever served one in a glass that's bigger than a beer mug, with an extremely wide bowl at the top, the marg will not be in good taste. I know.

One of my favorites, because it tastes fine and is priced to thrill, is at Monica's Aca y Alla in Deep Ellum. On Sundays, you can buy one for a dollar; limit 3 to a customer. Food to go with the marg is consistently good at Monica's, and the queso among the best around.

I usually take a marg with my order for the "Mexican Flag" enchiladas at Casa Navarro, too, because I love the way the marg looks when served. First impressions, and all that. To color the salt, the glass rim is dipped in some kind of blue beverage. The result? A tall, cool glass of green with a rim of blue at the top, ole! Maybe they got the idea from Mexican bar ware that features the blue rim. As a final gesture, the restaurant adds a straw in the glass, straight up, with half the paper wrap still on it, like a nod to the old soda fountain days. It's marvelous.

As long as the subject is lovely margarita today, here's a recipe that is unusual and beautiful beyond measure, thanks to the step of soaking the tequila in cactus fruit.

Rosy Rita (Warning: Plan well ahead)

Ingredients:
About 10 purple prickly pear cactus fruits (locate in Mexican grocery store)
1 bottle of good-grade tequila
Crushed ice
½ bottle (1 ½ cups) Triple Sec
Limes
Sugar
Directions:
1. Peel each prickly pear fruit and put them in a large glass jar. Pour in tequila so fruits are submerged. Seal and allow to sit for 3 days.
2. For one margarita batch, remove 1 prickly pear fruit and mash the flesh through a large-mesh strainer so you can separate out the seeds and discard them.
3. Put this strained fruit in a blender. Add ½ cup crushed ice, 2 or less shots of the tinted tequila (depending on your taste), 1 shot of Triple Sec (or more, depending on desired sweetness), and juice of 1 lime.
4. Blend until slushy.
(Tip: This foundational recipe may be too bitter, but it will be gorgeous in color, almost bright pink. Be prepared to cut back the tequila, add a little sugar or add more lime juice to even out the taste.)

How I found out about SkinnyGirl Margarita, coming soon.

Birthday Bliss

Jeanne and I have been ever so busy creating a brilliant life for ourselves, me in Dallas and she in Des Moines, so I completely allowed my birthday to sail by. With the house remarkably hushed now that the Young Collegians have gone back to their studies, there was no one to offer up a cake, cupcake or even a crumb of devil's food.

That being the reality, I forced it upon myself to dig around for an easy and chocolatey treat to mark the day, and I found it in the Chocolate-Espresso Lava Cakes recipe from Bon Appetit Magazine. I had to get a little creative - I didn't have instant espresso powder on hand, but I did have some of the Newman's Own Organics Espresso Dark Chocolate, so I grated it and used it instead. Didn't have whipping cream, either, as you can see in the photo, but when a dish is fudgy and oh so choco full of joi, the cream seems superfluous, mes amis. Oh, I spoke French, bon chance with that.

What I like about this recipe is, you get it all mixed up, find an ovenproof mug or ramekin to pack it in, throw it in the fridge, and then you think about what you want to do for an hour or two - try on hats, play with jewelry, just any old thing. Once you're wearing a party hat and a great pair of shoes, you hoist the dish into the oven, and you've got enchantment, as Blanche DuBois would coo.

I think enchantment for a birthday is ever so wonderful.
I have always depended on the kindness of candles.

(Photo: Birthday hat from my sister Mary and a Chocolate-Espresso Lava Cake in the Singing Wheat Kitchen, by John H. Ostdick)

The Annual Golden Loaves

I needed Jeanne's welding gloves this year when I "walked Spanish" at the ad agency. If you don't know what the expression means, look it up in the Urban Dictionary or read Josh Ferris' book Then We Came to the End.

It's something about how pirates used to walk their hapless victims to the plank, forcing them to march on their toes toward the end of the line. Since I was making the toe walk, you can deduce I was scorched that day. It would have been magnificent to walk into the exit interview wearing a pair of red welders' gloves. I only wish I'd known about the gloves in time to wave them high on my way out the door. As it was, I only had time to get my office fridge moved to my friend Spicy Chicken Wing.

When a fridge door closes, somewhere a browser window opens, and that's what happened in 2009. Thanks to SUCCESS Magazine and their fine staff, some amazing people allowed me to tell their stories. Who better to learn from than successful achievers - people who sail under their own flags?

Here then are my annual Golden Loaves, presented to each individual who trusted this castaway and gave me more than the outer crust, enriching my spirit to move forward. If they will call me, I will personally bake their trophy.

Stan Richards, Founder, The Richards Group.
He built an ad agency from the dust up in Dallas. So-called experts told him his design style was all wrong for Big D, but he stuck with it and worked hard. Today you know his agency's work if you've ever heard Tom Bodett say "we'll leave the light on for you" at Motel 6.

What I learned: Hard work can trump talent. If you're willing to challenge yourself, you'll go places that amaze you. Keep ideas simple. People connect with simple ideas, like "Eat Mor Chikin." And never forget respect. Give it, expect it, cut loose from those who don't treat you with it. You deserve it.

Danica Patrick, IndyCar driver.
So I didn't get to interview her, but I understood why after reading her book for a sense of the tremendous pressure and media interest in her ability to perform in open-wheel racing. If she said yes to every request, she couldn't compete. Danica is different; that's obvious if you've ever seen her picture or one of her ads. She did call on me at a press conference; she gave a good quote.

What I learned: Embrace your differences. Believe in your passion, and be passionate in all you do. What makes you different makes you great. Race on, and be good in the pits.

Joel and Victoria Osteen, pastors of America's largest church.
They have such high media interest that they take a big risk every time they agree to open their mouth or be photographed. They are scrutinized on a global scale. They let me in their house, and I saw what's in their laundry room. I have a good idea of what they eat for dinner, which is often at home because fans are eager to swarm them when they go out. I saw, and I'm not telling. They can trust me.

What I learned: Don't be talked into having a down year, despite the economy, the wars, floods and flu. You are blessed with talents so incredible you don't even know all that you have. Hold the door for somebody else, don't be so busy you can't do the small things. Your best year yet is just ahead, and while you're at it, encourage someone else.

There are others who get loaves, too, but until their stories run, I'll have to keep their names a secret. They know who they are, and thanks to them, 2009 turned out much brighter.

That business on the plank is all behind me now. Ole!

Goodbye Oven Burns

Am so excited about a pre-Christmas present I got myself: a pair of welder's gloves. It was a big help when it came to preparing the holiday feasts (see picture). Cooking shops need to stock up on these marvels that I found at my local he-man supply store.

It all started when my friend Monica Bhide, author of Modern Spice, blogged about a burn she received while baking cookies. Fellow foodies immediately joined in on the bloggable conversation. I grumbled about my constant search for oven mitts that actually worked. They have to be able to protect my hands, wrists, and lower arms from the heat. But they also have to be flexible enough so that my fingers are still useable. I've tried many a mitt.

Food writer and blogger Babettefeasts replied, telling of a similar search that was ended when someone halfway across the world sent her a pair of welder's gloves.

Eureka! I immediately hopped in the car and headed to my nearest manly big box store and got the last pair. I must admit they are a smidge large. Apparently there are not many welders with petite hands, but as you can see, they were the perfect protection for me as I pulled the holiday roast out of the oven. And they make such a fashion statement with my red sweater!

Christmas in Connecticut

When I was just out of college and working for a small newspaper in Florida, I wrote a column using a child's point of view about Christmas in Connecticut. It went something like this:

When we were young, my brother, sisters and I, we had our Christmases in Connecticut. And there would be a flurry of activities encircling Christmas Day that remains warm in our memories, more so than anything we would ever find under the tree.

When we were very young, Mother would dress us in our holiday finery and make us sing in the Norfield Congregational Church in Weston. Sitting on the steps in front of the congregation, we would hold baskets of raisins, nuts and figs and sing "What Shall We Give to the Babe in the Manger?" Often we were caught nibbling on our "gifts."

Each year Father would fetch the Christmas tree, and its arrival at the house always signaled much fussing and excitement, for he would drag the tree through the snow, around the back of the house and in through the basement door. The swirling pattern in the snow left by the tree would become a trail of needles up the stairs and into the living room, where we would watch in hushed voices as Father twirled the lights around the tree limbs.

Each Christmas Father would also make his pilgrimage to Macy's Department Store in New York City, and he would fill an entire shopping bag with Christmas sweets. There were chocolate Christmas balls wrapped in colored foil to be hung on the tree, and we would always whisk them away as quickly as they were hung, popping them into our mouths long before Christmas Day.

There would be candy canes as thick as your wrist, these i nlong sticks that bulged from our stockings. On Christmas Day, we would scoop out the jewel-like candies - butterscotch, mints and "red hots" - from the bottoms of our stockings.

Some nights we would bundle up tightly against the glittering northern winter evenings and go Christmas caroling. Our neighbors, the Howards and Lutzes, would go with us as we trolled the ancient Yuletide carols throughout our tiny community. One child would be appointed to bring along the jingle bells and shake them appropriately.

Sometimes grateful listeners would give us steaming mugs of cocoa or a bit of chocolate for our caroling efforts.

Christmas Eve, we would stay up very late and be permitted to attend the midnight services at Norfield Church. These services were for singing, and as we sang our eyes would glisten with the lights of the electric candles burning in the church windows, as they did each year at Christmas time. Or we could stare at the imitation white doves that were the sole decorations fastened to the Christmas tree in the pulpit. After the services, we would scurry home to our bedrooms, being very still and straining to catch the whispers of the grownups as they rushed to and fro downstairs. The grownups were always the last to retire.

The next morning, dressed in long white flannel nightgowns our grandmother had made us, we would squirm through breakfast, anticipating the moment when Father would strike a fire in the fireplace - where the package wrappings would later be burned - and signal the opening of Christmas gifts. Mother or Father would dress up as "Santa Claus" and distribute gifts. We never had believed in the real merry old elf himself, but still we held fast to the magic of what lay before us under the tree, wondering how in one night, it could all be gathered there.

With the afternoon turkey, and always before its presentation, Father would read us the story of the Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is.

The tale always spoke of the prairie without snow; boots, not stockings, at the foot of the beds, and a Stetson-topped Santa Claus. The reading of the story was to become our own, unique holiday tradition, for we were all born in Texas, and although we had our Christmases in Connecticut, there was a certain responsibility to remember one's birthplace.

One season the book vanished - one of the children later confessing she had lent it away - and we carried on the tradition by reciting the story to the best of our collective memories. As with everything else mystical that surrounds Christmas, one year when we were very grown, we located another copy of the Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is, and the tradition was firmly restored.

My sister Charlotte sent me a tall, thin package this year, which I immediately unwrapped, already guessing its contents: my own copy of the Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is.

During the holidays and on through New Year's Day, no matter the lateness of the evening, we always gathered around the piano, and Mother would play the Christmas carols as we joined her in song.

Years later we would be home from college, still standing around the piano and still singing. One of us might shake a tambourine, another would play along on the guitar.

These Christmases in Connecticut were always white. People still scurried, with frosty breath and apple-colored cheeks, as they struggled homeward with their brightly wrapped bundles.

There were always roaring fires in the fireplace, Christmas sweets from Macy's. And always, hearts lifted in joy through song.

Now we're very grown.

My brother Curt is becoming a dentist. My sister Mary has Christmas in Colorado, and sister Charlotte works in Dallas. Mother and Father must trust the postal system to play Santa Claus for me.

There won't be any fires in the fireplace this year; the weather is too warm for scurrying.

But I know I'll be home again for Christmas in Connecticut.

If only in my dreams.


Postlude: As I re-read this column it strikes me as unbelievably mushy - clearly I was feeling sentimental in 1980 when I wrote it. Thing is, I was truly fond of the snow - the kind that sticks to eyelashes and mittens - the caroling, those bags of goodies from Macy's. The reading of The Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is was a real tradition we worked hard to keep up with, especially in the years when we had to recite from memory. Just a few years ago I actually tracked down the author, Leon Harris, living in Dallas. I told my Father I had talked with the author about the book's special place in our memories. He loved it! He loved this mushy column, too. He was a Texan, after all, keeping Christmas up north.

Read The New York Times story about Leon Harris' passing. And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

(photo of Rosemary Cranberry Christmas cookies tucked inside Dorothy's ruby slippers (almost), in the Singing Wheat Kitchen.)

When Life Hands You Lemons...

When life hands you lemons, make Lemon Chicken Lasagna. That's what friends got for Christmas this year. (I baked it in foil pans and delivered it yesterday.)

You can make a shortcut version by using a 16-oz. jar o' alfredo sauce and deli roasted chicken. I like to make my own garlicky alfredo because it's so easy: just butter, flour, milk (plus garlic). While that is bubbling to a creamy thickness, I cook up a couple of chicken breasts.

Lemon Chicken Lasagna

Cooking spray
1/4 cup butter

2 cloves garlic, squished through a garlic press
1/4 cup flour

3 cups milk

2 Tbsp. drained capers
6 lasagna noodles (give or take; you may have to cut off a couple inches of the cooked noodles to fit in the square pan)
1 cup ricotta cheese (cottage cheese works too, here in the Midwest)
1 3/4 cups shredded cheese (I like to mix it up: mozzarella, a bit of extra-sharp cheddar, and/or some crumbled feta cheese and maybe a smidge of Parmesan)
2 teaspoons lemon zest (use a fine grater and make sure you don't get any of the white pith)
12 ounces cooked chicken breast, cut into edible chunks

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Spritz an 8x8-inch or 9x9-inch baking pan with cooking spray; set aside. In a saucepan melt butter and add garlic, cooking over low heat for 1 minute. Stir in flour, cooking until mixture is thick and golden. Increase heat to medium, add milk and cook until thick and bubbly. Stir in capers and 1 teaspoon of the lemon zest.

2. Cook lasagna according to package directions; drain. Spoon 1⁄3 cup of sauce into baking pan. Top with 3 noodles. Spoon 1/2 cup of the ricotta cheese and 1/2 cup of the shredded cheese over noodles. Top with half the chicken. Spoon half the remaining sauce over chicken layer.

3. Top with 3 more noodles, remaining ricotta, another 1/2 cup shredded cheese, and remaining chicken. Add 3 more noodles, remaining sauce, and sprinkle with remaining cheese.

3. Cover with foil. Bake for 40 minutes. Remove from oven and let stand, covered, for 15 to 20 minutes before serving. Sprinkle with remaining 1 teaspoon lemon peel. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Remembering the Spritz Cookie

I can still see the boxes, stamped with "Woodward & Lothrop," the first department store in Washington. Grandmother Daisy always carried two WL boxes into our house for Christmas in Connecticut. If you peeled back the layers of waxed paper, you'd find one box filled with cookies shaped like Christmas trees and dyed green. The other held flower-shaped cookies, no food dye. Two versions carefully made, both with sprinkles on top, usually nonpareils but sometimes those hard, BB-sized silver balls. The cookies were colored-coded - if you tasted the green trees (or sometimes pink), they were peppermint-flavored. The no-dye versions were always almond-flavored. Whether attracted by the color or taste, we seemed to go for the peppermints first. Grandmother Daisy might run out of sprinkles at times, so she'd try to cover with a pecan, but we never ate those - unless they were all that was left.

It was years before I understood that these were "spritz" cookies she made using a "Mirro Press," meaning the dough was shot through a tube with a pattern imprint to make the shapes. It was a very 1950s or '60s thing to do - you could make canapes shaped like card suits and other fanciful treats such as "Palate Pleasers," "Nibble Bait" and "Dagwood Delights." But it was the Christmas trees that we held vigil for, little understanding the manual dexterity necessary to pump the shortening, sugar and flour through a press. We just waited, anticipated and chased every crumb when they arrived.

Only the web can (arguably) deliver to more homes than Santa Claus, so here's a Christmas trees recipe using a cookie press.

Eventually Daisy gave me a Mirro Press as a gift, and I have stayed in business to this day, even though the product maker seems to have slipped away. She had to let go of the cookie-making because her hands could no longer grip and squeeze the press effectively. Now I have true insight into that twinge in the hands, but my kids still beckon for their favorite Christmas treat.

I only make the colored version, and only the peppermint.

When you're the main squeeze, you get to decide.

(Photo of Mirro Press spritz cookies lying on a childhood Christmas apron made with loving hands.)