Super fly

My superfoods eating plan didn't exactly come to a screeching halt this weekend, with the arrival of our friends from Colorado. Rather, it was the equivalent of the freeway SUV rollover, veering off into a spectacular bounce of a landing. It started with the pasta al forno I made using Nigella's recipe from Feast, utilizing bacon, beef, and rigatoni that didn't contain a speck of whole grain in it.
But damn it was good.
By Saturday night I was throwing whatever I could grab from the kitchen onto the table. We grilled hamburgers, a steak, made nachos. The boys were grabbing bananas, apples, strawberries, orange juice, cheese sticks, watermelon. Ham and salami sandwiches were made at breakneck speed, and today Gail made chocolate chip cookies -- the secret recipe containing Crisco.
I give.
Gail and I have managed to split a Greek salad between us, but I'm still on deck to make a rum cake and also bought Champagne to toast our last night together. Troy wants to make his waffles tomorrow, and asked me to pick up strawberries and whipped cream for a festive topping. We have been having so much fun and if only all the swimming the boys have been doing would burn off the calories I've consumed, the weekend would be perfect!
Troy and Tori met when they worked as valet parkers at the Brown Palace hotel in Denver, a luxurious grande dame where they were relegated to the entrance and garage. They talked about philosophy late into the night between bursts of scrambling for tips and sliding the hotel guests' cars sideways into spaces using the emergency hand break technique. The beginning of a strong friendship was forged that would see them through their salad days and the big and small events in life to come.

Troy has never, ever forgotten how Tori would make pasta with Italian sausage, and automatically split it onto two plates when they were roommates. I don't know if Tori ever realized just how broke and hungry Troy was back then, but I can tell that as long as Troy lives, it will give him great pleasure to spend time with Tori and his family, and give back in any way that he can. There's a great respect and loyalty between these two friends that does my heart good to see. And I suppose that's a different kind of super food.

Cappuccino art VII and more.

The other morning, Troy and I were discussing how the only thing we ever see in our cappuccinos these days are ghosts.
It's no longer shocking. It's like: oh look, another ghost.
This one is straight out of the Casper the Friendly Ghost tales.

Look at that smile.

Imagine our delight, then, when Troy sliced an onion, and saw a face in the onion. (Only portobello mushrooms were involved in this dinner.)

Just in case you need a little push for visualization:

The red onion is a super food. And entertaining, as well.
After another slice, we saw a more feminine, petite onion face.
So we decided to make an onion family.

They lived happily ever after in a robust pasta sauce.
The End.

Mud-lucious and puddle-wonderful

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high
-George Gershwin


There are times here when we sit outside and see a great show of nature. I don't know where you grew up, but I've never seen some of the things that I see down here. Turtles crossing the road (to get to the other side); alligators sunning themselves. At times, it seems downright prehistoric. The pelicans resemble pterodactyls, and the bugs are enormous. Yesterday, the fish were jumpin' and I managed to catch some shots. There was also a giant, red dragonfly whirring around.

And after a number of fish jumped, a hawk appeared overhead to survey the action. He was distracted by something apparently more tempting in a nearby field, but for a moment I thought we might see him divebomb and clutch a fish. Maybe he'd already had a big breakfast.


In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy learns that she need never look any farther than her own backyard for her heart's desire. Because, she is told, if she can't find it there, then she never really lost it to begin with.
A few nights ago, I sat watching the sun set, and could smell the heady fragrance of the Casablanca lilies in full bloom. It's taken me a while, I thought, but I may have finally succumbed to Florida.

Eat your heart out.

Dieting talk amongst friends has got me sitting here thinking of my own profound relationship with food over the course of my lifetime. I can say that from the time I was a child to now, I have experienced so many complex phases related to food and life that it really boggles my mind to fathom it all.
From sustenance to happiness, and pleasure brought from eating, to self-induced deprivation and control and discipline, it's as though an entire "secret" language has been expressed through my eating habits. There have been times in my life when I didn't think about food, didn't care about it; and other times when food was all I could think of. As a child, I happily ran around and meals were on the periphery of my focus. As a teen, I struggled throughout my formative years to be heard, and have my ideas and intellect taken seriously, rather than garnering attention for my figure -- always the breasts! So I didn't eat for a while. Adulthood and more confidence came, and then the years saw me bouncing back and forth, discovering food, needing to lose weight to fit into a dress or combat weekends of indulgence in Napa Valley and a thousand other places in the foodie heaven that is California. Yet I still remember feeling genuinely panicky a couple times when I lost enough weight to feel tiny, and physically insignificant. That is indeed a crazy, mixed-up predicament.
Panic and fear have, at times, been palpably driven home as I dieted and then would suddenly think back to two people I loved who wasted away from cancer. Their bodies failed them. My step-dad, a Greek-American so full of life, reduced to a skinny man having Ensure poured into his stomach through a tube. Not being able to taste wine because his tastebuds had been radiated off. It was a tragedy to behold. Our friend, Debbi was always a big girl. Overweight. Then she started working out, and lost about 50 lbs., and she looked great! But then she kept losing weight, and discovered she had cancer. Eventually, she could only manage to eat tiny mouthfuls of food, and when she died she was little more than a skeleton.
That connection of food to life and death feels like it's imprinted upon my cells. It's no secret to those who know me that death has been a major preoccupation to me for years, and so why should it be any surprise that I might feel like banking pounds as insurance against some possible future catastrophe? And yet, ironically, you bank too much weight, and you're risking your life! Especially with my family history of heart disease and diabetes.
I never had glamorous pregnancies, and the weight gained has stuck to me like glue. I have absolutely no regrets about the way my body has changed from having children. I have not worked hard to become Skinny Mom, the fashionable thing to do, but rather, have tried to focus upon nourishing myself. And that is what food is about to me now: nourishing my body and soul. If that means eating for comfort sometimes, I accept that. I'm slowly working towards being able to strike that elusive balance, and feel more understanding of myself.
Be kind to yourselves, and good luck to us all, towards health and feeling good despite the reading on the scale.

His is red. But it's so much more.

There's a mystery I've been trying to uncover for most of my life: what is it with dogs and their collars??

Nothing makes Lucky spaz out as much as someone messing with his collar. The act of taking off his collar, or putting it back on him, makes him crazy. You can barely get it fastened because he is trying to grab it, and he jumps up and down, and to the side, like Muhammad Ali in the ring. If you give it to him, he will prance and run around like a super-charged flying reindeer, snorting and throwing his head up and around.
Is it because it's the one thing he feels belongs exclusively to him?
Does a collar make a dog feel secure?
Or is it the association with going places?
Is it because they like jewelry?
The Great Sphinx of Giza, Atlantis, Stonehenge, and Dogs' Collars. We may never really know.

The Scary Fairy

Last night as the boys and I talked at bedtime, lights out, nestled up in down comforters, they asked me about some of the German fairytales I grew up hearing.
The scary ones.
Even more frightening than the Grimm Brothers' tales, were the stories I read from a big yellow book I had that contained graphic illustrations of children who were not mindful...oh, what became of them!
There was the story of the boy who wouldn't eat his supper and so he danced and dwindled away to nothing, and died. His bowl of food was placed upon his grave.
There was a story about the little thumbsucker whose mother left him for the afternoon, and warned him, before she left, not to suck his thumb -- or else a man with giant scissors would come and cut off his thumbs. As soon as the mother walked out the front door, the little boy stuck his thumb in his mouth, and OUT jumped a man with enormous scissors, and he did cut off the boy's thumbs!
One boy was always looking up at the sky when he walked and so he fell into a canal and drowned.
Yikes! These tales were a not-so-subtle means of scaring us into submission to pay attention, eat our food, keep up with our grooming, and watch where we were going!
So when the boys asked me if I knew of any other scary stories, I really couldn't think of any more, and I made one up.
There is a big monster who comes into children's rooms at night, and he will chase you into a corner and sniff you, and he can detect whether or not you've eaten any fruit or vegetables that day. He hates fruit and vegetables, and so if he sniffs you and you've eaten them, he will pass on by, but if you have not eaten any, he gobbles you up, and crunches your bones.
This monster proved to be the most terrifying of the night, as my children eat fewer vegetables than they should, but none of them are thumbsuckers.
I don't mean to scare them, or maybe I do. There is a part of me that knows my German ancestors would approve, if not some parenting agencies. No doubt the boys will be eating some fruit and vegetables today, especially before bedtime.

Fly zone!

There's a man in a flying machine around these parts!


His contraption appears to be built of a giant fan -- like on the airboats you see cutting through the Everglades; a seat; and a parachute. He can adjust his altitude quickly and easily, and I can't see close enough, but would like to think he's wearing an old pilot's cap, like Snoopy when he flies his doghouse.
The man in his flying machine appears overhead every once in a while. You can hear the buzz of his motor from inside the house, and we all excitedly rush outside, squinting up at the sky to watch him whirring around! And then he slowly disappears, heading out over the water and becoming a tiny speck on the horizon...going wherever he goes...until next time.

No-fly zone

Today was an official Haz-Mat day chez moi. Beginning early in the morning with (newly potty-trained) Harry accidentally peeing the bed. Then, one of the cats threw up. Then, Harry was climbing a wall and fell off and bashed his head, so there was a bloody scene and we had to rush to get stitches.
Here's where I realized the benefits of Tabby's Fly-girl advice, where you're supposed to get dressed head-to-toe the minute you wake up. Because before we could get into the car to take Harry to the doctor, I had to:
-hold a towel to Harry's head and stabilize him.
-butterfly bandage his forehead.
-find pants for Harry.
-find shoes for Harry.
Meanwhile, I'm shouting at everyone to remain calm, a bit like Edina Monsoon. We were not in a 9-1-1 situation, so it was time to:
-find pants and a shirt for Cooper
-find pants for Griffin
-trade a shirt Griffin was wearing for one that matched his shorts, lest the doctor's office think I'm a disorganized mother.
-grab my wallet and car keys.
-find the car.
It was then that I realized Troy had taken the big car. I was left with the little car. That's okay, I could have made that work. If only I could have found the car key! I called Troy and he told me it was in "my drawer." I have one drawer in the kitchen that is supposed to be all mine, but it keeps getting corrupted. So the key was not in my drawer.
With no keys/car, I had to shuffle everyone over to the neighbor's. No one was home. So we shuffled over to the next neighbor. Mark works at home -- poor him -- so I asked to borrow his car and then hoisted Cooper over to him, since his car only had one car seat, and we set off.
Harry was so brave. He got five stitches -- and a frosted cookie for his trouble.
We returned Mark's car, went home and Cooper smiled and said he had "fun uh Mark!" He got to watch "Winnie the Pooh!"
Thirty minutes later, we were all settling down when suddenly the boys started screaming and running downstairs to announce that Cooper had barfed.
But he's fine. And we're all still dressed, so I think I'll sleep in my clothes in case I need to be organized tomorrow.

Starting summer

Most Americans kick off summer during the extended Memorial Day weekend. Boats are launched, summer houses opened (I hear), grills fired up, and you're allowed to wear white again after a dark fashion winter.
In Florida, it's easy to get lulled into a state of endless summer, because it rarely gets cold enough to wear a jacket, and so there's usually not such a delineation felt. Rather, everything changes in subtle shifts. However, with Emily visiting from a cold climate and being psyched about everything jump-starting her summer, this past week really has felt more like the launch of a season to me.
Lucky went to the groomer and got his summertime clip. Emily & I got pedicures.

[Emily defends her toe ring as her "one act of rebellion," which tells you a lot about her. She sometimes says, "Oh my goodness!" in situations that have me dropping the F-bomb. And she says, "H-E-double toothpicks."]

We all went to the beach, which has the softest, whitest sand you've ever seen. On Saturday it was all misty and windy due to the tropical storm, but on Sunday it was packed with happy people. There was a great range of people there -- babies, surfers, seniors, and everyone in between -- all cheerful and relaxed.


Back at home, Troy chopped down some basil for pesto, and we grilled lamb chops & ate ice cream. Very summery.

The lamb chops and potatoes were cooked on high heat & with a lot of olive oil. Next time I'll turn up the heat even more on the chops to get more of a char, Greek-stylee. We drizzled olive oil on them while they were on the grill to get the flames to shoot up. Everything got a spritz of lemon juice once it was moved to the platter.

I made a salted butter caramel sauce for the vanilla ice cream.

And here is a lemon cake made in a bundt mould Emily gave us. Perfect! One turret for each child. I did notice some marauders stormed the castle and attacked the base while I was out.

It's early June and the strawberries are perfect. We've been eating them by the bushel. I was going to top the turrets with a strawberry, but the boys could hardly wait for their plates, so I had to hurry up. Wyatt's turret resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Last but not least, we may finally have found some good tomatoes. They smell like tomatoes -- a small miracle!

The livin' is definitely going to be easy today because I have nothing planned except to catch up with friends & laundry. As Baz Luhrmann says: don't forget your sunscreen.

Chacun prépare sa propre mort

Ti'Punch
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Ti'Punch (or Créole Ti Punch) is a rum-based mixed drink that is especially popular in Martinique, Guadeloupe, French Guyana, and other French-speaking Caribbean states. It is usually served as an apéritif before starting a meal, both as a matter of tradition and because the drink itself is strongly alcoholic. A popular tradition is that of chacun prépare sa propre mort (roughly, each prepares his own death), where instead of serving the mixed drink, the bartender or host will simply place out the ingredients, and everyone will prepare the drink according to his or her own taste. Opinions differ as to whether it should be served with or without ice, but most agree that the "real" ti'punch should be served without ice. However, adding a small amount of ice allows the flavours of the ingredients to blossom.

I'm going to end up rooming with Lindsay Lohan at Promises if I don't soon quit my job as guinea pig for Troy's rum experiments. As we've been discussing the finalists for the rum company name, Troy has also been doing all sorts of rum research, and recently spent an afternoon with a rum expert, a dude who lives on his sailboat and travels around the islands, sampling rum and writing about it. Said dude taught Troy how to make a proper Ti' Punch.
So Emily arrived yesterday for her weekend visit, and while we were all catching up, Troy was making us ti' punches. They ought to call this drink The Little Lobotomy, as I killed many brain cells. I have zero'd in on Pyrat rum as a favorite, and can vouch for its smoothness.

Today, June 1st, marks the official beginning of the Atlantic hurricane season, and not only did it rain most of the day, but a tropical storm (Barry) has formed in the Gulf to mark the occasion.

Perfect conditions for soaking one's head, lounging, drinking restorative cups of strong tea, and staring blankly at falling raindrops.

Worth a thousand words.

Hey, they are not kidding.

I love popcorn and have developed a precise methodology involving heat, steam, shaking, and the perfect oil/corn ratio in the pot, finishing with a light drizzling of unsalted butter and a sprinkling of salt. The perfect hot bowl.
However, last night there was no time for that, and I wanted a snack fast, so I snagged one of Troy's microwavable kettle corn packages (yuck. See how desperate I was?). I cavalierly tossed it into the microwave oven and hit the POPCORN button (life's a breeze, isn't it?) and continued chattering away to Troy until I heard the familiar DING DING DING of the microwave chime.
Imagine my crestfallen facial expression when a handful of popcorn fell out, trailed by a stream of dark yellow liquid.

What the?!
Oh no, I'd done it! I'd failed to follow the directions!

Yuck! Not just microwaved kettle corn, but muddled microwaved kettle corn! I'd always kind of wondered about this big warning on the flat package. It's hard to imagine that one side could make such a huge difference, but, as we see here, it does. As Dominick Dunne might say, there is an art to placement.

Revising the idea of a bad day

Last night I happened to watch, "Apocalypto."
Holy hell.
From the first scene, it's an intense, extreeeeemely violent and bloody movie. After watching poor Jaguar Paw go through a few days, I said to Troy, "Wow. Kind of makes you feel like you shouldn't complain about the worst day you might have."
Indeed, I don't have to chase down a tapir for dinner (nor eat it's balls); run for my life while arrows are being slung at my back; or birth a baby au naturelle (I've learned that's not for me) like Mrs. Jaguar Paw.
Whenever I watch any historical show and consider how people may have lived before modern times, I'm always grateful to live in the here and now, with access to Advil.

And so, as much as I would like to complain about today, which is being devoted to the battle of wills between Harry and myself over his potty-training, I won't.

Read a movie review of "Apocalypto"

Read what a Mayan scholar says about "Apocalypto."

And yet another Mayan scholar, archaeologist Dr. Smith, says yes, it really was that brutal."

Capuccino art VI

It's a ghost! A chubby, startled ghost!

Two for the Road

Cooper turned two this month, and had a nice, low-key day befitting someone with a pre-K social life.
If you ever need the perfect gift for a child under 5, just get him a bunch of balloons.

They are always the highlight of all the presents. Although Cooper got some toy versions of things he's constantly trying to snatch from me & Troy, namely: keys and sunglasses. (He seems eager to leave the house for some reason.)
After much debate, I ended up making him a very simple cake from a really great cookbook my Mom gave me when I got my first apartment. It's called Easy Basics for Good Cooking, and is published by Sunset. Sunset is a wonderful West-Coast publishing company that puts out a magazine by the same name, and this particular cookbook has a recipe for everything you really could want without getting too fancy. I first learned how to make risotto from this book, and that was before I knew we were supposed to pronounce it rizz-OH-toe.
Back to the cake. It's simply called "Yellow Cake," and I iced it with cream cheese frosting. The thing is, when we were eating the cake, Troy remarked that it tasted like Bisquick. Well...that's no lie, it did. That is to say, the cake tasted like a pancake. A giant pancake. And why shouldn't it? When you look at the ingredients, you can see that it basically is a pancake in cake form.
So, if you like the idea of eating a Pancake Cake, then you will love this recipe.

2 1/4 cups sifted cake flour (now you know I didn't do that)
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup butter, softened (1/4 lb.)
1 cup milk
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 375F, mix above, pour into prepared pans, bake for 20 to 25 minutes.

Instead of cream cheese frosting, why not go all the way and make a buttercream frosting laced with maple syrup?

1 box (1 lb.) powdered sugar
1/2 cup butter, melted and cooled
4 to 6 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoon pure maple syrup

Beat all ingredients until light and fluffy. Frost your cake.

The day ended on a dramatic note. First, Griffin tied the balloons to himself in his ongoing effort to fly. That did not work. Wyatt then tied Dr. Light to the balloons, and the boys launched her off the front porch. They were laughing and thought it was great until they saw her float above the neighbor's rooftop and head East, turning into a speck on the horizon. Then the tears started flowing, and I had to jump in the car and try to race down Dr. Light and the balloon bouquet like a hot-air balloon ground support unit, a nearly impossible mission. The local skater dude had a good laugh when I stopped to ask him if he'd seen a bunch of balloons sail by. Meanwhile, during the drive, I had to listen to Griffin's bizarre scientific theories about flight, and several false sightings of Dr. Light. We eventually packed it in and went home, and I told the boys that she was no doubt heading over to Cape Canaveral for a shuttle launch. Or maybe she wanted to cross the Atlantic. In either case, it was a stunning exit. And, as is always the case with balloons -- they were fun while they lasted.
Happy Birthday, baby!

Ahh, Mother's Day

Just when I thought Kentucky Derby day was my favorite of the year, it has competition: Mother's Day.
I was awakened by the sounds of clattering in the kitchen. My wonderful Wyatt was downstairs preparing me breakfast. He brought up peanut butter toast and a bagel on a tray -- breakfast in bed! He said he tried to make me lemonade, but that the seeds kept falling in the glass, and when I asked him why he didn't fish them out with his fingers, he said "Well, you tell us not to touch other people's food." Got it. I explained some exceptions and other alternatives. But I was so touched. We chatted and I ate my delicious toast, and then everyone else woke up and swiftly tried to scam my bagel.
Harry: "A doughnut!"
Cooper: "Bagel!"
Lucky: "Sniff sniff, sniff sniff sniff!"
Me: "Back off!"
Troy brought me a hot cappuccino with half a flower in it (cappuccino art IV, no camera), and then I was showered with cards (one with some fine penmanship from Griffin) and books and a giant phalaenopsis and -- best of all -- an abundance of affection.
And then I was left to lounge in my jammies and quietly read, snack, email friends, watch a little tv, and host sporadic pop-in visits from my sons, while Troy cleaned the kitchen and supervised everything.
Heavenly.

Both ends burning

It's been a sad week, with the fires in Griffith Park, Florida, Georgia, and most recently, the beautiful Catalina Island. I'm relieved to hear that they think the Griffith Park fire was not arson (that's what I last heard), because it's easier to accept a fire when it's at least a part of nature. Still, it's surreal -- such a waste and such a shame. And I feel sorry for the animals, who are surely stressed. These pics show what it looks like around our house, the smoke coming from inland brushfires. It smells like there is a bonfire in the backyard, and visibility is low.

Five things about me.

Wow. Tagged by K-J to list five things about myself -- who knew it would be so hard to come up with 5 things?! I've sat here thinking, "Eh. That's not really interesting. Nah, that's not important. Uh. Um..." So, I really don't know what kinds of things I'm supposed to say here, but here's what I came up with.

1. I don't like talking on the phone. There are exceptions, but mostly, talking on the phone drives me nuts.

2. I love salt bagels.

3. It took me eight weeks to name one of my sons. People were appalled. And then, several months later, I changed his birth certificate to add another middle name, which doesn't really fly in America. It's a problem on forms. The IRS is all confused.
Why, you may wonder, did I do this? Because I had a billion decisions to make before his birth, since we moved late in my seventh month of pregnancy. When the baby was born, the name we'd chosen didn't seem to fit right, and then my brain just froze. But I didn't want to be pressured into just putting down a name because of The Rules, so I left the hospital without naming him.

4. I'm a good mimic, but am kind of shy, so can usually only do impersonations for my husband. However, I can raise one eyebrow, flare my nostrils, and wiggle my ears separately or simultaneously, and I will do this for anyone, especially children. I call it the "Facial Symphony."

5. When I'm in public, people tend to think that I work wherever I am. Or that they know me. Like, if I'm in a bookstore, or a clothing store, people approach me to ask me questions about finding things. And usually I answer them, which makes me feel like I should work there. Or, in the other case, they look at me and squint their eyes and cock their heads and say, "You look really familiar to me."

There you go ~ five things. And now we shall move onward to tag Ms. Vonsachsen at Tea for One, Ilana at I Love Risotto!, and Claudia at What's Eating Claudia?.

The Ball Jar

Here we go,
Here we go,
Here we-here we-here we-go.
-Run DMC

I'm done freaking out.
Since January, we have been at a crossroads, trying to determine the next step for our family, and what that would mean. Where we should live, what we should do.
It's a very serious consideration, and we have discussed the pros and cons of our leading options: stay here in Florida, move back to California, or, in third place, move to Seattle.
Like Jack Keroac (or not), Troy hit the road and mulled it all over, and for a while it seriously looked like California was the winner. But it's not.
There will be no barefoot sunset walks in a little vineyard, no tilling of terroir, no white duck quacking around the tiny farm of fantasies.
We are staying in Florida.
After months of brainstorming, debating, and researching, we are starting a rum company. Correction!: a micro-distillery.
For rum.
I really could not foresee this for myself, and maybe that's what I get for not having a life plan. But nevertheless, the starting gun has been fired, and Troy has begun making lists of Things To Do.
After deciding to go forward with our plan, Troy said, "The first thing I need to do is find an attorney."
And last week, he did.
Because a business involving alcohol requires lots of legal advice and strategy. There are a lot of rules and laws about alcohol, and you wouldn't want to step out of line. No.
So he found an attorney, a guy in Miami who specializes in matters of alcohol, and used to work as an inspector for the ATF, which apparently isn't the ATF anymore, but rather the TTB. I'll have to Google that.
[Two minutes later.]
Ah: Tax & Trade Bureau.
The name will be filed, licenses will be applied for, and "office" space will be found for a still. Acquiring the still is the focus of this week, and apparently the Germans make the superior equipment. Currently, our kitchen looks like a science lab, a series of Ball canning jars clutter the counter, all containing mixes ranging from fresh bananas to vanilla to horned melon (Troy sees good marketing potential in that one).
Good thing we know a few rum drinkers, because it's too much for us to sample on our own, even as parents of four boys. I think we'll be hosting a lot of tastings between now and the official launch, which should be in about 6 months.
It may be crazy, but I believe in following your gut, and my husband's is filled with distilled sugar cane. I may not get a charming white duck, but maybe I could adopt a parrot who says interesting things, like "Yo ho ho."

Any Given Saturday

I really wanted to go to a Derby party this year, but I don't know the Lee Brothers, or anyone else who was having one, so all signs pointed to my kitchen. I ordered a big Smithfield ham. When it arrived Friday night, I realized that I over-ordered, because there was enough ham to feed everyone at Churchill Downs plus the Queen and her entourage. But that's okay, there are a million uses for leftover ham.
The Lee Brothers have earned my undying admiration for their wonderful and spirited cookbook, which not only gave me my entire party spread idea, but fail-safe recipes for everything.

I made their deviled eggs, which contain curry powder, Texas Pete pepper sauce, and are sprinkled with finely chopped scallions and/or cracked black pepper and/or crispy crumbled bacon.

Also, I made pimento cheese, clam dip, and riffed on their idea of pickled shrimp to have peel & eat. I meant to make their cheese straws but I ran out of time, and I gave up the idea of homemade biscuits when I realized that I did not have buttermilk and refused to go to Publix again. I figured this would happen, and had two back-up tins of biscuits, and decided that every hostess should have a tin of these in her fridge for eliminating pre-party stress. I was getting really stressed out about a half hour before party time and had difficulty opening one of the tins and started whacking it against the countertop really hard, and it felt so good! Totally snapped me out of that brewing surly mood! I felt refreshed and invigorated. While I am sure homemade biscuits taste better, and you could make an argument that a fine ham deserves a better biscuit, the issue is not something I'll ever lose sleep over.
(Too much ham.)

I made mint-infused simple syrup for the mint juleps and a big jug of delicious iced tea (not overly "sweet tea") made with Irish Breakfast tea.

The bourbon for the mint juleps had to be Maker's Mark, Kentucky's finest, and instead of capping the juleps off with seltzer, I used fizzy San Pellegrino. Very good! Oh -- I also made water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, the '70s-American version of the devils-on-horseback suggested by Mannix. My mom made these scrumptious tidbits for her cocktail parties and it was always a thrill to be able to sneak a few.

There was a rush of fast conversation as our friends arrived seven minutes before the most exciting two minutes in sports. Since our friend, Frank, loves Champagne, we popped the cork on some Veuve Clicquot and scrambled up to the T.V. to pick our horses and lay down the money. Harry picked "the blue horse," which was I'mawildandcrazyguy, and I picked AnygivenSaturday because he looked beautiful.
And they were off! The winner was Street Sense, and surprisingly, the unbridled (cough) jubilation of jockey Calvin Borel at the finish line was worth every penny I lost. Still, Harry should have collected the pot, but Troy dismissed him on the grounds that he had not put in. Technically, no one put in, because none of us were carrying cash, so I disagree. I later gave Harry a dollar for his win. I'll hold the rest in trust if I ever collect.

That said, I should have won the pot, but after the Champagne and a mint julep, we all forgot about it because we were too buzzed and intently focused on the shrimp and ham.

Here's Frank, who owes me money, with Cooper, who apparently lost his shirt and his pants.

It would be hard not to have a good time at a Derby party, for all the combined elements -- you've got a lively environment, friends, an awesome spread of food but no constricting sit-down affair, beautiful animals, money changing hands, and a signature cocktail. And pearls are not out of place.
Now, you know I wasn't really going to dress up in my house -- it's too hot, I'm busy running around, woo woo. But I did don Troy's Tilly hat for about 3 seconds for y'all.

This could easily be my new favorite event.
Next year, I will start the party earlier, make the cheese straws, and suggest my guests bring cash.