Friday, December 24, 2010

Cats In My Christmas Tree

There was a time, not so many Christmases ago, that the cats in my tree would have been real ones. As kittens, my babies loved to climb up in the branches and take a nap. It was always fun to see my house guests' egg nog go flying when one of the adorable "realistic" cat ornaments leaped out of the branches.

This Christmas, the cats in the tree, are of the ornamental variety. My tree is a reflection of me and the things important to me .... and, well, I am a cat mama .... so there are a few kitty ornaments in there with the stars, St. Nicks and Mr. Bingles.

Like these musical little tabbies that play Jingle Bells when their tummies are squeezed.





These little black cats are really gift tags, but they work well as ornaments don't you think?





My favorites may be the newest feline additions to the tree, these two stylin' black cats.









And, on that note, Henry, Sammy, Nettie, C.J., Koko, Ernie, Roxie and I all wish you a very Merry Christmas .... from the House Where the Black Cat Lives.

Monday, December 20, 2010

A New Orleans Interlude

Last year I spent Christmas in Paris, one of my favorite cities in the world. This year, I'm spending Christmas at home in Hattiesburg, but slipped away this weekend to my other favorite city, New Orleans, for a little holiday interlude.

I have always loved this city and actually lived there for one magical Christmas when I was a little girl (I shared my memories of that Christmas on my other blog "Mike and Mary's Kitchen).


Neither the passage of time nor the ravages of Katrina have dulled New Orleans' Yuletide luster for me.

This year I enjoyed:

Shopping for sweet scents in the uber feminine Hove perfumer.



Citrus-laden trees in French Quarter courtyards.


Getting a history lesson at the Beauregard-Keyes, Gallier and Hermann-Grima houses, interrupted by a raucous second line passing by outside.


Celebration in the Oaks at City Park.

Lobster beignets and s'mores tart (yum) at La Petite Grocery on Magazine Street ...

... and duck confit and bacon seared scallops at Ralph's on the Park ....

... and duck/sweet potato hash with homemade pepper jelly atop a cornbread waffle, washed down with the perfect Bloody Mary (and did I mention praline bacon) at Elizabeth's in Bywater.

Finding another "House Where the Black Cat Lives," in this case the Mexican restaurant El Gato Negro.





The lovely courtyard outside my hotel window.



Meeting up with Old St. Nick in the French Market ...




... and Ernie's twin in the window of French Quarter vet's office (if possible I think this guy is even fatter than Big E!)



The twinkling white lights in the grand Roosevelt Hotel lobby.




Cocktails in the Victorian Lounge at the Columns Hotel. Yes, that is Brooke Shields' photo on the wall. Her controversial 1979 film "Pretty Baby" was filmed here.



Monday, December 6, 2010

If you knew Peggy Sue…



A feral cat is living in my guest bathroom.

Her name is Peggy Sue, and she is the matriarch of the Oak Gove kitties, daughter of my Roxie and the baby factory of a seemingly endless production line of kittens.

I finally decided to shut down kitten production, hence the current situation.

I am an old hand at the care, feeding and and TNR (Trap, Neuter, Release) of feral and semi-feral feline colonies.

If you had asked me last week, I would have characterized Peggy Sue, a member of the colony I have cared for two years now, as a shy, but mostly tame, occasionally affectionate, kitty who tolerated the odd stroke or pat on the head. She even recognized her name and mewed in response when I called her "my little girl."

So generally agreeable seemed she that when the time came, I put aside the scary wire contraption I use to trap only the most feral critters in favor of a open can of tuna tucked temptingly inside a common cat carrier with the door left ajar.

I figured after a week or so of reprogramming and TLC in my guest bathroom she, like so many cats before her including her mom, would be ripe not only for "the procedure" but also for relocation and adoption into a new life. I'm a sucker for happy endings.

Clearly, Peggy Sue doesn't believe in happy endings. She is not adjusting as well as I had hoped to her new life in my bathroom.

Considering she is semi-feral, Peggy Sue is not a bad cat at all. She’s quiet, unfailingly uses the litter box provided, eats whatever I give her without complaint and accepts the treats I leave as peace offerings.

But our formerly cordial relationship is in shreds -- as would be my hand, I'm sure, if I was brave enough to stick it uncovered into the cabinet where she has holed herself up. It seems some trust issues have been breeched.

For help, I turned to the Best Friends Animal Society's socialization manual – the one they use to resocialize the cats pulled from cat-hoarder rescues. But Peggy Sue and I can’t seem to get past step 1 .

We have arrived at an impasse.

With her continued baleful stares, flattened ears and hisses, my hopes for an immiment peaceful détente between us are fading.

If she doesn't break by next week, I’m going to have to suit up and drag her off to the spay and neuter clinic, then release her back into the world from whence she came, hoping she will still bond with her colony members and allow me to continue to care for her.

Most of all, I hope she will survive the cold winter, the dogs, the cars, the unfriendly humans, the predators and other hazards that make the lives of feral cats such short ones.

This is the suck-y side of being a cat lover and caregiver. As rewarding as what I do is, I have to accept that while I do my best, there is a fair amount of attrition in any feral colony. Every time someone doesn’t show up for dinner several nights in a row – as Tux has not for weeks now -- my cat mama’s heart breaks just a little.

The fact is while you can love these cats and do your best to make their lives better, you can save some, but you can't always save them all. Peggy Sue’s dilemma is hardly unique. But I want so much more for my “little girl” and her remaining offspring. If not a home, at least a safe environment where they can live out their lives.

And so now you know why I feel blue about Peggy, ‘bout Peggy Sue.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Cute Kitty Photo of the Day: Sammy and Ernie


Sometimes cold weather makes for strange bedfellows. Until I snapped this photo, I didn't even know that Sammy and Ernie liked each other. Sammy's a loud purrer, so for Ernie it must be a little like bedding down on a mattress with Magic Fingers massage (remember those from old hotel rooms). And for Sammy, well, Ernie's the fat cat, so he's warm. With the weather warming up tomorrow, I'm sure the little friendship will thaw as well.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Venetian Velvet

Is there a more opulent fabric in the world than velvet? Even the word itself sounds lush.

And there is no velvet like Venetian velvet. It's Velvet with a "V".

... stamped with gold and sewn into little evening bags...


... burned out and hung with silk fringe. This shawl reminds me of the movie 'The Wings of the Dove." It's the perfect accessory to toss around your shoulders to take in a Vivaldi concert.



... hand stitched onto rubber soles recycled from bicycle tires for no-skid slippers like the gondoliers wear.


... and sold by the yard for curtains, tablecloths, pillows, wall-hangings to decorate your own Venetian villa .... or your hotel room.


Yes, I really slept here. (and that really is a Murano glass chandelier). I kept waiting for Casanova to slip through my shuttered window in the moonlight.

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't ... what happens in Venice stays in Venice.

Except for that velvet -- I brought some of that home with me.

Because I could always use a little Venice in my life.

Couldn't you?

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Happy Halloween From the House Where The Black Cat Lives


Here Be Dragons: Restroom Adventures Abroad

During my recent history as a globe-trotter, I've learned a few universal truths:

1.) Dress conservatively in black and you can go anywhere.

2.) Food costs near tourist attractions are roughly the same amount as your mortgage. And about as tasty to chew on.

3.) Learning (and correctly using) a few words in the native language will almost always get you much better service.

But when it comes to restrooms, well on those fold-out guidebook tourist maps, this area should be marked "Here be dragons," because you just never know ...

Europe of course is the home of the "pee for a fee" public facility. Sometimes the toilet is an attraction in and of itself. Heck, I'd pay 2 euros just to see this fancy loo at the Louvre in Paris.

However, I did battle with my one-eyed monster for free last week in a restroom in a cute, modern, clean little sandwich shop in Padua. Yes, I am talking about the dreaded Turkish toilet. Toilet is a bit of a misnomer because, ummmmm, there wasn't one. (Sorry, I did not take a picture. I was just too freaked out.)

I had heard of these before. I had even glimpsed one in a century-old Parisian bistro, where it just seemed a quaint anachronism that I could laugh off while I held my business until I got back to my hotel room.

I'm three years older. I had been holding it all the train ride from Venice. My hotel was no where close. I wasn't laughing anymore.

A 50-year-old bladder will not be denied.

Just down the street from this restroom was the basilica of St. Anthony, patron saint of lost objects that must be found. I sent up a hasty prayer that he might find the obviously missing toilet for me. Either St. Anthony was answering legitimate requests that day, or being Italian, he was just laughing at the clueless American tourist.

My bladder was screeching at me to do something before it took action for me.

I won't fill you in on the gory details. It wasn't pretty. Let's just say for women, the process is not intuitive. And, surprisingly, while menus here are written in three languages there are no instructions (even those with universal symbols) to help you out. You are totally on your own. Sure wish I'd read this first.

Now I know why so many Italian women wear skirts; but I've got to wonder how they keep those expensive leather shoes so clean.

(And, yes, I did want to go back to my hotel room and curl up in the fetal position!)

Friday, October 29, 2010

The Islands: Murano, Burano and Torcello



Murano, Burano and Torcello may sound like an accounting firm in Little Italy, but they are actually islands in the lagoon surrounding Venice and tourist destinations all in themselves.

Murano, the most famous, is the site where the Venetian glass has been blown for centuries. The glassblowers' techniques are jealously guarded -- hence no photos.


However, you can view their handiwork -- ranging from jewelry and knick knacks up to enormous chandeliers in dozens of shops and studios all over the island.

I couldn't resist picking up a few knick-knacks for souvenirs. The blown-glass Christmas ornaments are lovely -- no two are alike. Blown-glass goblets are also wonderful -- if you want to pay to ship them back.

As for the rest of it .... ehhhhh, to tell the truth, it's really not my cup of tea. Well, except for the chandeliers -- I want one of those for every room of my house! I can appreciate the artistry that goes into making say a five-foot glass clown holding balloons or a life-size soaring glass eagle, but I can't get past the fact that these look like something the set designer for The Sopranos might snap up as opposed to something I want for my own art collection.

Venice's dirty little secret is that a lot of the "Murano glass" sold in the tourist's shops is imported from China. The glass blowers and shop keepers on Murano are very sensitive about it; many of them post signs saying they do not import. Rule of thumb: Murano glass will have a sticker saying it was made in Murano. Also Chinese glass is a lot cheaper.





Burano, a little farther out, is famous for its colorful fisherman's cottages and handmade lace. Like Murano, much of the lace that is sold here is imported from elsewhere. Still it's a pretty little place -- with lots of cats so you know it's right up my alley. The best restaurant on the island is named for a black cat -- just like my blog.



Torcello is the most distant, and oldest, of the settlements. Only about 15 families (and several cats) live here now mostly to run the restaurants and inns that cater to tourists, like this lovely little place.








I think the pomegranate tree got me; I love pomegranates and I've never seen them growing before. I was instantly seized with a desire to move here and run a rustic inn called La Casa alla Gatto Negro where I could eat pomegranates and risotto every day and have a lot of cats. When I laid this proposal out to the Recurring Gentleman Caller, his only comment was: "We have a lot of cats." Spoilsport.

Torcello's Basilica of Santa Maria Assunta (the oldest in Venice), museum and bell tower, featuring gorgeous Byzantine tile work, is a testament to the power Torcello once held. This is where Venice's history began until the population was decimated by malaria. It's pretty much a swamp.




Which brings me to the subject of bug spray: If you are coming to Venice, bring some. Even in the fairly cool temps of October, they are a problem, especially for skeeter-bait like me. I'm thinking of pencilling over my bites with eyeliner and calling them beauty marks as the Venetian beauties of yore did.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Dottore, Dottore ... A Day Trip to Padova



As lovely as Venice is, after a few days, you do feel the need to get away from all the tourists. Fortunately, the centrally located train station offers easy escape to nearby Verona, Vicenza or Padua (Padova to the Italians).

I live in a university town, and I have a fondness for the energy that comes from all that youth combined with knowledge. I chose to steal away to Padova, home to Italy's second oldest university (founded in 1222). Its faculty and alumni include Galileo, Copernicus, Casanova and Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia, the first woman ever awarded a Doctor of Philosophy degree.
The train ride is less than 30 minutes, yet Padova is a world away from Venice.





If you must still play tourist, you will want to visit the largest piazza in all of Italy as well as call on the remains of St. Ant'ny (that would be Anthony to those of you unfamiliar with New Orleans' yat parlance) which are interred in the truly gorgeous basilica that bears his name -- just don't follow the directions in Rick Steves' guide book. Those will take you to the basilica of Santa Giustina across the street.

If you're not Catholic, or if you are and missed catechism that day, this site explains what a basilica is, how it came to be called that and how it differs from a cathedral, church or shrine.



There are also the obligatory open-air markets (de rigeur for any Italian city) and some good shopping. If possible, the Italians are even more style conscious and chic than the French are!

Me, I could just spend all my time wandering under the city's famous colonnades, pausing now again to enjoy a spritz (club soda, white wine and Campari) or a cone of gelato (the best is at Grom's) while window-shopping, people watching and picking up fashion pointers.

But perhaps the most fun is getting in on the graduation hi-jinks in the square outside of the university. Students graduate on the day they defend their thesis so there is always a side-show, often several of them. The celebration is a two-parter. First, the grad dons a laurel wreath a la Julius Caesar for photos with proud family members who come dressed in Sunday best and bearing flowers for the occasion.

Then, as Rick Steves writes in his blog, "Grandma goes home," and the rite of public humiliation commences.




Dressed in an absurd costume -- Lady Gaga for example-- chosen by their so-called friends, the graduate is paraded in front of a large custom-made poster featuring a bawdy caricature of themselves and a poem about their misadventures, again written by their friends, which the honoree must read aloud to the assemblage taking a swig of alcohol every time they flub a word.

Then their friends douse them with water, shaving cream, honey or other assorted fluids/condiments, all the while serenading them with the standard graduation ditty: "Dottore, Dottore Dottore del busco de cul Vaffancul, Vaffancul!"

It sounds like a catchy little children's song -- but the lyrics are X-rated (quasi translation here. )Basically they are telling the newly minted doctor to do something anatomically impossible. It's all in good-natured fun; everyone has an excellent time.



And to think, all I had to do when I graduated from the University of Southern Mississippi was walk across a stage in a cap and gown. Somehow, now I feel cheated.

Monday, October 25, 2010

The House Where The Black Cat Lives Goes to Venice


Usually, I like to plan vacations down to the nth detail. Then I went to Venice. Here, you let your senses guide your feet. Get lost. Every bridge crosses over to a new experience. Every alley way leads to an unexpected treasure. Some of my favorite discoveries in Venice:


Tiny hole-in-the-wall taverns serving amazing Veneto wines by the glass and an assortment of hearty appetizers known as cichetti.




Open air markets (some of them on boats) selling the freshest produce and roasted chestnuts.





Pasticcherias with tempting window displays of panettone, jam-filled croissants, panino with fresh cheese and spicy salami.


Beautiful piazzas where neighbors visit on park benches while their children kick soccer balls or zip around on scooters.

Gelaterias serving scoops of the richest dark chocolate, buttery caramel and panna cotta ice cream.

A store that sells nothing but gorgeous hand-stamped paper as they have for hundreds of years -- in the very same location.



Exquisite centuries old architecture -- everywhere.

Tiny specialty shops where the proprieters magically find your heart's desire -- whether it's a pair of hand-stitched velvet gondolier's slippers, a soft wool stole, cashmere socks, gold-stamped silk velvet pouches or buttery-soft Easter-egg candy colored leather gloves, that fit like, well, a glove.


An impromptu street parade of exuberent school children, shopping housewives, bemused tourists and a chanting Hare Krishna or two.



Neighborhood church bells ringing in the hour, but not quite in synch, all over the city. Every hour is a celebration.


Strains of Vivaldi seeping out of evening concert halls into the chilly fall air.






Venetian cats. While my Italian may not be quite up to snuff, it's reassuring to know I still speak fluent kitty.






Pasta shops with every shape, color and size imaginable.




Meow-- I mean ciao-- for now.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Countdown to Venice: We're in the Home Stretch


As mentioned in a recent blog post, I am traveling to Venice this month to celebrate my 50th birthday. I'm very excited as I've never been to Italy before although I did get a taste of Venetian architecture and cuisine when I travelled to the Dalmatian region of Croatia two years ago.

Half the fun of travelling anywhere, for me, is the anticipation and the planning.

One of my favorite ways to get into the mood is to watch movies set in my travel destination. There are some beautiful ones set in Venice (but then how could they not be beautiful). Some of the films I've enjoyed watching for this trip are:

Don't Look Now (1973)

This 1973 thriller starring Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie offers some incredible views of Venice. Julie Christie's wardrobe is also worth seeing; great style is forever. Although I had never seen this movie before, I experienced an eerie sense of deja vu the entire time I was watching it. Then I remembered it was based on a short story by Rebecca du Maurier that I read in high school. It's fairly intense; let's just say if I see a small person in a red cloak, it's a safe bet I won't be following them down a dark alley. If you're prudish or have young 'uns hanging around, you may want to pass on this one. Besides the psychological intensity, there's a fairly heavy-duty love scene that was quite controversial when the movie was filmed.

The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999)
More psychological mind-twisting and gorgeous, gorgeous settings in this period piece set in 1950s Italy with Jude Law, Matt Damon and Gwyneth Paltrow involved in a complicated triangle and stolen identity.


Summertime (1955)

Katherine Hepburn shows off her timeless style in this controversial-for-the-era movie about a mid-life woman who travels to Venice and enjoys a romantic -- and (mostly) remorse-free-- vacation fling with a handsome (and married) Italian she meets there. Even if I hadn't already bought my plane ticket to Venice, this movie would have had me hot tailing it to Expedia.

The Wings of the Dove (1997)

This Edwardian period piece, based on a 1902 novel by Henry James, has to be one of the most gorgeous films ever made. I saw it in the theater when it came out, and I think it's one of those films I must own and rewatch every now and again. The settings, the cinematography, the acting, another love triangle --- and those achingly lovely Fortuny gowns worn by Helena Bonham Carter and Alison Elliot

Bread and Tulips (2001)

This quirky Italian gem is about a bored, long-suffering Italian housewife who gets separated from her tour group -- and her family -- while on vacation. On a whim, she travels to Venice by herself and winds up finding a whole new -- and much more satisfying -- life. I liked this film because it seemed to focus on the "real" Venice where people live and work as opposed to endless shots of the Grand Canal and San Marco Square.

Has anyone else seen any good movies set in Venice?

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Happy October!



October has always been my favorite month. I suffer through the hot Mississippi summers just knowing that it's there waiting for me on the other side. I just wish my favorite month was longer than 31 days! I try to make each and every one count.

This weekend:

I purchased the obligatory pumpkins and mums to decorate the outside of the house (the black and orange kitties decorate the inside).

I attended a wonderful Oktoberfest party at my friend Lou's house (yum, German beer, bratwurst and obatzda).

At some point, I'll get started on those online Italian lessons I've been meaning to take in preparation for my upcoming trip to Venice this month.

Something tells me these 31 days are just going to fly by! Boo (hoo)!

Friday, September 17, 2010

Mashing and Cleaving in the 'burg

A few weeks ago (OK maybe longer), I told you about my brand-new potato ricer and Francis Lam's recipe for perfect mashed potatoes.

In anticipation of christening my new tool, I bought a 5-lb bag of russets which have the highest starch content of any potato and apparently make the fluffiest potatoes -- although I wouldn't be adverse to using Yukon Gold just for the yummy buttery flavor.

The problem is mashed potatoes cry out for a juicy roasted bird or a big slab of roast beast to go alongside them. And with the heat index up in the 100s here in the 'burg lately, I just haven't been into the whole idea of turning on the oven.

But by last weekend, the spuds were wanting to sprout. I decided to go for it. I talked the Recurring Gentleman Caller (RGC) into firing up the grill. Because he is a man and, therefore, a meat and potato whore, he even peeled the potatoes.

Step one: I put the peeled spuds, cut into quarters, in cold salted water, and let them come to a boil. OK, I already knew about the cold water part from my mama. They cook more evenly or something like that.

I should point out that even though cooking is basically one big science experiment, I am not a math and science geek, and, because of this Alton Brown will never be my favorite Food Network star.

I don't want to know all the nerdy factoids. I just want magic -- and for my food to taste so good that people will weep with pleasure, sing hosannas to my greatness and possibly buy me jewelry and small islands. Is there anything wrong with that?

Lost in this self-absorbed little reverie, I forget to turn the potatoes down to a simmer and almost let them overcook, a big no-no according to Mr. Lam. After about 15 minutes, you're supposed to poke them with a fork to make sure they are tender. They are.

Now ordinarily at this juncture, I dump the potatoes into a bowl with some cream and butter, mash the heck out of 'em and call it a day.

But Francis recommends drying out the potatoes on a baking sheet in a 300 degree oven for a few minutes. Damn, I have to turn on the oven after all.

Meanwhile I put some milk and cream in a pot on slow simmer and dump some salt and pepper into the mixture. Living in South Mississippi, I have a fairly comfortable relationship with my spice rack, so I am generous with both shakers.

I am tempted to chop up some fresh herbs a la Ina Garten (my favorite Food Network chef), but decide no fancy stuff this go round. I don't want to skew the results of this little experiment.

Oh joy, it's time for the potato ricer! The potatoes really do come out looking like rice. It's just like pressing garlic, except no smooshed pods to pick out and no smell clinging to my fingers. This is fun!

I venture a taste. So far kind of dry and bland. Uh oh, Francis, you got some 'splaining to do. Per his direction, I cut up a few chunks of butter and start alternating them with the riced potatoes. I slowly add the hot (but not boiling) cream mixture to the potatoes and gently fold it in.

Ahhhhhhh, here's the magic! These potatoes are light, airy, floaty, fluffy, butter-drenched perfection. Now if you're one of those people who like lumps in your potatoes, well, lump them then, this may not be the method for you. I, however, consider myself a convert.

My man Francis, how could I ever have doubted you?

I steal a glance at the RGC sweating over the grill outside and face a moral dilemma: Do I eat all the potatoes now and tell him the cats got into them, or do I force myself to set some aside so he can share?

I decide to take the high road, but only because he bought me an early birthday present -- a Wusthof meat cleaver which he let me have only after I promised I would never use it on him or anything belonging to him.

It's a deal -- as long as he never comes between me and my mashed potatoes.

A perfect mashed potato recipe and an uber new kitchen weapon. I am one empowered kitchen goddess.

Now, what can I cleave?

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Things I Love About My Cats

People often ask which of the cats is my favorite. My answer is always the same. Each and every one makes my heart happy in an entirely different way. I can't imagine my life without a single one of them.

Specifically, I love:

Henry's gorgeous mandarin butterscotch fur with eyes to match ... Big kissable pink nose ... Magnificent whiskers ... Tummy, soft and downy as a baby chick's (just don't think about petting it ) ... "Superior being" attitude ... ... Henry VIII and Buddha imitations ... "Frenchness" ... Handsomeness incarnate. He should be in ads.

Sammy's sleek, black velvet coat ... Long tail flourished grandly like a punctuation mark ... Southern accent and three-syllable meow .. Supersized purr .. Tail up, high-stepping show cat trot ... Preferred sleep position -- rear paws pulled over his head with sly sideways peek. Is there anything in the world more adorable than a little black cat curled up asleep?

Koko's wide eyed owl-cat stare ... Really Big Lips forming a big white "O" -- no one pulls off righteous indignation better ... Single white whisker in bas relief against a midnight backdrop ... Stubby little tail thumping on wood floors ... "I see a bird, Mama" meow ... Cheek caressing my cupped palm ..... Warmth against my side (or behind my knees, or on my feet) at night ... Soft snoring ... Obsessive-compulsive bathing and litter-box scratching.

Nettie's mohawk standing on end along her spine .. Orange patches on her rear foot and under her front leg -- just one chromosome away from an orange tabby ... Heart-shaped face, a sweet complement to her tart tortie attitude ... Head resting against my shoulder, gazing up at me adoringly ... Favorite sleep position: Weight curled on my hip night after night ( I'll probably need hip replacement one day) ... Proud Egyptian sphinx profile.

CJ 's "Mardi Gras mask" facial markings ... Thick, multi-colored coat ... Teeny suggestion of a tail ... Splotchy nose and big, wide set eyes like a rag doll ... Loping bunny-run, slipping through the house like "The Shadow" ... Shy nature ... Head bowed, by my side, as she silently waits for me to pet her ... Luxuriant back rubs against the jute rug.

Ernie's sweet baby-face ... Big white belly ... Crooked tail ... Old-man's pigeon-toed gait ... Dainty meow belying his behemoth girth ... Massive multi-toed paws gently patting my face ... Forever-kittenish playful nature ... Favorite sleep position: on his back, paws up in the air ... Denial of his considerable size; he constantly tries to fit in teensy boxes and perch on narrow ledges ... Complete and total adoration of Roxie.

Roxie's close-set "I Dream of Jeannie" almond eyes ... Prissy little walk, claws clicking like high heels as she sashays through the house ... Circular tabby markings ... Warm, maternal nature ... Unabashed adoration of Ernie which he fervently returns ... Pause for permission before jumping up on furniture ... Body stretched out like a super-hero in flight when she is picked up (all she needs is a cape).

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

A Gourmet Weekend

There are three things I can never pass up in life: a fancy kitchen goods store, the kitty window at the pet store and a lemonade stand.

On Saturday, I just happened to find myself loitering outside of Hattiesburg's premier kitchen store -- the place that sells Le Creuset cookware, Wusthof knives and about 99 different kinds of sea salt.

Right outside the door, two adorably dimpled future Junior Leaguers were selling lemonade.

"It's really good; it's homemade," said the take charge little blonde who was obviously over marketing. I had to agree with her; it really was tasty -- not too sugary, sublimely tart and with just enough pulp to let you know real lemons were harmed in the making of it.

As I looked around for a trash can in which to pitch my empty cup, she motioned me inside the store.

As if I needed an excuse to cross that threshold.

Thirty minutes later I left there sans lemonade cup and with two gadgets that clearly my life would be worthless without: a compartmentalized unit for my sea salt and a potato ricer.

Now you may ask who needs fancy-schmancy sea salt (and a holder to separate the various kinds), when the Morton's canister already has this neat-o little spout that pours forth lots of good, cheap iodized crystals that pack plenty of flavor if not pedigree.

Apparently I do. I personally own about five different types of sea salt (and just typing this I realize how pretentious that sounds). Yes, Recurring Gentleman Caller, they all really do have their own unique cachet. And I am just enough of a sea salt snob to be slightly put out when the shop owner told me that they were out of their new imported Portuguese sea salt, which until five minutes earlier, I hadn't even known existed.

Then my eye was caught by what looked like a giant garlic press (and don't even get me started on the various forms of garlic).

I started to hyperventilate.

Some time ago you may recall that I went through a cooking epiphany of sorts when a chance column in Gourmet's online magazine finally freed me from the heartbreak of sticky, gummy boiled rice by teaching me how to (drum roll, please) bake it.

Ever since then, I have been a disciple of the column's writer, one Francis Lam, who has moved over to Salon.com since Gourmet's untimely exit from this world.

The man is hilarious. And he knows a thing or two about cooking. So when he wrote another column that said the path to mashed potato nirvana was paved with plain russet potatoes pressed through a potato ricer, well, I knew a potato ricer was in my future.

One might argue that there is really no thing as a bad mashed potato, but they can get a little rubbery if you just mash them up. I'll let you know when I christen my new kitchen aid. I have high expectations.

As I exited the shop, the pint-sized lemonade gourmet was working her pitch on a sweet grandmotherly sort. I thought about warning her, but she looked like she might need some sea salt.

For the Recurring Gentleman Caller's sake, I hope that little girl never sets up shop outside of Pet Smart.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Back From My Blogging Break -- Gobble, Gobble.


Photo: My new BFFs, Tom and Tommy
So did anyone even realize I'd been gone? Honestly, I didn't intend to take a "blogcation." I just looked at the calendar one day and realized ... it had been a while.

You didn't miss much. But for those of you breathless to hear the details, here goes:

I visited my sister's in-laws in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

I learned that, unlike a lot of fowl, turkeys actually have personalities which is going to make it mighty hard for me to celebrate Thanksgiving properly from here on out. Gobble, gobble. (By the way, Tom and Tommy weren't the only ones gobbling. I ate A LOT during this mini vacation)

I watched my niece, brush, saddle and ride a horse for the first time -- and love it.

I took my car in for its 30,000 mile service.

I made a yummy chocolate pound cake. Southern Living never lets me down on the classics. Gobble, gobble.

I finalized the details for my birthday blowout in Venice (Italy, not California).

Yep, it's gonna happen for real.

We all have to turn the big 5-0 sometime.

Might as well do it in Italy.

Adriatic seafood. Pasta. Risotto. Proseco. (Gobble, gobble.)

They don't eat turkey there, do they?

Monday, July 26, 2010

I Know I Was Never Any Good at Math, But ....

OK. Wrap your brains around this one.

As of Saturday, five of my seven cats are the same age as I am.

That's right. Henry, Sammy, Nettie, CJ and Koko who were born on July 24, 2002, turned eight (my how time flies) which makes them the equivalent of 49 human years old. *

Yeah, I know that most people subscribe to that one-year-in-dog-years-equals-seven-human-years stuff. But it doesn't work that way for cats. I'm not even sure it's really true for dogs. It's a complicated and intricate system that's equates to something like 15 human years to a cat's first year, seven or eight years the second year and four years for every year after that.

The part that truly amazes me is how gracefully my cats wear their advancing years. Now that we are the "same" age, I have to admit, they are aging way better than I am.

For example, they can still easily jump six feet and balance themselves on the narrow edge of a doortop as if it were nothing. I can't do that -- I couldn't even when I was eight!

And they are all still so good-looking. For the most part they have kept their lithe figures (well, not all of them. Yes, Ernie, I am talking about you, my love.) with thick, rich glossy coats without a speck of grey. Wish I could say the same.

How do they do it? Maybe it's the 18+ hours of sleep they get every day. On a good night I get about six and a half hours. If I'm lucky, that is.

Maybe, it's because they live totally sans souci. Why should they have worries? They have me to look after their every need and tell them how special, wonderful and beautiful they are 24/7. Hmmmmm. Could be something to that.

Any takers?

* Actually depending on which calculator you use the range for a eight-year-old cat is anywhere from 48-50 years. But then it's pretty common for all of us who are nearing the big 5-0 to fudge a year or so here and there isn't it?

Sunday, July 18, 2010

A Trip to the Farmer's Market



The heat and humidity aside, there are some aspects of a Southern summer that I love. Fresh home-grown produce is among them.

While I usually spend my weekends sleeping in, sun-ripened tomatoes and sweet milky corn on the cob are well worth rolling out of bed early for on a hot Saturday in July.

The colors, smells, tastes, even the sounds, of a farmer's market entice me no matter where I am. I seek them out when I travel as well as on my own turf.

Hattiesburg's old-fashioned indoors farmer's market is a step back into time and Southern manners. Everyone greets me and asks how I am before getting down to the business of ... business. Tastes are offered. There's lots of commiserating about the weather.

Yesterday's haul: perfect unblemished eggplants, weirdly shaped yellow, green and red tomatoes, amber honey from Mississippi hives, a bottle of pepper vinegar, six ears of sweet golden corn, still in their husks (the seller politely offers to shuck them for free), and a dense, lemony homemade pound cake. "Child, that thunderstorm yesterday rolled in right when I put these in the oven, so you let me know how it turned out," the lady tells me. Delicious!

Back home, the eggplant was salted, cubed and cooked down to an ugly (yet flavorful) mush with olive oil, crushed garlic cloves and some thyme and oregano from my herb garden. Some of the tomatoes were sliced and slow-roasted with olive oil, salt and thyme and tossed -- along with the eggplant mush, slivers of fresh basil and more olive oil -- into hot pasta.

Tonight the rest of tomatoes will be sliced and topped with more fresh basil, blue cheese nuggets, prosciutto and vinaigrette for dinner. The menu will be rounded out by corn sauteed in a nugget of sweet butter and just a smidgen of bacon grease.

I'm already looking forward to next Saturday! Imagine the possibilities.
(The tomato salad was way prettier -- and yummier -- than it looks in this photo).

Saturday, July 10, 2010

So What Do You Get Cats For Their Birthdays?


Yesterday, I received seven birthday cards in the mail. Which threw me a little because my birthday isn't for three months.

On the other hand, my sister's birthday was yesterday. I wondered if some of our family members and/or mutual friends had gotten us confused again . It happens. Then I saw the cards were all from PetSmart. And they were addressed to Henry, Sammy, Nettie, CJ, Koko, Ernie and Roxie.

Is it that time again already?

What do you get cats for their birthdays?

The obvious presents -- kitty condos, catnip toys, scratching posts -- have all been done before. Over and over.

The not-so-obvious gifts: electronic, self-scooping litter boxes, grooming sets, water fountains, well, those have been done, too.

There's always the practical route. But I wouldn't want flea medicine or laxatives (even beef or tuna-flavored) for my birthday. Why would they?

The most unpopular birthday gift to date? According to Henry, Sammy, Koko, Nettie and CJ, that would be July 24, 2005, when Ernie came to be their birthday present/little brother. Henry is still pissed at me about it.

None of which solves my current dilemma. But I still have a few weeks to mull it over. Since PetSmart included some birthday coupons with the cards, whatever I get probably will come from there.

Any ideas?

Monday, July 5, 2010

Andrew Jackson Slept Here (And So Did I*)



"I'm sorry, but breakfast will be late this morning," the hostess at The Cottage Plantation informed us as we enjoyed the misty morning view from the main building's back veranda. "It's going to take a little while to get this skinned and into the pot."

"This" turned out to be a raccoon that got busted in the night while trying to steal the plantation cats' food, and now sat regarding us calmly, if inquisitively, from the confines of an animal trap.



Much to all the guests' (and the prisoner's) relief, 'coon really wasn't on the menu and we were all soon sitting down to a full Southern breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits, biscuits with homemade jam and fresh blueberries in the formal dining room, while the captive 'coon (who was actually damned good company) was transported to the surrounding woods and set free.

So began the 4th of July -- with life, liberty and pursuit of happiness -- just like our forefathers promised us.

The Cottage Plantation in St. Francisville, La., is not quite as old as our Nation, but comes close. The original four-room cottage was built in the last decade of the 18th century. And while George Washington never slept here, another future President, Andrew Jackson, did stay a while on his way back to Natchez from the Battle of 1812.
While the term "plantation" calls to mind a certain grandeur, The Cottage is really more of a really nice, if genteelly shabby, farmhouse. Unlike a neighboring plantation, Rosedown, which underwent a multi-million renovation some years ago, the historic sections of The Cottage wear a slightly worn mantle of benign neglect.

This was a little like staying in your grandmother's house, if your grandmother was a Southern aristocrat who lost her money long ago.




It was certainly a cut above my accommodations during my last trip to St. Francisville as a Girl Scout 40 years ago. Then, I had to cook my own dinner over a campfire and sleep in a screened tent with a bunch of other pre-pubescent girls. Here, I was served in-room coffee in demitasse cups with fresh-cut flowers on a silver tray.





When in St. Francisville, you tour a lot of plantation homes. In addition to The Cottage, I also caught tours at the much-fancier Rosedown, where I was charmed by a nest of resident baby barn swallows, and The Myrtles, America's most haunted house.


Other than that it was lots of good Louisiana cooking, a ferry ride across the False River to Cajun country and the scenic route home through fields and fields of sugar cane, eating boiled peanuts while smelling 4th of July barbecue roasting over dozens of roadside pits.
All in all, it was the perfect 4th.

*But not at the same time.