Many people hear the word "entertaining" and seize up with panic. Monthly articles in high-maintenance food and shelter magazine articles have encouraged many of us to think that entertaining is an opportunity for a host to flex her culinary muscles and impress her guests. Throwing a party has become synonymous for many with fussing over canapés, making awkward introductions all night long, and being left with a kitchen overflowing with dishes.

A couple of months ago, geared up from the pre-holiday fervor of stress and perfection, I got the idea into my head to throw a properly French dinner party. This involved, unfortunately, spending too much money, and attempting too many recipes I had never tried before. The night before the party, I was up until 2 AM simmering boeuf bourguignon and wanting to call the whole thing off. When my guests (who at this point I seemed to have forgotten were my dear friends) arrived, I was trying desperately to whip up some gougères, sweating entirely too much for a December evening, and feeling downright resentful. I was a mess and the evening was, to put it mildly, not my finest hour.

I had unwittingly broken all my own rules for having company, which until that moment I didn't realize were my rules: Keep things simple, unpretentious, and comfortably within your budget. Throw the party you would want to go to. Remember that you've invited people you love -- treat your guests dearly. Relax, smile, and most importantly, have fun.

To me, being the hostess means you can surround yourself with the people of your own choosing (no dreading if so-and-so will be there), you eat and drink what you like, and you can wear terribly impractical shoes. Entertaining should be fun, after all, since what's motivated the endeavor is wanting to be with people we love. And without getting totally high-minded about it, entertaining can be a great act of generosity: you create for those nearest and dearest to you an evening of community and pleasure.

I made amends with my friends (and myself) by throwing a cocktail party. There were no cheese puffs. There were however, cookies, brownies, lots of chips and salsa, and a spinach artichoke dip that feels fantastically low-brow to make and vanishes faster than Houdini. I had not stayed up late the previous evening putting together party favors, but I had mixed up plenty of strong, fruity sangria. And I had finished what minor preparations there were a few minutes before people arrived. Which meant I had ten minutes to myself to relax, shake my hips to some bossa nova, and have a drink. Which is, come to think of it, my last and most important rule.



Sangria for a Party
makes 10 cups

1 bottle acceptable red wine
2 1/4 cup orange juice
1 cup triple sec
1 cup apricot brandy
1 cup sprite

Pour ingredients into a big pitcher. Drop in some seasonal fruit (I floated a few thin slices of orange on top). Serve over ice.

Spinach Artichoke Dip
Makes about 4 cups

1 14 ounce can quartered artichoke hearts, chopped
1 10 ounce box frozen spinach, defrosted
3/4 cup sour cream
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
1 garlic clove, minced
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Squeeze the excess water out of the spinach by placing on a few layers of paper towels (or a dish towel) and wringing. Stir together artichoke hearts, spinach, mayonnaise, garlic, lemon juice and most of the cheese in a ceramic baking dish. Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top. Bake in a 350 degree F oven for 30-40 minutes, until bubblingly hot and cheese on top is melted. Serve with crackers, celery sticks, or tortilla chips.

Posted by sarah at 9:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

All yesterday, and all last night, it snowed in New York. The soft, drifting kind of snow that falls steadily until the sidewalks, windshields, and window ledges are covered, while pedestrians plod home with a bottle tucked under an arm to eat something warm, talk to someone they love, and turn in early with a book.

At least, it was that kind of snow until the snow turned to rain. The kind of rain that turns the sidewalk into a treacherous slick of ice, hits your face in cold pellets and makes you shake your fist at the sky wondering why you bothered to get out of bed at all.

Given the slushy circumstances, this bouquet seems downright absurd, what with its defiant cheeriness and candy colors. But, after seeing this clever use of candy decorations, my desire to put one of these bouquets together for Valentine's Day overcame me.

And truly, isn't that what Valentine's is about? The day of saint Valentine, as far as I'm concerned, is in cahoots with Christmas, Winter Solstice, Chinese New Year, Hanukkah, and all the other winter festivals of light that promote warmth, community, and hope in the darkest season. Say it's Hallmark, if you like. I say Valentine's Day is just another example of the human instinct to surround ourselves with flowers, bite into something sweet, and get close to another human body in the bitterest month of all.



Valentine's Bouquet

1 short, squat glass (like for a few glugs of scotch)
1 short, narrow glass (like for juice -- you can usually find these in junk shops)
conversation hearts
flowers
scissors

Arrange the flowers in your short, narrow glass filled about halfway with water. Place the flower-filled glass inside the wider glass. Scatter the conversation hearts in the inner space between the two glasses. Marvel how times have changed with hearts emblazoned "IM Me." Place at your bedside or on the desk of someone you fancy, and wait for the sun to come out.

Posted by sarah at 6:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to treehouses, deeply-cushioned reading chairs, down comforters--hell, let's call a spade a spade--bed, sunny nooks on cold afternoons, and stews. What do all these things have in common? They are cozy, and I, my friends, am an unabashed fan of cozy.

Sure, I love sexy, and also adventurous, and certainly a taste of glamour from time to time. But give me a wisp of a nightgown, a blue and white teacup filled with hot chocolate, and a battered paperback and I will know just what to do.

Which is why last Sunday night I got into my head that I wanted to make a garlicky beef daube and have it simmering on the stove for an hour while I puttered around the newly-clean apartment, flipping through a magazine and tucking-in hospital corners. That is Sunday Night Cozy, a quiet and delicate mix of hands-off cooking and gentle productivity about the house.



But then I realized I am a complete dope: Sebastian would be drinking Mexican beer and cheering on the Giants in a bar on a divey drag of 4th Avenue, and my Sunday night would not see us lingering over glasses of cabernet and pretending we were in an old French farmhouse. Ah, reality. Instead, I decided to let the daube bubble away while I chomped loudly on another favorite meal (chips and salsa) while watching the Law & Order SVU marathon, blissfully alone. I'm telling you, sometimes life turns out even better than you expect.

But back to the daube. As I reluctantly pulled myself away from the television Sunday night, the daube was ready, wonderfully aromatic with thyme, garlic, red wine, and vegetables, and the meat was tender. I let it cool, then stowed it in the fridge before it would reappear on Monday night as a quick supper. And here we have yet another lesson learned in the book of "How to Eat a Decent Supper Most Nights": let something cook slowly on the stovetop or in the oven while you have time to amble languorously about your home and admire the late afternoon light. And then stow it away for later in the week when you will have burst through the door, harried and hungry, looking for something wholesome to eat. Something that will restore your humanity when the world has taken it out of you. Something cozy. This is it.

Why does it take so long to learn the simplest lessons?



Garlicky Beef Daube
Serves 4-6, adapted from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything

Here's what I love about this recipe: you don't have to brown the meat. You get to skip that whole troublesome, splattery step. And while I find beef bourguignon to be quite a pain in the rear and perhaps not worth the time and effort (though I'm glad I tried), this is marvelously simple. Just chop everything up, let it marinate for a good long while, and then let it simmer a good long while more.

8 garlic cloves
2-3 pounds beef chuck or round, cut into 1-1 1/2 inch cubes
1 large onion, chopped
2 carrots, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch thick rounds
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 1/2 cup dry red wine
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup minced fresh parsley

In a large dutch oven, combine six peeled and minced garlic cloves, beef, onion, carrots, vinegar, wine, thyme, and bay leaf. Stir, cover, and refrigerate for 1-24 hours.

After the desired period of marination, place dutch oven over moderate heat and bring to to a boil. Then lower the heat, cover, and let simmer for 1-1 1/2 hours, until the meat is tender. Remove cover and reduce liquid slightly, if necessary.

Peel and mince the two remaining garlic cloves, and add to the daube. Simmer for another five minutes and scatter parley over top. Serve with buttered egg noodles and something green, like green beans with caramelized shallots.

Posted by sarah at 8:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

In this age of specialization, it's nice to run across a multitasker. I'm not so much referring to those who can compose an email while talking on the phone, climbing a corporate ladder, tying a toddler's shoelaces, and making johnnycakes all at the same time. I mean, rather, someone or something who excels at a multitude of things. When this occurs in people, it tends to make them way more interesting (like my friend who flies on his brakeless bike and also happens to have magic fingers when he's spinning records), and when it occurs in products it makes them indispensable. For those of us who have small apartments, are trying to streamline our belongings, or are just thrifty it's nice to have one item that can accomplish many tasks.

Allow me introduce you to my good friend, baking soda.

On my of my favorite blogs there was recently a discussion of all the things baking soda can do. From homemade toothpaste to baker's companion to defunking the fridge, baking soda excels at a multitude of tasks. But my new favorite way to use baking soda is in the cloggy bathroom and kitchen sinks.

This is complicated, so try to keep up: With a generous hand, pour about 1 cup baking soda into your drain. My sister recommends pouring hot vinegar down after it, but I've also had success just flushing the soda with lots of boiling hot water. Listen to the glug glug glug of the drain clearing out. C'est tout.

Posted by sarah at 8:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)