About Widow

Large Handbag Collector. Obscenely Expensive Shoe & Handbag Lover. Blonde. Redhead. Brunette. Breastfeeder. Pug-fox terrier belly scratcher. Drunken Break Dancer. Bartender of the stars. Semi Conscious Writer. Earth loving. Tori Amos Listening. Loud Mouth. Chef Loving Lady...

A while back I got a frantic call from the Chef:

“Hello?” I answered.

What’s my license plate number? I remember the DUL part but can’t remember the rest! the chef screeched.

“Hold on dear, let me drop everything. I am doing to drive home, go to our file cabinet, and locate your car registration for you. Anything else my love?” I replied in the sweetest voice possible.

Thanks. My car totally got stolen.

“Are you sure dear?” I calmly asked.

Am I sure? Of course I’m freaking sure. I parked on Euclid and now it’s gone.

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

Of course I called the police! Who the hell would want to steal a Pontiac Aztek? The worst thing is that all of my knives are in my car.

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Every now and then I come across a blog post or a yelp review that tears our restaurant to shreds. Being the good PR girl and chef wife that I am, I  follow up with an email to see what was up. Usually no one responds, but every now and then someone does catch us on an off night. We always try to make it right and a disappointed guest does not leave our restaurant disappointed twice. The majority of non responders, usually all on Yelp, prove to me once again that their written word is not valid through their email silence.

Tonight I found a lovely, lovely review of our dear restaurant. After I read it (sorry Symon I know I’m not supposed to read them) I simply had to know who wrote such a scathing piece. Within moments I found out about my new friend *Jim* whom I shall now refer to as the line cook who lost his way.  The line cook who lost his way cooks in the CLE and he thinks my husband’s food fucking sucks. He thinks Quaker Steak & Lube chicken wings are waaaaaaaaaaay better than our delicious crispy confit wings (Bobby Flay would have to disagree) and  he recommends that if you are looking for shitty food but a hip atmosphere, then our restaurant is the place for you! Thanks Jim!

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I remember early on in my relationship with the Chef being asked about James Beard. ‘Had my Chef ever cooked at the house?’ a friend inquired as we sipped on our martini’s at Kitchen 22. Not having a clue what or who a James Beard was I quickly answered no and changed the subject.

After moving back to Cleveland, I found out who and what a James Beard was. The Chef had just started working with Michael Symon when Symon was announced as a nominee. My Chef came home over the moon for his new boss. His smile wide, he explained to me the importance of James Beard. ‘It’s like the Oscars of the food world, the best of the best’ he said.

Symon won Best Chef Great Lakes that year and as most of us all know has gone on to do amazing things with his career. My Chef, has been on the long list numerous times as a rising star but never a Best Chef.

That is, until now.

Yesterday I found myself perusing the semi finalist list for the 2012 James Beard Awards. So many friends (congrats Jason!) on the list made my search for my Chef’s name seem like hours. A nervous rumbling began in my stomach as my finger moved under the Great Lakes heading. Moving my eyes slowly down the list until my rumbling stomach turned gleeful and I saw the name that I am forever connected to.

There he was, surrounded by his peers: chefs he looks up to, chefs that inspire him. His name squeezed in between so many of the greats!

As someone who has watched him work harder than anyone I know, I can easily say I couldn’t be prouder. If you know the Chef, then you know why he is so deserving. Congrats my Johnny! You rock mah casbah.

 

You can find the complete list of James Beard Foundation Awards Semi -Finalists here.

My brother is a heroin addict. I am not ashamed of this. I do not hide from it and I speak openly about it. I write a different blog that talks about the effects his addiction has on my life, my husband’s life, and my family’s life.

Even though I speak about his addiction, many do not. Many people are ashamed of the addict in their family. Many people hide the fact that addiction has affected them in some way. I don’t. I am not ashamed. I did nothing to make my brother an addict. My parents did nothing to make him an addict. He choose his path and we pay.

My brother grew up in a middle to upper class household. He went to private grade school and an all boys preparatory high school. He was handsome, funny, a great soccer player, and super smart. While I was insecure, he was confident. Even though I was four years older than him, I always wished I could be like him. There was just something about him. A kind of charm that few people are blessed with. He was special. As I went off to college, I watched as my dad and brother began their own journey, that as father and son.

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As of Monday, I started a 90 day fitness challenge at my gym. Jeebus help me.

After baby #2 I had an extremely hard time losing the baby weight. So hard, I gained more weight. By the time Biggie Smalls was two, I was overweight and unhappy. When I got invited to attend the Oscars last year, I made it my mission to lose all those extra lbs. While I did lose close to 25 lbs. I didn’t feel fit. I still don’t feel fit:

Still jigglier w/ more jelly than I’d like, but definitely not as unhappy as I once was. 

I’m still not satisfied with the way I look and when the 90 Day Fitness Challenge presented itself at my gym, I knew it was time for a body revolution. This time around my goal is simply NOT to lose weight. My goal is to sculpt and tone my body into the body I have always wanted. My goal is to be able to do a cartwheel in 6 inch thigh high boots when I’m 53 without breaking a sweat(you go Madge!). For reals though, my goal is to get into the best shape I’ve ever been in. Bikini shape or as the Chef calls it, nude beach shape. To reach my goal I have a plan for the next 90 days that includes the following:

• Workout 6 days a week.
• Limited/No drinking.
• No bread. Bread is my food downfall. The Italian in me wants to eat bread with every meal. The skinny muscular girl in me knows that eating bread is taking steps back. So for 90 days, no bread.
• Stalking Pinterest for fitness ideas or blogs.
• Bikram Yoga at least once a week.
• No diet, but watching my food & caloric intake daily.
• Cardio at least three times a week, minimum of an hour.  Read more

• Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Combine stock, butter, and milk in a medium saucepan; bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Add flour and cheeses to thicken. Reduce heat to medium, simmer for about 10 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir to combine. Set aside or freeze for later use. We make a huge batch of this cheese sauce and freeze it. Every time we want mac & cheese all we have to do is boil the noodles, add the sauce, and bake.
• Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to a boil; add salt. Add noodles; cook until al dente, according to package instructions, about 8 minutes. Drain, and transfer to a large bowl; stir in sauce and 2 tablespoons Parmesan.
• Lightly coat a 9-inch-square baking dish with cooking spray. Transfer noodle mixture to dish. In a small bowl, combine breadcrumbs, the remaining 2 tablespoons Parmesan, and oil; sprinkle evenly over noodle mixture.
• Cover with aluminum foil, and bake 20 minutes. Remove foil, and continue baking until lightly browned and crisp on top. Serve immediately.

I talk to him every day.

Twice, usually.

His voice calms me down in times of chaos. His smile encourages me to be better. His song brings tears to my eyes, every single time. 32 years later and his words teach me still.

My father. My pops, my padre, my papa, my dad.

There is no one in the world like him. He has shown me strength in the darkest of times and showed me faith when I had none. His eyes sparkle when the mini’s come into sight, all his pain and sorrow from hardships that forever changed him, disappear almost instantaneously.  In times of anger and pain, he reminds me of love.

My father. My pops, my padre, my papa, my dad.

Without him I would not be here. They would not be here. He teaches me what family really means. For a long time, he was my only family. My only rock. My only support. His support led me to find my own happiness in a family I never knew I so desperately wanted.I am grateful to him forever.

 

My father. My pops, my padre, my papa, my dad. My heart.

Happy Birthday Old Man. I love ya.

 

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