Out of the Woods

Apparently, the cop at the entrance to the Greenwich Village Equinox was there because Tiger Woods's mistress was there, and the paparazzi was out of control.  


Ok, before everyone jumps all over me for writing about this, let me indicate 4 reasons why this is news, even though the Tiger Woods story, in general, is NOT:


1.  Tagging onto something this stupid but over-reported is bound to improve this blog's results in search.
2.  It  permits me to illustrate the proper grammatical usage of a singular possessive when the possessor's name ends in "s".  The usage of "s'" is commonly substituted but is often (though not alway) incorrect.
3.  Any time a cop is in an Equinox for any reason other than to arrest someone for jacking off in the steam room is news.


Maybe the reason we're getting so much of Tiger-gate (Wood-er-gate?) is because the sex scandal of an admired, accomplished professional athlete is a refreshing change from all those sex scandals about politicians, many of whom are neither admired nor accomplished.

Although maybe that's not fair.  A fair portion of an entire political party has accomplished the Herculean task of convincing a segment of the American people that scientific facts are a mere matter of opinion.  After all, just because Darwin believed in God and evolution doesn't mean you're allowed to; much more fun to see if we can get broad swaths of the citizenry to live like ignorant fools.  Oh, and that whole global warming thing - apparently it's still clearly up for debate - and I'm afraid it might remain so until we're harvesting cotton and tobacco in New Hampshire.  (This year's Christmas tree: Douglas Fir or Coconut Palm?  Discuss.)


In our regular reality TV update, I am pleased to report that the cute brothers from The Amazing Race did NOT win, but came in second to Megan and Cheyne (stupidest name ever.)  Those two really did deserve to win, they managed to work together - and be NICE to each other - through the whole season, and came in first on most of the legs of the race.  The brothers, however, pretty much whined and bitched at each other across eastern Europe.  And the cuter one was fat.


However, the hot brothers on Top Chef totally won.  The duller one coming in second, with the younger (and cuter - looks matter) one winning.  In all seriousness, though, this was the best season of Top Chef ever if you were a foodie.  From the beginning, there were at least six seriously talented chefs, and they were all interesting to watch.  Plus, all six of them made it to the Top 7, so there were very few shockingly early eliminations.  Also, there was so much talent at the very top, that any of the four finalists could conceivably have won, without argument.  So much more interesting than the season I spent sitting around waiting for that cute little Butterball Stephanie to beat the pants off that creepy Richard Blais.  

I have to admit, it actually was a really touching episode, and I'm always so moved by the Top Chef finale.  It's great to see people who've worked so hard get recognized for it, and the contestants always seem to find so much joy in cooking.  As it should be.


In cooking news, most of what we've made this week is something I've already given you the recipe for, so I'm stealing today's recipe from my sister, who got it from Martha Stewart Everyday Food.  She loves this magazine - she says it's really well organized.  Every month they give you a vegetable, tell you when it is in season, discusses how to prep it (if necessary) and gives you a few recipes for it.  They do the same with other food categories, kitchen tools, etc - giving you an introduction to a particular item, provide information and background, then options for how to use it practically.  


Last night she made her family (they of the "I cook for these clowns every night" comment) a Roasted Vegetable Lasagna.  While it was cooking, my niece Cassidy (3 and a half) came up and said, "Mommy that smells delicious."

• You'll need:
• Coarse salt
• 2 pounds eggplant, peeled and cut lengthwise into 1/4-inch-thick slices
• 2 pounds zucchini, cut lengthwise into 1/4-inch-thick slices
• 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, for brushing
• Freshly ground pepper
• 3 medium red onions, cut into 1/2-inch rings
• 5 ounces goat cheese
• Marinara
• Fresh Lasagna Noodles (you will need about 1/2 of the batch), cut into 4-by-13-inch strips and cooked, or store-bought dried noodles, cooked
• 1/4 cup loosely packed fresh marjoram leaves, roughly chopped
• 2 ounces finely grated Pecorino Romano cheese (3/4 cup)

Here's what you'll do:

1. Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Sprinkle 2 tablespoons salt over eggplant slices, and let drain for 45 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, place zucchini in a single layer on oiled baking sheets. (Work in batches if necessary.) Brush with oil, and season with salt and pepper. Bake, rotating pans halfway through, until tender and just starting to brown, 10 to 12 minutes. Let cool slightly, then transfer to a dish.
3. Place onion rings in a single layer on oiled baking sheets. (Work in batches if necessary.) Brush with oil, and season with salt and pepper. Bake until tender and browned, 10 to 15 minutes. Let cool slightly, then chop into 1/2-inch pieces. Mix with goat cheese in a small bowl.
4. Gently press eggplant slices between double layers of paper towels to remove excess liquid. Place eggplant in a single layer on oiled baking sheets (work in batches if necessary.) Brush with oil, and season with pepper. Bake until tender and golden, 6 to 9 minutes.
5. Reduce oven temperature to 375 degrees. Spread 1/2 cup of marinara in a 9-by-13-inch baking dish. Place a layer of noodles over marinara. Layer eggplant on top of noodles. Spread 1/2 of the goat cheese mixture over eggplant. Spread 1 cup marinara over cheese layer, and sprinkle with 2 tablespoons marjoram. Repeat layering once, replacing eggplant with zucchini (noodles, zucchini, goat cheese, marinara, marjoram). Place a layer of noodles on top. Spread remaining marinara on top of noodles, and sprinkle with Pecorino Romano cheese.
6. Place baking dish on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake until cheese is golden and sauce is bubbling, about 45 minutes. Let stand for 15 minutes before slicing and serving.

Want the recipe in printable format?  Just go here.

Those of you who have been following may be wondering where the Christmas Cookie recipe is - but I'm suspending today's cookie recipe in honor of the onset of Hanukkah.  Yes, I know, I've said some pretty nasty things about Hanukkah recently, but I've been forced to re-visit my opinion of the holiday.

No, not by my mother.

By Mormon Senator Orrin Hatch (R-UT).   Hatch - like many Republicans - is a huge fan of Jews and of Israel.  (So disorienting --- it's like finding out the Focus on the Family Guy, James Dobson, watches Will and Grace reruns and goes to Drag Bingo.)  Anyway, Senator Hatch is such a fan of the tribe that he's applied his talent for songwriting (the dissonance just grows, doesn't it?) to penning a song about Hanukkah.

Yes, of course it will suck.  All Hanukkah songs suck.  No trees, no Santa, and it's hard to get something to rhyme with Dreidel (or coupon or Florida, or anything else that would be in a song about a Jewish winter holiday.)  Plus, there isn't a great tradition of snappy ditties written by Mormon Republicans from Utah.  

Still, as signs of the apocalypse go, I'll take that over Tiger's mistress on the Stairmaster.

The TV Post: Melrose Place, L.A., Rachael Ray, and other Stoup-id topics

It's amazing, but it took less than a week of being back in New York for 11 days of relaxation to evaporate like mist in the Las Vegas desert.  The three-minute walk from our apartment to the subway resulted in my body slowly morphing into that clenched posture common to boxers as I prepared to do battle with the people who step onto the subway car, unaware that any one of the three million people who inhabit Manhattan on a weekday might be behind them, apparently believing that the middle of the subway car arrives at a destination substantially different than the spot right inside the doors.


Additionally, my walk took me past two episodes of street vomit, which isn't exactly a sight that puts a song in your heart at 7am.  Why does morning in Manhattan bestow sidewalk puke like dew on the Elysian Fields?  You never see puke in L.A., though, to be fair, no one walks in L.A.  Ever.


When I visit Los Angeles I generally stay at the London West Hollywood (formerly the Wyndham Bel Age, formerly the Bel Age, notable for being the site of the fictional West Beverly High School Prom, where Mrs. Teasley found Donna Martin inebriated and almost didn't let her graduate. Ahhh, remember the 90s - when protesting the fictional expulsion of a television character seemed fraught with meaning.  Contrast that to the people holding a Tea Party in Washington, D.C. today to protest something as horrible and destructive as lowering health care costs so sickness doesn't trigger bankruptcy, covering the uninsured so we can reverse the damage we've done to our collective conscience over the past 8 and half years, and stop monopolistic corporations from profiting mightily of the misfortunes of our friends and neighbors.  If you have any confusion over which march I'd be more likely to join, I have three words for you:


"Donna Martin Graduates!")


I love the London West Hollywood.  It's almost entirely white and dove gray, the staff wears impeccable gray suits that make all the women look smart and all the guys look hot (except the dork in the fedora.  It's over.  Lose the hat.) and it's got a Gordon Ramsay restaurant in it, and that guys is crazy, and crazy talented.  Seriously, give me a selection of his appetizers and an episode of Kitchen Nightmares, and I'm in heaven.  Plus, last year when I was at the London, John Slattery (of Mad Men, also the episode of Sex and the City where he played a politician who wanted Carrie to pee on him) was there for the Emmys.  Gimme some Slattery at the rooftop pool and I'm a happy blogger.


The best thing about the London - much like my other favorite L.A. haunt, the Sunset Marquis, is that they are steps away from the Equinox in West Hollywood.  It makes it simple to walk to the gym in the morning, except for the fact that no one walks in L.A. and I find myself stared at by all the people driving down the Sunset Strip in their BMWs and Hummers. (Yes, they still drive Hummers in L.A. A lot.  Apparently news of global warming can't make it past the smog.)


Of course it could be because I'm cute.  


Anyway, all this side chatter about L.A. isn't really side chatter - it's quite germane to today's posting, which is about my brush with L.A. this week.  Late Thursday afternoon I received an email from Actors Access, a service which consolidates solicitations from casting directors, production companies, etc, for projects seeking talent.  Though the postings for hosts, sardonic Gay Jews, and neurotic bloggers are few and far between, I've kept my subscription and this week it paid off: a posting seeking Male Hosts, Age 25-45, for the Food Network.


This, for me, is basically like finding the Holy Grail.  All of the concepts I'm developing are related to food (restaurant dining, weight loss, instructional cooking....)  Plus, I'm age 25-45 (and unwilling to be more specific than that, what with my birthday being next week) and male.


So - clearly - I need to find a way to get an audition.

The first thing I notice is that the posting is filed under the Los Angeles section of the website, not New York, which is odd since the Food Network is located less than 60 blocks from our home, in New York's famed Chelsea Market (mmm...Fat Witch Brownies.  Choco-licious.)  I conclude that the show or shows seeking talent are being produced by outside production companies which have pitched, or intend to pitch, the concepts to Food Network.


The posting lists a casting agent, so my first call is to Brette - my co-producer for the tv shows and a casting director here in New York.  I call Brette and she and I do some mutual research on the internet.  We find out that the casting producer is affiliated with a Casting Agency in Los Angeles.  Brette offers to call the agency in her professional capacity - one casting director to another.


After two attempts, Brette calls me sounding a little exasperated.  She's called the agency and been told that Erika, the listed casting producer, isn't there.  She's put on the phone with Robyn (in L.A. it's always Robyn, never Robin, unless it's a British man.)  After explaining why she's calling, Robyn pretends not to hear Brette.  Brette hangs up and tries again, with the same result.


"Relax," I tell her, "I think you've simply encountered L.A. Girl Type #3.


See, I've spent a lot of time in L.A. and there are only 4 types of women in L.A.  L.A. Girl Type #1 is 28 - ALWAYS.  She's an aspiring actress with an apartment in Silverlake, she goes out 7 nights a week, and only consumes pineapple, vodka, and Orbit chewing gum.  If her weight hits 100 pounds, she cuts out the pineapple.  She looks forward to pilot season the way a 7 year old anticipates Christmas, and can't seem to speak in complete sentences without a script in her hands.

L.A. Girl Type II is blonde - ALWAYS - and 34 - ALWAYS.  She doesn't work in show business, has no interest in it, and appears to be annoyed by anything having to do with entertainment.  Her wardrobe costs a fortune, she generally works in sales, and is almost always driving a convertible, wearing a blue suit, or wheeling a black roll-a-board behind her.  She has not had sex since her boyfriend left her for L.A. Girl Type #1.  She is angry.


L.A. Girl Type #3 is what happens to most L.A. Girls Type #1.  She's admitted to being 30, even though she's 36, now works in the industry as an agent or development executive or casting director (ding! ding! ding!) and has, at various points, been a vegan, a Scientologist, and a lesbian.  She is apparently afflicted with a hearing disorder that allows her only to hear male voices.  She wants a labrador and a house on the beach.


L.A. Girl Type #4 is either over 40, overweight, or aggressively unattractive.  She is moving, probably to Montana, or maybe Washington state.

Anyway, I'm thinking that I may have better luck with the Casting Agency, so I call them up.  Before I do, however, I Google the casting agent again, this time finding that she is, or shares a name with, a woman who did two seasons of tv's Big Brother (I LOVE Big Brother.)  Since the casting agency casts reality television shows, Big Brother among them, I take a chance that it's her.


When I call, I ask for "Erika" and, when I learn that there's no Erika there, I ask for Robyn.  Robyn takes my call.  Yes, Erika does some work for her, but more in a freelance capacity; she may be casting this on her own.  "Is she the same Erika who did two seasons of Big Brother?" I ask.  It is.  I convey my sympathy at how badly she was treated by Mike "Boogie" and - a sidebar here.  I really do believe this woman was badly treated and nationally embarrassed by this dork who calls himself "Boogie" and managed to win half a million bucks.  However, when you fall in love on Big Brother, you sort of get what you pay for (though I'm totally rooting for Jeff and Jordan on BB11.)


Robyn takes my contact info and offers to pass it on....


With time to kill while not waiting for the phone to ring, I invite Brette over for dinner and to develop a Plan B.  I love the term Plan B.  It makes me feel like I'm plotting espionage.


I can't decide which recipe to make for dinner, so wind up making both.  What the hell - we'll eat the rest as leftovers.


Recipe #1: Greek Cruise Inspired Chicken:


1 package boneless, skinless chicken breasts, or whatever part of the chicken you like.


Thyme (preferably fresh)


Oregano (preferably dried - yeah a contradiction.  No, I don't know why.  If you want fresh, get fresh.  Leave me alone.)


Extra Virgin Olive Oil (2-3 Tbsp)


1 medium onion, sliced.


2 cloves garlic, pressed.


Put a bunch of thyme and oregano on the chicken.  Use a lot.  Put Olive Oil in pan.  Get pan hot (medium heat).  Put chicken in hot pan.  Cook until until the chicken is not raw enough to kill you, but don't dry it out - that sucks.  Remove cooked chicken from pan and place in warm oven.  Add onions and garlic, saute until brown and delicious.  Serve on top of chicken.  Good with peas.




Sauce My Mother Might Have Made:


Can of crushed tomatoes (28 oz)
2 cans of tomato sauce (15 oz ea)
1 chopped medium onion
7 cloves of garlic.  Or 6, or 4 or 9.  Whatever - I like garlic.  Slice half; crush half.
Italian Parsley
Fresh Basil
Fresh Oregano (or dried. Get off my case.)
1 package ground meat - about a pound.  I like Beef/Pork/Veal.

In a large stockpot, saute onion and garlic in 1 Tbsp Olive Oil.  Add crushed tomatoes.  Add sauce.  Add herbs.  Combine the ground meat with 1 egg and some bread crumbs, and maybe some onion powder or garlic powder.  Make little balls.  Put them in the hot sauce.  Leave everything on a low flame for a while.  Like an hour. or 3.  Whatever, just don't burn anything.


Serve. (Store leftovers in Tupperware.  Buy it from Dixie.)


I realize I have a bit of a laissez-faire approach to cooking, but apparently this works, as I learn after cooking this feast for Neil and Brette, because Rachael Ray has just won another Daytime Emmy.

Now, you can put me in the camp of people who actually like Rachael Ray and think she's cute and approachable and totally understand why she's famous.  However, she apparently is only capable of making burgers, as everything on her show is a burger.  Hamburger, Turkey Burger, Breakfast Burger (not kidding), Salmon Burger, Burger with cheese crammed into the meat.  I'm exhausted by the burgers.  And by the "stoups" - a cross between a stew and a soup, which is basically a hot wet mess that might as well be a bowl of Chunky soup.


My dinner may not have been much more creative, but it's apparently Emmy-worthy.  So, if you know anyone at Food Network, or someone who can get me that audition - let me know.   Meanwhile, I'm gonna get a sandwich from Lansky's on Columbus Ave at 70th St (yeah, we have leftovers, but I want some Matzo ball soup and chopped liver.  Yum.)  Then I'll be on my couch watching the New Melrose Place - it won't be Kimberly blowing up the building or Amanda torturing Allison, but Sydney's back - and she blackmailed someone in the first five minutes.  Love me some Laura Leighton...

THE LAST WORD:  


Do this, New York:

When you're in L.A., stay at the London.  I once saw my friend Susan starring in a Target ad on a billboard from my balcony.  www.thelondonwesthollywood.com

Go to Chelsea

Watch 90210.  The original.  The new one kind of sucks.  Buy it at Amazon.

Watch Big Brother.  It's awesome.  Root for Jordan.  www.cbs.com/primetime/big_brother/

Watch Melrose Place and Mad Men (dude, Peggy's smoking pot; little Zoey Bartlet's come a long way.)

Go ahead, watch Rachael Ray.  Even though I totally could've gotten that Emmy (someone get me that audition!)

Eat at Lansky's - the best Jewish deli on the Upper West Side - great prices, less greasy than Artie's, and delicious chopped liver (I know, most people hate it.  But it's delicious.)

DON'T DO THIS:

Please don't puke on the sidewalk.  So gross.

Don't be L.A. Girl Type #3.

Don't protest meaningful health care reform.