TO THE MAX!

I had spent longer than anticipated in my kitchen on Sunday afternoon.  Much as I have attempted to bring a touch of (dare I say) Europe to the heart of Texas, the overripe fruit that had been sitting in my fridge could lend themselves to nothing more than banana bread.  My recent 'pastries extravaganza' has been more (again, dare I say) French and Belgian, with a tad of English thrown in for good measure.  Who said the Brits can't cook?  The standing joke (and I semi-quote) 'heaven is where is where the police are British, cooks French, mechanics German, lovers Italian and all organised by the Swiss; hell is where the British are chefs ....., etc.', is often quoted by my husband, when I offer him an amuse bouche after spending the best part of Sunday afternoon in the kitchen.  In turn, I remind my husband that before he met me, amuse bouche, (or mouche bouche as he pronounces it) was a term he had never heard, and now it is coming from a man whose nation traditionalised banana bread!  Much as I have 'jazzed' it up from various recipes, in my (humble, English) opinion, it cannot compare to pavlovas, vol-au-vents, profiteroles, and the like.  Okay, you have perfected cheesecake, but the origins of said dessert are thought to have come from Greece, which is (dare I say) in Europe! However, I digress!

Sunday afternoon started a week of 'chasing my tail', and I did not stop.  

As I turned on my computer at work on Monday morning, the email page all but exploded.  How did I go from zero on Friday to over half a century in my absence.  Papers to be served were arriving at the speed of knots, and I started to become a little overwhelmed.  However, I pulled myself together, in traditional 'stiff upper lip' mode, and got 'stuck in'.  We left the office a little after eight, hoping that this would not be the norm for the week.  After a repeat performance on Tuesday, with one and half times more papers than Monday, and incoming emails reaching a record high, I was prepared to quit!

The banana bread had been taken into the office, and hailed, by an American (not my husband) as 'the best I have ever tasted'.  This was followed with, "You have started to cook American!"  I did not have time to leave my desk to climb on to my soap box, but simply mentioned that even this delicacy was not actually American in origin.  After all, where in this great land, at least the mainland, are banana's grown?  I did concede that the origin from this particular specialty was probably not from Europe.  I am, according to my husband, a food snob.  In fact, it is merely a defensive attitude in order to maintain my identity.  Occasionally, I long for (dare I say) European desserts.  French and Belgian pastries, English Apple pie, without a hint of cinnamon.  Fresh cream rather than the sweet substitute squirted from a can.  Although I am somewhat of a 'chocoholic', I do not like brownies.  They cannot compare to a roulade or Sacha torte!  However, I digress.

There was a brief interlude where I felt appreciated.  On Saturday, Dana had asked me if I wanted some flowers.  I commented that he used to send flowers, randomly, and without reason, to the offce, but those days seem to have gone by.  The knock on the office door was followed by a young man entering, carrying a box.  Asking for me, and me responding, he handed me the package.  Inside was a beautiful bouquet.  I was quite touched!  Yes, they were from my husband!

"Can you take my car in?" came the question on Wednesday morning, as I stood in the kitchen making pastry for a Key lime pie.  Once again, I had succumbed, but in my defense, it was a 'crime of passion'  One of our Wednesday night guests was about to embark on a mission trip to the Philippines, and he had indicated his concern about the food.  Although not scarce, it would be different. He had mentioned that one of his all time favourite desserts was Key lime pie, a truly American dish, and I thought I would brave the storm!  I did have to laugh when I read the recipe.  "Crush cookies, lay them in the pan, mix all other ingredients together and pour over".  In my opinion, nothing could be simpler, but I was not going to succumb completely.  I made a pastry base!  However, I digress!  Could I take Dana's car to the mechanic?  I could, but this would be most inconvenient, as I was exceptionally busy, and as Joe was travelling somewhere between here and Brazil for the next two weeks, I had planned not to go south, first thing!  I did have a nail appointment though, and I had been sent a beautiful bouquet of flowers, so I agreed to be the goffer.

The trip across town was not too laborious, but the news was!  It was not a simple 'swap out the bulb' job on the car.  It needed a new unit, which they did not have in stock.  The mechanic told me that I could not drive the vehicle as it was now 'illegal', and he did not have a loan car for me to use.  I was stuck!  He spotted my angst, and kindly loaned me one of their vehicles they had 'for sale', and I managed to get to my nail appointment and then to the office.  I had entered Samantha into a contest (which she then won) for a 'meet and greet', to 'meet and greet' Max, a singer/songwriter, of whom we thought we had not heard.  However, as Samantha left the office on Tuesday night, she called from her car, and let me listen to a popular song. Of course I recognised the song, but was unsure of the singer.  It was Max!  We had resigned ourselves to the fact we would not have time to attend the performance, but as the car would be ready at four, and the radio station was about half a mile away on the same road, it suddenly seemed a viable option!  After making the decision, I began to have regrets.  "Look at what I am wearing!" I said to Samantha.  She did, and wondered at my outburst.  I had on a grey trousers suit, black and wine blouse, with wine boots.  My hat was brown.  A total fashion faux pas, in my opinion.  She stood in her baggy combat trousers and teeshirt, and shook her head!

Once again, I drove across town.  The audience were few, but when a young man emerged from the studio, into the waiting area, he looked straight at me and asked, "Hey, how ya doin'".  I replied that I fared well, and Samantha whispered something to me, which I did no hear.  "I want his shoes", I said as he walked back to the studio, shod in a pair of silver brogues.  His top was silver sequined and his trousers were black and white. An employee came from the back studio, with four boxes, and announced, "Pie anyone?"  How very American!  There was a 'brownie' pie, a coconut pie, a mystery pie and of course, and apple pie.  I went for the apple, which I detected had a 'soggy bottom' with uncooked pastry, but the filling, mercifully, was not overwhelmed with cinnamon.  Food snob?  You betcha!  Shortly after the dessert interval, we were invited into the studio.  The young man whom had previously enquired as to my well being came onto the stage.  "It is him!"  I said, wondering why I did not put two and two together, due to his extravagant mode of dress.  "That is what I said", chided my daughter.  

After a couple of songs, we were invited to have photos taken with Max.  I walked forward, and he gave me a hug, as he had given to everyone else.  We parted from the embrace, and stood with out arms outstretched, admiring each other's outfits.  "I want your shoes", I said to him, quite unabashed.  "Wow, I love the look.  It is awesome", he said to me.  Standing for a few seconds, continuing to compliment each other, the waiting crowd began to get bored.  We posed for our photo and then I joined Samantha for a 'group' picture.  "Where you guys from?" he asked, and once the mystery was revealed (unlike that of the pie which never was) he said that his wife was English.  "Practically family then", I joked, as we left the building.  

The car was just being rolled off the ramp as we arrived at the 'shop' and we swapped the newer version of our model for the old, and headed back across town.  That evening, the key lime pie, was decorated with swirled marbled green cream, and accompanied by some mini multi coloured kiwi and guava pavlovas.  I could not resist adding a little bit of 'the contninent' to the proceedings.

Thursday and Friday were as fraught as the first three days, with no respite in sight.  Friday was Texas Independence Day.  It was also my sister's birthday, and my daughter-in-law's birthday.  Snow had been pounding England for the past week, and when I called my sister on 'facetime', she asked to see where we were walking, just so she could experience a little bit of sunshine. It was a beautiful day in Austin!

Dana and I went to a Mexican restaurant after work on Friday.  Late as it was, we were told there would be only a brief wait.  We were led to a table, where a Mariachi band was playing through and we sat to a lively tune, which seemed to go on and on.  They eventually moved to the next table, where an older lady was, apparently, celebrating a birthday.  They sang to her in Spanish, and she danced showing a stamina that I would have liked to have had during this week!  The music continued, the cheers, whoops and hollers ensued and everyone appeared to be having fun. A waiter, in full Mexican attire, sporting a belt and braces, which held glasses to hold the contents of a rather large bottle of tequila, was following the musicians, and was giving the birthday celebrants a 'shot' .   "I suppose  I should not mention that it is Texas Independence Day", I whispered to Dana.  He though that was a good idea!

Saturday was another 'alone' day for me, as the kids were off to San Antonio for a friend's wedding.  I received many compliments regarding my dress (jeans and a shirt, and hat) and my hair, which was braided down each side of my face. The  many youngsters that comment that I have a 'great retro look', do not realise that I am simply wearing my own very old clothes, and that 'classic' never dies!  I did bump into (literally) an Englishwoman and her daughter in the supermarket.  She has been in Austin for four years. I told her I had been here fourteen.  "You still have your accent; there is hope for us all".  I told her that it would never die, and she should keep hers at all costs!

The dog was left alone as we went out for dinner in the evening.  Much as I normally do not fault the Italian cuisine, tonight was the exception.  The sauce did not contain a much lemon flavour as usual, and the second piece of chicken (of which there were two small pieces) was not cooked through.  I did not complain as much as advise but an offer of a whole new meal was declined.  I had almost finished.  Dessert was accepted.  "Cheesecake, or chocolate cake?"  I had asked Dana to make a choice, as I knew he would defer to me, and I wanted to share.  We chose chocolate, as the cheesecake had been somewhat of a disappointment previously.  The description was amazing.  Luscious chocolate cake, layered with coffee, chocolate ganache, and a side of whipped cream.  What could be better?  It was a large chocolate muffin (very American) with a small pot of thin chocolate sauce (not really ganache) and a splodge of cream.  Dessert snob?  You betcha!  Whilst it tasted very nice, it was not really as described.  Ideas started to float through my head!

We arrived home to a very happy puppy, and enjoyed a wonderful cup of tea.  English, of course!  (Where do they grow tea in England?)

Today, I plan to spend a bit of time in the kitchen.  I have a large bag of almond flour calling to me, and may attempt a Bakewell tart.  I have an abundance of egg whites sitting in my fridge, which means that meringues will probably emerge somewhere in the proceedings, and my Instant pot is wondering if soup is on the menu.  I will probably not get the chance to 'wow' in my 'retro' gear, as the puppy will probably be with us for the best part of the day, and the non-dog lover in the family, namely me, does not like to leave him on his own whilst his parents are out of town, having abandoned him to the likes of me!!  

I am hoping that the coming week will not be as frantic as the last, although business is business, and a lot of it is always good.  No doubt I shall be feeding the forces with lots of energy, in the form of cooked sugar, but no one seems to be complaining!  My younger grandson turns one year tomorrow, and home is calling, but alas, plans are not imminent.  Instead, I shall console myself with good, old fashioned retro cooking, with a hint of modern thrown in, and who knows, maybe an Americanisation of some, (still with an 's' and not a zed - I have not succumbed to 'zee') or (dare I say) a European twist on some old American favourites.  I think, apart from spending time with my children and grandboys, I am at my happiest in my kitchen.  I shall, therefore, cook myself into ...... another story!