Homemade Chicken Soup for #SundaySupper and #Sandy Relief

This week's #SundaySupper event is very special to me and my family. I am Jersey born and bred. My hometown, which is on the shore, has been battered, bruised, and in parts, broken. This week, as the #SundaySupper team helps raise money for Sandy relief, I thought it would be appropriate to share a recipe that evokes a sense of warmth and healing: my mom's homemade chicken soup,

This soup is a staple in my house this time of year, up until spring comes. I especially make it when one of us is sick. My mom would do the same. She still does. In fact, she included a tupperware full of it in the first care package she sent to me in college. Chicken soup makes you feel good. It warms your body and soul. It soothes your throat and your mind. It gently fills your stomach. It is healthy comfort food.

Please enjoy this recipe that means so much to my family, and follow the links below help those families who need it after Sandy:

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Cooking with Less: Grilling a Perfect Pork Tenderloiin

There are a few things you need to know about me and grilling. First, I love it. Unless the weather doesn't allow me to, I'm at my grill as many days as possible, any season. Second, while I enjoy both, grilling and cooking are two entirely different things. You must recognize that and respect them both individually. Just like cooking and baking are two different things. I don't bake, I cook. I also grill. Third, while my mom taught me to cook, I am a self-taught griller. (My dad didn't do any meal preparation. He worked his a$$ off providing for four children instead.)

And let me tell you: grilling isn't easy. I've overcooked and undercooked a lot of pork tenderloins and other lovely cuts of meat, pork, fish, and chicken in my day. That's why I am here to help you. For spring has sprung and the grill will be perpetually fired up from now until Thanksgiving. (And beyond in my yard, weather permitting.) And some things, like pork tenderloin, are best on the grill.

Real men eat off of
ladybug plates

Ingredients:

-1 Pork Tenderloin (about 1 lb.)
-6 oz. Caribbean Jerk marinade (I laugh every time I say or see "Caribbean Jerk." Every time.)

Tools (other than yourself):

-Your grill
-Tongs

Preparation:

1. Marinate the pork tenderloin for at least 30 minutes. For this one, I started marinating it at 11:30am, and grilled it around 5:15pm. I also find a Mojo Criollo marinade is good with pork tenderloin. Anything with some acidity that will form a nice crispy char from the grill.

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The True Hunger Games

"Non riesco a sopportare quelli che non prendono seriamente il cibo." (I can't stand people that do not take food seriously.) -Oscar Wilde

Apologies to those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of getting totally engrossed in the thrilling hit trilogy by Suzanne Collins featuring reluctant heroine Katniss Everdeen. I promise the title to this post and the previous sentence are the only references to the books and now, the movie.

For a different kind of revolution is budding nightly at our dinner table. And Peanut is playing the role of the strong, silent, accidental leader of the cause. She plays her own coy game most nights. It starts with a distraction. She asks us how our days were.  She lures us in by asking follow-up questions that make her seem interested. First mommy: How many meetings did you have? With how many students? What were their names? Then me: How many guests on your show? What were their names?

There have been times where not even a
 Disney birthday treat has amused her.

While all of this back-and-forth is taking place, Peanut is eating very little of her dinner. But My Director and I are. So we remind her, "If we're done and you're not, we're going to get up and you're going to have to sit by yourself." She initially protests. Then, recognizing The Hunger Games are life or death, she nods her head like a good soldier. And unenthusiastically shovels a bite of food into her mouth. All while trying to show her strength by staring you down.

When you finally look away, she gives you a subtle roll of her eyes, a direct act of defiance to what she considers typical parental propaganda. And she does this regardless of whether she likes the meal. It could be one of my delicious stews, or hamburgers and tater tots. (Don't judge.)

But why? Why this deliberate act of defiance from a rebellious child? What happened to her telling me how hungry she was as I was cooking? When she begged me for another snack and I said no because dinner was almost ready? Then throwing a fit as if I were torturing her.

And snack time is another opportunity for a mini-Hunger Games. She states she's hungry. I offer a banana. She asks for a cookie. I say no, have a banana, She freaks out. I say you must not be that hungry if you don't want a banana. She freaks out even more.

But there is usually no tantrum at dinner. It's all psychological warfare. A survival of the fittest. She'll try to entertain us, balancing a piece of spaghetti on her nose and tongue. And when I respond with, "I'd like you to stop playing with your food and eat it," she'll shut down. We know we've broken her when she gives us the elbow-on-the-table/hand-on-the-head pose, a pose I perfected when I refused to eat my pasta e fagioli growing up:

Reenactment. (And Go SU!)

I admit, I am totally the I-worked-all-day-then-cooked-you-a-healthy-and-delicious-meal-so-you're-going-to-eat-it dad. Still, she plays her game. One day she'll understand that the object of the game - what will make her strongest - is simply to eat her dinner. 

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Cooking with Less: Chicken & Sausage Stew

I'm big on leftovers. I hardly ever buy my lunch at work. Neither does My Director. So most Sundays I like to cook a meal that'll cover at least two dinners in addition to a lunch or two. If Peanut likes it enough to ask for it for lunch, bonus. Weekends give me time to cook dinners that take longer to make than I have time for during the week. So I like to make them last.

This recipe was delicious and lasted all week. My Director and I finished it just last night. (I didn't have time to cook because we spent the day packing for Disney.) Peanut ate some other leftovers. (I'm also big on not wasting food.)

Another successful meal inspired by
Cooking Light

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour 

2 tablespoons olive oil 
2 cups chopped onion
1 cup chopped green bell pepper 
1 cup chopped red bell pepper
1 cup chopped celery 
4 ounces diced chicken sausage (I used a yummy apple sausage - more flavor)
4 garlic cloves, minced 
1/4 teaspoon ground red pepper
12 ounces skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into 1-inch pieces 
1 1/2 marinara sauce 
1 1/2 cups fat-free, lower-sodium chicken broth 
1/2 cup chopped green onions
3 cups hot cooked brown rice 

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The Best Policy

"Honesty is hardly ever heard and mostly what I need from you." -Billy Joel

I said I was done talking about Hurricane Irene after my post from Monday. I lied. (Kind of.)

On Saturday night, I cooked a nice meal for me, the Peanut, and the friends that were hunkered down with us. I made a pot of gravy with ravioli and orecchiette, chicken cutlets, and a nice salad. If we were going to lose power for any extended period of time, I wanted to make sure we were well fed.

The Peanut was fine during dinner, but she didn't eat enough to earn dessert. She ate all of her pasta, one piece of her salad, and none of her meatball or chicken cutlet.

Regardless, she posed the inevitable question she asks nightly, "Daddy, may I have dessert?" I told her no. She didn't eat enough of her salad or her meatball. And she would have to if she wanted dessert.

She is at the age where she understands consequences now. And sometimes she accepts them. So she said, "Then I don't want dessert."

Fine.

Under the circumstances (solo parenting, with company, a huge storm about to hit), I wasn't about to fight her over a few pieces of lettuce.

My friend and I sat there polishing off the rest of the chicken cutlets. Who are we to let them go to waste if God forbid the power goes out? While doing so, his wife was busting out a package of Milano cookies they had brought. (Incidentally, when buying food for a hurricane, it appears most of it winds up being processed, boxed, and/or bagged.)

She offered one to the Peanut. To which my daughter, who continues to amaze me, replied, "No, my daddy said I couldn't have dessert, remember?"

I loved her so much in that moment. This little pain int he a$$ who fights me almost nightly because I make her eat what we eat . Who has to negotiate every single bite. Who asks for dessert just moments after we sit down for dinner.

I got out of my chair, knelt down to hug her and rewarded her for her honesty with a Milano cookie. Pepperidge Farm remembers.

Just when you think the stress of the routine, the anxiety of the coming hurricane, and the neuroses of parenting on your own have involuntarily made you a bad parent, your child will shove a little honesty in your face.

Maybe we're doing something right after all. What that is, I have no idea.

If you missed my full Irene post, click here to read it. Now I'm done with Irene posts... maybe.

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Food for Thought

"You don't have to like it. You have to eat it." -My dad, whenever one of us said we didn't 'like' what mom had made for dinner.

On Saturday night, we put the peanut to bed early. She refused to eat her dinner, and it spiraled out of control. So all of the things we were going to do - get ice cream, play a game, read books and the rest of the pre-bedtime ritual - were called off.

Our garden is no joke

Dinner was simple. Some grilled chicken thighs that I brushed with olive oil, balsamic and garlic. Our vegetable was grilled eggplant. The first ever eggplant to come out of our garden, also brushed with olive oil, balsamic, and garlic.

It was delicious. The eggplant melted in your mouth in a taste explosion, if I may say so myself. But the peanut refused to eat it. We gave her every opportunity. Even to the point where we told to her to eat just one tiny piece. That's all she had to do to ensure all of the fun activities we had planned for the evening. One bite-sized (peanut bite-sized) piece of scrumptious grilled eggplant.

She stood her ground. We stood ours. We even attempted to force feed her. She locked her arm over her mouth.

Fine. Straight to the shower, then straight to bed. No ice cream. No Candy Land. No book or silly shadows before bed. Spalding, you'll get nothing and like it.

She didn't like it, but actually went along with it easier than we had expected. My wife came out of the bathroom and told her "two minutes to play." Then she told me, "she shouldn't even be allowed to play, actually."

My wife was being the tough guy. We had switched roles. I went in there and turned off the water. We wrapped the peanut in her towel, clipped her nails, brushed her hair, put on her pajamas.

While most of this was happening, I was on the floor playing with Luna. My wife left the room to get something and the peanut hopped off the bed and onto my back. Luna was cuddling between my arms. I yelled "mommy come look at my girls loving me."

And still, my wife was having none of it. "Daddy, she shouldn't be having any fun right now,"she scolded me. There's a new sheriff in town and I find her incredibly attractive.

The post-shower routine was done so we said, "ok, off to bed." I joked to my wife that it was only 7pm...what are we going to do with ourselves? Bedtime is usually 8 or 8:30.

The peanut stopped us on our way to her room and said, "I want to race." The last thing we do every night is 'race' from our bedroom to hers. She usually wins. I sometimes make sure she doesn't just to keep her honest. But tonight, no race. No nothing. Except my wife, the new sheriff, reminding her, "you didn't eat your eggplant remember?"

She started crying. We put her into her bed. My wife hugged her and explained it to her once again. And she actually understood. She got it. She was bad. She didn't listen. She didn't eat her eggplant (she called it disgusting in fact).

I hugged and kissed her too and said, "let's just do better tomorrow, ok?" And she shook her head yes while fighting off the remainder of the tears.

We shut the door thinking we did the right thing. But then why does it feel so lousy? Because making the right decisions doesn't always feel right. Did we make the right decision? Even when you think you did, your child will still be miserable and you will still feel like crap.

That's parenting.

Now I worry about what to do with the three other eggplants ripening in the garden...

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Restaurant Weak

"Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity." ~Voltaire

I don't envy people in the restaurant business. It's tough to succeed. You have limited time and have to invest a lot of money. But some of them, a lot of them in fact, just don't get it.

So I'm here to provide a simple tip to the men and women who dare to dream by opening up an eating establishment: The person who eats the least, has the worst table manners, and is the messiest... is your most important customer.

I'm talking, of course, about children.

A restaurant owner in Pennsylvania not only disagrees with me, he has taken it a step further. He is not allowing children under the age of six in his establishment. He says too many customers have complained about unruly children. While I think he has every right to do this, I do not think his policy is good for business.

But maybe, just maybe, he and most other restaurant owners should go the other way. They should bend over backwards and cater to children. Parents would love it. They would literally eat it up. Profits would soar.

And the best way to do that? Eliminate those insulting kids menus.

Wouldn't going out to dinner be a lot less interesting if every restaurant only offered the same four or five meals? Then why do most of them do that to kids?

We get her a side salad instead of fries with her chicken fingers

Kids menus are basically a throw away at most restaurants. They’re an insult. Do these people not have kids? Do they not like kids? They're the pickiest of eaters. And their parents are, for the most part, even pickier about what to feed them.

So change the menu.

Better yet, offer a kid's version of your entrees. It’ll probably cost more. We’ll pay. I would.

Chicken fingers and french fries, pizza, grilled cheese, spaghetti with the worst kind of bland red sauce you can imagine. That’s not dinner in my house.

Where are the vegetables? Where are the healthy choices?

Every night, I cook my family a healthy meal. Protein, vegetable, grain. My daughter eats it. She loves it (most nights). If she doesn't, too bad. That's dinner. As my dad used to tell me when I would refuse to eat my mom's pasta e fagioli growing up, "you don’t have to like it, you have to eat it."

Shouldn't I expect the same from someone I'm paying to cook for me? Granted, when I go out to eat I'm not going to have a completely healthy meal. Something is going to be fried or creamed or there's probably going to be a big juicy slab of red meat on my plate.

But that's my choice. Give children the same choice. More choice

We brought our daughter to a popular local restaurant the other day. While we love this place, their kids' menu is loaded with carbs and fried food.

I told our server I'd like to order my daughter a smaller version of a pasta dish from the main menu.

"Sorry, we don't do that."

You don't? Or you won't? And why not?

So I asked them for the kids' pasta, but with the adults' Bolognese sauce on it. That they could do. (I'm not sure what the difference was either).

And one more thing: How about bringing my daughter's meal out first? Why do we even have to ask? And if we forget to ask, and order appetizers, how about bringing her meal out with the appetizers? How about firing her meal right away, and bringing it before the appetizers?

If they made these simple changes, and made kids a little more of a priority, so many parents would flock to their tables.

There is a big reason why good food is so important to me. Click here to read about it. 

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The Streak is Over

"It behooves a father to be blameless if he expects his child to be." ~Homer

I finally did it. I finally said it. I said something that I had so prided myself on not saying that I even posted a running total of the number of days that I had not said it on this very blog site.

Then, in an instant, the streak ended. After 1,434 days... the peanut's entire life... I finally said it on a Wednesday night during dinner.

"Because I said so."

The ultimate cop out. The laziest, not-a-real-reason explanation a parent can give to a child. As soon as I said it, I knew it. I caught myself... and said, "I can't believe I just said that."

Why did I say it? Just like I explained before... I was being lazy. I said it without thinking. It happened so fast. I wish I could take it back.

There we were, at the dinner table. The nightly negotiation with the peanut had begun. She wanted to know how many more green beans she had to eat before she could be finished. I said five. She said three. I said four. She said two. You have to love her negotiating style. We settled on three. Little does my daughter know that I always put more on her plate than I expect or want her to eat.

I want her to eat five whole green beans. I put seven on her plate. She eats two. Then she asks, "how many more?" And our tango ensues...

So after we settle on a number for green beans, we move on to dessert negotiations. Namely, what she will be allowed to have for dessert, assuming she eats her green beans. Tonight, she asks for cookies, or candy. Not knowing how much fruit she ate that day, and assuming how many sugary snacks she was given, I told her she can have yogurt or applesauce for dessert. If she finished her green beans.

And here is where I slipped. "Why, daddy?" And I thought about it, and said, "Because you probably had enough sweets today." I knew that was too vague of a response for her. She kept pressing... she just wanted a reason.

Now throw in that 1) I was still getting over being sick, 2) I was tired from a long day of work while still feeling sick, 3) I had prepared a delicious meal (chicken marsala thank you very much) that my wife, who was now sick beacuse of me, could enjoy, and you get "Because I said so."

Ugh. The worst. What kind of mail-it-in parent says "because I said so?" Me. That's who. This once. Hopefully this last time.

What I meant to say was, "I bought you ice cream yesterday because you felt sick (I got her sick too) and I know you had some after lunch today." But I didn't. Instead, I mailed it in.

My wife wanted to give me a break because of my physical and mental state at the time... but that's the thing. You can't take a break. There is no break from parenting... or, at least, from good parenting.

So reset the ticker... we're starting another streak. And I'm bringing my "A" game. Again.

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