My Private Tour de France

Be forewarned: This blog post is an out-of-the-kitchen experience, though it ends with a mean limeade recipe because there's nothing like an icy lime drink to cool off with this triple-digit heat. The biking? Don't try that at home. I am training for my second PanMass Challenge, a two-day, 192-mile bike ride that raises money for cancer research and to eradicate the disease.

First confession: I’ve learned to love hills, even the straight-up kind. The long, slogging kind, not so much. OK, so I don’t love, love them per se. I find when I’m on them, I might as well surrender. Because I’m not going anywhere but up, and there’s always a down. The key is to keep pedaling, especially when you don’t feel like it.

Second confession: Tour de France rider I am not—while my focus remains on the road ahead, I tend to greet my fellow riders with at least a nod, sometimes a four-finger salute from the handlebar, or an all out Hello. I could’ve missed something, but all the hours watching Alberto Contador pace-lining the Pyrenes on the TV’s Tour de France coverage, he doesn’t give a damn about his fellow riders, not even a nod to establish they exist. Oh, the rudeness of competition.

Many fellow riders, heading in the opposite direction, like to keep their heads down. That’s fine. I’ve clocked it; I can say Hello and keep riding at just about the same pace, sometimes picking up a few seconds—just like when I slip in a sip from my water bottle. Being friendly, I find, pumps me up; not slows me down.

I’m not exactly fast. My 90-mile ride recently, while neither leisure nor a race, cost me seven hours and 7.26 minutes, not bad for a formerly chubby-legged girl who had a hard time finding a sport to call her own. But I am rewarded by enjoying the accomplishment and feeling solid-legged not spent the next day.

And while I’m not racing against anyone except my own time, I have made improvements. One of my first rides in May I clocked 12.3 mph at about 12 miles. My latest 12-mile ride in July? 14.5 mph.

I contribute four things to being better: my own consistent training rides and determination to improve; a few rides with the Charles River Wheelman—a local cycling club, where veteran cyclist Richard taught me the rules of the road, let me draft and find my own cadence, and cheered me on; my boyfriend, Chris, whose peanut butter-and-honey lectures and road-crew support allow me to traverse the tundra; and, most importantly, my mom Demaris, my friends Andrea, Steve, Sarah, Patty and many others whose lives have been interrupted by cancer. Yet, they continue to win their own private Tours de France every day.

So, it’s not about Contador or the mini pelotons I pass—or that, more truthfully, pass me—coming and going along the leafy green roads of MetroWest. It’s the fact that I am able to ride and do, and in the moments of finding beauty in a flowering pink geranium on a windowsill or dodging a chipmunk scampering across the road, I realize this is living. Hills and all.

No-Pressure Limeade

4 Tablespoons sugar

4 Tablespoons hot water

2 limes

1 lemon

Water

Ice

Put the sugar in a heat-proof glass measuring cup. Add the hot water and stir vigorously until the liquid turns clear -- this is simple syrup, what bartenders use all the time to sweeten drinks.

Into a large pitcher squeeze the juices of the limes and lemon. Add the simple syrup. Stir. Add two cups cold water and two cups of ice. Stir. Pour into a glass stacked with ice and sip to chill out.

Enough Full

I like halfsies: half a warm chocolate chip cookie split with a friend (I know, that’s generous); half a stick of gum if that’s all you can find at the bottom of your bag; paying half the bill at dinner so it seems like a bargain.

So it is with half pints of beer, half bottles and small pours of wine that often hit the spot for me. I’m a lightweight, but I also enjoy a beer with my burger, a Sauvignon Blanc at the bar, a few sips of a good, deep Cab to carry my steak into the last bite.

Cocktails, that’s another story. As a friend and I recently slurp around the bottom of our naked rocks like kids sucking up the last of a milkshake, our waitress miraculously appears: “Another round, ladies?” Mine is a margarita with salt in a giant bulbous glass. Gone. My friend’s large glass of red sangria disappears as the waitress stands by.

“Do you do halfsies?” I venture. “What?” The waitress asks over the loud ‘80’s rock music. “Do you…can the bartender make half a margarita?” Her wan smile says, “Get me away from these L-O-S-E-R-S!” But she answers politely, “No, I’m sorry. We don’t do that.”

My friend and I nix the round and chat some more, all the while I'm thinking, Your loss, MexicanChainOfConvenience—you could have made another sale. But you blew it.

Usually siding with the “customer is always right”—and in that instance that would be me—I reach out for an expert opinion on the halfsies [fill in your favorite here] cocktail.

Glass More Than Half Full

In a polite, professional manner Alexei Beratis, beverage manager of Forum (opening soon) in Boston’s Back Bay, explains why it would be such a hassle: Bartenders have enough going on than to parse out a quarter of a half an ounce or an eight of a jigger of a drop—while pumping out regular drinks. Then there’s a whole new set of smaller glassware to match the smaller volume to add to the inventory and storage. Cha-ching.

Sure, there’s the hot trend of cocktail flights, wine flights, smaller versions for the sake of tastings, but we’re talking about a purposeful half-cocktail. “If you can be geared up for it, it’s fine,” Beratis says, being kind “—but to get into a seven-component cocktail and scale it down properly…” I get it. Plus, once you hold the Lilliputian drink in your hand, Beratis intimates a reality check. Really? Does it have to be this small?

I know. I don’t have to drink the whole thing and, like buying petite, that doesn’t make the blouse cost less. But this is different. It’s a well-known cliché that great things come in small packages or “less is more”. I’m of that edict when it comes to my cocktails—it’s the quality, not the quantity. It just would be nice to have the option to go smaller without paying full price. I’m not asking for a lot, really; I’m asking for a happy medium.

Great Guac

Rummaging through the Haas avocadoes in the produce department at Roche Bros. in Wellesley, Mass., I try to find at least two dark green ones that have some give. Not many. “It’s nice to see someone else is as picky as I am,” says the woman next to me.

Great guacamole starts with ripe avocadoes, no ands, ifs or butts. Hope all you want, but like a relationship, you never really know until you’re into it how it’s going to turn out. So choose wisely. Too soft and the avocado could be on the verge of rotten; too hard, with no time to ripen, the guacamole is stiff and tasteless as opposed to creamy-ripe avocado goodness.

The avocado should be very dark green to even blackish green, soft when pushed with the thumb, not mushy. Your best bet is to buy firm avocadoes at least three days ahead of when you’ll need them so they have time to ripen. Ripening takes time.

What I also love: avocados ripen quickly when put in a brown bag with other ripe fruits like bananas, apples or tomatoes—apparently the release of ethylene gas from the ripe fruit quickens the ripening process of the avocado. It makes me think of relationships as well: People ripen better when placed with other fruits. We’re happier, too.

OMI'S GREAT GUACAMOLE

ESSENTIAL INGREDIENTS:

2 ripe avocados

1 clove garlic, finely chopped

2 tablespoons cilantro, cleaned and chopped

Juice of 1 lime

Salt

Optional:

2 tablespoons vine-ripe tomato, finely chopped

2 tablespoon red onion, finely chopped

DIRECTIONS:

Cut the avocados in half by running a knife down the center. Twist the two halves apart. Peel away the skin and put the avocado in a medium size bowl.

Add garlic, cilantro and lime juice. Mash well with a potato masher. Add a pinch or two of salt. Taste and adjust seasoning, using more lime juice or salt. To jazz it up, add finely chopped tomato and red onion.

Cover the guacamole with plastic wrap so the plastic comes in contact with the guacamole, leaving little room for air, which causes the avocado to turn brown. Keep in refrigerator up to a day. Serve at room temperature with tortilla chips and salsa.

Y Not

I joined the YMCA this morning. After two trips to swim in the pool, paying a la carte, I figured the payoff would come in no time if I just keep it up. Laps.

Remember the Y as a kid? Friday night swims before pizza, or in my case an unfortunate hotdog dinner before a swim; pool parties, the way voices echo as though you’re in a cave. The familiar and strangely comforting smell of chlorine. I’m still working on New Year’s Resolutions. Maybe this is one. After swimming on New Year’s Day, I thought what a feat to swim every day of the new year, 365 days in a row! Already I’ve missed two. Or is that three? Not bad for a just-back-to-the-water gal who used laps to recover from a divorce. It’s been years now since I welcomed a pool back into my life.

The smell of chlorine is still a comfort. I still get that kick in the gut when another swimmer passes me—and I urge my legs to kick faster, my arms to reach further, faster.

Then there’s the locker room banter: “I was very modest,” says the voice of an older woman (in her 70’s?) as I slip out of my workout clothes and into my swimsuit, a fading purple two-piece that will do for now. (It has a skirt.) I can’t see her; I can only hear her. “That’s the way it was in my age—almost to the point where it’s ridiculous.” She adds: “I’m trying to get over it.”

Pre-Swim/Workout Banana Peanut Butter Shake

Before taking to the pool or working out in the morning, I love to sip this energizing shake. Actually, I’d exercise just to drink it. The idea and recipe came from Sarah (I’ll try to find her last name!), a young spunky trainer formerly of Focus Fitness in Boston. I usually drink it about a half hour before my activity or, if I’m crunched for time, en route to the workout.

INGREDIENTS:

1 ripe banana, preferably frozen (frozen is great because it tastes like a milk shake)

8 ounces soymilk

1 tablespoon peanut butter

1 teaspoon or more of cinnamon

1 teaspoon vanilla, optional

PREPARATION:

Break apart the banana and put pieces into a blender. Add soymilk, peanut butter and cinnamon. I usually put little over a teaspoon of cinnamon in. Add vanilla, if you’d like. It makes it slightly sweeter.

Blend until smooth.

Caesar Salad Flashback

Into the hush of the Sonia Rose dining room, I roll the cart. I am dressed in the requisite tuxedo shirt with black bowtie (the easy, hook kind) and black slacks. On the cart before me is the mis en place for a Caesar salad. This is not just a salad, it’s a performance before the eager couple sitting at the white-clothed table. I am sweating, and hoping the wet underarms do not seem apparent to the eager couple.

This was the flashback I had the other night while making Caesar salad dressing from scratch. Even though I was not in public, I had a faint sense that someone was watching—making sure I did not skimp on the Tabasco or that, as I streamed the EVOO into the curdled egg yolk, the dressing wouldn’t break. It did not.

Between muscle memory and a glance at an online recipe, I recreated a fantastic, balanced dressing that would stand up to an encore.

OMI’S CAESAR

(serves 4 salads)

1 garlic clove

1 teaspoon coarsely ground black peppercorns

3 anchovies

1 coddled egg yolk (Place a room-temperature egg in boiling water for a minute. Remove and place under running cold water to stop the cooking and cool it off so you can handle it.)

1/8 teaspoon Tabasco sauce

¼ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

Juice of one lemon

½ cup extra virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

1 head Romaine lettuce, washed and dried and ripped into pieces

½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

1 cup freshly toasted croutons

Kosher salt to taste

Tuxedo shirt with bow tie, optional

Make the croutons first: Set oven at 425 degrees F. Cut large cubes from a French baguette or country loaf of bread to make at least a cup. Place on a baking sheet and bake until just golden brown, about 5 minutes. Cool and set aside. (I do not season my croutons because I like that they take on the flavor of and absorb the dressing once mixed in with the salad.)

Preferably in a wooden salad bowl that’s seasoned or already broken in, mash the garlic, peppercorns and anchovies together to make a paste. Add the egg yolk, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce and lemon juice, mix well. The lemon’s acidity acts to “cook” the yolk just a little. Slowly stream olive oil, one or two tablespoons at a time into the mixture, constantly whisking with one hand so the dressing does not break (the oil separate from the yolk). Taste at ½ cup of EVOO; if the dressing is too thick (It should resemble a thick bleu cheese rather than a runny dressing), add more EVOO. Add the red wine vinegar and whisk.

Add the lettuce to the bowl, lightly toss; add the cheese and croutons and toss again. Season with salt and more freshly ground pepper if desired. (I also wait to season with salt in the end because the anchovies and Parmesan are endowed with a saltiness that might be enough to season the salad on its own.)

Patience: The 4-minute breakfast

Patience does not come easily to me. If I want something now, well, it needs to be now. Thank goodness cooking has helped curb my appetite for gotta-be-now, because there’s a lot of patience—and timing—in cooking. And there are rewards to those who wait.

Take scrambled eggs, for instance. Easy enough, right? Through the years of eggy-scum skillets and stiff brown-under eggs, I’ve learned patience and the quickest way to wonderful soft scrambled eggs in under four minutes (that includes the toast and the OJ pour, too).

What you need:

A frying pan or sauté pan

2 teaspoons butter

Rubber spatula

Two eggs, beaten and seasoned with salt and pepper

Some patience

The trick:

Put the pan over high heat. In about 30 seconds to a minute, add the dollop of butter to the center. Spread it around slightly with the spatula or by tipping the pan so the butter covers more of the pan. Place the pan back on the heat. Put the toast down. Trust me.

Wait. Watch. This is the kind of fun part, watching the butter melt from its firm, solid state into its liquid form as it starts to slightly brown. Keep an eye on it, and a nose close: when you detect the aroma of nutty butter (or as a friend who has a cooking blog says, “When it smells like itself”), you’re good to go.

When the butter gets to that stage, slowly pour the liquid eggs into the center. They should sputter and bubble. Ooooh Hot! Chase them around quickly with the spatula, push them under, turn them over, bringing the eggs back to the center heat. When they’re firm and slightly wet, in about 30 seconds, take them off the heat, turn once or twice more, and serve. The toast should be up and buttered by now.

In the end, the real patience comes waiting for the butter to get to the right stage. Can’t rush it along, but once it’s there—you get what you need, and want—faster than if you forced it.

One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato Chives

Time was ticking and the potato salad still was not made. The potatoes were boiling, and while I waited for them to be done, I filled the chocolate cake layers with a raspberry filling and iced it with thick chocolate frosting, as requested. I was preparing for a casual cookout for a loved one's birthday. Loved One didn't want to make a big deal over it; I did. But to honor the Birthday Boy I held back, sort of. I didn't get balloons. Instead of fresh flowers as a centerpiece for the table I used potted basil. All in all, we kept it low key, including the potato salad. Normally, I would attempt my mother's famous potato salad where she uses hard-boiled eggs, mayo, red onion, and celery -- all the classic ingredients that make a rich salad, delicious. I didn't have the time or the inclination for that. Mine would employ spring: fresh chives from the garden. As a child I discovered chives growing between rocks in a lawn, although at the time I didn't know that's what these thin spikes of bright green-ness with an oniony flavor were called. They're delicate sharpness is a nice complement to the creamy potatoes. After the cookout, Loved One was describing the meal -- a small sign that I had done good -- on the phone. "Yeah, and she made this potato salad, I think it's a family recipe, really good." A new family recipe, anyway. Oh, and I did whip out the red party hats stuffed in the back of the cupboard. For a brief moment we all wore them, even the dog.

Spring Fever Potato Salad

1 lb. red bliss potatoes, quartered with skins on
2 Tbsp. Extra virgin olive oil
2 tsp. Red wine vinegar
2-3 Tbsp. coarsely chopped chives
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

1. Boil the potatoes, with skins on, until tender, not mushy, about 15-20 minutes. Drain and let cool about 20 minutes.
2. Put potatoes in a medium size bowl. While still warm, sprinkle with olive oil and vinegar, lightly toss. Add salt and pepper, toss. Add chives.
3. Adjust flavorings by adding more olive oil, or vinegar or salt and pepper. Heck, add more chives, too.
4. Serve chilled or room temperature.

PICNIC NOTE: The nice thing about this potato salad is you don't have to worry about the mayo getting hot in the sun because there is no mayo in this recipe.

HASH-BROWN LEFTOVERS: Refrigerate the leftovers. For great hash browns, heat olive oil in a skillet and add 1 Tbsp. chopped onions, cook until golden. Over high heat, add the potato salad and sauté until golden, keep moving the potatoes around so they brown. Nice with a chive and goat cheese omelet.