Skip to main content

dinner with the Katzees

 So Mojo showed up with an art project for dinner at our house.  I had spent the day nursing a migraine in bed and had little motivation for cooking...this was just the antidote.  She arrived with a plate of julienned vegetables and several packages of fresh fish.
 Soon Baba was put to work slicing with a precision only Ronaldo can contribute.
Next, we prepped the fish in an array of aromatics within a parchment heart.  Here is halibut prepared with minneola orange slices, green onions, fennel and olive oil.
 This is dover sole rolled with a mixture of rapini, garlic, lemons, olive oil and salt.
Mojo is showing off the sea bass with mojo verde (roasted/peeled poblanos, cumin, cilantro and olive oil), onions, tomatoes, olive oil and salt.
Bodhi played the joker and tried his hand decorating the salmon.
Mojo added her flair with zucchini, sliced garlic, shallots, onions, red peppers, fennel, lemon, fresh thyme and olive oil with salt.
Here is the next packet of turbo with celery, red peppers, shallots, onion, tarragon, garlic, olive oil and salt.
She also made jumbo shrimp with tomatoes, onions, garlic, lemon, mojo verde and salt with olive oil.  We baked them at 400 for 4 minutes and 13 minutes at 375.  She reminded me that if we weren't so difficult (both shane and I are on a weird diet) she would have added white wine and pepper to each packet.
Owen was sadly in absence, celebrating his good friend Paloma's birthday and missed out on the culinary adventure.
 I contributed a big salad
 some roasted brussel sprouts, brown rice and steamed asparagus.
 Here are the steaming packets revealed just prior to our gustatory feast.
We finished the evening with baked apples, a couple of Bodhi games and flying with Mojo.  It pays to have a chef in the family.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

FORGET ABOUT ‘HEALING’

Some days,  you just have to forget  about ‘healing’. You have to stop trying to feel better, trying to overcome your emotional wounds, or trying to be anywhere other than where you are. You have to embrace the day as it is. And you have to give yourself the most sacred permission of all: To shatter.  To break.  To be an ugly mess. To lean into a place of utter humility and powerlessness in yourself. To cry out to the heavens, “I can’t do this!” To admit utter defeat  in the loss of the life  you had imagined. To crumble to the ground, lonely and hopeless and profoundly ruined. To want to die, even. And there, in the darkest places, in the blackness of the underworld, you may begin to rediscover... life.  And learn to love the beginnings. A sacred reboot: A single breath.  The way the sun warms your face. The sound of a tiny bird singing in the tree over there. The raw simplicity of a single moment of human existence. Hell has been transmuted, thr...

a story recently shared by a friend

 Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered. Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you." "Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself...

He is no longer here

Another day has begun.  I have lit my candles and incense.  Sat in silence. Worked up a sweat at the gym.  Eaten breakfast.  Straightened house.  Answered mail and dropped my man off at the airport. It is eight in the morning and the world stirs with wakefulness.  The sun climbs in the sky.  The birds sing.  The squirrels chip and chur in tree branches.  A dog barks.  And I look with dull eyes at the long day ahead, contemplating a single phrase, "My father is dead." What strange words. My father is dead. The man has been leaving for as long as I can remember and yet his death robs the wind from my lungs.  My chest throbs and throat tightens.  He isn't coming back. My mom and dad had slipped out of one another's lives before I'd barely begun mine.  Two weekends a month my brothers and I stood on a saggy porch, bags packed, eager for our hero to arrive in his old blue Ford to pick us up.  We vibrated with hope...