Ain't A Thing I Can Do About It.

Our new puppy is a terrier. We often tell Penny that her behavior is tenacious, which it is, though the animal could not care less whether we notice. Penny is going through her "make me" stage, though sometimes it's a "you can't stop me" stage. All we can do is remain firm in her training and love her to bits.

I understand Penny's persistence. My own tenacity simply will not allow me to walk away from a baking failure. Having perfected the cream puff . . . having posted the recipe here with specific instructions that cream puffs absolutely cannot be made without bright light . . . what did I do? I tried to make cream puffs in the dim evening light of our kitchen. Complete failure. So naturally I had to make two more arrays just to confirm that indeed I can make cream puffs . . . in a brightly illuminated kitchen filled with afternoon sunlight. 

And then there was the brioche calamity . . . and the biscotti nightmare . . . and my reproach of Paul Hollywood's recipes, which is neither to impugn Paul's kitchen talent nor The Great British Baking Show -- I'm merely saying that Paul's instructions failed me when using primarily Costa Rican ingredients. So I ran far and fast from Paul's recipes and sought the advice from good ol' U.S.A.'s King Arthur Flour. Mulligan! Now I won't say that it was the best brioche in the land, but I definitely made genuine brioche à tête as well as white chocolate & cranberry biscotti that actually resembled biscotti. 

Then I triumphed with my chocolate-mocha cream horns. They were worth that battle for puff pastry. And my Pastel de Tres Leches with the Italian meringue topping was so good that I believe Rusty only got two slices. Suddenly I'm an Italian meringue expert.

Anyway, with so many sweets swarming in our home, my shorts are noticeably tighter, which should come as no surprise. I need a mumu . . . that, and a new hobby that doesn't involve sugar, eggs, butter, and cream. I chose sewing.

I'm an excellent seamstress and pattern-maker; and my friend Rob brought yards of colorful pagne fabric all the way from Chad (the country in Africa, not a person). Maybe my penchant for baking came from Rusty's failure to repair my sewing machine, despite all those boy toys that he calls tools and despite my full year of whining about my machine's goofy needle-tension. Had I a working sewing machine, I'd weigh 105 pounds and Rusty would be whining about wanting my chocolate-orange ganache torte. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. 

Finally Rusty disassembled my sewing machine, cleaned it, did his man-magic to repair that inner sanctum wherein lives the bobbin, and presented me with a machine whose needle- and bobbin-tension match. There is one small problem: in layman's terms, the needle won't go up and down . . . neither via the foot pedal nor with a hand-turn of the wheel. And no, I'm not talking about an antique machine. The damn thing simply won't work; I haven't the skills to repair it; and this tragedy came to light on the eve of Rusty's departure for Texas.. 

Rusty tells me that, true, he did not disassemble the upper mechanism of the machine, and that it's probably like a two-stroke engine and simply needs its lightweight oil to work its way up to the wheel. Yeah. Right. Do I need a lesson about stroking a machine?!? No! I don't need an engine lesson, I need a working sewing machine.

So Rusty is in the United States this week. And without a sewing machine I'm left to find other projects . . . like shaving my legs. And projects like cleaning up Rusty's boy toy world -- removing to the recycle center all those pieces of scrap metal, bottles, and gourds that have been in his boy world for over a year . . . those items that Rusty avers he needs for some secret project and which I've sworn to eliminate from our property.

It's conceivable that the man will be thrilled when he sees that our car can now be parked under the shady carport. It's also possible that I'll have some explaining, if not apologizing, to do this weekend. Nevertheless, he cannot say that he wasn't warned; and I've enjoyed a tidy carport for a full week.

Will the carport quickly be refilled with dozens of new boy toys that return from the U.S. with Rusty? Of course it will. And I"ll complain until my next opportunity to de-clutter the man cave during Rusty's next trip to Texas. Ah, married life and first-world problems. Lo que hay.

I . . . Was . . . Running!

Each day we teach Penny valuable life lessons. I've explained the danger of snapping at flying insects. Penny understands the importance of being seated before dinner. Her grammar, a private matter between only the two of us, is impeccable; and she grasps the concept of too many pronouns and too few antecedents . . . even at her tender age. However, Penny’s real take-away from her grammar lessons is that too many personal pronouns make mommy crazy. The puppy is prodigious, I tell you -- a reliable vocabulary of over 30 words at just four months of age.

Last week Penny learned never to touch any Costa Rican toad . . . a lesson that could save her life. A few days later we all learned the lesson of what a tarantula bite will do to an eight-pound puppy. Yes, a late-night emergency call to Dr. Delgado was involved . . . and as Murphy's Law would have it, the electricity was off so she was cared for in Rusty's arms by lantern light. Luckily I'm good in a crisis and it wasn't until the next day that my melt-down came. A few days prior to the spider lesson I learned how painful is a bee sting smack-dab in the center of my palm. Now I'm not saying that I cried like a little girl . . . but neither would I deny it. So our world has become a small mommy and me learning center.

Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week To Stop Sniffing Glue

Back to the subject of the six-plus hour trip to the Auto-Mercado. Puff pastry lives in the freezer at Auto-Mercado. If I had puff pasty I could make lime and ginger cream horns. Recall that I've already made my lime curd and candied lime peel; and although the curd proved overly limey, I can tame that tartness when I make my pastry cream. I can make crème anglaise in my sleep, along with cream puffs; but more on that later. For now I don't have time (okay, I've got nothing but time) and I certainly don't have the inclination to remain away from our puppy for over six hours. That leaves one alternative: make my own puff pastry. 

Now let me say this: though I love a baking challenge, when I see anyone making their own puff pastry (laminated dough), I go bonkers raising my voice to proclaim, "no one makes their own laminated dough -- it's insane -- it would be like trying to make your own phyllo. Insane, I tell you!" 

Notwithstanding our odd Costa Rica butter, the theory of making puff pastry isn’t complicated. It’s a matter of pounding icy cold butter into a large pastry rectangle, then making multiple folds of that pastry while refrigerating between the series of folds to keep that butter icy cold. I just might be able to perform this trick. On the other hand, after the past week’s baking mishaps, do I really want to risk pounds of butter? Definitely not after last week.

I Ate His Liver With Some Fava Beans And A Nice Chianti

Ah, Neiman Marcus. The Mothership. Just thinking of their cosmetic world creates a visceral longing . . . like an opiate addiction. Say it with me: Tom Ford. . . Chanel. Your muscle memory just unconsciously reached for your credit card, right? For one as poor as I, how did I ever frequent Neiman’s, either on-line or in person at the original Dallas Mothership? Once upon a time I experienced such a desire to return to the Mothership that I ordered a pair of sandals, on-line, from a satellite phone in West Africa. Great sandals. 

Today a grocery store satisfies my shopping addiction. The mere idea saddens me and should serve as a cautionary tale to any Costa Rica resident without a JetBox account who was or is a shoe or perfume lover – how are the mighty fallen?

I don’t know whether Auto-Mercado reigns as the best grocer in Costa Rica, but in my mind there exists nothing better. Is the store truly so full of wonders such as berries and pickling cucumbers, or have I simply lowered the bar? I think of Auto-Mercado as being on par with Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods, Central Market, and the Food Halls at Harrods. So clearly the bar hasn’t merely lowered, it’s crumbled. Nevertheless.

Our closest Auto-Mercado is a two-hour drive. Add a minimum hour for shopping and 30 minutes for lunch at the Subway® next door and we’re talking about a six-hour outing. And what has, you ask, the Auto-Mercado that our local grocers have not? Let’s list just some of it:

• Iceberg lettuce. Heck, a variety of lettuces in a real produce section.
• A deli counter with sliced cheeses and cold-cuts from around the world. Think Boar’s Head. Think Reuben sandwich.
• An in-store bakery with everything from flat-bread pizza to bagels and warm-from-the-oven French breads.

One Wrong Move And That Dog Will Tear You To Shreds

I live in a calm, orderly world. I'm happy in this world. I know where every item is in our kitchen. I can tell you precisely where to find any particular size of scissors. I can easily direct you to our SCUBA gear . . . and anything else throughout the house. Counter tops and furniture remain uncluttered, floors are wide-open without items forgotten here and there. I wouldn’t say that I am neurotic about living in an orderly environment . . . but Rusty certainly would. 

When we have house guests Rusty endures my predictable 15-minute meltdown when I must accept that gear belonging to our dearest friends will be strewn about the house. It’s an insignificant price to pay for hosting our pals as guests. Otherwise, when it's just us (and our cat), I use a little unwritten schedule to keep our house and my life very orderly. 

And then one day about a week ago my little universe shifted. The axis of my little world tilted somehow, and what order existed left the building.