Levi was born after three days of ridiculously hard labor to our daughter Annie, on October 4, 2008. 10/4, good buddy. The quips were hard to miss from the very beginning, even the early wordless ones. The day I made us a tea party when he was three, and held up his pinky and laughed hysterically. But let’s start with his own proclamation:
“Levi Adler Whitehouse Boy Superhero. That is my whole, whole name.” – 2012, four years old
Levi, from a seat in the pickup truck, watching Stu hunting for a way to get down to the water for some fishing by a railroad bridge: “If Papa Stu gets into any trouble, I will have to get out and put some Ranger moves on the swamp monster.” – 2014, six years old
On a walk through squirrel-infested oak trees:
“Did you know that if you stare at a squirrel for a long time, he can hypnotize you?” – 2014, six years old
Levi, who takes his make-believe very, very seriously:
“Grandma, the boggyman is part of the vampire family.” – 2014, six years old
On our walk, half way to the park, Levi ran out of steam:
“Grandma, do you have any money?”
“Yes, Levi, why?”
“Could you call a taxi?” – 2014, six years old
Lamenting how much he misses us in the middle of a busy time at the restaurant:
“I know! You could make a robot that looks exactly like you, and it could do all your work, and you could come see me!” – 2014, six years old
Levi was certain he didn’t want any potatoes tonight, because he only likes “French fries.” What if, I asked him, we made French fries? And so he learned how to peal them, and then with very careful assistance from me, used my chef’s knife to cut them up.
Stu called from the couch, “How’s going, Levi?”
“Right now, Grandpa, I think the potatoes are winning.” – 2016, 8 years old
This morning, after he watched Papa Stu shovel the new snow off the driveway, Levi told him, “You deserve a medal and a bag of money!”
Stu asked him, “Where are you going to get a bag of money?”
And Levi said, “Take it out of Grandma’s allowance!” – 2016, 8 years old
After bath time, as Levi is putting on a pajama top, he accidentally poked me in the eye.
“Hey,” says Levi, devilish grin, “I’d never hit an old lady with glasses!” – 2016, 8 years old
For Levi, honesty has always been the best policy:
“Grandma, have you ever seen any R-Rated movies?
“Well, yes Levi, I’ve seen a couple. I’m an adult.”
“Oh, Grandma, you’re way past that.” – 2017, 9 years old
Stu and Levi are talking about playing Parcheesi and Stu says, “I don’t know, your Grandma always wins. When I met her I thought, that woman is a great game player. I oughtta marry her. Don’t you think so Levi?”
Levi thought about it a bit and said, “Well, she’s not perfect, but she’s the one who said ‘yes.'” – 2017, 9 years old
Early signs of a Real Estate mogul in the making: Stu posed a question to Levi while we all rolled sushi for dinner.
“You know we are selling our other house, and I was thinking when there is a showing tomorrow, since the house has no furniture in it, would it be good, you think, to put some cookies out for people to take, to make it more homey, or do you have another suggestion?”
“Well,” said Levi, “I would make a nice martini, and put it in the fridge to keep it cold, and then put a big sticky note on the fridge that says, ‘Open the door for a surprise for you!’” – 2018, 10 years old
Levi is visiting and he has been looking forward to providing “Light Saber Training” to younger neighbor Dillon, so this afternoon, after several hours at the pool with Papa Stu, Levi came home and excitedly donned his Luke Skywalker Cape (“Genuine dragon skin, Grandma, don’t put it in the washer”) and gathered up his light sabers, and headed out to the big shared lawn in our circle. A while later, I saw him sitting on a big rock in the middle of the circle, the cape wrapped around him – I can’t imagine how hot dragon skin is in July – while all the neighborhood kids, Dillon included, played on a slip-n-slide.
I wandered out to the rock. “What’s the matter, Luke?” I asked.
“Well, Dillon’s light saber training was supposed to start now,” he said sullenly. “But he’s just playing in the water.”
“Well, Levi, sometimes you don’t always get the disciples you want.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Jesus found that out the hard way. But then, three days later, he said, ‘You guys suck. I have to come back.'” – 2018, age 10
Levi, at Christmas dinner: ” You know, we never really see the true color of blood. It’s not red, it’s blue, but as soon as it meets oxygen, it turns red.”
“Really?” says another guest. Levi narrows his eyes at her.
“Never question a ten year old,” he says. – 2018, age 10
Levi and Papa Stu spent the afternoon at the pool, and returned home ravenous.
“What’s for dinner, by the way?” he asked in between scarfing down a handful of nuts and two oranges.
“Oh, it’s a ham and bean soup with lots of vegetables, and some corn muffins,” I said.
“Great! I said in the dressing room at the pool that what I needed for dinner tonight was something hearty!” – 2018, 10 years old
As we tootled around Hood River in my car, Levi reads aloud the sign: “‘Artifacts, Good Books, Bad Art.’ Hmm, I make some terrible art. Maybe I should make a deal with those guys.”
I said, “I don’t know why, Levi, but this feels like Saturday, not Thursday.”
“You know Grandma, when you’re driving around eating crackers with the windows down, and it’s summer, and you’re in Hood River, Thursday always feels like Saturday.” – 2018 10 years old
Stu and Levi talking about animals breaking into the house and how that is darn near impossible given that animals don’t have hands.
“That’s one of my greatest fears,” Levi said, “that panthers will get opposable thumbs.” – 2022, 13 years old
We packed the car to take Levi home to Eugene yesterday, and Stu went back to look for whatever Levi forgot (he always forgets something) and when Stu came back to the car, he motioned Levi to open his palm, and dropped in is hand the tiny plastic bowler hat from a bottle of Broker’s Gin.
“Here. You forgot your hat,” he told Levi.
Levi, deadpan: “I will cherish this forever.” – 2022 13 years old
Hanging out with Levi at Max and Hannah’s baby shower in Portland yesterday. He’s growing into such a tall and stately young man, nearing six feet already. I sat down on his lap, which made us both laugh. Such a minuscule time ago, he sat on my lap!
Levi quipped, “And what would you like for Christmas, little girl?” – 2022, age, 13
A Lot
by Levi Adler Whitehouse
Find a new person
Don’t recognize the shards of amphetamine
Reconcile wit da Henny and spiral,
Sold my soul to do the shit that I do
I made a band off of rappin bout sand
But when I tried to preach I realized the people that I teach
And the people I’m lovin’ I
Can’t reach no more cuz greed will feed em
More than the Lord of godly valor
Luring a brudda who ain’t neva known more different
Riches only known to those ones he be robbin’
I realized dis fallacy and then a wall in the metrix breached, I guess
I got too elaborate so let’s look at dis logically
Dr. Drew prodigy collaborating, calling me Kaepernick, follow me
Abandoned my lowly Negus crown on my head, no king is before me now
None will be left after the groove.
Music is love and love is the war so all is fair as far as I see
Demons among the deceased callin deadly brothers
Will die on the concrete regardless of roses or thorns or devilish horns
They live in they pearl white world, yeah
O like hell wit urbanity I feel insanity.
— 2023, age 15
Two passions: food, words. Some days, it’s a tug of war, some days, a peaceful coexistence.
Best day ever? Create it, cook it, eat it, write about it. I sold my restaurant, Nora’s Table, in 2015, and now I can be possessed by anything in the long day that I choose: writing 400 words, creating the next menu for the Chefs Collective at Ruby June Inn, teaching a cooking class at Jacob Williams Winery, or tromping through the fields with farmer Laurel Bouret.
A rainy afternoon with a foundational cookbook, such as Marlene Mater’s fabulous “Allepo Cookbook” or Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn’s “Charcuterie” can feed my spirit and spark my creative power. So can reading Maggie Shipstead, Michael Chabon or Alison Kraus.
I live in Hood River, Oregon, with Stuart, also known as the Happy Meal Man. In other words, all I can desire. And then there’s Satchel, our six-year old Idaho Shag who is simply the world’s best dog. We run together, and sometimes, we even let Stu join us.
Our oldest daughter Annie and grandson Levi live in Eugene, Oregon. Annie is cooking in restaurants, like her Mom. Son Max and his wife Hannah and our granddaughter Shiloh are in Portland, where he is a school principal. It’s a good tribe, all the way around.
Brown Butter Would Taste Good on Garden SheersApril 8, 2024 - 11:35 pm
When Carrots Survive, Get out the PeelerApril 8, 2024 - 11:00 pm
Not Exactly a Chop, But Who Cares?March 24, 2024 - 9:02 pm
Brown Butter Would Taste Good on Garden Sheers
/by Kathy WatsonThere’s a lot going around on the foodie interwebs right now about brown butter and toasted heavy cream, for plenty of dang good reasons. Like my pasty, somewhat chunky sun-tanning sister-in-law says, “Brown fat is better than white fat.”
So I thought I’d create a brown butter almond cookie. Before you go zooming off to see if I’m stealing this idea from someone, I’ll tell you a little story.
One day my good friend Chef Krystyna Livingston and I were planning a Syrian dinner for Chefs Collective, our little gig at Ruby June Inn.
We were going to make pickles from some watermelon rind, a much loved thing in Syria, and I said, “Hey, we’ve got all this watermelon fruit. Instead of using pomegranate molasses, why don’t we make watermelon molasses?” We both felt like total creative geniuses. Until the next day, when just out of curiosity, and because my friend and fellow chef John Helleberg had just told me that everything you can think of is already on the web, I googled “watermelon molasses.” Not one, but three recipes popped up. So, genius: another moniker I can’t claim.
Anyway, you are correct. Probably are some cookies out there with brown butter, but I ain’t even gonna look. Besides, mine have a cute little trick. Instead of roasting my almonds (or walnuts – both are good) in a saute or in the oven before I bake the cookies, I grind them fine, and roast them in the melted brown butter. Then I put the melted butter and nuts in the fridge, and let them cool to almost firm, and make the cookies. Now I feel like a genius.
Brown Butter Almond Cookies
4 ounces (1 cube) salted butter
68 grams finely ground whole raw unsalted almonds
¼ cup maple sugar (not syrup … sugar)
¼ light brown sugar
½ cup white sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla (or half a teaspoon vanilla and half a teaspoon almond extract)
47 grams, blended whole grain oats (blend them fine like flour)
1 cup flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon kosher salt
Start the butter in a small saute pan or saucepan on medium heat. When the butter is melted, and is bubbling and golden brown, with lots of browning bits on the bottom, stir in the almonds, and stir and continue browning on medium heat for about 3 minutes. Pour into a bowl, scraping in all the brown bits, and place in the fridge for 30 minutes until soft-firm, about the consistency you would like butter to be when you are planning to blend sugar and butter together for cookies, which you are!
Place the semi-cold butter and almonds in the bowl of a kitchen aid, add the sugars, and cut them together until light and fluffy. Add the egg and vanilla and beat until combined. Dump in the flour, soda, baking powder, salt and oat flour. If you are extremely anal, you can mix your dry ingredients together first, but frankly, I can tell no difference one way or the other. Heretic? Sure thang.
As soon as the cookie dough comes together, stop mixing. Place the dough in the fridge and let it cool about 30 minutes.
Using a small scoop, scoop out a ball, place it on a cookie sheet, and flatten it with the bottom of a greased glass. You want them pretty thin.
Bake at 350 for 12 minutes until golden brown.
When Carrots Survive, Get out the Peeler
/by Kathy WatsonI thought about the carrots as we were driving away in December for two weeks in Mexico. I thought about the carrots as we were driving home, but then it was Christmas. I thought about the carrots as we were driving away in January for two weeks in Florida. I thought about the carrots as we drove back into the driveway, which was now covered in two feet of ice and snow. C’est la vie, carrots.
But oh how wrong I was. In March, when I lamented the carrots molding away in the ground since summer, my friend and master gardener Sandy said,, “Oh, they’re fine. Go dig them up. They’ll be really sweet.”
Boy, was she right. As I washed off all the mud from a colander full of surplus survivor carrots, I thought they needed to be the star of something. I remembered the cafeteria ladies plopping spoonfuls of carrot and raisin salad onto our trays, the Miracle Whip oozing out. Surely I could do better by these lively tri-color carrots.
And I did.
Survivor Carrot Salad
Six carrots of any and all colors
⅔ cup golden raisins
½ cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons sesame tahini
1 teaspoon garam masala
½ teaspoon salt
Juice and zest of one lemon or 3 tablespoons white wine vinegar
2 tablespoons sugar
Peal and grate the carrots. Toss in the raisins. Mix all other ingredients and whisk with a fork and pour over raisins and carrots. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Great side with burgers or sandwiches.
Not Exactly a Chop, But Who Cares?
/by Kathy WatsonMost ranchers and farmers know how to inseminate a sheep or plow a furrow, respectively, but often don’t know what to do with their progeny: pigs feet, beef tongue, kohlrabi, cabbage, or in this case, lamb neck chops, are ciphers.
The adorable lamb rancher Merrit Monnat of M&P Ranch gave me a quizzical look, a slight tip of her head, like a sheep dog waiting for a command.
“How do you prepare these lamb neck chops?” she asked at the farmers market, her sheep tallow soap and wool yarn laid out on her table. The lamb, in various cuts listed on a chalk board, were hiding out, frozen, in coolers.
“Well first off, I would have to say, they aren’t chops, not in the traditional sense. You have to cook them low and slow, like oxtail or short ribs,” I said.
Merrit rolled her eyes. “I know! But we couldn’t come up with a better name.”
We pondered that a bit. She handed me a package of four “neck chops.” I promised her, if not a name for the cut, then at least, a recipe.
Salt and pepper the lamb neck pieces; set aside. Peel the carrot and celeriac. Dice the carrot, celeriac and turnip into ¾ inch dice. Mince the onion or shallot. Peel and slice the garlic.
In a cast iron or stainless steel skillet, heat the olive oil until shimmering, add the lamb neck pieces, and sear on medium heat until they are brown on one side, then turn them over. After you’ve turned the lamb neck, add the onion and garlic to the pan. After the other side browns, remove the lamb to a 2-3 quart covered dutch oven. In the skillet, sprinkle the Aleppo spice mix over the onions and garlic, stirring, for about 30 seconds. Add the wine and chicken stock, scraping up any browned bits. Dump in the carrot, celeriac, turnip, apricots and raisins, toss in a teaspoon of salt, and bring to a simmer. Pour over the lamb in the dutch oven. Cover and braise in a 325 oven until the lamb is very tender, 90-120 minutes. Remove from the oven and fish out the four lamb neck pieces. Place on a plate and allow to come to room temperature. Remove the meat from the bones and add back into the Dutch oven. Stir all together.
Garbanzo Bean Saute
1 teaspoon salt
When the lamb is done and out of the oven, prepare the garbanzo beans. Thinly slice the scallions. In a 2-quart sauce pan, heat the olive oil until shimmering, and add the garbanzo beans, parsley and scallions, and saute for about 1 minute. Add the tahini, lemon juice, chicken stock and salt, and stir together. Turn off and set aside.
Cucumber Tzatziki
1 small shallot
Dice the skin-on cucumber into very small pieces. Mince the shallot. Mix the cucumber, shallot and parsley with the yogurt, and salt and pepper to taste.
Adapted from The Aleppo Cookbook by Marlene Matar
Ms. Matar’s The Aleppo Cookbook is an excellent exploration of Syria’s lovely cuisine. I always have this spice mix in my pantry now, and it is perfect for lamb. This is most delicious if you use whole spices and grind them in a spice grinder, but pre-ground is not going to get you any demerits.
The Agent Search
/by Kathy WatsonHappy to report this morning that even if I can’t find an agent, I can get published writing about my agent search. Having fun replying to comments about this, too, at Brevity Blog. Thanks, Editor Dinty Moore, for publishing it.
The Collected Wisdom of Levi Adler Whitehouse
/by Kathy WatsonA Lot
by Levi Adler Whitehouse
Find a new person
Don’t recognize the shards of amphetamine
Reconcile wit da Henny and spiral,
Sold my soul to do the shit that I do
I made a band off of rappin bout sand
But when I tried to preach I realized the people that I teach
And the people I’m lovin’ I
Can’t reach no more cuz greed will feed em
More than the Lord of godly valor
Luring a brudda who ain’t neva known more different
Riches only known to those ones he be robbin’
I realized dis fallacy and then a wall in the metrix breached, I guess
I got too elaborate so let’s look at dis logically
Dr. Drew prodigy collaborating, calling me Kaepernick, follow me
Abandoned my lowly Negus crown on my head, no king is before me now
None will be left after the groove.
Music is love and love is the war so all is fair as far as I see
Demons among the deceased callin deadly brothers
Will die on the concrete regardless of roses or thorns or devilish horns
They live in they pearl white world, yeah
O like hell wit urbanity I feel insanity.
— 2023, age 15
When Your Ex-Husband Calls
/by Kathy WatsonAnswering the phone used to be thrilling. It was your best friend, or Publisher’s Clearing House, for real. OK, yeah, occasionally it was bad news. But when you picked up, you knew someone wanted you, the actual you, not a number on a robo call list.
Read more
Some Thoughts on the Royals’ Underwear
/by Kathy WatsonWhen Princess Diana was alive, I read that the Royals threw away their underwear after one wearing. I was thinking of that this morning as I replaced the worn-out elastic in the waist of a skirt I bought in 1992. A skirt so old, the company that sold it, J. Crew, was sold off. Tossed off the stock exchange like yesterday’s panties. (It has returned now, online and in outlet malls.)
Read more
Nights at Ruby June Inn: A Whole New Thing
/by Kathy WatsonThe best way to change an ailing institution is to blow it up. That’s what COVID did to the restaurant model as we know it. I chortle with glee every time I read of ways post-COVID restaurants are mixing it up, changing the rules and kicking the bums out.
And by bums, I mean miscreants in the kitchen. In my restaurant owning years, the pressure to just keep the doors open seven days, seven nights, meant I hired and kept on – as the kid says in Little Orphan Annie – “bad people.”
But staffing shortages have made chefs and restaurant owners see things in a different lite. Instead of cramming their restaurants with bad actors, just to keep the doors open 5, 6, 7 days and nights, they’re saying, “With this crew we have, how many hours should we be open?”
Last week, I was talking to a chef and restaurant owner who has struggled the last ten years with keeping a big enough staff to run full-tilt. At the beginning of this year’s busy season, he wasn’t looking to hire anyone. He fired people instead. Under-performers. Gripers. People who brought the whole operation down. Now, on their reduced days and hours, the whole joint is joyous. I’m gonna guess he will make more money too. Churn is terribly expensive and shortens your life span.
After I sold Nora’s Table in 2015, I started a dinner series, “Supper Club” at Husum Riverside Bed and Breakfast, all by my lonesome. We did a few things that seemed radical at the time: pay in advance for a fixed dinner with a menu you won’t see until you are arrive and sit down. I had a blast for three years. Enter, stage left, Chris Wiggins and Gretchen Wolf who bought the property, and spiffed it. It’s now Ruby June Inn.
We re-imagined the dinner series too, now called Chefs Collective. Today, it’s nine or more chefs who rotate through the summer, presenting a dinner every Saturday night from mid-June to mid-September.
How do folks like this new model, one that certainly takes away a lot of their choices – one seating at a specific time, no menu choices? Maybe some “weird” food they’ve never had before?
This year, the entire season sold out in 50 minutes.
Want tickets? Thankfully (for me) I only cook. You can get tickets by signing up at Ruby June Inn. You’ll get an email every time we offer tickets. The season is now expanding to year round, so get in line. Unlike Lost Kitchen, you don’t have to mail in a postcard.
Useless Skills
/by Kathy WatsonRead more
A New Home for Tad
/by Kathy Watson“I’m fine! I love it here.”
Lena took the phone out to the porch. The porch and its shed roof are as wide as the cabin itself. She never tires of the scene it frames: a life-size Viewmaster reel of the Wallowa mountains looming up on the far end of the meadow. The vast diorama draws her to the porch’s rough planks at all hours, even in the middle of warm nights, naked, leaning against the railing and looking up into a sheet pan of stars. This morning, while her friend Tammy tries to talk her into coming back to Portland, she listens with her other ear to the Western Meadow Larks and watches a screed of slate clouds slide in from the west.
Tammy sighs loudly.
“We miss you here. Callie misses you. The Oregon Book Awards are in two weeks. You know you love that event. I just can’t imagine what you are doing out there.”
“Writing, all day, every day.” Lena explains.
It is late October, and Lena has been at the cabin, some twenty miles east of Lostine, since she and Tad arrived for their annual visit in August. With one notable exception. Her brief absence was when she’d gone back to Portland for Tad’s funeral. They went to sleep one starry night and only one of them woke up. For Lena, falling asleep with her best friend, her contrarian debate partner, her comedian, her lover, and waking up next to a cold, chalky slab was the most confounding experience in her 60 years. How could this happen to normal people? Where was the alarm bell, the five minute warning? The last call? Read more