Fear, Food, and Froth--my epic journey across Europe. Vol. 1.

I realize, dear friends, that I have not posted in many a fortnight (sorry, I'm stuck on tawdry romance novels right now, if only as a way to decompress after archiving all day long), but I am taking inspiration from my dear sister and blogging about my experiences traversing Europe (shameless plug: www.crabnebula13.blogspot.com is flippin' HI-larious).

We will start our journey (though my trip is nearly at an end) detailing the pleasures of the Queen Mary 2. And since this has mostly been a foodie blog, guess what?! Food will be involved.

My odyssey began nearly a month and a half ago now, while driving to New York. Some things to know before I go any further: 1) I have never been to New York state, let alone New York City, let alone New York HARBOR before; 2) having a paralyzing and extraordinarily limiting phobia (I leave fear in the dust, people) of flying, I have never been out of the country; 3) the one caveat to #2 is that I once went to Canada for 3 days when I was roughly 12 or so, so I do not really count this as international travel; and 4) I was heading out for basically 8 weeks, leaving my boys at home, ostensibly alone for 6 of those weeks.

Needless to say, my oldest son was NOT the only one who rather dreaded the trip. It's not that I didn't want to go. . . but I didn't want to go. More than anything, I wanted to be able to show my family exactly what their crazy mother/spouse/daughter/sibling/etc had been trying to do for the last [undisclosed] years in graduate school.

We stopped for a short time in Pennsylvania, in theory to get breakfast, at a truck stop. This particular truck stop sold a "food" item that seemed to defy definition: scrapple. You read that right. Somehow, though, I had a feeling that this food was NOT the offspring of a board game and an apple. I was right. Our server made a face and basically said that she didn't really know what it was but it involved pigs. Fine dining it was not. In fact, I'm rather surprised we attempted anything at all, but who knew when the next meal would really be.

We arrived at the wharf, and my first impression was one of awe. The Queen Mary 2 is truly an overwhelming sight to behold, and since we had spent the entire night driving in the mountains of Pennsylvania, braving homicidal trucks and rain, I'm certain fatigue had something to do with it. In any case, Cunard would not let Alex in . . .well, pretty much ANYWHERE in the terminal, so we took our leave quickly. A walk through customs, a flip of the passport, a scan of my baggage, and we were calmly awaiting our turn to board.

Of course, we DID stick out. We were not the, ahem, usual guests of the QM2, I'd imagine. Susan was rocking the pilgrims' pack, set to walk across Spain for 6 weeks, and my facial piercing and fire-engine-red hair was a bit hard to hide amongst the elegance. We boarded rather quickly, put our things in our stateroom . . . and ventured into the pub. Felt that a cocktail was in order, though I don't remember now what it was. A Cuban cigar, I believe. Tasty. On the return trip home, I will be certain to keep better track of my beverages.

We were off, after the necessary lifeboat drill and requisite "this-is-how-you-work-a-lifejacket" talk, sipping pink champagne, listening to a reggae band, and floating serenely past Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.

I will try to condense the next week of my trip, or this will take FOREVER to recount. Pub trivia = wonderful, pub beverages = even better (see future entry for more discussion), and the food = undescribable.

My blog readers generally know my love of a good cream sauce. Well, my friends, the richness of the food far surpassed my wildest expectations, and yet I felt no guilt. NONE. Not even when I ordered multiple desserts.

Some food completely stood out. Pumpkin soup! Baked Alaska! Salmon tartare! Salad with the most delicate vinaigrettes I've ever experienced! We're talking 4-star, even 5-star here. I've basically cheated and left out the details of the meals, but it is difficult to pick out a few to talk about.

And what's even better. . . . . . . . . I get to sample it all again!

I Put the "Whiskey" in Garlic Chicken

In an effort to prepare my palate for a fairly lengthy trip to the Europe, we have been cooking as internationally as possible. Why a trip to Europe inspires me to cook Thai food I'll never know, but the excuse is as good a logic as any. That, and my desire to somehow sneak veg into dishes that a 7-year-old will eat.

Tonight's menu included fare from Spain, in honor of my sister's upcoming pilgrimage between France and Spain. We had "Garlic Chicken," which of course had to contain some type of alcoholic reduction. . . which makes it even more delicious.

Now, of course, the recipe called for Brandy, but I figured a visit from Jack Daniel would work out just fine. And, thankfully, I was correct.

Step 1: Cut up a crapton of chicken. The more, the better.
Step 2: Coat said crapton of chicken in a mixture of paprika, black pepper, and garlic salt.
Step 3: Roast/saute/burn garlic in some olive oil. Then remove the garlic. This has no bearing on steps 1, 2, or 4.
Step 4: Brown previously mentioned crapton of chicken in remaining oil left over from garlic-burning process. Be convinced that you are going to either a) burn the chicken, b) burn yourself, or c) all of the above.
Step 5: Add some Jack to browning chicken. Then add chicken stock to make it seem less alcoholic.
Step 6: As the aforementioned concoction simmers, mash up garlic and parsley from step 3 into a paste. Since you most likely have no mortar and pestle, just use your fingers. Then ask someone to smell your finger and giggle childishly.
Step 7: Add chuckle-inducing paste to simmering concoction and let simmer some more.
Step 8: Wash garlic crap off your hands and enjoy garlic chicken.

I thought it was funny that a dish that included "garlic" in the name had so little to do with garlic, but it was quite good. Steamed veggies (broccoli, carrots, and red bell peppers) and fancy-schmancy mashed potatoes made with cream cheese rounded out the meal. All in all, not bad for a Sunday night.

In a related matter, it got a lot more kudos than my Coq au Vin did, mostly because it wasn't a vague purple color. I'm sorry, both dishes were delicious. Just eat 'em in the dark.