Take A Bite Of: Beer Can Grilled Chicken

Something a little avante garde for the grill. It's Memorial Weekend...even the chickens want to imbibe. Now, normally, I am all about aesthetics with food presentation, and this, well, doesn't exactly fit the bill. But The Neely's know Southern Cooking and this is one of Pat's recipes. It takes a little muscle, and a little time but you aren't doing any laborious tasks this weekend anyway, are you? Buon Appetito! Or as some say in the South, "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm, tasty!"

Beer Can Grilled Chicken

Ingredients:

Beer Can Chicken Rub:

2 tablespoons smoked paprika
2 tablespoons salt
2 tablespoons onion powder
1 tablespoon cayenne pepper
1 tablespoon ground cumin
2 teaspoons dried thyme
2 teaspoons dried oregano
2 teaspoons black pepper
2 teaspoons garlic powder

For the Chicken:
4 pounds chicken, washed and dried
Vegetable oil
Beer Can Chicken Rub
1 (12-ounce) can beer

Directions:
For the chicken rub:
In a small bowl mix all the ingredients together and use for the grilled chicken. You can store extra rub mixture in an airtight container for up to 6 months.

For the chicken:
Preheat your grill to medium-high heat.

Rub the chicken and its cavity down with the vegetable oil. Season the chicken with rub mixture, remembering to season the cavity. Pour out 1/4 of the beer and sit the chicken on top of the beer can. Place the chicken in the center of the hot grill and cover. Cook the chicken for 1 to 1.5 hours, or until an instant-read thermometer registers 165 degrees F.

Once cooked, cover loosely with foil and let rest for 10 minutes before carving.

Plane and simple

Our son has joined us for some great trips in his short tenure, but tomorrow, he goes international for the first time. We took him to get his passport when he was six months old and he is full on beaming for that camera. We love that he will keep that photo for the next decade so when he is eight, he can enjoy his "Mr. McGoo" passport photo.

What will also be in interesting twist of fate is just how much our two year old enjoys a five hour plane ride. Let me share what occurred last time.

First, as with many other trips, you instantly gauge who are friends or foes of children the minute you enter a plane with one. Eyes either light up or they roll. There seems to be very little in between. We love sitting by the grandparents. And you can tell grandparents the minute you see them. Eyes lock, secret society looks are exchanged. Prior to having our son, I wouldn't have noticed a grandparent unless it was holding that child singing "I AM YOUR GRANDMA".

But now, the grandparents are an instant fan club for us every time we travel. And since our son is super chatty, and super flirty with the ladies, he very quickly establishes the retinue of a small potentate.

And by the way, Eye Rollers? Stop it. Don't roll your eyes when you see a baby. You cried, threw tantrums, and wet yourself once too. And maybe you weren't you a baby the last time you did.
Oh you don't like babies? So what. Many people share your sentiments. However, I don't like onions yet I am able to contain myself when I see them at Whole Foods. Oh, but onions don't make a big racket? Especially on an enclosed airplane? Oh, I feel you, I really do.

However, don't assume I am the mom who lets her child run rampant, stand up on the seat and pull your hair, throw his water bottle at you, scream Itsy Bitsy Spider at the top of his lungs, or kick your seat. He won't because we don't let him. And if he does cry? So what. He will stop. We don't enjoy it to any greater degree than you do.

You don't have to come to his next birthday party, just try to calm down when you see that we may be sitting a few rows from you as if this is the LAST THING you need. Wait until he does something to agitate you before you get agitated.

Oh, and when you get agitated, and say something snarky? Those grandparents I mentioned are going to not only silence you with a look perfected with 50 or 60 years of life, but that look might make you wet yourself a bit. Or at least be afraid to get out of line again. Watch yourself. Back in the day, these people were whipping disobedient children. I am sure, just like Fonzie, they still got it.

I have became rather adept at changing diapers in a airplane bathroom without touching a single thing in there. JohnnyMac's brother worked for one of the biggest airlines in the world for ten years and told us they don't actually clean the bathroom in between trips. E Coli? Not today, thanks.

But as our son has gotten older, his hand eye coordination is over-developing. And our trips to the tiny can involve a great deal of me playing Mr. Miyagi to his Danielsan. Wax on, wax off, wax on, wax off. And since that is only fun for about three minutes, I make those lav trips on this side if "highly quick".

I saw a woman traveling once with one baby and so many bags, baubles, and blankets I thought for sure her spine would snap. And, all for one baby mind you. Now, moms know their own children best, as well as the trigger points, but I have seen very calm and cool Mommys traveling with one tiny bag and a perfectly satisfied little one. So I am taking that path and refuse to juggle an endless array of potential "attention distractors" hence I look like Geoffrey from Toys R Us.
So changing diapers and over-packing aren't the issue. We put a modest amount of toys/books in our aerodynamic flight bag and get on the plane.

But this is how he gives us a run for the money. First, he refuses to be out of Daddy's eyesight for more than three seconds. Easy. We can win that battle. Then he must have some Cheerios. That's all? I will see your cheerios and raise you some.

But then, he doesn't exactly want to sit in his seat. Hmmm, that will prove to be more challenging. And it got just a touch ugly. And by "a touch" I mean, I looked at my watch when his fitfulness began. I looked at it about 2 hours later and realized hmmm, actually, only 14 minutes had passed. How silly of me not to recall that toddler time is the reverse of warp time but only when things are going South. And then he wanted the cheerios that fell on the floor. Nothing spells delicious better than food that has touched the floor of an airplane.

Thankfully, our son got his eyes on the woman across the aisle and he spent an hour staring at her. He does love the ladies. Wonderful. With this female distraction (and she was a very congenial person to play along), a few snacks and holding Daddy's headphones while listening to We Will Rock You, we made it. That is only the beginning of him losing track of all kinds of time due to mesmerization by a woman. Daddy will confer.

And since we love to travel, we hope our little man loves to travel. So this means there will be plane rides involved. And it will only get better...as long as we all come off the jetway in one piece. Or, I may be the first one sprinting off saying "let's have a cocktail!!!!" (And of course, I will likely say that anyway.)

And I will be posting from south of the border so tune in.

Flirty Sanchez

Besides those of you who will simply love looking at the photo which will be, oh, many of you. For the rest, let's talk about some good old-fashioned sports controversy.

This is Mark Sanchez. The 22 year old, muy caliente QB from USC recently drafted by the NY Jets. Interesting? Not really as a stand alone sentence, I know. USC has produced other great looking QBs. And the NFL draft, contrary to the staunch view of my husband, Hendo and Crazy Ocho, well, it is neither a pivotal moment of my year OR a forecaster of moods to come.
Then what is the scuttlebutt? Listen.

Mark Sanchez recently did a very tasteful photo shoot for the June issue of GQ magazine. See photo above in the event you missed it. So what? I know. GQ did similar shoots with Tom Brady and Matt Leinart. Why is this an issue? Why is this being talked about to ad nauseum on every Sports Talk radio station from here to Fairbanks? Oh, I'll tell you....

It is because some of the AFC fans in the NE quadrant are infuriated. Why? First, I think the Jets fans are salty because they lost half their games last season, and of course, with the oscillating talents of Brett "I'm in. No, no I'm out. No, back in. Totally in. No, seriously, out. Completely out" Favre, it would suck to have your hopes for the season collect at the bottom of the port-a-john.

But the primary antagonism is because apparently, Mark Sanchez in the spirit of Joe "Broadway Joe" Namath, shouldn't be mugging for the camera when he is supposed to be dedicating his life to football. So some of the Jets fan are pissed off he is promoting his image, instead of plotting and scheming all of the ways and means he can save the reputation of the franchise.

I am sure the Jets fans are just shoring the dam against a Mark Gastineau incarnate. Are you kidding me? Oh, and some of the Patriots fans have also weighed in that he is "no Tom Brady" and that Tom Brady had to at least win something before he did his shirtless hustle for Gentleman's Quarterly. Are you kidding me?

The same overwrought behavior existed when Tony Romo was seen out gallivanting with Jessica Simpson when he should have been thinking about the Superbowl. Are you kidding me? A man had a chronological list of what he wanted to happen and getting horizontal with his minx came before playing football? Imagine the blasphemy! How IRONIC.

So the Jets have some fans who are apparently, an unforgiving band of d-bags, and don't believe that Mark Sanchez is doing right by them. Oh, I get it.

Let's review the crime Mark Sanchez committed. Oh, he skipped minicamp to take his shirt off and run down the beach? Oh, he didn't miss camp in May? But you are worried he will be too off-center to focus for minicamp in June? Stop fretting. But you are mad because he failed to learn his routes? He doesn't comprehend the playing schemes? Won't engage in full contact drills so he doesn't harm those glorious abs? Oh, he is still producing 100%? Oh, you just don't like him being distracted? You all are just silly.

And since some of the Jets fans are advocating the team pick up Ocho Cinco if he leaves the Bengals, if that happens I promise you, there will more off-field concerns than a semi clad Mark Sanchez. After all, Chad Johnson changed his name to Ocho Cinco. Why? Because he is nuts. Enjoy that during press conferences.

I do think it is odd that an attractive 22 year old football player would want to be in GQ. I mean, that will only increase his odds of meeting women and ramping up his fame. And by all means, 22 year olds are typically distracted in the least bit right? Yes, I know how much he is getting paid. So does he so calm down you grumpy jackasses.

These are your average Jets fan, and the one in the helmet is apparently "THE" Jets fan. So round, sweaty, and emphatic. I can see why Mark Sanchez is troubling you. Guess what, taking his shirt off and posing with long-legged blondes is not going to impact his ability to think, act, and react. Or at least that is what you claimed from all of your years of reading Playboy magazine in which the women were posing only to put themselves through medical school.

Mark Sanchez is 22 and on fire. So wait until you see him spiral a ball or two on actual game day, and if he fails, then you can pelt him with your empty cans of Iron City. In the interim, you sound ridiculous and I don't think Mark Sanchez is sitting as home wondering if hooking up with a supermodel is going to upset you. And some of the press, you just need to take a deep breath too. Some of you boys are overreacting to a situation. And to be candid, well, I think some you would likely do a few favors of the pleasurable kind just for one minute in Mark Sanchez's shoes.

JennyMac's Restaurant Retrospect: JCT Kitchen & Bar

Chef Ford Fry (I am not making up his name) said, "We have created a classic neighborhood bistro with authentic Southern Style."

Southern Farmstead cooking takes a big bite at JCT Kitchen & Bar in West Midtown Atlanta. JohnnyMac and I dropped in last weekend for some adults-only time. Little man went to grandma's and I was done with my first glass of wine before I finished reading the menu. I will say, while the wine list is small, they have great choices including Twenty Bench which is a fantastic Napa Cabernet. We have been before but it has been months. JohnnyMac was thrilled to be reminded of the quantity of meat available on the dinner menu, which included several dishes either wrapped, covered, or intertwined with bacon. For me, I love real Fried Chicken. I wouldn't dream of making it my own house (or I have dreamed of it, but won't do it.) So when I have access to the real thing, in certain circumstances, I am all in.

The gaggle of men from the Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus sitting next to us were big fun, and when one of them was enthusiastically chomping away at the Fried Chicken, he offered me a bite (perhaps because I was watching it so earnestly). My incredible fried chicken came with mac and cheese, and garlicky green beans. 45 minutes of running earlier that day was worth every minute to enjoy every bite of this southern fare. Halfway through mine, one of our table neighbors leaned over and asked me if it was delicious. Of course it was.

Another smart accoutrement is live music including a great acoustic guitar player named Todd B. Wells. Coincidentally, I booked him for one of my holiday parties years ago. While Jason Michael Fulton is still my favorite acoustic guitar player in Atlanta, Todd Wells is dynamite. A great upstairs deck and patio gives you a great spot to park while you sip vino and listen.

And they have something each week called Sunday Suppers which includes, as JohnnyMac's eyes lit up, a bevy of meats and true Southern side dishes. I will need a few more laps at the park before I go back, but this visit was fantastic.

The Modest Writer

You can't live in Georgia without visiting the Margaret Mitchell House at least once, and of course, being required to see the movie based on her famous manuscript. I saw the film for the first time at the Coca Cola Summer Theater series playing at the Fox Theater.

Margaret Mitchell published her only book, Gone With the Wind in June of 1936. A month prior, The San Francisco Chronicle, having received an advanced copy, printed Joseph Jackson's review of high praise. In response to this favorable review, Margaret Mitchell sent the critic a letter of which this is an excerpt:

My Dear Mr. Jackson,

I am Margaret Mitchell, author of the book Gone With the Wind of which you wrote so kindly in the Chronicle on May 13. It is my first book and I am so new and green at the business of authoring that I do not even know if it is good form for an author to write to a critic. But your column gave me so much pleasure and happiness that I have to write you and say thank you.

I suppose you would call my reactions "pleasure and happiness" even if I did have to go to bed with a cold pack on my head and an aspirin after I read your words. God knows I'm not like my characters, given to vapors and swooning and "states" but I was certainly in a "state." I have always been able to bear up nobly under bad news but your good news floored me. I suppose it was because it was so unexpected.

Margaret Mitchell started the book between 1925 and 1926 and laid it aside around 1928. She found it "lousy" and said she had forgotten it. Years later, while hosting a publisher from MacMillan, who was scouring the South for promising writers, he found Margaret intriguing. Writing for the Atlanta Journal Constitution at the time under the name Peggy Mitchell, he asked her if she had ever written a book to which she declined. An acquaintance overhearing the exchange, laughed and remarked, "Imagine, someone as silly as Peggy writing a book."

Margaret went home fuming, dug out her disheveled (an unfinished) manuscript, and gave it to him. He bought it before it was even completed, and she finished it in 1936.

Little did she know, when she penned this letter, she would win a Pulitzer for this work. The book would become one of the best selling books of all time. And the movie adaption , released in 1939, would become the highest grossing movie in Hollywood history, and would be nominated for ten Academy Awards.

Did you read her note? Her humility is overwhelming. You would be pressed to find a more humble and unassuming author today. In such a sincere and sentimental letter, she conveys what it means to truly be thrilled. Not with her craft, or the path she is about to embark, but in a favorable reaction.

There is very little humility in writing now. I will willingly and gleefully email friends and family and tell them "Read my blog today. It is hi-lar-i-ous!" That's not exactly modest. The wand of humility that waved over Margaret Mitchell would be a needle in a haystack today.

Bravo to Margaret Mitchell. She not only wrote one of the quintessential novels of all time, but she behaved so honorably. I will try to do this next time I am cracking up laughing over my own blog but I can't make any promises.

Pest

Here's how it went down. I saunter through the door one night, bags in hand, straight into the vortex of chaos. I see our entire entryway, from front door up staircase, covered in contents that hours ago I swore were neatly tucked in place in our son's room. JohnnyMac greets me at the door as our son practices jumping into the lofty pile of blankets and pillows. Clearly, I know something is amiss as I watch our son gambol deeper in the disorder.

JohnnyMac informed me he came home to find a mouse perched on top of our front door blinds.

A mouse? Oh yes, a mouse. And JohnnyMac had been in hot pursuit for four hours. I wondered aloud how it could have possibly got in our house. Did we leave a door open?

Oh, city slickers. How naive. A house mouse can literally squeeze itself through an opening smaller than a pencil. Did we leave the door open? Oh brother.

JohnnyMac and I briefly confer. He has sequestered the infiltrate in our son's room. Last seen under the bed. I ask him to trap as humanely as possible so perhaps it can be set free. JohnnyMac is highly irritated in a multitude of ways. Not only at the bevy of tactical maneuvers required to corral said mouse, while removing every single item on our son's floor (including the closet) while keeping our son out of his room. And then of course, trying to actually trap the mouse. And now, my special request that he throw a little Dr. Doolittle into the mix. JohnnyMac just swallowed all that acerbity right down.

I take the Bird (another one of our son's nicknames) with me upstairs while JohnnyMac tries to flush out the invidious guest. Another hour passes. JohnnyMac returns upstairs. Defeated. He has a broom in one hand and fury in the other. We look at the clock and realize we have less than an hour until the little man needs to go to bed, and we certainly aren't rooming him with any nibbling mammal from the order Rodentia. What to do. We decide to set up the previously used pack and play in our room as a back up. Poor choice. Little man saw that and said "That's for babies!!!!" Oh boy.

JohnnyMac goes back downstairs and as time ticks by, I have no alternative but get the wee one ready and put him in his pack and play. Our child's response could only be interpreted as I DON'T THINK SO. First, our son is very long. And apparently very strong. He can get out of the pack and play more quickly than a baby ninja. It takes incredible trickery and persuasion. Finally, he stays put and proceeds to cry hard enough to choke himself. I rub his back and he fumes. Loudly. Finally, JohnnyMac comes upstairs and says the mouse is cornered under the bed.

How in the h*ll does something not even four inches long effect totally anarchy in my house. I DON'T THINK SO. We go down in the kitchen where I grab the broom, a can of raid, a box of freshly purchased decon, and go towards the stairs. JohnnyMac asks, "What are you going to do?"

Kill that Mother______.

My son will not go to sleep. He is so upset that he is basically back in a baby shoe box that his resonating wails fill our entire house. I will kill this mouse. As a last minute thought, I swap my ballet slippers for knee high galoshes hence any mouse guts splash on me. I sprinkled DeCon in the corners of the room (super smart move...spread poison in your son's room. Excellent). I then find the mouse is indeed under the bed and I immediately block all of the sides with items found in the hall. I then jam the broom handle at him about 100 mph. He runs. Up the wall. Literally. Are you KIDDING ME? Now you are Spiderman? I am going to smash you and enjoy every second.

Had I only listened carefully, I would have heard that mouse saying I DON'T THINK SO.

That mouse ran up the wall and then hid somewhere between the mattress and boxspring. I pulled that huge bed further away from the wall and that mouse jumped right on the bed. Looking at me, whispering "is that all you've got? I'm just getting warmed up."

Let me share with you something you will never do. Catch a !*&^!%!$ house mouse. I spent two more hours watching him mouse be nimble, mouse be quick, mouse go under my broom like it was a limbo stick. I was so irritated I thought I was going to hemorrhage. And as I stared at him, he slipped through a crack no bigger than a staple between the floor and the baseboard. Wonderful. I will seal you in your concrete death tomorrow.

Our child finally fell asleep because apparently herculean crying is quite fatiguing. JohnnyMac was up close and personal with a Sam Adams White Ale. We called Terminex first thing in the morning.

Take A Bite Of: Baked French Toast

Something incredibly warm, inviting, and guaranteed to disappear. I made this last weekend when we hosted a Mother's Day brunch for eleven people. Besides the two pounds of bacon my brother insisted on (with JohnnyMac's hearty support), I added this and the delicious Mini Frittatas I have previously shared. There wasn't a bite remaining. Of anything.

I omitted the blueberries but added a teaspoon of cardamom. This little treat filled my house with the smell of cinnamon and maple as it baked into custard perfection. Another Giada De Laurentiis speciality. Buon Appetito.

Baked French Toast with Blueberries

Ingredients:
6 eggs
3 cups whole milk
3/4 cup maple syrup, plus extra for serving
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, plus 1 tablespoon
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 lemon, zested
6 (1-inch thick) slices (8 ounces) day-old challah or sourdough bread, cut into 1-inch cubes
2 cups (12 ounces) fresh or frozen, thawed, and drained blueberries
3 tablespoons granulated sugar

Directions

Place an oven rack in the middle of the oven. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 9 by 13-inch baking dish. Set aside.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs until frothy. Add the milk, maple syrup, cinnamon, salt, and lemon zest. Add the bread cubes and mix until coated. Stir in the blueberries.

Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish. In a small bowl, mix together the remaining cinnamon and sugar. Sprinkle the cinnamon sugar over the egg mixture in an even layer.

Bake for 40 to 45 minutes until the top is golden and the filling is set. Spoon onto serving plates and drizzle with maple syrup.

Where it's at.....

Someone sent me an email asking me where all my "followers" were. That is interesting in that:

1. I don't know this person and 2. I am not a religious, pop culture, or political figurehead, so I didn't actually expect to have any followers.

But this blogger asserted followers are where it's at.

I thought Beck already stated where it's at is two turntables and a microphone. But apparently not in blogger world.

Thank you K. McC., for being my first follower. I appreciate you leading the way.

And now, for those who come across these pages, either frequently or infrequently, here is your invitation to follow me so you too can be "where it's at."

And thanks to the many visitors from Condron.US. I welcome you to follow along too.

JA of the Day: volume ii

I hate to speak against my people. And by "my people" I mean the heritage I might remotely be a part of, am asked about often, and apparently love encouraging. People often ask me if I am from New York (which you know I love) or if I am Italian (which I love even more). Who is going to read this innocuous mistake as anything but flattery? Not I. I may have on one or two (hundred) occasions fully asserted such a conclusion. Who hasn't? And I wouldn't now since fabricating tales in the presence of my two year old seems highly unsavory.

BUT, back in the day, when innocently mistaken for a Signora, why would I undermine someone's mere interest in making conversation by correcting them when a simple grazie would do? Perhaps that shirt emblazoned with ITALIA across the front, or that when in Spain I would toss out Italian phrases like flowers at a wake, well, I may have contributed to the mistake, but just a touch. The fact is, my paternal grandfather's ancestry is unknown other than the limited detail he was "European" and since that little boot of land sits in Europe...there you have it. So before I further digress, let's get down to business.

While I love all things Italia, there has been a hiccup. Which has led the second longest-serving Prime Minister of the Italian Republic, Silvio Berlusconi, to look strikingly like a boy donkey. In response to a earthquake on April 16 that left thousands of his countrymen and women homeless, he responded, "They should see it like a weekend of camping."

Camping?

Wow.

I don't gather you, Prime Minister Berlusconi, have probably ever been camping. Versace has yet to make a tent. I am not a tremendous aficionado either, trust me. But your people, with their incredible genes and innate sense of style, well, even the most rugged of your constituents would likely not choose "land covered in rubble and debris" as the perfect place for camping. Or maybe they can "camp" in their cars. Uh oh, they can't. Because their cars are filled with dirt, trees, and broken concrete.

I am no mountain ranger, but I promise you an earthquake that destroys homes and leaves people with nothing but the threads on their back is a not the modern day equivalent to over-nighting in a sleeping bag and making s'mores. Good job Prime Minister, your compassion cup overfloweth.

And you sir, are the JA of the day.