The Galavant Girl

New York City, New Year's Eve---Out with the old. In with the new.

2011-12-31T23:43:37Z

Such a busy year.
A year that seemed to grow and grow. A year that took me on more planes, trains, and automobiles than I had ever imagined. And tonight, as Chuck Berry gears up to sing in Time Square, memories of 2011 flicker and glint behind my eyes.

On a sunny day in Rome, I wore a white dress that fluttered in the wind as I rode over cobblestone streets on the back of a rented Vespa. That dress and that Vespa took me to the Sistine Chapel. There, my husband held me while I stood crying taking in the majestic images Michelangelo spent his life perfecting.

In France, I wandered quietly through my beloved Luxembourg Gardens. Here, I did as the Parisians do: I sat on a willing bench, took up a book, and read in deep breaths, as chestnuts fell to the earth around me. It was at this moment that Autumn blew into the Parisian streets.

I rode the elevator up to the Chase Tower Observatory in Dallas, Texas. I stood in the angled window, my feet and forehead pressed upon its enclosed precipice. Here I beheld the flat prairie land, which is wrapped and laced with ribbons of cars. It reminded me of when Kurt Vonnegut said "I want to stay as close to the edge as possible without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center." Funny, the closer to the edge of the world I've stood, the more centered I've become.

Sometimes it is what we do not do that teaches us something. I didn't reach Spanish shores this year as I had hoped, but I found that places come to us when we--and they--are ready. And that's the exciting part: discovering where those places will be each year.

Life changes quickly. Moments disappear before we have a chance to recognize their beauty. It is my hope that in this grand adventure we call "life on earth" that this next year will be a blessed year for everyone.

Blessed...
with more courage and stamina to keep walking, or run when needed;
with more boundaries and wisdom, to shut the door and rest;
with more reciprocal kindness, to deepen our understanding of being human;
and with more joy and laughter, because the road is long.

The new year approaches, hour by hour. I am happy to see 2011 board the White Ship and sail to the Undying Lands in the west. Without letting the past go, we cannot open ourselves to the new.

Yes. The clock tells me that its time to say goodnight to my laptop and celebrate the ringing in of 2012 with humans. I may be a New Yorker, but I plan on doing it the southern way: wash my hair, prepare some black-eyed peas for New Years Day, and put on a nice pair of heels.

Happy New Year Everyone.

Elise McMullen a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

I cannot take credit for this recipe or the lovely photo above. It is from Best of Times Magazine. What a fitting magazine to quote on a New Year's Eve. You can go directly to the site and have a look at it, or read it here. My New Year's Gift to you!!

Black-eyed Pea Salad with Pineapple
By Chef Andrew Selz

Serves 6

Ingredients
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon fresh cracked black pepper
1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
2 cups black-eyed peas, cooked according to package directions; or 1 (15 oz.) can black eyed peas, rinsed and drained

½ cup minced celery
¼ cup minced celery leaves
¼ cup minced fresh basil
½ cup chopped white onion
2 cups fresh baby plum tomatoes cut in half
1 cup peeled fresh pineapple, cut into ¼ inch dice
1 ½ cups cucumber, ¼ inch dice

Method

In small skillet over medium heat, warm the oil and add the nutmeg, cinnamon and black pepper.

Simmer for 2 minutes until the oil is well flavored and then stir in the hot pepper sauce.

Put the black-eyed peas in a large salad bowl, pour the warm oil over them and toss.

Add the celery hearts and leaves, basil, onion, tomatoes and pineapple. Serve at room temperature.

How to Make a Pie Crust Without Crying

2011-12-05T06:31:43Z

Falling into winter is an emotional time.

Some even shudder when "the holidays" are mentioned early in the summer, and then when they actually arrive the third Thursday in November, we find ourselves feeling all kinds of crazy emotions, and wandering around breathing heavily like lost, little badgers.

You may think that the holiday season begins at Halloween with its pumpkins appearing anywhere and everywhere like precocious fairies, but no. Halloween allows for the ultimate escape of one’s identity—and sometimes one’s senses—all with glorious makeup, flowing cocktails, and endless spun sugar. But when we get to Thanksgiving, well…that’s a different story.

Thanksgiving puts who we are, and how we relate to one another, directly in full view; and this “viewing” continues as we pass through the Emotional Holiday Triad—Thanksgiving, Christmas or Chanukah, and finally New Year’s Eve. Nevertheless, fortunately or unfortunately, as each holiday arrives, we are flung into a vulnerable state—a state of feeling something, trying not to feel something, or wishing we could feel something. Our deepest desires for comfort are conjured into being, and there is no ridding ourselves of them.

This is why I fill the seasonal “Triad” with pie.

In my recipe box, I hold a remedy—a very stained and dry 3x5 card with the typed words “PIE CRUST (GREAT GRANDMOTHER SNOW)” stapled to it. It was my grandmother who typed it out and passed it to me so many years ago, and I dutifully created the stains as one year folded into the next. That card holds four generations of women in my family. No matter the miles or years between us, I hear their voices telling me how to do each step. They also tell me years of doing something over and over can actually mean something, and that at least in the kitchen—with a little butter, flour and salt—I can take my mind off myself and my emotions, and share some food happiness with others.

You may wonder, though, why you should even bother trying to make your own pie crust—particularly if you can find ready-made pie crusts out there that aren’t too horrible. Why not just take all the comfort in making the overall pie? Why create additional steps?? To that I say, “Sure. Why not?” Any time in the kitchen is always as special as you allow it to be. It’s also okay to keep a ready-made crust in the freezer while you’re learning, just in case it all goes to hell in a hand-basket, and you would just like to eat pie... now... please. But it's my opinion that without trying, you may miss out on a special blessing. And once you’ve mastered it, and pass it on to someone else, you’ll receive a blessing even greater than the first.

Take this for thought. The world we live in is full of fickleness. Pink slips fly faster than theinter. Youth and speed are worshipped above knowledge and experience—even though there is a need and room for both. We pinch pennies and stay on at work, instead of taking days off, either out of need for funds, or fear of losing them. Maybe it would do us some good to actually make something with our hands—experience an accomplishment. Humans need to feel comforted AND useful.

So with this said, it’s my Galavant Girl hope that you find comfort in the kitchen this season. We all need it, no matter if we are feeling something, trying not to feel something, or wishing we could feel something. I know where I’ll be. I’ll be in my kitchen with my butter, flour, and my beloved Great Grandmother Snow’s Pie Crust recipe.

---Elise McMullen-Ciotti a.k.a. The Galavant Girl.

(This entry is dedicated to Christiane... who I hope finds more joy in her kitchen this next year.)

How to Make a Pie Crust Without Crying

Over the years, I challenged these methods of pie making, and more particularly I challenged all the rules of making a pie crust. I tested them, doubted their whys, and pulled all the why-nots. I reveled in adolescent abandon and experimentation. I am a free spirit and an artist to the core, yet in the end I accepted that pie crust success doesn’t allow for bent rules. I have no regrets, however, in my revelry—even if I failed miserably at my baking from time to time.

Here are the rules to follow, even though I have a suspicion that your journey will be similar to mine. As we all grow in a craft, we test the teacher and ourselves. It’s just the journey we take. I almost would rather you take some time to fail miserably in the kitchen with pie crust as you experiment in your culinary lab. Then you could see first hand what I’m about to share with you. But I also understand that you may have already had your dough-flinging, cursing spats in the kitchen with your pie crusts, and now you just need a solution, gosh darn it! And now!

The Galavant Girl All-Butter Pie Crust Recipe

Makes 2, 9-inch pie crusts

1 1/2 sticks of unsalted butter (3/4 cup)

1 tsp of salt

2 cups of unbleached all-purpose flour

Enough ice-water to hold together

Cut butter into cubes. Combine the butter with a pastry cutter into your flour and salt mixture until it has a rough mealy texture. Mix one tablespoon of ice water at a time into your dough with a spoon until it "cleans" the bowl.

Roll out dough with a floured rolling pin onto a floured surface. You may choose to roll it out between two pieces of waxed paper, but this is not necessary if you've kept your butter and dough cool, and if you are using just enough flour for the dough to roll out easily.

Okay, now the full on explanation on EXACTLY what to do and not do:

First the No's

You must have a pastry cutter, cold butter, ice water, salt, and unbleached flour. No, you cannot use your hands to work the butter into the flour. No, it will not be as good with salted butter. No, it will not come together properly with lukewarm water. No, it will not hold up and be as sturdy with bleached flour. No, you cannot leave out the salt, or it will be near flavorless. No, you cannot use melted butter, or the crust will fall apart while baking. No, you cannot use room temperature butter, or the crust will fall apart when baking. The answer is “no.”

It's All About Keeping it Cool

The main rule—the one that everyone wants to break—is that you should not touch the mixture with your hands until the moment is right. When is that moment? Read on.

First blend all of your ingredients (flour, salt, butter) with the pastry cutter until it looks like meal.

DO NOT use your hands, and DO NOT add the ice water until the flour, salt, and butter, are properly combined.

You also must add the ice water to the mixture a tablespoon at a time, and use a spoon to stir and mix it together.

Only add enough ice water until the dough cleans the side of the bowl while mixing, BUT it’s imperative that the mixture still looks dry. If the dough is too wet it will stick to the counter and then you will have to add more flour to roll it. When you add more flour, the butter-flour ratio becomes off, and this will create a crust that is too dense—and therefore a royal pain to roll out.

Now, once you have the mixture in this "cleaning the sides of the bowl" state, it should look roughly like something that could be made into a ball easily. You have finally arrived at the moment where you may touch the dough.

So, why did we wait? Until this point, the reason you have been told to not touch the dough, is because the heat in your hands will heat the butter to melting. When this happen the flour molecules absorb too much of the oil in the butter, and either the crust will crumble, or it will have zero flakiness.

What you want is a happy little collection of flour pieces and butter pieces holding hands in a certain shape. Then when you place it in an oven already raised to hundreds of degrees, you literally shock the dough into its current shape—like a Polaroid capturing a moment—and the space between the butter and flour will create pockets of air, which we experience as a flaky crust.

A Few Additional Notes

Do not overly douse your work surface, or overly knead the dough. Too much flour while kneading will upset the butter/flour ratio and breeds bricks not pie crusts. And when you knead it, count to 10. That’s it. No more, no less—just enough to make it into one mass. If you knead it too long, it will become gummy, elastic, and tough—springing back on you over and over. If you ever do get it rolled out, and actually bake it, the crust will be as hard as a rock when you cut into your pie.

These are the rules of pie crust. I hope I’ve saved a pie and its maker a headache or two, or even a good dough-flinging cry. (Although I have to admit, that can be quite cathartic!)

Please feel free to add comments and ask questions!

(Photos used for the pie crust demonstrations are by Smitten Kitchen, a wonderful source for cooks. We may disagree on the use of sugar in our pie crust recipe, but she is truly talented.)

Honeymoon in Venice

2011-10-13T03:02:40Z

It was hot…. so hot that make-up was just an idea—an intention that evaporated in mid-air like a Moroccan mirage.

And I was plump…. fifteen pounds more plump, and I felt fleshy in my clothes as I walked through the streets.

It was hard to believe that it was our last full day in Venice. We had arrived on Friday and now it was Sunday. “Just wait till you see it, “ my newly-wedded husband had told me on the train. “It’s magical. Surreal. There’s nothing like it.”

Lenny had been right, but I had also been too exhausted to raise my eyebrows or limbs in exclamation as the water taxi carried us down the canal and into the cupped-hands of Venice. I hadn’t slept the night before, an annoyance that pops up at the worst moments. I chucked it up to being a writer, but the fatigue played with my head. Did this amazing view in front of me exist? Or was I just dreaming of being in Venice, lucidly, and out of severe exhaustion?

Our weekend bags rolled in duet along the cobblestones as we searched for our hotel. I stopped, staring at my first small canal. Lenny hunted building numbers, which follow an interesting "logic" in Venice. Each new building, regardless of location, gets the next number. (Yeah.... no.... don't get it...) Finally he asked for help, decorating his Italian with a slight Venetian accent. An endearing habit I have found in almost every actor I know. When we had our coordinates, we took our bags and wound on—up and over small canals; down some odd steps; around the side of buildings; up and over another canal.

I didn’t know at the time that our suitcase wheels would be the last wheels we’d see rolling by for the next few days. Venice is not a place for wheels. No cars drive through its walls. Only feet or small motorboats get you anywhere. Gondolas carry only tourists.

We finally arrived at Ca’ Fortuny, a small boutique inn with eleven rooms. It was beautiful—the perfect setting for a honeymoon. I wouldn’t be able to lead you to it. The nature of our arrival only placed into my memory: Dock. Wind. Arrive.

Our room the first night was...interesting. It was on the ground floor, literally one wall separating us from the lobby and concierge desk. “What do we do when we want to have sex?” I asked perplexed, pointing into the lobby. “Your right. It is weird isn’t it?” Lenny had us moved the following night to a suite—after all it was our honeymoon. Now we could trample a Venetian bed like newly-weds should.

We luxuriated in air-conditioning and then went for dinner. Nothing spectacular. Venice is not a culinary city, but we were satisfied. I wore something loose with cork wedges, which proved a mistake, because although we had planned an early night, this was Venice! It was imperative to roam the city. And it was right about mid-roam when the shoes came off, and I was barefoot in Venice.

I found myself aiming for the smooth stones along the paths. The rough stones hurt the underbellies of my feet, and I was reminded how I was indeed a spoiled human compared to many in the world. I felt overwhelmingly humbled. Was I really there? In Venice? How did this happen?

A tango emanated from somewhere unseen.We followed, and what we found caused our mouths to hang agape in the night. A giant moon hung so closely over the Grand Canal that it almost fell in to the water and floated to our feet. We turned to see the source of the music. Eight couples were tango dancing on ornate church steps--maybe a class? Maybe some magical spell?

In that instant, I arrived in Venice. The city's magic had saturated my clothes and hair and the spell was took. We hung there on the periphery of the moon and the music, on the periphery of reality. Days before, we had been stressed and arguing. Now, we gently swayed, apart from duty. Hidden. Softened. I didn’t want to ever leave.

Over the next few days we drifted through colorful buildings, gentle canals and graceful steps. We found the best food—finally—in the Venetian Ghetto. Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant.

We spoke about art and life, our dreams, our visions. We woke up before dawn and watched the sunrise taking pictures of the empty gondolas at the docks. I took a nap on a bench in the Basilica di San Marco after spending hours exploring its Byzantine soul. I bought a book about Casanova, and began to admire the man. I took a bath with church bells clanging a few blocks away. I was smitten.

The city has no industry but tourists. It creates beautiful masks and costumes for the opera and Carnivale. It makes its famous Venetian paper and Venetian glass. But tourism—that is how Venice survives. I wondered about life there—life to live and not visit. No trains. No cars. No buses.

What would it be like there as a child growing up? I couldn’t imagine it. I couldn’t imagine either the life of the elderly in such a place, up steps and down steps, in and out of boats.

But. I could imagine a season there—a season of teaching at the university or if I were a performer, a season of theater. Any longer than that, and I’m sure I ‘d begin to wonder if the world really existed anymore beyond the walls and canals of Venice. I would wonder if it was all just a dream I had, where these round things called “wheels” meant something.

Lenny pointed to a small brick archway, which looked merely decorative, not structural in any way, and said, “See those small arches?” I peered up beyond the light and nodded. “Those arches meant that someone who lived in this house married someone who lived in the house next door. Basically the families were joined and to show that these two building were now of one family, they would put up these little arches."

“Really?” I marveled, plump and bewitched. “That’s pretty cool.” We smiled at one another and wound on.

---Elise McMullen-Ciotti a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

Ca' Fortuny can be found In the heart of Venice just 200 mt. far from Teatro La Fenice, 500mt from Piazza San Marco and 500mt from Rialto bridge.

Ca' Fortuny

San Marco3752

Rio Terà della Mandola
Tel. +39 041 2411942
Fax. +39 041 2410011
Email: info@cafortuny.it
P.IVA 03576820272
30124 Venezia

Map of Venice

You can see how it is like two cupped hands.

Naples, New York: Fruit of the Vine

2011-07-05T23:55:13Z

There are wild raspberries here along the river in Naples, New York. They stand quiet and unseen around the underbrush. It takes a special wisdom to notice them. I regret to say, I don’t always carry that wisdom.

Although today, I did discover the raspberry bushes in the rectory yard of St. Januarius Catholic Church where I am staying. I was not about to let the fruit die on the vine. I woke briskly from a nap, headed down the stairs and straight out the door, only pausing five seconds to grab a bowl in the dish-drying rack. One by one I pulled the ripe berries off the bush. I took the ones that gave way under my hands, and left those that still clung.

I believe vines, bushes and trees must be pruned and tended. Without this care, the fruit looses its flavor, grows disease and becomes choked by outside things. As a fruit ripens, though, you cannot force it to bare itself. You cannot force its color and texture. You cannot force it to ripen. Only the fruit that gives itself to you willingly, will taste the best in your mouth. If you force fruit off their nests, bitterness will be your lot.

This is a small village, Naples. Population 1,072 (2400 with surrounding townships). It sits at the base of Canandaigua Lake. Originally coined by settlers as “Township No. 7,” it consisted of 21,120 acres and was purchased for twelve cents an acre.

The first settler was a man named Samuel Parish. He came with a wife and two sons from Berkshire, MA in the dead of winter. They used what they had, built what they needed and befriended the Natives. Soon, more arrived, yet... what was it like for Samuel to be willing to be the first? Was the moment of decision full of imagination and dream, with the mind safe in pockets of unyielding hope? Or, was it like when I stood in the garden staring at ripe raspberries—all practical in its "waste not, want not" strategy?

They say that when Samuel Parish arrived in Naples, there was only the wild plum, but now here amid The FIngerlakes, there is a great bounty of fruit. I have not held back in my need to partake in all the various types: strawberries, raspberries, concord grapes. These beauties will not be back fresh in the jar or on the plate for another year. I firmly believe in "Carpe Diem," which for me began in another fruitful place: Bordeaux, France.

Years ago when I was in Saint Emilion, I was mesmerized by the life of the vine. I learned how the vine's roots have a bit of acid at their tips to break through rock and reach water. I had just lost a business and was trying to find a new path. I wondered if life had lent me a bit of acid to render me a personal breakthrough. At least I was being hopeful.

At the end of a wine tour, they gathered us under a large cherry tree fully dripping with ripe fruit. I immediately reached up to grab a duet of cherries and was stopped. The person I was with said, “Those aren’t yours. Be respectful.” I felt shamed and angry. Why would they lead us under a fully ripened cherry tree, if we were not meant to partake in the fruit? That would be cruel wouldn’t it? I was in a moment—one of those moments where everything was aligned and beautiful and existing for joy. They’re so incredibly rare these moments and it seemed stolen.

I relented and sat on the grass, trying to listen to the wine maker give his final comments. Sadly, I had a hard time opening my ears. At the end he said, “Oh, yes, before I finish and let you go: Please feel free to eat some cherries. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

Having been scolded, I didn’t leap up immediately. I had allowed admonishing words to censor my spirit, and now I reached for them slowly, savoring them in my mouth. They were wonderful, but not as sweet as if I had listened to my heart and taken them when the tree itself was yielding them to me in a moment of sheer grace.

I vowed to myself to never hesitate on a moment that I knew was a fleeting blessing.

Maybe it is not so coincidental to be placed in a small village like Naples and in a region where fruit is key. It’s what I’ve longed for most, to bear fruit—not to just bear fruit spiritually and learn to be a good person with love and patience and forgiveness, but to see fruit in my human life. Isn’t that what we all want? To know that the work you put in, in due time, produces its fruit?

I have questioned whether this is pure ego—this need to see fruition. But then, I look around me to my brothers, the trees, to our mother earth, and the fruit on her vines, and I say, no. This is human. This is what we are built to do. These vines, these trees are the examples to follow.

There is no impatience in a tree. It grows at the speed it grows. It sees one season after the next with roots seeking what it needs without apology. The leaves and fruit come and go each season. If you asked a tree, “Will it ever come? My fruit?” The tree would say,

“Of course it will. Fruit will come. Some fruit may be stolen. Some will be wasted. You will have to put up all your defenses from disease and vampiric insects. Winds and winter snow may break your limbs. One of your roots may be cut off from you. But yes, young one, it will come.”

I hope I have the wisdom to recognize the fruit when it arrives.

---Elise McMullen-Ciotti a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

Where is Naples, NY?

Naples, NY, can be found at the base of Canandaigua Lake off of New York Highway 21. It is about an hour from Rochester. It sports the Naples Grape Festival each year with thousands upon thousands descending upon its tranquility. Outside of festival time, you may blink and miss it. I suggest you do not. Google Map of Naples, NY

Strawberry Compote Recipe

I made Strawberry Compote, after buying some fresh strawberries from an honor-system stand on the side of the road. It can be made with any berry. I’ve included the recipe here in its smallest serving size.

Ingredients:

1 pint of ripe strawberries

2 tsp of cane sugar

Tiny tiny pinch of salt

¼ cup of water

Any aromatic of your choice such as cinnamon, vanilla, balsamic, nutmeg, red wine (or just make it bare and beautiful)

Process:

Place the sugar, fruit, water and any aromatics into a tall narrow pot on the stove at medium to medium-high heat. Cook and stir ingredients until fruit has become soft and in pieces. It should create its own sauce. Cook off the water, and when you can pass your finger along the back of a spoon, and in so doing, leaves a clean mark without running, it is finished (about 8-10 minutes).

Serving warm: Add a tsp of butter and let it melt and stir. Serve this warm compote in a ceramic serving dish straight to the table.

Serving chilled: Leave out the butter. Place in a jar or any sealed container (just not cheap plastic) and allow it to cool completely in the fridge for at least 4 hours. Makes a great breakfast fruit-spread.

As a fruit-butter: If brought to room temperature, you can blend it with softened room temperature butter, using an electric mixer, making a fruit-butter. You can make it as fruity or buttery as you like, just remember that unsalted butter is best and that this mixture must be blended well without melting the butter. If the butter is melted, it will not mix properly with the fruit and will separate while chilling in the fridge—a result that will not be the creamy desire you wish.

Photo Credits

Raspberry photo from an amazing Japanese photographer Mwri, living in Kangasala, Suomi (Finland). To see her work go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/karviainen/sets/

Cherry tree photo by Dan Shalloe. He is an amazing English photographer living in Vienna. You can find his work here: www.danshalloe.com/Home.html

Stay tuned for more entries from the Fingerlakes!

New York City: At the Speed of Grace

2011-06-05T06:13:00Z

A French couple visiting their daughter in Manhattan is sitting a few tables away. The daughter speaks about “les Amèricains qui mangent rapidement dans la rue.” It’s late afternoon and they order drinks as they would in a French café: une bièrre, un thé, un café. They are taking comfort in their own traditions, stealing a moment to sit and assess the day. “Ici, tout est la vitesse,” the daughter says.

The father, pouring his beer very carefully and making sure there is just the right amount of foam in the glass, says that this kind of fast-paced life is now found in Paris. He’s witnessed more and more Parisians eating in the streets… even while walking! The mother offers that maybe it’s the Americanization of the world—to accept moving at rapid speed at the cost of a good meal and sanity. They all nod. “Peut-être… oui, peut-être…”

Maybe they’re right. Maybe any form of repose these days can be misconstrued as laziness in the minds of Americans, and even more particularly in minds whizzing away in New York City.

Are we, as New Yorkers, becoming so used to the idea of instantaneous accessibility to information, products, people… that we now expect ourselves to operate as the machines upon which we have become so reliant? Have we lost self-grace? It sounded like a speed-metal version of Kubrick’s 2001 Space Odyssey and I didn’t like it.

Moreover, I had to rush out of the restaurant, leaving the French behind, proving their opinion!

I hoped it wasn’t true. I had to admit that I had recently come to what I call “The Point”: The point where all is too fast; all is annoyance: the clanking through the subways, the voices, the smells, the random butting of shoulders. Tolerance was a mysterious frame of mind that I left somewhere in a pile of leaves last fall. Even the bright color of someone’s tennis shoes strolling past me annoyed me. I needed a break. I felt attacked by anything and everything:

Thanks, blond dude, for having your dog poop right in front of me while I eat. Thanks Barnes-n-Noble-customer-service man, who, like a strict homeroom manager, wouldn’t allow me to sit on the floor in certain places to check out a book. Thank you preteen for screaming “shut up!” at me for trying to keep you from throwing a U.S. postal box onto a moving car. Thanks Clothing Fairy, for taking my black sheath dress, designer sun glasses I got for Christmas, my black strapless bra and my little black gloves I got in an antique store in Oklahoma, and causing said items to literally vanish.

So many conversations were swatting about me as I walked down the street, beating my head like bees. I needed out. Out!

The only escape from the errant cacophony was a brief distraction near a vegetable stand in Union Square Market. Heirloom tomatoes.

Regardless of solstices and empirical calendars, this bright, odd-shaped fruit officially brings summer to New York. I actually smiled, letting my fingers pass over their shiny skin. I carried on through the crowds pacified—if at least for a moment—but I couldn’t ignore the fatigue. My jeans seemed to only magnify the humid warmth of the day. Someone eject me to France. Please???

One week later, memorial weekend arrived and along with it an invitation. My fiancé and I were invited to join a few other couples to cook out and spend the night at their friend’s home just outside of Katonah, NY. Hal-le-lu-jah! My imagination sprouted the best movie poster ever: blue and black with bright yellow letters reading: Escape From Manhattan! (not the Kurt Russel version) Underneath the title would be men and women running for their lives from giant green Stress Monsters, holding clocks with jagged edges in one hand, and tax forms laced with cyanide in the other.

I emailed my friend right away. Would it be possible for me to cook??? An email quickly sprang back. Of course! I felt blissful.

It was the fastest bag I ever packed, and almost immediately upon arrival, I was all over the kitchen, baking potatoes, prepping meat for the grill. I wore a red apron that sang an ode to the goodness of butter, WHILE COOKING BACON! Could it get any better?

I ate, laughed, and promised to give everyone my salad dressing recipe, and then I started to slow... Wind down… I walked about the large yard in the grass without shoes. I took a small nap on the couch next to the kitchen. A new friend covered me with a blanket and dimmed the lights. I dreamt that the day and evening could last longer, stretch like golden taffy. Such a generous blessing.

The following morning, my fiancé and I napped happily on the train back to Grand Central Station. In brief moments of consciousness, I forgave the preteen, the Barnes-N-Noble guy and the man with the dog. They had probably reached "The Point" as well. (No excuses for the Clothing Fairy, but I let it go.) When we debarked, it was as if we returned to some sort of autopilot, moving back into the subways, back into the city, back into the beautiful strong diligence of Manhattan.

We walked along at a snail’s pace, slowly, very very slowly into the station. I thought of the French family I witnessed in the restaurant talking about our vitesse. I wished I could tell them how we do it. It’s not a thorough disregard for a good meal, and it is not our disdain for repose, but a slight-of-hand brought on by the magical web of trains moving in and out of this island. These metal bullets are knights in shining armor, taking us to some form of restful glen to recharge ourselves. I was relieved to know: We, New Yorkers, have a sense of self-grace after all.

Elise McMullen a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

Translations:

“les Amèricains qui mangent rapidement dans la rue.” means: The Americans who eat quickly in the streets.

“Ici, tout est la vitesse,” means: Here everything is speed.

Summer Lemon Vinaigrette Dressing:

recipe for one giant salad

2 medium lemons

1 tsp apple cider vinegar

1/2 cup olive oil

salt to taste

black pepper to grind over salad

bowl

whisk

knife

cutting board

Roll lemons on counter to soften them. Cut the lemons in half and into a bowl squeeze in the juice. (2 med. lemons yields 4-6 tablespoons juice). Be mindful to prevent seeds from entering the bowl. I squeeze the lemon in my hand to catch the seeds. Add the vinegar and salt. While quickly whisking, begin slowly drizzling in the olive oil. As you whisk the mixture, it will become thick. Taste. If the lemons are not very tangy, you may need to add more juice, but if the flavor is very lemony but lacks acidity, add more apple cider vinegar.

Add dressing to your salad, mix well, add freshly grated black pepper and serve.

The Perfect Baked Potato

recipe for 4 potatoes

4 russet potatoes

salt

olive oil

water

foil

fork

bowl (or additional baking dish)

one large baking dish

one small baking dish

small paring knife

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees F. Wash the potatoes thoroughly and remove all knots or spots with a small paring knife. Dry potatoes well. With a fork, stab the potatoes all over vigorously. Don't be shy. Place the potatoes in a bowl or large baking dish, pour in olive oil to coat potatoes. Use your hands to make sure the potatoes are coated. Now salt the exterior of the potatoes. Again massaging this mixture with your hands. This will flavor the skin, and keep the potatoes from becoming too chewy. When they are good and coated, wrap each potato in foil. Place all four wrapped potatoes in a large baking dish. Place potatoes in oven. Fill a small separate baking dish with water. Place this dish also in the oven. This creates steam and bakes the potatoes more quickly. Bake potatoes for one hour in a 375 degree F oven, or 45 minutes in the oven, and then 20 - 30 minutes on the grill. Serve with any topping you like. I like homemade bacon bits, onions and cheese. Enjoy!

New York City: A Windowed View

2011-05-19T20:15:31Z

I think it began a few days ago when I rearranged the apartment: the first foray into a season of change—a season that would begin a marriage.

We felt a bit out of place, lost even. As freelancers, my fiancé and I were both finishing up major jobs, and our thoughts and conversations drifted often into the management of the everyday, the transition of things, the renovations of the apartment, our future work, our finances. We needed to stop. We needed to just feel “new.” We needed a beginning.

I created a table space near our window—a place for us to sit, eat and work. The urban view of Manhattan’s buildings was so idyllic, quiet and close, it was as if a tromp l’oeil painting hung just beyond the glass.

We sat side-by-side eating our breakfast of Spanish omelets and café mochas, which we pulled together with leftovers. At meal’s end, he leaned in to me, chuckling as if surprised and said, “I’m happy. I really am happy.” One can only recognize these moments as special, when life hasn’t always dealt you as such.

I took a photo of the window and the remains of the eaten breakfast. The light was soft, the time: non-existent. I relished the fleeting moment. New York, and the life within it, is not as quiet and romantic as the view from our window.

Many years ago while visiting Manhattan, I had just spent ample hours at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was finally overtaken with exhaustion, and relented to more base needs, descending its grand steps and wandering eastward in search for something sweet. The day had been hot and my blue sneakers, loose white pants and a tank top seemed to absorb the heat from the concrete instead of easing me from it.

I eventually stumbled into Nectar, a windowed diner, which I have not seen again until today, wandering once more from the Met, now a firm New Yorker myself. Previously, the waiter had not been happy with me. All smiles at first, he nearly threw the menu to the floor in disgust when I said I was just ordering dessert and a coffee. Yet he brought it to me all the same, and being a good southern girl, I tipped him anyway.

Here now, the waitress is pleasant and affords me a table with a perfect view of the windowed room. I haven’t decided between the chocolate shake and the vanilla, but until my stomach chooses, I have coffee and a pen.

I notice once again how silent New York City looks from inside a window. “Everything at a distance turns into poetry…” said Novalis in 1798. “…distant mountains, distant people, distant events: all become romantic.”

This is precisely why I sought out the Met today. An exhibit entitled “Rooms with a View: The Open Window in the 19th Century” has just opened. It’s subject: the “Romantic motif of the open window as first captured by German, Danish, French, and Russian artists around 1810–20.”

I went asking one question: “Why paint pictures of windows?”

The works revealed hushed, sparse rooms containing contemplative figures quietly sitting by windows—writing, sketching, sewing and reading. Others focused solely on the view in which the window held—a picture within a picture. And lastly, some were odes to the personal rooms of the artists, a last souvenir just before moving on. Filled with light and silence, the paintings evoked a poetic realism rarely seen today outside of good cinema vérité.

The images were compelling, personal, peaceful. How ironic that these paintings were created during upheaval and war: the French Revolution, the European War, the rebellion against the Bourgeois, and the egoist Age of Enlightenment. Painting a peaceful quiet interlude with a window or a door, which lead to the outside world, or shielded one from it, kept the unknown at a distance and therefore controllable, better, more tolerable and I dare say, “romantic.”

I had my answer. I confess now that my trip to the Met was also in search of answers to my own compulsion. I have, for many years, photographed windows and doors, even in the most painful and terrifying moments, where stopping to take a picture seemed ridiculous. I thought of the near hundred images of the like I had secretly sitting within my hard drive. Now a group of postmortem peers who shared my creative bent, pulled me into their quiet collective, telling me that this was only normal.

I could hear a German-accented man, maybe the voice of Caspar David Friedrich, instructing me.

"You see, dear fraülein. Resting your eyes upon any window at length—when the soul is tired, and times, trying—is an ultimate act of hope." He adjusts his maulstick to a more proper height next to the canvas. "It creates a protective barrier between you and the outside world. Do you see? It allows you to paint a more hopeful image of the future... beyond the glass. Or," he says looking wistfully out the window, "it can hold a peaceful image in your memory for strength as you move into an uncertain future."

"Yes. Yes. I see it now," I whisper.

Elise McMullen a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

Rooms with a View: The Open Window in the 19th Century

showing at The Metropolitan Museum of Art
April 5, 2011–July 4, 2011
Special Exhibition Galleries, 2nd floor

Plan your visit:

Museum Hours
Monday: Closed (Except Holiday Mondays)
Tuesday–Thursday: 9:30 a.m.–5:30 p.m.
Friday and Saturday: 9:30 a.m.–9:00 p.m.
Sunday: 9:30 a.m.–5:30 p.m.

Address
1000 Fifth Avenue at 82nd Street
New York, New York 10028-0198
Information: 212-535-7710
TTY: 212-570-3828

Four Pairs of Shoes -- A Lesson in Building

2011-04-15T22:14:00Z

It’s been a long day. Work lasted sixteen hours. When I’ve had a day like this, I think about Efresina.

Efresina was one of seven children born high in the Apennine Mountains in Eastern Italy. She lived in a snowy little village with mountain light and winter gales. From October to March it would snow, and just inside her humble home without heat or running water, there were four pairs of shoes.

These four pairs of shoes served seven pairs of feet and helped bring those seven pairs of feet—and the children that stood over them—to school. It was a seemingly impossible situation, high in the mountains, bristling with cold; Yet, Efresina and her siblings beat the impossible and made their way to school.

It puts my present situation in check. My head swirls with work. My lists of things I must do collide with the things I hope to do. The personal goals seem faded in the background as I check one email and then another. Hundreds pour in each day. Fire after fire rises, and with this phone call, and with that email, I put them out. I know deep down that I need to pick which end to burn the candle, and leave it at that, but I am learning and I am building. I wish I had two candles.

I close my eyes and ignore my computer. I'm looking for inspiration back in the small foyer of young Efresina’s house. I see the snow out the window. It’s morning. It’s time to get to school, or maybe it’s time to look after the goats. Deft hands grab the shoes that are closest to her size. I wonder, did she wear the pair that were slightly too big or too small? What did she prefer?

When Efresina was near nineteen, she married Leo, a bricklayer, and moved to San Lorenzo in Campo. Many women her age at that time would have just settled down to begin a family, but Efresina was different. She was a builder like the bricklayer she married, so she took an opportunity to learn a skill for which she had a deep passion—cooking and giving to others.

Efresina began traveling several days a week to Rome in order to study under her uncle’s tutelage. Her uncle, an ocean-liner chef, taught her enough cooking skills to walk confidently into any kitchen. Soon she became an apprentice at a famous bakery in the Piazza Navona.

I like to imagine Efresina in Rome, thrown in the middle of bustling thousands as they knock back espresso and complain about the doings of Parliament at Montecitorio. I also imagine her deciphering the recipes of everything she put in her mouth.

When Efresina returned to San Lorenzo in Campo, she began a small take-out business, making and selling lasagna, cannelloni, roast chicken, pastries and cakes.

She also started a family.

For the next twenty years, Efresina ran her small business out of her household. She became more and more successful; her food became more and more legendary. At the end of that twenty years, Leo built Efresina a professional kitchen, and surrounding the kitchen, a banquet hall, and above the banquet hall, a small hotel.

The Hotel Ristorante Giardino opened on April 11, 1971 with two weddings and 450 guests. A family business was born.

Yet, in that same year, Leo suffered an accident in his construction business, and was no longer able to work at his profession. He developed a deep depression, anxious of his future. What does a builder do, when he can no longer build?

This time, Efresina gave to Leo, as he had given to her. She taught him how to make tagliatelle, tortellini, ravioli, pastries and gelato. Soon he was building famous wedding cakes and constructing cornetti. He found his builder’s hands once again.

At 60, Efresina couldn’t resist an opportunity to study under Roger Vergé in Paris. Carrying the same willing spirit as she had at nineteen in Rome, she put herself to the task. The course was all in French, but that didn’t stop her. She wrote down recipes on whatever she could get her hands on, even her apron.

Like most French chefs who treat you like nothing until you prove that you’re willing to always strive for excellence, Vergé’s treatment of Efresina began with a snub. But soon, she had him curious. He asked her to cook for him and his colleagues.

She worked all day making the best of what Italian cuisine had to offer. At the end of the meal, it was Vergé seeking to be taught. He asked her to stay on two additional weeks and teach his staff the secrets of Italian cooking, but Efresina missed Leo, her son and her kitchen. She headed back to San Lorenzo in Campo with a few more secrets in her apron, and professional respect beyond her Italian borders.

I come back to the present. How can I complain of my situation when thinking of Efresina? The emails flying in to my inbox seem like small tasks. The fires that I must put out seem inconsequential. The hours I render seem like stepping-stones to new knowledge.

She inspires me to keep building. She inspires me to take what I have, learn what I can and keep going.

From day to day, when we are looking to get by, it’s hard to think about building. When we are dealing with our own “four pairs of shoes,” it’s hard to imagine that something great can come from limitation. Efresina’s story seems to show me the way.

In 2006, Efresina passed away, but a large picture of her hangs over the kitchen in the Hotel Ristorante Giardino, and when you walk through this kitchen, smelling the aromas in the pots, you know that she is still there nudging the cooks to add a bit of salt, or to serve the meat soon, before it loses it’s shine.

Now that I think about it. Efresina probably didn’t pay much attention to which pair of shoes she put on her feet as she headed out the door. I doubt these thoughts crossed her mind as they do mine. I bet, for Efresina, she was glad it was her day for school, and I can see her, very matter-of-factly, placing the shoes on her feet and marching out into the cold without much thought of how her feet felt.

---Elise McMullen a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today Efresina’s son Massimo Biagiali runs the Hotel Ristorante Giardino with his wife Patrizia. He is also a builder, and has developed a highly enviable wine cellar. They have a son Paulo.

The executive chef, Luciana, was nineteen when she arrived on Efresina’s door. After thirty years following Efresina’s teaching hands, she keeps Efresina’s cuisine alive.

Address: Via Enrico Mattei, 4
                61047 San Lorenzo in Campo
TEL   +39 0721 776803
               +39 0721 776432
FAX      +39 0721 735323

P.IVA 00971740410

EMAIL info@hotelgiardino.it
reservations@hotelgiardino.it

Possessions, we are not.

2011-03-07T01:44:00Z

My mother and I know how to play spatial Tetris. You give us a bag to pack, a trunk to fill, a closet to organize, cabinets to clean out, and we can bring order to just about any place. This is where we are similar creatures. Where we differ in our genetic family tree (other than my seemingly unique desire to skip across the world like rocks on a pond) is that I am not as attached to objects. They do not give me an emotional feeling that signals to me who I am. Sometimes I’m envious of how setting up home can make her happy, how it adds salve to life, creating comfort. Life is more raw to me, yet valuable just the same.

I’ve had a lot and I’ve had little. I’ve been able to just walk into a store and buy literally anything I wanted, and I’ve lived off cookies and iced tea for two weeks straight, waiting on money to arrive. I’ve gained and lost; lost and gained.

When I moved to New York City, it was the end of a life—a life full of good and bad like any life. A life with clothes and books and kitchenware. A life of groceries. A life of going to the hairdresser and the eye doctor. A life where I could get in my car and never feel lost, because I had driven down the same streets so many times before.

In that life, I put up kitchen curtains and bought napkins and glassware. I would clean out the apartment, and take things to storage “until I had room for them in a new place.” Life was typical, normal, ordinary and not much different from the people I knew.

And then, it just wasn’t my life anymore.

I moved to New York City with three giant duffle bags. I sold almost everything else, but left some things behind to deal with later... when I could. I got off the airplane at JFK, took a taxi to where I would be staying and listened to the taxi driver tell me that I was going to do great in New York City. It was sunny, and I believed him. I really did. At least the one thing I was sure of, was that I would never go back. My only option was to believe. I unpacked my duffle bags and started over. Just like that.

I did all kinds of jobs. I painted. I waited tables. I wrote business correspondence. And then after about six months, I finally landed an entry-level job in TV. Sounds glamorous, but I was still sleeping on couches, with duffle bags in tow. They carried three of my most important possessions: my journals, my laptop and my grandmother’s quilt.

Then, one night, my building caught fire... and in the wee hours of the morning, I was in a hospital bed realizing that the remainder of what I owned including my grandmother’s quilt, and everything I had ever written, had burned to a cinder.

I cried.

Then a freedom walked in, as easily as the nurse arriving to draw my blood. Mixing with the oxygen and blue-tinted light, I began to understand. I was released with nothing but clothes from social services, but I realized that I had the most valuable thing with me. I had my life.

When I arrived back to my building, my things had been spared. I was light-headed listening to my best friend and roommate tell me that the red cross had been there, and he showed me my laptop, undamaged, knowing that it was important to me. I was glad, but I just nodded and wanted to sleep.

Now, things appear different to me. I still gaze upon nice things. I still want possessions and comforts. I back up all my writing on external drives. But, these objects no longer merit defining me as a person, because I just am.

After two years, I visited my parents’ home in Texas to sort through those things that I had put off “till later.” I had to determine what objects I wanted to bring from my past life into my new life. There were some things that were ridiculous. Of course I didn’t need that anymore. And then there were some things that brought a smile to my face to see them again.

My humble brown teddy bear my great aunt Gaylene bought me for Christmas when I was four. That teddy bear was held in my arms until my arms reached the age of 19. Teddy now lives in an attic inside a Holly Hobby box. His roommate is Peter Rabbit the puppet, and they are doing just fine.

There was my Raindrop Soup Recipe apron, which I wore sitting on the side of mud puddles in the rain “mixing 2 stones, and 3 leaves, and stirring with a stick.” This is awaiting a frame and will be hung in a nursery someday when I’m expecting.

There were my pompoms, crinkly and gold, which were my pillows, my sleeping bag, my tear-catchers, my ambition-holders, my depression-fighters as I waded through the perils of teenage drama and glory.

There were writings, too. My first “dear diary” journal with a broken lock, a story my grandfather wrote me at the age of eight, and one of my own stories about a girl who lived in New York City.

I chose carefully. My mother and I wrapped and packed things with precision and detail. I wrote on the side of the winning boxes, “ship to NYC.”

It was final. My life before New York was officially gone. I grieved it. My new life was being built. I hoped for it. The time in between with my duffle bags, living on couches with any odd job—now that was a prize where I learned my own value—and I have no possession to show for that.

Elise McMullen a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

Snowy Memories

2011-01-17T18:45:00Z

Ideas of what I could or could not write pile up in my thoughts. I am grieving the death of my grandfather, and at the same time mixtures of prose float in and out of my mind, blending into a mirage of something expressed without form and detail.

I look out the windows at the snow covered rooftops and mailboxes. Undaunted New Yorkers clad in rubber boots push past each other, to and from work, to and from home, to and from the bodega, the coffee place, the restaurant on the corner for lunch, to and from.

Ice Cream pops into my thoughts. I smile. I’m thinking about ice cream. My grandfather used to sing out with an puckish grin, “I scream. You scream. We all scream for ice-cream!” This was his motto regarding the cold, creamy confection, even though his body was laden with insulin dependent diabetes, and he rarely had the full-on sugared version. No matter. He still sang about ice cream.

I look back out the window. The snow is still drifting...my mind drifting. I'm back in the wintry months of my childhood, before my grandparents’ divorce, before the weather patterns changed in Texas, and before I really experienced any great change at all. In my grandparents’ back yard, there was an old iron grill that jutted up from the earth, just a few feet past the porch; just a few more feet past the old doghouse. As the snow fell, we’d watch it thicken incrementally, one snowflake at a time, never fast enough (never ever fast enough). After what seemed like an eternity, about one foot of fluffy white potential sat ready, and it would be time.

Snow ice cream time.

I was too young to know the recipe properly. I just watched my grandfather harvest the snow, and my grandmother would pour in magical ingredients. Sometimes I was able to add to that magic by taking a hammer to leftover Christmas candy canes placed inside a tea towel. It was a thrill to make such noise in the house. The wooden handle was too long for my hands, but I'd clumsily make do. I couldn’t help but to open the tea towel over and over to see how broken the pieces were. When small enough, the pieces would be added into the mixture, which was put back into the freezer, or back outside packed in snow, and we waited again.

Once I had my bowl, my spoon, and my share of the peppermint snow ice cream, I was in utter glee. I’d eventually take to shivering, prompting my grandmother to follow up the minty treat with something hot.

It was during the summer months, though, when we’d pull out the old hand-cranked ice cream maker. I’d watch my grandfather’s large muscular arms work the crank. I’d peer over the wooden exterior trying to figure out why salt was added to the ice. I’d always eat a bit of the salty ice. I couldn’t help it. I had to experience it all. Each step.

Later my father carved beautiful relief work into the outside of the wooden ice cream maker. I’m unsure if it continued to work, or if I just grew up and spent less and less time at home, but eventually that wooden relic of my summertime pleasure drifted into memory.

By the time I was eleven, my grandfather had moved to California, and it was then that I took a plane “all by myself” to be with him and have a grand adventure. We traveled up and down the coast on Highway One and explored all of Southern California. I was with him when I saw the ocean for the first time, visited San Francisco, jetted across the Golden Gate Bridge, trekked down to the Redwood Forest and into Disney Land.

We took a plethora of photos and in the last few days of our trip, created scrapbooks of our trips together at his home in San Jose. While we were gluing this picture here with those tickets there, we’d stop for a break and have ice cream. He would have the sugar-free kind. I’d ask him how it was, and he’d say smiling, “not as good as yours.”

The snow outside in Manhattan is not producing near the quality of snow needed for peppermint snow ice cream. But, there is a bodega across the street that will sell me some ready-made ice cream if I want. I look at the pictures sitting on my desk. Some are photos I’ve taken in my travels; other frames carry pictures of my first published works; some lack a proper frame altogether. Today, I set a picture of my grandfather amongst the others. These are his accomplishments as much as mine. He encouraged these loves within me: travel, photography, writing.

He’s smiling in this portrait—a beautiful Indian face topped with white-man’s hair. It’s good to have that smile with me. He had traveled to countless countries and 48 states in his lifetime. He said to me just this past summer, “You’ve got a lot of catchin’ up to do,” and he’s right.

I think I will head over to that bodega. I have a feeling Granddaddy and I will sit together often at this desk with ice cream nearby. I used to impishly bug him at his desk when I was a child, rearranging things, trying things, obsessed with his scotch tape. It's only fitting he be here with me.

Elise McMullen --- a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

2011-What's On the Horizon for The Galavant Girl

2010-12-28T00:07:00Z

Hello My Galavant Readers,

A few weeks ago, The Galavant Girl Blog found itself in major technical difficulties due to new programs and updates with Blogcast. Thankfully, those at Blogcast have been working very hard at resolving the problems, but unfortunately, I am unable to publish entries without problematic coding. Maybe it's a good thing it fell in the holiday season, while we eat ourselves to the brim and spend time with those we love.

In the meantime, I thought I would take this opportunity to give you guys a little heads-up on what is to come this year at The Galavant Girl:

Soon you'll be reading about a leader in Italian cuisine and culture, the Hotel Giardino in San Lorenzo in Campo. Hotel Giardino is an amazing example of how Italy maintains it's traditions, supports local agriculture, creates excellent cuisine, and mentors Italian youth--and it all starts in the kitchen.

Before exploring a few New York City Secrets, you will also learn a bit more about gelato . Ahhhh..... gelato. I want it every day. And once you have the real stuff, there's no going back. Even when winter throws heavy snow outside in the streets, gelato rules.

After some New York City secrets are out and open for exploration (sorry, I won't even give you a hint... you'll have to come back!), we will head out to Spain : Barcelona, Madrid and Pamplona . This will be a tour of local life and cuisine sure to awaken some silent taste buds lying dormant in your mouth.

Until then, and until the techy go-getters at Blogcast have my site working in prime shape. i wish you all the very best of the holiday season. Thank you for your amazing support and readership over this year, 2010. To all those who have shared with me their lives, homes and cuisines: Thank you! And to those who read each article, returning again and again: A big Thank You, to you as well!

Many blessing to you all,

Elise McMullen a.k.a. The Galavant Girl

Copyright 2010 Elise McMullen