Detroit-Style Pizza

I read an article in the Detroit Free Press recently that talked about how pizza from this area is starting to get recognition around the country. Everyone knows the famous New York City foldable slice that I grew up eating, the Chicago deep-dish pie, and the unconventional and quirky toppings of California-style pizza.

But pizza from Detroit? Huh? Don't they call that Little Caesar's or Domino's, both of which were founded here in Michigan?

Not exactly.

The newfangled pizzas were apparently first made in this area at Buddy's Pizza (then called "Buddy's Rendezvous") in 1946. The unusual style, and its immense popularity, inspired others to copy it and perfect it. The pizza has subsequently evolved and become very distinctive and unbelievably good. It really is its own unique, savory entity.

So, after all of this preamble, what, precisely, is Detroit-style pizza???

Well, here are its characteristics:

• It's square, not round. Corners are prized.

• It's baked in a deep pan, so it's very thick.  But while the interior of the crust is soft and light, the exterior is crisp.

• The toppings and the cheese are distributed over the entire crust, without leaving a bare edge. This allows the cheese that touches the pan to become chewy, crunchy, and caramelized as it bakes.

• Most of the sauce is spread over the cheese, rather than lying under it. This makes it less liquid, and thus better integrated with the toppings rather than being a separate layer that the cheese will just slide off of.

Brandon Hunt, co-owner with his brother, Zane, of VIA 313: Authentic Detroit Style Pizza in Austin, was quoted in the Free Press article: "When you grow up in Detroit, you just think that's pizza ... that everybody knows it. But it's really a Detroit thing. It's great, and we thought people should be able to experience it."

Shawn Randazzo, of the Detroit Style Pizza Co., won the 2012 Las Vegas International Pizza Expo with a Detroit-style pizza, a first for the competition. Jeff Smokevitch, raised in a Detroit suburb but now making his hometown's unique pizza at his Brown Dog Pizza in Telluride, Colorado, came in 2nd overall in this year's contest.

To see if Detroit-style pizza is available near you, or to learn more about this growing phenomenon, check out Shawn Randazzo's DetroitStylePizza.com.

Or make the pizza in the picture at the top of this post. You know you want some!


Detroit-Style Pizza

Crust:

• 2 packets quick-rise yeast
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• 1-1/2 cups warm water, divided
• 1 tablespoon kosher salt
• 3-1/2 cups unbleached flour
• 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1/4 cup oil

In a large mixing bowl, combine yeast, sugar, and 3/4 cup water; let proof for 10 minutes. Stir in remaining water, salt, 3 cups flour, and garlic powder. Mix well. Turn dough out onto a countertop and knead in the remaining 1/2 cup flour until a soft dough forms.

Place the oil in another large mixing bowl. Place the dough into it, turning to coat the dough thoroughly with the oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and a dish towel; let rise for 1 hour until doubled.

Punch down dough and place into a greased 9"x13" metal baking pan (the darker the better). Press dough to edges of pan, cover with plastic wrap and a dish towel; let rise for 1 hour until doubled.

Sauce:

• 1 15-ounce can crushed tomatoes
• 3 tablespoons pesto
• 1 teaspoon Italian seasoning
• generous sprinkling of red pepper flakes
• pinch of kosher salt

Combine all ingredients.

Toppings:

• 1 small red onion, chopped
• 4 ounces ham, chopped
• 4 ounces fresh mushrooms, chopped
• 2 cups baby spinach leaves, chopped
• 4 ounces fresh mozzarella, chopped
• 8 ounces mozzarella, shredded

Preheat oven to 425F. Spread a very thin layer of the sauce over the dough.

Sprinkle each of the toppings over the sauce, spreading all the way to the edges. Drizzle just a bit more sauce over the toppings.

Sprinkle both cheeses over the top of the pizza, all the way to the edges.

Spread the rest of the sauce over the cheese and mix the sauce and cheese together just a bit.

Bake for 30 minutes until cheese is melted and golden, and edges are caramelized and crisp. Let cool for 5 minutes before cutting.

Makes 8-12 generous slices.

Detroit Graffiti and Super Bowl Recipes

Kinda how I feel, sometimes!


And here are a few links to some great Super Bowl recipes for your party!

Homemade Fritos

Cheese Frenchies

Vernors Cupcakes

Beer 'n' Cheese Soup

Julia Child's Best Brownies

Grilled Chicken with Spiced Blueberry BBQ Sauce

Double BBQ Chicken

Triple Treyf Mac 'n' Cheese

Red Chorizo Chili

Baked Potato Chips with Green Onion Dip

Butterfinger Fudge

Italian Beef Sandwiches

Hot Dog Hotdish

Vernors Cupcakes for the Detroit Tigers

The Detroit Tigers are playing in the World Series tonight. They beat my Yankees in a 4-game sweep in the American League Championship Series last week.

Of course, having grown up in New York City, but having spent the past 34 years in Michigan, my interest was piqued in the ALCS: this wasn't just my favorite game, but a match-up of my two favorite teams. I'd be happy no matter which one moved on to the big show!

But I have to admit, I was really rooting for the Tigers ... :)

Because even someone as verbose and effusive as I am can't adequately describe what this means to Detroit.

In New York, it's expected that an enormously talented and exorbitantly costly team will take its division, earn a pennant, and not just get to - but win - the World Series. When this doesn't happen, there is no worse city in which to endure the fans' wrath.

In Detroit, however, there is great happiness when a trip to the postseason comes, rather than a sense of entitlement. There is enormous pride, and nothing is taken for granted. That the Tigers took down, and shut down, the force that is the Yankees was something everyone hoped for and talked about and celebrated. People who aren't particularly interested in baseball even found themselves watching the games and cheering. The enthusiasm was contagious.

New York has split loyalties: Yankees fans, Mets fans, and those who still haven't forgiven the Dodgers for leaving Brooklyn. But in Detroit, there's one team. And the entire city - the entire state - is so thrilled for them!

Often, there's not good news coming from Detroit. But throughout the postseason, visitors and viewers have also seen a new city - one with a vibrant arts scene, a thriving farmers' market, fabulous restaurants, urban gardens, and renovated neighborhoods that hip kids in their 20s and 30s are moving into and revitalizing. All of this will be on display as Detroit welcomes the World Series, and the world.

This trip to the final round of the postseason wasn't a fluke - the spot was earned. This was a matter of hard work, not mere luck. The Tigers have come back from some dismal days, just as their city itself is doing.

Remember, as the famous Chrysler ad, "Imported From Detroit," states:

This isn't New York City or the Windy City or Sin City,
and we're certainly no one's Emerald City.
This is the Motor City. And this is what we do.

We play baseball. We sweep a team whose payroll tops $200 million and which features many future Hall of Fame members. We bring hope and joy to a city that deserves - and needs - it.

And we represent the American League in the World Series tonight ... :)





Vernors Cupcakes

Vernors is a sweet, spicy ginger ale made in Detroit.  It's only fitting to make a treat for tonight's game using this iconic product that represents the vitality of the city!

Cupcakes:

• 1-1/2 cups flour
• 1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 3/4 cup brown sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1 teaspoon ginger
• 3/4 cup Vernors
• 6 tablespoons butter, melted
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 3 eggs

Preheat oven to 350F. Line 15 muffin cups with paper liners.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, sugar, brown sugar, salt, and ginger. In a measuring cup, combine the Vernors, butter, vanilla, and eggs; whisk together.

Pour liquid ingredients into the bowl with the dry ingredients, and stir to combine. Divide the batter among the lined cups, and bake for 20 minutes until a tester comes out clean. Let cool completely.

Frosting:

• 2 tablespoons butter, softened
• 1/4 cup Trader Joe's cookie butter
• 3-1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
• 7 tablespoons Vernors

In a large bowl, using an electric mixer, beat together the butter and cookie butter. On low speed, beat in the confectioners' sugar; then beat in the Vernors.

Spread frosting over cupcakes.

Makes 15 cupcakes.

Totchos, Michigans, and Coneys ... A Rambling Shpiel

Totchos??? What in the world is/are "totchos"?!?

I'll tell you: they're nachos made with tater tots! They have no redeeming nutritional value whatsoever - well, there were fresh tomatoes and jalapenos - but boy are they fun to eat!

My BFF Wendy and I went down to the Anchor Bar in Detroit awhile back, for a meeting of the Detroit Drunken Historical Society; they were planning to discuss the War of 1812 and Detroit's critical role in it.  Well, I like history - when presented properly, it offers stories of real people, decisions they face, defining moments in their lives. Sitting and chatting about a 200-year-old war and its logistics, though, wasn't my idea of a good time ... but it was an adventure, so why not try?

Well, it was even more tedious, truth be told, than I'd anticipated. The sweet but scattered woman who introduced the evening was confused about some key dates and locations. The first presenter was a very nice man who'd greeted Wendy and me when we walked in, but he reminded me of an 8th Grade history teacher droning through a lecture. There were a couple of questions and comments from folks who engage in war re-enactments. My mind wandered. These were clearly people more concerned with where to find the beer than with any intellectual pursuits ... emphasis on the "drunken" rather than the "historical."

But then - as always, with me - we come back 'round to the food to liven things up. There were totchos! Who doesn't love tater tots? Who doesn't love nachos? It was inspired to combine them into a crispy, crunchy, cheesy, gooey mess that was utterly irresistible. Perhaps because they were so good, in a trashy kinda way, or perhaps because I was so bored - could be either or both - I couldn't stop eating them. It took a great deal of will power to save enough to make an excellent breakfast for the next morning. I love my savory breakfasts, after all, and leftovers are just about a perfect thing to start my day.

We thankfully got to the last presenter of the evening, a Canadian man who'd been invited to share a different perspective on the war. He had a good sense of humor and a sharp wit; and he spoke with the cute "-oot" accent that my mother and her relatives haven't had for decades, having been in the U.S. for 60 years or so now ... think of the McKenzie Brothers from SCTV!

Somehow - I'm serious, the evening was so excruciating that my mind was off on a nomadic trek, so I really can't tell you how the tangent arose - this man found a way to mention that in Canada a hot dog with tomato sauce is called a "Michigan." What on Earth this had to do with the War of 1812, I can't imagine. But I've never heard of this name for a hot dog despite having lived in this state for more than 30 years, despite living only an hour away from Ontario, despite having distant relatives in Canada ... pique my curiosity, finally, at the end of the show!

So, of course, I immediately came home and started doing some research.

I could find nothing about hot dogs with a tomato sauce, but there was information about those topped with tomato-based sauces that are essentially a loose chili.  These specific chili dogs are eaten in New York City, though they're not as popular as the "dirty water dogs" you buy from street vendors (so named because they sit in the water all day ... possibly more than one day?); those are topped with a schmear of mustard and a pile of sauerkraut, maybe some onions.

But in upstate New York - in the Ontario vicinity, of course - the chili dogs are apparently called "Michigans;" and the sauce was created by a man from Jackson, Michigan. In the Detroit area, we top the hot dogs with chili, mustard, and lots of fresh strong onions. But we don't call them "Michigans" - they're "Coneys." Here's the story that helps to explain some of the history and the permutations:

"Although there are many different varieties of Michigan sauce available today, the original Michigan sauce was created by Mr. George Todoroff in Jackson, Michigan. The sauce was originally created to be used as chile sauce. In 1914, Mr. Todoroff took his recipe to Coney Island in Brooklyn New York and opened his first restaurant.  However, the hot dog hadn’t arrived on the scene when he first opened his restaurant, so he had to wait until 1916 to make his first famous 'Jackson Coney Island' hot dog.

In 1867, Charles Feltman, a German born immigrant, was selling pastry items from a small food cart at Coney Island. To make any money, he needed to sell a lot of food from a small space. His idea was to take a hard roll, steam it and wrap it around a German sausage. At that time, sports cartoonist Tad Dorgan caricatured German figures as Dachshund dogs and eventually coined Feltman’s sandwich a 'Hot Dog'! The hot dog was a big hit and it didn’t take Todoroff long to capitalize on combining the hot dog and his chili sauce.

The name of the Michigan hotdog originally came from Plattsburgh, New York. However, how and when the Michigan Sauce arrived there is somewhat of a mystery."

So, I still don't have all the answers. But at least I ultimately received a history lesson, even if it had nothing to do with the War of 1812!

Anchor Bar
450 West Fort Street
Detroit, MI 48226



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Boston Baked Beans for Opening Day

Baseball comes back today!  The Detroit Tigers' home opener will be at 1:05 p.m. against the Boston Red Sox.  I'm so excited!  Of course, I have to be at work this afternoon ... sigh.  But it's the principle of the matter!

Opening Day, for me, is usually when the New York Yankees play their first game of the season; they're not playing the Tampa Bay Rays 'til tomorrow, though.  But I've lived in Michigan for more than 30 years now, after moving from New York ... there can be a bit of wiggle room.

It is simply required to eat a hot dog in honor of this occasion - what's a baseball game without a hot dog, after all?  And I'm offering the perfect accompaniment, since the Tigers are playing the Red Sox from Beantown: Boston-Style Baked Beans, featuring the rich sweetness of molasses.

Now, I know that there are folks who don't share my excitement today, who aren't serving ritual, traditional foods.  Many people think that baseball is boring, because they don't understand it.  I'll spare you my rants about other sports which I simply cannot endure or which I ridicule with great glee, and rather focus on what I consider to be the great joy of baseball.

Sure, I'll grant you that there are lots of foul balls, causing significant delays in the games.  Sure, there  are plenty of superstitious players going through repetitive rituals, making it tedious to watch sometimes.  Sure, baseball players are prisses who can't play in bad weather.  Sure, there are performance-enhancing drugs and other scandals.

But baseball can be watched intently, play by play, or it can be company in the background; it can be whatever you need it to be.  There are thrilling moments that people remember - and debate - for decades.  People have been so devoted to the sport that their hearts have been broken by teams that have abandoned cities and by players who have abandoned teams.

Most importantly, though, the true beauty of baseball is this: with every single pitch there is the potential for something magical.  It doesn't always happen.  But the chance is there, and the hope is there.  And every so often, you get to witness a spectacular moment.

Today, a Mom or Dad or maybe a Grandpa is taking a child to his or her first baseball game.  They're wandering through the stadium, buying peanuts and Cracker Jacks and a souvenir program.  They're looking for their section.  They're heading toward the usher.  They're about to climb to their seats.

And in an instant, they walk out from the dark corridor and into the blinding sunshine.  A field of the brightest, most vibrant green lies before them.  Players are casually tossing the ball around.  Vendors are calling out with offers of pretzels and ice cold beer.  The scoreboard is zeroed out, waiting for the first hit, the first ball, the first run.

There are so few moments as special as that one instant when you walk into the ball park and the excitement surrounds you and transports you!  It elicits a gasp, and brings both a smile and a tear.

Today is a day of celebration.  It's Opening Day!  And all things are possible ....


Quick 'n' Easy Boston-Style Baked Beans

1 28-ounce can vegetarian baked beans, drained
1/4 cup unsulphured molasses
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 tablespoons brown mustard
2 tablespoons honey barbecue sauce
1/4 cup finely chopped onion

Place all ingredients into a small saucepan; bring just to a boil, then lower heat to "low" and cook for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Serves 6-8.

Slows To Go

Slows Bar-B-Q is so many, many things to Detroit.  It's a place to eat.  It's a destination for tourists and suburbanites who might not otherwise go into the city.  It's a place that Detroiters take enormous pride in.  It's a part of the city's renaissance.

As an article in The New York Times explains it:

"In this city, a much-heralded emblem of industrial-age decline, and home to a cripplingly bad economy, a troubled school system, racial segregation and sometimes unheeded crime, there is one place where most everyone — black, white, poor, rich, urban, not — will invariably recommend you eat: Slows Bar B Q.

Slows opened in 2005 at the edge of downtown Detroit, in Corktown, across from the long-abandoned central train station, itself a symbol of widespread blight. Hidden behind a stylish wooden door with no discernible handle, it has become a beacon, drawing longtime Detroiters, newly arrived young people and scores of suburbanites, who wait for hours to sample the pulled pork and dry-smoked ribs and coo over the upcycled design. The restaurant and its sleek décor were dreamed up by one of Slows’ owners, Phillip Cooley, who has emerged as a de facto spokesman for the now-hip revitalization of this city."

It's proven to be so popular that Slows To Go was opened as a means to deal with the crowds at the original site, such that hungry folks could simply run in, pick their options, and then take their food elsewhere in order to let the next set of hungry folks satisfy their appetites.  If you've got a couple of hours to spend waiting for a table at the original, eating, luxuriating and loitering ... by all means, you absolutely want to visit the mainstay.

But if you're in a hurry or if you're just too hungry to wait, Slows To Go is your option.  So that's where Jeremy, Stuart and I ended up one recent Saturday, because neither of my companions particularly excels in the patience department.  And there are a few stools available at counters that line the walls; so rather than taking our food with us, we merely perched and ate with giddy, gluttonous abandon.

You can order enormous plates of ribs or pulled pork or brisket or chicken (even "veggie chicken") or wings; these come with your choice of sides and sauces.  There are combo plates.  There are some gluten-free options.  There are soups and even salads ... pfft!  Like you go to a barbecue joint for lettuce!

And then there are sandwiches, served on Zingerman's rolls, which are the most economical way to get your carnivorous fix.  Jeremy and Stuart each ordered the Triple Threat Pork Sandwich pictured above: "Applewood bacon, pulled pork and ham stacked high and mighty.  Heeyah!  Git some!"  Oh, man, this was an unbelievable feast of smoky, tender, pork heaven!  The boys devoured these.

I chose The Reason: "Naturally-Raised Pork butt, smoked slow and pulled, bathed in our NC Sauce and topped with our signature coleslaw and dill pickle strips."  That I love North Carolina vinegary barbecue, that Slows serves Michigan's own McClure's pickles, and that if I ate some cole slaw I could delude myself into thinking there were some health benefits to my lunch ... well, all of these led to my astoundingly flavorful and fabulous meal.  Because we ordered three sandwiches, we were able to choose three different sauces to go with them: Sweet, Mustard Creole (the unanimous favorite), and Apple (even sweeter than Sweet).

Slows is also justifiably noted for its macaroni and cheese, which is utter decadence.  It has absolutely no redeeming nutritional value, but oh, was it good for our souls!  Each of us was sorely tempted to just inhale this greedily, but knew we needed to share.  We did so reluctantly, in that we wanted to selfishly keep it all to ourselves; but we did so generously, as well, because it was just so, so good that we wanted our loved ones to share in the joy.

So come to Detroit!  Eat at Slows!  And if you're in the area, let me know - I'll happily join you ... :)


For today's recipe - Gingered Mango Soup - go to the Food and Grocery page of AnnArbor.com ....


Slows Bar-B-Q
2138 Michigan Avenue
Detroit, MI 48216


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Slows To Go
4107 Cass Avenue
Detroit, MI 48201


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"Never Out of Mustard"

My good friend Wendy and I went to Detroit recently for an adventure. First we went to the Eastern Market and bought tomato plants and gorgeous sparkly, dangly earrings; we immersed ourselves in the abundance of fruits and vegetables and baked goods and plants and colors and aromas and vendors.

Before heading off to lunch, we walked the length of the Dequindre Cut:

"The Dequindre Cut is a below-grade pathway, formerly a Grand Trunk Western Railroad line, located on the east side of Detroit, Michigan just west of St. Aubin Street. Much of the Cut has been converted to a greenway; the colorful graffiti along the pathway has been left in place." (With thanks to Wikipedia for the succinct description.)


I had been there before, in the winter, and hadn't been able to see the entire expanse. But Wendy and I can both walk for long stretches (we walked 6 miles in all that day) and it was a stellar, sunny morning that was just perfect for a leisurely stroll.

As I had the last time I walked the Cut, I took pictures of the notable graffiti lining the way. Some of it is amateurish, and some is quite exceptional.

But how could a food obsessive like me not capture and cherish this piece:


This is practically my motto in life! I love mustard, in so many of its variations: yellow, Creole, whole grain, honey, whatever.

And, truly, I am never out of mustard.

In fact, I love mustard so much that I used two different types on a grilled salami and Muenster sandwich awhile ago (pre-discovery of my blood pressure issues, of course!): both brown and Dijon. Each makes its own unique contribution to the cause, and works in unison with the rest of the ingredients to offer flavor but without overpowering any other item.

Why be boring and just settle for one mustard, when you can boost the flavor with something as simple as a second schmear?

Grilled Salami and Muenster on Rye

2 slices caraway rye
schmear of Dijon mustard
schmear of brown mustard
2 thick slices Muenster
4 thin slices salami
1 tablespoon butter

Lay the bread on the countertop. Schmear one slice with Dijon mustard and the other with brown mustard. Place one slices of cheese onto each piece of bread, and top with salami; close the sandwich. Spread the butter on the outsides of the bread slices.

Place a skillet over medium heat and cook the sandwich in it for 2-3 minutes per side, until the bread is golden brown and the cheese is melting. Let the sandwich rest for 1-2 minutes before cutting.

Serves 1-2.

Frugal Floozie Friday -- Good Girls Go To Paris

My BFF Wendy and I are, indeed, good girls! But we don't have enough money to go to Paris ... that and, while Wendy is an adventurer with no equal, I am utterly phobic and petrified of flying. And I don't have enough vacation time left (even if I could afford it) to sail my way to France.

So thankfully, good girls can also go to Detroit to indulge in cravings for crepes!

Good Girls Go To Paris is a lovely creperie near the amazing Detroit Institute of Arts. We had specifically gone to Detroit on a gorgeous Saturday recently specifically to visit the colossal and fabulous Eastern Market, and decided we would eat lunch someplace new and special while we were in the city.




Wendy and I have both lived in Michigan since 1978, and for some inconceivable reason had never been to this massive extravaganza for which the term "farmers' market" is woefully insufficient. And so, that day we decided to remedy the situation and then reward ourselves with a treat while striving to stay within the budgetary limits of my new feature -- Frugal Floozie Friday.

And what, you may ask, is the price limit???

$5 per person. Severe, but true.

But believe it or not, a good girl can have a lot of fun for such a small expenditure!


As you can see from the creperie's menu, there are savory options and sweet ones, all given girls' names. Well, of course we then had to order the "Wendy" (blue cheese, spinach, walnuts, and cherries with raspberry vinaigrette) for an elegant entree and the "Mary" (sugar, cinnamon, and butter) for dessert -- our Frugal Floozie Friday feature at $4.50. How could we resist???

Now, the notion of filling a crepe with a salad -- even if it is one of my favorite salad combinations -- seemed rather odd; and yet, it worked! It was delicious, amazingly wonderful!!! As Wendy said: "That it's fresh spinach is important; most people would cook it until it was wilted." Without the raspberry vinaigrette, it was rich and creamy; with it, the crepe was transformed into something bursting with vivid flavor.

Wendy doesn't like anything vinegary, but bravely tried the dressing. She loved the raspberry flavor shining through, though politely rejected the sourness and left all the more for me. Only a small drizzle was necessary to fully complement all of the ingredients, from the salad-y interior to the thin, perfectly cooked crepe.

And then there was dessert, rich and sweet and luscious! It didn't really need the seductive enticement of whipped cream, but one can never go wrong with whipped cream, either, as we all know.

The huge crepe -- which is made fresh and in full view of customers at the front counter -- held a perfect proportion of ingredients. The sweetness shone through without being overwhelmed by the crepe, and the crepe wasn't stuffed to bursting with an overabundance of sugary goo inside.

This was a perfect lunch for a day on which Wendy and I had a superlative adventure, walking more than 6 miles as we toured areas of Detroit and basked in the sunshine. I cannot recommend Good Girls Go To Paris highly enough!

Good Girls Go To Paris
15 E. Kirby, Suite 115
Detroit, Michigan 48202
1-877-PARIS-CREPES

Frugal Floozie Friday: Food and Fun for Five Dollars or Less ... Really!!!

"And the Angel Said Unto Them ...."

Let me warn you now -- this is going to be a long post. I can hear you saying: "Honey, your posts are always long, unless it's 'Wordless Wednesday'!"

But as I embark upon telling this story, it will take some time to do it properly, to set the mood, to provide what I think is some necessary history, and to convey the message that was delivered to me. It's a meandering tale, but an important one ... and one I've been trying to write for 2 months, which finally crystallized in honor of today's 100th post. So let me begin ....

On Friday night, June 25, I was visited by an angel.

As those who've been following along for awhile know, in mid-May my boyfriend Tom had asked me to take "a break" -- whatever that was -- after some significant life situations that required some peace and privacy to sort out and recover from. No visits, no email, no nothin'??? Sure sounds like a break-UP to me. I cried, I mourned ... but that was difficult with no body to confirm the death. I moved on because I had no choice but to do so; and one of the ways in which I did that was by committing fully to this blog.

I signed up for the NaBloPoMo to provide a daily distraction to myself, something to focus upon that was fun and which utilized my talents -- it brought me amusement and a bit of a boost to my shattered self-esteem. So many of you responded to my daily blathering about food and whatnot -- sharing a laugh with me, supporting me, encouraging me, complimenting me, inviting me into your lives while following along with mine .... Truly, with abundant gratitude, I thank each and every one of you for helping to restore me and for becoming my friends.

And then, on June 18 -- and remember, the number 18 has significant import in Judaism as it represents "life" -- I received an email from Tom. He had been sitting at his desk, cleaning up icons and other peripheral nonsense on his computer. He looked down the list of his "favorites" and found Food Floozie. He hadn't checked my blog prior to that, feeling it was an intrusion upon my privacy ... but he clicked on it that day, just because.

Interestingly, given that I usually put my posts up a little bit after midnight, this didn't open up the Friday post "L'Chaim -- To Life!" It opened up "Thursday Thirteen -- 13 First Dates" ... hmmmm. He scrolled down to see what vile retribution I may have spewed about him, only to find that I had been very fair ... and also to see that there had been no resolution between us. Because of very confused circumstances, he'd felt our relationship was over; his memory of events was incomplete, and he hadn't realized that there was so much still to be said.

So he emailed me and asked if we could talk. And we did, the very next day, sitting on the grass on a gorgeous sunny evening

Full disclosure, though it may seem odd to others: we were sitting at the gravesite of my beloved friend Wendy's daughter Julia, whom I consider to be an intercessor and thus whose "home" is a place where I seek comfort. Tom had asked where I'd like to meet, and that was the one place that kept calling to me ... Julia kept calling to me. I believe she was watching over us, guiding us -- our process was remarkably smooth despite delving into extraordinarily painful realms.

After several hours of explanation and illustration and sorrow and comprehension and tears, it was as though the proverbial cloud had lifted. Tom and I started to relax, to joke, to behave with each other more as we had in the past, though there was still some tension and there were still some boundaries. He asked if he could give me a hug before we left, and that solidified our reunion.

Tom and I got together several times that week, after Jeremy and I returned home from Chicago. His daughter had a 2-hour layover in Detroit that Friday night, the 25th, as she was on her way to Seattle; so Tom picked up some sandwiches from Ann Arbor's famous Zingerman's Deli, I finally got to meet Cassidy (she lives in Philly), and we had a lovely picnic at a local park. (FYI: Tom ordered "Mary's Commute" with chicken salad and applewood-smoked bacon, so I reciprocated by ordering "Tom's New Job" with turkey and Swiss and cole slaw ... awwww.) We dropped Cassidy off for her connecting flight and decided to enjoy a gorgeous evening by the waterfront in Detroit ... hoping, perhaps, to find some ice cream along the way. So we drove on down to the big city for an adventure.

A radio station was sponsoring a concert at Campus Martius Park featuring a local band, the sun was shining intensely, the weather was neither hot nor chilly ... it was a fabulous beginning to the weekend.

We happily found a small ice cream shop on a side street, and one which wasn't a chain but rather one which was locally owned. One of the gentlemen behind the counter was wearing dress pants, a button-down shirt and a tie; presumably, he'd come from his day job to work at his own shop in the evening. And the other gentleman, who was more chatty, helped me with my usual brain paralysis to settle upon just one flavor of ice cream when they all sounded luscious. (I later found out that the shop is called Happy Cream Ice Cream and Deli. I was too giddy and infatuated to be in my usual blogger mode and take notes and photographs, so I had to do some hunting.)

Now here's the only food connection other than the sandwiches, so pay attention or it will fly on by! Tom ordered chocolate ice cream while I -- with the aforementioned assistance -- ordered a sublime Banana Pudding ice cream that came complete with vanilla wafer cookies in it ... sigh.

The ice cream was fabulous, the value was tremendous (huge servings for very reasonable prices), Michael Jackson songs were being played all day long in tribute on the anniversary of his death (yahrzeit [YAHRT-site] in Yiddish), and we will definitely go back again.

We walked across the street to sit down -- across the wide avenue from the band so that we could carry on a conversation, but close enough to feel a part of things right outside the Compuware Building. We relished our ice cream, we talked, we kissed, we combined ice creams to create an equivalent to my chocolate banana pudding (a recipe I still need to share with all of you, because it is divine!). Once we had finished, Tom and I took each other's hands, just sitting quietly together and holding on tightly ... very tightly, as our heads bowed towards each other.

And then an older African-American man walked up to us from a few feet away. He was short, dressed in a bright blue t-shirt and dark pants, sporting dreadlocks that came to his jawline. He didn't look scruffy, per se, but he clearly was someone who lives a difficult existence. His manner wasn't aggressive, and he stated without hesitation that he wasn't seeking money from us despite holding the ubiquitous red plastic cup that sadly identifies both beggars and alcoholics. His eyes showed that alcohol might sing a Siren song to him at times, but there was no odor of it on him when he spoke to us. He was polite, deferential and -- as he shook our hands -- profusely apologetic for interrupting.

"I don't know if you two were praying together, but it looks like you were. And you look like you're very much in love." We smiled broadly and nodded, affirming our love for each other. I cannot replicate this man's speech pattern -- Tom has wished we had a transcript of our interaction with him, and it would be really helpful right now. He spoke quickly and in a staccato fashion, and repeated himself frequently ... it was as though he's accustomed to being dismissed by society, accustomed to not being heard or listened to. (And he punctuated many of his statements by offering an Obama-style "fist bump," seeking consensus, too.) But what he was saying was important enough that he needed to keep reiterating it.

He mentioned that "she" -- we presumed his wife, but he told us that he's been trying to get her to marry him and she keeps refusing -- was inside ... the only thing open in the Compuware Building on a Friday night, besides the lobby with the pretty-colored mobiles pictured above, is a bar. He loved her very much, and they'd been through a lot together, but he just didn't feel that they were a team. To hear this man tell his story, he was doing the necessary work in the relationship and the woman he loved was taking it for granted. He didn't feel loved or appreciated in return for who he was, despite any complications in his life.

This man wanted more for us. He could see that we were in love, that we were clinging to each other's hands as though we might lose each other again and couldn't bear that thought. He kept talking to Tom, mostly -- apologizing to me in the process, but explaining that men needed each other and had to do some bonding periodically, sharing on their own spiritual level. He was partly sharing his sorrow at not having the fulfilling relationship he dreamt of and partly bemoaning the complexities of women and partly celebrating the joys of love.

"You've gotta try." Over and over, he reiterated that statement -- "You've gotta try." Life is hard, and there are all sorts of problems from health to money to children to work that can drag a person and a relationship down. This man had recently been released from jail, and he'd spent some time without a home, as well. But you've gotta try -- you have to talk, to share, to trust, to confide, to work at it. The relationship sometimes has to take precedence over the individual. You've gotta try. This man felt as though he was trying very, very hard ... sadly, though, the woman he was trying for didn't seem to be returning his devotion and his efforts.

After a significant amount of time listening intently to this man's story and remarking on his earnestness and sincerity, I asked if I might interrupt for a moment. Politely he nodded and extended an invitation to me.

"This may sound odd, but I believe that God sends angels to deliver messages that we need to hear. You said that you could tell that my boyfriend and I are very much in love, which we are. But we've only just gotten back together after some difficult experiences. We're trying very, very hard to get past the hurt and the pain, trying very hard to make things work this time. And then here you are, coming up to us on a Friday night and reminding us of the very lesson we need to hear, to remember -- that we need to try."

The man smiled broadly and nodded vigorously ... but I'm not sure he realized that I believe HE was an angel -- "our" angel, as Tom and I have taken to calling him. He absolutely agreed with the notion that messengers are sent, but I think it is abundantly clear that he, himself, had been sent to us on that Friday evening. He brought a message of hope, of reassurance, of insistence. Try. As the adage states: "Progress, not perfection." Try. At least make the effort. The person you love is worth trying for.

A few minutes later our angel then walked away, leaving us to contemplate having been visited by someone so unlike us, someone who is accustomed to being at the periphery of society and yet who felt comfortable approaching us when we were so immersed in our togetherness. He came up to us seeking nothing at all, not asking for money or cigarettes or anything else. Instead, he had been sent precisely to give us something -- to deliver a message of significant import to two people who not only needed to hear it but who would listen to it, to him.

Tom felt bad afterwards for not having asked for the man's name, and I agreed that it would be nice to know it; after all, a name provides an identity rather than leaving someone to be relegated to anonymity and not making any impact upon others or upon the universe. But in some ways, a name would have made the interaction more ordinary; being known as "Our Angel" bestows a grandeur beyond the mere human, I think. He's not just "Mike" or "John," but that rarified entity that most people dismiss or ignore -- an angel, sent specifically to us. A gift from God.

And so, in the past 2 months Tom and I have tried despite a flare-up of illness and despite some stressors and despite some issues that still require a bit of processing now and then. We have put "us" above everything. We remind ourselves that "Our Angel" told us we need to try.

I know that this very lengthy saga was only vaguely related to food, despite being the 100th post from someone whose very existence revolves around cooking food, eating food, photographing food, shopping for food, baking food, smelling food, writing about food, reading about food, talking about food, thinking about food, dreaming about food. I did, for the record, mention both sandwiches and ice cream! But this story was too important to leave as a draft, as it has been since June. It was fitting for an important occasion like today.

Try. You've gotta try. An angel was sent to convey this -- an unassuming-looking angel whom most people would either walk past without even noticing or actively try to avoid for fear of being solicited. But he was "Our Angel" -- I believe that with all my heart. He chose us, and we paid attention. And now it is my turn to share his message ....