European-Style Eggs

And by European, I mean barely cooked. So if soft eggs make you squeamish, better keep moving.

This is a technique I learned (believe it or not) while watching Regis & Kathie Lee many moons ago. Whoever the guest chef was used a wire whisk, but since I used a non-stick saucepan for this particular batch, I used a wooden spoon. You really need a saucepan for this in order to achieve the soup-like consistency. The delicate balance to be achieved here is to have the eggs just heated enough to be cooked, but soft enough to retain the texture of a cream soup. The occasional cooked lump is unavoidable and OK, especially if using a wooden spoon.

If you have fresh herbs on hand, add lots of them! Fresh herbs are a delightful addition to Eggs European-style. Serve in a bowl or over toast.


European-Style Eggs

2 eggs
1 handful of fresh chives, chopped
extra virgin olive oil or grapeseed oil


Serves 1


In a medium sauce pan, saute the chives in oil (enough to cover the bottom of the pan) over medium heat. Cook for about 5 minutes or until chives become aromatic (don't try to caramelize). Meanwhile, beat eggs in a mixing bowl until frothy.

Turn heat down to medium-low and add eggs to the saucepan. Let cook for one minute, then begin whisking or stirring. Occasionally stop stirring to let eggs set, but you only want them slightly set so they retain a creamy texture.

When eggs look and feel heated (there should be a few specks of cooked egg throughout), remove from heat and serve. Bon Apetit!

Solstice on The Hudson

This is my version of James Taylor's remedy for climbing up to the roof to get away from it all. I do it when I don't have the time to invest in a drive to Lake George or points further north. It's a spot on the Hudson River, right in the middle of the little city of Glens Falls, and coincidentally, a stone's throw from the hospital where I decided to make my planetary debut.

Since today is the solstice, I knew that starting tomorrow, opportunities for taking sun-drenched photos at 8 p.m. would be dwindling, so here's my montage.

Pay no attention to the factory in the background! (This is why "Last of The Mohicans" was filmed in the wilds of North Carolina).

Patio Pesto

Pesto. It’s densely flavored, intoxicatingly earthy, and extremely messy. There’s just no way around it. Whether you’re whipping up a batch or slathering it on something soft and absorbent (like a piece of Villa Bread), the chances are high that it will drip or splatter. Only if you’re wearing clothing does this become a problem. Which brings me to the perfect solution, which I can’t believe didn’t occur to me sooner: eat it naked. Why not? It’s summer, the mosquitoes aren’t bad this year and you can spread the green stuff to your heart’s content with no worries about having to burn your favorite cut-offs the next day. Because once pesto sinks into a patch of clothing fiber…it’s in. So slap a few towels down on the patio furniture and go for it.

This particular version got its name last summer after I wrote a story on edible landscaping. I broke with my longstanding tradition of planting impatiens in my balcony window boxes and instead sewed a few rows of basil, tarragon, thyme, dill, mint, sage, and oregano. One afternoon towards the end of July, Patio Pesto was born. An amalgamation of the window box contents plus the usual suspects: good olive oil (preferably Don Luigi from Teitel Brothers on Arthur Avenue www.teitelbros.com), several garlic cloves, Peccorino, and a few splashes of lemon or limejuice. It was fabulous. The note of each herb was present within. Far better than the basil pesto that I made for more than a decade.

Above are photos from my first batch of ’09. Speaking of ’09, it’s the year I decided to go cow-dairy and gluten-free. But I was having company so rather than subject them to toasted rice bread, I felt it only right to present freshly made pesto with Villa Bread, also known as the best white bread on the planet. There’s only one location that makes it: the Villa’s brick oven bakery at 44 Walnut St. in Glens Falls. And unless you live within a 10 mile-radius, you’ve gotta have a connection or get it Fed-Exed. Aside from that, any kind of artisan white bread, preferably baked at a locally owned establishment will do…even a toasted bagel makes a great foundation for a thick and glistening coat of pesto. The results for my maiden batch of '09 were sublime…and my gluten-free ‘English Muffin’ made of rice and tapioca starch was actually pretty good. The main thing is, it did its job: soaked in twice its weight in pesto.

Pesto is meant to be a free-spirited concoction. There are no rules. Make the ratios whatever you want. It should resemble a thin paste but the rest is up to you. And I almost never use nuts. Always seemed pointless since the other ingredients erase the flavor.


Patio Pesto Recipe

The ingredient list was as follows: enough basil, thyme, tarragon, and chives to fill a colander; extra virgin olive oil, Moliterno Sheep’s Milk Peccorino (acquired on my last visit to Fairway at 74th and Broadway www.fairwaymarket.com), about a tablespoon of lemon juice. Pulse it all in a food processor until smooth.

Don’t expose it to open air too long or it turns brown. It’s unsightly but still ok to eat; it’s just the oxygen at work on the leaves. And it freezes well – for up to a year. Bon Appetit!

The Big Four-Four

So I've just entered my 44th year of life on this spinning marble, and coincidentally, just encountered the perfect song that sums up my feelings about having made it this far (sometimes over broken glass).


Thanks to the incomparable Miss Gloria Gaynor for providing the pipes:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=uj8C43r4zm0

Leave Silda Alone

Originally Published in the Times Union, Albany, N.Y. March 15, 2008


Keep wives out of public confessional


By STACEY MORRIS



Dear Famous, Powerful Men Who Bust Out of Their Marriage Vows and Get Caught:

I know what you're thinking, but keep reading. I haven't picked up my pen to condemn you, but to make a request: Please drop the tactic of using your wife as a raincoat when it's time to deliver that rote apology at the podium.

There's the saying: We come into this world on our own and we go out alone. But why is it when famous, power-hungry men begin their post-sex scandal freefall, you can't hold a press conference without your wives super-glued to your side?

Here are a few reasons why swallowing the bitter pill of public admission with no one at your side is an idea whose time has come.

Attempt to think about your wife for a moment. (I know, this is going to require you to focus on someone other than yourself, but go with me on this.) Why should she have to face the flashing bulbs, rolling cameras and millions of curious eyes that belong on you?

In the long run, her presence will be about as helpful to your damaged reputation as an adhesive bandage to a gushing flesh wound. And more importantly, leaving her out of the press conference equation would be a tangible gesture of compassion, the first step in your uphill climb to try to repair your marriage.

Put plainly, it's simply too much to ask of your wife. And it makes you look sort of ... weak. Why not also drag your mothers along while you're at it?

Witnessing yet another wife, her face drained of life and color, standing there stiffly, is something we should be evolving out of at this point in our history. And, frankly, the whole production doesn't seem to carry any magical power to restore your pre-scandal luster.

As a noninsider, I have no idea whether Silda Wall Spitzer did it out of genuine love for her husband, was talked into it or chose it out of knee-jerk compassion in the heat of the moment as the clock counted down to air time. Of course, it's a personal choice. And she may well have felt it was the right thing to do.

But since it's probably not the last sex scandal we'll see in our lifetimes, all I'm suggesting is, let's have a Plan B for the hurting spouses. And no questions asked if they want to take it, although the Mrs. Spitzers of the world (savvy and educated in their own right) can handle the heat.

But what's so wrong with a woman in Mrs. Spitzer's position being honest about her feelings at the time, even if they were disgust and anger? I'm not advocating grabbing the microphone to turn the air blue, but red-lighting an outdated obligation would be a far healthier alternative to playing along if it isn't what she wants to do.

There's also something profoundly wrong with the weight of reparation being on the shoulders of the betrayed. Leave her out of it. Don't even put it in the realm of consideration -- and that goes for all of your spinmeisters.

Some have argued that women like Mrs. Spitzer and Dina Matos McGreevey (ex-wife of former New Jersey Gov. Jim McGreevey) do it for the sake of their children, to demonstrate a unified front. It sounds good in theory, but if there had been a unified alliance in the first place, there'd be no press conference.

Time will tell whether Mrs. Spitzer forgives her husband or decides kicking him into the next time zone is the best course of action. To say that an extraordinary amount of hashing out lies ahead is an understatement. Which is exactly why she should have been spared this insulting and unnecessary spectacle.

After all, it's heaping amounts of hubris that got you fellows to the apology podium in the first place, so what could be more therapeutic than following through without assistance?

And lest you think I'm harping on an issue already fading into old news, consider The Associated Press story last June announcing Hustler publisher Larry Flynt's offer of $1 million to "anyone who can provide proof of an illicit sexual encounter with a high-ranking government official." If that's not enough to scare a philanderer into Ward Cleaver-hood, I don't know what is.

But in case we're subjected to another of you falling from grace, Americans in general have had enough of the grind. We're tired of seeing someone who had no part in the unseemly deed paraded out like a prop to help cool that hot water you chose to simmer in.

So do whatever you need to do to make the evolutionary leap: Give yourself an aria of a pep talk in the mirror, memorize key passages from Emerson's "Self Reliance," or make it a party and call in the trifecta advisory team of Dr. Phil, Judge Judy, and Nanny Jo Frost. If they can't get you tap-dancing down that yellow brick road of integrity, no one can.

Hopefully a light bulb will at last go on, somewhere deep within your egos. It will illuminate the fact that you're about to make the most difficult speech of your life -- and taking your wife along for the ride is not an option.

OK...I'll Write My Own Ending

Since we're all obviously expected to write our own Soprano's ending, here's mine:



Setting: Holsten's Diner, North Jersey


The guy in the bathroom comes out, stops when he gets to Tony and reaches into his breast pocket. Tony flinches for a second, thinking the end is finally here. Carmella screams 'NO!', A.J. dives under the table, letting out a Clay Aikin-like yelp as he smacks his head on the way down. (Carmella instinctively grabs her glass of ice water, compresses it to A.J.'s head while simultaneously shouting to the waitress that they better have Lincoln Log sandwiches on the menu).

Meadow gallops over from the doorway and warns the stranger that he better not f#%*@ with her family.

The man smiles at her, then strokes Tony benevolently on the head as he hands him a copy of The Four Agreements.

"It will change your life, Anthony. Read it and pass it on," he whispers before leaving.

Since he has heartburn from the onion rings and can't sleep that night, Tony sits up in his barca lounge and reads the book from cover to cover.

The next morning, as the sun streams into the kitchen, Carmela comes down to find Tony at the stove, humming as he fries her a Prosciutto omelet.

He pours her a cup of coffee and effuses about how he's been playing the game of life all wrong. Now he understands what he's meant to do with the rest of his years.

After he's cooked breakfast for the family and done the dishes, Tony hurries off to the hospital with The Four Agreements in hand, where he reads it aloud to Silvio, who of course, makes a miraculous recovery.

He and Tony both agree that it's time to take a different path in life and they leave the hospital to find Paulie and pass the book on to him.

Cut to the next scene. The Bada Bing has been completely renovated and turned into a holistic healing arts center. The interiors have been partitioned off to make way for yoga and meditation classes, reiki sessions, past-life regressions, and the practice of Ayurvedic medicine.

Tony looks around and takes in the new look: crystals in every nook and cranny, indoor windchimes, gold-framed photos of Jesus, Buddha, Mother Mary and other icons on the walls, a few well-placed waterfalls, and a sitar player sitting cross-legged on a giant pillow reciting the OM chant.

Paulie walks in the door, strides over to Tony and with a slight smirk, hands him an envelope

"The travel agent told me it ain't Bombay no moo-ah..it's Mumbai."

Tony thanks Paulie for keeping an eye on things while he's away.

"Carm know about this?"

"Yeah. She's goin' with me."

They bear-hug and then Paulie looks wistfully after Tony as he disappears through the door then shakes his head.

"A month at an ashram...Marrone."


The credits roll in tandem with the George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord."


....something like that.

Why I Oughta...

By Stacey Morris


Where is he? Lemme at him. I swear if I find David Chase I’ll…

Pardon me. I’m still decompressing. One week after the most lethargic series finale of all time (with the lone exception of Phil’s rubout) the wounds have yet to fully close.

Is there any question that after all these years of loyalty, Soprano’s fans deserved better?

I know, I know: Chase (the show’s creator) has always demanded we draw our own conclusions. His minimalist and highly original storytelling style is something I've long admired. But since this is the "final episode...ever," there should have been a bit more workmanship put into the finished product.

The fact that it was the finale wasn't the only reason I felt completely, shall we say, goosed as the credits rolled silently. This is HB-Freakin' O. I paid to watch this show, and therefore, the bar is supposed to be set a little higher.

I wasn’t looking for a predictable conclusion, with every loose thread quaintly embroidered into place. Any Soprano’s fan knows better than to expect the plot-schlock played out in movies and network TV again and again.

(Which reminds me, to all those fans on message boards across the globe: Did you confuse Chase with the head writer at "Days of Our Lives"? Adriana is indeed DEAD. The Russian’s not coming back to get Paulie, either. Can we move on from that now?)

As the creative master he’s proven himself to be, I’m sure there were several Chase-worthy endings that he formulated over the years. My only unbendable expectation as an emotionally and financially invested viewer was that he pick one.

Instead he did the unforgivable by copping out. What a waste. And not just the last two minutes.

Chase chose to conclude his masterpiece with scenes of Meadow’s multiple attempts to parallel park, Paulie Walnuts’ Laurel and Hardy schtick with the cat, and the peculiar fascination with A.J.'s tribulations (we get it, he's a self-absorbed loser).

But that sudden cut to silent black (that had us frantically reaching for the remote to make sure the cable hadn't gone out) was simply hostile. Thanks a lot, pal. After all these years of loyal viewing and taking our money, you go out with an ending that was about as satisfying as a dud firecracker.

If I’m expected to work that hard at wrapping up the end of the series, I should be paid the going rate for scriptwriters, plus union benefits.

It smacked of such artistic Hari Kari, I'm starting to wonder if Chase didn't willfully shoot himself in the foot.

Vanity Fair's April profile of Chase noted his formative years were spent as an underloved only child of woefully unhealthy parents. He’s always been open about his mother being the inspiration for the role of Livia Soprano, Tony’s relentlessly damaging mother.

Post-college, Chase moved to Hollywood to begin a script-writing career, but more importantly, to flee his parents.

What has all this to do with the shockingly disappointing final episode?

Since the series began a decade ago, Chase has been up to his elbows in glowing reviews and trophies. Aside from a few disgruntled remarks about the Tony-in-a-coma storyline last year, it was a continual stream of media praise. Fans stopped short of making graven images of Chase. When the final nine episodes edged toward airdate, the acclaim snowballed into an avalanche.

You don't have to be Dr. Melfi to know that low self-esteem and intense praise can't really peacefully co-exist.

So, Chase made a move that hopefully would ensure the most successful chapter of his career would not end on swells of a lingering high note: He gave us no ending – a move interpreted by his most ardent fans as brilliant.

It was clever, I’ll give him that, but just not in terms of plot.

What better way to a) kick sand in the faces of those twisted souls who admired him and b) leave the door open for the red carpet premiere of Big Screen Tony?

Chase has been quoted as saying that feature films have been his goal all along. And why not? Tony, Carmella, Meadow, and A.J. weren’t definitively taken out in the final scene. Add Paulie, Patsy, Dr. Melfi, Janice, Artie, Hesh, et al, and you’ve practically got a full cast. And mark my words: if it does happen, Silvio WILL emerge from that coma he wasn’t expected to recover from. Hopefully the movie can address if the miracle was tied into Paulie’s Lourdes-like vision of Mother Mary hovering above the stage at Bada Bing.

My admiration for Chase’s brilliance demonstrated in The Soprano’s first 85 episodes will always remain intact.

But perhaps it will provide him with a measure of psychological relief that, along with millions of other smarting viewers, the stunt he pulled in the final scene changed my opinion of him irrevocably. Buddy, if you didn't want legions of admirers, why not just go work for the IRS?

I doubt I'll put out for the double-digit ticket price if and when The Soprano’s are resurrected on the big screen.

Episode 86 was enough for me.

Commandatore, Ciao.