I am pecking out this dispatch from the middle of the Sonoran Desert under the watchful eye of the giant saguaro outside my casita. Saguaros can take up to 75 years to grow a side arm; the one who stands guard over me as I slumber is probably   close to 100 years old. This afternoon, I ate his cousin - the prickly pear cactus. Not the entire cactus - just a little nibble of a  pad and a smidge of a blossom. I'm amazed by how much sustenance this harsh desert landscape offers ... the prickly pear, yes, but also hundreds of other edible plants, including our friend blue agave, which, when fermented and distilled, yields tequila. While I'm in Arizona to learn how to be a better strategic thinker, planner, and communicator, I found our group's afternoon desert walk to be as (if not more) informative than our morning session. Did you know that you have to wait 12 years after you plant blue agave before you can harvest its heart to make a batch of tequila? That's four times longer than you have to wait for asparagus! It has been said that "tequila" comes from the Nahuatl word that means something like work, duty, job, or task. With that in mind, I feel it is my duty to consume a drop or two each evening when we eggheads gather in the main lodge for happy hour. Trust me, people, I'm earning the privilege. Today, I mastered the "swoosh and star" technique for envisioning my organization's desired future state, and I lassoed a hay bale. Tomorrow, we'll continue our deep dive into the world of strategy maps, and I'll pen some cattle while atop a horse. I'm making a special request for Cutaway, a gelding formally owned by ... (wait for it) ... Lindsay Wagner. I'm hoping Cutaway has bionic penning capabilities so that I can saddle up and dismount in record time ... and then make my way back to the bar for another glass of agave juice.

A picture is worth a thousand words ... but a video? Well, a video is worth at least a million.

Bitegeist Productions is pleased to present A Girl and Her Cake, starring Marian and the strawberry and cream layer cake I baked for her birthday.

A Girl and Her Cake from Deb Barshafsky on Vimeo.

This morning, we had breakfast at Stack's on Hilton Head Island. I feel sure I ordered the best thing on the menu - Crepes Florentine. This isn't typical ordering behavior for me ... didn't I post something a while back about order envy? Anyway, so there we were, enjoying the creme brulee French toast as a shared dessert and in walks ...... (drum roll to create anticipation) ...... Robert Irvine, former host of Food Network's show Dinner: Impossible. Things haven't been going so well for Chef Robert. The Food Network replaced him with Michael Symon (the new Iron Chef) for season five of Dinner: Impossible after they discovered a few issues with his credentials, including his overstatement of his role in the production of the Prince Charles/Lady Diana wedding cake. I'll leave it to you to do some googling to learn more. Chef Robert's blog states that "we've had some remarkable endings, in the truest sense of the word, and are on the brink of some truly amazing beginnings." He's holding his head high and moving forward with his life. I encourage you to read his very humble and understated posting dated September 2, 2008. Some of you know that I was at times exasperated by Chef Robert's arrogance on Dinner: Impossible - but I'll say this: I was always entertained. Chef - I'll miss you. It was a good ride.

Last night after dinner, I brought out the Tequila Rose - a creamy liqueur somewhat akin to boozy strawberry flavored Quik - to share with our friend Glenda (yes, as in "the good witch"). I could tell we were getting close to the end of the bottle so I used an extender to make it last - a little Godiva liqueur. Well, here's what happened ... the Tequila Rose and the Godiva liqueur are so thick that they don't mix. This has something to do with properties of density, but I didn't pay that much attention in high school chemistry to cover this topic in any great level of detail. If you want the science behind food and drink, go hang out with Alton Brown. 

Anyway, I wasn't trying to layer so I just poured a bit of the chocolate into the strawberry. At first, the Godiva just hangs there in the center of the strawberry liqueur, unsure of its next move. Then it starts to fan out over the top of the drink but not to the extent that the pink of the Tequila Rose is completely obscured - just slightly diminished. I drank a few of these (they're small; think cordial glasses) and slept soundly. 

I woke up this morning not with a headache but with inspiration for a new cocktail ... just add a tiny little sprig of fresh mint near the edge of this concoction and call it a Faded Rose. Next time you're at the Black Cat Bar ... that's what I call my little corner of the kitchen dedicated to the spirit world ... order one. I'm happy to oblige.

This weekend, Marian and I hosted our supper club for one of our small group's theme meals. We've done Thai and Indian and a few other regions of the world that escape me at this late hour. We also went off the board one July and hosted a red, white, and blue dinner - all foods being in those color groups. This weekend, we prepared German food for our friends and while it may be immodest to say so - it was a hit. 

As many of you know, my mother is German. While she is very Americanized (dang, she makes a killer grilled cheese sandwich), we enjoy her traditional German fare for holidays and special occasions. My mother learned to cook not as a child but as a young Army wife stationed with my father in Fort Riley, Kansas. An older German woman (my sister and I called her Aunt Margaret) took my mother under her wing and showed her around her German kitchen. That's where my mother mastered rouladen (braised beef rolls) and rot kohl (red cabbage) and other tastes of the motherland.

I didn't spend much time in the kitchen with my mother while I was growing up. When I was a teenager, some guy from one of the utility companies came to our door taking a survey to determine how many households in our neighborhood were cooking with gas versus electric. I had to invite him in to take a look at the stove. Mind you, that was back in the day when you could still invite strange men into your home. I remember the look on his face as he was leaving and I chirped in adolescent ignorance, "So what was it?" He made a notation on his clipboard (I'm sure he wrote the word IDIOT), told me it was electric, and descended our driveway shaking his head. I've since learned the difference and, this weekend, stood in front of my six gas burners with a pot of red cabbage on one and a pan of rouladen on another. This was not my first batch of red cabbage but never before had I rolled rouladen. 

My mom coached me over the phone. And, I always have confidence in the kitchen when Marian is at my side. Nonetheless, I was a bit worried about our meal because we weren't simply cooking - we were accepting the baton of culinary responsibility from my mother. We were channeling the spirit of Aunt Margaret and Magdalena Gerbig Schellenschlager (my mother's mother) and all the other proud and sturdy women who populate the branches of my German family tree. I felt generations of German cooks watching over me as I carefully seasoned the beef and prepared the generous rolls of bacon, pickles, and onions. And when Marian asked me how long we should simmer the rouladen before serving, I told her just as my mother told me ... "cook it til it's done."