Close Call

Who wants to eat a live chicken? Apparently, many neighborhood predators. Why not? They strut around their chicken run, plump and potentially succulent..defenseless. Or so I thought...

It was a dark and stormy night, scratch that, it was a full moon and and a clear night. In fact, the moon resembled a great slice of cucumber. Perfect visibility for our neighborhood predators. Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by gawking and screeching sounds from our yard. Peter and I stumbled outside and tried to locate the creatures making those noises. Or what remained... I prepared myself to stay calm if I found pieces of chicken. After all, I knew this could happen. My brain had gone through the scenario many times, especially on nights with a full moon.

I was prepared to defend my hens. If I had a shot gun I would have carried it high in the air. A protective instinct coupled with an angry need for revenge pumped through my veins. As I looked for them, I pictured a huge raccoon carrying away a bloody chicken in her jaws.

With a pocket flashlight I scanned the yard and found three dazed hens in various poses. Molly and Gotterfunken, frantic and squawking and Pearl, glowing in the moonlight, while she sat in a daze, surrounded by an explosion of loose feathers. I could have stuffed five pillows with feathers. The other chickens were hidden in shrubs and trees. Everyone was alive and the only thing to do was to carry them back to their coop.

I would have carried them into the house and given them sleeping bags and mugs of warm tea. However, this wasn't an option. We tried to put them back in their coop one at a time but each time they fled. Who would run back into a burning house?

Three things I have learned about chickens:
1. They are smarter than you think
2. They remember more than you think they would
3. They can escape from the claws of an owl

There was nothing to do but try to go back to sleep. I lay awake for a long time, imagining a snake or rat or coyote or bear that was going to make a second attempt at a chicken dinner. I suspected that as soon as I fell asleep they would all be doomed. Peter was already snoring.

In the morning they were gathered around our basement window, hiding under a clump of daisies. They appeared to be waiting for breakfast but I wasn't playing that game. I wanted them to return to their own turf. I caught each hen and returned her to the coop. I failed. Each one just hopped out.

The chickens would not go near their coop. They wanted new real estate and they didn't need a broker in a shiny Cadillac.

The yard was theirs until I could find a solution. A condo? A penthouse apartment?
I needed time to think it through.

I cooked myself a bowl of oatmeal and brewed a mug of my favorite tea, Lady Grey. Not true. Actually, I asked Peter to cook me a bowl of oatmeal. Why? Because he doesn't measure ingredients, cooks by intuition, and it tastes creamy and delicious!

Peter's Comfort Oatmeal

1 cup rolled oats
2 cups boiling water
1 tablespoon brown sugar (or more if you wish)
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon chopped walnuts
1 tablespoon dried cranberries or cherries

Note:
Before you begin cooking, double the recipe because chickens absolutely love oatmeal.

In a medium sauce pot, bring two cups of water to a boil and add the oats. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook on low heat for about two minutes.

Pour the oatmeal into a serving bowl and add stir in the sugar, cinnamon, walnuts and cranberries. Enjoy!

Gotterfunken

When we pulled up to the ranch in Belgrade, the ranchers were sitting on their porch waiting for us. A young couple with their toddler, they wore denim jackets and plaid shirts. Tan and strong, they resembled actors in a Chevy Trucks commercial. They had advertised healthy adult hens for 25 dollars each on Craig's List. We only had one chicken left, Molly, and she seemed lonely and pathetic.

What happened? In early July the sky opened up and hail the size of baseballs bombarded our chickens. All ran for cover but Schnitzel didn't make it in time.

Our remaining chickens suffered an unfortunate mishap with a dog who I will not name to protect her privacy. To her defense, her size may have contributed to the end result. Resembling a woolly mammoth more than a dog, she may in fact have been "playing" and unintentionally killed four chickens in three minutes, forty seconds.

We had come to Belgrade to start again. This was our chance at redemption: five new adult hens.

The ranchers led us to their chicken house, a concrete bunker with a wall of nesting boxes. Dusty, pungent and dimly lit, it was loud as a frat party. My eyes had to adjust to the low light. I noticed a nervous energy among the fowl, especially the roosters. They sensed trouble. One of them rushed at the rancher, spurs in the air.
"There he goes again!" he laughed. "We made his friend into a stew last week."

"How was it?" I asked.

"It didn't taste too good." He answered. "But he learned a lesson."

Apparently, the ranchers had to show these birds who was boss from time to time.

With the aid of a net on a long pole the rancher darted around catching hens for us. We choose a Buff Orpington, a Leghorn, a Wyandotte and a White Crested Polish. The rancher offered us a Red Cup hen with crooked feet for free. We accepted.

We hadn't brought a cage to transport them so the rancher gave us an old cardboard box. All the chickens fit inside, except the Buff, who I named "Fanny." The ranchers exchanged a look when I offered to let Fanny ride home in my lap.

When we opened the box in our yard, the chickens stepped out looking a little dazed from the journey. The White Crested Polish sprinted out like she was on fire and ran into a wall. She really couldn't see because her feathers covered her eyes. Griffin named her Gotterfunken, which means "Spark of G-d" in German.

The rancher had called our attention to her plight. It seemed the roosters had been plucking out the feathers from her head. Behind her skull she had a bald spot. We weren't just adopting this bird, we were saving her from rooster abuse. This was a rescue.

That evening, the hens followed Molly up the steps into their warm coop. Even Gotterfunken eventually found the entrance. They hopped up on their roost and closed their eyes. I dreamed about fresh eggs sizzling in a frying pan.



Texas Eggs

My father used to cook Texas Eggs for breakfast. It is a fried egg with a hat.

1 piece of whole wheat bread
1 egg
butter
salt and pepper

Cut a hole in the center of the bread. Save the round piece of bread. Butter the bread on both sides. Put a 1/2 teaspoon of butter in a frying pan and turn the heat to medium. When the butter melts, put the bread in the pan along with the bread circle. Carefully crack the egg into the hole in the center of the bread. Cook a few minutes and then flip it over. When you put the bread and egg on a plate, place the circle of bread on top of the egg. Serve with a generous dash of salt and pepper.

Molly

Growing up in Great Neck, I encountered chickens in a multitude of ways, never alive. They were wrapped in plastic at the grocery store, spinning on a rotisserie at Poultry Mart or baked and cut into pieces on our dinner table. Here in Montana, we raise chickens in our backyards.

This is not just any Buff Orpington chicken; this chicken is a survivor. She has survived lightning storms, sub zero weather, hail the size of baseballs, and two dog attacks. She has survived winter in Montana. Need I say more?

When Molly was purchased from Murdoch's, she came home with five other chicks in a box. I felt like I just gave birth, only I had more energy. There was no formula or diapers in the picture and they ate and drank from their feeder whenever they had the desire.

Some people shelter baby chicks in their house and although I wanted to keep them in the kitchen, Peter would not consider it. The garage was insulated so they would be fine. (We hoped).

We made a nest for the chicks in a basin filled with wood shavings. The February cold kept the chicks huddled together under their heat lamp. Three Buff Orpingtons and Three Jersey Giants seemed like safe breeds for our first experience with raising chickens. Or so it seemed.

I felt like Godzilla when I tried to pet the chicks. Five of them ran for safety in terror of me. Molly, however, was fearless. She came over to my hand and walked up my arm. Maybe she was hungry, maybe she was looking for her mother, but, for some reason, she always hopped into my hand. Molly and I had a bond.

What kind of bond? Mother/daughter? Teacher/disciple? Chef/dinner? None of these. Molly was becoming a pet chicken. So many people have pet chickens that they sell diapers for "house chickens." I didn't want this relationship. But it was developing, every day.

Montana is a place where people raise chickens for eggs and meat. Most people don't give their chickens names like "Stretchy" or "Smiley." There are reasons for not getting too attached to a farm animal. (Stretchy didn't make it past ten days)

In Montana, people harvest their hens after about two years when the layers become less productive. I learned this at my doctor's office from the phlebotomist as she was drawing my blood. She was getting ready to harvest her thirty chickens and looking forward to a new crop of chicks.

To harvest, or not to harvest? This was the question...


Chicken Snack

4 leaves of romaine lettuce
2 zucchini
2 apples
4 carrots
4 bananas

Chop up all the veggies and fruit into bite sized pieces. Toss lightly in a metal bowl and carry out to the chicken run. Serves four chickens.

The Shiksa

The first time I met David Levine's new wife, she served us paella that was rich with saffron and hot pepper. The pan glistened with black mussel shells and scarlet lobster tails. She poured sangria from a tall pitcher into the adult's glasses. The year was 1979 and most of my parents friends were divorced, separated or just plain miserable. Megan and her two sons had moved into David's new house. Tan and blond, she wore no make up and dressed in a loose peasant blouse and worn jeans. My mother glared. As soon as we said goodnight and were in our car, she turned to my father and said,"David is going to regret marrying that divorcee. She is too young for him! And her kids seem slow; the older one must be retarded." My father, who had clearly enjoyed the evening, pointed out that David was divorced too. I could see that Dad appreciated Megan Levine. He laughed with her and enjoyed her cooking. The only one who looked tense was my mom. "I think the clams were spoiled. I feel sick." she added, clutching her stomach. The second time we went to Megan Levine's house, David poured glasses of scotch for my parents and Megan invited me to help her in the kitchen. She handed me a serrated knife and I sliced a baguette as she told me stories about a summer she worked in a vineyard in Southern France. I tried to picture myself picking grapes with a basket on my arm. "Can you check the recipe for me? How much olive oil?" she asked. No one in my world would ever consult a cookbook. Why would they try a new recipe? Why not eat the same food all the time? "Sure," I said, eagerly opening the book. For my thirteenth birthday, Megan surprised me at my house, to my mother's discomfort. I could hear the false greeting in her voice:"Great to see you! How are your sons?" Megan gave me a hug and I unwrapped her gift. It was The Good Housekeeping Cookbook. The same one she used. My initiation had begun. I could become one of the women who use cookbooks. I loved the bright color photos of Ham Steak Hawaiian, Cheese Fondue and Banana Cream Pie. All I had to do was follow the directions. What could be easier? My first attempt was cheese souffle, the photo on the book's cover. Just the word "souffle" sounded dangerous and French. It looked like grown-up food. In the back of the kitchen cabinet I found a souffle dish. I was on my way. While I was beating egg whites, my grandmother, Nan, barged into the kitchen. "That is not how you whip eggs. All wrong. Let me show you," she demanded. "This is how the cookbook says to do it," I answered, still holding the electric beater in my hand. "Who knows better, your grandmother or a cook book?"she challenged me. I pictured Megan Levine with her confident smile in her kitchen. I could hear Simon and Garfunkel on her radio. Megan gave me this cookbook for a reason. "I'm just following the recipe," I said, shrugging. I should have winked at her but you couldn't wink at my grandmother. She smelled a traitor. "You'll be sorry. It won't rise if you don't listen to me." she warned. I held up the book as if it was a talisman. The choice had been made. I had chosen the way of the shiksa. Classic Cheese Souffle from The Good Housekeeping Illustrated Cookbook 1/4 C butter or margarine 1/4 C all purpose flour 1 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1 1/2 C milk 2 four oz. packages shredded cheddar cheese (2 Cups) 6 eggs, separated 1. In a 2 quart saucepan over medium heat, melt butter or margarine; stir in flour, salt and cayenne pepper until smooth. 2.Slowly stir in milk and cook, stirring constantly just until sauce is smooth and thickened. 3.Add cheese and heat, stirring, just until the cheese melts. Remove pan from the heat. Preheat oven to 325 F. 4. In a small bowl, beat egg yolks slightly. Beat in small amount of the hot sauce to prevent lumping when added to saucepan. 5.Slowly pour warm egg mixture into hot sauce in pan, stirring rapidly to prevent eggs lumping. 6.In large bowl with mixer at high speed, beat egg whites just until stiff peaks form. Lightly grease bottom of a 2 quart souffle dish. 7.With rubber spatula, gently fold cheese sauce into beaten egg whites. 8.Pour mixture gently into prepared dish. For "top hat" effect, with spoon, make a 1-inch deep circle in top of cheese mixture, 1 inch from side. 9.Bake souffle in center of oven for 1 hour or until puffy and golden brown. Serve immediately.

Waldbaum's

For most shoppers a trip to the grocery store is an uneventful errand. In the larger scope of life it is painless. It can even be pleasant, as far as chores go. It certainly ranks above cleaning the bathroom.
Going to the grocery store can also be an opportunity to bump into friends, gossip, zone out. Not for me and my mother at Waldbaum's. This wasn't just about running an errand. This was a mission to get a low number in line at the delicatessen.

"Run!" she commanded before the car pulled into the parking space at Waldbaum's. "Get a number!" I sprung from the car and darted into the store across the slippery linoleum floor. Was it dangerous? Yes. I had to avoid huddles of women in bright lipstick exchanging gossip about their neighbors.

"Have you seen Ida's new Mercedes?"
"What was Bobbie thinking? It is fluorescent yellow!"
"Bobby told Saul he is sick of her car accidents. Now they will see her coming."
"Yeah, you can see Ida from five miles away!"
"You can see Ida from the space shuttle."

I had to choose a route. Some aisles were so jammed with carts that I couldn't pass through. I had to move fast so I chose the baking aisle, which was deserted. No one in this town would ever turn on their oven to bake. Maybe to reheat a frozen pound cake, but not to bake from a mix that read "Duncan Hines."

Prepared food was Great Neck's daily bread and the busiest part of the store was the Mecca of prepared food: the deli.
I saw my destination: the bright red machine that printed numbers for the line. Women swarmed around the machine, clutching their numbers in their fists. I plunged in and grabbed a number. 198. The deli man's nasal voice announced, "Number 122. Serving 122." I had time.
I decided to check in with my mother.

"198!" she exclaimed as she perused ten pound mounds of ground beef. "We'll be here all day!"
My mother was always in a rush for no apparent reason. No job, a full time house cleaner, gardeners, etc. but she had little time to spare. I suppose she had places to go that were more pressing than Waldbaum's.
I felt defensive about my high number for the deli line. I should have knocked someone down to get a better number.
"You don't know that for sure." I said. "The line could move fast."
What a liar! I knew the line never moved fast. Why? Because of the sacred ritual of samples.
"I'll have two pounds of tongue," said a lady with orange hair. The deli man opened the case, extracted a log of tongue, lay it on the slicer and sliced off one piece which he offered to the lady.
"O.K.?" he said.
"Fine." she replied after chewing her sample.
As he commenced his work on the log of tongue I wondered why she needed to taste it. Does tongue vary in flavor from week to week? Did the meat processor in New Jersey change the preservatives and spices in the tongue? Anything is possible.
Everyone who orders cold cuts engages in this ritual. Everyone except me.
When my number was called I spoke quickly."I'll have two pounds of pastrami, two pounds of smoked turkey, two pounds of roast beef, one pound of potato salad, one pound of cole slaw and half a pound of scallion cream cheese."
"Anything else?"
"Half a pound of whitefish salad."

The deli guy opened the case and removed a piece of roast beef. He heaved it onto the slicer and cut one slice. He leaned across the counter and offered me the pink slice of meat.
"O.K.?"
"No thanks."
"What?!"
"No thanks."
He chewed on his toothpick, considering the situation. Something was clearly wrong, but what? People were listening to us. I had become a curiosity, maybe a freak. I had to say something, anything.
"I just ate breakfast!" I blurted out.
It was 2PM. The hum of the crowd resumed.
Still working on that toothpick, the deli man sliced meat, scooped salads into plastic containers and placed everything into a brown paper bag. Handing me the bag he said, "Have a nice day," without making eye contact. I guess that was part of the ritual too.

The Essential Pastrami Sandwich

This is a classic deli meat lovers sandwich and the absence of vegetables is essential. That means that lettuce, tomatoes and onions have no place here. Coleslaw, however, is a welcome addition and it is best to place it on the middle layer so the bread does not get soggy.

two slices of rye bread, preferably dark rye
deli mustard, preferably Hebrew National
ten to twelve slices of pastrami

cole slaw (optional)

Spread mustard on both slices of bread. Put five slices of pastrami on one piece and add four tablespoons of coleslaw. Add another layer of pastrami and put the bread on top. You will know you have enough meat on your sandwich if you have to open you mouth very wide to take a bite.

This sandwich tastes even better when accompanied by a dill pickle.

The Battle of Stuffed Cabbage

As a nine year old I often slept at my grandparents' homes on weekends. My parents dropped my brother Lee and I at one of their houses, barely slowing down the car before tossing our overnight bags out with us.

It is not that they didn't love us. They needed a break and my grandmothers needed to feed us. Although I can't prove this, I believe they planned their meals days in advance. My grandmothers, Helen and Beatrice, each owned a cast iron roasting pan purchased on a trip to Europe, carried home on the plane beneath their seats for the purpose of baking stuffed cabbage.

Stuffed cabbage was more than meat rolled inside a lowly cabbage. It was a source of pride and a symbol of heritage. Our ancestors got their asses kicked by Cossacks in Kiev. They were chased out of Poland. So what happened? My great grandparents got on boats and came to America with next to nothing. Their children's children drive fancy cars and live in big houses but they eat hamburgers and cold cuts.

They can eat whatever they want(and both grandmothers approve of large quantities of food at every meal) but they like to remember where they came from. "We should eat what my mother made for me," said Nanny Helen.

My father's parents lived in a large Tudor house filled with antiques and fascinating knick-knacks. Lee and I played hide and seek in the many rooms and dressed up in my grandmother's gowns and hats from the fifties. Nothing was asked of us, except to have a hearty appetite at dinner.

My grandfather, Poppy, sat at the head of a long, oak table set with bone china and my grandmother's wedding silverware. Lee and I felt the formality of the moment and remembered not to put our elbows on the table.

My grandmother, Nanny Helen, dressed impeccably as always, carried in a pan of stuffed cabbage. Lee and I weren't picky eaters and our grandparents fondly watched us devour our food.
"So, how do you like my stuffed cabbage?" asked Nanny Helen, innocently.
"It is yummy," I answered with a mouthful of food. I felt I had to eat quickly. She didn't look satisfied.
"Have you tried Bea's cabbage?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Bea was my other grandmother. She and Helen did not get along, although they pretended to in public.
"I don't remember," I said.
"You know I love Bea, but her cooking is a disaster," said Nanny Helen with a dramatic sigh. "Too much salt. She is going to give Lou high blood pressure. Do you know who taught your mother how to cook?" She paused for emphasis. "Bea taught Joyce and that is why you and your brother don't eat anything at home."
This wasn't a kind thing to say but she had a point.

The next weekend, my parents brought us to my mother's parent's house. Nan and Gramps had a huge backyard and Lee and I ran around the trees playing spies until it got dark and we came inside for dinner.

It was essential to work up an appetite because in Nan's house the plates had to be licked clean. If we couldn't eat everything we discreetly fed our leftovers to her dachshund, Little Dog, who waited patiently at our feet under the table.

Dinner was served in the kitchen, unless it was a holiday, and a small black and white T.V. was always on with the volume on low. Nan served us stuffed cabbage. My grandfather ate quietly, listening to the drone of the newscaster. Nan watched us with the intensity of a hawk who eyes a mouse in a field.

Convinced that we were underfed, she willed every morsel of food to pass to our lips. Fortunately Lee had a pudgy tummy so her attention was primarily focused on me. She was not shy about lifting up my shirt to examine my rib cage while shaking her head in disapproval.

Nan wasted no time. "I bet that tastes better than Helen's cabbage," she said.
Lee didn't answer. He was too young to understand what was going on. He and Gramps stared at the T.V..
"Yours is better," I said, hoping to satisfy her.
Nan had to speak her mind. "Helen's is too sweet. That is not how you are supposed to make it. All her cooking is sugar, sugar, sugar!" Nan scowled.
I couldn't help but think about Nanny Helen's lemon meringue pie and appreciate her ability to cook with sugar.
"I don't know how your father grew up in that house with her cooking! Hmmph. Maybe he only ate dessert."
Nan looked at me for agreement but I just nodded my head and changed the subject.

Here I was lying to my grandmother. Why? Because I felt pressured to judge their cooking. I was just a kid who was hungry. What did I know about Eastern European cooking? I didn't understand that this was about them and their need to feel superior to the other. It really was a battle.

Many years later when I was stuck in a college cafeteria looking a bowl of gummy turkey tetrazzini, I dreamed about stuffed cabbage. If only I knew how to cook it. The next time I was home from college I was ready to learn.

Nan's Stuffed Cabbage

1 large head of green cabbage
2 pounds of three meat blend (ground pork, beef and lamb)
1 medium onion, grated
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 t salt
1 t pepper
1/2 C raw long grain rice

Sauce:
2 T vegetable oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 15 oz. can of crushed tomatoes
1/2 C ketchup
1/2 C white sugar
1/2 C raisins
1 T white vinegar
1 t salt
1 T pepper

1. Boil the whole cabbage until the leaves are cooked but still firm
2. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees
3. Make the filling: mix meat, rice, onion, garlic, salt and pepper in a bowl.
4. Cook the sauce: saute onion in oil on low heat for five minutes. Stir in sugar, tomatoes, ketchup, raisins, salt and pepper and white vinegar. Cook for another five minutes.
5. Roll 1/4 C of filling in each cabbage leaf. Place seam side down in a roasting pan.
When all leaves are rolled, pour sauce over the cabbage rolls.
6. Cover pan with foil and bake for one hour.
7. Remove foil and bake for another 30 minutes.

note: Nan's three meat blend can be substituted for two pounds of ground beef.

Nan's Dressing

My grandmother, Nan, could cook everything from meat loaf to Baked Alaska and I ate at her table as often as possible. I was thinking about my grandmother when my brother, Laurance, phoned me.
"Think of all the dishes Nan cooked for us," I said "What was your favorite?"
Without a pause he replied "I would have to say her salad dressing." Then he added"But I still can't believe how she made it."

The setting is Nan's kitchen in 1989. America is in love with balsamic vinegar, goat cheese, baby lettuces and imported extra virgin olive oil. Here in Roslyn, New York, the fridge is stocked with ample quantities of American cheese, Hebrew National salami and iceberg lettuce. The director John Waters has called iceberg lettuce"the polyester of lettuces." He may have been right. In Nan's salads, iceberg is the star ingredient.

Seventies floral wallpaper in blue and silver is the main decor. The white countertops are covered in prescription pill bottles, orange packets of Sanka, pink packets of Sweet and Low, and several salt and pepper shakers. One spice bottle reads "MSG." She clears a space and finds an empty mustard jar for her dressing. Her radio is playing Perry Como but she is not listening. The idea of relaxing to music is and always has been absurd.

Into her jar she puts one tablespoon of ketchup, two tablespoons of Dijon mustard, vegetable oil, olive oil and white wine vinegar. With a little whisk she mixes up the dressing. The phone rings.

It is my mother who gets right to the point: "Mom, duck is on sale at Waldbaum's. Do you want one?"
"Alright Joyce. And I need some chicken livers...O.K.?"

When she replaces the phone she adds salt and pepper and a dash of dried basil. Then she adds a teaspoon of sugar. In my grandmother's cooking, sugar is added to everything, from tomato sauce to beef stew. She peels two cloves of garlic and smashes them on her cutting board. At this moment, Little Dog tinkles on the floor.

"On no, bad little girl!" She lifts up her dachshund and carries her outside to the yard.

When she returns still holding Little Dog, she puts the garlic into the jar. Then cuts a lemon in half and squeezes the juice into into the dressing. The doorbell rings and Little Dog starts to yap.

"Alright, I'm coming," calls Nan as she rushes to the front door.

A salesman with a truck of frozen steak is trying to sell her a case of meat. "No thanks," she says, shutting the door in his face and grumbling about a scam. Little Dog continues to yap.
"Shhhh, now go to sleep."

Back in the kitchen, Nan reaches into a cabinet and emerges with her teak salad bowl, shiny from years of use. She tears up a head of iceberg lettuce. The salad cannot be complete without sliced cucumbers, cherry tomatoes and radishes. Last she crumbles up some Danish blue cheese and puts it in the bowl. She replaces the cap on the jar and gives it a few good shakes.

Most people would use salad tongs but not my Nan. She pours the dressing over the greens and mixes everything with her bare hands. Her knuckles are swollen from arthritis and her skin is freckled from years of sun. Nan's method may not have won awards for cleanliness, but it is essential to the flavor of the salad. Her dressing wakes up the vegetables and makes a person fall in love with her salad. I know I did.



Nan's Dressing

2T Dijon mustard
1 T ketchup (Nan used Heinz ketchup)
1/4 C vegetable oil
1/4 C olive oil
1/4 C white wine vinegar
1 t sugar
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1t dried basil
salt and pepper to taste
lemon juice from one lemon

To make the vinaigrette,combine the oil, and vinegar in a small bowl. Add the remaining ingredients and whisk to blend well.